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I’m lucky to not be dead, is their first thought as consciousness creeps back into the edges of their mind. They move, and everything hurts, and they take in a sharp breath—the thought changes to Maybe I should be dead, and they take a few slow, shallow breaths. Their shoulders ache, and their ribs hurt with every movement of their diaphragm.
Minegishi had very nearly been crushed, and they’re feeling it now.
Slowly, regretfully, they push themself up until they’re sitting, one arm held around their middle. Dead plants are piled beneath and strewn around them, all hard, lifeless wood and wilted leaves and vines, and they take a few more breaths before they look around at the rest of the aftermath. There are dead bodies of Claw lackeys—the artificial espers—on the ground, the ones who’d had their life and energy torn from them when that— that evil spirit had shown up.
Besides the bodies of the dead, Minegishi is alone.
The sound of movement comes from their right, and they quickly change their mind on that front. A wall of plants rises up between them and whoever is on the other side; they’re not sure if whoever it is can tell, but the vines and plants look weak and half-wilted, like plants left out in the sun for too long without water, or cut plants kept in a vase with no nutrients—still vivid green, but too soft to have any strength to them. They’re not in a state to defend themself like this, with what might be a fractured rib or two and dried blood coating their face. This could be bad. This could be very bad.
“I was just gonna ask if you’re okay,” the person on the other side says, and the tone of the voice is familiar—a particular, almost amused lilt, with what could easily become a cloying sweetness, even when he’s being serious like this: Matsuo.
Minegishi groans in irritation, and they pause a moment before letting the plants fall away. They’re too fatigued to deal with this, but they know he’s not strong on his own—and all his little pets were wiped out earlier, so. Whatever. If he is here to start something again, they can still protect themself. “I’m not.”
He clicks his tongue as he approaches, some sort of smile on his lips as he squats down beside them and holds out his hand. Bandages. Colorful, cutesy ones. Minegishi looks at him, deadpan and unamused. “Really?”
He shrugs, standing up once they’ve taken the bandages despite themself. He shoves his hands down into his pockets. “Better than nothing.” He shifts his weight slightly to the balls of his feet, and neither of them are eager to address anything important or pressing that needs to be talked about.
“I could go for some pain killers right now.” Their grey eyes trace over the details on the bandages. “There’s a store down that way.” Minegishi gives a small directional nod. “Help me out?”
“And steal? Hmm, no can do, Michan. I’m a good guy now.” There he goes, with that stupid grin...
Their brow knits in frustration, and they let out a huff. “Matsuo—”
“Buuuuuut—and only because this is kinda my fault—I’ll make it work.”
They’re grateful when they hear his retreating steps, and they close their eyes. They wish the sun would go down. They wish their body wouldn’t hurt like this.
They wish they could sleep the rest of this day away, and maybe the week. Maybe even the month, or the year. Maybe they should have died. Maybe that kid shouldn’t have bargained for their life like that. What’s there for them now that Claw is falling? Jail time, maybe, or a boring job. What a life...
The sound of a hard plastic container opening as someone sits beside them takes them out of those thoughts, and they open their eyes to look at Matsuo. He’s rummaging through a small, at-home first aid kit, and their gaze turns curious.
“Left some money on the counter,” he explains away, and they make a small sound of understanding. “Here.” He holds out a packaged alcohol wipe. “You look like shit.”
They can’t stop the small snort of… amusement? Offense? They’re not sure. They tear the pouch open, wiping the blood from their lips and chin once they unfold the wipe with shaky hands.
He busies himself tearing another alcohol pad open. “I only say that because you’re normally so…” He flounders a bit on the description as they look at him, curious and questioning. “Put-together.” They doubt that’s what he was going for, but they just hum in response. They shake their head at his question of “you mind?” and they don’t flinch away as he gently works at wiping the blood from their forehead and cheeks. It’s closer than they’ve been to him since… well, a year, at least. Since that uprising. Since he got himself branded as expendable. Since they broke things off rather coldly. But it’s not uncomfortable at all, surprisingly.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, you know.”
Minegishi’s eyes are locked somewhere over Matsuo’s shoulder, at a dying plant in the rubble. “But it did.”
“I know.” They both fall silent for a while, and Minegishi takes to wringing the drying alcohol wipe between their hands as Matsuo gets the last of the blood from their face.
Finally they shift their gaze to his, and they’re as expressionless as always. “I know it’s not your fault, though. Bringing that along was, but what happened wasn’t.” They’d heard him warning those useless idiots not to break the bottle, they’d heard his warnings—it wasn’t his fault. Not really.
Matsuo shrugs, rummaging through the box again. “I thought maybe he’d be useful in an emergency against the boss, but…”
“You’re not making it that far.” They take the single-use pack of painkillers out of his hand, tearing it open.
“What?” he asks as they reach around him for the water bottle he set beside him.
They open it, popping the pills into their mouth before taking a big sip of water to wash them down. “You’re defenseless. I took your ghosts out, and you don’t have any other way of fighting.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Don’t argue with me. You’d just get yourself hurt.” Their tone is stern, but there’s also something soft in it—caring, if either of them wanted to look into that in any great detail.
Matsuo can’t argue, and doesn’t want to argue. He’d rather stay alive, no doubt. “What about you? You’re not in the best shape yourself.”
Minegishi can’t argue, even though they want to. Everything hurts—their muscles, their bones, their nerves. Everything aches and is already tightening and they know when they wake up tomorrow— if they wake up tomorrow—they’ll be in for a bad day. “I have a debt to repay.”
Matsuo rests his elbow on one of his knees, chin resting in the palm of his hand. “You don’t have to go, you know. No one would blame you.” His voice has become softer, but there’s still that specific, very Matsuo lilt. “You’re injured. You won’t be much help either.”
Minegishi rolls their eyes. “Didn’t I tell you not to underestimate me?”
Their expression is as impassive as ever, but then Matsuo smiles at them—something soft, something knowing, something fond and amused—and they tear their gaze away as he shifts to lean in slightly. “You did. But when have I ever listened to you?” Ah, there it is—that teasing, that amusement. Minegishi has to bite back a smile; now’s not the time.
“Never.” The distaste is genuine, the word bitter in the back of their throat. You should have listened to me when I said to keep your head down. But he’d known they wouldn’t rat him out, and they didn’t. Maybe they should have, they think; maybe things would have gone differently. (They know better, of course, but they’re feeling very introspective.)
A sigh passes over Matsuo’s lips, his dark brown eyes locked on Minegishi despite how obviously they’re avoiding his gaze. “You’re really gonna go, huh. Even as beat up as you are.”
They nod and take a deep breath. “Yeah.” The sun has begun its steady descent, the light around them tinted light gold. They take one more steadying breath before pushing themself to their feet with a grimace, and Matsuo jumps up quickly to help them up, one hand on their shoulder, his other on their forearm. “Thanks.” He nods, giving a noncommittal shrug, but they speak before he can give another answer, “Why were you still here? When I came around?”
“Someone had to look out for you.” It’s a vague answer, but it’s all they know they’ll get for the time being. Their arm slips out of his grasp, hand pausing briefly as it brushes by his fingers. His own touch lingers, fingers twitching as though he’s debating on grasping. “Michan—”
“Later,” they say as they tuck their hands into their pockets. Assuming I get a “later.”
The moment passes as quickly as it came, and Matsuo smiles, head tilting. “I’m holding you to that.”
“I know you are.” Their back is to them when the faint smile falls across their lips, and they can feel his eyes on their back as they start their trek across the city. It’s a long walk, but it will give them time to think about things.
(And when they catch sight of something strange in their reflection in a broken window, they’ll step closer to examine it, reaching a hand up to brush back the hair at the side of their forehead—and when they see the pink bandage covered in red and purple hearts, they’ll smile again.)