[Fanfic] "What They Don't Know", Akira/Tokito, SDK
Title: What They Don't Know
Pairing: Akira/Tokito
Word Count: 2096
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This was heavily inspired by artillie's story (from forever ago OTL). If it's too similar, I'll take it down without a problem (:
Warnings: I gave Tokito a very foul mouth...oops?
Disclaimer: I do not own Samurai Deeper Kyo.
There are things even he doesn’t know. Or, at least, he doesn’t say or show that he knows, the way he does with that stupid half-smirk and those matter-of-fact high-arched eyebrows. Like, fuck him.
But anyway. I’m glad, in a way, that I can still surprise him. I can’t sneak up on him for shit (believe me, I’ve tried), ‘cause he’ll always hear my footsteps or the disturbance in the air before I can smack him upside the head as he write love letters home to, like, everyone. Including Yuya-san.
I can’t throw things at him, like spatulas when he crinkles his nose at the dinner he didn’t help me with. Or books, when he gripes at how long I take to learn the native languages of whichever hell-hole we’re traveling through this time. Sometimes, I even try to throw a single freakin’ tarot card (those things are silent as fuck; I don’t know how he does it) when he’s freakin’ sleeping, and he catches it before it hits him.
Yeah, it bothers me.
But there are still things he doesn’t know, despite his ‘refined senses achieved through years of hard work and dedication’ bull.
Like, he doesn’t know that I’ve been binding my chest again and going out to woo the local rich girls with my horrible vernacular and girl-boyish looks. I don’t even know why they’d buy into my shit since I have a charm of zero, but it works and I don’t question it because when they aren’t looking, I grab whatever money they have in their silk-embroidered purses and stumble over the words, “I really must retire for the night.” Those are his highbrow words, mind you, from one of his longer letters to Yuya-san I read because there’s no such thing as personal space. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was the one that came from samurai royalty.
He wouldn’t like my stealing from the rich girls, no matter how mean they are to the peasants and how much money they obnoxiously tote around on a daily basis. I doubt they even realize they’re missing any money. Still, he wouldn’t like it, but I don’t really care ‘cause that money’s the only reason why he has actual bandages wrapped over his many wounds (from, really, everything. He should stop writing letters and start dodging the people after his head-but that’s another story.) instead of strips of his or my own clothes. That was all great ‘til we almost died traveling through higher altitudes in our torn up short-sleeves and the quickly dwindling amount of cloth covering our legs. That shit sucked, and our clothes really weren’t fit for open wounds-we found that out when his arm got badly infected and all gross and shit from the less-than-sterile cloth.
Another thing. I don’t think he knows my hair has been growing way out, like over my eyes and my shoulders. He might actually know this one, given how often I’ve had to brush my bangs out of my eyes recently. But I don’t think he pays that much attention to me and he hasn’t said anything, so I’m just going to go ahead and say he doesn’t know. Sometimes, it scares me when I find the occasional reflective surface and see long, tangled green-blonde hair. It might’ve gotten darker, too, from all the dirt and blood I can’t seem to wash out. I don’t really recognize myself, and it’s made me wonder if he would recognize himself, or me, could he see. Anyway, I think I might cut it, but I also wonder what he’d prefer. Not that I care, mind you. It just saves me that much mockery when he finally does notice these things. You wouldn’t believe how much shit I got for trying on some foreign lipstick one time when we were both out together (Tokito, are you not confident in the natural color of your lips? he gasped with feigned concern as I tried to channel that inner peace bullcrap he taught me so I wouldn’t murder him just yet in that crowded market square).
He also doesn’t know that I’ve read most, if not all, of his letters to home. Of course, most of them are to Yuya-san, but there are also ones to Tora and Akari and Bon. They’re actually really nice. He’s told me before (unsolicited by me) that he doesn’t think he’ll ever send these letters because it’d just be too ‘inconceivable to find some way to send these papers anywhere but into the sea’ on our erratic travels. He’s built up an army of those letters, though. Three-hundred and sixty seven letters. You’d think he’s practicing some way to strengthen his fingers so he can defeat Kyo in one-finger push-ups or some shit (the sad thing is, that’s extremely plausible). I’ve made sure, though, that he doesn’t keep count. Every so often, I’ll make some snide remark about how many he’s written. Sometimes, I’ll claim to count them for him and give him the wrong number so he doesn’t know he’s missing any.
On nights when he’s too tired to stay up, perhaps because of the pirates we’ve just outrun, or the locals we’ve just placated so they won’t try to kill us tonight, or maybe even because we’ve just gotten off a ship and he can finally sleep without gagging every time the world beneath him undulates, on those nights, I send his letters. One or two at most. He dates them, so they’re as accurate as we can keep track of time in the desert or on a mountain. Sometimes I write short notes on the backs of his letters, not to anyone in particular. It’s kind of to everyone, even him. With luck, though, he’ll never get his hands on them and read them, ‘cause god I bet reading all those letters have made me exponentially more sentimental, and I have fleeting moments of regret for adding anything to the mushy shit he writes.
---
On second thought, maybe he does know some of these things. Maybe more than I’d care to write down. Today, just in passing, he held the hair out of my eyes while I was struggling to cook (I never knew omelets required both hands to get right) and read the Chinese cookbook at the same time. It startled me so much that we just ended up eating bread for breakfast. Fuck omelets and their tendency to stick to clothes.
Needless to say, he surprises me all the time. Maybe that says something about me, how I should ‘pay closer heed to the flow of life’ or something. Honestly, though, I’m starting to think he only knows so many things about me because he cares to know. I don’t think he feels the ‘flow of life’ as my hair grows out. I think he listens for my movements when I deal with my hair and guesses (with his stupidly infuriating accuracy) that it’s down to my shoulder blades now. I think he’s noticed, too that we shouldn’t actually have enough money to pay for all the bandages we collectively use and still be able to find decent lodging. Last week, I overheard him asking the landlord about possible work he could do. It annoys me that he doesn’t think I can take care of the both of us.
A lot of the time, he also notices things I didn’t even think much of. Yesterday, as I was re-bandaging a nasty gash from a recent getaway (he was stupid, thinking he could block the blade coming at me with his arm while still fighting, like, ten other guys. I don’t think he gets it when I say I can take care of myself, or when I say he’s an idiot.), he leaned over and found a cut on my shoulder I hadn’t even realized was there. I asked him how he could’ve possibly known it was there, but he just shrugged and for the first time thanked me for bandaging his everything. “I’m glad you’re here,” he had said, a stupid smile on his lips. I told him he’s an idiot. Where else would I be?
---
Yuya made a face, a cross between a cringe and a grin as Kyo tried to comfort their wailing daughter. Awkwardly, he patted her back and somehow managed to keep the teetering pipe between his teeth and away from her small hands. Laughing slightly, Yuya held up a finger and promised, “I’ll be right back. There’s someone at the door.”
When she opened the creaky wooden door, a stack of papers lay on their doorstep. She hummed absentmindedly to herself as she flipped through the newspaper, checking the ‘Wanted’ listings out of habit. Under the last page of the newspaper and wedged between an ad promoting Kyoshiro’s medicine shop, a simple folded letter sat waiting for her. Her smile widened and she walked back into their bedroom. “Kyo, Akira sent another letter!” she beamed happily, and Kyo smirked, setting down the now sleepy Nozumi. Reading the date, Yuya announced, “This one’s from about two months ago.” She unfolded the paper and read aloud:
Dear Yuya-san,
I apologize for the lack of correspondence, as I have not been able to write to you for the past week due to our escapades in Sweden. Who knew the ships would be inspected once they reached the ports? And so thoroughly, too, that they would be able to find us and chase us off with guns and threats? Perhaps they have had an ongoing problem with stowaways.
I have, in fact, written to Tora about some of our adventures there. If you’d like to know just how exactly I now have three more scars on my back and how Tokito has a grand total of zero, you may ask him.
Speaking of Tokito, I am beginning to wonder when she will tire of this life. She has been nothing but foul-mouthed and violent these three whole years, insulting me and throwing things at me every chance she gets. She is still keeping up the excuse of wanting to fight, but I suspect she is only saying that out of habit now. I don’t really mind, as I have declined every time so that we may continue on our travels together. Of course, she doesn’t know that.
There are surprisingly many things she doesn’t know, like the fact that one can sleep cradled in a cavern of snow to keep warm during a blizzard, or that some swamps are best traveled through barefoot. She is aware of them now, but she has yet to discover that I know she sends these letters. I have even begun to memorize the way she picks which letters to send at night so I may place the more recent ones in her grasp and thus to you. She likely thinks she has read all of my words. Maybe I won’t tell her just yet.
Please keep these letters, Yuya-san, so I may one day find out what in the world she writes on the backs of the pages. She is very strange, very unruly, and above all the most harrowing woman I have ever had the pleasure to spend three eventful years with, but I will truly miss our travels when we come home. The best companions are the ones who have turned our entire lives upside down, no?
I don’t quite have a plan for where to go next. I hear that Brazil is quite nice this time of year, but one thing I have learned throughout these years (other than the fact that Tokito even swears at me in her sleep) is that plans are ever-changing. Somehow, I don’t think she will mind.
My next letter will likely be to Bon or Akari (which makes me glad that I can’t receive any letters, as they would either be filled with mockery or criticism), in case you would like to know where exactly we end up going. Please send my regards to everyone.
Sincerely,
Akira
With a grin, Yuya turned to the back of the letter and read the looping, scrawled words of a certain foul-mouthed companion:
Little fucker thinks I don’t read the letters before I send them. Screw you, idiot. You keep calling out my name in your sleep, too. And be careful, I know more of your secrets than Akari does. Don’t think I won’t use them. And yeah, mushy gushy, I’ll miss you and these days when they’re over, too.
Pairing: Akira/Tokito
Word Count: 2096
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This was heavily inspired by artillie's story (from forever ago OTL). If it's too similar, I'll take it down without a problem (:
Warnings: I gave Tokito a very foul mouth...oops?
Disclaimer: I do not own Samurai Deeper Kyo.
There are things even he doesn’t know. Or, at least, he doesn’t say or show that he knows, the way he does with that stupid half-smirk and those matter-of-fact high-arched eyebrows. Like, fuck him.
But anyway. I’m glad, in a way, that I can still surprise him. I can’t sneak up on him for shit (believe me, I’ve tried), ‘cause he’ll always hear my footsteps or the disturbance in the air before I can smack him upside the head as he write love letters home to, like, everyone. Including Yuya-san.
I can’t throw things at him, like spatulas when he crinkles his nose at the dinner he didn’t help me with. Or books, when he gripes at how long I take to learn the native languages of whichever hell-hole we’re traveling through this time. Sometimes, I even try to throw a single freakin’ tarot card (those things are silent as fuck; I don’t know how he does it) when he’s freakin’ sleeping, and he catches it before it hits him.
Yeah, it bothers me.
But there are still things he doesn’t know, despite his ‘refined senses achieved through years of hard work and dedication’ bull.
Like, he doesn’t know that I’ve been binding my chest again and going out to woo the local rich girls with my horrible vernacular and girl-boyish looks. I don’t even know why they’d buy into my shit since I have a charm of zero, but it works and I don’t question it because when they aren’t looking, I grab whatever money they have in their silk-embroidered purses and stumble over the words, “I really must retire for the night.” Those are his highbrow words, mind you, from one of his longer letters to Yuya-san I read because there’s no such thing as personal space. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was the one that came from samurai royalty.
He wouldn’t like my stealing from the rich girls, no matter how mean they are to the peasants and how much money they obnoxiously tote around on a daily basis. I doubt they even realize they’re missing any money. Still, he wouldn’t like it, but I don’t really care ‘cause that money’s the only reason why he has actual bandages wrapped over his many wounds (from, really, everything. He should stop writing letters and start dodging the people after his head-but that’s another story.) instead of strips of his or my own clothes. That was all great ‘til we almost died traveling through higher altitudes in our torn up short-sleeves and the quickly dwindling amount of cloth covering our legs. That shit sucked, and our clothes really weren’t fit for open wounds-we found that out when his arm got badly infected and all gross and shit from the less-than-sterile cloth.
Another thing. I don’t think he knows my hair has been growing way out, like over my eyes and my shoulders. He might actually know this one, given how often I’ve had to brush my bangs out of my eyes recently. But I don’t think he pays that much attention to me and he hasn’t said anything, so I’m just going to go ahead and say he doesn’t know. Sometimes, it scares me when I find the occasional reflective surface and see long, tangled green-blonde hair. It might’ve gotten darker, too, from all the dirt and blood I can’t seem to wash out. I don’t really recognize myself, and it’s made me wonder if he would recognize himself, or me, could he see. Anyway, I think I might cut it, but I also wonder what he’d prefer. Not that I care, mind you. It just saves me that much mockery when he finally does notice these things. You wouldn’t believe how much shit I got for trying on some foreign lipstick one time when we were both out together (Tokito, are you not confident in the natural color of your lips? he gasped with feigned concern as I tried to channel that inner peace bullcrap he taught me so I wouldn’t murder him just yet in that crowded market square).
He also doesn’t know that I’ve read most, if not all, of his letters to home. Of course, most of them are to Yuya-san, but there are also ones to Tora and Akari and Bon. They’re actually really nice. He’s told me before (unsolicited by me) that he doesn’t think he’ll ever send these letters because it’d just be too ‘inconceivable to find some way to send these papers anywhere but into the sea’ on our erratic travels. He’s built up an army of those letters, though. Three-hundred and sixty seven letters. You’d think he’s practicing some way to strengthen his fingers so he can defeat Kyo in one-finger push-ups or some shit (the sad thing is, that’s extremely plausible). I’ve made sure, though, that he doesn’t keep count. Every so often, I’ll make some snide remark about how many he’s written. Sometimes, I’ll claim to count them for him and give him the wrong number so he doesn’t know he’s missing any.
On nights when he’s too tired to stay up, perhaps because of the pirates we’ve just outrun, or the locals we’ve just placated so they won’t try to kill us tonight, or maybe even because we’ve just gotten off a ship and he can finally sleep without gagging every time the world beneath him undulates, on those nights, I send his letters. One or two at most. He dates them, so they’re as accurate as we can keep track of time in the desert or on a mountain. Sometimes I write short notes on the backs of his letters, not to anyone in particular. It’s kind of to everyone, even him. With luck, though, he’ll never get his hands on them and read them, ‘cause god I bet reading all those letters have made me exponentially more sentimental, and I have fleeting moments of regret for adding anything to the mushy shit he writes.
---
On second thought, maybe he does know some of these things. Maybe more than I’d care to write down. Today, just in passing, he held the hair out of my eyes while I was struggling to cook (I never knew omelets required both hands to get right) and read the Chinese cookbook at the same time. It startled me so much that we just ended up eating bread for breakfast. Fuck omelets and their tendency to stick to clothes.
Needless to say, he surprises me all the time. Maybe that says something about me, how I should ‘pay closer heed to the flow of life’ or something. Honestly, though, I’m starting to think he only knows so many things about me because he cares to know. I don’t think he feels the ‘flow of life’ as my hair grows out. I think he listens for my movements when I deal with my hair and guesses (with his stupidly infuriating accuracy) that it’s down to my shoulder blades now. I think he’s noticed, too that we shouldn’t actually have enough money to pay for all the bandages we collectively use and still be able to find decent lodging. Last week, I overheard him asking the landlord about possible work he could do. It annoys me that he doesn’t think I can take care of the both of us.
A lot of the time, he also notices things I didn’t even think much of. Yesterday, as I was re-bandaging a nasty gash from a recent getaway (he was stupid, thinking he could block the blade coming at me with his arm while still fighting, like, ten other guys. I don’t think he gets it when I say I can take care of myself, or when I say he’s an idiot.), he leaned over and found a cut on my shoulder I hadn’t even realized was there. I asked him how he could’ve possibly known it was there, but he just shrugged and for the first time thanked me for bandaging his everything. “I’m glad you’re here,” he had said, a stupid smile on his lips. I told him he’s an idiot. Where else would I be?
---
Yuya made a face, a cross between a cringe and a grin as Kyo tried to comfort their wailing daughter. Awkwardly, he patted her back and somehow managed to keep the teetering pipe between his teeth and away from her small hands. Laughing slightly, Yuya held up a finger and promised, “I’ll be right back. There’s someone at the door.”
When she opened the creaky wooden door, a stack of papers lay on their doorstep. She hummed absentmindedly to herself as she flipped through the newspaper, checking the ‘Wanted’ listings out of habit. Under the last page of the newspaper and wedged between an ad promoting Kyoshiro’s medicine shop, a simple folded letter sat waiting for her. Her smile widened and she walked back into their bedroom. “Kyo, Akira sent another letter!” she beamed happily, and Kyo smirked, setting down the now sleepy Nozumi. Reading the date, Yuya announced, “This one’s from about two months ago.” She unfolded the paper and read aloud:
Dear Yuya-san,
I apologize for the lack of correspondence, as I have not been able to write to you for the past week due to our escapades in Sweden. Who knew the ships would be inspected once they reached the ports? And so thoroughly, too, that they would be able to find us and chase us off with guns and threats? Perhaps they have had an ongoing problem with stowaways.
I have, in fact, written to Tora about some of our adventures there. If you’d like to know just how exactly I now have three more scars on my back and how Tokito has a grand total of zero, you may ask him.
Speaking of Tokito, I am beginning to wonder when she will tire of this life. She has been nothing but foul-mouthed and violent these three whole years, insulting me and throwing things at me every chance she gets. She is still keeping up the excuse of wanting to fight, but I suspect she is only saying that out of habit now. I don’t really mind, as I have declined every time so that we may continue on our travels together. Of course, she doesn’t know that.
There are surprisingly many things she doesn’t know, like the fact that one can sleep cradled in a cavern of snow to keep warm during a blizzard, or that some swamps are best traveled through barefoot. She is aware of them now, but she has yet to discover that I know she sends these letters. I have even begun to memorize the way she picks which letters to send at night so I may place the more recent ones in her grasp and thus to you. She likely thinks she has read all of my words. Maybe I won’t tell her just yet.
Please keep these letters, Yuya-san, so I may one day find out what in the world she writes on the backs of the pages. She is very strange, very unruly, and above all the most harrowing woman I have ever had the pleasure to spend three eventful years with, but I will truly miss our travels when we come home. The best companions are the ones who have turned our entire lives upside down, no?
I don’t quite have a plan for where to go next. I hear that Brazil is quite nice this time of year, but one thing I have learned throughout these years (other than the fact that Tokito even swears at me in her sleep) is that plans are ever-changing. Somehow, I don’t think she will mind.
My next letter will likely be to Bon or Akari (which makes me glad that I can’t receive any letters, as they would either be filled with mockery or criticism), in case you would like to know where exactly we end up going. Please send my regards to everyone.
Sincerely,
Akira
With a grin, Yuya turned to the back of the letter and read the looping, scrawled words of a certain foul-mouthed companion:
Little fucker thinks I don’t read the letters before I send them. Screw you, idiot. You keep calling out my name in your sleep, too. And be careful, I know more of your secrets than Akari does. Don’t think I won’t use them. And yeah, mushy gushy, I’ll miss you and these days when they’re over, too.