Chapter 8: Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Summary: Kuzan you messy idiot.


Haunt is defined as a persistent recurrence that sits in the consciousness. To look at it from a mystical perspective, it is to be habitually visited by a spirit, or perhaps a ghost. In this way, perhaps certain places and times become spirits.

Kuzan stands on the shore, it's dark over the waves. Light flickers behind him, red and orange and chaotic. All is silent, but he knows, knows if he turns around, the silence will shatter. Heat builds on his back, hotter and hotter, the light behind him sends his shadow careening wildly across the sand.

He gazes at the dark shape of himself, a form slowly emerging from it. Small and dark, frail and helpless. She stares at him, eyes so blue as the world behind him burns and burns and burns. Kuzan raises his hand, ice forming as the girl opens her mouth to scream-

His eyes snap open, throat gasping. Ice itches on his hands, his face, reflecting a distorted and refracted image of his eyes back at him. It's quiet but for a noise that takes Kuzan a long time to place. The static hum of rain hitting the window.

Rain. There is no fire, no terrified little girls looking at him with unfathomable sadness. He stares at the stucco ceiling above him, and though it has been months since he was here, the shapes and patterns in the plaster bring instant recognition.

Kuzan sits up slowly. Ericsson's apartment. His temples pound, the beginnings of a hangover, his constant companion. But the walls were bare, the table clear of trash and empty beer bottles. A jitte was leaning against the wall by the front door.

He blinked slowly, scattered flashes of the night before flickering before his eyes. With a grimace, Kuzan pushed himself to his feet from the hard floor, gazing at the dark open doorway to the bedroom. The last time he was here, the door had been ripped from its hinges, ice accidental and vicious torn into the walls.

He hadn't meant to. He never meant to. Kuzan never meant a lot of things, but his choices had led him to destruction, so how could he trust them?

He peeked through the doorway, morning light from a gaps in the blinds little horizontal lines across the bed. It took Kuzan a moment to focus, the room seemed…misty? A smokey shape of a human was sprawled on the bed, some parts clearly human, some parts not. The smoke shifted and changed, a curl of it wrapping around the corner of the blanket.

Smoker.

A tiny bit of solid movement caught his eye from the bedside table. A den den mushi looked up at Kuzan, pale and frail. A miserable piece of lettuce and a– was that a sock? Next to it. Poor thing was probably getting sick from all the smoke.

He glanced up at the ceiling, raising an eyebrow. The smoke detector was unplugged. He looked back down at Smoker again, recalling a barrack filled with ice, his bunkmate swearing at him. It was funny until he had a nightmare.

Ericsson had lost two fingers from that.

Nausea swept through Kuzan's frame, his thoughts starting to churn. Too many memories, the pounding in his temples sickly. He turned and stumbled from the apartment as fast as his feet could carry him.


Smoker wakes slowly, mouth dry from too much alcohol the night before. He glances at his snail and mumbles a curse. He's late, the thing didn't make a sound at the time it was supposed to. It looks pathetically out from its shell, eyes red rimmed.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He would have to find someone who knew something about den den mushis. They had always been pretty self sufficient in the past, so what the heck was wrong with this one? "Alright, alright, quit looking so pathetic," he muttered to it and hauled himself to his feet.

The shower squeaked as he turned it on, the water heating up. A bulky shape sat in the sink and it took Smoker a moment to recall what it was. The Vice Admiral's soggy coat. Was the idiot still slumped on the floor of Smoker's living room?! He left the bathroom, not bothering to be quiet. If the idiot had a hangover, then good.

But there was no Kuzan. The ass left without so much as a thanks. Figures.

He was like a stray cat, coming and going and giving absolutely no regards to the world around him.


He walks Magnus, a dull pounding in his temples in time with his steps. The same headache that has clung to him all day. The rain has stopped but still the island is wreathed in fog. The city is used to the foggy wet summers. When Kuzan first arrived on Tallinn, he'd hear old women and tired men in the bars mention the days when tourists would come to the island for the cool weather, escape the heat.

But that had never happened while Kuzan was here, only a slow trickle of refugees growing to a steady stream and well on its way to a flood.

The bars and card rooms, the massage parlors, the seedy places that held interest and attraction for men doing anything but what they were supposed to, that's what Kuzan was looking for.

The Piper's Hold sat squashed in between a greasy takoyaki place and an empty storefront. It had once been a clothing store, but the fabric absorbed the grease from its neighbor. Before that, a flower shop, and before that, guns and daggers had graced the windows. He wondered what would come next.

Kuzan stooped below the doorframe, a damp and sour cloud of air making his lingering hangover throb throughout his body. A large portion of Platoon 001 sat around the booths and the bar, shooting craps at the table, cigarette smoke and chatter pulsing in the air.

It took a few moments for the room to notice. He tracked the startled looks on faces drifting from corner to corner. Off Kobecke's round nose, to Jubbi's bushy eyebrows, to Stanton's curly hair spooking upward. "Vice Admiral!" "Boss!" "You're back!" "Grab another round on the boss man's tab!"

The cacophony makes his forehead pound but Kuzan drops into a seat around the card table. The bartender slides a drink toward him, and some part of him whispers that he wishes it were water. He drowns it out under the skunk of beer.

A hand of cards is dealt to him without asking. He deals in, fitting into the roll like an old glove.


The office was fucking bereft of soldiers as usual. The fact that he was getting used to it irked the shit out of him. Smoker glared at the emptiness, the sheer lack of people at desks, of men standing guard, of men doing their god damned jobs. Fucking figures with that sorry excuse for a Vice Admiral.

Going out for drinks felt like going back to zero with the fucking guy. Smoker ground a cigar between his teeth as he dropped into the chair behind his desk. Getting a read on Vice Admiral Kuzan was like water off a duck's back. One moment the ass was competent, the next he was drunk and unconscious!

Stupid asshole. Whatever, Smoker had work to do and as long as Kuzan didn't get in his way, the asshole could go ahead and be a pathetic mess! Hell, his eyebrow quirked up, maybe Smoker could use his ineptitude to his advantage. He grabbed a notepad and a pen and left his little hole of capability.

The holding cells of G9 were not in the best condition (big surprise), but they still served their purpose. Smoker walked past the empty cells, taking note of the rust that needed to be dealt with, and the semi damp wood that needed to be replaced. He'd shoved the guy into the very last cell last night. Hopefully the guy would be ready to talk.

The smell hit Smoker as he came to a stop outside the cell. Piss. A ragged shape was huddled in the back corner of the cell, a damp puddle catching the dull light overhead. At least the electricity worked.

The light flickered just as he thought that.

"Oi, you." He grunted. The shape in the corner jerked, a face emerging to blink at him.

"Let me out, I didn't do nothing."

Smoker cocked an eyebrow. An accent he didn't recognize.

"What were you doing at that house?" He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

"Nothin'," the man responded. His shoulders had hunched a little.

"Oh? Then why'd you run?" Smoker reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, tucking it comfortably into the corner of his mouth.

The guy stayed silent, but Smoker could wait. Water dripped in another cell, the smell of urine fading to the back of his nose as the cloves of his cigar filled the air. The perp shifted and shuffled in his cell. He was thin, hair unkempt. His cheeks had the look of someone used to hard times that came fast and stuck around.

Dirty fingernails scratched a chin with patchy stubble, a burn covered most of the back of his hand, and now that Smoker had time to really look, part of his ear was missing on the same side.

His clothing said unclean, said drifter, salt crusted on the collar and cuffs of his oversized coat said he hung around the docks, wiry muscles in his shoulders like the men who offloaded goods to and fro from the dock.

"Didn't want no trouble."

Smoker resisted commenting on how that didn't work out so well. Barely. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and took a deep drag on his cigar. The smoke whooshed down into his lungs, spreading throughout his veins and arteries, becoming a part of him. A meditative process, calming. Patient.

"Ain't nobody supposed to be there," the guy continued, leaving out an unsaid least of all a Marine.

"And why's that?"

"They moved a few weeks ago, whole family. One of those fancy wagons showed up, packed 'em up 'n moved. I was jus' looking for anything left I swear!"

"Fancy wagons?" Smoker prodded.

"You know, the kind the folks in Magnus use, real surprisin' cause what was they doin' in the slums yeah?" A hopeful light entered his eyes as he picked up on Smoker's interest. "So I thought I'd see if there was…"

Smoker let the guy prattle on, only half listening. Most of the information was not useful, but the fact that the girl went missing and her family moved away– in style apparently– was interesting.

As with all puzzles, he was getting more questions than answers. Good. It was better than thinking about his idiot of a superior.


The pub closest to the port, the brothel by the river, and the gambling hall below the first floor of that noodle restaurant in Magnus. Kuzan sighed from the rooftop of the old church in Vensai. Any stragglers he missed would trickle in over the next day or two. If nothing else, soldiers were predictable on the places they chose to hang around.

He wondered which place Smoker would have picked, or would he spend his off days doing "responsible" things. Like Kuzan used to. When it seemed like things mattered.

A pigeon, or something close enough, cooed in indignation as Kuzan startled it off its perch. "Sorry, this is my spot for now," he mumbled, stretching his legs out. The top of the church's architecture curved to form a circle, a perfect spot with a view all the way up the hill of Magnus to the east, the Navy Base to the north and the Port to the west.

The corrugated metal walkways spanning the slums glinted in the sun, the fog later having blown out. Forms skittered back and forth, smoke from cooking fires not dissimilar to smokestacks of industry on islands far away.

The stucco underneath him was coated in a thin layer of ash and grease, turning it from white to mottled gray. 'Good,' he thought. It fit better that way. Here, religion was just as filthy as all the rest of them.

A splotch of white caught his gaze in the street below. Tiny but Kuzan would recognize that pale head of hair anywhere. Smoker crossed a few of the metal walkways before dropping down out of sight for a few minutes and reappearing at the church's plaza.

Curious. What was he doing in Vensai? Kuzan had expected him to be holed up in the office. But here he was. Kuzan followed the dot of white up the steps of the church to disappear inside its doors.

Ah shit, he wasn't looking for him was he? There weren't a lot of guys who would name this as a spot Kuzan tended to frequent, but enough. A feeling like guilt, or maybe shame, or maybe some other bullshit that always hounded him poked at his gut. He hadn't said a word of thanks to Smoker yet.

For bringing him in out of the rain.

Kuzan sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. A nap would have to wait.

The church smelled like dust and sage. Old and worn, a thousand ceremonies repeated over and over to thousands of people.

The tilestone walls stretched high above him, the ceiling a mosaic of people praying. It was probably beautiful once, but this house of worship had long lacked the funds to clean and repair it.

Kuzan's steps were even across the stone floor as he walked past the pews. Smoker was sitting in the very first row, his shocking white hair even more startling in the semi gloom of the inner sanctuary. A few old women prayed on the hard wood benches, and an elderly man faced the raised dais where the pastor delivered sermons, his forehead pressed to the floor.

"Didn't take you for the religious type," Kuzan muttered as he took a seat behind Smoker. His subordinate twitched and glanced back at him, eyebrows drawn in irritation. Or maybe that was just his face.

"I'm not," Smoker grumbled. There was an edge to his tone that caught Kuzan's attention, but he pushed that away for the far more curious question.

"Then what brings you to church?"

"My job, unlike some of us."

Ah, yeah.

"Work life balance Smoker," he almost grinned when Smoker's eye twitched and he turned fully around to give Kuzan the full force of his glare. Man he was just too easy.

"Easy, easy, I've been working all morning," Kuzan held up his hands in a gesture of peace. Fitting for a church.

That however, only seemed to piss Smoker off more.

"You haven't been in your fucking office all fucking day! I should have left your ass in the rain," he snarled. His voice echoed off the stone floor and the man with his head pressed to the floor looked up, startled.

"Arara we're in a church, calm down."

That was also the wrong thing to say.

"Maybe if you started giving a fuck-"

Kuzan's lips tightened at the corners, Sakazuki's face appearing before his eyes. He hated Kuzan's work ethic too. As if his need for perfection was so great. As if the chaos in the world could ever be controlled without horrific consequences!

"-the base hasn't run drills in-"

This was why he always dreaded returning to base. For a moment, Kuzan could hear screaming, the violent rushing of flames, smell whole lives going up in smoke. Saul looking at him, his big kind heart breaking Kuzan's own. A little girl sobbing in the dark.

"-soldiers copying your bad exam-"

At least he'd felt something then. And where had that gotten him? A heat was spreading through Kuzan's limbs. The flames of Ohara burning a hole into his brain. The itch for alcohol wailing. Smoker was still snarling at him, eyes little pits of fury. Like he knew anything. Some idiot transferred into Kuzan's service by an old man whose lessons created men willing to slaughter thousands of innocents! Why would he teach another Sakazuki?! Someone who seemed to think the Navy was some…some fucking paragon of order!

And in that moment, Kuzan couldn't see Smoker.

He yanked his fist back and slammed it into Sakazuki's face.


The world spun for a moment, blinding pain radiating from his jaw up into Smoker's right eye, the back of his head throbbing from slamming into the dais. Hot rage turned into cold fury in his veins.

All logical thought about whether he could win this fight, about the terrified little old ladies scurrying toward the doors, about his plans to speak with the pastor of the Church fled from Smoker's mind. The "Vice Admiral" had been asking for it for weeks!

And Smoker would be glad to deliver.

In an instant, he shot to his feet and threw himself forward, the front pew toppling backward with a crash. He grabbed the lapels of Kuzan's coat as they fell backwards, Smoker intending to choke the life out of this idiot!

But of course it wouldn't be that easy. Cold bloomed across his palms, the Vice Admiral shattering into a thousand pieces of ice and reforming in the air above him. Bastard! He braced himself as the larger man rammed his knee into Smoker's crossed forearms, sending him rolling across the floor again.

Drake would have stayed down. Hina wouldn't have gotten into this situation in the first place. But Smoker wasn't either of them. He spat blood from his split lip and threw himself back into the fray, instinctually turning to smoke when icy shards whisked his direction thunking deep into the wooden pews like knives.

He flew forward as smoke, snarling when Kuzan shattered into ice again as he punched him in the face. Cold raced up his arm and he jerked away, body reforming, barely keeping his feet! Except Kuzan was already moving again, faster than Smoker could see, his large hand slamming into the injured side of his jaw.

Stars bloomed across his vision, but he pulled his arms up in front of his face in time for the follow-up barrage of blows.

"What in God's Name do you think you're doing?!"

Kuzan froze, both literally and figuratively. A priest stood a few feet away, face pale with fury and fear. "Get out! You do not fight in the House of our Lord! Out! OUT!" he bellowed. Smoker didn't see Kuzan's face, but the next second, his superior officer melted and marched out of the Church.

He limped out after him.


Smoker winced as he sank down onto his couch, painkillers in his hand. His head felt like it was going to split open, his back ached like he'd been thrown through a wall (might as well have been) and the skin on his arms was raw and red like he'd been burned.

He swallowed the pills with difficulty and gently leaned his head back with a groan. Today had not gone according to plan. Worse…Kuzan's strangely dead eyes as he slammed his fist into Smoker's face settled into the forefront of Smoker's mind. He hadn't expected that. All their past encounters had been… what? Friendly, irritating, unflappable at most. Hell they had been out drinking last night.

What the fuck was his deal?! What the fuck was it about this time that set him off?

A tapping sound came at Smoker's balcony window. He frowned and then winced. The sound came again, and something else, a…crackling. The temperature in his living room dropped. Smoker's stomach sank.

Ice slipped under the door and reformed into the towering figure of his superior officer. Smoker stiffened, eyes narrowing.

Kuzan stared down at him before crossing his legs and sinking to a seat on the floor. The moments ticked by, quiet and strange.

"How's the jaw?" came Kuzan's low rumble. Smoker glared at him. How did he think it was?

"For a guy who sleeps all the time, you hit pretty hard," he muttered.

"Yeah…well you didn't deserve it," Kuzan's shoulders slumped.

"You hit like I did."

"Well, you didn't. Nice dodge with the smoke thing though," Kuzan added. This was so fucking weird. They went quiet again.

"I don't understand you," Smoker finally added. Dark eyes looked into his own. He couldn't tell if the idiot was drunk or not. Though, a drink sounded great at the moment.

A low chuckle met his ears. "Yeah, that makes two of us. I…" he trailed off. Smoker raised an eyebrow. "What you said earlier… I do care. I just… I don't care like you do," Kuzan mumbled. This was not helping Smoker's headache.

"The hell's that mean?"

Kuzan sighed. "You're all salute, march, do things by the book–" Smoker snorted. Hina would be laughing herself to death from that. Kuzan ignored him and went on. "And I'm not. I do things at my own speed. My own way. And I was thinking–"

"Thinking we should meet in the middle?" Smoker rumbled. Kuzan blinked then grinned.

"Yeah, that."

"And what'll make this different from the last few weeks?" Smoker carefully pulled a cigar out of his pants pocket and tucked it into the uninjured corner of his mouth. Not that it didn't still hurt. Kuzan moved forward and took Smoker's lighter off his coffee table and flicked it to life before bringing it close to Smoker's face.

"Well, I'm gonna be training you is why, and you're gonna… keep me on task or whatever." The second half of that sentence was buried under Smoker's instant irritation at the first part.

"Training me? I'll pass." Kuzan quirked an eyebrow at him as the cigar caught and smoke filled the air.

"Huh, you sure? 'Cause pretty sure I handed you your ass earlier." Smoker bristled, eyes narrowing, but there was an undercurrent of a laugh behind that statement. He huffed and blew smoke in Kuzan's face. The idiot didn't even flinch.

"...Fine I'll agree to your stupid plan," Smoker muttered.

"Oi, you're getting the better end of the deal anyway," Kuzan grinned, settled on the other end of Smoker's couch and promptly passed out.

Seriously?! Smoker sighed. Whatever.


Notes:

It's been a while huh? Yeah. I'm so sorry, please forgive me. This isn't my best work, but I really just needed to stop sitting on it and get it out there! It'll probably be another month before the next chapter. Or maybe I'll actually be able to update it during Marines Week. Fingers crossed!

Let me know your thoughts!

As always, thank you for reading and you can find me on twitter at buggyisbest!