#and think about something positive instead of just descending into the salt mines lol

[gloriousmonsters]

seriously just. nothing gets me fuming about the sheer... uninventive cowardice of ToTK's storyline than thinking about how despite their flaws, the OoT/TP/WW trio were all about complicating Ganondorf in an interesting way. OoT was like ok, this guy is fucked up but he's cool, he's a hero to a lot of his people and oh yeah, the band of thieves you've heard of is actually a tribe of people, his people, and if you look you can see how a world like this made a man like him. WW was like and maybe he's more human than you thought. maybe he was a little in love with the land he conquered. maybe if he lived longer, he'd be capable of regret, of some amount of self-reflection, of showing mercy to the enemies he swore to destroy in the past. TP was like and what if stopping him before he conquered Hyrule wasn't the happy ending? what if it made everything worse? what if we've done bad things, and Ganondorf's return is part of our actions coming back to haunt us, his execution wound impossible to ignore, the sword he wields the one meant to kill a monster, one that failed when the gods seemingly signaled they weren't totally on our side? and, both of them agree on, his death isn't a joyful triumph. It's sobering, unnerving, tragic.

then totk's like. well what if he was... an evil guy. just a VERY evil guy. because he's evil. and mean. what if we retold OoT but worse and more simplistic and also the power Ganondorf takes isn't divine so we dodge all those awkward questions about if he's really Basically The Devil or if he has a more complicated part in the whole. and, hear us out, what if he was evil and wanted to bring... DARKNESS. because he's bad

[god-fucking-dammit-mizutani]

Title: Stars Above You (WIP) Words: ~2800 Part: 1/2 Notes: So it’s the 20th anniversary since 8/1/1999 and I was besieged by the spirit of creativity to finish out at least the start of this fic to post in it’s honor because I didn’t get it in for Taishirou week like I meant to lmaoo it wraps up nicely enough, I think, as a piece, but I will be adding more to this in hopefully the near future and will add it to ao3 at that point, but also this project of mine started out like nine or more years ago and it is always mingling in the back of my mind, so it feels. Right, I guess. I hope it’s okay lol 

Summary: It’s a symbol -- a promise -- of a future together.

~*~

Just shortly before a nuclear missile landed in the Odaiba bay, Mrs. Yagami had boasted a full collection of constantly clattering wind chimes. Koushirou would sometimes spend days too cold to play outside lounging along the Yagami apartment floor with Taichi, tracing his eyes along their silhouettes through the drawn curtains like other children watched clouds. They made him think of galactic squid, imagined them phasing in through the balcony above to dangle their tentacles in the breeze. In his own way, Koushirou could understand why she kept them. 

Until the wind blew, and so with it, the tempers of every person in earshot. When they met a rather mysterious, very untimely end, only one person ever missed them.

Sora remembers them, too. 

Koushirou suspects so from the face she pulls at the sound of her spoon clinking against the crystal of her near-empty fountain glass. Koushirou feels his chest bubble with a bitter nostalgia to hear it. After that summer, the sound had only conjured in him the sense of fleeting time; a Pavlovian sickness that stains his tongue with the taste of Oolong.

The chiming sounds louder than it should through the midnight hours of the local diner. Across the room from them, the wait staff huddle over a table, prepping for the inevitable rush once the bars take their last call. The clatter of silverware and hushed conversations between them is the only consistent noise when conversations lull between him and Sora. 

Excepting, of course, every invariable swear wafting up from the floor of the entrance.

“Another goddamn spider,” Taichi's voice grumbles. Yamato's amused snort follows.

Sora gives a cursory look over her shoulder. Her grin when it rounds back on Koushirou feels, oddly, conspiratorial. Hands cupped under her chin, accented by the curve of her auburn bob, she looks absolutely storybook charming. 

“It's a good thing we're in love with those losers,” she tells him, grinning. Which, decidedly, is a very uncharming thing to say. Specifically for as far as her voice carries. 

Koushirou chokes on her presumptions, hiding the hiccup by grabbing for his neglected glass of water. It splashes on the table and parts of his shirt when he lifts it. The waitress had been heavy handed when she last came by to fill his still half unused glass. “Precisely who are you implying I'm--?” 

Sora beams at him. 

Over her shoulder, Koushirou catches Taichi's eyes just before the man resets his sights back on the rows of Gashapon machines, fingers curling in request until Yamato relinquishes yet another coin. Under the harsh, spherule pendant lamps, Koushirou reads the glint of something mirthful, impish in his gaze.

He is not the only one who sees it. The manager spends interminable periods of time by the register, tapping through papers and taking stock again and again. He wonders how often grown men buy children's trinkets as a rouse for robbery. Koushirou hides the curl of his amused smile under the curve of his fingers at the thought. Sora, not privvy to his internal thoughts, smiles with a similar amusement back at him.

Yamato makes his way back to the table first, alone save for the plastic capsules balanced dangerously against his chest. Sora scoots over in the booth to allow him to sit next to her, but Yamato only offers his bulbous collection to her with a shrug. 

“Accept these tokens as a gift of my affection, my love!” he proclaims, voice high and pious. The thought of Yamato, flaxen haired and pale skin atop a white steed feels poignant in Koushirou's mind. 

Sora eyes the mountain of multicolored plastic bubbles, amusement wrinkling her brow and lifting a side of her mouth until a single dimple emerges. “Be gone, sir,” she returns, whipping her head in the opposite direction. “Your measly trinkets bore me!” 

They both shriek when Yamato, instead, releases his hoard upon them, little plastic bubbles hopping about the table.

The restaurant stills around them.

"I sure hope you're going to pick those up," Sora stage whispers. She squashes her hands together, mouthing an apology to the employees until they turn back to their work.  

"Of course," Yamato snorts. "I wasn't raised in a barn." In a good faith effort, he leans down and grabs a few off the floor at his feet, catching them in empty glasses still scattering their table.

Koushirou flinches, mostly on instinct than from any pain, when a few stray capsules rain off the table and plop against his thighs. "Do you still think it's a positive attribute, Sora?"

She furrows her brows at him for a moment until she catches on, her lips quirking into a secretive, rueful little smile. "I meant it more for their sake," she clarifies.

“Do I want to know?” Yamato frowns at them. The fabric of his jeans squeak on the taut vinyl material when he slides in next to Sora finally. 

Sora smirks at him and very pointedly steals a fry from the neglected tray in front of him. “Nope.” She makes a show of biting down on half of it to Yamato's scandalized expression. 

“Rude,” he says. “Stealing a man's fries in front of him is low, Sora.” He picks several up and crunches down on them at once. Koushirou grimaces, wondering how cold the fries must have grown since they were first brought out.

“Should I have done it behind your back?” Sora giggles. She laughs harder when Yamato intercepts her fingers from taking any more, lacing his own through hers. 

Koushirou turns from the couple then, cheeks heating over the flirtatious display. There's a half empty basket of fries on the table beside his, and guiltily, he wonders how Taichi would react if Koushirou tested his theory on how cold the fries really taste. He pats the empty space on the bench next to him and frowns. 

The front end of the diner is quiet, vacant. When Koushirou glances around he notices the manager has snuck back into the kitchen, his salt and pepper hair visible over the counter window. The waitstaff have gone back to their work; when he meets the eye of their waitress he has to shake his head at her unspoken question if they need her. 

“Where's Taichi?” He asks when his survey of the restaurant yields no results. 

He turns back to see Sora pop her head up and away from Yamato's shoulder, eyes hawking the area for their fourth member. “Yeah, where did he go?”

Yamato sops up the remnants of Sora's shake with a swipe of his fries over the rim of her glass. “Getting ready,” he says. He pops his chocolate soaked fry into his mouth, grinning with satisfaction as Sora eyes him with mock disgust. 

“Ready for what, precisely?” Koushirou asks.

He sees it. The conspiratorial little glint of something sparking in Sora's eyes, lips crawling upward again. It catches in Yamato's expression when he meets her gaze, the two of them sharing a jubilous energy that Koushirou cannot fathom.

But Koushirou's patience barely wanes before the bathroom door slams open across the diner, catching the attention of their group and the adjacent wait staff. The manager rushes out from the kitchen to purvey the scene and they all stare at none other than Taichi, his hair slicked as far back as water alone will tame it down. 

"Here he comes," Yamato says, sounding like a host before his audience. "Taichi Yagami, rocking the drowned rat chic look. Super popular this year."

Koushirou snorts when Sora gives him a soft whap on the arm. He looks back down the long hallway at Taichi, who has taken to waving at every booth as he descends on the group. His pageantry is well rewarded with attention. Their waitress waves back when Taichi passes by their set up station. His shadow is long under the lights, falling across Koushirou where he come to stand before him. 

"Your hair--" Koushirou starts, instinctively starting up to his feet to let Taichi take back his place at the far end of their shared booth, but the rest of his sentence is swallowed by surprise when Taichi drops before him instead. 

One knee bent to the linoleum, he reaches into the pocket of his pea coat and Koushirou, rightfully, feels betrayed when Taichi lifts yet another capsule up to him.

"Koushirou Izumi," he says, timbre reminiscent of a Shakespearean actor. "Please accept this token as a symbol of my affection." 

"You line thief," Yamato accuses him, pointing a soggy fry at the culprit. Taichi crinkles his nose in the blonde's direction, and Koushirou feels vaguely proud that he has matured beyond sticking his tongue out.

Koushirou narrows his eyes at the offending bauble. “Is this what you squandered all that time for?” But he cannot stop his own lips from quirking up on their own as he plops back into the booth. It lets out a soft puff, like a resigned sigh, sounding off through a hole in the seat cushion that had been just barely tapped down to keep the stuffing inside. Tentatively, Koushirou plucks the bobble from his pronged grip. 

Taichi beams up at him, watches expectantly as Koushirou attempts to remove the pink little cap from the top. His expression is not dampered even when Koushirou's grip proves useless to separate the two pieces. 

"When I saw it," Taichi says, still grinning, "I knew I wanted to get it for you." 

Silverware clatters again. It's an orchestra lending itself to the affair, but the importance of it all falls flat on Koushirou who has lost in his bout of strength against the gashapon capsule. Koushirou’s own heart feels like it could be playing the drum, for the tempo in his chest is thunderous. He could blame the slide of his fingers on the plastic surface of the capsule case, but Koushirou knows this is only half the truth. 

Yamato reaches across the table, motioning for Koushirou to hand him the present instead. It does not yield immediately to him, and Yamato digs into his forgotten coat for keys. The grooves scrape along the plastic sphere, wedging underneath the lip of the lid. Next to him, Sora beams back at Koushirou when their eyes meet, her face soft and only vaguely apologetic. Eventually the edge gives way with a soft pop  and Taichi intercepts the return, holds it up on three fingers in front of Koushirou like an impromptu pedestal. Yamato’s keys have left their teeth marks indented into the side, white blemishes standing out starkly against the cloudy, gray clearness of the rest of it. He peers over the lip and frowns.

Inside the capsule’s plastic basket is a small, circular item and Koushirou knows that it is a joke, that there is no meaning beyond a simple laugh and a simple, logical connection that had spun the plan into action. But even if Koushirou knows, it is not logic that his heart works on. 

“Taichi,” Koushirou snorts. It sounds as hollow as Sora’s now cleaned out milkshake glass. He pulls the ring from it’s home, rolls it around between careful fingers to investigate it closer. A tiny, little ladybug of casted in resin and cheap paint sitting atop an even cheaper adjustable sphere. Beady, poorly drawn on eyes stare up at him. “Rings carry a connotation, you know?”

Which is, honestly, a joke, too. A bad joke, but one nonetheless. 

Taichi folds the capsule that had contained the ring back into his coat pocket and then beckons Koushirou to return the present. There is a small, petty part of Koushirou that almost refuses to relinquish it. It had, after all, been meant for him. I wanted to get it for you, Taichi had said, and that weight leaves him dizzy. 

When he does surrender it, Taichi puts up the palm of his other hand. 

“Take it,” Sora stage whispers across the table. It might as well be a scream, because the wait staff hear and turn to watch the spectacle again. Koushirou feels his face heating as he takes the proffered hand. 

“Taichi,” he grits out, quietly, but he stops from any admonishment when he meets Taichi’s eyes. That same glint of mirth is there, undiminished since Koushirou had first spotted it, shining with the road lights through the window to Koushirou’s back, but it feels like there’s more and it quiets his tongue. 

“Koushirou Izumi,” Taichi says again, puffing up his chest, back straight. Koushirou hears Yamato hiss as Sora delves out a quick apology. When he glances at them, she’s rubbing his hand with the one not currently holding Yamato’s, smiling sheepishly up at him. Koushirou looks back at Taichi and breathes in, tightly through the little spaces that the butterflies in his chest allow him. “You are my best friend. I’m under strict orders to mention that Yamato and Sora are runner ups.”

“Thank you,” Yamato says, pleased sounding. 

“Sora is clearly in second, though.”

“Fair,” Yamato decides. 

“Anyway,” Taichi says. This time his grin is definitely tinged in embarrassment, the reddening of his cheeks enough evidence. It’s endearing. “I hope that I’m yours?”

Koushirou nods along. He can feel his lips curling, but he isn’t quite sure that it comes off as a smile. He’s not really sure of anything. He could be dying and this time there are no windchimes to send him on his way.

“And I want to be your best friend forever,” Taichi adds in, slowly. “So what I’m going to ask, well, I hope that doesn’t change anything between us. Actually,” Taichi laughs, rubbing at the back of his head. “I hope it changes a lot. But in a good way,” he clarifies. Koushirou watches, not quite sure who the confirmations are supposed to be directed towards: himself or Koushirou. 

Taichi sucks in a deep breath, like he’s about to go cliff diving off a waterfall and Koushirou understands. “I really, really like you. I’ve been afraid for a super long time that if I acted on it or told you, that maybe I’d somehow chase you off. But it’s not fair to hide this from you.” His cheeks are a brilliant red now and his eyes moves further down Koushirou’s face, settling somewhere along his jawbone. Where their hands are connected feels warm and comfortable. Koushirou wouldn’t mind if he didn’t let go, ever. “And well, it feels like it would be a new adventure and we’ve got a great track record with those, you and me.”

“Taichi,” Sora whispers in an ushering tone. He looks astonished for a moment, as if he had forgotten where they were, that others were in the audience. Koushirou had. 

Taichi takes another long breath in and finally sets his grin up with more confidence when he asks Koushirou, “Whaddya say? Will you go out with me, Koushirou?”

Pinched still between Taichi’s fingers, the ladybug stares up at Koushirou expectantly. Something clinks in the background and for once, it does not feel bitter or terrifying, but it does seize his chest, reminds him of the clicking clock and everything that has laid stagnant in fear. 

“Most people would simply just ask for a date,” Koushirou manages to say. He breathes out. “But I suppose it was a display worthy of a yes.” He thinks he hears a round of applause, but Koushirou keeps his head down, doesn’t dare to look up. It is only partially from self-consciously, and mostly because Taichi’s smile is so efferesent, Koushirou thinks it could light all of Odaiba for the rest of their lives. He’s not sure his is any less exuberant.  

He pushes the ring up and onto Koushirou’s ring finger. Made for children with tinier hands, it barely passes the first knuckle before they have to tinker with the adjustable strap, but soon it settles to the base of his finger, rather nicely and hideously. “When have I ever been most people?” 

The manager waits for them at the register. His stern expression speaks to his lack of amusement experienced from their shenanigans, but Koushirou cannot even find a sense of shame this time. It feels like someone has replaced his heart with a spectacle of sparklers, a sky filled with fireworks. Taichi squeezes his hand, but he thinks that only makes it worse.

When they leave, for the last time, Yamato deposits a single capsule into the hand of every employee unfortunate to pass them. He makes sure to pat the manager on the shoulder on his way out, as if parting from a dear friend in a respectable manner. He bestows the man with a rubber bouncy ball. Koushirou knows this only because it follows Yamato out the door a beat later. Sora waits for him to finish, sitting on the cement stoop and blinking up at him slowly when he rushes down to meet their group.

He returns the look. "Gifts are polite," Yamato says, indignantly. His arms are still plenty full of toys, like the santa of rock stars.  "I told you I wasn't raised in a barn."

The rubber ball plummets down each step slowly, poking around Yamato's shoe and finally plopping into Sora's lap. She looks down at it, pressing her lips together. "Debatable."