(no subject)
Dedicated to the lovely flowerchorus and her eyepatch. ♥
Yoite doesn't eat much, but when he does eat it's with the giant, gulping bites of a starving dog.
"He'll never taste anything that way," Yukimi's sister says, and so Yukimi starts making him hot drinks, coffee, tea, anything really, just so that he'll have to sip at it.
"Slowly," Yukimi says the first time Yoite accepts the cup from his hands, pale fingers hesitant around the brim.
It's a little like feeding a wild animal, so that he's never sure whether the offering will be accepted or if he's about to get his hand bitten off. Yoite's eyes are dark over the steam rising from the cup, and his bangs fall into his eyes in a way that's not fashionable as much as it is unkempt.
Yoite burns his tongue the first time, and Yukimi's certain that's the end of it. Except later on when he's sitting at his desk working on that story about soba noodles in the city, Yoite sets the empty cup down next to his right hand.
He doesn't say thank you.
Yukimi doesn't stop writing, but he can feel Yoite lingering at his side for a moment, like the pale chill of a rainstorm creeping up in the morning. He doesn't speak, though, and by the time Yukimi's finished with his paragraph, Yoite's gone.
*
In the winter he comes to live with Yukimi, because Yukimi has good insulation and one or two carpets and baseboard heaters that Yoite can curl up around. He crouches on the floor in his wool coat and presses his gloved hands to the warmth until Yukimi's sure he can smell the fabric singeing.
It's just better to have a partner you can keep an eye on, he'd reasoned. Otherwise Yoite could disappear or starve to death and Kairoushu would be out one trump card. He's too young to look after himself, so it's not like Yukimi was full of it when he made the decision, but it's more than that.
Yukimi can't quite put his finger on it, but he watches Yoite out of the corner of his eye while writing his article and when he reads it over later the piece is filled with typos.
"What is it?" Yoite asks when Yukimi swears.
He's taken his hat off, which means he must be warmer, even though he's still holding his knees tightly to his chest. His head is down like he could be sleeping, except that's not so different from normal. Being with Yoite is like walking underwater, everything oddly silent and still and dark. Living with Yoite is like having an extra piece of furniture around to trip over.
Yukimi didn't even know he was paying attention.
"Writing," he mutters, searching under the papers scattered across his desk-research, news, a travel magazine-for a cigarette.
"Oh," says Yoite. "Your lighter's on the table."
That night it snows, and Yukimi turns the heat up so high he sleeps without a blanket.
*
Someday, Yoite's going to die.
Everyone is, of course, it's only a matter of time, and the knowledge is that much closer to the skin in the world of Nabari.
Hell, even for Yukimi it's just a question of what'll win the race to kill him, cigarettes or a failed block.
So his hands shouldn't clench the way they do every time Yoite coughs, hunching his thin shoulders and scrabbling in his pocket for the blister pack of medicine he carries with him everywhere. The gloves make him clumsy.
Before he can think the better of it, Yukimi puts a hand on Yoite's back to steady him. He brushes Yoite's hand away and reaches into the pocket of his wool coat, pulling out the pills for him.
"Here," he says.
Yoite stares at him with eyes like tunnels in the snow, his breath making little clouds in the cold air. Moments later he remembers himself, and twitches away like Yukimi's hands are hot irons.
Maybe they are.
Yukimi crams his hands into his pockets and doesn't apologize.
*
His fingertips are tinged with dark, like the beginnings of frostbite, or something worse creeping in at the edges of his body. The first time Yukimi sees them he wants to take Yoite's hands in his own and rub the life back into them. Like if he can push back that blackness he'll somehow stem the tide of the rest of it, the effects of Kira and that stubborn cough.
"There are so many things I didn't tell him," Raikou says, staring in at Gau through the glass plate in the hospital. "And so many things I should not have told him at all."
Yukimi doesn't really know what to say in these sorts of situations, so he just puts a hand on Raikou's shoulder and waits for him to flinch away.
He doesn't, and that's when Yukimi remembers that not everyone is Yoite.
*
It's about the most terrible idea Yukimi's ever had. Being a writer should make him more thoughtful, but being a ninja has erased all his forethought, all his planning, so that there is instinct alone, and when Yoite hesitates with Yukimi's hand against his wrist he leans in close, so that that there's no space between Yoite and the wall.
When they kiss, Yukimi gets an elbow in his chest and he can feel Yoite's hands scrambling around in fluttering, panicked motions, trapped up against his body. His skin's like ice, pale and cool under Yukimi's hand, and his hair is soft and bristly at the back where it's shorter. It's awkward, and Yoite bites a little, but not hard enough to draw blood. Just enough for Yukimi to wonder how many people, exactly, Yoite has kissed, and it's then that he remembers just how old Yoite is.
Oh. Yukimi thinks, and then, Damn, damn, damn.
He tries to pull away just as Yoite gives one last desperate push for freedom, and it sends Yukimi sprawling over onto his back, tugging Yoite with him into a tangled heap of limbs.
They stare at one another for a moment, Yoite's breath matching the rhythm of the pounding in Yukimi's chest and his cheeks touched with the first color that Yukimi's ever seen in them.
Yoite raises his finger, hand trembling, and Yukimi realizes-not for the first time-that his life could end right here, just because of something stupid.
Instead Yoite gets up in a furious rustle of clothing, kneeing Yukimi in the stomach and pausing only to grab his hat.
Lying on the floor, he listens to the fading sound of Yoite's boots as he runs away. Thunk thunk thunk.
It's still early in the night, he thinks. Maybe he can finish that article on takoyaki in Yamate.
*
Yukimi's half-asleep, drifting in and out of waking when all of a sudden Raikou leans over and pulls his headband down over his eyes. Under normal circumstances this would actually be a bonus, since it means he doesn't have to stare at the offensively sequined jacket Raikou's wearing. But these aren't normal circumstances, and Yukimi can't light a cigarette with his eyes covered.
He's too tired for this.
"Bored, huh?"
Something jingles just in front of his face. Yukimi peers out from under his headband and sees his car keys hanging from Raikou's finger. He doesn't know how he managed to get them, but cold terror runs down his spine just the same.
Raikou smiles like someone who wouldn't dream of driving Yukimi's car into the river again.
"I thought we might go for a drive."
Yoite doesn't eat much, but when he does eat it's with the giant, gulping bites of a starving dog.
"He'll never taste anything that way," Yukimi's sister says, and so Yukimi starts making him hot drinks, coffee, tea, anything really, just so that he'll have to sip at it.
"Slowly," Yukimi says the first time Yoite accepts the cup from his hands, pale fingers hesitant around the brim.
It's a little like feeding a wild animal, so that he's never sure whether the offering will be accepted or if he's about to get his hand bitten off. Yoite's eyes are dark over the steam rising from the cup, and his bangs fall into his eyes in a way that's not fashionable as much as it is unkempt.
Yoite burns his tongue the first time, and Yukimi's certain that's the end of it. Except later on when he's sitting at his desk working on that story about soba noodles in the city, Yoite sets the empty cup down next to his right hand.
He doesn't say thank you.
Yukimi doesn't stop writing, but he can feel Yoite lingering at his side for a moment, like the pale chill of a rainstorm creeping up in the morning. He doesn't speak, though, and by the time Yukimi's finished with his paragraph, Yoite's gone.
*
In the winter he comes to live with Yukimi, because Yukimi has good insulation and one or two carpets and baseboard heaters that Yoite can curl up around. He crouches on the floor in his wool coat and presses his gloved hands to the warmth until Yukimi's sure he can smell the fabric singeing.
It's just better to have a partner you can keep an eye on, he'd reasoned. Otherwise Yoite could disappear or starve to death and Kairoushu would be out one trump card. He's too young to look after himself, so it's not like Yukimi was full of it when he made the decision, but it's more than that.
Yukimi can't quite put his finger on it, but he watches Yoite out of the corner of his eye while writing his article and when he reads it over later the piece is filled with typos.
"What is it?" Yoite asks when Yukimi swears.
He's taken his hat off, which means he must be warmer, even though he's still holding his knees tightly to his chest. His head is down like he could be sleeping, except that's not so different from normal. Being with Yoite is like walking underwater, everything oddly silent and still and dark. Living with Yoite is like having an extra piece of furniture around to trip over.
Yukimi didn't even know he was paying attention.
"Writing," he mutters, searching under the papers scattered across his desk-research, news, a travel magazine-for a cigarette.
"Oh," says Yoite. "Your lighter's on the table."
That night it snows, and Yukimi turns the heat up so high he sleeps without a blanket.
*
Someday, Yoite's going to die.
Everyone is, of course, it's only a matter of time, and the knowledge is that much closer to the skin in the world of Nabari.
Hell, even for Yukimi it's just a question of what'll win the race to kill him, cigarettes or a failed block.
So his hands shouldn't clench the way they do every time Yoite coughs, hunching his thin shoulders and scrabbling in his pocket for the blister pack of medicine he carries with him everywhere. The gloves make him clumsy.
Before he can think the better of it, Yukimi puts a hand on Yoite's back to steady him. He brushes Yoite's hand away and reaches into the pocket of his wool coat, pulling out the pills for him.
"Here," he says.
Yoite stares at him with eyes like tunnels in the snow, his breath making little clouds in the cold air. Moments later he remembers himself, and twitches away like Yukimi's hands are hot irons.
Maybe they are.
Yukimi crams his hands into his pockets and doesn't apologize.
*
His fingertips are tinged with dark, like the beginnings of frostbite, or something worse creeping in at the edges of his body. The first time Yukimi sees them he wants to take Yoite's hands in his own and rub the life back into them. Like if he can push back that blackness he'll somehow stem the tide of the rest of it, the effects of Kira and that stubborn cough.
"There are so many things I didn't tell him," Raikou says, staring in at Gau through the glass plate in the hospital. "And so many things I should not have told him at all."
Yukimi doesn't really know what to say in these sorts of situations, so he just puts a hand on Raikou's shoulder and waits for him to flinch away.
He doesn't, and that's when Yukimi remembers that not everyone is Yoite.
*
It's about the most terrible idea Yukimi's ever had. Being a writer should make him more thoughtful, but being a ninja has erased all his forethought, all his planning, so that there is instinct alone, and when Yoite hesitates with Yukimi's hand against his wrist he leans in close, so that that there's no space between Yoite and the wall.
When they kiss, Yukimi gets an elbow in his chest and he can feel Yoite's hands scrambling around in fluttering, panicked motions, trapped up against his body. His skin's like ice, pale and cool under Yukimi's hand, and his hair is soft and bristly at the back where it's shorter. It's awkward, and Yoite bites a little, but not hard enough to draw blood. Just enough for Yukimi to wonder how many people, exactly, Yoite has kissed, and it's then that he remembers just how old Yoite is.
Oh. Yukimi thinks, and then, Damn, damn, damn.
He tries to pull away just as Yoite gives one last desperate push for freedom, and it sends Yukimi sprawling over onto his back, tugging Yoite with him into a tangled heap of limbs.
They stare at one another for a moment, Yoite's breath matching the rhythm of the pounding in Yukimi's chest and his cheeks touched with the first color that Yukimi's ever seen in them.
Yoite raises his finger, hand trembling, and Yukimi realizes-not for the first time-that his life could end right here, just because of something stupid.
Instead Yoite gets up in a furious rustle of clothing, kneeing Yukimi in the stomach and pausing only to grab his hat.
Lying on the floor, he listens to the fading sound of Yoite's boots as he runs away. Thunk thunk thunk.
It's still early in the night, he thinks. Maybe he can finish that article on takoyaki in Yamate.
*
Yukimi's half-asleep, drifting in and out of waking when all of a sudden Raikou leans over and pulls his headband down over his eyes. Under normal circumstances this would actually be a bonus, since it means he doesn't have to stare at the offensively sequined jacket Raikou's wearing. But these aren't normal circumstances, and Yukimi can't light a cigarette with his eyes covered.
He's too tired for this.
"Bored, huh?"
Something jingles just in front of his face. Yukimi peers out from under his headband and sees his car keys hanging from Raikou's finger. He doesn't know how he managed to get them, but cold terror runs down his spine just the same.
Raikou smiles like someone who wouldn't dream of driving Yukimi's car into the river again.
"I thought we might go for a drive."