A/N: One of the hardest sections of Komatta Toki for me followed the car accident in Volume 13, when Kiyomine very clearly chooses his sister Ayako over Takara, and leaves their relationship visibly scarred. I wished that there had been more consequences for Kiyomine's outburst, and that Takara had been able to lean on his friends, specifically Reiichi and Yoshiya, to get comfort after this betrayal.
With some prompting from a friend, I've decided to take up a multi-chapter project for Komatta Toki set after Volume 13, sort of a "what if" where Takara's father does go back to Africa and he turns to Reiichi and Yoshiya for comfort after Kiyomine's harsh words. Not totally sure how long it will be, but nine or so chapters at least, possibly with additional interludes afterward.
Note: Mostly a friendship story focused on Takara, Reiichi, and Yoshiya, with some light Kiyomine x Takara and Yoshiya x Reiichi pre-slash hints.
Chapter Two
The snow had finally stopped for good when Reiichi climbed out of the black BMW and stretched over his head, relishing the cold of the fresh air on his face. It was just past midnight—not particularly late, by the benchmark of Kashiwagi gatherings—but it seemed like everyone on Yoshiya's block was long asleep, the purr of the top-flight sedan idling next to him abnormally loud in the stillness. The only house with a lit window was the one at the top of the drive. Reiichi smiled and shrugged down into his greatcoat, imagining Yoshiya sitting up in the living room with whoever he was reading now, Cervantes or Stanislaw, and that telltale little crease between his eyebrows, waiting for him. It would be nice to get in somewhere warm—not five-star restaurant warm or second glass of wine warm or heated leather seats warm. Yoshiya warm. Maybe Reiichi would curl up next to him and pretend to fall asleep before he could be shuffled off to the guest room.
The black window in the passenger door glided seamlessly down without so much as a whisper, and Reiichi leaned into the car, bracing his chin on one hand as he offered the driver a smile. "Thanks for the ride, Masaya. Always a pleasure to get your perspective on the blue-chip upswing."
"And yours on the integrity of trade markets in Southeast Asia," Masaya replied smoothly. "Don't forget your leftovers."
Reiichi had been trying very hard to forget his leftovers, had even shifted the foil boat torqued into the shape of a swan to the backseat after accidentally bumping it off the center console during a rousing discussion of the investment implications of ASEAN's comprehensive tariff reform. The restaurant had been Italian—it was always Italian when Masaya was along—and though Reiichi had long mastered the logic of opulent menus (the more upscale the dish, the smaller the portion), in the end he'd had no appetite for the small mountain of prosciutto in white truffle oil that appeared on his plate. Masaya extended the foil swan and Reiichi took it, careful not to wrinkle his nose. He'd been planning to cleverly forget the untouched piadina con crescenza in Masaya's car, but oh well—he could always forget it in Yoshiya's refrigerator instead.
"It sounds like you're going to be busy until school starts," Masaya remarked offhand, clearly a subject on which he had no opinion or even any real interest, but nonetheless Reiichi found his smile widening, imagined that for a minute he could feel the warmth of the lit window glowing against his back. Masaya pushed his glasses farther up his nose. "I suppose it may be a while before we see you again."
"Oh, I'm sure it won't be all that long," Reiichi replied. There seemed to be no shortage of Kashiwagi get-togethers—especially in the winter months, when arthritic old knees made it harder for Grandfather to amuse himself by jet-setting around the globe. Reiichi stood back with a wave of the foil swan. "Drive safely, Masaya," he couldn't help throwing out just before the window slid closed. He listened to the churn of the engine as Masaya shifted into drive, watched for a moment as the glaring red taillights retreated down the dark street. Then he turned and made his way up the icy walk to the front door, careful not to slip in the Santonis that weren't entirely weather approved.
It felt strange to be back at Yoshiya's house so soon after New Year's, a night of celebration that hadn't gone quite the way he'd planned—but in the end, there was only one person he ever ran to. Maybe that was why Masaya hadn't seemed even a little surprised when Reiichi asked to be dropped off here instead of the dorms.
It wasn't like he was running from anything in particular. Dinner had been fine, or predictable at least—cacophony at a crowded table, the customary badinage, his father and eldest cousins handling the lion's share of the conversation while Reiichi lounged back in his chair, earning a dark look from Tsukasa every time he took a sip of Muscat—but for some reason his heart hadn't been in it. Maybe he owed that to his prickly younger brother, who showed up late huffing and puffing as if he'd run all the way and scooted in so close that Reiichi took his elbow in the ribs at least twice. Or perhaps it had been the nauseatingly heavy food, the pungent aromas of garlic and seared scallops making his stomach turn. But if he was being completely honest, Reiichi thought it was probably that every time his eyes cut across the table, they landed on Kiyomine, glued to Ayako's side and glaring at the waiters like some kind of ineffectual puppy guard dog, and every time someone set a glass down too hard he heard it again—the sound of Fujishima's head slamming against the wall, the sharp gasp surprised out of him by the wild fury on Kiyomine's face. Reiichi was no stranger to his bratty little cousin's thoughtlessness, but Kiyomine had really outdone himself this time.
Almost as soon as they were seated he'd started to feel guilty for leaving Fujishima at the hospital, a churning in his stomach that only got worse every time he glanced at his phone hoping for news from Yoshiya and found the black face still infuriatingly blank. It wasn't like Yoshiya not to contact him if there was trouble—but then, Yoshiya had always been the type to let him know if there wasn't trouble, too, at least a text or something to put his mind at ease. The whole thing left Reiichi feeling jumbled and kind of jumpy, like he just needed to get away from this, take refuge somewhere quiet for a while. That was when he'd hit upon the brilliant idea of hiding out at Yoshiya's until school started up again. A few days of sleeping in late and letting Yoshiya spoil him with Turkish coffee and blueberry and cream cheese French toast was exactly what he needed. He hadn't checked with Yoshiya first, but that didn't matter. He'd never been turned away. Reiichi wiped his feet on the familiar mat before pushing open the door—unlocked as always when he was expected—and letting himself into the house with a smile.
"Yoshiya!" he called out. "I brought provisions!" He got no reply.
As he toed off his shoes and wrapped his long checkered scarf around the peg of the coat rack, he realized how oddly quiet the house was, only the hush of the furnace rising to meet him as he moved into the hall. It was darker than he'd first thought, too—the front room was lit up, and there was a light burning in the stairwell to the second floor, but the kitchen and the large living room that opened out onto the snowy balcony were pitch black, as if someone had turned off every light except the few he might need. Strangest of all, Yoshiya's bedroom door was closed, no seam of light creeping out beneath the heavy oak door as from a laptop or a reading lamp. Reiichi blinked, a little unsure of himself for the first time. He hadn't asked Yoshiya to wait up for him or anything—still, he'd never arrived at Yoshiya's to find him already asleep, not even the time he was flying back from Amsterdam and got in four hours late due to weather. Curious and definitely not a little put out, because it would be childish to be put out with Yoshiya for breaking plans they didn't have, he doubled back to tuck the swan non grata into the refrigerator and then crossed the hall and pushed the door soundlessly open, surprised all over again when the dim stripe of light fell across a lump tucked up in the bed.
Someone was asleep, all right, but it definitely wasn't Yoshiya. Reiichi would recognize that charming little chipmunk face anywhere.
At least he knew what had happened to Fujishima.
Reiichi shifted to lean against the doorframe, deciphering what he could of the scene in the minimal light. It looked like Yoshiya and Fujishima had spent the evening engaged in the classic misadventures of single parenting: Fujishima was curled up on top of the blankets with another comforter thrown over him, like he'd resisted the idea of going to sleep until the instant he drifted off, and the dish on the nightstand had a distinctive halo of melted ice cream at the bottom, which Reiichi knew from experience was Yoshiya's river card when he couldn't convince ornery houseguests to eat anything more substantial. The drawers of the usually immaculate dresser were half-open and clearly rifled, which explained the familiar striped pajama shirt Fujishima was absolutely swimming in. Reiichi stifled a laugh with the back of his hand. He liked the way he looked in Yoshiya's clothes—the button-up shirts a little too long in the sleeves, sort of boyfriend chic—but Fujishima looked more like he'd been pinned into a blue and white parachute, and if he hadn't wriggled the whole ensemble off by morning, he was just as apt to suffocate in it. The entire panorama was like a monument to Yoshiya muddling through a situation that was clearly beyond him—but he thought he understood the desperation a little better when Fujishima shifted and the light from the hall fell across his exhausted face, illuminating puffy eyes and tear tracks still marring his pale cheeks.
Reiichi felt a soft hand settle against his back, looked up to find Yoshiya standing at his shoulder with his hair slicked back and a towel around his neck. "Sorry. I meant to be out of the shower before you arrived," Yoshiya told him, his voice so low Reiichi could barely hear it though they were inches apart.
Reiichi laughed under his breath. "That's okay. You smell good." Yoshiya raised an eyebrow as Reiichi took up one end of the towel and scrubbed it haphazardly against the back of his head—usually personal grooming went the other way between them, but sometimes it was fun to bedevil Yoshiya's wet hair. Reiichi shot him a cheeky smile, but he lost it as he glanced into the bedroom again, cocked his chin at the figure muted in the dark. "I see you brought home a stray."
Yoshiya's glasses were still foggy from the steam in the bathroom—nonetheless, Reiichi could tell that his expression had grown serious, too, his forehead furrowed at some troubling memory. "He's having a difficult night," he said at last.
Reiichi only knew half the story and he knew that wasn't the half of it. He pressed his hand a little over-hard against the door trim, felt one of the headless frame nails digging into the groove of his thumb.
The thing was, it had scared him—the news of the accident, sure, the initial uncertainty about Fujishima's father, but most of all the blur of sudden, violent motion, the whole force of Kiyomine's body shoving Fujishima up against the wall. Reiichi knew all about his cousin's temper, but that was the first time he'd been really afraid, for just a second, of what he might do. And then, in the silent taxi racing to the hospital through streets silver with hardening ice, his breath and everything else lodged in his throat, Reiichi was afraid of the utterly blank look on Fujishima's face, only the hands strangling each other in his lap betraying any emotion at all. He had nearly forgotten it in the rush of relief that Ayako was all right, that Kou was all right, that nothing was broken and no one had lost anything. Perhaps that had been a hasty conclusion. Suddenly he was so glad that he'd sent Yoshiya after Fujishima, and that Yoshiya had brought him here, that Fujishima wouldn't spend the night alone in the dorms waiting for someone who might not even come back—or, if he did, might still have that shadow across his face, the maelstrom of helplessness and rage Reiichi had seen burning in him every time they locked eyes across the dinner table…
Reiichi shook his head, pushed the memory away. Those were the kind of thoughts he'd come here to escape. He leaned into Yoshiya and pressed his cheek against his shoulder, breathed in the warm scent of brown sugar and cocoa butter still clinging to his warm skin. Yoshiya had a habit of just using whatever shampoo his younger sister left in the upstairs bathroom—which was the main reason one of Sawa's Christmas presents from the Kashiwagis had been a very posh set of brown sugar–scented bath products. Reiichi enjoyed keeping that secret to himself. When he opened his eyes again, it wasn't hard to smile at Fujishima anymore, whose hands had slipped down in the monstrous sleeves and disappeared as if into a pair of mittens.
"He's adorable," Reiichi murmured against his companion's shoulder. "Let's get married and adopt him."
For a second, he felt Yoshiya stiffen, a muscle clenching underneath his jaw—strange, because Yoshiya never stiffened when he said things like that. Reiichi lifted his head and peered up into his companion's face, wondering just what it was Yoshiya was trying so hard not to tell him. He wasn't nearly so fond of secrets being kept from him.
Yoshiya ran a hand through his damp hair, a gesture that sent a few absent drops sliding down into the towel. "I told him you'd be stopping in. He couldn't stay awake long enough to see you, but in the morning, if you could talk to him before…"
"You must be joking." Yoshiya blinked at him, and Reiichi lifted his hands in an expansive shrug. "What kind of a fool would I have to be pass up on this chance to have Fujishima all to myself? Well, I suppose you'll be here, too, but as a rule I skip you in the count." He could see the corners of Yoshiya's lips twitching just a little, teased that into a full smile as he added, somewhat more genuinely, "I'll stay. I do expect breakfast service, though."
"So the usual, then," Yoshiya deadpanned. He set one hand on the doorknob but hesitated before he'd pulled it more than a couple of inches to. "Reiichi," he began, the words barely a whisper in the darkness. "I think he's in trouble."
Reiichi wondered if Yoshiya had ever looked so serious, or so worried. He studied those solemn features for a long moment; then he reached out and laid his hand over his companion's, tugged the bedroom door the rest of the way closed with a decisive click. "He was in trouble. He'll be fine now. He's in exceptional hands."
Yoshiya gave in to a little smile. He turned his hand over to press their palms together, squeezed softly as he intertwined their fingers. "Would those be your hands or my hands?" he asked.
Reiichi scoffed. "My hands, of course. I am the dorm president, after all, singularly responsible for one hundred and fifty students. A renowned, unparalleled dorm president," he added, tacking on more praise as Yoshiya's unbearably smug eyebrow crept toward his hairline. "An inspiration to future presidents."
"Yes, you are," Yoshiya agreed, but somehow Reiichi still got the feeling he was being humored. "Where would you like to spend the night? I'll be on the futon in the guest room, but…do you want to sleep with Fujishima?"
It was a tempting proposition—it wasn't every day that he had the opportunity to cuddle up with a defenseless and adorable Fujishima, especially in the extravagant nest of blankets and off-kilter pillows Yoshiya's bed was rapidly becoming. And then there was the chance to witness Fujishima waking up, rubbing sleepily at his eyes and his bedhead—and even potentially to photograph it, because there was a high demand for such things and Reiichi was nothing if not conscious of market dynamics. Ultimately, though, he shook his head.
"I don't want to wake him. I'll just curl up with you." Reiichi lowered his chin, looking up at Yoshiya fairly deliberately through his eyelashes. "It is a small futon, though. I might have to get in close."
"That shouldn't be a problem," Yoshiya replied without so much as a hitch. "Do you need to borrow a toothbrush?"
Reiichi was a mature, celebrated scion of the Kashiwagi dynasty, a brilliant mind toasted as the heir to the enviable throne—which was why he waited until Yoshiya's back was turned to stick out his tongue. He wasn't really trying to start anything, naturally, but sometimes he thought it would be nice to get a bigger reaction from Yoshiya when he said things like that—just a little awe, a double take or a hard swallow, enough to know that the idea of sleeping all tangled up with him put Yoshiya in mind of something sexier than plaque and mint toothpaste.
Yoshiya paused as they reached the guest room. "I have to warn you—he has your favorite pillow."
Reiichi clicked his tongue. "My second favorite pillow," he corrected, settling a hand into the center of Yoshiya's soft T-shirt, where he liked to rest his head, press his ear against Yoshiya's chest and fall asleep wondering if the flutter in that heartbeat was for him. He offered the taller boy a smile. "He's welcome to borrow it for as long as he wants, provided my first favorite pillow does its job properly."
Yoshiya laughed, a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through the bones of his hand, and the sensation made Reiichi laugh, too, curling his fingers into the folds of gray cotton. He still didn't know exactly what was wrong with Fujishima, but he knew they were in the right place to figure it out. Everything seemed easier when they were laughing in the dark.