Wild Adapter belongs to Minekura Kazuya.
Spoilers for volumes 1 and 2.
I couldn't leave the two of them alone. Inspired in part by MonkeyBarrel's 'Secrets We Share'. It feels exactly right, the way you write them.
SMALL THINGS
He still dreamt.
Almost a whole fucking year and it kept coming back, and he knew it would never really go away, because it was his only clue to what he had forgotten.
But that didn't mean that he had to like it, like fighting his way out of it on darker nights, and it made him wonder about the kind of person Tokitoh Minoru was, before he woke up in someone else's bed.
Tokitoh Minoru. It was the only thing left of a past he couldn't remember, that and the effects of a drug he didn't remember taking. The name Tokitoh Minoru was the only thing that was truly his, and because he had nothing else, it became as important as breathing and living.
"Come, Minoru," says the faceless man in his dreams. He beckons with one outstretched hand, but somehow he knew it was a lie.
"You don't have to be afraid anymore…" But he was. The man's smile frightened him.
"…because you are mine now." And it was difficult not to believe it. He hated this Tokitoh Minoru, too scared to escape a dream no longer real. So when he finally found him, he was going to shake him and yell at him, and ask, "What the hell are you so afraid of?" Because the person he was now did not run, and will not hide.
The cage is small.
But he was not an animal.
The tag around his ankle has a number on it.
But he was not a thing.
And it was only a dream.
He belonged to no one.
No bad dream was going to make a fool out of him.
So it's been a year, and he still dreamt, but he no longer woke up screaming. He wasn't stupid enough to think that he was no longer scared, but when his hand was gripped a little tighter, and he was drawn a little closer, it made the difference. And it became easier to believe.
This was different.
He belonged to no one.
He closed his eyes, and when he dreamt again, he tasted tobacco and warmth.
--
He woke up once in a rare moment of lucidity to find a woman leaning over him, and he reacted badly to contact too close and confined. "Gaugh!" He jerked away violently only to fetch up hard against a wall behind him, his breath exploding in a sharp hiss of surprise and his eyes tearing at the contact.
"Aa, careful now." It was mild and softly spoken, but it was still way too deep to belong to a woman. He scowled, squinting blearily at the person sitting on the bed. Black hair hung long and thick over the shoulders and to midway down the back, but he guessed the face was too angular to be considered wholly feminine, and the shoulders too broad despite the pansy outfit.
He struggled to push himself upright, startled and not a little upset at the languor in his limbs and the humiliating shortness of breath. Still he glared at the man and dared him to try something stupid, as he absently shifted until he was resting comfortably in the corner where the walls met. It was a vulnerable position, and he hated it, but it was one less opening for an attack. "Who the hell are you?" His defensive stance did not go unnoticed; pushing up round glasses that hid the expression in the eyes behind them, the man smiled. "My apologies, I didn't mean to frighten you."
He bristled, shoulders stiffened with heightened wariness, and snapped back, "You didn't frighten me."
"Is that so?" His face glowered dangerously at the faint amusement in the tone, and he opened his mouth to retort, but the man beat him to it. "I am Kou, and I'm a… doctor of sorts." The man smiled again when his expression didn't relax. "You have been very sick."
"So? Why'd you bother? I can't pay you or anything." His eyes flicked back and forth as he wiped the wetness from them, stealing glimpses of his surroundings but always coming back to the so-called doctor. It was easier to be suspicious than grateful – kindness, offered freely or otherwise, always came attached with some condition to screw you over.
Somehow it was oddly familiar and soothing, this hide and seek game – gauging threats, plotting escape routes. He was in a bed pushed up against one corner of a fairly small room. A heavy-looking bookshelf, weighed down with more books than he'd ever seen before, took up most of the wall on his right. Some of them were scattered on the floor along the bed, as if someone had been reading on the floor. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a closet, in the corner farthest from him.
There was a window above him, big enough to climb through – with the blind drawn though, he couldn't see whether it had a latch or not. The only other way out was the door almost directly opposite the bed, and his eyes narrowed when he realized there was someone else besides the doctor that he needed to consider.
He was normal enough – glasses, short hair though a little longish past the ears, and a casual smile as he leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. But there was something else in the guy's face that his instincts suddenly drew up short at, something hard and unwavering that promised things could go very bad if he tried something dumb.
Not like that was going to stop him. He hadn't been running for so long only to finally wind up here. Shifting carefully, he grimaced slightly at the sheer effort he had to put into the small movement, and he wondered how the hell he'd end up wherever he was.
He hadn't eaten for a while, and had stopped in a narrow back alley to catch his breath. He'd collapsed against an abandoned wooden crate, told himself it was only for a bit, only a short rest, and then… and then here.
Before that he had been running and hiding all the time, being chased, hunted down to be caught. He hadn't been caught yet, because they were stupid. But they were persistent, and he'd been running and hiding… because someone wanted him bad. Someone…
He stiffened, staring at knuckles white with his grip on the sheets. On one hand. The other was not human, all fur and claws. He jerked reflexively, realized the hand really was his when it moved. Staring, unaware that he had started to shake a little, he lifted it closer to his face. He flexed again, fascinated, repelled – but not surprised. No, it was familiar, he was familiar with the monstrosity.
But he didn't remember how he'd gotten it.
The sheets stirred a little, and he snapped his head up, unaware of the panic that had leaked into his expression. The doctor paused, and looked over his shoulder, and he instinctively retreated further into his corner when the guy by the door unfolded from his position and drew closer to the bed.
"What did you do?" he snarled, fear dismissing the bemusement on their faces. No one, he could trust no one. "Why can't I remember?" Not his hand, not the man hunting him. He was trembling, his rage and confusion too much for his exhausted body to handle.
"Easy now." It sank into his consciousness, past the chaos to a quieter place that, oddly, recognized the deep, calming voice and accepted the security it offered. And before he was truly aware of it, he had latched on to that soothing presence, made real in the smooth cotton fabric of the sleeve his fingers were tangled in.
But he jerked back, instincts screaming at him to get away and defend himself. Because it couldn't be familiar, he didn't know the guy, so it had to be a trap. His right hand lashed out, and was easily caught, and he cursed as his body failed him again, could not keep up with his awry emotions.
An arm slipped around his waist, and as he was gently helped upright, the sense of familiarity tugged at him again. A breath touching his ear, a hand on his forehead, fabric that smelled sometimes of rain, sometimes of sweat, but always of something else…
"Hey." The guy lifted one eyebrow as he abruptly relaxed, giving in to the assurance of what he remembered. "This bed's yours, isn't it?" A redundant question – the doctor and his delicate appearance didn't belong in so spartan a place.
If he was startled at what must have been a random thought, the guy didn't show it. The eyes behind the glasses glimmered with humour instead. "An astute observation. What makes you ask?"
He closed his eyes, finally letting the weariness catch up to him. "Because it smells like you." Tobacco, that had watched and waited and reassured.
"…you can use it for now. You need it more than I do." He tried another scowl, but it came out a yawn instead. "Jerk." He turned his head, absorbing the smell. "When I get up I'll show you who's weak."
"Okay."
"Stop laughing…" And he yawned again, the quiet chuckle against his ear following him into sleep.
--
Sometimes he was running, sometimes he was resting in bed. It didn't matter which was real and which was not – he fought either way. When he was running he would keep running, knowing that he could not let them catch him. When he was lying down he chased his consciousness, refusing to be pulled down into something he feared worse than just sleep. Either way he emerged with his eyes finally open, and he would dimly realize that the bed was the reality, and wonder why he wasn't running anymore before his eyes closed again.
He woke once to the sound of voices somewhat faint, as if talking in another room with the door open.
"…should last for another three days."
"Will he need more medicine after that?"
"No, not if he has been eating regularly. You are seeing to it?"
"Yes." A breath touching his ear, a hand on his forehead, fabric that smelled sometimes of rain, sometimes of sweat, but always of something else… "It's soft foods for now. He hasn't come fully awake yet."
"He was quite starved when you first picked him up, but I suspect he has been off the drug for some time. I can't tell if he has already or is yet to experience the withdrawal, but either way it has made him very weak."
"You're enjoying this, Kou-san."
"I have never had the opportunity to inspect the effects of Wild Adapter for myself. Secondhand knowledge is inadequate and can be very unreliable."
"And you'll be discrete with what you've learnt here, of course."
"Where it concerns your stray, certainly." A pause, before the stirring of movement, and the voices dulled with distance. "I will come again at the end of the week."
"Aa. Once again, thank you, Kou-san."
"Until next time then, Kubota-kun."
It was different, a distraction from the struggles of his consciousness. The words washed over him in a gentle lullaby, and just before he let them pull him back down, he breathed the last thing he remembered, and it lingered on his tongue.
Kubota.
--
It was strange in the beginning, not running. His senses had been starved for so long it was surreal, not waking up hungry and more exhausted than before. He was fed each time he could manage to eat, and as much as he wanted it, he started to get very sick of porridge. He hated that he couldn't do things on his own, that he had to depend on the solid body and tough arms always there to make sure he didn't fall, and it was still difficult sometimes to not flinch at human touch, and to believe that he was safe, that nothing would be permitted to hurt him. But he craved the assurance, and he didn't care if it was selfish to want someone else to do the worrying and caring, because he damn well deserved it.
And for a while, life was okay.
Oh shit. He floundered for one guilt-stricken moment, but there was no way he could make it back to the bed in time, so he settled for a fierce scowl as the key turned all the way in the lock.
The door opened, and he tried not to squirm when he stared defiantly back at eyes that had almost immediately found his own. No one said anything at first, him sprawled unceremoniously against the low couch, his self-appointed nursemaid holding a bag of groceries in the doorway. The latter moved first, nudging the door shut behind him with his heel. "Why am I not surprised?"
His brow furrowed further, not fooled by the bland expression – he would have missed the minuscule quirk of the lips if he hadn't been watching closely for it. "What the hell was I supposed to do? You were out for so long, and I was bored out of my mind."
"And if you had fallen and injured yourself when I was not around?"
He looked away, recognising the displeasure in the mild tone. "I'm not that weak," he said sulkily, refusing to lift his head until the other guy padded off into the kitchen. Vaguely he heard the sounds of things being shuffled around and put away, and he took the opportunity to survey his surroundings, until footsteps came right up to him, and the couch sank down a bit.
"It's not bad." The bedroom was mostly all he'd seen for the last week and a half, and the afternoon had been hot and long enough to make him venture out for a look. He could manage okay, but it was obvious he still had some way to go when his legs had buckled without warning, and he'd banged his knee against the back of the couch.
"A bit big for one person, isn't it?" Not really, but it was as bare as the bedroom, with so much space left over. A TV in one corner, the couch an L around it; a phone on top of a low chest of drawers against one wall, a table and a couple of chairs against another. Along one side of the apartment, floor curtains had been drawn back to reveal glass doors leading out to a balcony. No pictures, no photos, nothing else.
"…come on, up." He lifted his hand, and let himself be pulled to his feet slowly. He was steadier and could hold his own weight, but still an arm slipped around his waist, and he scowled at the disapproving sounds he heard. "Asshole, I'm not that heavy."
It was comfortable progress, something he had grown used to the few times he had to be helped to and from the toilet when he was still in and out of consciousness, but it rankled that he still couldn't do it on his own. "This sucks. When can I get out of here?" For all his grousing, he was grateful to return to the bed, his brief solitary foray outside taking more out of him than he'd expected. "I hate being cooped up in here. There's nothing to do!" He fidgeted irritably as cautious hands settled him back down onto the mattress, and he blinked in surprise when fingers flicked gently at his bangs.
"When you're well, you can do whatever you want."
"Hell yes I'm going to do whatever I want. No way I'm eating anymore of that phony doctor's crap. I want real food, something really tasty. And I want to go out and play games, look around…" He trailed off when the other boy leaned across the bed to draw the blind shut, pitching the room into musty dimness.
"Yes yes, you can go wherever you want to go." Angled towards him as it was, the face was blurred in the dull light, and he wondered at the thoughtfulness in the tone. He squirmed into a more comfortable position, still thinking when the other boy turned around and walked away to leave him to rest.
"Hey!" The guy paused, a shadow against the light from the living room.
"So, what do I call you?" It really wasn't a strange question. It was probably something he should have asked sooner, something nagging at him in the back of his head.
"Until next time then, Kubota-kun."
The other boy said nothing for a while, as if considering what to say next, and when he finally did tilt his head, he was already half-expecting it.
"You can call me Kubo-chan."
He would have fallen over if he wasn't already lying down, and his nose wrinkled in disgust. That just took first prize in The Dumbest Anti-climatic Bits Ever. "What the hell is that?!" He squinted, trying to make out the guy's face against the light. It was a long moment before he realized that he wasn't going to get a reply, and he finally looked away with a mumbled "Whatever." He made a show of rearranging the sheets as he turned on his side with a huff, and just before the last of the light had been blocked out of the room, he called out, "And don't expect me to call you that sissy name!"
Another pause, and this time he was sure of the dry amusement in his voice, before the door finally clicked shut. "Whatever."
--
He has said it so many times, has never given me reason to doubt it.
I can do whatever I want. I can leave whenever I want to. I can make my own choices.
The doctor calls me his stray. I'm not an animal, but that's okay, because strays are not tied down to any one place – they go where they like, whenever they want to.
So when I am sure that I have outstayed my welcome, I will go wherever I want to go. I'm looking for Tokitoh Minoru, and I won't find him if I don't look outside, past the walls and windows of this apartment.
But it's okay for now. Because when I get tired of looking, I have a place to come back to. He has never given me reason to doubt it.
--
"Aw man, do we have to keep coming back?" Dragging his feet, he eyed the full windows of the drugstore with some trepidation. "Nothing good happens every time we come here."
Kubota dropped the last of his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. "You want dinner tonight don't you? And you still need your supplements."
"But the shit he gives me makes me feel worse!"
"Don't all medicine?"
"I don't see why we can't look for some job somewhere else," he grumbled, as Kubota slid the doors open and stepped aside to let him through first.
"Because it's convenient. You stay here –" Kubota waved at the long sofa on one side "– and let Kou-san take a look at you, and I go out to earn us some money. Aa, hello."
The doctor looked up from the book he had been reading and smiled. "Welcome." He grimaced and flopped down on the sofa to sulk, uninterested in the exchange of words over the counter. Kubota turned back around, a paper bag in one hand, and bent to poke him in the forehead on his way out. "Behave."
He pushed the hand away and pulled a face at the retreating back, his shoulders stiffening ever so slightly when he felt the doc come up on his left. It wasn't as if he didn't trust him – he would probably have been dead otherwise, but the man and his almost dainty manners made him feel ungainly and stupid. And he hated the stuff he was still being forced to swallow.
"So how do you feel today?" He straightened and shifted to make room. "Fine. Never better." He couldn't help twitching even though he'd suffered through the same basics many times – checking his pulse, looking down his throat, peering at his eyes. It tended to take a while as the doc fussed over this and that, but it was still a pretty cursory once over, and it made him suspicious sometimes, the way the doc made conclusions on the spot. He knew the guy didn't have an authentic degree in medicine or anything, but he had to follow some kind of code of practice. He was willing to swear that the guy just took some perverse kick out of making him eat all that poisonous shit.
"Hand, please." It was the last part of the routine, the one he hated the most. Mutely pulling the glove off, he stared at his hand cradled in the doc's own, sullenly aware of the acute contrast between the russet fur and long claws and the slim, white fingers.
"Does it hurt?"
"No." Not all the time. He could forget about it most of the time, hidden in his glove. On the really bad days he locked himself in the shower or the toilet, curled over in a ball of agony, unable to think of anything else but the need to stave off the itching and the burning.
"Anything else?" He knew what the doctor was asking, and shook his head. The guy had been trying to determine if he was going through withdrawal from a drug he didn't remember taking. It was sickening to think that the person he was before could have liked taking the stuff, and to have taken so much to already change his hand.
But his body felt fine. No cold sweats or shivering or anything, only his hand acting up now and then. He hoped it meant that it had passed, before Kubota had found him, and not that it had yet to hit.
"Well, that's that then." The doctor let his hand go, and he frowned in some confusion when it gradually dawned on him that no recommended remedy or advice was forthcoming. "What do you mean that's that? Nothing else to give me?"
"They were only additional vitamins to complete your diet." A faint smile touched the doc's lips. "As long as Kubota-kun feeds you regularly, you don't need them any longer." He bridled at the subtle jibe. "I'm not a cat!"
"Of course not." It was infuriating the way the doctor acted like Kubota sometimes. "And? Anything else?"
"…no."
"Your memories?" He bit his lip and looked away from the gentle question. "No." The reminder was raw and touchy, of getting up each day not knowing who he really was. And he would, in the meantime, always be the stray to the doctor and Kubota.
"Is that so? Perhaps with more time then." He grunted noncommittally as the doctor rose to return to the counter. Kubota usually came back not too long once he and the doc were done, and until then he would potter around, poking at various oddball junk around the store. But it was suddenly too stuffy – he needed to get out. The arcade two streets down with its gaudy neon lights and mindless noise would do him some good.
He pushed himself up. "Hey doc, I'm off now. Tell him I'll be at the arcade." It was always him or jerk or asshole. No fucking way was he calling him something as demeaning as Kubo-chan. Didn't the guy have any dignity at all? And Kubota just sat strangely on his tongue, felt wrong.
Because he had no name of his own to offer, how could he use someone else's?
"Ah, just a minute." He looked back over his shoulder at the hint of worry in the doctor's voice. The guy was holding a small paper-wrapped package in one hand, and when he lifted his head he was frowning slightly. "I'm afraid there's something missing in Kubota-kun's delivery. Do you mind…?"
He shrugged, interest piqued. He'd never followed Kubota on any of his errands, cooped up as he was in the shop to suffer the doctor's ministrations. "Where to?"
A few minutes later he was jogging down the sidewalk, grinning at the address the doctor had printed in his painfully neat handwriting on a scrap of paper. Figured it would be some dodgy, abandoned shophouse. It was a block that had burnt in an arson fire a few months before, only a street away from the drugstore – he should be able to catch Kubota during the transaction.
He lifted the package and tried guessing what it was. It was compact and solid, like a small box. As long as it didn't contain drugs, he thought darkly – the doc had assured him of that much – otherwise he'd have flat out refused the task. He didn't care what the buyers thought about it, but no fucking way was he going to let anyone else end up like him.
He made good time. It was a desolate enough area for him not needing to worry about being seen and caught. Checking the location, he stepped over a charred threshold, absently noting that no one had bothered to clear out the remains of the fire. He looked up as something thumped on the floor above, and he picked his way through the dead wood and metal to the stairs.
Why the hell were they meeting on the first floor? Muttering under his breath he ascended slowly, peering at each decaying step and testing it lightly first before moving. He was about halfway up before he was close enough to hear them speak clearly.
"…the hell is this?"
"This wasn't what we agreed on."
"You'll forgive me if I don't know what you're talking about." Kubota's voice was cool with disinterest "I'm just the errand boy."
"…that bastard's playing us for fools. Shit!"
"You can take a message back to him for us then." He quickened his pace, not caring now if he fell or not. He didn't like the menace in the tone. "We want the real deal, and we can pay for it. What more does he want?"
"Maybe if we made an example out of you..." He leapt the last three steps, and crashed into the room that the voices were coming from.
The punks couldn't have been any older than he was – they flinched when they saw him, eyes wide with desperation, fear and anger. His own eyes narrowed when he realized that one of them had a gun trained on Kubota, who was standing quite calmly not a couple of feet away. How the hell did they get a gun?
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He stormed closer, and they looked as if they might draw back, but the one holding the gun turned it on him, and started moving it side to side between him and Kubota.
"Idiots," he hissed. "Your shit's here." He pitched the package forward, and it dropped with a hard rattle, creating small waves of dust. He barely registered the confusion on their faces before Kubota moved, so fast it was almost unnatural.
The second guy had been watching Kubota though, as if aware of the threat he posed, and he shouted, shoving the guy with the gun aside. Without breaking rhythm Kubota took him down easily, a couple of punches and a well-aimed kick all he needed. The first guy fumbled wildly with the gun at first before training it properly on Kubota, and he reacted instinctively.
"Shit! KUBO-CHAN, watch out!!" And heedless of the gun he tackled the guy, hearing the explosive huff of shock and the satisfying weight of a body hitting the floor hard. Kicking the gun away, all it took was just one punch, and the punk was out cold.
"Geeze, what the hell was that about?" Rising, he tried dusting himself off as best he could, when he felt eyes on him. He looked up to meet Kubota's curious gaze. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged. "Doc forgot something for them, so he sent me to give it to you." Walking over to the package, he picked it up and pocketed it, not seeing the odd expression that flitted across Kubota's face. He turned back to survey their handiwork. "You're pretty good."
"…so are you." He approached the gun and picked it up gingerly with his gloved hand, surprised at the weight. "So what do we do with this?" Kubota held out one hand for it, and though he was no expert on guns, it wasn't difficult to appreciate the easy, familiar way that Kubota handled it. "We take it back with us. They – " he tilted his head at the fallen punks " – won't have much need of it. He didn't know how to hold it. And…" Sliding the top back, Kubota showed him the bullet chamber. "Empty. However much he was waving it about, he never cocked it."
Kids playing at robbers. He stared at Kubota, already starting for the stairs. How old had Kubota been, when he started playing the game for real?
--
"So, I trust the transaction proceeded smoothly?"
Kubota placed the sadly crumpled paper bag and the gun in front of him. "I'm afraid I have to apologize. I think you might have lost some of your customers."
The doctor sighed as he picked both items up and they disappeared somewhere under the counter. "I suppose it couldn't be helped. Perhaps it might have turned out for the best. It would be terribly remiss of me to stand by and do nothing in the face of such ill-mannered patrons." He rummaged around some more, and eventually emerged with an envelope containing what had to be Kubota's fee. "Better I lose my customers than the valuable service of my employees."
If the nonchalant words hadn't tipped him off, the satisfied smiles would have been enough. He glanced suspiciously from one to the other before exclaiming in disgust, "It was a setup!" He cursed when both of them turned identical expressions of amused tolerance on him. "Shit, what was the deal with that? It turned fucking ugly out there you know."
"As I knew it would, which is why I required Kubota-kun's assistance." He stared back in incomprehension. "Sometimes it takes a more aggressive approach to discourage some of my more… enthusiastic customers." He was still clueless, and the doctor sighed again, and took off his glasses. When the man smiled this time, he had to resist the impulse to step behind Kubota, away from eyes that were suddenly not so soft.
"Whatever I sell, I run a professional business. Some of my goods are… less than common, which is all the more reason to ensure that my buyers are intelligent enough in their handling of them. I do not do business with just anyone. Certainly, any merchant would appreciate the extra profit, but I," he put his glasses back on, and there was warmth in his voice and eyes again, "have a reputation to maintain."
"Oh…" he drew it out thoughtfully, then shrugged the revelation aside. It made sense, and it was none of his business. "Well, good for you then." He rolled his eyes at their bemused glances, and shaking his head, he turned around. "I'm going to grab a drink from the vending machine." He looked at Kubota. "Are we going home yet?"
"Go on ahead. I still need to talk to Kou-san."
"Whatever."
"Iced coffee."
"Yeah yeah." He fumbled around in his pockets for change as he exited the store, not bothering to slide the door shut, and abruptly stopped when his fingers brushed the package. He turned back around, could hear Kubota's voice, but something in the other guy's tone made him pause.
"You didn't forget anything, Kou-san." It was not a question, but an affirmation. It was a long pause before Kubota spoke again. "What was in the package?"
"Nothing of consequence. An old music box that I have never been able to sell." His jaw dropped as he pressed himself up against the wall by the doors. Pulling the package out, he turned it in his hands before smacking himself mentally on the head and dropping it back into his pocket.
"He could have been hurt."
"You cannot hide anything Kubota-kun, if you want to keep your stray."
"He doesn't belong to me, he's free to leave anytime he wants to."
"Do you want him to go?"
"…it's not about what I want, Kou-san."
He left after that, not liking the acceptance in Kubota's voice. He scowled all the way down the street to the vending machine and back, and it was only when he returned to the drugstore that he realized he had only bought the iced coffee.
--
They were almost home when he decided. "Hey, Kubo-chan." It hadn't sounded stupid in the shophouse and it didn't now.
"Hm?"
"When you come out again, I'm coming with." It didn't take a genius to figure out the bland look on Kubota's face.
"I don't care what you think, I'm coming. If shit like that happens again, you need someone to watch your back."
"You?" It wasn't skeptical, just curious. He snorted in annoyance. "Hell yeah, me. You see anyone else volunteering for the position?"
"No, because they're smart enough to recognize danger when they see it." And he could tell, despite the light-hearted tone, that Kubota was being completely serious. It was obvious the guy had seen a lot of shit go down before, in a past that he had never bothered to ask about. He snorted again.
"So? I'll be fine."
"What makes you so sure?"
He returned Kubota's steady gaze with a level one of his own, and answered just as seriously, "Because you'll watch my back." And he almost smirked when Kubota's eyes widened ever so slightly, for once saying nothing, until Kubota breathed a sigh of resignation even as his lips twitched.
"So, I watch your back, you watch mine, and we'll always come out on top. Okay?"
This time it was a definite smile. "Alright."
--
It was the first time – of what he could recall anyway – that he'd been in a police station. Considering what he and Kubota did for a living, he supposed he should have been a little more fearful or at least nervous. But he wasn't. Maybe because Kubota was smoking when there was a No Smoking sign on the wall directly opposite him.
It had not taken him long to quickly grow bored of the room. It was just as bad as Kubota's apartment, one long table and some chairs in the middle and that was it. He tilted further back, testing the limit of two legs.
"You're going to fall." And he almost did, when he jerked at the unexpected sound. He crashed forward just as the door opened, the chair legs slamming hard against the floor tiles, and he scowled at Kubota, ignoring the cop who had come in. "Idiot."
He was a middle-aged, scruffy-looking guy. Raising one eyebrow when Kubota said nothing in reply to the slur, he shut the door and dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the table. He braced himself, but no questions or charges were immediately raised, and he began to wonder what the cop's deal was when the guy said nothing, switching intent gazes between them both before settling on Kubota, his pointed looks dismissed easily as Kubota just leaned back and dragged on his cigarette.
The cop finally sighed, a heavy, rueful sound, and his eyes widened in disbelief when the old guy drew out a carton from his pocket and lit a cigarette of his own. And for a while, the smoke mingled comfortable in the sterile air.
"I've been trying to reach you, and it figures this would be the last place I expected to find you in." The cop shook off some ash irritably in Kubota's direction. "You don't go to the mahjong dens anymore."
Kubota took his time answering as he ground his cigarette butt out on the edge of the table. "I have been otherwise occupied."
"So I see." The cop turned to look at him again. "So who are you?"
"A dependant."
His head snapped around and he glowered darkly at Kubota. "Who's a dependant? I do stuff around our place too, you know."
"Of course you do – sleep, leave the TV on, your clothes on the floor, let the dishes pile in the sink..…"
"Fuck you, you are so not funny."
"I shall endeavour to do better in the future."
Bemused, the cop took advantage of the lull, while he fumed over Kubota's last retort. "So what're you called?" His mood soured instantly, but Kubota didn't skip a beat.
"Call him a stray. Everyone else does."
"You die."
"Makoto." It took him some seconds to realize that the cop was referring to Kubota, and his eyes narrowed warily. How well did this old man know him?
Kubota Makoto.
"Putting that aside…" the cop shrugged, but he didn't miss the thoughtful gaze flicked in his direction, and he realized that the guy had recognized Kubota's evasive reply for what it was.
"This little thing you've gotten yourselves involved in…"
"We didn't start anything! He was beating the shit out of the old guy."
The cop just looked at him. "And you returned the favour? Mild concussion, dislocated jaw, some broken bones…"
"We did you a favour I think, Kasai-san." His tirade was cut off even before he had begun when Kubota leaned forward. "We fouled up the mugging. We have done nothing but uphold justice – " the cop rolled his eyes "– and the formalities of a report for something so trivial are quite unnecessary, so why don't we just leave?"
"Not yet, Makoto." Kubota smiled blandly at the grim tone. "Or we could now come to the true point of this meeting."
There was a small frown in the cop's expression. "The Tohjou group arson fire several months ago."
Something imperceptible changed in Kubota's face, and he knew that the cop had seen it too, when the latter fell back with an exasperated huff. "So it was you, then." The guy grimaced wearily. "Shit Makoto, do you realize what this means for the police? Especially where Uzaki – "
"There is nothing to discuss, Kasai-san." He almost flinched at the steel in Kubota's words, something he didn't hear often. "It's nothing more than a memory now. If you are finished…" The cop sneaked a frustrated glance at him as Kubota smoothly rose to his feet, and the realization finally smacked him hard. He snatched at Kubota's arm as the latter turned to go, not caring that his grip was tighter than necessary. When Kubota lowered his face to look at him, that coldness still in his eyes, he snarled in fury. "Fuck you, Kubo-chan, what happened to watching each other's back?"
He didn't think about it, the way he didn't think when he had seen the punk punch the old man earlier. He hadn't wait for Kubota to catch up, had thrown himself completely into the fight. Sure, Kubota could shake him off now and things might be uncomfortable for a bit. But he wouldn't regret it, because he hadn't thought about it, had only done what he felt he was supposed to do.
He knew Kubota had things about his past he didn't want to talk about. But it was different now, because it was the both of them.
Don't hide anything from me. I'm fucking right here you asshole.
He would have been lying if he said he wasn't a little surprised when Kubota sat back down. He didn't let go of Kubota's arm though, but viciously jerked the other guy closer until they were almost nose to nose, his scowl resentful and hostile. Kubota didn't react immediately to the threat, but the coldness had disappeared, and when he finally nodded, he loosened his grip. "Don't you ever forget it, you asshole." He slouched in his chair still seething, not caring that the cop was giving him a very weird look.
Fuck you, you don't forget, Kubo-chan. I'm right here.
--
It was the first time he had the dream. Maybe the jaunt to the police station had triggered something. Maybe he had eaten something bad.
He didn't like being on the run all the time, but to not run at all was worse.
Like all dreams it made sense and at the same time didn't. He didn't recognize the cage even though he knew he'd been in there for a long time. There was a tag around his ankle that was supposed to mean something important, but he couldn't remember.
Most of all he didn't recognize the man watching him, but he hated him, and his rage made him want to snarl and throw himself against the cage, but his desperation also made him want to weep.
"Come, Minoru."
Who?
"You don't have to be afraid anymore..…"
No. Stop. Don't come closer.
"…..because you are mine now."
Stop it. No. Let go. Let –
--
I'm shaking hard, and it's not just because of the dream. He pushes at my shoulder again, and he doesn't need to say anything, because I can feel his breath in my hair behind me.
I turn into warmth and the smell of tobacco. My breathing is harsh, my throat scratchy.
I don't want to let go.
Stupid dream. I pull in closer, unwilling yet to close my eyes in the dark of the room. Stupid fucking dream.
Still he says nothing, and I'm grateful. He leaves me alone, and I don't have to say anything. I know he will let me do whatever I want. He will let me decide when to tell him about my dream. He will let me decide when I leave. Because in the end, strays are still strays.
And it makes the difference, when he gives me that freedom to choose – now, when the dream is still vivid, I understand it better. He shows me what I need to believe.
I belong to no one.
And I know my name now.
He shifts a little, and I raise my head. Without his glasses his eyes can't lie. He flicks my forehead gently. "Alright?" I don't know what he's thinking, but he won't ask me.
But I've decided. In the morning I'll tell him, and I'll start looking for the person that is Tokitoh Minoru.
For now, I just nod my head, and I don't let go as I close my eyes. For now, I'll keep my name to myself, and let Kubo-chan keep his cat.
END