Whatever here that's left of me is yours

Hozier

They fuck lazily into the late morning, taking advantage of a rare weekend in the same place without any plans. It's humid even inside the apartment, the late summer heat seeping into every inch of Yamato's skin, his least favorite season. The muggy air is unbearable, impossible to find a hint of relief even with the aircon running, but he still mutters a low whine when Taichi's hand draws back from his leg, opens his eyes to better signal his displeasure. Stops, of course, almost always, at the sight of him.

There's lately been nothing very edible in the pantry or the fridge, neither of them home long enough to make the effort. Ends up choosing a protein shake Yamato's sure is expired by now, the real threat of this possibility making little difference to Taichi, who downs half in one swig before holding the drink out to him. Shaking his head, Yamato props himself onto his elbows where they'd been lying naked on the kitchen floor, the ceramic tiling making this the most comfortable place in the flat on hot days. "I don't like that you drink that stuff."

Shrugs off the comment. "Either this or you, princess." The pet name he uses when he thinks Yamato's being exceptionally picky over meaningless things, earned halfway through their twice delayed honeymoon, when after a restless third night Yamato'd insisted, half-driven to paranoia, that something was wrong with the hotel bed. Taichi'd run through about a dozen come-ons and sexual quips before taking his annoyance seriously, a prolonged search recovering a loose duvet cover button the size of his littlest fingernail stuck to the underside of the thick mattress. Taichi had never lost his cool so fast. "I know you're sensitive, but this is some real fairytale shit," he'd managed after a fit of laughter so overwhelming it had him in tears. Yamato still finds random buttons deliberately tucked between sofa cushions or left inside his coat pockets, each one cutting short another thread of his sanity. Knows he signed up for a lifetime of this, which he thinks isn't altogether a bad way to go.

Yamato studies him. An effortless calculation. "Me, then."

It should be laughable how well that works, or might have, if his phone hadn't started ringing from where he's left it in their bedroom, Taichi groaning at the interruption. Yamato pushes him off, trying to find his bearings, always a little delirious when his kiss starts wandering, marking a familiar trail.

"Dad's ringtone," something he shouldn't have to tell him, the back of his head dropping to the tile in a momentary loss of reason when Taichi's mouth really gets going. Pulls his own knee up with considerable effort, knocking his foot into Taichi's leg, rolling them both over. The phone's stopped by then, sent to voicemail, and Yamato hisses at the bite he feels him press to the inside of his upper thigh, already annoyed by the hickey it'll leave behind. Impossible to hide anything from his routine physicals, another one penciled in a week from now, before next month's flight. "Taichi."

Relents, however reluctantly, sitting back on his knees, an audibly irritated sigh. Yamato's already on his feet, running a hand through his hair, regathering his undershirt and boxer briefs from the couch to put back on by the time the phone rings again. Frowns at this. Hiroaki rarely called first to begin with.

"Dad?"

"Takeru with you?" He sounds tired, like he hadn't slept. Yamato tells himself no one could in a heatwave like this.

"They're at Jun's." She has a pool, and a strict guest list, Taichi still sore about the temporary ban she'd placed on him specifically, after the jello incident no one will talk about.

"No."

Yamato pulls the phone from his ear, tapping on the speaker function. Scrolls back through the extended family group thread. Just yesterday, Jun'd posted a picture of her son and their niece standing in bright sunlight under a garden hose, smiles as big as their round little faces. "Yeah, it's in the chat."

"Takeru's not there."

"Well, Jun's a lot sometimes."

"He's not at the bar."

"We closed it early, right? Lots of places are this weekend." Climate emergency notices had been broadcasting to all the news stations, flashing caution alerts on registered cell phones. He'd been planning later that work week to call up Koushiro, pitch a theory he wanted to test out, bring their two heads together while dragging their respective research teams along the way, reckoning the Digital World might be able to tell them things others might have missed about these atmospheric shifts, unusual weather patterns.

"I closed it." Taichi is back rifling through the pantry again, the sound of the cabinet hinges creaking open and shut filling the pause his father takes, like he's debating if he's making a fuss for no reason or not, looking to Yamato to tell him one way or another. "I've been closing all week."

Yamato sinks onto the edge of the bed, feels a flicker of disapproval at this news. "You shouldn't be out that late, Dad. It's too dark."

"I can still see out the right eye well enough."

This is not the point, but he gives up arguing about it again. "I know he's been on deadline."

"He missed it."

He stops feeling the humidity in the air then, the muggy softness of the world fading into sharp clarity. "Missed it?"

"Yeah." Hiroaki's not sure what else there is to say. Been there himself, if he's honest. You miss deadlines sometimes, their kind of work. The writing just doesn't hit. Not anyone's fault, but still means consequences. "And the extension."

Yamato glances up when Taichi walks into the room, munching on a granola bar Jou'd probably stashed, a surreptitious effort to monitor his busiest friends' health, popping around to all their homes once or twice a month with armfuls of quick-to-reach snacks like a dietary fairy godmother. Their eyes meet briefly, and then Yamato is looking back down at his phone again. His father still on speaker. "Okay. Where's Daisuke?"

"Looking, too. He's still calling his phone, but apparently Takeru left it at Jun's. I think Daisuke keeps forgetting that."

"Dad." He feels his breath catch a bit, which means they've both heard it, too.

Taichi takes the phone from him. Holds it up to his chin, still chewing, diction oddly clear despite a full mouth. "What'd Hikari say?" because he knows she's the one any of them would try first.

"I haven't been able to reach her." Hesitant, unsure of what that might mean.

Taichi gives the phone back, puts the entirety of what's left of the granola bar into his mouth, his hands now free to finish dressing, unplug his own mobile from the wall charger. Yamato hears the quick taps of Taichi's fingers on the screen, returns to his father's conversation, a little dazed, something wet stuck in his throat.

"But the pictures—,"

"No, Yamato. He was there with everyone, day before. They put the kids to bed, had a few drinks, called it a night, got up first, and that's all."

"'Kar, where are you?" Taichi walking out of the room to talk to her on his cell, still so calm. "Call me back when you get this. Don't text, just call. Going to try you at Mom's now."

Yamato blinks several times at the wall of their bedroom. "That's all." He means it to be a question, repeating Hiroaki, the heavy finality.

"When did you last see him?"

He looks back through earlier messages in the extended family chat. Hikari's reply to the picture Jun'd sent, both of Taichi's parents' comments on a screenshot of the weather forecast from Daisuke's father, the video Jun's common law partner shared of the kids running through the sprinkler with delighted shrieks playing in a charming, edited loop. Takeru hadn't responded to any of it, usually the first one, when he's feeling good. Closes the group thread, finds the one with just the two of them. He'd last messaged ten days ago, something Yamato remembers receiving but hadn't the time to reply to at the moment, swept up in some work project or another. He stares at the timestamp. Ten days.

"Got Hikari," Taichi pops his head back around the doorway, says this loud enough for Hiroaki to hear it, too. "She texted back."

"Call her—,"

"Yamato," in a tone that warns him to lower his, which Yamato doesn't understand. He's speaking normally. He's fine. Taichi's talking at the phone now, quick to the point. "Where are you, Hiro?"

"Home."

"Stay there, okay? Hey," his hand cupping Yamato's chin. Rooted anchor. "Get dressed. We need to go."

He knows he isn't breathing right. "Ten days." A muttered confession into Taichi's palm, staring up at him. "I haven't talked to Takeru in ten days."

His father hears this, which perhaps is the worst part. Processes it fast, but not quick enough to stop protective parental aggression, even against your own. "What the fuck do you mean you haven't seen your only brother in ten—,"

"Hiroaki, keep your cell on you, okay? And stay home. I'll call you in a few minutes." Tosses Yamato's phone behind him on the mattress, his other hand still pressed to his cheek. Bends slightly to hold his face in both palms, make Yamato look at him. "Then please, for the love of all good things, spare me the ten day's worth of boring conversations I'll have to pretend not to overhear when he's back."

Yamato opens his mouth, not sure what for. Taichi kisses him until he's closed it. Still cradling his face. Much softer now, "Get up. I'm with you."

It's mechanical at the start, Taichi having to hand him the clothes himself. Running through every interaction, every quick phone call, every inconsequential text. Knew about manuscript in progress, but not the extension. Remembered the editor's notes on the proposed new direction, a little darker than most children's books go, then the counter argument, the sick times they live in. Takeru'd been so angry, more than normal and uncharacteristic, after Berlin, the attack on the bar, his daughter changing schools, Daisuke shuttering the pop-up ramen cart. Started the new draft he'd sent soon after a wave of aggravated inspiration, but didn't finish it. Takeru'd said not to bother, wanted to rework the ending anyway. Left on read. Busy. Ten days.

Jou, Koushiro, and Sora are coming off the elevator to their floor when Taichi's closing the door to the flat behind Yamato, leaving it unlocked. Just in case. Her high cheekbones flushed and out of breath, Jou's glasses fogged up and hairline damp.

"Dropped Mimi off at 'Kari's," Koushiro reports first to Taichi, like he's marking off the mental checklist of tasks assigned to him.

Sora nods, her eyes pale. "She won't let her out of her sight. Where now?"

Taichi runs long curls back from his forehead with his palms, keeping his thought process off his face, a true statesman. "I'm going by the publisher's offices. Iori's at the apartment with Dais, Miyako said they'll check the bar again after. Ken's calling the precinct for any—Yamato?"

He's already knocked open the stairwell door with his shoulder, hearing Jou's long strides following close behind him. Taking steps two at a time, Koushiro and Taichi rounding out the end. "Mom's grave."

Sora frowning when she catches up to him. Her voice is hoarse, raked over the shakiest gravel. "That's so far from—,"

"He's there." Willing it through his teeth, hanging onto nothing. He knows him. He should still know him.

Takes the next corner staircase sharper than he means, railing gutting into his stomach. Sora pulls him back, "Take a breath," Taichi passing ahead, not looking back.

"You don't think," waits for Taichi to look up, between steps, expression so hard set Jou wilts under it, even in the stagnant summer heat. Meeting his gaze, asking him not to make him say it. "They already went after Dad at the bar. They know we all go there, so—?"

Taichi says nothing, but something in his eyes flash. Turns back down the stairs, disappearing beneath the next landing with Jou. A shout. Sora looks at Yamato. They both move at the same time, or would have, if Koushiro's hand hadn't found the hem of Yamato's shirt, knocking into him in the clumsy effort to catch up with the rest. The stairwell door off the second floor is open. Another shout. Jou.

Yamato puts his hand around the railing, stumbles. Sees Taichi first, crouching with Jou over someone near the bottom of the next flight of stairs of their apartment building, slumped against the wall, halfway up the landing. Like he'd been trying to find him. Like he needed him.

Sora's elbow knocks into Yamato's, stops in her tracks when Taichi stands, an arm outstretched in warning when she gets too close, looking wildly around for him. Their eyes meet. Something dark and scarlet is smeared over the front of Taichi's shirt, the length of his forearm. His palms are red. Every light in Yamato's world goes dark. A roaring in his ears he'll never unhear. "Ta—,"

"No." Taichi surges back up to him, the heel of his hand slamming to the center of his chest. Hits him hard enough to take him off his feet, Koushiro bracing Yamato's stumble from behind him, an arm around his back. "Keep him there, Kou!"

Sora's screaming now, the sort of sound that cracks the earth in half. Taichi is already back down the stairwell, flying faster than he's ever moved, when Yamato's fist catches the corner of Koushiro's jaw, taking them both to the ground. Kicks hard again, struggling against him. "No," chokes out Yamato between sobs, half of him gone, "no, no—Kou—," twisting so his open mouth is pressed into the crook of his elbow, his hands covering Yamato's ears. "Whose blood was that? Whose—Koushiro, whose blood is that?"

I couldn't utter my love when it counted
I couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted
Ah, but I'm singing like a bird 'bout it now

Hozier

"Well, if it isn't the junior congressman from the great state of New York."

Michael rises from the chair, buttoning the middle button of his navy suit jacket as he does, a courteous habit he hadn't shaken from the campaign trail. Grinning back at him, blond curls as round as a halo, cheeky and handsome, aging in reverse if just not aging at all. Taichi can see what Mimi and Miyako once saw. "Nice to see you, too, Counsellor."

"Been way too long, Barton." Closes the door, wiping off his palm on his trousers. "Nigerian takeaway," by way of explanation, when Michael hesitates at the greasy outstretched hand. "Had a dinner meeting with Slovakia's First Secretary. Struggled connecting with their delegation until I realized he was a foodie. Have you been to that place, off 44th?"

"What's this 'have I been'? I'm a New Yorker." Michael sighs, swept back into the memory of meals past. "They still make the Efo riro with goat?"

"The fucking best, right?" Taichi presents his hand again. "Want a lick?"

"Thanks for shutting the door before you asked me that in the workplace." Still chuckles under his breath, sitting back down.

Taichi pretends to play along, makes his eyes wide. "So what, ask outside the workplace?"

Michael laughs, "You haven't changed."

"Change is overrated," and winks back at him, taking the chair across the small coffee table in his cramped office. "Hope you snuck in through the back if you want another term."

"My district is more progressive than most." After a stint in a successful film franchise, Michael'd turned to public service on a pro-Digital World platform, leveraging the broad appeal of his and his father's industry name to sweep up the political ladder with an expediency that rivaled only Taichi's own. A natural career shift in some respects, and not unprecedented, American politics in particular more about celebrity than progress. Still, held himself with a certain homegrown sincerity he had yet to lose, the kind that earns votes rather than buys them. Taichi implicitly trusts him. Probably will be a senator soon. It would help their cause. "And this needed to be an in-person conversation."

"Offline it is," but shrugs, stating the obvious. "You'll be listed on the visitor registration, though."

Michael nods. "Better to be above board, even partially."

Taichi understands then. Probably why he'd come so far after normal work hours, not acknowledging why he's still at the office himself, working overtime, the rest of his colleagues long since on their way home. "Meaning this is soon-to-be-public business."

He's smoother with difficult conversations than probably anyone else Taichi knows. Makes sense now, the landslide victory of his incumbent run. Had this way of speaking right to the heart of you, which is precisely where he strikes now, too. "There's talk of a congressional hearing on the fallout of the JAXA-ISS mission. Your name came up."

"Not my division."

Michael allows the automatic reply, waiting knowingly.

"Okay." Choosing to humor him, Taichi slides further back in his chair, stretching his legs. "Well, I've done hearings before. They want me to testify on our involvement, or what?"

"Not you."

Blinks slowly, confused. "You?"

Michael takes his time with his words, glancing somewhere over Taichi's right shoulder. "The UN's vote to grant the Digital World Mission permanent observer status was a global effort. I know that. You know that. But as far as the Secretary of State is concerned, the US remains the single largest financial backer of mission operations, which makes its decisions, and its failures, a national security interest."

Taichi runs calloused knuckles under his bottom lip. "I don't work for American interests."

"No," looking him in the eye, unblinking, and unsmiling, "but the Digital World is not a formally constituted foreign government, which means your G4 was granted not by invited consular request, but at the pleasure of the American president."

He doesn't know why he laughs. His stomach's in his throat. "I could get my diplomatic visa revoked for trying to keep my ex from dying in some pipe dream science experiment? Really? Is that what you're telling me, Michael?"

The room is silent but for the hum of office equipment, the clock on the wall. Michael folds his hands together, palms flattened to make a broad triangle. "You know how this works, Taichi. It doesn't matter if it's true or not. It matters how it looks." Puts it as objectively as possible, without emotion, because they are friends first: "A historical, worlds-changing multilateral show of faith in Digital-Human relations, and you had the project's most qualified pilot removed from the crew list at the last minute, like you knew what would happen and did not disclose the risk. And now four Digimon and seven human researchers have been missing for—,"

"Do not—," stamps his voice down, cold fury, "—tell me what you think I lost."

Michael's face has not a trace of pity, only remorse. "Look. All they're doing is using a hearing—if it comes to a hearing—to stir up their anti-Digital World base. It'll mean another song and dance about taxpayer funds and inter-world security, like they do every election cycle. On the whole, party leadership isn't concerned about it going very far."

Stares back at him, jaw pulled tight. Michael hears the You still came here he doesn't say, and nods again, getting to the point. "If it does go to a hearing, they can't subpoena either of you. But they will ask him to testify."

Neither of them have to say how such an ask would go.

"I am sorry," after a moment. Still not pityingly, which Taichi appreciates. Could do without the concerned look he's fixed to him, though, the implied awareness of everything they're not saying, how bad all of this is about to become. A pause, and then Michael continues, "We'll figure it out. I promise. My office is fully behind you, and we'll find more support."

"No." Not as sharply as before, but still firm, makes sure his expression matches it. "I'll figure it out. You need to stay on platform."

"I told you, my district is—,"

"Michael." Showing his age then in the lines cross his forehead, the thinned corners of his eyes. "You know you can't get involved." Probably'll be a senator soon. It would help their cause. Taichi humble enough by now to know what tips the one scale that matters most.

Hanging his head a little, his hands coming back together, fingers clasped tight. Only because it's the two of them will he let the politician's mask drop, his real feelings show. Ruminating for the both of them, "It's all such bullshit. What they want you to be, and stand for. Then turn on you the second they get a chance."

Taichi leans back in his chair. Shakes his head, his hand over his closed mouth. "All of this is bigger than any of us." Mutters this into his palm after a long silence, brown eyes unfocused. "And these worlds will always ask too much. They asked too much of us as kids, and they still keep asking too much."

Sighs after a while, dropping his hand down over the armchair, a small pout directed at the man across from him. "Well. Should have licked me when you had the chance, Barton. I'm in a bad mood now."

Tension diffusing, he rolls his eyes even as he smiles, standing first. Taichi doesn't get up. Hesitates, brows knit in thought, "You need anything, you call."

Nods once to that, and then again when Michael rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he passes by him to the door. Waits for the lock to click shut again before bending over nearly all the way, his face in both hands, fingers gripping at unruly hair. His stomach a leaden weight, heart twisted up tight in his chest. Senses that distinctly tunneling dark closing in around his peripheral vision, his breath coming too quickly to stop. Shuts his eyes to stay the rising well, his knee twitching, then sits up, sliding to the edge of the seat, retrieving his personal mobile from the front pocket of his trousers.

His thumbnail runs the length of his brow, gaze scanning from window to desk to door and back again, finding anything familiar and fixed to keep the pattern of his heartbeat steady. Doesn't realize he's holding his breath until she answers on the third ring, the soft pitch of her voice a balm, less so the greeting. "You only call me this early when you're in trouble."

"Or when I want to go looking for trouble."

Mimi snorts, a rather undignified sound. "Too bad. I'm all grown up now, Taichi."

"I wholly disapprove." Her laugh is muffled by a sharp, crackling sound, the hiss of steam in the background. He's vaguely interested. "Sora finally letting you back in the kitchen after the snow crab infestation?"

She huffs, sore at the memory alone. "No. Yamato's making breakfast."

His flinch at just his name likely means something he's not willing to acknowledge, more than a little grateful he's not on video for her to call him out on it. Clears his throat. "Still sounds dangerous."

"Luckily for me, I'll put anything in my mouth."

Taichi shakes his head, lips curled into a smirk. "Please never change."

"Please don't upset him." Her inability to use a tactful transition one of her more steadfast habits. "I won't have the time to emotionally babysit a man for at least two weeks. Work is destroying me, Taichi. I need to be my best self to get through quarter end. Think of my fans."

His fingers press on the bridge of his nose, biting back another small smile. "Just five minutes."

"I mean it—,"

"Five minutes."

Mimi exhales deeply, like she's thinking over the inevitable. "Thank me later," and is off the phone, the shuffling and low tones of an indistinct conversation giving Taichi time to resettle his pulse, knows she's prolonging the handoff for that reason. Probably doesn't deserve any of his friends, after everything he's put them through, and through, and through.

"Taichi." Not a hello, no other greeting. His name enough. It's Taichi's favorite sound, his name in his mouth.

"How're you feeling?" Voice sticky, so he clears his throat again.

"All right," and to his credit he does sound better. Sora'd kept her promise. "Are you still at the office?"

He sits back, but keeps a hand on his knee, concentrating on keeping his leg still. To withhold, curb all impulse. "No, I'm on the way home."

Yamato hums at the lie. "Be safe then."

Taichi hates this part the most, pretending to be strangers. Stops holding back. "I need to see you—talk to you. About what happened." He hears Mimi's voice on the other end, joined now by Sora's. The clattering of dishes being placed on a marble countertop, drawers opening, a tap running. Soft noises so domestic and ordinary he's about to say something he shouldn't.

"What happened?"

He's careful with where they drew the lines. "The JAXA-ISS mission."

"Hm." Like he's thinking it over, muted disinterest. "Okay."

"Where are you week after next?"

"Wherever you think we should have this conversation." He's being difficult on purpose, but Taichi supposes he deserves that much.

And still. Punches right back, eye for an eye. "Okay. I'll call you. I love you."

It's the smallest pause, imperceptible to anyone else's ear. This hard won habit, his second favorite sound. "Yeah. Love you, too."