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Kaigaku wakes feeling cold in spite of the muggy spring heat of the night. Sweat dries uncomfortably on his skin and he tastes blood in his mouth with each ragged breath he takes.
He lifts his hand to his mouth to be sure. Presses his palm over his lips, then opens his mouth to press in a finger. All he feels is saliva. All he tastes is blood.
He drops his damp hand back to his side. He ignores the shadowy silhouette nearby. It’s his mirror, he tells himself as he turns on his side; his mirror, not the many-eyed man who pooled blood into Kaigaku’s open palms and bade him to drink.
He closes his eyes. He sees the dirt under his knees, the blood staining his palms red, and wills himself back to sleep.
It doesn’t work.
He stays in his futon, nausea roiling in his gut, until the sun starts spilling in through his gauzy curtains. He crawls out of his covers, then, and if he glances warily towards his mirror—well. Nobody else is there to see his fear or hear his sigh of relief.
He washes up in the bathroom and makes his way to the kitchen, surreptitiously peering into Jigoro’s room—asleep, chest rising and falling, futon covers kicked aside, alive—and then into Zenitsu’s—also asleep, also alive, curled on his side and tangled up in his bedding, a line of drool dampening his pillow.
Guilt he doesn’t understand chews at him, twisting in his chest alongside relief as he goes to the kitchen. Zenitsu has always confused Kaigaku even more than Jigoro has. From the moment Jigoro had asked him if he’d be fine with another child in the house, from the moment the old man had brought that shaking, wide-eyed kid home he’s been left with a confusing cocktail of emotions about him.
It’s easier to deal with now, at least, with years of adjusting. He doesn’t feel panicked and sick at the sight of his brother or guardian anymore. Yay, progress.
In the kitchen Kaigaku prepares the rice cooker and gets the coffee machine working before he digs out Jigoro’s tea leaves—osmanthus oolong is always safe, and as he begins brewing he hears Jigoro’s familiar limping gait coming down the hall.
“Good morning, Kaigaku,” Jigoro says in the kitchenette’s entryway.
“Morning, gramps. Tea’s almost done. Do you want fish or eggs with the rice?”
Jigoro makes a thoughtful hrmmm sound that ends in a yawn.
“Fish today. Do we have anything left for a salad?”
Kaigaku opens the fridge to check.
“Yeah, but I’ll have to go shopping later.”
“Might as well. I’ll go wake your brother.”
With that, Jigoro limps back down the hall; by the time he’s back Kaigaku has already poured him tea, left it on the table and is starting up the rice cooker, dicing up some vegetables for the salad and readying the pan for the salmon.
“You didn’t have to handle breakfast today,” Jigoro says when he’s seated at the table, the television on at a low volume. “Did you sleep at all?”
Kaigaku considers lying but Jigoro will know anyway. He always does, somehow.
“A bit,” he admits as he starts cooking the fish. “But I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep, so I figured I might as well.”
Jigoro hums in a way that makes Kaigaku pretty sure he’s being judged for not taking his sleeping pills.
“Well, thank you. I appreciate it,” is all Jigoro says. Kaigaku says nothing else and neither does Jigoro—not until Zenitsu stumbles into the room, bleary-eyed and yawning into the back of his hand.
“Morning, Gramps, aniki,” Zenitsu greets.
“Morning, kiddo,” and “G’morning, shrimp,” Jigoro and Kaigaku say at the same time. Zenitsu groans as he drops himself into his spot at the table.
“Shut up, I’m like, barely shorter than you!” He whines as Kaigaku sets the coffee machine to brew.
“Yeah, and if you grow any taller I’m cutting your legs off,” Kaigaku says idly, plating the fish just as the rice cooker dings.
Zenitsu lets out a strangled gasp.
“Gramps, are you hearing this?”
“Maybe then someone my height would be around…”
“Gramps!!”
Kaigaku definitely isn’t smiling. He isn’t, and by the time he’s scooped three servings of rice into three separate bowls, plated all the fish and salad and poured two mugs of coffee, any evidence that might have suggested otherwise is gone and his expression is once more carefully bored.
“Shrimp, help set the table. Gramps, do you want more tea?”
“Fiiine,” Zenitsu moans as he drags himself out of his chair.
“Please,” Jigoro says when Zenitsu is done with his dramatics. Kaigaku brings out his own bowl and plate as well as Jigoro’s, then takes the old man’s clay teacup back to the stove to refill, grabbing his own coffee while he’s at it. Zenitsu follows after him with his own servings and the miso.
After they all give thanks for their meal, Zenitsu says, “We’re out of furikake and coffee creamer.”
“Add it to the list,” Kaigaku says, pointing his thumb to the paper on the fridge. “I’ll be doing the shopping after my appointment.”
“Ah, okay. Can you get some matcha kitkats?”
“Uh, buy them yourself?”
Breakfast passes normally. He has to force himself to eat even though everything tastes coppery and wrong, but it’s easy to not think about it or anything else while bickering with Zenitsu and half-listening to the daily weather report; after, Zenitsu takes care of the dishes since Kaigaku had cooked, giving Kaigaku ample time to get dressed for his appointment and help Jigoro open the shop.
He's not looking forward to it.
Kaigaku's appointment goes as well as it can; he hates his physical therapist more than anyone else he's ever met, which according to her means she's succeeding in her job. He leaves feeling like shit, his hand aching something fierce; his fingers throb painfully, his wrist uncomfortably sore.
So he’s irritable and in pain as he goes over his shopping list, the basket in his arm already half full of items. He still needs milk and lettuce, which means the cold aisle. Kaigaku grimaces as he drags himself in that direction.
It's there, as he finishes comparing two heads of lettuce, where someone finds him.
"Kuwajima!" Rengoku's familiar voice is too loud for the confines of the grocery store; Kaigaku startles, his right hand tightening its grip on the lettuce, stiff fingers spasming before his glove forces them to relax.
"Rengoku," Kaigaku sighs in greeting, dropping the lettuce into his basket and turning. Unfortunately, Rengoku isn't alone—Hakuji is with him, following his boisterous companion at a more sedate pace.
"Hey, Kai," Hakuji greets in a normal indoor voice.
"Hey. What’s up?”
“This lug sweet-talked me into cooking him dinner,” Hakuji says, knocking his shoulder into Rengoku’s, who grins shamelessly.
“We’re also picking up some dye,” Rengoku says, reaching to run his fingers through Hakuji’s short cropped hair. “His roots are coming in!”
So they are, Kaigaku notes absently, distantly, as Hakuji playfully shoves Rengoku’s arm off him. Black is beginning to bleed into the artificial dark pink color Hakuji began using in high school, and though his smile is easy and his expression soft—
Not for the first time, Kaigaku feels disoriented by the sight of him; for a moment the gray of Hakuji’s eyes looks more like gold, the whites giving off the impression of fractured glass. Blue lines slope across his skin—down past his eyes, his neck, even the bare skin of his arm, his fingers. His teeth gleam too-white and too-sharp.
A monster in his friend's skin.
This time the image doesn’t linger—it’s blink-and-you-miss-it. Hakuji looks like a person when he throws a casual grin at Kaigaku, Rengoku’s arm tucked into his and no longer messing with his hair.
Kaigaku gives an almost-smile back, helpless.
“How about you, Kai? Shopping for your old man?” He asks.
“Mm. The clinic is nearby, so I figured I’d handle it on my way back,” Kaigaku says. Neither Hakuji or Rengoku ask about his appointment—they never do, or at least Hakuji refrains from doing so around others; Rengoku’s gaze briefly drifts towards Kaigaku’s gloved hand with something like guilty discomfort.
As if Kaigaku’s fuck up was his fault.
“Welp, we’ll leave you to it,” Hakuji says before either Kaigaku or Rengoku can say something stupid. “We need to finish our shopping too, so. Say hi to your old man for us.”
“Zenitsu as well, of course,” Rengoku adds, grinning once more. Kaigaku politely ignores any strain in the expression.
“Sure. I’ll see you guys at Kamado’s lunch thing, right?” He’s still not sure why he keeps getting invited to those, outside of being ‘Zenitsu’s brother’, but he can’t really say no. Kaigaku isn’t sure anyone can say no to Kamado Tanjirou.
“Yeah, we’ll be there.”
After that confirmation—and finding out Hakuji's weird roommate will be going too, giving Kaigaku another thing to emotionally steel himself for—they part ways. Kaigaku grabs the milk, checks his list to make sure he's not missing anything, and heads to the checkout.
While emptying the contents of his basket at the checkout counter, his gaze catches on the rack of sweets and he hesitates.
A matcha kitkat finds its way onto the counter. He throws in a box of mint flavored biscuits for himself in an attempt to justify the purchase—as if he needs a reason, an excuse, to do something nice for his brother.
Kaigaku is exhausted by the time he gets home; Zenitsu is predictably absent, likely out with his friends, and so Kaigaku is left to put everything away by himself. His hand aches more than it should by the time he's done—even though he'd carried the groceries with his left hand, he's still pushed himself too far.
He grimaces, taking off his glove and flexing his aching fingers.
No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity, his therapist's voice grates in his mind. She reminds Kaigaku each time, as if he somehow forgets during the weekly span of time between appointments.
He can’t even play any damn video games like this—not until tomorrow, after his fingers have rested. So Kaigaku finds himself flopped on the couch, sulking as he puts on some trashy day-time reality show as he checks his phone.
He checks twitter; Zenitsu went insane and mass retweeted cheesecake photos, as if subliminally trying to tell him to bake another. Yorushika put out a new music video, Uzui is going to one last mixer before classes pick up again next week, Kanroji is doing one of those weird mukbang videos again—apparently Sanemi came over and did her hair for her, it looks cute—and eventually he gets bored of that and opens a word game app.
Kaigaku spaces out six levels in, the sound of the city and the tv washing over him. His phone screen goes dark from inactivity and in the black screen he sees himself.
He looks like a person today, his eyes dark instead of acidic in their color, no strange marks rising out from his cheeks. Kaigaku lifts a hand to rub idly at his throat, at the seam of skin between the cords of his choker.
There's nothing there. Only the magatama he always finds himself reluctant to remove; no injury, no scar, though sometimes Kaigaku feels there should be.
It hurts, though. For no reason.
I'm crazy, he thinks to himself, not for the first time. Maybe he should go back to therapy—and not the physical kind—but he dismisses the thought. He'd learned as a child not to share his strange...hallucinations? Delusions? With anyone, not even his therapist.
Kaigaku drops his phone onto the coffee table and sinks into the couch on his side, eyes drifting closed. He's so tired.
Maybe he can sleep, just for a while, and hopefully when he wakes up he'll finally be able to taste something other than blood.
Zenitsu shakes him awake for dinner, rattling him out of a disorienting dream about a maze of sliding paper doors and falling through an endless hallway.
Kaigaku thinks he's still half asleep at first, for he had seen Zenitsu in his dream, maybe. Someone who looked like him with hair yellower than what his box dye can provide.
"Ummm, are you okay?" Zenitsu asks when Kaigaku stares at him dumbly. His hand is still on Kaigaku's shoulder and he's wearing one of his weird sleeveless Thrasher shirts, the knotted mess of red skin at his shoulder as visible as the spiderweb of creeping scars down his arm. The scars look redder and more irritated than usual, standing out starkly against Zenitsu’s pale skin.
"Are you?" Kaigaku retorts, voice thick with sleep and thirst as he sits up. Zenitsu rarely wears anything that isn’t long-sleeved.
"Uh, yeah…?" Zenitsu says with confusion as he lets his hand fall from Kaigaku's shoulder. Then he glances at his bare arm and laughs awkwardly.
"I mean, yeah, it was just really hot so the sweat was making it chafe. Anyway, Gramps is setting up for yakiniku, so go wash up."
Kaigaku groans unintelligibly, slumping back onto the couch for a moment before he forces himself up.
Yakiniku sounds good. He can taste the bitterness of sleep in his mouth, undisturbed by blood, and he hopes it stays away through dinner.
After washing up he makes his way to the kitchen he finds that Jigoro already has the grill situated on the middle of the table and Zenitsu is helping him divide the vegetables and slices of meat.
"There you are, Kaigaku. Can you get the miso and rice?" Jigoro asks distractedly, whacking Zenitsu's hand when he reaches for one of the eggplant slices.
"Sure thing," Kaigaku says through a yawn. The rice and miso bowls are already out, so he dutifully pops open the rice cooker and sets about his task. After setting the bowls on the table he backtracks to the sink, pouring himself a glass of water which he quickly downs.
"Is that Chuuhai?" Zenitsu asks suspiciously when Kaigaku returns to the table with a can he'd retrieved from the fridge.
Kaigaku rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, I'm just having the one so don't get all fussy on me."
"Well excuse me for worrying, then," Zenitsu huffs, then gives Jigoro the stink eye when he sees him pouring some sake.
"Both of you…" he grumbles, muttering about the negative effects alcohol has with their medications. Kaigaku noisily cracks open his can of Chuuhai, though Jigoro at least attempts to look chagrined.
Dinner is a livelier affair than breakfast. Zenitsu talks about helping Tanjirou and Nezuko organize their attic along with Kanao and Inosuke; he and Kaigaku fight over pieces of meat that end up stolen under their noses by an unrepentant Jigoro. The food is good, flavorful; Kaigaku can taste it this time and he savours even the taste of the beansprouts he usually dislikes so much.
Zenitsu is bold enough to try and get Kaigaku to let him try a sip of his Chuuhai. Were it not the last can of his favorite peach, Kaigaku might humor him, but as it is Zenitsu's pouting is to no avail.
Afterwards they clean up together, kicking Jigoro out of the kitchen area when he tries to do more than get himself some tea.
Only when they're alone and Kaigaku is handing Zenitsu freshly washed dishes to towel dry does Zenitsu ask, "How did your appointment go?"
He's sometimes too perceptive for his own good. He knows Kaigaku hates talking about it in front of Jigoro most of all.
"It went," Kaigaku says shortly, not in the mood to talk about it with anyone. "Are you still going on a date with that boar kid this weekend?" He asks before Zenitsu can press and, as predicted, his brother becomes too busy sputtering in denial and listing all the ways it's absolutely not a date, his face cherry red the entire time.
“I unlocked the new EX trials in Final Fantasy,” Zenitsu says when they’re done. “Will you help me clear tomorrow? Tanjirou and Kanao will be playing, too.”
Kaigaku makes a face. He has all he wants from those trials already, but…
“Sure, whatever. I’ll only play for two hours, though.” His hand will still be bothering him, he knows.
Zenitsu beams.
“Thanks, aniki! For the kitkat, too,” he adds, and is dashing down the hall before Kaigaku can retort.
God damn it. He hadn’t even known Zenitsu had already found the thing. Face red, he sullenly retrieves his phone from the coffee table in the living area.
He checks his notifications as he heads back to his room. Uzui is going crazy in the group chat about some girl from the mixer, Kanroji posted selfies of herself and Iguro’s snake. Shinazugawa and Tomioka are arguing about...going out for ohagi…?
Kaigaku doesn’t want to know, actually.
His phone vibrates in his grip as he kicks his bedroom door shut behind him, a text notification from Hakuji lighting up the upper part of his screen.
[21:23] Hakuji: I’m bored :/ come hang out with me
Kaigaku stares for a long moment before sinking to his knees by his rooms chabudai.
[21:24] Kaigaku: Aren’t you with Rengoku ??
[21:24] Hakuji: He had to leave after dinner
[21:24] Hakuji: I was going to go to the 7-11 near your place and get some drinks and ice cream come onnnn my treat
[21:25] Hakuji: It’s Haagen Dazs….
Damn it. Kaigaku can’t say no to free Haagen Daz, even if being alone with Hakuji is always a terrible, awful, no good idea.
[21:26] Kaigaku: Ugh fine...I’ll meet you there in 10??
[21:26] Hakuji: YES I’ll see you then
Rolling his eyes at Hakuji’s enthusiasm, Kaigaku pushes himself back up and glances at himself in the mirror nearby.
He should brush his hair. He hadn’t after waking; he does so now, then squints at his reflection. His clothes are a bit rumpled; does he look like he slept the afternoon away on a couch? His skin is still a bit too pale, more sickly than usual, and the bruise-like shadows under his eyes stand out too starkly.
He’s out of concealer, though. He tugs at his shirt. Should he change?
No, what the fuck, he’s just going to see Hakuji. They’re going to get cheap drinks and ice cream and probably wander over to the park and talk for a bit. God, he’s so pathetic.
Hakuji already saw him earlier, anyway. No use fretting about his looks now. With a sigh, he pockets his phone and leaves his room once more.
“Hey, Gramps,” he says while he’s getting his wallet from the kitchen. Jigoro looks up from where he’d been carefully pouring some chocolate syrup onto his bowl of frozen yogurt and strawberries.
“I’m heading out for a little bit. Do we need anything?”
“No, I think we’re fine. It’s gotten quite dark, so be careful,” Jigoro adds.
“Will do,” Kaigaku says with a sloppy faux salute. “See you in a bit, Gramps.”
He leaves through the ‘staff only’ door to the side once he’s downstairs so nobody will think they’re open; despite the sun having finished its descent, the humidity is somehow even worse than it had been when Kaigaku was out earlier in the morning.
No wonder Zenitsu had abandoned his usual long sleeves.
Hakuji is stepping out of the 7-11 when Kaigaku arrives, canvas bag slung over his shoulder. His grin at the sight of Kaigaku is a bright, friendly thing and without Rengoku to act as a buffer, Kaigaku can’t look away from the way it curves Hakuji’s eyes and tugs at the faintest of scars on his cheek.
“Kai! Hey, I got some of those peach Chuuhai’s you like,” Hakuji says in greeting, jostling the canvas bag against him in emphasis. “And that lemon-ginger monstrosity you call ice cream.”
“Sorry your taste isn’t as good as mine, honey vanilla-san,” Kayaku says dryly as Hakuji tosses an arm over his shoulder to steer him in the direction of the nearby park.
Hakuji is always careful when touching him—an ingrained habit from when middle school, when Kaigaku had been so much worse about such things than he is now; he telegraphs himself slowly and obviously, bracing himself for Kaigaku to cringe away, but he hasn’t done so in a long time now.
If it were someone else, he might still flinch. But not Hakuji.
“Aw, come on. Honey vanilla might be plain but it’s still good,” Hakuji says, dropping his head so his cheek hits the crown of Kaigaku’s hair as they walk.
“It’s alright,” Kaigaku concedes, stomach flopping at the feeling of Hakuji pressed against his side and the warmth of his arm over his neck. His hand touches Kaigaku’s upper arm with each step. Despite how disgustingly humid it is, Kaigaku can’t bring himself to mind.
“I’ll convince you one of these days,” Hakuji says as they arrive at the park. They sit at the swings, not one of the benches, and Kaigaku shoves down the sense of disappointment when Hakuji’s arm slides away from him.
Hakuji hands him the promised carton of ice cream, along with a plastic spoon, both of which Kaigaku accepts with a mumbled thanks.
“Don’t worry about it,” Hakuji tells him, cracking open the lid of his own ice cream—not honey vanilla, but green tea, which is the only other flavor he’s prone to getting.
Kaigaku is three spoonfuls into his when Hakuji asks, “So how was your appointment?”
Kaigaku doesn’t change the subject as he had when Zenitsu asked. For a moment he stares down past his ice cream, at the grass underneath his feet, and then he closes his eyes and presses his cheek against the chain holding up the swing. He sways.
“Sucked,” he finally says, eyes still closed as he shoves his fourth spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. “As usual.”
“But it’s not as bad as it was at the start, right?” Hakuji prods.
“...No,” Kaigaku admits, opening his eyes again. A yard or so away, someone cycling by is illuminated briefly by the streetlights. “I can do more than before and actually grip stuff properly now, but I still hate it.”
“At least it helps. I’m glad you’re getting your mobility back,” Hakuji says. Kaigaku makes a vague noise in his throat in answer, lifting his face off of the swings chain and taking another spoonful of icecream.
“How about you?” He asks after, wetting his mouth and glancing down at what little remains of the treat. He doesn’t quite glance towards Hakuji as he speaks. “You’re doing alright? You and Rengoku?”
“Uh, fine?” Hakuji answers, sounding a bit lost. “Dojo is going as well as usual—Keizo finally got those assholes trying to buy the land to back off. You should come by when you’re feeling up for it, I miss our fights—Kyoujuro and I are fine too, I guess?”
“You guess?” Kaigaku repeats, a touch dryly, feeling as confused as Hakuji looks when he swallows the last of his ice cream and glances over. Something like realization flits across Hakuji’s expression and he lets out a nervous laugh, face reddening.
“Ah—oh, man, you too? Shit, even Giyuu thought…” he trails off, shaking his head, and Kaigaku is left staring as Hakuji reaches to take his empty ice cream carton.
Kaigaku lets him, watching as Hakuji reaches into his bag for the chuuhai, dropping the ice cream carton into the bag in its stead.
“Kyoujuro and I aren’t dating,” Hakuji says after he hands Kaigaku the promised peach chuuhai, putting away his own empty carton and getting his drink as well—ume, not peach.
Kaigaku’s brain grinds to a halt as he cracks open his can.
“You’re...not?” He asks slowly, thinking back over the past several months—Hakuji and Rengoku seeming to grow even closer, Rengoku staying over at Hakuji and Douma’s shared apartment more often than not, and while Hakuji has always been a physically tactile person the touchiness between the two of them has been…
“We’re really not,” Hakuji says with another embarrassed laugh, taking a swig of his own drink as a selfish sort of hope stirs in Kaigaku’s gut. “We, uh—look, you remember how I was about him in high school, but we’re not like that, though apparently he liked me too back then. Which is still blowing my mind, but we’re both...it’s not that.”
Kaigaku can’t not remember how Hakuji was in high school, given that he was a rollercoaster of moodswings in the wake of his father’s death and spent most of his time either getting into fights with random people or with Rengoku, specifically; and it was always Kaigaku who he would end up with after, his rants a mixture of venting about this or that and weird poetic about how unfairly attractive Rengoku was.
Not that Kaigaku could blame him. Hell, he has eyes; when he was in the throes of realizing he was never going to look at girls the way almost all of his other peers were, he spent an unfortunate amount of time staring at Rengoku in P.E, too.
“He basically lives with you,” Kaigaku feels compelled to point out, though he doesn’t think Hakuji is lying. He has no reason to do so about this.
Hakuji grimaces, glancing at him and then at the drink in his hand before rubbing his free hand across his face.
“Yeah, that’s...look, I know you won’t go spreading it around so...I can’t say much, but he and his father are going through some shit right now.”
Ah. That...makes sense. Kaigaku feels like he might need more than one drink when a realization strikes him.
“What about Senjuro?” He asks lowly and Hakuji’s grimace turns into a slight smile.
“He’s staying with their aunt—on their mother's side. He’s safe. Kyoujuro is visiting him right now, actually.”
“That’s...that’s good, then,” Kaigaku says with genuine relief. Rengoku would never leave Senjuro alone with their father, he knew, but still.
“Yeah. So…” Hakuji trails off, waving his hand, and then takes another long drink.
“So good for him,” Kaigaku says when Hakuji falls silent. “Seriously, that’s—I’m happy he’s getting out of there. Senjuro too.”
He means it. For years he’s been hoping Rengoku would find a way to leave that house without abandoning his brother, and it looks like they’ve figured it out—or, knowing how resistant Rengoku has always been to telling anyone, his aunt probably found out herself.
Well. There’s no use speculating, he supposes; as long as they’re both safe.
“Wait a second,” Kaigaku says, pausing his thoughts and his movement, the can he’d been lifting to his mouth not reaching its destination, “He liked you too? Back then?”
He looks at Hakuji when he speaks. The man’s face flushes once more, the pink matching his freshly-dyed hair.
“Apparently, yeah. He told me as much when Uzui dragged us to that mixer months ago—he didn’t want to go home even a bit tipsy, what with Senjuro, so uh. Nothing happened,” he adds hastily, as if he has to clarify anything or justify things to Kaigaku. He’s clutching his ume chuuhai so tight the can makes a crackling sound as he glances away, the pink in his face darkening to red as it reaches down his neck.
“We just talked. And found that out. But that was then, and—well.”
“It’s—it’s fine,” Kaigaku says, tongue feeling oddly heavy. “You don’t need to explain to me.”
Hakuji looks at him. The streetlights barely reach them—backlit by them as he is, for a brief moment Kaigaku sees someone else. Blue ink on skin. Those broken-glass eyes.
But it’s just for a moment. Just a moment, and it’s gone, because when Hakuji opens his mouth to speak his voice is human and not—not—
“He actually,” Hakuji starts, stops, and drops his gaze. He’s never been a very shy man, but suddenly he seems flustered, or perhaps uncomfortable.
Kaigaku waits. He tries not to blink, just in case Hakuji looks different again when he does.
Hakuji props his elbow on his knee, swaying in his swing as he drops his face into his hand.
“I turned him down,” he says, muffled into his palm. “And not just because I was more sober than he was—there’s...someone else. Has been for a while.”
Ah.
“Ah,” Kaigaku echoes his own thought, something in him deflating.
Stupid. Of course there’s someone else, his mind hisses sourly. He hopes any traces of his disappointment are masked by the time Hakuji drops his hand and glances back up at him.
He seems to be looking for something in Kaigaku. What, Kaigaku couldn’t say—and he can’t tell if Hakuji finds it or not.
“Do you...want to talk about them?” He finally asks, wondering if that’s it. “I mean, I’m sure you have a chance with whoever it is.”
Hakuji’s laughter is oddly strangled. He finishes his drink, crushing the can in his grip after shaking it to listen for any excess fluid inside.
“Um, maybe. I don’t think so.”
Kaigaku wracks his brain for anyone in their social circle who would not give a relationship with Hakuji a try.
“Please tell me it’s not Tomioka or Shinazugawa,” he finally says, and Hakuji’s laughter is almost genuine.
“No, fuck, I want no part of whatever the hell that mess is—I think Sabito is going to go insane soon. Look, don’t worry about it, I didn’t even mean to bring it up.”
Yes you did, Kaigaku doesn’t say, clenching his jaw. Hakuji clearly sought to find something from bringing it up with him, but he hadn’t found it—Kaigaku hadn’t been able to give it to him and something other than the alcohol makes his stomach churn unpleasantly. Guiltily.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I won’t pry if you don’t want me to, but like...seriously. Someone would have to be a fucking idiot to turn you down.”
He means it. Even if he hadn’t been struggling with his stupid, selfish desire for more than just friendship—which is already more than he deserves—with Hakuji for over a year, he would believe as much.
“You’re sweet,” Hakuji says with a gusty sigh. His smile looks almost like normal, his eyes thinning slightly with it.
They seem too bright in the dark despite the fact they’re a normal, human shade of grey-blue.
“Thanks, Kai. I mean it. Sorry I dragged you out so late in the evening, too.”
“If I hadn’t wanted to come, I wouldn’t have,” Kaigaku says, hiding his own embarrassment at the way Hakuji says his name by finally finishing his drink as well. “Don’t mind it.”
He pushes himself off the swing, finding his footing in the grass and pushing some of his hair out of his face. The back of his neck itches where his hair clings to the skin with sweat and he rubs at his nape, wondering if he should cut it soon.
He says as much to Hakuji as they’re disposing of their recycling in the bin at the parks entrance. Hakuji drags his gaze across Kaigaku’s face, down his upper body, and Kaigaku feels warmer still from it.
“If you want to,” he says, sounding oddly reluctant.
“It doesn’t look weird?” Kaigaku asks, wondering if that’s the issue, and Hakuji shakes his head with red-hued ears. Maybe he had more to drink than Kaigaku thought—had he been helping himself before they met up? That might explain how easily he was blushing before, too.
“No, you look—good. Fine,” Hakuji assures him and Kaigaku squints, unsure if he’s just being nice or not.
But. If he’s not just being nice...well, maybe Kaigaku will let it keep growing.
“If you say so,” he mumbles. “I hope things go well with...whoever, okay? I’ll see you Sunday at Kamado’s.”
“Thanks, Kai. I meant it about coming by the dojo when you can, too,” he adds. Kaigaku huffs.
“I’ll think about it,” he acquiesces and Hakuji’s grin makes it worth it.
They part ways. Hakuji lives in the opposite direction, after all, and so Kaigaku makes his way home alone.
He feels both better and worse than he had earlier. Hakuji always makes him feel like this—something close to happiness, but teetering on the edge of pathetic, longing misery.
It’s not Hakuji’s fault, though. It’s his own for wanting what he shouldn’t.
When he gets home he locks up behind him; he beats Zenitsu to the shower, feeling smug when his brother groans and pounds at the door in irritation. After—despite the fact it’s not even eleven and he had already slept the afternoon away—Kaigaku prepares for bed.
He feels strangely tired. Whether from the heat or the alcohol or the conversation he’d had, he doesn’t know, but he crawls into his futon in the dark, feeling hot even stripped to his boxers.
Every night he hopes to be spared the dreams of that many-eyed man and the taste of his blood, thick and bitter in his mouth; for the first time in a long time his reprieve comes not in the form of that boy who looks like Zenitsu, that old man who looks like Jigoro, or those temple children Kaigaku had brought death to—
He dreams of Hakuji, but then it becomes the monster that looks like him.
Akaza, the thing that looks like Kaigaku, but monstrous, calls him—he can see his reflection in Akaza’s glass-like eyes, can see the way his own are inhumanly bright, can see the sharpness of his own teeth and the strange marks across his face.
The dream is fuzzy. It had begun in Keizo’s dojo, but it turns into that strange, ever-changing building of wood and tatami.
They fight the way Kaigaku and Hakuji do; for fun, but involving more limb-tearing and gouging wounds than any human would be able to recover from. Much like in reality, Kaigaku cannot win. He has never won against Hakuji. He ends up pinned, bleeding from the place where his arm had been ripped off at the elbow, his legs and hands aching as his broken knees and fingers repair themselves.
You’re lovely, the creature called Akaza tells him from above, uninjured. Kaigaku maps the slopes of blue down his face, his neck, his bare chest and arms. He wants.
I’m not, the thing that sounds far too much like Kaigaku says.
I don’t lie, Akaza says.
He thinks they kiss on the wide expanse of tatami. It feels like being eaten alive; Akaza gorges himself on him, and Kaigaku allows it, wants it. He wants and wants, endlessly, and though Akaza takes of him it feels more as if he’s giving.
Kaigaku, who has only ever dreamed of Akaza in periphery—he’s there when Kaigaku is in the shadows of that many-eyed monster, surrounded by other creatures who offer supplication onto a man who never looks at Kaigaku—wakes shaken, wide eyed and with disgust and self-hatred roiling with the longing heat in his gut.
His phone tells him it’s two in the morning. A text notification from Hakuji, an hour previous, sits at the top of his notification list. He doesn’t allow himself to look.
He rolls onto his front, presses his face into his pillow, and chokes on the desire to cry.