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Aftermath

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Violence, death, mild gore mentions, allusions to drug use, sedatives, whole lotta sadness

Summary: Takeru shatters. Aguni picks up the pieces. But how much more can either of them take?

Notes: Set after the flashback where Aguni walks in to see Takeru post-murderous rampage. An excuse to write hurt/comfort with emphasis on the hurt. Previous relationship hinted at but not explicitly stated—but, come on, you know there was something between these two before and during the events of the show.

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And when Takeru turns to face him in the gold light of morning, slack-jawed and bloodstained, Aguni's heart drops.

Aguni takes his wrist, holds it between his fingers like a fragile little bird. Takeru's pulse flaps wildly, woodpecker beak a tap-tapping at an almost unbelievabke speed.

Takeru's jaw clenches as he's touched, but he doesnt pull away. Better than the times Aguni has taken a flurry of punches, teeth sinking into the meat of his forearm as he tries to subdue the man as he blindly rages. Times when Takeru cocked his gun and placed it right between Aguni's eyes, but never too far gone to pull the trigger.

This time is different. Better, in some ways. Takeru's pliable, suggestible, the way he lightly sways in his feet as Aguni places his other hand over the gun and begins to pull if loose.

"Come on," he says.

Takeru complies. Allows the weapon to be coaxed from his grip, fingers retracting into a loose fist when it's no longer in his grasp. Closes his eyes and sighs.

There's a bottle of pills in Aguni's pocket. Sedatives. Strong ones. Enough to put a man to sleep for a few hours and leave him groggy for the rest of the day. They had been Chisiya's recommendation, and Aguni frowns when he realizes that there are many fewer pills left than he had realized.

He uncaps the bottle and taps a pill into his palm. Small and necessary. He'll have just enough time to get Takeru cleaned up and back to his room before it kicks in.

"Hey," he says to Takeru. Touches his shoulder—gently, calmly, so as not to shatter the thin glass of calm separating Takeru from another bout of rage, "You need to take this."

Takeru looks at Aguni for a long moment. Searches his face. Then, the pill. Scrutinizing the thing, as if he had never seen anything like it before.

He opens his mouth.

Aguni places the pill on Takeru's tongue, careful not to linger—he learned the hard way that Takeru has a tendency to bite.

Takeru gulps it down dry.

"Good," Aguni says. Like soothing a child, voice low and steady. He reaches out and guides an arm behind Takeru's back. "We'll get you cleaned up."

The bathroom has been spared. White tile floors, fresh white towels—damn near pristine, minus a few personal effects which belonged to this room's residents before their untimely demise. Three toothbrushes stand at attention in a floral-patterned glass and a hairbrush lies bristles-up next to the sink basin. Aguni tries not to look at them.

The most delicate part of the procedure lies ahead; only a fool would try to part Takeru from his precious playing cards, but luckily, Aguni is fool enough to try.

"We'll put the cards on the counter," Aguni suggests, "Look, the soap dish is empty. They'll fit inside perfectly. That way, you can get in the shower and not have to worry about them getting wet."

Takeru's mouth twitches at the corner. He's got the cards gripped so tightly his knuckles strain. He'll be displeased, later, when he discovers that they've been crushed and warped—he'll blame the traitors, of course, for treating what is rightfully his with such little care.

So Aguni gives him time to consider the offer. It's best if Takeru gives the cards up willingly, obviously, but he need to be given the opportunity to make that choice. Aguni busies himself with gathering supplies, a bar of soap from the drawer on the sink vanity, a cloth for scrubbing, a clean towel for drying.

It's fortunate that they're in one of the newer rooms. The shower is Western-style and spacious, with a built-in bench opposite the shower head. He turns on the water and turns it up to a nearly-scalding temperature. That's how Takeru likes it, drops of fire pelting his skin until they burn off whatever filth stains him.

But even as the sound of water rains down on tile, Takeru doesn't move. His shoulders are less squared, slumping under the first weight of the drugs slipping through his bloodstream. Another twenty minutes and Aguni will have to carry him out of here.

"Takeru," he says, "You need to—"

"You keep them," Takeru half-whispers. His voice sounds painful and ragged. The hand that holds the cards moves slowly outward, and Aguni quickly wipes his wet hands on his pants to receive them.

There are four cards in the collection. All of them, duplicates. Nothing over a five. Aguni makes sure Takeru is watching as he places them in his front pocket, right next to where his gun rests holstered on his hip.

One of the only good things about the Beach's ridiculous dress code is simple undressing. Aguni moves to help Takeru shrug the blood spattered robe from his shoulders, but his hands are lazily swept away—Takeru removes it himself and let's the stained garment fall to the floor.

This part is always the same. Takeru removes the ruined robe—always borrowed from the hotel, never his own—and Aguni is left to dispose of it.

"I'll take care of this," Aguni assures, and turns his back to allot Takeru a bit of privacy as he divests himself of the rest of his outfit. "I'll be back in a minute."

There are two people waiting for him in the next room. Trusted underlings, too low-ranking and too afraid to do anything but carry out his orders swiftly and discreetly. Between them, a large wheeled bin used for collecting laundry.

"How many this time?"

"Five, sir," the shorter one answers. She removes the bracelet from a corpse's wrist and adds it to the small collection on the bed. "Jun's getting another cart."

Aguni drops the robe into the laundry bin. It lands on one of the victim's faces.

"Work fast," he says flatly. He looks to the other of his workers, a well-muscled man hoisting another of the bodies up from the floor. "And make sure you check everywhere. They like to hide."

Both nod. This is hardly the first time they've done this, although this is the first time they've dealt with such volume. Typically, Takeru only kills one, maybe two—most traitors are lone wolves, too cautious to team up and too stupid to get away with their plans.

Avoiding the limp limbs which scatter the carpet, Aguni makes his way to the closet. That's another thing that's always the same; Takeru always takes the time to hang up his precious silk robe, as well as leave his sandals lined up and out of the way.

This time, however, there's a body in the closet. Curled up, defensive. A single shot to the head is a testament to the last vestiges of mercy still present in Takeru's increasingly addled brain.

"You got ten minutes," Aguni says, and leaves them to go tend to Takeru once more.

The bathroom is filling with steam from the hot shower, mirror already beginning to fog up. The textured glass of the shower door obscures the details of the man inside, but Aguni can see his shape slumped pitifully and unmoving on the bench.

"There's six. Out there," Takeru says sleepily, almost dream-like. His voice is so soft, so unlike the one that commands crowds each night. "One tried to run, but I—"

"How's the water?" Aguni interrupts. "You want me to make it hotter?"

Distraction. It's the most powerful weapon in Aguni's arsenal, and right now, the most important.

If Takeru thinks too much, he'll begin to spiral. If he spirals, he'll snap. The process repeats, but this time, it'll be Aguni on the opposite end of his rage.

"'S good," Takeru mumbles, barely audible over the sound of the water. He pauses for a moment. "I can't. The, the soap—"

"—Is next to you, on your right," Aguni finishes for him. "It's the lemon verbena. You like that kind."

A clumsy hand flops on the bench next to Takeru, and he says a little 'ah' when he finds the small bar right where Aguni said it would be.

"Wash your hands first," Aguni directs. Almost as if he's talking to a child, the chemical drop-off from Takeru's episode rendering him docile and unsure. "Then your face, then your feet."

Obedience was never one of Takeru's favored virtues, but here, he follows Aguni's directions to the letter. Aguni can hear the scrubbing, imagines how the blood swirls pink down the drain.

"Are you hurt?"

"Hm," Takeru responds, "Hands. The knuckles. They...they sting."

"We can take care of that when we get back to your room," Aguni says. "Anything else?"

"Don't think so. I feel..." He sighs and drops what Aguni assumes to be the soiled cloth onto the shower floor, "Mori, I'm so tired."

Aguni knows it. He sees it in the purple undereyes that seem to draw Takeru's whole face downwards. Aguni turns off the water and drops a clean, dry towel onto the man's lap. Takeru doesn't so much as flinch.

So, Aguni helps him. Gets on his knees and wicks away the water from Takeru's knees with the spare towel he'd procured for this exact reason. Takeru's head lulls to the side, but he does begin to start patting down his soaked skin with tentative movements.

He dresses himself, mostly. Aguni has to help steady him when he decides to stand, ties the drawstring on Takeru's shorts because his fingers just can't seem to do anything but fumble awkwardly as he sways in place. Aguni holds the robe out for him like an overcoat, and Takeru shrugs it onto his shoulders and wraps it tightly around himself in an imitation of a hug.

The drugs are working more quickly than usual. Perhaps Takeru had taken something earlier that's magnifying the effects; it'd hardly be surprising, the way he experiments these days. Alcohol, substances, sex, killings—nothing, it seems, is off-limits for the King of the Beach.

Aguni grabs a hand towel and attempts to dry at least some of Takeru's hair. It didn't get too saturated, but still, drips drop from the dark curls onto the cut of his collarbone. There's a scar at the hollow of his throat, so small and faded, but Aguni knows where it is. He resists the urge to run his thumb over the memory.

"I'm sorry," Takeru says. He doesn't look Aguni in the eye, his hazy gaze drifting to the floor. It's the most sober he's sounded in weeks; in truth, it catches Aguni off guard.

"Hm?"

"I..." Takeru starts. The words die on his lips, the milky slur of sleepiness smeared across his slack jaw. "I can't remember—"

"'S alright," Aguni answers. It's good that Takeru's forgotten the details of his earlier episode, but something behind Aguni's heart still yearns for the apology he had been so close to receiving. "Put your glasses on. We'll leave when you're ready."

Aguni doesn't have to check to see if his crew is done in the next room. Ten minutes means ten minutes, and Takeru's fumbling with his sunglasses gives them at least eleven to clear out the room. Once the glasses are firmly on Takeru's nose, Aguni guides him to the door.

They don't linger. Time is running short—with every step, Takeru drags his feet and veers to the left as exhaustion weighs his body down. If he notices the blood on the carpet, he doesn't comment. He's probably too-far gone to even realize where he is at the moment.

Out of the room and down the hall, the elevator is blessedly quick to arrive when Aguni presses the call button. It's almost sweet, the way Takeru tiredly leans against him as the car travels up and up and up to the top floor. There was a time when that wasn't such a faraway thought, when simple touches were kept and exchanged between them like secrets, Takeru's head tipped against Aguni's shoulder as they rode the last train home.

By the time they finally reach the double doors to Takeru's suite, Aguni is half-dragging the man along with a lanky arm slung over his shoulders. The guard leaning in the doorway gives them an amused, knowing look when Aguni mumbles something about their fearless leadee drunkenly falling into the pool again; the same excuse he used last time, and one he will no doubt have to use again. At least it's believable enough to get them into the room without garnering too much suspicion, and Aguni is both sickened and thankful that Takeru has built himself such a reputation.

Being back in his own domain sparks some kind of awareness into Takeru's brain, because he begins to speak. Unintelligible things, fragments of sentences with no purpose. Is it the sedative or the ravings of a man gone mad? The line between the two is so fine Aguni can't even be sure it's there.

The bed is unmade, as always. Takeru sinks into it the second Aguni guides him to lay down, turning to lay on his stomach and groggily reaching to pull the mess of blankets over himself.

"Mori," he says softly when Aguni helps him pull the fluffy white comforter over himself, "I...forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"To tell you something," Takeru responds, "but I can't remember."

Aguni takes the sunglasses off his face and places them on the nightstand.

"Was it about the cards?"

"Cards?"

"You asked me to hold them for you," Aguni says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small collection, holding them up so Takeru can see, "I have them right here."

"I don't..."

Takeru looks lost. Confused. Perhaps even a little scared—nobody else would be able to pick it out, but Aguni can see the vestiges of fear flicker behind his eyes. The emotion passes almost as quickly as it began, and Takeru closes his eyes.

"That must've been it," he reassures himself, "the cards..."

And he takes on the deep, even breaths of a sleeper. Every bone relaxed, every muscle unclenched. It's difficult to believe that this is a man who just committed a massacre, resting peacefully in a way his victims will never know, but here he sleeps.

Aguni leaves the cards on the table, stacked neatly next to his glasses. Takeru will no doubt want to see them when he wakes, although he won't instantly remember how he came to procure them. Memory is tricky when it comes to these episodes; and given Takeru's penchant for lying and distorted view of reality, it's difficult to decipher just how much he actually retains.

There was a time Aguni would have stayed with him. Bandaged his hands, kept vigil by his bedside until those dark eyes fluttered open and he would be greeted with a sentimental smirk. They wouldn't talk about what happened, not directly, but Aguni would make sure the exuberance reached Takeru's eyes before he left and their charade of mutual disdain started back up again.

Except now, he leaves Takeru to wake up alone. To bandage his own hands, to obsess over his playing cards and insist that everything is fine and beautiful in this hell of his own creation. Heaven knows he doesn't deserve Aguni's kindness. He doesn't deserve anyone's kindness, after the things he's done.

And they'll pretend the cycle won't continue. Takeru will pretend he won't kill again and Aguni will pretend he won't help him again.

On and on, until one of them breaks.

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#i wrote this YEARS ago but it still slaps imo

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