twenty.
Title: Corners in a Circular Room
Author: sei_kou_ki
Rating: Teen
Series/Fandom: Nabari no Ou
Characters/Pairings: Yukimi and Yoite
Warnings: Language
Summary: Yukimi gets used to the new brat in his life.
Dedications: jiao_chan
Notes: This is my first time writing in a while. (: Please feel free to crit the hell outta me.
edit: Fuckballs, there's canon inaccuracy here. ): Sorry. I'll just keep it in mind for next time.
It's one in the fucking AM; and the music's booming so heavy and loud in the tiny cluttered space of his home that Yukimi has to take a step or two back from his doorway, hands over ears to hold the pieces of brain that must be shaking themselves loose from the overwhelming beat of the bass. He peers inside to see what the hell is going on, and immediately spots the strange kid the boss dumped on him that afternoon curled up into a ball on his couch.
"What the shit." He's too tired for this, fresh from a mission with the blood on his front still drying. A home should be somewhere of peace of quiet, yeah? Freaking brats, ruining everything.
He spits out and stomps out his cigarette, then shoves himself in through the barrier of sound and shuts the door behind him. His kunais are ready underneath the tips of his sleeves. Just in case.
In the kindest, yet loudest, yet sternest tone he can conjure (it comes out sounding really fucking angry anyway): "What the hell are you doing?!"
He ain't used to kids. No, he ain't opposed to them (hell, wasn't he good with them, once upon a time?), but he's just -- not used to them, hasn't approached one ever since his baby sister grew up all nice and pretty.
"Oi."
His voice drowns out. The brat (Yoite, was it?) just stares out into nothing from the sanctuary that his knees brought up to his chest provide, hat brim tipped down low past his eyes. Like a cat coiled up, reading to fall into the clutches of an afternoon nap.
"Oi!"
There we go -- Yoite tilts his head slightly, and Yukimi takes that as a sign. A few quick strides, and he slams the radio: off.
"'the fuck were you thinking?!" Yukimi roars, taking advantage of the almost shocking quiet and ignoring the slight rawness of his throat that he gets from yelling so damned loud. Lucky that he has no neighbors.
And the silence following is almost as annoying as the noise pollution.
"Hey. Hey, brat! Answer me!"
"... I didn't do anything."
What. What kinda weird ass brat was he landed with. That mouth-shut rebellious type, huh?
"Right." The older man gestures wildly with one hand, the one he used to stab through his target's throat earlier, the other deep in his pants pocket. If he had both of them out, who knew what'd he do to the kid. He's way. Too. Tired. For. This. "Don't you lie to me. Now, don't tell me this piece of shit turned on its own volition."
Slowly, Yoite unfurls himself in response, feet hanging over the floor and arms limp by his sides. "But it did."
Yukimi blinks.
"'Scuse me?"
"It... turned on by itself."
Yukimi resists the urge to bring his hand to his temple (always annoyed him when his mother did that (Wait, why was he thinking about his step out mother in a time like this --)), and looks around the room instead. Breathes in, breathes out, he's getting too worked up over this. Gotta stop, gotta think. Clear thoughts, man, clear thoughts.
Everything in the room is ... exactly in its place, exactly in its neat little pile of disorder. Utterly and obviously untouched, even when he goes up to random objects and starts poking around looking for traps. It's creepy. Shouldn't a guy Yoite's age be messing around with shit all curious like?
Then, like a ton of bricks, it hits him. "Brat -- Yoite, so the stereo was on timer, huh."
A nod.
"And you simply sat there where I left you and didn't do a goddamn thing?"
Another nod.
This time Yukimi's hand goes up to his temple despite his mental protests. "Why. Doesn't your head hurt? I mean, shit, how long was that thing on?"
A shrug, and a teeny tiny voice saying, "You told me not to touch anything." In an even feebler voice, Yoite mutters, "... Not for long."
For some reason, something in Yukimi snaps. He curses, he throws both his hands in the air, he pivots on one heel and stomps off into the kitchen. Fuck, shit, fucking fuck, stupid goddamn brat, rather, rinse, repeat above the sound of slams and clanks and a couple of bams. Yoite turns into a ball on his couch again, and stays like that up until there's a clink of glass against glass on the table front of him almost an hour later.
"You dumbass, you didn't even eat, did you," huffs Yukimi, blue eyes flared up with annoyance. He has an apron on over his clothes and a steaming plate of dinner set out in front of him. With wide eyes, Yoite peers up at him, confused.
"Yeah, didn't think so." Sighing dramatically, the blond plops down beside the kid, limbs all hastily arranged. Too, too, too tired for this. "You must be starving, idiot."
Even with his eyes closed, Yukimi can feel Yoite's stare on him. Can feel the hesitation, the bewilderment -- and Yukimi's about to open his eyes and scold him once more, but Yoite finally picks up a spoon and fork and starts digging in.
"Y -- Yukimi," murmurs Yoite, tongue stumbling around the name.
"Yeah?"
Yukimi has to strain his ears to hear what he says next. "You look weird in an apron."
What.
What.
"UNGRATEFUL BRAT."
Author: sei_kou_ki
Rating: Teen
Series/Fandom: Nabari no Ou
Characters/Pairings: Yukimi and Yoite
Warnings: Language
Summary: Yukimi gets used to the new brat in his life.
Dedications: jiao_chan
Notes: This is my first time writing in a while. (: Please feel free to crit the hell outta me.
edit: Fuckballs, there's canon inaccuracy here. ): Sorry. I'll just keep it in mind for next time.
It's one in the fucking AM; and the music's booming so heavy and loud in the tiny cluttered space of his home that Yukimi has to take a step or two back from his doorway, hands over ears to hold the pieces of brain that must be shaking themselves loose from the overwhelming beat of the bass. He peers inside to see what the hell is going on, and immediately spots the strange kid the boss dumped on him that afternoon curled up into a ball on his couch.
"What the shit." He's too tired for this, fresh from a mission with the blood on his front still drying. A home should be somewhere of peace of quiet, yeah? Freaking brats, ruining everything.
He spits out and stomps out his cigarette, then shoves himself in through the barrier of sound and shuts the door behind him. His kunais are ready underneath the tips of his sleeves. Just in case.
In the kindest, yet loudest, yet sternest tone he can conjure (it comes out sounding really fucking angry anyway): "What the hell are you doing?!"
He ain't used to kids. No, he ain't opposed to them (hell, wasn't he good with them, once upon a time?), but he's just -- not used to them, hasn't approached one ever since his baby sister grew up all nice and pretty.
"Oi."
His voice drowns out. The brat (Yoite, was it?) just stares out into nothing from the sanctuary that his knees brought up to his chest provide, hat brim tipped down low past his eyes. Like a cat coiled up, reading to fall into the clutches of an afternoon nap.
"Oi!"
There we go -- Yoite tilts his head slightly, and Yukimi takes that as a sign. A few quick strides, and he slams the radio: off.
"'the fuck were you thinking?!" Yukimi roars, taking advantage of the almost shocking quiet and ignoring the slight rawness of his throat that he gets from yelling so damned loud. Lucky that he has no neighbors.
And the silence following is almost as annoying as the noise pollution.
"Hey. Hey, brat! Answer me!"
"... I didn't do anything."
What. What kinda weird ass brat was he landed with. That mouth-shut rebellious type, huh?
"Right." The older man gestures wildly with one hand, the one he used to stab through his target's throat earlier, the other deep in his pants pocket. If he had both of them out, who knew what'd he do to the kid. He's way. Too. Tired. For. This. "Don't you lie to me. Now, don't tell me this piece of shit turned on its own volition."
Slowly, Yoite unfurls himself in response, feet hanging over the floor and arms limp by his sides. "But it did."
Yukimi blinks.
"'Scuse me?"
"It... turned on by itself."
Yukimi resists the urge to bring his hand to his temple (always annoyed him when his mother did that (Wait, why was he thinking about his step out mother in a time like this --)), and looks around the room instead. Breathes in, breathes out, he's getting too worked up over this. Gotta stop, gotta think. Clear thoughts, man, clear thoughts.
Everything in the room is ... exactly in its place, exactly in its neat little pile of disorder. Utterly and obviously untouched, even when he goes up to random objects and starts poking around looking for traps. It's creepy. Shouldn't a guy Yoite's age be messing around with shit all curious like?
Then, like a ton of bricks, it hits him. "Brat -- Yoite, so the stereo was on timer, huh."
A nod.
"And you simply sat there where I left you and didn't do a goddamn thing?"
Another nod.
This time Yukimi's hand goes up to his temple despite his mental protests. "Why. Doesn't your head hurt? I mean, shit, how long was that thing on?"
A shrug, and a teeny tiny voice saying, "You told me not to touch anything." In an even feebler voice, Yoite mutters, "... Not for long."
For some reason, something in Yukimi snaps. He curses, he throws both his hands in the air, he pivots on one heel and stomps off into the kitchen. Fuck, shit, fucking fuck, stupid goddamn brat, rather, rinse, repeat above the sound of slams and clanks and a couple of bams. Yoite turns into a ball on his couch again, and stays like that up until there's a clink of glass against glass on the table front of him almost an hour later.
"You dumbass, you didn't even eat, did you," huffs Yukimi, blue eyes flared up with annoyance. He has an apron on over his clothes and a steaming plate of dinner set out in front of him. With wide eyes, Yoite peers up at him, confused.
"Yeah, didn't think so." Sighing dramatically, the blond plops down beside the kid, limbs all hastily arranged. Too, too, too tired for this. "You must be starving, idiot."
Even with his eyes closed, Yukimi can feel Yoite's stare on him. Can feel the hesitation, the bewilderment -- and Yukimi's about to open his eyes and scold him once more, but Yoite finally picks up a spoon and fork and starts digging in.
"Y -- Yukimi," murmurs Yoite, tongue stumbling around the name.
"Yeah?"
Yukimi has to strain his ears to hear what he says next. "You look weird in an apron."
What.
What.
"UNGRATEFUL BRAT."