#scenario:general/chuuya

[goddamnitdazai]

1st day of Port Mafia Week // prompt: then and now || first mission { Chuuya Nakahara/ Kouyou Ozaki } { Words: 848 } { Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Character Study, Relationship Study } { a/n: this is written under the pretense Chuuya joined at age 12 }

Nakahara Chuuya Year 02, Day 145                             Silence is unnerving. There’s nothing else to focus on when the environment is frozen, soundless, vapid. Fragmented details multiply by the hundreds, by the thousands. Blood pumping through his ears, a shrill ring several decimals too high for comfort. Under a starless sky surrounded by empty woods Chuuya fights to exhale. Crumpled bricks and torn branches pile over him, scarlet ribbons of tangled hair dyed cherry red scarcely visible among the ruins.              Grass climbs beneath his fingertips. He pushes against the weight on his torso until speckled lights buzz over his head like star-struck fireflies. Charred flesh mixes with the natural dewy scent of the forest. Given the chill rolling up the exposed skin of his neck Chuuya knows the sun will rise soon. This isn’t a terrible place to die, he thinks. Tears prick the corner of his eyes. Karma works quickly, apparently.              Had the bomb not malfunctioned he wouldn’t have been this close to the mission point. Buried under remains with enemies (or victims) and brick and cement and all the little things it takes to build a church. Stained cement hovers an inch over his chest, silken red pushing the brittle pieces off his chest. But, there is a time limit and the sand is running quickly to the bottom. At random, bricks and chips of heavy scaffolding crash around him (or on him). Fresh scrapes block out old wounds for a millisecond before they fall into a pool of excruciating pain.             The temperature suddenly drops and goosebumps ravish his pale skin. Fear jolts a spark of energy through his body. But it’s not enough. It feels like it’s raining but the only thing he can smell is blood. Air catches in the center of his throat; bottled up emotion mixed with soot. Fire-hot trails scratch down from his throat to his chest. A second brick falls and knocks a thicker crack into his rib cage. More rain falls, heavy drops, but he can’t find a single cloud in the sky.             They’re tears. How childish.             Four men, that’s all it was supposed to be. But there were six and the timer wasn’t working and fuck if had only practiced more. Debris was not an issue when he was hidden behind a mass of trees. Knocking back three or four, hell even five, chunks of brick and debris was simple. Simple.             It would have been simpler if he died in that alley of starvation and pneumonia.            There was nobody to give a shit if he made a mistake. If he fucked up and disappointed those who took him in and spent hours training him. Feeding him. Giving him clothes and a bed and all the things it takes to build a home.                His legs have turned to stone. Shivers rock through his spine and what he can feel of his left arm. The taste of blood has long become a familiar tang. Cloudy vision makes the sky vibrate. Brilliant streaks of silver melding with violet and tangerine growing like a sunflower from the bottom of the earth. He catches the silence again, but this time he listens.             To the way his throat scratches when he whimpers out of nature over desire. To the softened rhythm of his lungs pulling in and pushing out as brick after brick slowly descend on to his chest. To the hum of a bee plucking at flowers somewhere. To the birds rustling in trees. His eyes flutter shut.             He deserved this.             He misses the flash of dazzling gold. Inhaling catches him by surprise. Chuuya’s eyes widen, lungs caught off guard by the ability to inflate again. Her fingertips brush over a patch of blood dried to his forehead. Kouyou grits her teeth as he coughs a mix of relief and unintended sobs that fill the previous silence. She never realized how small he was, how thin and childish he still looked with his hair a mess and clothes absolutely tattered. How frail his arms and legs were compared to the gnarled branches scattered over the field and the red bricks tossed carelessly in piles by her demon.             The rumbling of an engine and footsteps cascade over them. His head remains cradled on her lap; he apologizes for the stain to her kimono. She beckons him to stay awake, polished nails dragging patterns over his cheek still flush with baby fat. When he recovers she’ll have to tease him about it. He mumbles a second apology; she says nothing for now.             She refuses help and carries him to the car. Mori is already waiting she presumes. He’ll be able to survive in the Port Mafia once he learns to think before feeling. But, to be truthful he did succeed in his mission. The boss will be happy about that. She smiles at him, hazy blue eyes gleam back as she wipes the blood off his face with a handkerchief. He looks tranquil; guilt buries itself in her chest. This is not the first mistake she’ll make with him.            This not the mistake she wants for him.