#mafu im comin home

[hangmanshands]

Hangman’s Commissions #1

Here it is! My first commission ever. A big thank you to @hicsaster​ for working with me through this process and, of course, for commissioning me! This series was a lot of fun to work on, and I hope we work together more in the future! Please enjoy! Summary: Soraru returns home from tour. Mafumafu's been having a hard time since he's been gone. Established relationship. TW: Mentions and discussions of self-harm, stalking, threats of various kinds.

Home, Sweet Home (1684 words) [Mafu, I’m Comin' Home Part I]

Soraru has been on his latest tour for three months. The rush of playing directly for his fans, digital avatar on screen for their amusement, is nearly unparalleled. It’s better than any drug, any rollercoaster, any thrill--except one. He loves his job, just like he always hoped he would as a child, but he’s beyond excited to finally be going home. He lands at four p.m. and has his bag by four-fifteen, impatient to get home to a shower, to his bed, to Mafu. He rushes out to find the car they’ve sent for him. 

It’s easy to find. They always send a nondescript silver car, something like a Volvo, a vehicle middle-class middle aged white men might drive. Nice and vague. Surely nothing that the face behind a famous Vocaloid would ever be caught dead in. Soraru’s team arranged for it to take him from the airport directly to his home. His driver is the retired father of one of the members of the marketing team this time. They change it up frequently--even more often now, considering the threats Mafumafu’s been receiving lately.

Soraru frowns.

He feels guilty, having left Mafu to field such a dangerous--and, to be frank, treacherous--time alone. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be done. Contracts are contracts, and he’s got to honor them. They won’t get anywhere if they’re not selling music; the harassment and the protection have the same origin. He sighs. He wishes there was more he could do about it. But, he’s not police or security, after all. He’s just a concerned boyfriend.

It takes an hour to get home because of the traffic. Despite pleasant conversation with whoever’s father this is, it leaves Soraru in a sour mood. He thanks the older man shortly, and heads up to the apartment he shares with Mafumafu. His heart feels heavy as he inserts his key into the lock, but joy creeps in as his door creeps open. “Mafu!” he says. “I’m home!”

He closes the door behind him, dropping his bag and stretching. Home smells like peace, like quiet. He stretches, satisfied. The lights are off, so he makes his way to the bedroom. He needs to freshen up as much as he needs to see his boyfriend’s sleeping form. He’s sure he’d have heard if something had happened to Mafumafu while he was gone, but it’s infinitely better to see him in person.

He walks in the room with a big, loud greeting ready, but Mafumafu is very much a curled lump on the bed. Soraru imagines that this is the result of Mafu not watching his diet as closely as he should. As much as Mafu likes to say that it’s under control, but he’s as guilty as anyone about being lazy when no one holds him accountable for how his eating impacts his health and this causes him to end up in bed feeling sick more often than he’d like. Sora is used to this.

The bathroom light is still on, illuminating a single stripe that crosses Mafu’s body. He aborts the greeting and heads to the bathroom instead to freshen up before waking his boyfriend up.

Sora takes the state of the bathroom in, and comes to a very simple conclusion. His normally picture-perfect bathroom strongly resembles a fucking crime scene.

At least, the kind of romantic, stylized crime scene Sora’s seen countless times in movies and on television--there’s signs of a struggle: soaps knocked off of the edge of the sink in a hurry, cracked caps spilling pearly soap in pools on the tile, skidmarks through the wreckage. There’s a pile of disheveled towels, the top one stained crimson and turning maroon with half-dried blood. There’s discarded bloodied toilet paper and ripped bandage wrappings in the garbage. They half-obscure discarded glass shards. The sink is coated in rivulets of dried, cracking blood, smeared and half rinsed away. There’s blood on the box of band-aids and gauze threads stuck in the residue caking the basin. There’s a bloody thumb impression on the medical tape. Tweezers. And the mirror. Cracked in a spiderweb pattern around a singular impression--sized for one small, bony fist.

Sora very easily pieces together what kind of struggle took place in the bathroom before he got home. Mafumafu knocked the soaps to hell. Mafumafu threw a punch. Mafumafu shattered the mirror. Mafumafu used the broken glass to hurt himself. Mafumafu tried to fix it. Mafumafu went to bed.

Sora reaches under the sink for the Clorox wipes. He cleans the sink first, tossing everything bloody in the trash. He uses a towel to clean up the soap and throws away the unsalvageable bottles. They can always buy more. When he’s finished, he throws the towel in the hamper and the wipes in the garbage. The bloodied towel joins the trash.

Soraru leaves the light on and the door wide open when he exits the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and runs his hand over Mafumafu’s side. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “Are you awake?”

Mafu flips over and wraps his body around Sora’s in the fetal position. “Thank you for cleaning up,” he responds, voice just as hushed.

Ah, so he’s been awake.

Sora pets Mafu’s white hair. “Want to tell me what’s happened?”

Mafumafu sighs quietly and presses his head into Soraru’s hand. “Suzumu called me while you were gone. A lot of times.”

Sora feels his stomach turn over and over, as if in the dryer. “What did he say?”

“He threatened our home. Our cars. My family.” He swallows, closing his eyes tight. “He said he’d spread rumors about how terrible I am to you, discredit my work, say that I believe in horrible things and hate women. He said he’d turn all of our friends against me, and then you.” 

Sora feels Mafu tremble under his hand.

“He said he’d have people find me and hurt me, Soraru.”

Anger blossoms, explosive, in his chest. Every cell in his lungs is a match head, aflame. “He won’t,” Sora says, vehement and venomous.

Mafu continues, “I started to panic after his last voicemail. I know I shouldn’t listen to them, but I can’t help it. I have to know.” His voice is weak, apologetic. “I locked myself in the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror. I looked so scared and helpless. I looked so....” he makes a disgusted noise. “I looked like a child, useless and reliant on his mother. I couldn’t stand it. I... I punched myself in the mirror.”

Mafu snakes his hand out of the blanket and shows Sora the damage. There’s gauze wrapped around his knuckles like boxing tape, lightly stained with blood. Below that, a large brown bandage needs changed, a red rose bud soaking through the pad. It’s not nearly as bad as the bathroom looked, and that alone makes Sora feel better.

“I’m sorry, Sora,” Mafu says. “I know I promised I would stop. I didn’t mean it, I-I just needed to ground myself! I was out of control--he’s driving me crazy. A bird flies in front of our window and I scatter like a cockroach.” Mafu clenches his fist and lays it on Sora’s leg. More red stains appear on his gauze. “I couldn’t take it--I still can’t. I had to, Sora. It would have been worse if I hadn’t.”

Sora pulls Mafu up and holds him tight against his chest. “I know,” he whispers. “I know. I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?” Mafu leans back, his unharmed hand on Sora’s chest so Mafu can look at him.

“No,” he promises. “I’m just glad you’re okay, Mafu. I know how hard all of this has been on you. I’m not mad at you. I’m not disappointed in you. You’re getting better still, and doing your best to do so. This is a hiccup. I’m glad you could control the situation to the extent you did. I’m glad I came home to you, alive. That’s what’s important to me. Recovery isn’t linear, and I’m so proud of you.”

“You swear?” Mafu asks, red eyes big and teary.

Sora nods. “I swear. I’m very angry at Sumuzu. No one should treat another person like this. Especially not one that I love. But, you have to know he’s full of hot air by now. He’s all threats and no action. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, and it’s going to take a lot more than that... that... soulless copycat to take you away from me, Sweetheart. I promise you that.”

Mafu throws his arms around Sora, pulling him tight. The dam--full of three months’ dread and fury, helplessness and loneliness, and pure, cleansing relief--breaks. He cries with his cheek against Sora’s shoulder, ugly and too-hard. He can’t control this, either, and it’s freeing. The catharsis of falling apart in the place you’re the safest is unlike anything in the world.

Sora kisses his head, tender. He rests his cheek against the back of Mafu’s head and speaks softly. “I’ve got you,” and “I’m here, now,” and “I won’t let anything happen to you,” and “Let it out,” and “It’s okay, Sweetheart,” and “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

When there’s nothing left inside of Mafumafu but the calm, he leans back up and wipes his face. He looks up at Sora and smiles. “Thanks,” he says, almost embarrassed. “I needed that.”

Sora runs a hand through Mafu’s pretty hair. “Feel better?” “Much,” he agrees. He pauses. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” Sora says with a shrug.

Mafu smiles. “I’ve been so nauseous-anxious for the last couple days, I haven’t really eaten.”

Sora’s eyes are the size of tea plates. “Mafu!” He peels the blankets off of his boyfriend. “Get to the kitchen! Go!” He pulls Mafu off the bed by the uninjured hand. “What do you want?”

“Something spicy?” he asks, playful.

Sora makes a disgruntled noise. “I said I thought you were doing better!”

Mafu laughs, following Sora into the kitchen.