So move me, baby

Hozier

"We burning all his clothes tomorrow?"

Takeru shakes down the smart watch on his wrist, exaggerating the disappointment. "Nah. Forgot I had plans to key 'Kari's ex's truck."

Yamato pauses at this, standing in the entrance to the flat's cramped balcony, both hands to either side of the doorway. "They broke up?"

Throws him a funny look, working out the missing connection. "Ages back. Keeps calling around, though, so she's fed up. Does Taichi not tell you these things?"

"Worse." Sighs, squeezing between towers of potted plants and pruned shrubbery, Daisuke's ongoing effort to single-handedly solve the city's entire carbon footprint. Takeru says he saw a documentary about climate change on a night he'd already gone to bed himself and hadn't been there to remind Daisuke he isn't allowed to watch doomsday television unsupervised. The time it'd happened before, all their friends had ended up with enough homemade canned and pickled side dishes to feed a small country. It'd've been more annoying if Daisuke weren't such a stupidly good cook. "He had me buy the guy a birthday gift last week. All worried he'd missed it again." Taichi had, to be clear. Historically shit at remembering anyone's birthday, but also couldn't fit the need to remember details like that into his worldview. Leave the past behind you.

Takeru snorts, shaking his head. Admires the goldfish memory, and its many accidental blessings. There's a certain enviable simplicity in a life lived by the humbling acceptance that the vast majority of it simply doesn't matter. "Hikari says he was there when she broke it off."

Chagrined for a different reason. "How charmingly codependent."

"Kettles and pots." He grins at him, but Yamato feels sore where the remark lands, in the center of his chest.

"I give you space." Says this as he sits down in the open folding chair right next to him, so close their knees knock together. Takeru's brow raises; so does Yamato's middle finger. "Like you're any better."

"I couldn't give you space if I wanted to." Tugs his chair back a bit, knocks over a large terracotta pot, sighs the sigh of a man resigned to his lot in life.

"How about a cig, then?"

"Mm," and slides another out from the carton set on the floor at his feet. "Just don't set any forest fires."

"Speaking of." Hands back the lighter, waits for his brother to join him. There's already a handful of still warm stubs on the speckled blue ceramic dish set on the floor in front of his chair. Broken in half, glued back together with a thick adhesive that had dried an ugly, muddy yellow. It's three in the morning, and Takeru is the only one at home.

"I'm over it." Drags out the exhale, eyes half closed. It might have worked on anyone else.

"Yeah. A midnight SOS text is definitely an 'over it' sign." Ashes the tip of his cigarette, running his free hand through sweat drenched curls at the back of his head, the summer heat unbearable even in the dead of night. Taichi's promised to trim the ends up for him, but their days had gotten too long. Mixed up schedules and postponed meals, talking to each other on sticky notes taped to the bathroom cabinet, kitchen table, rearview mirrors.

"And yet here you are, two hours after you'd said you'd be." His smile hits just the corners of his mouth, a blue-eyed mirror. "Real responsive."

"Taichi'd just gotten home. Hadn't seen him in four days."

"Gross."

"Kettles and pots," as Yamato rolls his eyes. "Or did you forget how long Jou couldn't face you two after you fucked Dais in his parents' boathouse?"

Laughs loud at the sudden recollection, an old if infamous story. "How was I supposed to know the Kidos never draw their curtains?"

"It was his father's retirement party." Winces from the second-hand embarrassment, and the earful he'd gotten from a mortified Jou after the fact. Hadn't been there himself, a blessing of timing that Yamato had quietly taken as proof of existence in a benevolently loving deity. No, that had been the summer he and Taichi'd first danced around the idea of each other while backpacking through Latin America, renewing strategic political connections made at the first Digital World tour back in '02. Neither wanting to be the first to give in.

"Let the past be past," and gestures a serene surrender with both hands, open palmed.

Puts his feet up, soles of the slippers he'd borrowed from their entranceway braced to the bottom steel pipe outfitting the flat's balcony. "That what we're doing here?"

Takeru nods. Blinking a little too quickly. Finishes the cigarette, and immediately starts sucking on another one. If he sees Yamato shift in his chair, withholding a disapproving sigh at his little brother adopting one of their father's worser habits, he doesn't give notice. Oddly small, now, like he'd sunk into himself in plain sight.

Yamato puts his own cigarette down, half-done, slides low in his seat. "Well, I did notice the empty shoe cabinet."

"Jun rented a cabin, somewhere up north, for the weekend." It's a vague reply, and for the first time all night Yamato hears how old his brother sounds.

"Sounds like a nice trip."

"They went ahead."

Better than without, Yamato wants to say. Tender with his patience. For all his quick words and sharp wit, Takeru spends so little of it on himself. Yamato finds it odd, how few people realize this about him. Taken away by the good humor and kind smile, as intended. A master of conflict resolution, or the devil himself.

"Why?" asks Yamato instead, when Takeru doesn't continue. Makes sure there's a sense of casualness in his tone, and adds, "What'd Daisuke do this time?"

"Made me a parent." He does laughs then, early to the joke. Can't look up when his brother's head turns sharply towards him. "And I fucking hate being a parent, Yamato."

He opens his mouth, then stops. Sets his teeth together to hold his tongue, stay the impulse. Takeru's head is bowed a bit, gaze studying at his feet. Finally, or too late, Yamato offers, restrained, "You're a good dad, Takeru."

"That's not what I said." He speaks with an exacting surety, like he's thought about this exact conversation, rehearsed every word, too many times before. Still looking at the ground. "I said, I don't like being one."

Yamato pulls his hands to his lap, palms together. "I think we all have doubts about—,"

"Come on," and rubs his nose, sniffing. He laughs again, soft and bitter. "Can you not do the big brother thing?"

"What's that mean?" Out before he knows better, because he should, and does, usually. This particular thing the exception, for as long as he can remember. A prestigious doctorate, an impeccable record of service, with experience and skill and talent the envy of most, and he still can't fill up that hole in his head telling him how shit he is at keeping his family together.

"I already know," begins Takeru, voice heavy, "how to fix it. So don't do that part."

Yamato makes himself look away, before he makes anything worse. "Give me a part, then."

Takeru drags out the last of his cigarette, a cloud of smoke hiding him like a screen. "Okay. Listen to this: the worst thing isn't that Daisuke doesn't know." Squints through into the dark ahead of him, chewing on his lip. "It's that she's four. She's four-years-old, and she knows that on nights with me, she should finish her dinner, and take her bath, and get herself to bed, as fast as she can. Always half the time Dais spends with her on those things, on nights he gets to be home with us. Nights with just me?" He shakes his head. Something flickers at the horizon line, over the balcony, and he stares hard at it. Yamato stares at him. "My daughter makes herself small around me. She does it, because she thinks she's helping me. She's four, and she knows I don't always feel good, so she wants to help, because she loves me. She thinks making herself small, helps."

They sit quietly beside each other, knees just a hair's breadth apart. Yamato tries so hard not to close the gap, not until he knows. "Does it?"

He's been crying for a while, snot running from his nose. Heels of both hands pressed hard over his eyes, gripping blond hair tight between his fingers. The smoke's gone, and so is the screen. "Yeah."

Yamato feels himself turn without thinking to. "Getting you some water." Off the chair, and back inside the flat, in the next second, fumbling for the mobile tucked into the pocket of his dark jeans. Runs the kitchen tap over the sound of the phone call. Counting in every third breath, until the world stops trembling.

"I need to stay."

"Yeah, no problem." Muffles through a yawn. "Need a pick up in the morning?"

Yamato shakes his head. Forgets Taichi can't see that, so says, "No. I don't know, maybe." Presses his palm over his nose and mouth. "He's just not doing great right now."

"They fight or something?"

"Not really. But he's by himself tonight."

"He's got you." An easy problem, with an easier solution, and onto the next. Then chuckles to himself, like he can't help it, "Or you tell him to just get a shrink to talk to, and come back to me."

Something knocks into his chest, then empties it, making him hollow. "The fuck did you just say?"

"Hm?"

Knows he doesn't know what he couldn't know, and still all Yamato sees is red. He hasn't felt this ugly inside in years. He's eleven again, drawing lines between blood and water. "He's my brother. He's first."

Taichi doesn't reply then. When he does, it's as if he's unsure when the turn happened, and also unrepentant for it. "I know. Yamato." Says his name like a secret thing, something soft and small, held in the parentheses of his mouth. "I just think there are other ways of helping him."

Shame twists it up in his head, all the wrong way. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"Why do you think you're doing it alone?"

"Because I have!" Catches the intake of breath Taichi is just as quick to hide. That hole in his head tells him to stop shouting, the balcony door shut at the other end of the quiet flat. "It's always been just us, you know th—,"

"Well, it's not anymore."

He hears him, but it's like nothing sinks through. Nothing stands a chance, against this.

Taichi tries again. "Yamato—,"

He hangs up.

The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun

Hozier

He knows this voice. Takes in the dull fog of waking consciousness first, sees the closed curtains, then the stopped clock on the table, batteries pulled out and upturned on their sides.

"Welcome back." Already returned to the draft file in his hands, thicker than his wrist, UN seal stamped over the cover. He's halfway through it, making notes in blue ballpoint ink.

"You…too." Yamato feels his throat pinch in the effort to speak, like his lungs have been scraped dry. His mouth tastes vaguely metallic, the muscles in his face dulled. Dressed in something loose and cotton, under weighted blankets. His left hand feels too light, too empty, but he can't make out what's missing. The world turning at half its speed.

"Next flight out is in an hour." Sat on the only other chair in the small room, Taichi tucks the end of the pen between his teeth, leaving both hands free. Thumbs a few pages, creases the corner of one sheet, then back where he'd left off, pen twirling between his fingers.

It's a while before he stops trying to pull himself up, see more around him. Just blinking is a calculated project, so he closes his eyes. Sighs, or tries to, ending in a wheezing cough.

Taichi looks up to nod at the cup on the end table, then goes back to reading. "On your left."

Yamato doesn't reach for the water. Can't even lift his head, arms sunk into the mattress. His whole body feels like a dead weight. "Don't…need to stay."

His lips dip into a smile, eyes rimmed in dark red. They stare at the page, unable to take in the meaning of the printed characters. Hadn't been for a while now. He gets through files twice this length in half the time, under normal conditions. "It's just another hour."

"Mm." Stops fighting it. "…Come here."

The soft thump of the file muffled by scattered papers, the creak of the mattress under their joined weight, the whimper of pain Yamato makes when Taichi's knee knocks clumsily into his shin. And then Taichi's mouth near his ear, curled around his back, and his hand to Yamato's forehead, stroking his hair there. It's easier to breathe now, makes no secret about it. Mutters quietly after a long while, face halfway to the pillow and halfway to the warm flesh of Taichi's palm, "Am I…getting older, or am I…dying?"

Chuckles low. Yamato feels it through his chest. "Dying, looks like." Taichi turns so his cheek is pressed to the outline of Yamato's neck. "Anna said you got dizzy again, after a training maneuver, went to Med Bay to sleep it off. You wouldn't wake up."

A dull fear licks into the back of his mind, dazed. Swallows hard, mouth still parched. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Pulls his memory into order, after great effort. Everything outside of them is harder to care about, when he's this close. "How long—?"

"Three days."

An impossibility, he thinks. To be that lost of control of himself, for that long. "I don't…remember."

"That's the getting older part, then." Laughs again, in on this joke himself. He'd gone grey first, and early, likely from the stress of his job and mostly just some light peppering at the temples. Had asked him if he should get Mimi to color match, dye it back, teasing him over the only prank he knows Yamato will never forgive him for. Wouldn't even let him keep food dye in their kitchen, that wary, and burnt by history teaching him better. Still, he hadn't wanted him to treat the grey then, secretly infuriated by how good he looked, in any color. I want them to know you're mine like this, too. "Years of testing experimental spacecrafts aren't exactly friendly on the body, or are we still just humoring Jou's warnings?"

"I'm still…a pilot. I have…," and winces, chin jerking in a muscle spasm that sends a lightning flash of whiteout pain to the base of his spine. Taichi brings his weight against him, tapering it off, helping him fall still. Breathes through it with him. His head is pounding. "I have…to see the mission…through."

"I know." Taichi is quiet. "When's that ever been up to me?"

"You still came."

"You still have me as your emergency contact."

His turn to chuckle, opening his eyes at last. The room hazy, the clock still broken on the wrong time. "Government…bureaucracy."

"Don't have to tell me." Feels that wide grin press into his skin. His favorite smile. "I wrote the book."

Hitches, "Taichi—," when his lips brush the beginning of a soft kiss at the nape of his neck.

Taichi snaps his head up at once, surprised at himself, too. "'m sorry." Mumbles this between his teeth, like something's stuck in his throat. "Habit."

"Make…new ones."

"What, like you?" Eases his arm off, sliding back from him, opening the space between them. Offers lightly, so Yamato knows he's not upset, "I sign the divorce papers and you have a medical scare. Thought you were getting better at the dramatics."

Wheezes through another laugh, "Fuck you."

"Fuck you. Don't die."

Yamato nods. Slow, but there. "Okay."

Taichi sits up, holds the back of his wrist under his nose until he's sure his voice isn't trembling anymore. "I've had a car waiting, a real long time."

"I'm okay."

Stares around at everything else in the room, but him. The thing stuck in his throat won't let him breathe right. "And take me off your emergency contacts. You don't get to make me see you like this anymore."

Yamato doesn't answer, and he thinks it's happened again. But then his chest rises, mouth parted in sleep, eyes closed. Next to him, Taichi puts his face in his hand, listening until he's sure. Gets off the bed, moving quietly to pick up the loose paper, repack the side satchel briefcase, close the door behind him.

On the sidewalk besides her parked car, Hikari kicks a small rock around with a foot, making a game of it. Still in matching pajama shirt and pants, a large, puffy winter trenchcoat wrapped over it. Woken up by his call in the middle of the night, narrating his last minute flight schedule, asking for a ride without asking at all. Hers the closest city to the only JAXA-affiliated clinic in the area, but still had to drive all night to get there, making it just twenty minutes before Yamato'd started waking up. A miracle, the nurse had said, relieved. Like some damn made-for-television soap.

Taichi slows down as he approaches, smile fresh and new. "All these years later, and you finally take up football."

She nudges the pebble at him. It putters sharply to the left, a wide berth, and completely without aim. "Well, there goes that dream."

"Tough luck."

Glances up at the clinic building behind him, brows knit in concern. "Will he be okay?"

"Of course, he will." Opens the door for her to climb in first, locks onto her pause when she notes which seat he's offering. "I still have the rest of this resolution draft to review."

"Mm-hm," and passes him a knowing look, taking the keys he hands her before he gets in on the passenger side.

"I did drive us all the way out here."

"I'd love to hear you say why, in your own words." Taichi knocks her elbow with his fist, gentle with it. Her matching grin is just as sheepish, if quicker to go. Gaze flickering backwards before she pulls the car into gear. Like she's making a point by not looking at him when she asks, "Are you okay?"

He settles into the seat, adjusting the seatbelt, trying to find room for his long legs in her tiny coupe. Their parents had been trying to get her to upgrade the model for years, but, like a natural Yagami, Hikari expertly evaded the issue. She'd been making it work, even with the myriad of teaching supplies she lugged back and forth between all the schools she worked for as a Digital World education consultant. Why change?

"Do you feel like breaking some minor traffic laws, or should I see if I can get my flight changed?"

Hikari tsks under her breath. "Would you bail me out this time?"

"When have I not?" He's astonished.

"They held Miyako and me at the police station for thirty hours, Taichi. Iori was booked up all night with his other clients, Ken was trying to keep the kids from finding out, and you wouldn't return my phone call!" More and more agitated, not by the perceived inaction, but by the fact that he'd forget how she'd felt.

"Couldn't, officially," corrects Taichi, which was the truth. Winks at her, propping an elbow up on the door handle, bracing his chin. "But I got you out my way, right?"

It had been sort of fun, seeing the police chief's face pale at the sight of UN staffers descending with their reporters onto the tiny precinct, camera crews at the ready, headlines already drawn up. New political martyrs for the Digital World rights cause, held on the scandalous charge of nonviolent protest.

"I'm just saying," choosing her words with care, "that sometimes it can be helpful to know what's going on in your head beforehand."

The change in his mood is instantaneous, but imperceptible for anyone not aware of how this works. To his credit, he makes his tone soft and even, but only because this is Hikari. "Leave the past behind you."

They drive in silence, while Hikari gathers her courage. "And yet you came to see him."

"I'll always." Keeps the frustration out of his voice, by some miracle. It's not hard to understand.

"That's the point, Taichi," because she does understand. "Everything you changed to be here, and barely an hour. That means something."

The exhaustion hits him then, or else he allows it to. Stays his tongue.

"Come on. Would it be so bad?" whispers Hikari. "Giving into what it means?"

"You said it." Taichi leans his head back, frowning at the roof of the car.

She prompts again, when he doesn't go on. "Giving in?"

"Yeah." The interior is peeling around the doorframe, crackling stretched almost across the entire length of the hood. Focuses his attention there, tracing the fractal lines, the splintered surface. Follows them back to her, a brown-eyed mirror. Smiles, always, when he sees her face. "What's romantic about having no choice?"