De-anon'd fic for clampkink, part 10 (complete~!)
So you know how I said I'd be updating this later in the week?
Yeah, nah. Will power, I have none... enjoy!
Title: Skinhunger
Part: 10 of 10 (done and dusted~!)
Rating: M
Warnings: angst? fluff? snowballs? excessive abuse of brackets?
Summary: Prompt is as follows: Kurogane/Fai post series - Kurogane and Fai were already in an established relationship, but one day in order to save Kurogane, who is mortally wounded, Fai pays the price by having his memory since meeting Kurogane for the first time erased. Kurogane recovers and has to pretty much starts over with Fai but he's up to the task.
Bonus if Fai always address Kurogane politely by his correct name this time around and Kurogane is both sad and annoyed for this turn of event.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
*
The room is hot when he opens the door silently, which Syaoran considers mildly impressive since it is winter here in the world of the Dimension Witch and the snow slumped in heavy white drifts across the garden does nothing for keeping warmth inside the wooden walls of the shop- but he is not going to think about how it got that warm, because there are some things he doesn’t particularly want to know. The tatami mats are still cool beneath his feet when he steps inside, though, and briefly he considers the wisdom of walking about Watanuki’s home barefooted (he has more than a passing familiarity with the pranks Maru and Moro will play on their guests when their master isn’t looking) but Fai makes a soft noise in his sleep and his mind snaps back to the task at hand.
Wake them for breakfast, would you Syaoran, he mouths silently to himself, Watanuki’s voice playing out in his head as he steps gingerly across the matting, but do it quietly please. I’ve other guests staying with me at the moment and though the traditional morning routine of watching Kurogane chase the Mokonas about is certainly entertaining, I’d rather not deal with the accompanying chaos it usually causes with a houseful of supernatural entities visiting. The passage of time has done nothing for his other self’s snooty tendencies; even in his existence as shop owner and the associated humility that comes with the role of wish-granter has done little to temper Watanuki’s need to boss others about, usually with ladle in hand.
Kurogane doesn’t wake when he pads softly past the head of the futon, nor when he opens the shoji that lead out to the verandah with a muted rattle- but the pale sunlight that slices through the gap and onto the ninja’s sleeping face will do the trick soon enough. He’s learnt the hard way that if Kurogane is still asleep when he enters a room, trying to wake him by shaking his shoulder or calling his name will not end well; Syaoran has never actually been hurt by being swiftly and firmly pinned to a wall with a blade levelled at his throat by a irate and suddenly awake ninja -the older man always recognising him within a second or two and dropping him to the floor once he has- but the experience is never pleasant.
Stepping gingerly over the rumpled sleeve of an incredibly detailed and no doubt ridiculously expensive silk kimono he saw Fai wearing last night, the edge of Syaoran’s left heel brushes slightly on the slippery fabric, making him stumble. He catches himself before he falls forward and onto the futon where his two companions are tangled together (and mostly covered by the blankets, thank the gods; he has no wish to see that again) but only just, and the faint sound of a foot thumping gently against the floor near his dark head is enough to make Kurogane stir, his brow creasing in irritation.
He forgets how to breathe for a moment, waiting for those red eyes to open and spear him to the wall with a look- but the dark-haired man sleeps on, merely turning his face away from the noise and towards the mess of blonde hair tucked beneath his chin. Fai is barely visible beneath the bedspread, one hand curled against a broad shoulder, cheek pressed against Kurogane’s chest, but the small (honest) smile creasing the mage’s mouth speaks volumes about his happiness, even in sleep. The sight makes Syaoran smile too; they’ve all paid many things to earn their peace, and when he thinks about what coin the two of them have spent (blood and pain and flesh not being the least of it) against the cost of his journey, it makes him happy to see his friends (family, corrects a voice suspiciously like Fai’s own when he’s at the meowing stage of drunkenness, we’re your family, Syaoran-kun~!) like this.
Not that he’d ever actually say that to their faces, of course.
He knows they know, and no-one has to talk about it; he’s more open than the stoic ninja, but unlike the mage and his absent princess (and the thought of Sakura is a sweet ache in his chest that leaves him hoping, as always, that Clow will be the next place they’ll visit) neither he nor Kurogane feel the need to sit down over a cup of tea and have a chat about their feelings. Which is good, because he still remembers the look on the older man’s face when he realised that Syaoran had intervened with his relationship with the mage a few worlds back, and he has no wish to find himself staring down the business end of Ginryuu.
Again.
Shaking his head (the light streaming through the open doorway is growing brighter by the minute and it is only a matter of time before the two of them wake, and being caught in their bedroom at this hour of the morning is not on his to-do list for the day) Syaoran takes a few hesitant steps towards the door, dodging stray articles of clothing as he goes, drawing level with the still figure of Kurogane sprawled out over the futon- and swallows down an undignified squawk as a dark hand snakes out impossibly fast from beneath the covers to close about his ankle with a steely grip.
He wobbles, flails his arms about in a frantic attempt to not fall over and feels dread pool in his stomach as Kurogane lazily opens one eye. Evidently, the ninja was not as asleep as he’d thought, and is somewhat annoyed at being woken. “I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t just throw the pork-bun in here,” rumbles Kurogane, voice low and rough from sleep, “and that breeze is kind of nice,” his dark head jerks across the pillow to indicate the balcony and the breath of snow swirling through the open door, “but next time tell the other brat if he wants us up early he can damn well knock on the door himself.”
Strong fingers unhook from his leg and Syaoran nods, somewhat abashed and feeling just a little awkward as Kurogane yawns and stretches and the covers slip lower- but the ninja either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care (the latter is more likely; his few experiences with shared bathing and his travelling companions had taught him that neither of the men actually have any shame, and that a certain portion of their travelling funds should be set aside to cover the costs of damages to the surroundings when Fai inevitably teases and Kurogane inevitably chases) and rolls over, turning away from Syaoran and leaving the scarred canvas of his broad back bare. Fai makes a soft sound, a vague protest of some kind, as he is turned onto his side- but Kurogane pulls him close and slings a heavily-muscled arm about his waist, and the mage falls silent once more.
“We’re not getting up yet. Save me some grilled fish and rice before that archer eats it all,” mumbles Kurogane, voice low and sleepy; there is something like dismissal in his tone, so Syaoran nods silently to himself and steps back towards the door before dismissal gives way to irritation- but there was also something like affection colouring that deep rumble and Syaoran can’t stop the small, smiling quirk that twists his mouth as he leaves the room.
Watanuki does not look particularly surprised that he returns unaccompanied, and flaps an idle hand when Syaoran requests a small portion of rice and fish be put aside for the still-sleeping warrior; apparently he knows his guests well enough by now to have accounted for that possibility, and having put aside their breakfasts some time earlier, the slender young man settles himself down in a graceful flutter of long limbs as he returns from the kitchen.
Doumeki, eating silently at the head of the long table (populated with spirits and ghosts and all manner of supernatural beings that Syaoran himself has no wish to draw the attention of and therefore ignores as politely as possible, though the young fox kit twitching his tail at the other end of the table catches his eye more than once) watches the shop-keeper fold himself into his seat, taking a moment to stretch out a long arm and snatch a slice of pickled daikon from Watanuki’s plate with his chopsticks, and Syaoran just shakes his head as a short, noisy kerfuffle ensues; if Fai and Kurogane can sleep through that they won’t be getting up any time soon.
Breakfast draws to a close without either of them appearing; he helps Watanuki clear the dishes and the fox kit runs between their long legs as he dashes back and forth from the dining room and kitchen, carrying cups and bowls and other small items in an attempt to be helpful. They wash in harmony, Syaoran unable to stop himself from laughing at the good-natured grumbling of his parallel existence; it isn’t until a lull in conversation while they are drying glasses that the questions he has been turning over in his mind for some time now come spilling out.
Watanuki does not flinch when Syaoran speaks, does not even pause in the act of polishing glass, and his eyes are distant (haunted) as he looks out from the kitchen. “If I am to explain this to you, Syaoran, then I think I need a drink first.”
It is a good hour later, and Watanuki is sprawled on silken cushions in an elegant tangle of long limbs, watching from the porch as the young fox kit builds snowmen in the garden with Doumeki. He takes a sip of heated sake as Syaoran settles down on the wooden planks beside him, his breath puffing in moist clouds as he sighs. “Of all the people to ask that question, I had assumed it would have been Kurogane-san- but then I suppose a man like him is not one to dwell on the past, but to push on ever forward, and Fai-san himself is not even aware that he could ask…”
The garden is covered with snow, heavy with thick slumped piles, and the fox kit -clad in kimono, cheerful scarf and a woollen coat- trips and is nearly lost in a freezing drift- but Doumeki snatches him up by the back of his collar and pulls him to safety. Watanuki smiles, a thin twitch of lips that looks somehow mournful. “You have to understand, Syaoran, that though I am the shop-keeper now and have a greater understanding of how wishes work, I am not the authority on them. I don’t think anyone ever could be.” His words are quiet, spoken to the rim of his sake cup as warm steams swirls about his face. “But I do know there was a… difference in how Fai-san paid for his wish, a difference in his price than that of Sakura-chan’s.”
“The feathers,” breathes Syaoran.
“Yes,” says Watanuki, and the word is a sigh. “Sakura-chan’s memories were taken from her soul, extracted and crystallised in physical form and so lost, only to be regained once her feathers were returned to her. But Fai-san… his memories were not taken, not truly- just sealed. The price he paid for another’s life was to have all of the happiness that person had given him, all of his thoughts and feelings and his memories of that person locked away in the recesses of his mind; his price was as much the pain of losing those memories and knowing he was missing something as much as the act of losing them itself.”
The shine of Watanuki’s glasses is nearly enough to blank them, nearly enough to hide the terrible acceptance in his eyes- but not quite. “For one with a past such as his, such a price is no doubt the highest cost.”
A high-pitched squeal of laughter from the fox kit -running across the garden and pelting snowballs in the direction of Doumeki, aided in his pursuit by the Mokonas, both small bundles of fur bouncing into the yard from the shadows of the verandah- cuts into the still air that has settled over the porch, and Syaoran blinks. Fai’s past… was not something he liked to think about, not really; having the mage’s memories shoved into his mind like twisting shards of poisoned ice (all that pain, all that suffering and terrible, terrible loneliness) by the King of Ceres had (been like knives, like tearing, curling agony and toxic desperation; enough to make him vomit, enough to make the shock settle in his bones as he stared down the trembling magician and something like horror had unfurled in his chest at the realisation that every smile had been a perfect lie) not been pleasant, and even knowing the cause behind the man’s actions had not made the nightmares that followed any easier to bear.
Laying down his shallow cup, Watanuki takes up his pipe, striking a match as he holds the end between his teeth. The soft, sweet scent of tobacco and incense swirls in curling tendrils about Syaoran as the shop-owner breathes out a thin stream of smoke, spiralling skywards in silken plumes. “He may never remember. Not really, no matter how Kurogane-san struggles to bring those memories back. But the body never forgets, Syaoran. Even when the mind does. Especially when the mind does.” Sly eyes slide sideways to Syaoran’s face, in a gesture that reminded him of Yuuko herself, far more than Watanuki would ever know. “You should not worry for them, not when you have your own troubles… and I do not think they would thank you for being involved in their affairs.”
Syaoran flushes; something like heat snakes up his neck at Watanuki’s amusement, and he can’t stop the way his voice cracks when he splutters a denial. Watanuki just chuckles, and once again, Syaoran is struck by the difference between them. The other man may have begun his existence as a fragment of Syaoran’s soul (like his father, like his clone) but time and age had given him a level of maturity that Syaoran himself has yet to reach.
Or something like that, he corrects himself as Doumeki creeps towards the edge of the balcony in a manner that would make Kurogane proud were the ninja to see it and uses the opportunity that Watanuki’s distraction provides to pin the slender man to the balcony -his pipe spinning onto the porch with a clatter- and shove a handful of snow down the back of the shop-owner’s kimono. The shriek that bursts from the shop-owner’s lips is truly unearthly, and the fox kit and the Mokonas yelp and dive for cover as Watanuki shouts with incoherent, spluttering rage; there is no change in the archer’s impassive expression as Watanuki dashes after him, dignity forgotten and limbs flailing about, the long sleeves of his kimono flapping as he dives into the garden-
-and before long it is a full-on snowy melee, Maru and Moro appearing from the kitchen to take their master’s side with giggling malice, Doumeki and the fox kit splitting into a tag-team behind a heaped pile of snow and the Mokonas forming their own pair, each bundle of fuzzy fur firing a high-speed barrage of snowballs from their gaping mouths as they bounce across the yard. Syaoran laughs, he cannot help it- and it feels like the first honest laughter in months, the dam finally breaking as the tense knot behind his breastbone melts away. The commotion (the laughter, the snow, the weak, watery sunlight that shatters in spangled, frosty glimmers across the yard) is finally enough to wake his companions, and Fai barrels out of a hastily opened door with an excited whoop, blonde hair flying about his shoulders in soft waves, lanky frame wrapped in a mismatched collection of clothes with Kurogane’s cloak draped heavily about his shoulders and plummets headfirst into the chaos; the mage is followed by the ninja, only half-dressed, who roars something about being woken too soon- and is silenced with a mouthful of packed ice.
(Fai has always had deadly aim)
The fighting stops in the sudden shocked hush; the yard falls quiet as Kurogane spits snow and something like the light of battle flares in red eyes. “That’s it,” says Kurogane, voice a lethal rumble, “you are dead, mage.”
Syaoran doesn’t take much convincing to join the ensuing war (The Shop-owner and his Servants versus the Archer and the Kitsune versus the Mokonas versus the Traveller versus the Mage versus the Ninja) and when the battle finally ends, two snow-drenched hours later, no one is exactly sure who is the victor, only that they’re all freezing -with the notable exception of Fai, clutching Kurogane’s cloak tightly about his shoulders and beaming smugly at the rest of them and a (sulking) sodden ninja in particular- and Watanuki’s suggestion of a change of clothes and hot sake is met with some enthusiasm.
“Sa~ke!” sing the Mokonas, bouncing in tandem across the verandah, carolling out “Hot, sweet sake~! Drink it up, drink it UP~!” to all and sundry; the fox kit giggles at their antics even as he is lifted up onto the ledge by Doumeki, snow melting in the archer’s dark hair and dripping in his eyes. Watanuki scowls theatrically, but there is something affectionate in the curve of his mouth even as he snaps a lecture about ruined kimono, you oaf, RUINED, and you’re going to catch a cold if you mess about in snow drifts and don’t think I’ve the time to take care of you when you get sick, taking the hands of Moro and Maru and leading them through the shoji and through to the dining room. Doumeki follows along behind, and though his face is as impassive as ever, Syaoran could’ve sworn his mouth twitched into something like a smirk as he passed by.
Climbing up onto the verandah, he shakes the snow from his clothes, dodging the still-bouncing Mokona that spring across the wooden planking in great leaps and bounds; Kurogane snarls a curse as the white one (their Mokona, Syaoran thinks, and knows it is less about ownership and more about family) ricochets gleefully off his head with a joyful ‘puu~!’.
“Wet doggies should stay out~side~!” croons Mokona as she whizzes past, “and they don’t get sake!”
“Stay away from my sake,” growls Kurogane, hands twitching with rage, “and if I catch you drinking from my bottle again, I’m gonna wring it out of you drop by drop! Like a sponge, pork bun, a sponge!” but there is less heat in his voice than one would expect, and he does little more than swat aimlessly at her as she bounces away and towards the open door, giggling all the while.
Syaoran is still laughing about it when Fai’s hand settles gently on his shoulder. He starts a little; he hadn’t heard the blonde come up behind him, but there is no mischief in blue eyes, and quick-fingered hands are empty. It’s no guarantee against a surprise snowball to the face, he knows, but it is a relief all the same.
“You go on without us, Syaoran-kun,” says the mage softly, and as he speaks Syaoran watches Kurogane settle himself down on the verandah to lean against a wooden pillar; Fai’s gaze follows the movement, slips from his face and across to the ninja himself as Fai half-turns to look over his own shoulder. “Kuro-sama and I have things to talk about.”
And Syaoran blinks (his heart thumps a little in his chest) because this feels less like a request for privacy than something approaching a goodbye- but then Fai smiles, and it is small and a touch rueful, something surprisingly (honest) reassuring in that expression, and the mage squeezes his shoulder briefly. Maybe his thoughts show clearly on his face (because their journey will end, eventually, even if his does not and that he accepts that one day the two of them will leave together -as well they should, they’ve earned their happiness- does little to lessen its impact all the same) because blue eyes are very knowing as they meet his own. “Go on,” says Fai with a wink, and abruptly the tightness in his throat eases. “We’ll be along soon enough.”
From the open doorway Syaoran can hear Maru and Moro laughing and Watanuki scolding Doumeki for eating all the snacks he’d just put out on the table; Mokona’s high, sweet voice carries clear across the din as she bursts into song with her counterpart, and the sudden rush of affection he feels for this place and these people makes him wish that Sakura was here all the more (and maybe if he’s lucky he’ll be home next, and she’ll be waiting for him with open arms like she always is) so he just smiles right on back.
“Okay,” says Syaoran, and he can’t and won’t stop the grin that crests over his face, “but I can’t promise I’ll save you anything to drink.”
“You will if you know what’s good for you, kid,” says Kurogane, folding his arms behind his head, “and keep that drunken pork bun from swallowing anything weird, wouldya? I don’t want to end up landing in the ocean again ‘cause that thing’s got the interdimensional hiccups or something.”
“Kuro-chi,” chides Fai, moving across wooden planking to nudge the other with his foot, earning an irritated grunt, “magic doesn’t work like that-”
“Whatever,” and Kurogane waves a dismissive hand, “all I’m saying is, whenever we get dropped in a pile somewhere, I’m always the one that ends up on the bottom. That thing’s doing it on purpose, I know it is.”
“You’re paranoid,” laughs Fai, and leaps on his back, rocking the ninja sideways and nearly toppling them both off the verandah’s edge.
“But then, I don’t think you could be a ninja if you weren’t~!”
“Get off me! Bastard!”
Syaoran leaves them like that, still arguing as he walks away with a grin and a shake of his head (sometimes it’s hard to believe that they’re apparently the mature ones) and when he slides the doors closed behind him, neither of them notices- even if there’s a farewell in their future (and there will be, one day, that he knows) it’s still a long ways off.
*
And that's it! I hope you enjoyed it :D
I may have gotten a better than expected mark for my mid-semester exam, and thus this is my way of sharing my joy XD
Edit: also, there is this, which I wrote for my timestamp meme; it takes place before the fic, and it's sort of like a prologue :)
Yeah, nah. Will power, I have none... enjoy!
Title: Skinhunger
Part: 10 of 10 (done and dusted~!)
Rating: M
Warnings: angst? fluff? snowballs? excessive abuse of brackets?
Summary: Prompt is as follows: Kurogane/Fai post series - Kurogane and Fai were already in an established relationship, but one day in order to save Kurogane, who is mortally wounded, Fai pays the price by having his memory since meeting Kurogane for the first time erased. Kurogane recovers and has to pretty much starts over with Fai but he's up to the task.
Bonus if Fai always address Kurogane politely by his correct name this time around and Kurogane is both sad and annoyed for this turn of event.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
*
The room is hot when he opens the door silently, which Syaoran considers mildly impressive since it is winter here in the world of the Dimension Witch and the snow slumped in heavy white drifts across the garden does nothing for keeping warmth inside the wooden walls of the shop- but he is not going to think about how it got that warm, because there are some things he doesn’t particularly want to know. The tatami mats are still cool beneath his feet when he steps inside, though, and briefly he considers the wisdom of walking about Watanuki’s home barefooted (he has more than a passing familiarity with the pranks Maru and Moro will play on their guests when their master isn’t looking) but Fai makes a soft noise in his sleep and his mind snaps back to the task at hand.
Wake them for breakfast, would you Syaoran, he mouths silently to himself, Watanuki’s voice playing out in his head as he steps gingerly across the matting, but do it quietly please. I’ve other guests staying with me at the moment and though the traditional morning routine of watching Kurogane chase the Mokonas about is certainly entertaining, I’d rather not deal with the accompanying chaos it usually causes with a houseful of supernatural entities visiting. The passage of time has done nothing for his other self’s snooty tendencies; even in his existence as shop owner and the associated humility that comes with the role of wish-granter has done little to temper Watanuki’s need to boss others about, usually with ladle in hand.
Kurogane doesn’t wake when he pads softly past the head of the futon, nor when he opens the shoji that lead out to the verandah with a muted rattle- but the pale sunlight that slices through the gap and onto the ninja’s sleeping face will do the trick soon enough. He’s learnt the hard way that if Kurogane is still asleep when he enters a room, trying to wake him by shaking his shoulder or calling his name will not end well; Syaoran has never actually been hurt by being swiftly and firmly pinned to a wall with a blade levelled at his throat by a irate and suddenly awake ninja -the older man always recognising him within a second or two and dropping him to the floor once he has- but the experience is never pleasant.
Stepping gingerly over the rumpled sleeve of an incredibly detailed and no doubt ridiculously expensive silk kimono he saw Fai wearing last night, the edge of Syaoran’s left heel brushes slightly on the slippery fabric, making him stumble. He catches himself before he falls forward and onto the futon where his two companions are tangled together (and mostly covered by the blankets, thank the gods; he has no wish to see that again) but only just, and the faint sound of a foot thumping gently against the floor near his dark head is enough to make Kurogane stir, his brow creasing in irritation.
He forgets how to breathe for a moment, waiting for those red eyes to open and spear him to the wall with a look- but the dark-haired man sleeps on, merely turning his face away from the noise and towards the mess of blonde hair tucked beneath his chin. Fai is barely visible beneath the bedspread, one hand curled against a broad shoulder, cheek pressed against Kurogane’s chest, but the small (honest) smile creasing the mage’s mouth speaks volumes about his happiness, even in sleep. The sight makes Syaoran smile too; they’ve all paid many things to earn their peace, and when he thinks about what coin the two of them have spent (blood and pain and flesh not being the least of it) against the cost of his journey, it makes him happy to see his friends (family, corrects a voice suspiciously like Fai’s own when he’s at the meowing stage of drunkenness, we’re your family, Syaoran-kun~!) like this.
Not that he’d ever actually say that to their faces, of course.
He knows they know, and no-one has to talk about it; he’s more open than the stoic ninja, but unlike the mage and his absent princess (and the thought of Sakura is a sweet ache in his chest that leaves him hoping, as always, that Clow will be the next place they’ll visit) neither he nor Kurogane feel the need to sit down over a cup of tea and have a chat about their feelings. Which is good, because he still remembers the look on the older man’s face when he realised that Syaoran had intervened with his relationship with the mage a few worlds back, and he has no wish to find himself staring down the business end of Ginryuu.
Again.
Shaking his head (the light streaming through the open doorway is growing brighter by the minute and it is only a matter of time before the two of them wake, and being caught in their bedroom at this hour of the morning is not on his to-do list for the day) Syaoran takes a few hesitant steps towards the door, dodging stray articles of clothing as he goes, drawing level with the still figure of Kurogane sprawled out over the futon- and swallows down an undignified squawk as a dark hand snakes out impossibly fast from beneath the covers to close about his ankle with a steely grip.
He wobbles, flails his arms about in a frantic attempt to not fall over and feels dread pool in his stomach as Kurogane lazily opens one eye. Evidently, the ninja was not as asleep as he’d thought, and is somewhat annoyed at being woken. “I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t just throw the pork-bun in here,” rumbles Kurogane, voice low and rough from sleep, “and that breeze is kind of nice,” his dark head jerks across the pillow to indicate the balcony and the breath of snow swirling through the open door, “but next time tell the other brat if he wants us up early he can damn well knock on the door himself.”
Strong fingers unhook from his leg and Syaoran nods, somewhat abashed and feeling just a little awkward as Kurogane yawns and stretches and the covers slip lower- but the ninja either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care (the latter is more likely; his few experiences with shared bathing and his travelling companions had taught him that neither of the men actually have any shame, and that a certain portion of their travelling funds should be set aside to cover the costs of damages to the surroundings when Fai inevitably teases and Kurogane inevitably chases) and rolls over, turning away from Syaoran and leaving the scarred canvas of his broad back bare. Fai makes a soft sound, a vague protest of some kind, as he is turned onto his side- but Kurogane pulls him close and slings a heavily-muscled arm about his waist, and the mage falls silent once more.
“We’re not getting up yet. Save me some grilled fish and rice before that archer eats it all,” mumbles Kurogane, voice low and sleepy; there is something like dismissal in his tone, so Syaoran nods silently to himself and steps back towards the door before dismissal gives way to irritation- but there was also something like affection colouring that deep rumble and Syaoran can’t stop the small, smiling quirk that twists his mouth as he leaves the room.
Watanuki does not look particularly surprised that he returns unaccompanied, and flaps an idle hand when Syaoran requests a small portion of rice and fish be put aside for the still-sleeping warrior; apparently he knows his guests well enough by now to have accounted for that possibility, and having put aside their breakfasts some time earlier, the slender young man settles himself down in a graceful flutter of long limbs as he returns from the kitchen.
Doumeki, eating silently at the head of the long table (populated with spirits and ghosts and all manner of supernatural beings that Syaoran himself has no wish to draw the attention of and therefore ignores as politely as possible, though the young fox kit twitching his tail at the other end of the table catches his eye more than once) watches the shop-keeper fold himself into his seat, taking a moment to stretch out a long arm and snatch a slice of pickled daikon from Watanuki’s plate with his chopsticks, and Syaoran just shakes his head as a short, noisy kerfuffle ensues; if Fai and Kurogane can sleep through that they won’t be getting up any time soon.
Breakfast draws to a close without either of them appearing; he helps Watanuki clear the dishes and the fox kit runs between their long legs as he dashes back and forth from the dining room and kitchen, carrying cups and bowls and other small items in an attempt to be helpful. They wash in harmony, Syaoran unable to stop himself from laughing at the good-natured grumbling of his parallel existence; it isn’t until a lull in conversation while they are drying glasses that the questions he has been turning over in his mind for some time now come spilling out.
Watanuki does not flinch when Syaoran speaks, does not even pause in the act of polishing glass, and his eyes are distant (haunted) as he looks out from the kitchen. “If I am to explain this to you, Syaoran, then I think I need a drink first.”
It is a good hour later, and Watanuki is sprawled on silken cushions in an elegant tangle of long limbs, watching from the porch as the young fox kit builds snowmen in the garden with Doumeki. He takes a sip of heated sake as Syaoran settles down on the wooden planks beside him, his breath puffing in moist clouds as he sighs. “Of all the people to ask that question, I had assumed it would have been Kurogane-san- but then I suppose a man like him is not one to dwell on the past, but to push on ever forward, and Fai-san himself is not even aware that he could ask…”
The garden is covered with snow, heavy with thick slumped piles, and the fox kit -clad in kimono, cheerful scarf and a woollen coat- trips and is nearly lost in a freezing drift- but Doumeki snatches him up by the back of his collar and pulls him to safety. Watanuki smiles, a thin twitch of lips that looks somehow mournful. “You have to understand, Syaoran, that though I am the shop-keeper now and have a greater understanding of how wishes work, I am not the authority on them. I don’t think anyone ever could be.” His words are quiet, spoken to the rim of his sake cup as warm steams swirls about his face. “But I do know there was a… difference in how Fai-san paid for his wish, a difference in his price than that of Sakura-chan’s.”
“The feathers,” breathes Syaoran.
“Yes,” says Watanuki, and the word is a sigh. “Sakura-chan’s memories were taken from her soul, extracted and crystallised in physical form and so lost, only to be regained once her feathers were returned to her. But Fai-san… his memories were not taken, not truly- just sealed. The price he paid for another’s life was to have all of the happiness that person had given him, all of his thoughts and feelings and his memories of that person locked away in the recesses of his mind; his price was as much the pain of losing those memories and knowing he was missing something as much as the act of losing them itself.”
The shine of Watanuki’s glasses is nearly enough to blank them, nearly enough to hide the terrible acceptance in his eyes- but not quite. “For one with a past such as his, such a price is no doubt the highest cost.”
A high-pitched squeal of laughter from the fox kit -running across the garden and pelting snowballs in the direction of Doumeki, aided in his pursuit by the Mokonas, both small bundles of fur bouncing into the yard from the shadows of the verandah- cuts into the still air that has settled over the porch, and Syaoran blinks. Fai’s past… was not something he liked to think about, not really; having the mage’s memories shoved into his mind like twisting shards of poisoned ice (all that pain, all that suffering and terrible, terrible loneliness) by the King of Ceres had (been like knives, like tearing, curling agony and toxic desperation; enough to make him vomit, enough to make the shock settle in his bones as he stared down the trembling magician and something like horror had unfurled in his chest at the realisation that every smile had been a perfect lie) not been pleasant, and even knowing the cause behind the man’s actions had not made the nightmares that followed any easier to bear.
Laying down his shallow cup, Watanuki takes up his pipe, striking a match as he holds the end between his teeth. The soft, sweet scent of tobacco and incense swirls in curling tendrils about Syaoran as the shop-owner breathes out a thin stream of smoke, spiralling skywards in silken plumes. “He may never remember. Not really, no matter how Kurogane-san struggles to bring those memories back. But the body never forgets, Syaoran. Even when the mind does. Especially when the mind does.” Sly eyes slide sideways to Syaoran’s face, in a gesture that reminded him of Yuuko herself, far more than Watanuki would ever know. “You should not worry for them, not when you have your own troubles… and I do not think they would thank you for being involved in their affairs.”
Syaoran flushes; something like heat snakes up his neck at Watanuki’s amusement, and he can’t stop the way his voice cracks when he splutters a denial. Watanuki just chuckles, and once again, Syaoran is struck by the difference between them. The other man may have begun his existence as a fragment of Syaoran’s soul (like his father, like his clone) but time and age had given him a level of maturity that Syaoran himself has yet to reach.
Or something like that, he corrects himself as Doumeki creeps towards the edge of the balcony in a manner that would make Kurogane proud were the ninja to see it and uses the opportunity that Watanuki’s distraction provides to pin the slender man to the balcony -his pipe spinning onto the porch with a clatter- and shove a handful of snow down the back of the shop-owner’s kimono. The shriek that bursts from the shop-owner’s lips is truly unearthly, and the fox kit and the Mokonas yelp and dive for cover as Watanuki shouts with incoherent, spluttering rage; there is no change in the archer’s impassive expression as Watanuki dashes after him, dignity forgotten and limbs flailing about, the long sleeves of his kimono flapping as he dives into the garden-
-and before long it is a full-on snowy melee, Maru and Moro appearing from the kitchen to take their master’s side with giggling malice, Doumeki and the fox kit splitting into a tag-team behind a heaped pile of snow and the Mokonas forming their own pair, each bundle of fuzzy fur firing a high-speed barrage of snowballs from their gaping mouths as they bounce across the yard. Syaoran laughs, he cannot help it- and it feels like the first honest laughter in months, the dam finally breaking as the tense knot behind his breastbone melts away. The commotion (the laughter, the snow, the weak, watery sunlight that shatters in spangled, frosty glimmers across the yard) is finally enough to wake his companions, and Fai barrels out of a hastily opened door with an excited whoop, blonde hair flying about his shoulders in soft waves, lanky frame wrapped in a mismatched collection of clothes with Kurogane’s cloak draped heavily about his shoulders and plummets headfirst into the chaos; the mage is followed by the ninja, only half-dressed, who roars something about being woken too soon- and is silenced with a mouthful of packed ice.
(Fai has always had deadly aim)
The fighting stops in the sudden shocked hush; the yard falls quiet as Kurogane spits snow and something like the light of battle flares in red eyes. “That’s it,” says Kurogane, voice a lethal rumble, “you are dead, mage.”
Syaoran doesn’t take much convincing to join the ensuing war (The Shop-owner and his Servants versus the Archer and the Kitsune versus the Mokonas versus the Traveller versus the Mage versus the Ninja) and when the battle finally ends, two snow-drenched hours later, no one is exactly sure who is the victor, only that they’re all freezing -with the notable exception of Fai, clutching Kurogane’s cloak tightly about his shoulders and beaming smugly at the rest of them and a (sulking) sodden ninja in particular- and Watanuki’s suggestion of a change of clothes and hot sake is met with some enthusiasm.
“Sa~ke!” sing the Mokonas, bouncing in tandem across the verandah, carolling out “Hot, sweet sake~! Drink it up, drink it UP~!” to all and sundry; the fox kit giggles at their antics even as he is lifted up onto the ledge by Doumeki, snow melting in the archer’s dark hair and dripping in his eyes. Watanuki scowls theatrically, but there is something affectionate in the curve of his mouth even as he snaps a lecture about ruined kimono, you oaf, RUINED, and you’re going to catch a cold if you mess about in snow drifts and don’t think I’ve the time to take care of you when you get sick, taking the hands of Moro and Maru and leading them through the shoji and through to the dining room. Doumeki follows along behind, and though his face is as impassive as ever, Syaoran could’ve sworn his mouth twitched into something like a smirk as he passed by.
Climbing up onto the verandah, he shakes the snow from his clothes, dodging the still-bouncing Mokona that spring across the wooden planking in great leaps and bounds; Kurogane snarls a curse as the white one (their Mokona, Syaoran thinks, and knows it is less about ownership and more about family) ricochets gleefully off his head with a joyful ‘puu~!’.
“Wet doggies should stay out~side~!” croons Mokona as she whizzes past, “and they don’t get sake!”
“Stay away from my sake,” growls Kurogane, hands twitching with rage, “and if I catch you drinking from my bottle again, I’m gonna wring it out of you drop by drop! Like a sponge, pork bun, a sponge!” but there is less heat in his voice than one would expect, and he does little more than swat aimlessly at her as she bounces away and towards the open door, giggling all the while.
Syaoran is still laughing about it when Fai’s hand settles gently on his shoulder. He starts a little; he hadn’t heard the blonde come up behind him, but there is no mischief in blue eyes, and quick-fingered hands are empty. It’s no guarantee against a surprise snowball to the face, he knows, but it is a relief all the same.
“You go on without us, Syaoran-kun,” says the mage softly, and as he speaks Syaoran watches Kurogane settle himself down on the verandah to lean against a wooden pillar; Fai’s gaze follows the movement, slips from his face and across to the ninja himself as Fai half-turns to look over his own shoulder. “Kuro-sama and I have things to talk about.”
And Syaoran blinks (his heart thumps a little in his chest) because this feels less like a request for privacy than something approaching a goodbye- but then Fai smiles, and it is small and a touch rueful, something surprisingly (honest) reassuring in that expression, and the mage squeezes his shoulder briefly. Maybe his thoughts show clearly on his face (because their journey will end, eventually, even if his does not and that he accepts that one day the two of them will leave together -as well they should, they’ve earned their happiness- does little to lessen its impact all the same) because blue eyes are very knowing as they meet his own. “Go on,” says Fai with a wink, and abruptly the tightness in his throat eases. “We’ll be along soon enough.”
From the open doorway Syaoran can hear Maru and Moro laughing and Watanuki scolding Doumeki for eating all the snacks he’d just put out on the table; Mokona’s high, sweet voice carries clear across the din as she bursts into song with her counterpart, and the sudden rush of affection he feels for this place and these people makes him wish that Sakura was here all the more (and maybe if he’s lucky he’ll be home next, and she’ll be waiting for him with open arms like she always is) so he just smiles right on back.
“Okay,” says Syaoran, and he can’t and won’t stop the grin that crests over his face, “but I can’t promise I’ll save you anything to drink.”
“You will if you know what’s good for you, kid,” says Kurogane, folding his arms behind his head, “and keep that drunken pork bun from swallowing anything weird, wouldya? I don’t want to end up landing in the ocean again ‘cause that thing’s got the interdimensional hiccups or something.”
“Kuro-chi,” chides Fai, moving across wooden planking to nudge the other with his foot, earning an irritated grunt, “magic doesn’t work like that-”
“Whatever,” and Kurogane waves a dismissive hand, “all I’m saying is, whenever we get dropped in a pile somewhere, I’m always the one that ends up on the bottom. That thing’s doing it on purpose, I know it is.”
“You’re paranoid,” laughs Fai, and leaps on his back, rocking the ninja sideways and nearly toppling them both off the verandah’s edge.
“But then, I don’t think you could be a ninja if you weren’t~!”
“Get off me! Bastard!”
Syaoran leaves them like that, still arguing as he walks away with a grin and a shake of his head (sometimes it’s hard to believe that they’re apparently the mature ones) and when he slides the doors closed behind him, neither of them notices- even if there’s a farewell in their future (and there will be, one day, that he knows) it’s still a long ways off.
*
And that's it! I hope you enjoyed it :D
I may have gotten a better than expected mark for my mid-semester exam, and thus this is my way of sharing my joy XD
Edit: also, there is this, which I wrote for my timestamp meme; it takes place before the fic, and it's sort of like a prologue :)