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 Nine
The snow had started again. From the window in the guest room, Yoshiya traced the sweep of white flakes as they billowed against the glass and then settled silently over the front yard, luminescing where they caught the light of the streetlamp at the end of the drive. The roads had been clear all day, clear enough to gallivant around Daikanyama without worrying about the weather, but now he could see a thin crust of white accumulating on the asphalt, unbroken except where one set of tire tracks was riven into the new snow like a black seam, someone rushing home through the storm. The world seemed utterly silent beneath its fall. Yoshiya wiped the fog of his breath from the glass. If the snow kept up, it would be difficult to go much of anywhere tomorrow—but then, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, considering the day they'd had. Yoshiya pinched the bridge of his nose, lamenting the years taken off his life in the moment when Fujishima reeled backward at the top of the stairs and he'd felt his fingers close around thin air. Not that what had happened was in any way the younger boy's fault—still, Yoshiya was starting to wonder what it was about arguments and staircases that struck Fujishima as such a winning combination.
He had always considered himself a very mature, responsible, and generally considerate person—not someone liable to make his friends cry, or who would let his houseguest crack his head open at the bottom of the stairs. The events of the last twenty-four hours begged to differ. Yoshiya had no objection to Fujishima rooming with them for a while, but he did wonder how much of his self-image would be intact by the end of it.
He lost the thread of his musings as two pale arms wrapped around his stomach, the warmth of a soft cheek nuzzling into his shoulder. Yoshiya pressed his hand over those familiar knuckles.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, glancing back to meet enigmatic black eyes. Reiichi smiled, tipped his head up to rest his chin in the dip of Yoshiya's shoulder.
"Fujishima got a hug. I'm just balancing the scales. Or were you planning to play favorites?" he teased, his loose embrace tightening into a squeeze.
If there was any favoritism at work in this house, Reiichi was certainly on the winning side. Yoshiya chose not to say that, though he did raise an eyebrow as he traced one hand along Reiichi's arm, his fingers hesitating on the sleeve of the cream cashmere sweater he had changed into after his shower. "You're not planning to sleep in this, are you?" he asked, aghast at the mere thought of trying to fall asleep next to someone in a seven-hundred-dollar sweater.
Reiichi laughed against his neck. "Of course not. Have you ever tried to sleep in cashmere? It's suffocating. I need to borrow something of yours again. You must have enough tedious blue-striped ensembles to go around."
Subjective tediousness aside, he did have almost an entire drawer full of nightshirts, all of them variations on the blue stripe design—but that drawer was in his dresser, and the dresser was in the bedroom they'd just sent Fujishima off to a scant few minutes before, and Yoshiya couldn't imagine how he would dredge up the courage to push open that door. The younger boy had seemed better after dinner, much better after a few hours curled up on the couch in front of something called Project Runway, while he and Reiichi traded commentary about silhouette lines and color palettes that Yoshiya couldn't have followed any less if they'd been speaking Akkadian. Nevertheless, if the day had taught him anything, it was not to underestimate the gale force with which Fujishima's mood could shift; besides which, he had this (maybe irrational) fear that he was the source of the problem in some way he didn't understand, and that the next time he was alone with Fujishima, it was going to be the CocoaBella meltdown all over again. He wasn't risking all that for a shirt.
Yoshiya swallowed a sigh, more for his crumbling reputation in his own mind than for Reiichi's request. "Here," he said, slipping out of the other boy's hold and retrieving the nightshirt he'd intended to wear himself, folded on the small desk in the corner. "I'll grab the one from last night out of the laundry."
Reiichi waved a dismissive hand. "Why bother? Just sleep without one—I don't mind."
Though he admittedly had no experience with either, Yoshiya had a feeling that sleeping shirtless would be just as impossible as sleeping next to someone in cashmere—especially if that someone was Reiichi, who liked to fall asleep curled up on his chest, wrapped so thoroughly around him that they barely used half the futon. Already Yoshiya woke sometimes in the night and found it impossible to drift off again, preoccupied by the way Reiichi's lips parted when he sighed in his sleep, the unconscious flicker of his eyelashes dark against his cheeks, the feather-light pressure of those long fingers wound into the folds of his shirt. He couldn't imagine how enthralled he would be skin to skin. A train of thought he carefully derailed as Reiichi reached for the hem of his sweater.
"I think we'll both be more comfortable if—" Then Reiichi pulled the sweater over his head, and Yoshiya forgot what he was saying completely, sucking in a horrified breath. "Oh, Reiichi."
Pale as he was, Reiichi had always bruised easily—it was one of those things that made Yoshiya's pulse catch sometimes, the way the world left its mark on him, even the shallowest wounds all too likely to scar. But this was far and away the worst he'd ever seen it. If he hadn't been standing at the top of the stairs, watching the gut-wrenching collision on the landing, he wouldn't have believed Reiichi had been beaten by a baluster and not a baseball bat. The mottled blue and dark brown bruises stretched from his waist all the way up the middle of his back, and there was a distinctly darker patch in the center of his spine where he'd clearly hit the carved finial. It looked as if the railing had nearly snapped him in half. Yoshiya felt something clench in his chest, stricken all over again that he hadn't caught Fujishima at the top of the stairs.
Either it looked worse than it felt or Reiichi was already used to it; he just blinked at Yoshiya over his shoulder, tossing his expensive sweater carelessly onto the desk. "Hmm? What is it?"
Yoshiya shook his head. "Nothing. Just…I think someone could extrapolate the shape of my banister just by looking at you." He reached out and ran the backs of his fingers softly down Reiichi's spine, wondering at the shiver that followed his touch. "You bruise like an old banana."
He hadn't meant anything in particular by it—but apparently he'd said something unforgivable, because Reiichi's eyes widened and he jerked around to face Yoshiya with a deeply offended look, his mouth open in surprise. "I do not! An old banana…what a vulgar comparison. Honestly, Yoshiya."
Yoshiya raised an eyebrow, carefully suppressing his smile. "What should I have said?"
Reiichi huffed, turning his head away as he vehemently shook the folds out of his nightshirt. "Anything else. A delicate flower, a porcelain doll…any simile of your choice that doesn't hang on an association with overripe fruit!"
"Of course. My mistake," Yoshiya replied, though he wasn't especially sorry. It wasn't in his nature to tease Reiichi that often, but he couldn't deny how endearing he found it when the great Kashiwagi Reiichi lost a little of that celebrated composure, undeniably pouting now as he slipped his arms through the over-long sleeves of his borrowed shirt, just flustered enough to mix up the buttons. Yoshiya reached out and caught his agitated hands. "The vulnerability of beautiful things," he said gently, paraphrasing a little, undoing the buttons one by one and pushing them through the correct holes. Reiichi just sulked, apparently not soothed by him or Simone Weil.
"You and your maladroit tongue," he mumbled, absently watching Yoshiya's fingers ascend to the next button. "You'd better work on that before Fujishima moves in with us. He's very sensitive about things like that."
Yoshiya was fairly sure Reiichi was the only one sensitive about metaphors as well-worn as an old banana—but all the same he paused, brushed the flat of his thumb over the second-to-last button as he caught his companion's eyes. "Are you sure you know what you're getting into?" he asked, softly so Reiichi would know he was serious. "Agreeing to be his guardian…it's a big responsibility."
"And presiding over the dorm isn't?" Reiichi replied.
Yoshiya shook his head, moved up to the last button. "Of course it is. But this is…much more personal." His fingers faltered for a moment over the smooth plastic rim, the cross of white thread catching against the pad of his thumb as he remembered again Fujishima sobbing into his hands in the snow, the anguish on his face as he stood in the second-floor hallway with his phone pressed to his ear, telling himself one more time that he didn't matter. There was a desperation in that, an ache that Yoshiya didn't trust himself to know how to heal. But maybe Reiichi did. It was Reiichi who had known exactly what Fujishima needed, after all—a safe haven, someone to run to. It was Reiichi who had made him smile again, standing at the cutting board sculpting the udon carrots into abysmal florets. Reiichi that Fujishima had leaned into on the couch, the two of them bathed in the blue glow of the television while Yoshiya took the armchair and listened distantly to them speaking in tongues. Reiichi who had finished the last button for him and reached up to prod the tip of his nose, amused.
"You worry far too much," Reiichi told him, and Yoshiya smiled, smoothing the leaves of the shirt collar down against his shoulders.
"Maybe," he replied, his affect flat. "I'd just hate to see Fujishima fall by the wayside like that turtle you found when you were in middle school, or the cactus you illegally transported into the country, or the seven goldfish you won at the festival last summer because Tsukasa won four…"
Reiichi rolled his eyes. "It's a human life, Yoshiya. I'll focus." But he was laughing a little, and Yoshiya laughed too, his traitorous thumb straying over the soft skin of Reiichi's throat.
Most of the time that mattered in his life was time he had spent with Reiichi, and while he considered himself on good terms with Sawa and Akira, neither of them had ever needed very much from him, self-sufficient and put together from a very young age—but he wondered if the feeling he had around Fujishima was the same way other people felt about their younger siblings, this desire to be relied on, to be friend and family to someone at the same time. He almost mentioned it to Reiichi, but saw the futility in that before he spoke a word. Tsukasa had the least reliable older brother imaginable—and come to think of it, it was Tsukasa who'd gotten stuck with the turtle and the cactus, and even the cats Reiichi and Fujishima had conspired to inflict on the Kashiwagis…
Somehow, that wasn't reassuring.
He felt more than heard Reiichi sigh, blinked his thoughts away to find a pensive expression had stolen across the other boy's face, his eyes locked on something across the room. It took Yoshiya a moment to understand what he was looking at—the second drawer down in the small desk, where Yoshiya had tucked the change of guardianship form until it could go to Shinomiya Keishi by courier first thing in the morning. Reiichi glanced up at him with a tentative smile.
"To a good home, huh?" he said softly. Yoshiya slid his hand up to trace the slope of Reiichi's cheek, not at all sure how to answer.
He was spared saying anything by a sound in the hall, the low creak of a floorboard that turned both of their heads toward the door. Yoshiya strained to hear any clarifying sounds, the flick of the light switch in the bathroom or the rasp of their own doorknob, maybe, if Fujishima needed something, but all he heard was the patter of hushed footsteps disappearing in the direction of the living room. He shared a quizzical look with Reiichi.
"What could our little foster kitten be up to now, do you suppose?" Reiichi murmured with a bemused smile. Yoshiya shook his head. Then he moved to the door, Reiichi trailing silently after him.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find at the end of the hall—but somehow, it wasn't Fujishima clearly preparing to camp out on the living room couch, wrapped in the thick checkered comforter from the bedroom and surrounded by his mother's legions of throw pillows. The television was on, the flickers of changing light broken across his face, and above the murmur of montage music Yoshiya caught the crackle of disposable foil, Fujishima's eyes locked on the screen as he dug into a snack box on his lap. Yoshiya stepped into the room and Fujishima jerked his head around to gape at him, a handful of Hello Panda frozen on the way to his mouth.
"Fujishima…" Yoshiya started, not sure what he was asking.
Fujishima squirmed to sit up straighter on the couch, accidentally kicking one of the throw pillows across the room. "Okuno-sempai! Sorry—I was just, uh…I wasn't really sleeping and…"
Yoshiya just stared, at a loss for what to say. He had a sense it wasn't just insomnia and chocolate pandas that had brought Fujishima out of the bedroom, wanted to ask what was wrong, if there was anything he could do—but what if Fujishima had come out here to put something out of his head, and digging it up was the road to upsetting him again? Once again Yoshiya found himself completely out of his element, fumbling for words and feeling awkwardly as if he were trying to manipulate chess pieces with oven mitts on. Fortunately for both of them, the Grand Master had followed him from the guest room; Reiichi stepped out of the hall and bopped him on the shoulder with the back of his fist, clicking his tongue in reproach.
"You've been remiss, Yoshiya. Neglecting to offer your guest any other sleeping arrangements—really. This is what happens when you're out of practice hosting."
Yoshiya was very familiar by now with the difference between when he was actually being scolded and when Reiichi was scolding him as a means of smoothing things over, a little performance to get around whatever was actually going on. Fujishima struggled to free himself from the pit of the couch, looking a little chagrined.
"No, it's not really—the bedroom is—"
"I know," Reiichi interrupted, flopping down on the couch next to Fujishima and tossing a pillow extravagantly out of his way. "His room is exceptionally boring. A flaw he refuses to address. I would have escaped, too." His eyes found Yoshiya's again, and in the stark light of the television they seemed even brighter than usual, dancing with the secret of the charade. "Yoshiya, go grab the extra futons out of the closet. This calls for a sleepover!" Then, pulling Fujishima close: "Don't tell me that woman who made the hideous fringe blouson is still in."
"You wouldn't believe what she won with last round," Fujishima replied, all his embarrassment successfully allayed. Yoshiya shook his head and left them to it, feeling his way toward the linen closet with one hand on the wall.
He wasn't foolish enough to think this was over, that Fujishima's troubles with his father and Hosaka and whatever other specters had chased him out of the bedroom could be banished by one night sprawled across the couch ridiculing trite, dramatic television. But as he wrestled the spare futons out of the closet and listened to the giggling from down the hall, he had the sense all the same that things were going to be all right from here—whatever it took, whatever Fujishima needed, Yoshiya couldn't imagine there was any wound that time and sleepovers and shopping, and karaoke and special-order sushi and high-stakes games of Memory and Go Fish, and Reiichi and parasailing chocolate pandas together could not heal. For now, it was just good to hear Fujishima laughing—to hear both of them laughing—even if what they were laughing about was lobbing Hello Panda into each other's mouths and the black-and-white tennis savant that had escaped down Reiichi's shirt.
They had so much more than one night, after all.
A/N: This is not the end of the story - in fact, it's really just the beginning, especially for Takara and Kiyomine - but it's all I've written for now. I wanted to post what I had all at once, even though it may be a few weeks now before I have another chapter to post, and updates are likely to be somewhat slower from here on out. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, and hopefully I'll have more soon.