Jessamine [Wild Adapter, PG-13]
Jessamine
Wild Adapter // Kubota/Tokitoh, PG-13
1455 words
Pillow-talk except without the pillows. Kubota has medicine that Tokitoh doesn't want. I would like to note that I wrote this before I had actually read a translation of v.5, so I'm a little off the mark about Tokitoh being named. Done for springkink round V.
When Kubota makes his clanging way up the steps to the apartment, the wind cuts down the edge of the building like a blade, smelling heavy like snow and charged like ozone. The light is flat and grey, like it’s been reflected off too many surfaces and has run out. His footsteps echo and echo and echo, and he pushes up through the clouds of his breath until he reaches his door, and there he stops. He cocks his head toward the door and closes his eyes to listen, but there is no sound from inside.
Shouta went home.
He gives a sigh and tries the knob; it’s unlocked, and he slides inside, saying softly, “I’m home.” When the door shuts on the wind and bleak light from outside, it leaves the apartment warm and quiet. He shuffles off his shoes and steps carefully through the shadowed hallway to the living room, and stops halfway through pulling off his jacket.
“What is it?” the little cat snarls, drawing himself back into his pile of blankets on the couch. The light from the window is bleak and thin, but it casts soft shadows on his face, and he looks very much like a kitten.
“Kou-san sent something,” Kubota says gently as he shrugs off his coat and puts his small package down on the kitchen counter, keeping a wary ten feet between the two of them. His stray cat is glaring with all his might, sharp eyes narrowed and his left hand gathering the blankets at his collarbones. His other hand is hidden in the folds. Kubota does not meet his flashing eyes, looking instead at the keen edges of his cat’s face, the angled thinness and desperate, wounded animal stance. The gleam of winter-light on his eyes that turns his face into something very, very open.
“He’s crazy,” comes the spitting reply, and Kubota smiles a little and leans back against the counter.
“He says it will make you feel better, Tokitoh.” He sees his cat--his stray, his Tokitoh--stiffen at the name, his wild, open eyes wide. And then Tokitoh bristles, and Kubota knows it was the wrong thing to say.
“Don’t want it,” Tokitoh hisses, drawing further into himself. “You--and him--better.” He hunches his narrow shoulders and glowers. “He’s not a doctor, and you’re--you’re not my keeper.” He says the last like it is a curse, and when it hangs in the air between them, his cheeks flush darkly and he doesn’t look up.
Kubota would like to say, No one is trying to hurt you, but Tokitoh wouldn’t believe it. Kubota remembers the bruises that were scattered over his body in the beginning, the gunmetal-grey circles that still have not faded from under Tokitoh’s eyes, even though time has passed. Tokitoh still refuses to meet his eye, his cheeks burning with anger or humiliation or something else entirely, and finally, Kubota turns away.
“It’s all right,” he says quietly. “I’m sure it’s not that important.” Tokitoh says nothing, but shuffles his feet in the blanket and clutches it closer to his throat.
After a while, Kubota leaves again to delve through the watery light and dingy, reeking city streets, and when he comes back, the sun has set and the apartment is dark. His cat has retreated to the bedroom again, leaving a pile of rumpled blankets on the couch, and Kubota sits in their midst and breathes Tokitoh’s sharp smell. When he dozes, he can feel a residual warmth in the deepest folds of the blankets.
Later, Tokitoh prods at Kubota with a belligerent, “Hey.” He can’t see very well--the blinds are shut tight against garish street- and city-light from outside--but Kubota shifts and Tokitoh thinks that maybe he sees the shadows of Kubota’s eyelashes move, that there is the gleam of the dimmest of light against Kubota’s eyes. He waits for a few seconds, and then lets out his breath in a frustrated huff and says again, “Hey.”
“Yes, Tokitoh?” Kubota replies, with a voice that sounds as though he was never asleep, that he has been lying here all this time listening to Tokitoh breathe as he stood beside the couch, shuffling his feet.
Tokitoh does his best to glare at that familiarity, taking a half-step back. “What is it?” he demands.
There is a long pause, and then Kubota sits up and reaches for the bedside table. Tokitoh sees the dim light slide over the lenses of Kubota’s glasses as he puts them on. “What’s what?” He says slowly, as though Tokitoh is sleep-walking.
“I can smell it,” Tokitoh hisses. “That stuff. From the crazy guy. What is it?”
After another pause, Kubota stretches his long legs and pushes himself up off the couch. Tokitoh dances out of his way, careful to keep from tripping over the hem of the blanket he still holds over his shoulders. “What time is it?” Kubota says. Tokitoh doesn’t answer him, feeling his cheeks heat, and Kubota answers himself with a murmured, “Ah, two o’clock.”
He goes to the counter and picks up the small package, and then he turns to look back at Tokitoh, and when he speaks, he sounds as though he is smiling. “This?”
“What else?” Tokitoh snaps, holding the blanket at his throat. “That’s the only--yeah. That. It reeks.”
Kubota brings the package closer to his face and takes a sniff, humming something quiet and appreciative. He leans back against the counter and works his fingers into the creases of the package, and Tokitoh watches his long, thin hands work, pale shapes against the darkness. He can feel Kubota looking at him, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Kubota’s fingers worm beneath soft paper, and it splits, and a sweet, cloying scent rises from the tear.
Tokitoh squints at it in the dark, his nose wrinkling, and Kubota murmurs something that might have been a name, but just as Tokitoh is lifting his face to glare, a siren blares down on the street, and he jumps, jerking back. He is startled into looking up into Kubota’s face, and he thinks that maybe Kubota smiles at him. Kubota shifts his weight and starts forward, holding the package close, and as he slides by Tokitoh, he reaches out a hand, as if he is going to ruffle Tokitoh’s hair. Tokitoh flinches back and sidesteps, but Kubota says nothing and moves to the stove.
There is a long pause as Kubota pours water into a pan and turns on the stove, and Tokitoh waits until he can no longer stand it, and he demands again, “What is it?”
Kubota looks at him, and his face is edged in a red-orange glow from the stove. Tokitoh glares at him, and finally, Kubota leans over and pushes the torn package down the counter and says, “What do you think it is?”
After a moment, Tokitoh snatches out a hand--his good hand--and grabs the handful of paper and shifting contents to eye it suspiciously in the darkness. He can’t tell what it is, and he darts his eyes up; Kubota isn’t looking at him, and finally, Tokitoh sniffs at the rip in the paper. He wrinkles his nose again and mutters, “Smells like flowers.” He puts the package back down and stares at it, finally bringing his hand up to rub at his nose. “An’ something else.”
Kubota’s fingers pluck the package from the counter top, and Tokitoh edges away, watching those dangerous hands tear the paper enough to fit a spoon inside. Kubota says softly, “Kou-san says that this is an old medicine that dates back many years.”
“For what?” Tokitoh bites out, holding the blanket close.
“For everything,” Kubota says, lifting his eyes. Tokitoh meets his gaze for just a moment, and then he sees that Kubota is sifting the package’s contents into the pan, and the scent of flowers is stronger.
“S’not true,” Tokitoh snaps. “No such thing.” He could turn away and steal away to the bedroom again, hide in his pile of blankets and wait for nightmares and morning. He could run and forget this, stupid flowers--medicine--placebo, whatever it is, now that he’s gotten a closer look at it, and then he wouldn’t have to sit here any longer in the dark with this stranger and listen to him ramble and try so hard. “Some things,” he hears himself say, “can’t be cured.”
He thinks that maybe Kubota smile again, and as much as he wants to run and escape and hide, he can’t make his feet move from the cold linoleum. “Of course not,” Kubota says. “Of course not.”
Wild Adapter // Kubota/Tokitoh, PG-13
1455 words
Pillow-talk except without the pillows. Kubota has medicine that Tokitoh doesn't want. I would like to note that I wrote this before I had actually read a translation of v.5, so I'm a little off the mark about Tokitoh being named. Done for springkink round V.
When Kubota makes his clanging way up the steps to the apartment, the wind cuts down the edge of the building like a blade, smelling heavy like snow and charged like ozone. The light is flat and grey, like it’s been reflected off too many surfaces and has run out. His footsteps echo and echo and echo, and he pushes up through the clouds of his breath until he reaches his door, and there he stops. He cocks his head toward the door and closes his eyes to listen, but there is no sound from inside.
Shouta went home.
He gives a sigh and tries the knob; it’s unlocked, and he slides inside, saying softly, “I’m home.” When the door shuts on the wind and bleak light from outside, it leaves the apartment warm and quiet. He shuffles off his shoes and steps carefully through the shadowed hallway to the living room, and stops halfway through pulling off his jacket.
“What is it?” the little cat snarls, drawing himself back into his pile of blankets on the couch. The light from the window is bleak and thin, but it casts soft shadows on his face, and he looks very much like a kitten.
“Kou-san sent something,” Kubota says gently as he shrugs off his coat and puts his small package down on the kitchen counter, keeping a wary ten feet between the two of them. His stray cat is glaring with all his might, sharp eyes narrowed and his left hand gathering the blankets at his collarbones. His other hand is hidden in the folds. Kubota does not meet his flashing eyes, looking instead at the keen edges of his cat’s face, the angled thinness and desperate, wounded animal stance. The gleam of winter-light on his eyes that turns his face into something very, very open.
“He’s crazy,” comes the spitting reply, and Kubota smiles a little and leans back against the counter.
“He says it will make you feel better, Tokitoh.” He sees his cat--his stray, his Tokitoh--stiffen at the name, his wild, open eyes wide. And then Tokitoh bristles, and Kubota knows it was the wrong thing to say.
“Don’t want it,” Tokitoh hisses, drawing further into himself. “You--and him--better.” He hunches his narrow shoulders and glowers. “He’s not a doctor, and you’re--you’re not my keeper.” He says the last like it is a curse, and when it hangs in the air between them, his cheeks flush darkly and he doesn’t look up.
Kubota would like to say, No one is trying to hurt you, but Tokitoh wouldn’t believe it. Kubota remembers the bruises that were scattered over his body in the beginning, the gunmetal-grey circles that still have not faded from under Tokitoh’s eyes, even though time has passed. Tokitoh still refuses to meet his eye, his cheeks burning with anger or humiliation or something else entirely, and finally, Kubota turns away.
“It’s all right,” he says quietly. “I’m sure it’s not that important.” Tokitoh says nothing, but shuffles his feet in the blanket and clutches it closer to his throat.
After a while, Kubota leaves again to delve through the watery light and dingy, reeking city streets, and when he comes back, the sun has set and the apartment is dark. His cat has retreated to the bedroom again, leaving a pile of rumpled blankets on the couch, and Kubota sits in their midst and breathes Tokitoh’s sharp smell. When he dozes, he can feel a residual warmth in the deepest folds of the blankets.
Later, Tokitoh prods at Kubota with a belligerent, “Hey.” He can’t see very well--the blinds are shut tight against garish street- and city-light from outside--but Kubota shifts and Tokitoh thinks that maybe he sees the shadows of Kubota’s eyelashes move, that there is the gleam of the dimmest of light against Kubota’s eyes. He waits for a few seconds, and then lets out his breath in a frustrated huff and says again, “Hey.”
“Yes, Tokitoh?” Kubota replies, with a voice that sounds as though he was never asleep, that he has been lying here all this time listening to Tokitoh breathe as he stood beside the couch, shuffling his feet.
Tokitoh does his best to glare at that familiarity, taking a half-step back. “What is it?” he demands.
There is a long pause, and then Kubota sits up and reaches for the bedside table. Tokitoh sees the dim light slide over the lenses of Kubota’s glasses as he puts them on. “What’s what?” He says slowly, as though Tokitoh is sleep-walking.
“I can smell it,” Tokitoh hisses. “That stuff. From the crazy guy. What is it?”
After another pause, Kubota stretches his long legs and pushes himself up off the couch. Tokitoh dances out of his way, careful to keep from tripping over the hem of the blanket he still holds over his shoulders. “What time is it?” Kubota says. Tokitoh doesn’t answer him, feeling his cheeks heat, and Kubota answers himself with a murmured, “Ah, two o’clock.”
He goes to the counter and picks up the small package, and then he turns to look back at Tokitoh, and when he speaks, he sounds as though he is smiling. “This?”
“What else?” Tokitoh snaps, holding the blanket at his throat. “That’s the only--yeah. That. It reeks.”
Kubota brings the package closer to his face and takes a sniff, humming something quiet and appreciative. He leans back against the counter and works his fingers into the creases of the package, and Tokitoh watches his long, thin hands work, pale shapes against the darkness. He can feel Kubota looking at him, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Kubota’s fingers worm beneath soft paper, and it splits, and a sweet, cloying scent rises from the tear.
Tokitoh squints at it in the dark, his nose wrinkling, and Kubota murmurs something that might have been a name, but just as Tokitoh is lifting his face to glare, a siren blares down on the street, and he jumps, jerking back. He is startled into looking up into Kubota’s face, and he thinks that maybe Kubota smiles at him. Kubota shifts his weight and starts forward, holding the package close, and as he slides by Tokitoh, he reaches out a hand, as if he is going to ruffle Tokitoh’s hair. Tokitoh flinches back and sidesteps, but Kubota says nothing and moves to the stove.
There is a long pause as Kubota pours water into a pan and turns on the stove, and Tokitoh waits until he can no longer stand it, and he demands again, “What is it?”
Kubota looks at him, and his face is edged in a red-orange glow from the stove. Tokitoh glares at him, and finally, Kubota leans over and pushes the torn package down the counter and says, “What do you think it is?”
After a moment, Tokitoh snatches out a hand--his good hand--and grabs the handful of paper and shifting contents to eye it suspiciously in the darkness. He can’t tell what it is, and he darts his eyes up; Kubota isn’t looking at him, and finally, Tokitoh sniffs at the rip in the paper. He wrinkles his nose again and mutters, “Smells like flowers.” He puts the package back down and stares at it, finally bringing his hand up to rub at his nose. “An’ something else.”
Kubota’s fingers pluck the package from the counter top, and Tokitoh edges away, watching those dangerous hands tear the paper enough to fit a spoon inside. Kubota says softly, “Kou-san says that this is an old medicine that dates back many years.”
“For what?” Tokitoh bites out, holding the blanket close.
“For everything,” Kubota says, lifting his eyes. Tokitoh meets his gaze for just a moment, and then he sees that Kubota is sifting the package’s contents into the pan, and the scent of flowers is stronger.
“S’not true,” Tokitoh snaps. “No such thing.” He could turn away and steal away to the bedroom again, hide in his pile of blankets and wait for nightmares and morning. He could run and forget this, stupid flowers--medicine--placebo, whatever it is, now that he’s gotten a closer look at it, and then he wouldn’t have to sit here any longer in the dark with this stranger and listen to him ramble and try so hard. “Some things,” he hears himself say, “can’t be cured.”
He thinks that maybe Kubota smile again, and as much as he wants to run and escape and hide, he can’t make his feet move from the cold linoleum. “Of course not,” Kubota says. “Of course not.”