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eleanorfenyxwrites · 4 years ago

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Hold On Tight, Learn To Behave (Ao3)

[Wenzhou one-shot set post-canon, after episode 36 but before the bonus - NSFW and a quick warning as well for some blood/rough sex]

@evilteddybear requested: I’d love WKX and ZZS to have a conversation on all they’ve hidden from one another by the end of the series. WKX lied about his death, then ZZS, then WKX again. Talking isn’t dramatic enough for TV so they never reach true honesty. They love each other but also hurt each other. And I am not sure that WKX ever realizes that hurting himself hurts ZZS too.

and an Anon requested: I would love to see something set post-canon where ZZS's body is like a live-wire where instead of it being hard (lol) to get off, he manages it really really easy bc suddenly everything has come back and it’s A LOT. I just wanna see WKX fuck several orgasms out of ZZS (literally or in other ways) and ZZS being a mess about it bc holy shit he can FEEL again.

(special thanks/shoutout to @omgpurplefattie for suggesting that these two prompts go well together, you gave me the idea to combine them!)

“Lao Wen!”

Zhou Zishu sits up sharply, tongue still locked to the roof of his mouth from shouting his lover’s name, and he raises trembling hands to scrub tiredly at his face.

“Ah-Xu?” Wen Kexing’s voice is sleep-ragged at his side and Zhou Zishu does his best to slow his breathing, to try to stop his heart from pounding in his chest. He tries to stop seeing his zhiji dead right in front of his eyes, but if it’s not the sight of him falling off a cliff then it’s that of him lying dead and still in a burning shed, and if it’s not either of those two haunting memories then it’s the most recent, that of opening his eyes to find Wen Kexing fading right in front of him, hand in hand as his qi drained out of him like water through a sieve. A sob manages to escape his throat despite his best efforts and Wen Kexing is on him in an instant.

“Ah-Xu!” he gasps as he sits up and wraps long arms around him, hugging Zhou Zishu close to his chest. “What is it? What happened?”

Zhou Zishu knows even as he does it that it’s petty, but he pushes Wen Kexing away. Not as strongly as he has in the past, perhaps, but he does it, an elbow to his lover’s side that makes him wince and loosen his grip though he still doesn’t let go entirely.

Zhou Zishu’s hands curl into tight fists in the blankets still covering their laps and he tries to forget about Wen Kexing’s hands, ice cold and limp in his grip as Zhou Zishu had scrambled to find some way to pass his qi back. His arms remember the weight of Wen Kexing’s corpse, the way it had felt to gather his lifeless body close to his chest and bury his face in that silver-white hair, the only outward sign of the strain Wen Kexing had forced himself through just to make Zhou Zishu immortal - with no regard for his own life, or for how empty Zhou Zishu would find the world without his zhiji at his side.

And mourning these incidents feels so strange when the man himself is not only alive and perfectly fine at his side, but at fault for each and every one. It’s this thought that sends him staggering from their bed to shove his feet into his shoes.

“Ah-Xu wait, where are you going? It’s the middle of the night,” Wen Kexing points out like he doesn’t already know it. It doesn’t take Zhou Zishu long to find his outer robes to shrug on over the layer he sleeps in and he doesn’t even bother tying them shut before he stalks from the room and out into the rest of the sprawling armory around them.

He hears Wen Kexing curse and tumble out of bed behind him but he doesn’t stop to wait for him, he just starts wandering in an attempt to soothe the itching under his skin. In the aftermath of everything, after Zhou Zishu had found a way to pass their refined qi back and forth, after Wen Kexing had remained unconscious for over a month recovering from nearly fizzling out into nothing, they’ve been too happy about being reunited in the past few days since he woke for Zhou Zishu to find space to comfortably fit the fact that he’s angry as well. It hardly feels fair to say anything now, and he’s been forcing himself not to give a voice to the ugly thing in his chest mainly because he feels that he knows what Wen Kexing will say. That he lived, that they’re here now, that they finally have as long as they want to be together so why spoil it with unhappy things?

And Zhou Zishu is trying, but it’s so hard. He shoves it all away in his waking hours but then it comes back to haunt him in his sleep and he has to watch his zhiji die over and over again, every single fucking night.

Zhou Zishu comes to a stop at random and begins idly running his hand over the books on the closest shelf, searching for something he hasn’t read yet, or even just something he read so casually first as to be able to enjoy it a second time. Anything for a distraction, anything to try to get rid of the sourness of the bile rising in his throat from the remembered panic of opening his eyes, his senses fully restored, only for the first thing he felt properly since the application of the Nails to be his lover’s dead body. Well, nearly-dead, but it had certainly felt close enough to his newly awakened senses.

Wen Kexing finds him as he’s still brushing dust off of the contents of one of the cubbyholes in the shelf.

“Ah-Xu,” he calls, quiet in the gloom of the sparse few lanterns and the moonlight filtered through vents in the mountainside high above their heads, reflected and magnified by a neatly hidden collection of mirrors far above their heads. “There isn’t light enough to read by tonight. What are you doing?”

“Go back to bed.”

“Ah-Xu -”

Zhou Zishu moves without conscious thought when Wen Kexing reaches for him, fingers just catching on his sleeve before Zhou Zishu whips around to grab him and pin him to the shelves, a furious glare in his damp eyes. The blink-and-you’ll-miss-it scuffle isn’t nearly enough to wind either one of them, but they’re both breathing hard anyway into the scant space between them. Perhaps Zhou Zishu shouldn’t be surprised to find that it only takes the span of a single breath for Wen Kexing’s concerned gaze to go steely, rising to meet the fury he must find in Zhou Zishu’s glare.

“Go ahead,” Wen Kexing challenges with a haughty jerk of his chin. “What is it?”

It’s easier like this, with Wen Kexing seemingly angry right back at him. This is not his Lao Wen, this is the Chief of Ghost Valley - fitting, when he feels less like Ah-Xu and more like the leader of the Window of Heaven, full of a cold sense of merciless righteousness that usually ends with blood on his hands.

“I’m tired of dreaming about all the times you ripped my fucking heart out,” Zhou Zishu finally manages to spit and when Wen Kexing bares his teeth at him in a parody of a smile it’s almost a shock to see his teeth gleaming white rather than stained pink with someone else’s blood.

“Is that so? The feeling is mutual.”

“How many times would you have continued to make me watch you die if we hadn’t trapped ourselves in here?”

“You trapped us here with your avalanche trick, and I would have kept doing it as many times as necessary to keep you alive!” Wen Kexing is practically snarling, though he doesn’t fight against Zhou Zishu’s hold keeping him pinned to the shelf.

“You didn’t have to follow me here!”

Wen Kexing does fight back a bit then, just a savage jerk of one arm that frees it from Zhou Zishu’s grip so he can reach up to curl his fingers into a fist in the front of his robes for the purpose of jostling him, as if shaking him will help him understand as he shouts, “After all this anger over my plans to save you, you have the nerve to also be angry that I didn’t stay put when you left me behind to go die anyway?!”

Zhou Zishu is the one to bare his teeth next, but Wen Kexing takes advantage of his moment of trying to formulate a reply to flip their positions so quickly Zhou Zishu nearly becomes dizzy even before his back is slammed against the shelf and Wen Kexing’s forearm presses against his throat.

“After everything we’ve done, everything we had just lost, you left me,” Wen Kexing says next, no longer shouting but the faint glitter of tears in his eyes and clumping his lashes together is somehow more cutting than if he were. “If you die I die, how dare you take my choices away from me!”

“Your choices?!” Zhou Zishu bites back, finding his metaphorical feet again even as he has to go up on his toes a bit to accommodate the way Wen Kexing is pressing him higher with the arm on his throat. “Your choices are why I was dying so quickly in the first place! I was going to be healed, Da Wu was going to fix everything but your plan that included everyone but me forced my hand! Why would I continue living without you after watching you die? How could you not have known I would try to follow you even after Ye-qianbei stopped me from jumping with you?!”

“How could you throw your life away so quickly?!”

“There is no me without you!”

Zhou Zishu’s shout rings off the stone around them. Wen Kexing slowly releases the pressure on his throat as the reverb of it fades into nothing but silence again broken only by their breaths, too fast and out of sync. But they’re both here. They’re both breathing. They’re glaring daggers at each other, but they’re both here.

“A day without you, a week, a year, an eternity? I don’t want any of it,” Zhou Zishu continues eventually, voice low and fervent. “Of course I tried to follow you. What else would you expect me to do?”

“And then at the last, you turned around and abandoned me. Are you really such a hypocrite, Ah-Xu?”

Zhou Zishu doesn’t refute that, though he can’t quite help but grind his teeth and curl his hand still holding one of Wen Kexing’s wrists a little tighter.

He is, abruptly, exhausted. Perhaps it’s the sleepless nights of relieving Wen Kexing’s ‘deaths’ from every angle. Perhaps it’s the stress of having kept all of this tucked close to his chest since the moment Wen Kexing returned during the second heroes’ conference. Perhaps it’s the way the fight leaves Wen Kexing’s eyes as quickly as it had appeared. Perhaps it’s none of these things, or all of them, but whatever the reason, the thought of somehow keeping score for the next however many years they live, of holding onto resentments and bitterness and playing a constant game of who-owes-whom makes him so tired.

Zhou Zishu tips his head back to rest against the shelf at his back, baring his throat (perhaps unwisely, when Wen Kexing is still so angry at him) and closing his eyes against the sight of the filtered moonlight overhead.

“We can’t keep living like this,” he mutters and he feels Wen Kexing’s body go stiff against his where they’re pressed together practically from chest to ankle.

“Like what? Don’t tell me you regret this already, Ah-Xu. It’s not even spring yet, you have to at least wait for the thaw before you can decide to leave me behind again.”

“Lao Wen!” he protests sharply with a jostle of Wen Kexing’s arm in his grip. “Like this, angry with each other for things that we’ve done because we don’t know how to live for each other. This is getting us nowhere.”

Wen Kexing takes a long, slow breath in and Zhou Zishu is about to drop his head again to look at him when he’s abruptly stopped in his tracks by the feeling of teeth on his neck, too sharp and insistent to be comfortable. He gasps and can’t help but jerk a bit in Wen Kexing’s grip, a frisson of heat slinking down his spine and out towards his fingertips as he follows it with a soothing but possessive pass of the flat of his tongue, hot and wet against his skin.

“Lao Wen?” he manages to gasp around the too-intense pressure of Wen Kexing’s teeth around a different section of his throat, more sensitive than the last - so sensitive his knees nearly threaten to buckle, though that may also be because Wen Kexing chooses that moment to dart a clever hand between the drape of his robes to grab him through his trousers. There’s nothing gentle in the gesture, it’s hard and possessive. Painful.

They haven’t been intimate since Wen Kexing had finally regained consciousness. Between adjusting to their new reality, Wen Kexing finally having an opportunity to begin grieving for Gu Xiang, and Zhou Zishu working to build them something of a permanent living space in the armory, and with an as-of-yet undefined eternity stretching on before them, they’d just...settled. Tried to relax and let time pass as it would now that it’s no longer their master.

Zhou Zishu realizes belatedly that he should have anticipated that it would feel different with the return of his senses, but he is somehow still blindsided by the shock of it, crystal clear and overwhelming. He can feel Wen Kexing’s too-quick exhales against his freshly bruised skin, hot and damp in the chill of their new home. His hand is painfully tight between his legs and Zhou Zishu gasps again as his grip tightens even further, bucking his hips back to try to escape Wen Kexing’s groping but there’s nowhere for him to go. He bites down again and Zhou Zishu swears he can feel every single one of his teeth - no longer just the muted sensation of more pointed pressure than his hands could provide, now he can feel his skin protesting the sharp crush of capillaries, red bruises blooming like aching flowers under his lover’s mouth.

“If you want to be angry then be angry,” Wen Kexing growls into the point of his collarbone, and the bite he leaves there has Zhou Zishu’s back arching without his permission though he at least manages to keep a pathetic whimper locked in his throat. “You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

Under such an onslaught, it doesn’t take long at all for Zhou Zishu to find his temper again. Wen Kexing is harsh and cruel with him, offering no reprieves or mercy as he takes what he wants. Zhou Zishu has absolutely no qualms about giving him the same in return, digging in with his nails until he pierces his skin, and only then does he scratch up his back and leave bloody furrows in his wake. He bites whatever part of Wen Kexing he can get his mouth on, and finally when Wen Kexing is ever-so-slightly distracted with gathering all of Zhou Zishu’s hair into one hand to yank on it, Zhou Zishu manages to get his ankle hooked behind Wen Kexing’s to kick his leg out from under him. Paired with a shove of the hand he has bunched up in the front of Wen Kexing’s robes, it’s a perfect move to unbalance him and send the pair of them tumbling to the hard ground.

Zhou Zishu doesn’t bother feeling guilty for cushioning his own fall with Wen Kexing’s body, he just sets about continuing what they’d started with a sort of hunger that startles even him, but that Wen Kexing seems to take in stride. He had started this, after all, it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise that he’s prepared to see it through to the end no matter how rough it should get.

It’s a messy thing, quick and aggressive with absolutely none of the finesse they’ve managed to find together in all the times they’ve done this before. By the time they’ve finished, Wen Kexing’s bared torso is a mess of blood and come - from both of them. Zhou Zishu brushes the back of his hand against the swollen curve of his bottom lip without any regard for the flare of aching, burning pain he finds there where Wen Kexing has bitten him bloody.

“You got hard,” Wen Kexing finally mumbles through bright red lips. Zhou Zishu can see that his teeth are pink as he speaks and he wonders if it should worry him that that feels right. What he had actually said filters through the haze a moment after and he huffs a humorless laugh as he shakes his head a bit and leans back on his heels where he’s straddling Wen Kexing. The motion grinds his ass down against his softening cock and Wen Kexing hisses a little, shuffles his feet like he’s going to try to get away though he settles again after a moment, allowing the overstimulating pressure.

“Philanthropist Wen so kindly traded his life so that I could have all my senses restored,” Zhou Zishu retorts as he crosses his arms over his chest and grinds himself down more purposefully into Wen Kexing’s lap until the man’s back arches and his hands fly down to grip his hips tight enough to bruise there too.

“A fair trade,” Wen Kexing mumbles, still staring at him in bleary wonder. Well, not at him. At his cock, which hasn’t even managed to go entirely soft. How can it, when he can finally feel Wen Kexing’s hands on him properly? When every place their bodies are touching feels like the spark of a struck match?

“And if I hadn’t found a way to pass the qi back to you such a ‘gift’ would be absolutely wasted on me living here alone!”

“You’re still angry after that?”

Zhou Zishu doesn’t even deign to respond to that with words, rather he just grinds his hips again and Wen Kexing chokes on some sort of wounded noise that ends with a whimper. His teeth are no longer bloody though he certainly looks worse for wear, his lips still red even where Zhou Zishu hadn’t split his bottom lip straight down the middle with a particularly vicious bite. There are bruises already blooming dark and possessive all over his chest and shoulders, the imprints of Zhou Zishu’s teeth stark on the pale canvas of his skin. His silver hair is a tangled mess underneath him, his robes equally dishevelled where they had been shoved aside to give Zhou Zishu room to work. As he watches, Wen Kexing releases his hip to drag one elegant hand up his own stomach, his long fingers smearing through the mix of blood and spend to swirl them together before he continues his dragging touch. He smears the mix up his own chest and then pops his fingers in his mouth as he looks up again to meet Zhou Zishu’s gaze.

“In that case, you can have me like that again, if you’d like,” Wen Kexing mumbles as he withdraws his fingers, seemingly uncaring of the mess he’s making of himself as he reaches down to scoop more of their come onto his fingers. Zhou Zishu reaches out to stop him with a hand tight around his wrist.

“Hurting you isn’t going to make me less angry about what you did.”

“Nor I, but it’s nice to get the energy out anyway.”

Zhou Zishu licks at a trickle of blood he can feel beginning to weep from his own split lip and Wen Kexing tracks the movement as if mesmerized by the briefest glimpse of his tongue. Zhou Zishu releases his wrist then and he expects Wen Kexing to return to his task of licking his fingers clean, but instead he drops his hand down again, this time to press his whole palm to the mess on his abs. Before Zhou Zishu can wonder what his fascination with it is, Wen Kexing is wrapping his slicked hand around his cock - and he goes properly hard again so quickly his head spins.

“Oh,” Wen Kexing says softly, eyes wide, as he strokes him just once and Zhou Zishu can’t help but shudder with a punched out little noise that he’s too late to stop. He squeezes his eyes shut and leans forward until he can rest his weight on one hand pressed to the floor next to Wen Kexing’s shoulder, his lips parted as he suddenly struggles to catch his breath. “Oh Ah-Xu, our first time when you can feel me properly shouldn’t have hurt you so much.”

“It’s only fitting that it should be too much,” Zhou Zishu manages to grind out. He opens his eyes to find Wen Kexing looking anxiously back and forth between them, his eyebrows drawn up in open concern, so different from the furious hunger of just a few minutes ago. “Too much - and not enough. Try again.”

“Mn?”

“Hurt me again.”

“Ah-Xu -”

Zhou Zishu catches Wen Kexing’s chin in his free hand, harsh and unforgiving. “Again, Lao Wen. You think I’ve been waiting for you to wake up all this time just for you to be afraid to touch me? Make me forget what it was like to feel you dead in my arms.”

That seems to do the trick. Wen Kexing’s eyes flash and Zhou Zishu isn’t even startled to find their positions reversed; the only concession for the stone floor that Wen Kexing gives him is a hand behind his head to keep him from hitting it too hard as he’s thrown down on his back - other than that he’s just as harsh as he was before. They’re already ragged and bloodied, it doesn’t take nearly as much effort the second time for Zhou Zishu to lose himself in the ache of Wen Kexing pressing on his new bruises, biting even fresher ones next to them.

He gasps and exhales a moan that echoes off the stone around them as Wen Kexing bites his neck hard enough to draw blood there too at the same moment he slides two spit- and come-slick fingers inside his body with absolutely no mercy. It hurts, but his Lao Wen and so he doesn’t complain. He’ll never complain as long as it’s Wen Kexing who’s the one bearing down on him, pressing into him, working him as expertly as ever even though so much internal attention isn’t necessary now that he can finally get hard again. It doesn’t seem to matter what he needs or doesn't - his entire being belongs to the man on top of him and he knows that Wen Kexing enjoys reminding him of that.

The only reason the second round lasts anywhere close to the same length of time as the first is because this time Wen Kexing forces him to wait every time he trembles close to the edge of orgasm, until by the time he finally allows it Zhou Zishu is so overstimulated it hurts as much as it pleasures.

“Enough,” Wen Kexing pants when he’s finished and they’re now both sporting the same messes on their chests. “Enough Ah-Xu, no more angry sex tonight. Alright?”

“Fine,” Zhou Zishu pants as he stares unseeingly up at the ceiling. “Tomorrow, then.”

“No.” Zhou Zishu closes his eyes as Wen Kexing starts stroking his cheek with his hand that’s still relatively clean, but he frowns when he feels the now-familiar sensation of shared qi flood through his meridians.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ll heal faster if we share it.”

Zhou Zishu darts his hand up to grab Wen Kexing’s wrist to force his hand away from his face and he opens his eyes with an effort to meet Wen Kexing’s confused gaze.

“Leave it.”

“Ah-Xu?”

“Penance.”

Wen Kexing blinks at him for a long moment and then the last of the fight truly drains out of him as he hangs his head, his hair sliding over one shoulder to hang between them and the rest of the room. In the moonlight backlighting it it almost seems to glow and Zhou Zishu’s breath hitches in his chest as he looks at it, this reminder of how much Wen Kexing had tried to give up. For him. He had never asked so many people to want to die for him. All he had ever wanted was the people he cared about to live, why were they all so determined to leave him behind anyway?

“Come back to bed,” Wen Kexing says and Zhou Zishu can hear the tears thick in his voice though he can’t see his face. “Please.”

Maneuvering up off the floor and righting their robes at least enough to make the chilly walk more bearable takes a surprisingly long time, but thankfully Wen Kexing had kept track of where he was going as he had followed Zhou Zishu through the armory and so he just has to follow behind him as they return quickly enough to their ‘bedroom’, for lack of anything better to call it. As they walk, his own anger ebbs back out of him, as it always does, to be replaced with a soul-deep grief. His anger is really only a poor cover for that lurking sorrow anyway, and it consumes too much energy to maintain the front for too long. By the time Wen Kexing is helping him out of his outer robes and nudging him in the direction of their bed he feels so weighed down by the ghosts of his mistakes that all he can do is obey and sit heavily on the edge of it.

“ ‘Penance’,” Wen Kexing muses with dark humor as he returns Zhou Zishu’s robes to their spot and begins to strip out of his own. “Are we not already paying penance having to spend the rest of our lives in the cold? Away from Chengling and Four Seasons Manor? It’s a price I’m willing to pay a thousand times over in order to live this life with you, but it is still a sacrifice. Don’t you think that’s penance enough?”

Zhou Zishu doesn’t even bother looking up from his hands between his knees as Wen Kexing talks to him, only raising his eyes with a sharp inhale through his nose when the other man comes to kneel in front of him, though he can still only stand to look around the vicinity of his chin.

“Ah-Xu. What are you punishing yourself for?”

“You have to ask?”

“I do. We’ve already forgiven each other for the lies we told, you don’t fool me. What are you really angry about?”

“I’m not trying to fool you, I am angry that you lied to me.”

“And you have lied to me. We’re even as far as I’m concerned, and I think it would be useless to keep score from here on out. What are petty disagreements to immortal lovers, hm?”

Zhou Zishu finally lifts his gaze the rest of the way with an effort to look Wen Kexing in the eyes. They still manage to shine somehow even in the dim light of the candles guttering in the corners of the room, and Zhou Zishu can’t quite resist reaching out to hold his face with both hands. Hands that can now feel how soft his skin is, how warm. He strokes his thumb slowly along the plush curve of his bitten bottom lip and the softness of it, the easy give of it beneath his touch, have him aching to bite him again. Again and again and again until he no longer feels quite so hungry for him, so desperate.

“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing murmurs seemingly for no reason other than to call for him. Zhou Zishu lets his thumb move with his lips as he does so, the drag of the warm, damp skin against his fingertip a concrete reminder that he hasn’t lost Wen Kexing. He’s here, alive and breathing and determined to live for the rest of their forever at his side.

“I want to stop seeing you dead,” he confesses, much less angrily this time than the first as he allows his grief and fear to take their rightful place at center stage. “I want to but I can’t. You were so cold, Lao Wen, the first thing I felt was you so cold-“

Wen Kexing’s brows knit together as he turns his head just enough to press ardent kisses to his palm, his long fingers curling around Zhou Zishu’s wrist to hold his hand still for it.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes and Zhou Zishu’s breath hitches in his throat. “I’m sorry, Ah-Xu.”

Zhou Zishu coaxes Wen Kexing into turning his head forward again with a press of his palm to his cheek only to meet him more than halfway in a kiss that’s messy and clumsy and perfect in every way he needs it to be. Wen Kexing surges up to deepen it, to loom over him and then press him back insistently with his whole body as he climbs onto the bed first to straddle him and then to lay him down, kissing kissing kissing all the while.

Even in what Zhou Zishu has come to think of as his ‘first’ life - his life before Wen Kexing - he doesn’t think anyone’s touch ever affected him as much as Wen Kexing’s does now. His hands, though they’re cool simply by virtue of where they live, feel like branding irons as they skim down his chest and arms, dragging his dishevelled sleeping robe off in their wake. He shivers in the chill of the cave as the cold air meets his flushed skin and even that, somehow, adds to the overwhelming flood of sensations from Wen Kexing’s hands alone.

“I’ll make you forget it all,” Wen Kexing promises as he drags those burning hands up to grip the sides of his neck, press his thumbs under his jaw to coax him into tipping his head back so he can kiss the bruises he’d left. “I’ll make you forget everything but me right here with you like this. Alright?”

“Alright,” Zhou Zishu breathes, at a loss for anything else to say. Why shouldn’t he agree? It’s impossible for him to forget it all but he’d like to try, and Wen Kexing has made so many impossible things happen already. Maybe this one is in his power as well.

He lets himself get lost in the way each kiss and caress feels brand new, and so quickly it could almost be embarrassing he feels his cock growing stiff again, his entire body reacting to each brush of fingertips or soft hair or lips against his skin like it’s the first time he’s ever felt such a thing. It’s the first time he’s ever properly felt Wen Kexing, at least, and he can’t help but think that that’s good enough; his first time feeling his zhiji’s touch the way it’s meant to be felt. If this is what he’s felt every time Zhou Zishu touches him then it’s no wonder Wen Kexing has so often begged and coaxed him to go just once more, to kiss for just a little longer, not to separate yet if they don’t have to. Not that Zhou Zishu hadn’t understood the desire to be close before, of course he has, but this really elevates things to a new height he had been incapable of even imagining.

Zhou Zishu sees stars the moment Wen Kexing leans in to take him into his mouth. He doesn’t come but it’s an extremely close thing, and there’s no stopping himself from whimpering and shifting restlessly as he tries to chase the pleasure Wen Kexing is offering him. He’s stopped by Wen Kexing’s wide hands heavy on his hips pressing him down into the bed and keeping him still so he can focus on working himself down the length of him painfully slowly. There have been times, usually in the afterglow of particularly good orgasms, when Wen Kexing has told him that if he could use all his best tricks then Zhou Zishu wouldn’t stand a chance against him, and Zhou Zishu has always scoffed, never believed such assertions could be anything but empty bragging. He should really know by now that Wen Kexing doesn’t brag without reason - if he says he can kill someone then he will. If he claims he can exact a fitting revenge against the world that wronged him, then he will. And now Zhou Zishu knows intimately that when Wen Kexing has said that he knows precisely how he wants to rip Zhou Zishu apart, he has meant every word.

He feels like he’s being slowly flayed apart, seen and known at every level of his being solely so that Wen Kexing can understand best how to destroy all of his defenses. Not that he should be surprised, of course - this is hardly the first time Zhou Zishu had thought he was fine only to suddenly find that his walls have been smashed to rubble and Wen Kexing is standing too close to him in the aftermath of it, smirking at him and leaning in to say something filthy in his ear to make him blush and snap at him even as he tries to pull him closer.

Zhou Zishu comes for the third time that night with his hands in Wen Kexing’s hair and his legs wrapped haphazardly around his ribcage, head thrown back and throat tight around a strangled moan that ends on something that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

Wen Kexing gives him absolutely no time to recover. He keeps his mouth on him until it turns genuinely unbearable and then he’s back, kissing him like he’ll die if he doesn’t taste every inch of his mouth at that very moment and slamming home inside of him between one breath and the next. Zhou Zishu doesn’t bother trying to restrain the pained noise that escapes him at the intrusion but Wen Kexing ignores it, instead just setting up a punishing rhythm that leaves Zhou Zishu no time at all to try to come down from his third orgasm before arousal builds in him again.

Wen Kexing is an absolute monster, and Zhou Zishu loves him so much it’s a physical ache in his chest. And there, at last, is the root of his anger. Wen Kexing makes him hurt so much, it’s only natural for him to want to protect himself from it, to put distance between them with frustration and bluster, to keep the unbearable ache of such consuming love from taking him over completely. It’s been necessary, until now, to maintain that distance even after they were in agreement that they were all either of them needs in this world. The fact then had been that Zhou Zishu was going to die and leave Wen Kexing behind to mourn him, a fact they had frequently done their best to ignore but at least Zhou Zishu had never managed it, and he was fairly sure Wen Kexing never had either. He’d spent so much time expressing concern for Zhou Zishu and his injuries, it stands to reason that he’d spent even more time thinking about them than talking about them, and any time the barest whisper of a possible cure had reached their ears Wen Kexing had always pounced on it like a street cat, vicious and single-minded as he’d dug in with his claws to drag out any information he possibly could.

Zhou Zishu’s fourth orgasm of the night leaves him feeling hollow and satisfied, finally, even as Wen Kexing spills inside of him, fills him up. As they share hot, too-heavy breaths in the aftermath, as Wen Kexing presses wet kisses to his lips and cheeks and jaw, as Wen Kexing settles his weight over him and slides a hand up into his hair to cradle him and hold him close, Zhou Zishu releases the anger that’s nothing but a smokescreen for the ache of loving too fiercely for his heart to contain it all.

“I love you,” he says into the intimate silence but for the rhythms of their living and breathing and the soft rustle of skin and cloth rubbing together as Wen Kexing readjusts his legs and attempts to get comfortable on top of him. “That’s what I’m angry about. I love you.”

“Reasonable,” Wen Kexing mumbles muzzily into his shoulder with a lazy kiss. “Will you elaborate or am I meant to just understand why loving me should make you so upset?”

“You expect me to believe that you don’t love me so much it somehow becomes other emotions as well just so your heart can contain it all?”

Wen Kexing is silent for a few long moments as their breathing slows in tandem, fingertips tracing slow, gentle circles around the ball of his shoulder as he turns his head a bit and shifts a few times until he’s settled even more comfortably.

“Ah..Perhaps I do understand, then,” he finally murmurs, and Zhou Zishu can hear a faint smile in his voice. “Is that what you’re seeking penance for? Loving me?”

“Maybe. Or maybe for everything else I’ve done before you. Maybe I have to pay for it to deserve being able to keep you until we get tired of this life and decide we’d like to end it.”

“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing tuts and he’s definitely smiling now. “You’ve said it yourself that if a man sets aside his weapons he’ll become good. I don’t believe you need to punish yourself like this. You don’t need to find a replacement for the pain of the Nails just because you’ve survived your torment.”

Zhou Zishu’s breath catches in his chest and he tips his head enough to try to look down at Wen Kexing. One of his eyes is visible at this angle and Zhou Zishu is unsurprised to find his gaze full of a quiet understanding.

“That’s...hm. Alright. I suppose it’s useless to argue that, I’m sure you already know exactly how to win against me.”

“Of course I do,” Wen Kexing replies with a tired chuckle. “But there’s also no point in arguing it simply because I’m right, and as I said before - what use is there in keeping score? Time and debts and the measure of good and evil are nothing to us anymore. We’ll do as much good as we can from here, and when we’re ready we’ll re-enter the world and continue to do good there until we die together. The past doesn’t concern us anymore.”

Zhou Zishu hums softly and finally finds the energy to raise one hand to begin combing his fingers through the snarled mess of Wen Kexing’s hair, keeping his touch light even when he encounters snags and knots. Wen Kexing melts into him as he works and when he starts breathing deeply, the rhythm regular, Zhou Zishu doesn’t bother resisting the desire to turn his head and press a long, slow kiss to his forehead. He lifts his free hand to curl his fingers around Wen Kexing’s wrist and, as has become a habit that’s as natural as breathing, he lets their energy circulate together, fitting himself easily into the familiar paths of his love’s qi and speeding up the healing process as much as he can, for both of their sakes, as the love of his life sleeps comfortably in his arms.

#word of honor #word of honor fanfic #wenzhou #wen kexing #zhou zishu #cw: blood

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its-love-u-asshole · 8 years ago

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Shaking in My Skull [Final]

Pairing: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki

Rating: T

Summary: Stuck on the plane between life and death, Saruhiko makes the decision to risk everything, forced to find faith in himself and the headstrong Yata Misaki as they both face unimaginable demons.

Note: Wow, I can't even believe this is the last chapter. I started this fic 8 months ago, started planning even before that, and this fic means so much to me I just can't believe. The first scene of this chapter is one of the three scenes which started the whole fic, so it's extra unreal lol. Thanks to everyone here reading, enjoy! Big thanks to @emeraldwaves for beta-ing this story from the beginning, and letting me brainstorm ideas and complain about it with her lol!

Also, because some people asked about the backgrounds of Mikoto and Munakata as well as the other deities, I decided to make a little backstories post for them, which you can find the link to below! ^^

Ao3 Version

8tracks

Backstories Post

"Fushimi? Fushimi!"

Saruhiko's eyes snapped open, his breath catching as the smell of city exhaust and fast food assaulted his nostrils. His senses felt overstimulated, the blurs of images and color, coupled with the warm climate making him sweat was enough to leave him not moving and speechless. Where...

But he didn't have to ask, not when his heart was constricting furiously in his chest at the sound of a very familiar voice, his mind reeling from the city bustle which he'd once been so accustomed to. There were cars stuck in traffic on his left hand side, the occasional horn and screech of tires jolting him further out of his stupor.

Saruhiko had no explanation for any of it. It wasn't a dream. It felt too genuine, but maybe it was a hallucination from his trial worn mind, maybe it was another trial entirely, his memories turned against him. It would be cruel sure, but not unexpected, he'd faced worse as a matter of fact. So of course, this was another attempt to remind him of the ever present distance between himself and his life. It had to be.

And yet...

He choked on his own emotions as they blended into his logic. Part of him had to know, had to be able to tell. Each reasoning felt cheap and poor, and he wanted to cry, as unnecessary as it sounded. The hope residing inside him was bubbling up fiercely as he breathed in, his body catching up along with him despite his attempts at denying.

Despite it, Saruhiko felt light, his muscles relaxing in a way that was nearly unfamiliar to him. After so much effort and pain, how could he cope with feeling so brand new all of a sudden?

His hands twitched, and he glanced at them in awe; the skin was uncut and clean, from what he could tell at least, which wasn't much due to his strangely hazy vision. There were no notable scars or detectable shaking, but there was a bow tied neatly around one palm. His pulse raced as he felt the fleece, as if not believing it was there. But it was a fact, wrapped securely over nonexistent wounds. His heart wanted to explode, but the lack of clarity still had him slightly anxious. It reminded him of the hazy image of hell's gate disappearing, alluding him, and he thought maybe this was all a fabrication after all.

It would be the last time he considered such a thing.

Saruhiko could make out his surroundings, but they were blurred, the edges of the cars and the sidewalk too soft, along with the outline of the person in front of him. A person, he told himself, because judging from the sudden scratchiness in his throat as realization closed in, he couldn't handle hoping for the best. But he knew that voice, knew those blonde curls, hazy or not.

But it couldn't be, this couldn't be real...

The burn in his eyes increased.

I failed right? So why...

He recalled the feeling of something slick against his bloody hand, and his breath hitched.

The breeze hit his skin lightly, and he felt something jostle atop his head, and any remaining doubts froze in his mind, permanently destroyed by one voice ringing in his head, for the very last time.

"Well done, Fushimi-kun."

It was there and gone in an instant, but Saruhiko would never let himself forget it.

"Fushimi? Are you even listening to me?" The woman in front of him asked again, and Saruhiko's walls crumbled down. Not waiting a second longer, he slowly reached up, pulling his glasses down to cover his eyes, and watched the world bloom into clarity.

Seri looked annoyed with him, that was for sure, going by her slight pout and narrowed eyes, which did nothing to take away from her overall intimidation. She was as she should've been, rested, well dressed, not a tear or flash of dread in sight. It was how he wanted to remember her, and how he'd hoped for her to remain. There, in front of him, where he now had the courage to reach out. But he stayed frozen, overcome.

She crossed her arms, seeming none too pleased that she was being made to wait for an answer, and Saruhiko would take that any day over her mournful cries.

"Well?" She asked once more, juggling her work bag awkwardly against her shoulder as he continued to stare, too much in shock to do much of anything. So of course, his next words weren't the most refined.

"Um...what?"

Wrong thing to say, apparently.

She all but dropped her bag, which was a big deal, since it was rather new and pricey from what he recalled, and began giving him a surprisingly welcomed piece of her mind.

"I knew it! You weren't listening," she said, barely holding in a groan from the sound of it. He would've apologized, really he would've, considering how much he'd missed her and how he now knew she didn't deserve half the shit he gave her. But well, he had no idea what was going on, or where they'd been going, or what day it even--

"Honestly," she said, softer this time. "I told you this was important. Fu--Saruhiko, I know you think the rehearsal is a waste of time, but I'd really appreciate it if you weren't late alright? It's tomorrow at six, so please, no more complaining okay?"

Oxygen all but left Saruhiko’s body.

Rehearsal. The wedding rehearsal. There was no way…

But well, was there truly any more reason to doubt?

“Seri,” he said, cutting her off sharply, and smarter men would’ve been afraid of the expression she gave in return. Well, or men who hadn’t just supposedly traveled to hell and back. Twice. “What…day is it?”

At the simple question, she seemed caught off guard. It was rather unlike him to forget details like that, especially when his work consisted of dating forms and remembering appointments, but she answered none the less, giving him the final push. “August 14th. Saruhiko…are you feeling alright?”

An understatement, if he’d ever heard one. His limbs finally relaxed, and it took everything for him to not fall to the floor pathetically, to not make a scene right there. He couldn’t comprehend half the emotions running through him, but for once, none were of the purely negative sort.

The one thing he was able to acknowledge was that he was back. Alive. Home.

I made it.

It didn’t feel nearly as unbelievable as before. Slowly, he brought a hand up to cover his mouth, whether to cover the unguarded expression from being shown to the world, or to simply ground himself. It wasn’t important.

Seri was looking at him still, though the annoyance was replaced with a mildly concerned incertitude, waiting for his answer, the bright blue of her eyes holding the same question as before.

Was he alight?

Yeah, he thought, allowing himself a laugh as he stepped forward, never better.

Grabbing her by the wrist, he pulled her into him, crushing her against him with the weight of longing he’d built up over ages. He heard her purse hit the floor from the shock of it, and he squeezed tighter, willing himself not to buckle from the repeating mantra in his head.

You’re back.

She yelped against him, her arms staying tense at her sides, unsure of what was going on. Of course. Saruhiko didn’t give hugs, certainly didn’t reciprocate when others initiated them. It was extremely out of character, and the analysis merely made him cling tighter.

His body quaked a bit as he buried his face into her shoulder, the exhaustion and strife flooding out of him in immense waves, leaving him raw and vulnerable in the best way. People were whispering around them, and yeah, maybe he should’ve waited until they weren’t in the middle of the sidewalk, but honestly, he didn’t care.

Hesitantly, Seri’s hands came up to clutch at his sides, taking another moment to test the waters before she gave in completely, pulling him in without question in the usual strong show of support. Even when she didn’t know what was going on, didn’t know why he was upset, she returned the embrace full force, like the pillar she was.

To think, he once believed he could never need this, could never miss this. Such a coward he’d been. Even now after everything, the urge to push it all away was there, weak in his stomach. The part of him which believed nothing was permanent, everything could be taken away.

But well, he could put that part of him to bed at least for today, because it had lost.

They were all here, he’d kept them waiting, and they would never know. Seri. The guys. Misaki.

Misaki.

His thoughts were in a frenzy as he pulled away, dodging Seri’s concerned hand as it quickly came up to check his temperature. He had no clue where to start, what he was doing, but he let desire pull him for once. Best to start with the people closest to his location. “Where…where are the guys?”

Seri’s voice croaked as she collected herself from the tight hug, picking up her bag hastily as Saruhiko began to read the street signs frantically. “T-the office? B-but—what, Saruhiko…you just—who—”

“Let’s go then, before they clock out,” Saruhiko said sternly, already turning them in the direction of his workplace, when she yanked him back by the arm.

She was afraid for him, he could see it. Having him act crazed, affectionate, it was cause for concern, but she didn’t have to worry. He was fine, better than fine, and it was a miracle he was this coherent, after what he’d just finished accomplishing. She couldn’t have known that though, maybe she would never know, if he decided whether or not to tell her one day. All she understood was something was amiss, and she wanted to help fix it. Somehow, the familiar show of care had him resisting another hug, the memory of her crying over his death a bit too strong in that moment. How had she ever been upset about him being gone? How had any of them? It was Saruhiko who needed them the most.

Slowly, he took a deep breath, fixing her with a calmer gaze, if only to calm her down.

It was unfair of him, to leave her in the dark, he knew it, but while he had all the time in the world now, he felt impatient, because that time would never be satisfactory anymore. Especially when…

When I know the expiration dates.

But well, he would dwell on that another day.

“I forgot to tell them something, I just need to go fill them in,” he replied, less hurried, and her shoulders sagged in slight relief.

Yeah, like how they’re idiots, but they should never change.

Ugh, it sounded stupid even in his head. Maybe he wouldn’t put it that way.

She sighed at him, a million questions probably on her mind, but she took his bait in the end. “Okay, I understand, but we just left the office ten minutes ago, remember? We finished up early, and I told everyone they could head home before the evening rush. If we went back now, there’s no guarantee anyone will be there.” She squinted at him, gauging every reaction, and Saruhiko would’ve found the treatment beyond irritating, had it not been what he needed. Truthfully no, he didn’t remember any of that, but he was starting to.

Right, we started to go home early, earlier than usual…she was wondering if I wanted to help set up for the rehearsal…

The pieces of information gradually began to fit together, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what happened next.

Saruhiko clicked his tongue at the inconvenience of both her words and his memory, but Seri knew how to rectify his moods at least, supplying the right words and logic to placate him. “I wouldn’t worry. You’ll see them at the rehearsal tomorrow night, might as well just wait.”

Ah right, she had a point. While a day was a long time to wait, it offered up a solution to his problem, and plus…

Misaki would be there.

As if being pulled, Saruhiko turned in the direction of the Shizume Bridge, where he knew Misaki would be around this time. He died right after me, around this time, so…

If Saruhiko ran, he could probably make it, could intercept the other before the rehearsal, because there was no doubt he couldn’t hide their connection should Misaki see him in the crowded banquet hall. Plus, Misaki didn’t know Saruhiko was alive again, time had been rewritten sure, but all Misaki remembered was Saruhiko failing. Should they meet in public…

Well, the shock and emotion would probably be notable, even if Saruhiko was in control of himself by then.

Annoying.

Regardless, he couldn’t fight the fond smile on his face, the thought of seeing the redhead again too utterly pleasant to resist. Why he hadn’t already booked it towards the other, was because Seri was next to him, and parting from her even for a day wasn’t any simpler, not anymore. Speaking of Seri…

She was gaping at him now, a novel expression for her, and he quickly wiped the smile off his face. Damn, the sudden jump in his character would have to be fixed at some point, or at least more gradual.

“Saruhiko…are you sure you’re not sick? You probably need some sleep. Maybe you shouldn’t come to the—”

“No. I’ll be there. I won’t be late.” Saruhiko made sure to look her in the eyes then, as if he could communicate all he’d learned in those simple statements. Seri just closed her mouth, nodding once, before the softest of smiles bloomed on her face, the trust palpable in the air between them. It was more than he could ask of her, right then. But… “I’m going to head home,” he said, adding a tongue click for good measure. “Maybe sleep isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but shooed him away regardless, satisfied with the exchange enough to not fret about him. Good. With purpose, he turned on his heel, stepping in the direction of the main street before he was being pulled back by her distressed voice once again.

“Wait! Don’t go that way!” He halted instantly, his reflexes a tad more sharpened now, and raised an eyebrow at her disappointed eyes. “Really? I told you earlier, there’s construction that way, it’s probably dangerous. There’s been a few accidents already.”

Saruhiko would’ve protested, in fact, he was about to. After all, he’d taken that way home many times. It was quicker, more efficient and less likely to waste his time, so naturally it should be worth the slight one in a million risk. He was about to tell her all of this, but he never got to.

Saruhiko felt his body jolt, the memory striking him full force as he froze mid-step on the sidewalk, the familiar smell of fresh pavement invading his senses as it all played back.

“And remember, it’s at six! Don’t forget!”

Seri’s voice grated on his nerves as he made way for the cross walk. The end of the day hadn’t come soon enough, and the last thing he needed was the additional time slot on his calendar being occupied. She’d been reminding him constantly, how could he possibly forget? It was a rehearsal anyhow, why put so much importance on attending? It was pretty useless from his standpoint, he was sure everyone could figure out where they were sitting and what they had to do on the actual day of the wedding. Any extra preparation was severely cutting into his work time. It was a miracle they’d managed to finish early today, and even then, he had more than enough of everyone else’s slack to pick up with the work he was taking home.

Pointless.

Saruhiko clicked his tongue, barely sparing the blonde a glance when she scurried up to him, about to part ways to her own home, which was still in much need of unpacking. He supposed she’d need his help with that too. Great.

“No promises,” he muttered, waiting for the light to signal for him to walk, and ignored the huff she gave in return. He could sense the desire in her to protest, maybe to try and wear him down with some heart felt statement about how much it would mean to her, or whatever it took for him to give her an indication of a futile promise. He wasn’t in the mood, and she should’ve known by then. She was lucky he was involved at all, he’d never seen a point to weddings in the first place, at least beyond the show type aspect of it.

She remained silent however, surprising him, but the silence wasn’t unwelcome. But as he made for the turn to his usual shortcut, where he parted with her on most days, she called out to him. “Wait Fushimi! You shouldn’t go that way, there’s construction remember? There’s been some accidents already…”

Saruhiko scoffed at her, shrugging his backpack further onto his shoulder as he made no move to turn around. “It’s faster, I’ll be fine. I’m not walking all the way around anyways.”

“But—”

“See you tomorrow,” he said, not adding the ‘maybe’ which threatened to leave his mouth. He was irritated, maybe more than what was appropriate, but it had been a long week, and the stress of social occasions on top of it all wasn’t something he was used to. He just wanted to get home so he could start his reports, hopefully Enomoto wouldn’t be there tonight. Saruhiko didn’t trust himself to not snap at anyone right then.

After another block, he’d left Seri behind completely, coming to the intersection which had cement trucks lining the shoulder. Two of the lanes were closed, the cars messily trying to merge together before reaching the broken stoplight, where a lone worker directed the traffic haphazardly. The sounds of horns honking and disgruntled shouts from car windows were abundant, but Saruhiko paid them no mind as he continued to walk.

Soon, he reached the curb, noting how he was the sole pedestrian on that side of the street. It made sense, since most of the large loading trucks were moving in and out from his side, rendering the pedestrian traffic inconvenient at best, but Saruhiko didn’t care enough to move to the other side. The cement truck, whose driver seemed on the verge of a tantrum, could wait. The worker blew the whistle again, motioning for Saruhiko to walk hastily, and he stepped into the road, glaring at the ground as he strode forward.

Apparently, the cement truck driver hadn’t been paying attention though, missing Saruhiko completely, and taking the whistle as his signal to step on the gas. Hard.

Saruhiko barely got a last breath in.

He felt his hands stiffen, his feet stumble as he fell back, crushed by the truck’s force. The nausea came after that, and so did the disassociation. Did he still have legs? He would have to, from the way his femurs snapped. He’d heard it, there was no way he couldn’t. The tremors traveled up, even his eyelids felt the tingles, the harsh stings of force.

His skull shook, and one may have wondered if his brain had survived the hits it took against that fractured mass. The vibrations traveled further still, down his spine, cracking his ribs like twigs in a burning fire.

All this inconceivable, unimaginable pain was felt in just a split second—there for but a moment before it was all gone. Nonexistent, as if it had never happened.

Then, there had been the silence. White walls. The sound of a shoes on a tile floor. Misaki.

Death.

Saruhiko jolted out of the memory, breathing accelerated as if he'd been in the moment again, and his legs froze out of fear, his proximity to the street a bit too unnerving at that moment. It was too much for him, not the reason behind his death, but the moments leading up to it as well.

Stupid. How stupid he'd been. It would've been so easy, so simple to avoid everything. The last thing he'd said to Seri was more of a dismissal, and the only things in his heart had been contempt and displeasure with life as whole. So typical of him.

And what had it gotten him? A journey filled with horror, but also Misaki, and a massive reality check. All the trials and pain, the voices and doubt...

He'd gone through it all, had to push himself and push Misaki, had to depend on the other as well as feel completely alone. The yearning and hopelessness had felt never ending, and now it was over. He had returned, he was alive.

How? How was he worthy of any of it after a death like that?

It's too much.

His knees finally buckled after all his effort to keep steady, to act normal, he couldn't anymore. The weight of reality was finally crashing down, all he'd been through was finally standing out in his mind. He was having the moment, the I can't believe I'm here moment.

Was this how Misaki had felt, after being told he was victorious.

God, it was like a high he never hoped would end, but also a painful remembrance. But really, how had he ever questioned coming back? How had he been so close to dismissing this?

"Saruhiko!" Seri rushed to his side, catching some of his weight before he was able to collapse fully, shouldering him as best she could. She was always strong, but he'd never appreciated it more. He could hug her all over again in that moment, and suddenly he thought it might be worth it, to run back to the office and see who was there. "Ugh, that's it, there's no way I'm letting you go home by yourself." She looked around, eyeing the intersection ahead with skepticism. "Well, if you really think the shortcut is the fastest way, maybe we should--"

"No." His answer was quick, harsh enough to cut, and she startled notably at the tone until he started to backtrack. "I mean, there's no point, with both of us and the construction, it'll take the same amount of time." He sighed as irritably as he could, hoping the nerves and mixed relief didn't shine through. If he could help it, he would never walk that way again, and he sure as hell wouldn't let Seri either.

He thought of Misaki though, of him standing on the bridge alone, alive but without him, and felt the pang of guilt intensify within him. But with Seri being overprotective and his desire to collapse from exhaustion, there was no way he could go searching, no matter how badly he wanted to. Saruhiko had ventured to hell and back to see the redhead again, to kiss him again, and one day seemed far too long. But part of him knew he had no choice, he would have to wait, would have to let Misaki suffer alone for a handful of hours before he spent the rest of his life making it up to him. It was almost amusing, the thought of seeing the other the next night, for the first time in the living world. He guessed the rehearsal truly was where their story was meant to begin, had things not taken a wrong turn.

So be it.

He pulled Seri far away from the curb, not wanting to walk anywhere near the bustling evening traffic, and began the short journey to his apartment with content. Seri quirked an eyebrow in confusion, throwing up her free hand in surrender at his weird behavior. As she shook her head in disbelief, she balanced him better, but refused to let him pull away completely, like he'd surely fall over if she didn't keep some sort of connection to him. He didn't refuse. "Alright, we'll go the long way then."

"Mm, thanks."

She blanched once more at the easy display of appreciation from him, the sincerity of his tone, and he vaguely wondered how long it would be before she became used to it. Part of him also dreaded how the guys would react to it. Ugh.

Though, the annoyance he feigned was barely there at all anymore. He sighed, the familiar walk, one devoid of creatures and ghostly whispers, seeping into his mind, a memory he'd be sure to catalog for many years to come. The walk home.

As they made their way, Seri huffed, shaking her head slightly. "You really must be sick. That's the last time I let Domyoji make the coffee in the morning, I thought it tasted strange, but you just kept drinking it so--"

Saruhiko snorted, letting her prattle on about their friend’s inability to brew decent coffee, vaguely remembering having no choice but to consume the foul liquid on many occasions. He'd let her believe it was only that, at least for now. He'd tell them all someday, before it was too late, about the challenges and beatings he'd endured, the nightmares...

But for now, he enjoyed the lightness of the conversation, and the warmth settling deep in his chest.

"Huh? What's so funny?" Seri looked up at him, hand tightening on his arm, and he thought yeah, this is more than enough for now.

He stared tiredly at her, the smallest of smiles on his face. "You're right. It must've been the coffee."

When Yata woke up on the morning of August 15th, it was as if he'd been pulled under water again, unable to breathe or comprehend anything going on around him, though he was alone in his simple apartment. It was less like how drowning had felt, and more like he had been submerged in a tank, watching as a flurry of memories, events which would now never come into existence, played before his eyes.

In fact, he'd been feeling this way since his return, since the previous evening when he had walked home, debating on the first course of action, while also juggling the grief still heavy in his heart.

Except, it had felt as if it hadn't been the first time he'd done so. Upon seeing the old paintings in his living room, he couldn't help but think, didn't I throw those out? And upon hesitating to dial his mother's phone number, he wondered why he could already feel the ghost of her arms around him, shushing him in comfort.

The weight of longing and sadness when he thought of Saruhiko was there of course, but it felt extra painful, like it was a wound long healed which had been torn open again, left to bleed anew.

But why was that?

Yata raised his hand to his face, eyes squinting as the beginning trickles of sunlight bled into his room, and felt the dried tears on his face, the roughness of his skin. As gently as he could, like one wrong move could disrupt everything around him, he rolled over in his bed and stared at the date on his digital clock.

August 15th. Yeah, that was right, felt right...but also, seemed hugely inaccurate. Surely, it was the result of Yata's mournful state, his confusion, the trauma he was attempting to come to terms with. He'd yet to touch his paints, yet to eat or think about anything worthwhile really.

The fact that he'd officially beaten death, that he'd finally moved on to the next day of his life, was no doubt a shock he hadn't been ready for, and that's why he felt so unstable.

It would get easier...better, part of him knew it, as if he'd already experienced it, but at the end of it all, each new day would be without Saruhiko, and Yata wondered if he'd ever comfortably be able to accept that.

Timidly, he sat up, the bed suddenly a little too lonely, which was funny, since Saruhiko had only ever shared a dirtied surface with Yata for sleep. Regardless, Yata craved the warmth of another person next to him. He groaned as he stretched, feeling gross from the street wear he had slept in--he hadn't bothered to change--and the ghost of grime on his skin. He knew technically all the evidence from the journey had been erased from his flesh, save for the suspicious scar here and there, but he could sense the dirt under his now clean fingernails, the sweat and dried blood. It was all in his head yeah, but muscle memory was a powerful thing too. He kicked aside a box of art supplies, grimacing at the shades of blue which caught his eyes, and chose to slump down onto the floor. He wasn't ready to make the effort of picking out new clothes for the day, and it was better than the cold bed.

Come to think of it, did he have to get ready at all? The rehearsal should've been cancelled, the one which required the fancy suit which Yata had reluctantly hung up in his closet, and which was probably exactly as he'd left it. Of course, the rehearsal was only a set event if things went according to plan, plans involving no deaths in the bride's party...

At the thought of facing Saruhiko's grieving friends, or imagining how they must be feeling right then, Yata's stomach dipped, threatening to expel what little was inside it. He would need to learn to control that, or simply avoid any talk of funerals and wakes all together. Surely the pain was still fresh for those close to Saruhiko, and for Kusanagi, who was left with comforting his fiancé.

Yet, he'd gotten no text from Kusanagi the previous day about the tragedy, no alert about cancelling the rehearsal or being unavailable himself. In confusion, Yata pulled out his phone, watching it light up with two notifications. His breath hitched upon seeing Kusanagi's name, but as he read the text, the world around him seemed less and less secure.

Kusanagi: Yata, I hope you're up already. Don't forget, you promised to come help the boys set up for the dinner today, see you around noon.

Kusanagi: Also, bring your suit. I don't know if you'll have time to head home and change before the dinner starts.

Yata's first reaction after the distraught faded was to panic. What? The rehearsal was still happening? How?

His fingers scratched against the carpet, the frozen appendages barely getting feeling back as his thoughts reeled left and right. The possibilities he came up with were minimal, but none too pleasant. Perhaps no one knew about Saruhiko yet, maybe no one had been expecting to hear from him until the dinner.

When he doesn't show up...

Yata thought he might actually be sick, and he retreated to the bathroom for good measure, head suddenly pounding. The ceramic of the toilet felt too cold against his clammy hands, and it was just one of many sensations which were too much for him at the moment. The texture of the tile floor, the footsteps from the floor above him, the material of his clothes...

His brain was having too much trouble processing it in addition to the crushing realization that he would have to witness Saruhiko's family finding out about his death. That and the realization he too, would finally know how the other perished.

"Fuck..." Yata groaned, debating on whether he should just skip out, call in sick and deal with Kusanagi's wrath. It wasn't like it would last anyhow...soon the older man would have to deal with a postponed wedding, and a mourning fiancé. It would be easy...to avoid the pain for a second time around. After all, the last thing he wanted to hear was that Saruhiko was gone. He knew, but it didn't make the pangs of loneliness any weaker. Yata tended to be an empathetic guy, from what people told him, seeing so much grief over Saruhiko, who to everyone else, was a complete stranger to him, would be utterly impossible to bear.

Hesitantly, he pulled up his messaging app, reading to give Kusanagi some excuse about not being able to attend, but his fingers wouldn't type. Stupid...as if you could get away with this.

No one would understand, and he wasn't the type of person to lie to a friend, he wasn't sure he was capable of it. He had to go. What kind of friend would he be if he didn't stand by Kusanagi in support when the evening fell to shit?

Acting oblivious would be difficult, but any tears he spilled could surely be blamed on atmosphere, on pity.

He scoffed at the word, hating it suddenly, because his cries would forever be of loss.

But well, maybe part of him kind of owed it to Saruhiko too, to offer whatever comfort he could to the taller's loved ones, since Saruhiko could not. With the grounding thought in mind, Yata straightened up and away from the toilet, letting the calm buzz of the bathroom lights fill the air as his breathing rate lowered, and his panic dissolved.

Right, you have to go for Saruhiko. He won't be able to. You have to get it together dammit! Not just then, but for the sake of his life, for his future. Yata would live enough for the both of them.

With shaky movements, Yata stood up from the floor, shedding his t-shirt as he turned on the shower, letting steam seep into the small space. As he left to grab his suit from the closet and lay down new clothes onto his bed, his eyes caught sight of his old paintings, and the dull and superficial colors which had seemed to taunt him yesterday didn't look as bad.

Maybe he might try to sell them, gain some extra money and start new. The stuff he used to paint before weren't as appealing to him now, and he felt his hands itch for different themes, for stories of trials and love, and most of all himself. Of course, he'd throw in some blues here and there too.

Yata actually managed to crack a smile at that, excited for his slowly developing vision of the future, and reorganized the box of paints he had impulsively kicked earlier. Much better.

Not everything was lost, he knew it. Today would be hard, about as hard as any of the trials of the afterlife, but he'd get to see and laugh with his friends for a little while, and things would improve as the weeks went by. More than anything, Yata resigned to see his mom, and apologize to her fully for his absence. Everything else would fall into place, and he could pace himself as much as he needed to.

He walked back towards the bathroom, his entrance into the steam almost refreshing as he looked towards better days. Though life without Saruhiko would never be one hundred percent, Yata would carry the other with him in all he did and created, and the hopeful thought was enough to give him the energy he needed. And while something in his gut told him something was still amiss, he ended up walking out of the shower with more purpose than ever before.

His eyes never stopped searching for the thousand watt grin, for shining amber eyes, for the familiar brightness in the dark he had begun to crave. Or, that’s what he was used to, but maybe the world around him wasn’t so dark anymore.

Saruhiko turned away from the entrance of the room, which he’d been watching like a hawk, and let himself gaze at madness surrounding him. It was a good madness this time though. The reception hall was probably the least extravagant part of Seri’s wedding, but it was no less decorated, the lighting and fixtures catering to the color scheme perfectly. It felt empty as it was now, tables devoid of the off white table cloths and twinkling lights above, giving it the sought after fantasy look. Those things would be absent until the big day though, for now the large room held empty tables with cheap covers, the artificial light from above casting a bright glow as the bride and groom saw to inspecting it, laying out the seating cards and making sure the flower arrangements wouldn’t be too cluttered. Only the immediate family and friends of the two of them were present, barely fifteen people in total. It made the room look twice as barren, but oh well. When it was filled with guests and music, drenched in smells of cakes and food, Saruhiko was sure Seri would be pleased with it, though she constantly complained throughout the rehearsal that things weren’t right or weren’t properly placed. He didn’t get it himself, did all that really matter?

Saruhiko nearly had the nerve to ask, but Kusanagi, ever the stoplight to disaster, had elbowed him sharply, smile wide as he preached about the bride always being right in these cases. Whatever. It wasn’t like Saruhiko was going to argue, he was content enough as it was, just seeing the blonde and her fiancé fretting about, alive and well in their acts of scolding. Things had calmed down anyhow, the food for dinner being brought in and laid out, along with copious amounts of alcohol courtesy of Kusanagi’s bar. Apparently, Kusanagi’s party had showed up in the afternoon to set up, and were now beginning to wind down, but from where Saruhiko sat, there was no sign of Misaki. Initially, he’d been wandering about, paranoid that something had happened, convinced he’d never be allowed to see Misaki again in some cruel twist of fate, but he’d eventually been escorted to a place setting. It was his assigned seat, a spot at a large table, and it would’ve been an anxious wait, being forced to sit and stare at the one way into the room, had it not been for—

“Fushimi-san! You’re not going to drink?” Enomoto happily held up his own glass and another, handing it to Fuse. Seven pairs of eyes were on him instantly, and he shrugged at the full table of his coworkers. It was only natural they’d all been seated together, and he found the proximity strangely comforting.

It had been refreshing all evening, his yearning for Misaki aside, amidst his party’s bickering and griping during set up. Saruhiko had almost forgotten what it was like, being influenced by each and every quirk and personality trait they had to offer. Hidaka complained about the lack of girls in Kusanagi’s party, as if the wedding would be his first step on a road to true love, and Domyoji was more concerned with the DJ and food, pulling out clippings of suggestions (as if Seri hadn’t booked a caterer months in advance). Kamo made sure his daughter wasn’t getting into things, happy as ever that it was his time with her that month, and Akiyama was lost in a conversation with Benzai, sitting a bit too close to not be a bit suspicious to Saruhiko. Though it was hard to ponder too much on it with Gotou talking his ear off for a good portion of the evening. Saruhiko had simply asked him about one of his collections, and the sudden interest in his hobby had lit a fuse of some sort. Saruhiko couldn’t mind too much. As for Enomoto and Fuse well…they were as affectionate as he remembered them, but less sickeningly so.

Saruhiko had initially taken care as to not seem so different around them, but with their smiles and loudness, as well as their need to throw him in the middle of their conversations, he had dropped the act hours ago. Besides, seeing their surprised reactions to his sudden ‘niceness’ was a gift in and of itself.

It didn’t mean he had changed completely though, and the sharp criticisms remained apparent in his speech whenever they got too rowdy. Saruhiko rolled his eyes at them, willing the attention away. “Unlike you all, I like to actually be in control of my actions,” he said, clicking his tongue as he eyed the champagne critically. “Besides, I’d hate to be the one of you who gets too drunk and ruins the dinner.”

Oh how Seri’s punishment would be steep.

“Hey! Why are you implying that it’ll be one of us?” Hidaka jumped in, his own glass sloshing messily, and Saruhiko snorted from the panic in his eyes. Fuse neglected to comment, sipping his drink in amusement while the rest of the table laughed, and Saruhiko bathed in the familiarity of it all. Hidaka’s expression was nothing short of petulant, but he was always quick to recover. “This is hardly a good atmosphere to get drunk anyways! After work tomorrow, you’re totally coming to a bar with us Fushimi-san!”

It was meant more as a distraction, since the invitation had been uttered from the mouths of his coworkers one too many times, and for the most part, they were used to his outright refusal. Even in the last few years, with his less standoffish nature, it would take copious amounts of begging to get him anywhere near a public outing with the lot of them. As for now though… “Sure. Let me know where,” he replied, tone bored as his eyes scanned the crowd, back to their earlier task of locating a particular redhead.

He didn’t bother looking at their gaping expressions, but he felt them, the disbelieving eyes boring into his back irritatingly. Three, two, one…

Rather than a direct verbal assault though, they tag teamed, with Hidaka fearlessly grabbing Saruhiko’s face and jerking it towards him, stupidly inspecting his features while Gotou poked him. In the meantime, Fuse saw his opening at last, the bastard, and promptly let loose his skepticism. “Are you sure you’re Fushimi Saruhiko? You haven’t been replaced with some android, trying to gain our favor in order to steal government secrets?”

“Yeah, you didn’t even threaten to kill me when I spilled coffee on you earlier!” Domyoji jumped in, raising an accusing finger. “You’re an imposter!”

Wrenching away from Hidaka’s grip (who finally had the nerve to look a bit abashed about it), Saruhiko fixed them with a glare, mostly annoyed from being distracted from his watch, but there wasn’t as much animosity as usual, and the idiots began to use it as more concrete evidence as to why he had been replaced (possibly by aliens now).

“I’m surprised you all managed to figure it out, you got me,” he deadpanned, and it fed into the madness.

“He has jokes now!” Domyoji’s shout garnered more than a few stares, and Seri directed a fierce glare at them, the typical ‘I love you but shut up’ traveling across the hall. The ginger had enough sense to quiet down, as much as he could at least, but he was soon smirking again, nudging Akiyama in the side as he spoke. “Pft, I bet Fushimi-san would even let me hug him now, huh?” He snorted at the thought, the rest of the table raising their eyebrows at just the suggestion, joke or not.

However, it gave Saruhiko just what he needed to shut them up. A dangerous smirk made its way onto his face, and the atmosphere at the table might as well have plunged in temperature. Not his fault, they were the ones testing his patience. Blinking slowly, he fixed Domyoji with his challenging expression, enjoying how the older boy notably gulped. “As a matter of fact, I would. Why don’t you try it?”

Benzai paled, Enomoto choked, and the rest of them didn’t seem to know what to make of the situation. Domyoji straightened in his seat, innocent eyes widening as he took in the words. “W-wait…really? You’re not joking?”

“Nope.”

It was easy to see the cogs turning in Domyoji’s head, trying to discern if it was a bluff or not, and really, Saruhiko hardly knew either. Though he was never much for physical contact of any sort, something about traveling to hell twice just to sit at this table full of losers made him a bit more willing.

Domyoji squinted at him, but rose from his seat anyways, inching little by little towards Saruhiko. The rest of the table held their breaths. “O-okay…imma do it…last chance to back out ha…”

“I’m waiting,” Saruhiko said, eyes never leaving the quivering form of Domyoji. Enomoto was biting his nails.

“Y-yeah, prep-prepare to be hugged!”

“Joy.”

Domyoji was about a foot away now, and it had taken him a good two minutes to cross the initial five foot distance from around the table, and Saruhiko could feel the warmth and tension radiating off him now. He inched forward again, the sleeve of his jacket just touching Saruhiko’s shoulder…

“Oh god, never mind!” Domyoji shouted suddenly, flying back into his seat at lightning speed, clutching Akiyama’s arm. “Hell no! It’s like walking into a venus fly trap!”

Saruhiko smirked triumphantly as his friends exhaled, laughing at the ginger’s expense, and soon the topic of his sudden personality change was lost to comforting Domyoji, and trying to not attract more attention. He considered it a success.

The reception hall had filled considerably in the next half hour, the remaining relatives and college peers flooding in to take their seats.

Still no Misaki. Saruhiko had begun to shred napkins in his lap, glaring at the childishness of it as he reached for yet another. The emotion bubbling up inside him was fierce, upset at being caged, and he willed it down. He caught Enomoto staring at him a few times in concern, but Saruhiko prayed the other wouldn’t bring it up in front of everyone else.

The sound of clicking heels distracted him from worrying, if only for a moment. Seri came bounding over in quick strides, and Saruhiko was pretty sure he hadn’t seen her sit down once since the evening began.

“Alright guys, food is out and almost everyone is seated,” Seri announced to them in a hushed whisper as she approached the table, hands smoothing over the front of her embroidered evening dress. “How do I look? I’m going to go meet Kusanagi’s side of the family now.”

Gotou’s eyebrows knitted together as he looked her over. A backless A-line dress, blue in color, with gold beading in the front, and high heels to match. Simple, but regal. “Wait…didn’t you meet them earlier during set up?”

She crossed her arms, the question deemed unacceptable from the simple movement. “I mean yes, I met some of the guys, but no formal introductions, certainly no family or college friends! Proper introductions are in order.” She said the last bit with a frazzled gesture to her person, and wordlessly, they all gave her the thumbs up, which was enough for her to tuck a stray piece of hair back with a pin, and train a smile to her face before walking back into the fray. Saruhiko did not envy her. However, she turned back around halfway, like she’d forgotten something, and grabbed a new glass of champagne quickly before returning to them.

Benzai was about to ask what was the issue, but he never got the chance.

“Thank you all for coming to this,” she started, voice notably softer, a tone saved for them, and she raised her glass. Her crystal blue eyes twinkled with something private as she scanned over each of their faces, and Saruhiko clenched his pile of shredded paper, remembering why he’d tried so hard to make it back to this life, one where he could hear such pointless words. Except, he couldn’t call them that anymore, huh? “I know planning this has been hectic, and it’s probably going to get worse with the wedding in a month, but…having your help, I couldn’t ask for better friends, my pillars of strength. Cheers to all of you.”

Calendar dates and years repeated themselves in his mind as he and everyone else raised a glass, but he paid no mind, knowing it was useless. What was meant to happen would, as much as it angered him, but the things he could control, like this, he’d gladly take advantage of.

Seri wiped her eyes, taking a fast gulp of her champagne before she was off, leaving them in a bubble of stunned silence amongst the chirps of laughter and greetings. Saruhiko’s hands went back to his half shredded napkin, but suddenly he had no energy for that either.

“And with that…it’s time for more alcohol,” Hidaka sniffed, standing with Domyoji and excusing them to the banquet spread. Kamo seemed less than pleased with the example they set, but it didn’t matter, because soon he was being dragged away by his daughter anyhow, eager to get first crack at the desserts being laid out. As for everyone else, they dispersed, Akiyama and Benzai disappearing to somewhere unknown, and Gotou left to greet some of Seri’s in laws, as was appropriate. It left Fuse and Enomoto with him, which he didn’t mind so much, except for the fact they obviously knew something was amiss with him, his head turning continuously towards the entrance, eyes scanning the crowds.

If they exchanged some sort of knowing look, Saruhiko wouldn’t know, but after a few minutes, Fuse was excusing himself none too subtly, touching Enomoto’s shoulder as he made for the banquet table. Great.

It wasn’t helpful that Enomoto sat almost directly in front of him from across the table, the eye contact, although shy, searing as Saruhiko avoided it. He was fairly sure Enomoto was angling himself now, trying to catch Saruhiko’s eye, periphery or otherwise, but upon finally realizing Saruhiko’s resistance, sighed in resignation.

Not ‘I guess I’ll give up’ resignation, no, the ‘guess I’ll talk to him anyways’ resignation. Ugh.

“Fushimi-san…you seem distracted,” Enomoto commented, like it wasn’t obvious to them both. Saruhiko appreciated his attempt to not seem nosy though. “Are you looking for someone?”

Someone. Hm.

To him, Misaki was more than a someone, he was everything. It was as scary as it was pathetic, but it shouldn’t be a surprise. They’d gone through alot together, Saruhiko had done so much to just be able to see the redhead again, to start fresh and build something together. The separation he’d been forced to endure, the pain and desperation, it made it so clear in his head. He wanted to be with Misaki, in whatever way the redhead would permit, though Saruhiko’s selfish desires clouded up the vision quite a bit. Now, the distance between them, which was now minimal, barely there at all, felt agonizing. So yes, he was looking for someone, the one who should’ve been there from the start. There was no use denying part of that, he guessed.

“You could say that,” Saruhiko replied, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. He was watching Kusanagi’s main table, where a band of young men were seated, drinking and laughing away. Saruhiko recognized them from the Return, from the vision Munakata had allowed them to see, but they were happy now. Only one thing was similar: Misaki was missing.

Enomoto beamed after recovering from the initial shock of actually getting an answer out of him, skipping a few seats over until he was almost in front of Saruhiko. “Who? Someone special?”

It was hard to fight the fondness welling up inside him from those words, because really, they were true. He couldn’t let that show though, Misaki was supposed to be a stranger. Saruhiko might be able to get away with calling him an acquaintance, someone he met outside of work by happenstance and who just so happened to be part of Kusanagi’s group. That was even a stretch, openly admitting any deeper involvement was ill advised. He kept it in mind, when choosing his words. “Someone who…doesn’t annoy me I guess.”

Enomoto actually had the nerve to snort at that, fixing him with an uncharacteristic smug smile, and Saruhiko knew the intent he’d tried to get across had failed the moment those olive eyes twinkled in delight. Oh well. Not like it mattered. If he kept all these idiots around, and he’d be sure to, they’d be finding out about Misaki sooner or later, and much to Saruhiko’s chagrin.

“Fushimi-san, that’s basically you for ‘someone I like’ you know?” Enomoto said, rising from his chair before Saruhiko could respond. Not like he’d actually had an answer to such a bold statement though. He guessed his friends really did know his quirks to the smallest detail. He could deal with that, he supposed.

Giving him one last wink over his shoulder, Enomoto sauntered off to his boyfriend, leaving Saruhiko alone at the table, waiting dutifully once again.

The group toasts, the ones which included the whole room were about to begin, the last of the late arrivals grabbing plates of food and taking their seats. Saruhiko could see Kusanagi checking on his own tables, while anyone who had been standing halted their conversations as they waited for the bride to take the mic. Saruhiko was going to tune out the speeches, not needing Seri’s rehearsed words, stress induced, to reach his ears. Besides, the last of his focus had quickly dwindled, eyes drooping in a sudden bout of disappointment. Funny, it was an emotion he had never let himself feel before, too worried about his attachments and the grief they could bring. Now, it overcame him in waves as the room quieted, missing the one voice he so craved and—

“Where’s Yata?”

Jerking his head up, Saruhiko sought the source of the voice, catching Kusanagi talking to another young man wearing glasses, the dark rim of his hat occasionally hiding his eyes. “Oh, I think he’s still in the back unloading the last of the alcohol. Awashima-san was worried we were running out,” the man said, and a brief spark of stress flashed across Kusanagi’s face.

“Damn, we’re about to start. I’ll—”

Saruhiko’s chair scratched against the floor from the force and speed with which he sat up, crossing the several feet to Kusanagi in record time, much to the two’s surprise. Saruhiko didn’t care. “I’ll go get him, things are starting soon Kusanagi-san,” Saruhiko said, looking over to where Seri was beginning to fiddle with the mic. “Awashima won’t appreciate the wait.”

“Ah,” Kusanagi said, a bit startled. “Thank you Fushimi…uh, he should be right out back, just call his name and—”

“Got it.” Saruhiko barely finished before he was turning around, stalking out of the main entrance and veering left, towards the building’s back exit.

The hallway was long, but the door was in plain sight, each footstep beginning to echo louder and louder as he approached. It was déjà vu, but not, seeing as how the first time he had been so nervous approaching a door, it meant terrors of unimaginable proportion were waiting for him. This time, all he’d encounter was a warm embrace, soft skin, a voice which Saruhiko had used to motivate him through fire and dangers of all kinds.

This was it. After all this time…

Who knew how long it had actually been, years maybe, with how long his second journey had felt. He wondered what Misaki had done in that span, before time had been rewritten. All because of Saruhiko, and his stubbornness. He almost felt guilty, stealing away all of the progress Misaki must’ve managed in that time, but the selfishness in his heart was too strong, the relief he felt greater than everything else.

"Saruhiko! Did you hear that? You'll see your friends, it'll all be the same!”

In the end, Misaki had been right. They were picking up right where they left off, and then some. Saruhiko shouldn’t have doubted him, Misaki and his strange, but unyielding faith in the both of them. Surely, Saruhiko would have to pay that back, and he would, in whatever way Misaki wanted. Saruhiko would never be perfect, still shouldered a lot of the same issues as before, but he was willing to try now, and he could only hope Misaki would appreciate it.

Heh, gods know I appreciate him.

And Saruhiko couldn’t help but wonder if they, those beings who had been rooting for him from their gaudy thrones, were watching this moment too, holding their breath as Saruhiko was, heart beats stalling as he pushed the door open…

The cold night air hit him, the alley darker than the nearby street due to its lack of light, illuminated by a lone lamppost as a figure unloaded one last box off the back of a car. Saruhiko froze, the agony of separation and too much effort falling away in an instant when he caught a glimpse of fiery hair and toned arms.

Misaki had his back to him, the occasional curse being muttered as he cut open the last box with a knife, his back muscles flexing from carrying the heavy load and stacking it on top of the others. His suit jacket was lying haphazardly on one of the boxes, his shirt sleeves rolled up and somewhat stained with dirt. The pants he wore needed to be hemmed, from what Saruhiko could tell, and had he not been so taken by the image before him, he might’ve commented.

It wasn’t the time though.

Misaki rested his hands on his hips, looking over his work with a heavy sigh, like he’d never done a harder task. Saruhiko smiled softly, and he thought he saw Misaki laugh, like they’d unknowingly shared the same thought. Misaki had done much harder feats of labor, they both had. Complaining about anything else was ridiculous at that point.

It was the reminder of those shared challenges, the connection between them, and the memory of Misaki’s bone crushing hug as the redhead left him in hell, that had Saruhiko’s fingers slipping from the door, letting it slam shut, tearing through the silence.

Misaki jumped, amber eyes shooting to meet his blue ones, and the revelation was instantaneous. The echo of the door slamming filled the silence, as if the noise was having trouble traveling through the thickness of it. Saruhiko swallowed, because seeing Misaki’s eyes, so vibrant, so alive…it was more than he could handle.

It all seemed to stand still, and Saruhiko wondered if seconds even passed while he watched Misaki’s lip tremble, and felt his own blood rush, his heart beat ringing in his ears. It would make sense, given what he knew, for time to be manipulated, for higher forces to give him this one moment, unaffected by time or whatever was happening in the dining room. After all the universe had taken, it indulged him in this, letting him feel the burst of love he felt for the person only twelve feet away.

It was the connection which had guided him to safety.

Saruhiko was on the ground before he could blink, if he’d even been able to, too taken with the image of Misaki in the flesh and blood before him. Misaki’s arms were around him, nuzzling his face into his neck as Saruhiko toppled back, catching himself right before his back hit the dirt. His jacket was probably ruined, he couldn’t care less. He pulled Misaki farther into his arms, legs squeezing against the redhead’s sides due to the force of the full body hug, warmth unlike anything Saruhiko had ever felt before flooding him.

Searing. Full of life.

“You’re here….” Saruhiko whispered, the feelings which had built up too much to hold back any longer.

Misaki pulled his face away from the taller’s neck, staring with wide, disbelieving eyes as he half cried, half laughed. “I’m here? You dumbass, what about you? What are...” Misaki trailed off as his gaze lowered to Saruhiko’s lips, and Saruhiko’s intentions weren’t far off. They met in the middle, kisses quick and desperate, drinking each other up like they could disappear again in the next minute. But something told him that they’d never let that happen again, they would find a way back to each other, because they were that idiotically stubborn, deep down. Misaki tasted like mint, a flavor which had been absent the first time they’d kissed. It was a small, embarrassing detail, but Saruhiko reveled in it. Misaki’s taste.

Misaki held the last kiss for longer this time, though Saruhiko was hopeful there’d be many more in the future, and his eyes were on Saruhiko again, pupils blown wide and searching. Misaki let his body relax, legs repositioning to sit on either side of Saruhiko’s waist, and shook his head. “How is this…what…how are you here? Munakata said you…”

The words were lost to the noiseless air, too grave to be spoken again, like they were cursed. It was silly, to fear such a thing, but Saruhiko was still in shock if he was being honest, hadn’t fully recovered from returning to that moment on the street on an August evening. Life was so fragile, he was hyperaware of how he could lose it again, from the drive to the rehearsal to walking to work. Even for him, who had beaten the odds and returned, wasn’t guaranteed the next day. No one was.

But this, Misaki staring at him with confusion and unhidden fondness…he’d try to keep it as long as possible.

There was a lot to explain, where should he begin? Was it worth retelling those months of agony, the months spent lying around until the solution had come to him? Would Misaki want to know about each new trial? Would Saruhiko actually be able to tell him? There was so much to share, and yet he had no idea what was appropriate. Something told him the redhead would want to hear it all though, the journey which had brought him back.

Misaki leaned down at the same time Saruhiko pushed himself up farther, their foreheads bumping, like a silent and eternal pact between them. I’m on your side.

Yeah, sounds about right.

Saruhiko sighed, figuring he’d best start at the beginning, and opened his mouth. “I—”

The applause from the adjoining room reminded him of where they were though, what they were supposed to be, versus what they were. Somehow he didn’t mind the interruption, the reminder. Saruhiko stared at the door leading back to the reception hall, back to the world they now both shared, and Misaki laughed from his spot on top of him.

“Eh Saru, maybe you should save it,” Misaki said, smiling as he got up and offered Saruhiko his hand. “I think we’re late.”

Saruhiko managed to crack a smile at Misaki’s poorly concealed amusement, because yeah, time was a thing they actually had to worry about again, passing regularly and all too quickly, unaltered except for those truly worthy.

With a soft nod, Saruhiko grabbed his partner’s hand, the snug fit all too familiar and infinitely perfect, and followed him into the building.

Yata shut off the television, staring with displeasure at the blank screen. “Well, that was shit.” He dropped the remote in defeat, plopping onto his side on the soft couch, one which he never got tired of sinking into. After so many years of his shitty, torn up couch which could barely hold Saruhiko and him at the same time, the new plush couch had been an amazing addition. Of course, they'd had to wait a year or so before they'd gotten it, since they needed a bigger apartment to fit the furniture, but it had been worth the wait.

Yeah...

Lots of things had been worth the wait.

Yata smiled as he looked out across the ample sized living room, which was nearly as big as his old apartment in total size, and basked in the afternoon glow seeping in through the windows. They'd been living there for a few short months, but Yata had gladly associated it with feelings of comfort, as a refuge. Home. Sometimes the fridge buzzed too loud and the lights flickered, the sink would routinely clog and they needed to replace some of the tile in the kitchen...but mostly, he couldn't ask for better.

The sound of typing reached his ears from the table, along with a disinterested hum as the owner of the device addressed Yata. "I told you it looked awful, you shouldn't have wasted your time."

Yata watched as Saruhiko stretched in his lounge wear, looking like the perfect mix of annoyed and relaxed as he shut his laptop, scooting it away from him and jostling Yata's strewn about art supplies, all of which sat on the table. Yata usually yelled at him for not respecting his stuff, but he also knew Saruhiko had told him to get his crap off the table many times in the first place, so there was no use in arguing. The table was always a mess, and it would probably stay that way forever.

Yata's smile grew, the reminder of Saruhiko always being by his side too wonderful to ignore. He knew it like his own name now, but even after two years and all their time in the afterlife together, the thought of Saruhiko beside him made his stomach flip. It proved to be true in any case, especially when he'd wake up at night drenched in sweat, images of barren wastelands and tombs fresh in his mind, to find Saruhiko wide awake beside him, gripping his hand tight. Yata would do the same for the taller in return, when the talk of the future came up, when certain years and dates approached, and the light left Saruhiko’s eyes for brief moments.

They coped the best they could in those times, and Yata knew those things wouldn't ever go away, yet...he couldn't help but find himself incredibly happy.

Well, except when he was subjected to shitty movies.

"The effects looked cool! It was just...I totally knew everything that was gonna happen, and I wasn't expecting all the hell and heaven scenes..."

Saruhiko snorted, leaning back in his chair before scowling in distaste at his now dull soda. "You knew going in it was a story about angels and demons, you should know better than to watch those anymore," Saruhiko sighed. "They're pathetically unrealistic."

Got that right. It was a tired joke between them, movies about death and the afterlife, or any themes similar. Since having experienced the real thing, the appeal of such plots often fell short. While Saruhiko had given up trying to enjoy films about that stuff, Yata was more stubborn. He continuously searched, eager for an outlet for his own experience, but of course, found none. Saruhiko routinely reminded him that, as far as they knew, no one else had any idea what awaited them in the great beyond, or whatever. It remained annoying regardless, but lately he'd started to ponder a new option, and it grew more and more enticing with each day.

Well, if we're the only ones who know...

The idea poked harder at Yata’s brain, and well, when he actually was inspired it was hard to resist. Standing up with a huff, he walked over to the table, grabbing his tablet and inspecting it with a bit too much focus, like it would give him all the answers rather than him actually doing any work. If only it were so simple. "I should just make my own story, I've been getting better with my digital stuff, I could do a comic..."

Instinctively, his free hand joined Saruhiko's on the table, the touch as natural as breathing, and the taller hummed, raising a brow at him. "About?"

Yata smirked, trying not to laugh as the amusement between them grew. "Not sure, maybe these two people die and they have to go on some journey to be brought back to life. There's also this god who won't shut the fuck up. Oh and a parrot."

"There's a parrot?"

"There's a parrot."

Yata had to look away, determined to not cave first, and he was probably crushing the life out of his boyfriend's hand, but oh well.

Saruhiko stood up, coming up behind Yata and hiding his face in the crook of his neck. "Hm, sounds fake."

Yata bit his lip. "Yeah, totally lame. Imma scrap it."

"Would never happen."

"Two out of five stars."

"I would've given it one."

By the end of their exchange, Yata was dying, leaning on the table for support and trying his best not to drop his tablet. He made good money now, but last thing he wanted to do was go through the pain of getting a new one of those.

Yata leaned back into the touch, reveling in the simple feeling of Saruhiko's steady breaths against his skin, and wondered if he'd actually do it.

A story like theirs would take a lot of time, of planning. The details were important, the imagery. It would mean revisiting some painful memories, opening up to complete strangers about an experience he held near and dear to his heart, but at times wanted to push away with the strongest force. People would hate it, would criticize it, the events which changed his view of life. He knew that of course, as an artist. But this was different yeah?

He turned his head slightly, the impulse to catch Saruhiko's lips in a kiss too strong, and remembered it was different for both of them. The suffering they'd shared, the relief, it was all too much to wrap up easily and cast out into the world.

And then suddenly, the idea he'd been pondering for weeks seemed less and less appealing, all too complex and grand.

Yata didn't need other people to know about his strife to feel validated, he realized, not when Saruhiko was there, not when he woke up every morning, proving of his success.

"You still thinking about actually drawing it?" Saruhiko asked hours later while they were in bed, limbs entangled and eyelids droopy, and Yata smiled at him, more content than he'd ever been. All because of an accident, a journey, and the people in his life. It was a story so personal to him it hurt, and as Saruhiko smiled at Yata's soft shake of the head, Yata knew he felt the same.

And he thought, well, maybe they could keep the story to themselves just a little bit longer.

"Watching again Munakata?" Mikoto's gruff voice broke Munakata out of his pleasant observance, and the deity spun around quickly, as if caught. The water of the pool rippled into nothingness, disturbing the image of the two lovers until they were absent from view. Munakata huffed, not one to deny the allegations, but not particularly happy with how sneaky Mikoto had become. What happened to those barbaric, loud footsteps from before?

Munakata couldn't be severely displeased though, seeing as how the volume change was most likely due to Mikoto's desire to not attract attention when he returned from visiting Totsuka. The thought caused a calm smile to bloom on his face, the one which Mikoto usually dubbed as being creepy, but Munakata was hardly swayed by such insult.

Things are right in the world, living and dead it seems.

"I was simply checking on how they were doing," Munakata said, the relief clear in Mikoto's shoulders when Munakata didn’t ask him of his previous whereabouts. As if he didn't already know. "I am...happy that they're doing so well."

"Been two years," Mikoto muttered, slumping in his seat with a noticeable displeasure in his aura. "You can stop babysittin 'em."

"I wouldn't put it in such a way, it's not babysitting," Munakata sighed, turning back towards the pool. Perhaps Mikoto did have a point though, there was no concrete reason for checking in on them, but well...maybe Munakata just favored them, two souls which he greatly respected, and would be honored to see again. Nothing wrong with it. Also, it was no lie that Munakata had caught Mikoto staring into the pool from time to time as well, smiling at the progress of the two Returners. But, Munakata was not one to point fingers in retaliation. At least, not at that particular moment. "What's got you in a mood?"

A grunt was his reply, and Munakata nodded. "Ah, you know, you can spend as much time with him as you please, Totsu--"

"I know Munakata," Mikoto rolled his eyes, slouching further into his seat. "We got stuff to do though, always..."

Ah, well that is true.

Their jobs of sorting, of dealing with late arrivals, it never ended. Though heaven was Mikoto's domain, he would never be able to be there permanently, with the one he loved, until he and Munakata were relieved from their duties, and allowed to retire to the sanctuary. Time was strange for them, it passed quickly and yet not at all, the centuries bleeding together as they watched the world develop. Perhaps Munakata was a bit envious too, of Yata and Fushimi, for getting to live their lives freely in a way Munakata could not.

However, such thoughts were unbecoming. One day he would get his freedom, and hopefully when he did, he would be satisfied with the work he'd left behind, and those chosen to take his place. Speaking of...

"When's our time up eh? I never remember," Mikoto mumbled from his seat, staring at the baroque ceiling above, the bell of a late arrival reminding them both of the tasks which still needed attending. Oh well, this was Munakata's job anyways.

As he grabbed his cane and made for the door which would lead him to Isana's post, he dipped his hand in the pool, leaving Mikoto with the image of Yata and Fushimi, sleeping soundly in the life they'd created together.

Mikoto peered at the scene with fondness, before dipping his hand in, watching it vanish, and there was a finality in the movement which made Munakata regret not appreciating the scene more. He supposed it was fine though, he would see them both again, in time.

As he made way for the exit, a cunning smile formed easily on his face, his reply easy and certain. "Oh…seventy years or so. That sounds about right."

#sarumi #adri writing #k project

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