Work Text:
He’s in the middle of chopping up an onion to add to the pot of curry boiling away when a 20-year-old Nishiki strolls through the kitchen doorway. Ah, Kiryu thinks. So he's in a dream.
“Yo,” Nishiki casually calls out, slumping into the far chair like the place belongs to him. In a way, Kiryu supposes it does.
“Yo,” he echoes back with a warm smile. It’s always nice to see Nishiki, even after everything that happened.
“You're looking good, man. How old are you now?”
He's not sure. Is he 37 here? 38?
“You look 40 to me.”
40 it is, then.
He shoots Nishiki another smile before turning back to his cooking. Wouldn't do to ruin the food, especially now that he has a guest. He takes out another packet of curry powder from the cabinet and adds its contents to the pot. He has a feeling Nishiki would appreciate something a bit stronger.
“Is it peaceful here?”
“It is.” He never thought he’d be one to enjoy such a quiet place, especially when all he wanted in his youth was to see the lights of Kamurocho, but he supposes things really do change as time passes. “The chances of accidentally stepping in puddles of urine are significantly lower here.”
Nishiki lets out a startled laugh. “Not if you actually tried watching your step in Kamurocho. I keep telling you, the trick is to treat every single puddle as a pee puddle and just avoid them all in general.”
“There’s a lot of things in the world that deserve to be feared, and puddles should not be one of them,” Kiryu firmly asserts.
“Fine, fine, keep stepping in puddles then.” Nishiki snorts. “Bet you miss all the beautiful and sexy ladies in the city, though.”
Kiryu shrugs. Flirting and dating haven’t exactly been on his mind in what feels like forever. Those days were all long in the past. Now he’s content with gardening in the sand, taking long naps, watching the sun rise and set at the same time- wow, he really does sound like an old man. At least his back hasn’t started cracking yet. He hopes it never does.
“But why Okinawa? Didn't figure you as someone who loves beaches.” Nishiki is looking around the house, noting the mismatched furniture he has decorating the place. He hopes he isn’t being judged harshly by his choice in decor: half of it has already been here long before he arrived, while the other half was picked by Haruka from the various knick knacks that washed up on their beach.
“I didn't exactly have a choice in the location.” He finishes chopping up the onion into nearly equal slices - a tremendous feat, he’ll have you know - and adds it to the rest of the curry. “Sometimes, you just have to continue on the track that life has put you on.”
Nishiki’s face sours a bit, and Kiryu knows he said the wrong thing. “Life, huh,” he mutters darkly, his eyes boring into Kiryu as if he was trying to embed his very appearance in his brain. “You’re saying you don’t have any regrets?”
“I do.” Vague memories of the Empty Lot situation surface in his head. He flicks them away. “As much as any person has, I suppose.”
Nishiki hums skeptically. He starts rocking the chair back and forth. Kiryu’s concerned that the legs might snap given how old the wood is, though he knows logically that Nishiki won’t get hurt from the fall in this dream. “Some people have deeper regrets than others.”
Kiryu doesn’t say anything to that, contenting himself with tasting the curry. He wants to say something along the lines of ‘keep moving forward’, but somehow he thinks that’ll be even less well-received than his earlier statement.
“. . . Kiryu.”
“Hm?”
“What do you think happens when dreams end? Do the people in your dreams just cease to exist?” Nishiki asks, a lot more forlorn now.
The rice cooker clicks. Kiryu moves to disconnect the plug as he thinks it over. “Maybe. Or maybe they continue on living in their reality, eagerly waiting for the day you drop back in to spend time with them again.” He scoops out two cups of rice onto two plates and brings them both close to the curry. It should be done cooking now.
“. . . Do you look forward to spending time with me?”
Kiryu starts ladling out the curry, pouring it as evenly as he can over the rice. “Of course. I’ll never get tired of hanging out with you.”
“Why?!”
Kiryu stills at the sound of palms slamming against the tabletop. Slowly, he turns around, and he is faced with an angry Nishiki. But he isn't the same Nishiki who walked in earlier and made himself at home. He's the real Nishiki: the one who has been alive for 37 years, the one who slicks back with gel the soft hair he once prided himself in, the one who ditched his stylishly colorful attire for the sharp black-and-white suit he used to associate with snobby businessmen.
The one who is crying, a familiar expression of pain and despair and overwhelming guilt etched in every single inch of his face.
“Even in my dreams, why won't you hate me?!”
And suddenly Kiryu is 20 again, 20 and wearing his white pinstriped suit and orange shirt with a cool-looking gold chain pattern, the same outfit that Nishiki claimed to hate but also held onto so tightly as he cried and cried and cried over Kiryu's body. He remembers the excruciating pain in his chest, remembers thinking about how he never imagined dying could hurt so much, until he mustered his rapidly depleting strength to look up at the person cradling him in their arms and sees his sworn brother crying and hysterically yelling "I'm sorry” and “Kiryu" over and over, and he realizes too late that the act itself isn't the most painful part of dying.
He finishes scooping out the curry onto Nishiki's plate, then he picks up the other plate and approaches the table. Nishiki is watching him, still with the exact same expression Kiryu saw on his deathbed. Gently, he slides Nishiki's curry rice onto his placemat, the other man tracking the movement. When Nishiki looks up at him again, confusion in his watery eyes, Kiryu draws on every ounce of honesty in his perforated heart and sincerely says, "How could I ever hate you?"
Nishiki lets out a wretched wail, the tears flowing anew. Kiryu sits on the chair next to him and scoots closer, until he's able to reach over and start rubbing Nishiki’s shaking back. It makes him cry harder, but Kiryu is patient. He knows this is what Nishiki needs.
When the sobs have mostly subsided, he ventures to ask, “Why are you here, Nishiki?”
Nishiki lets out a wet scoff. “I can't exactly control my dreams, Kiryu. How should I know?”
That's true. But it doesn't mean that Nishiki doesn't have a reason to want to see Kiryu, even subconsciously. He knows what it is, of course - he has access to Nishiki's memories the moment the dream began - but he wants to hear it come from Nishiki's own mouth. It wouldn't help make his sworn brother feel better otherwise. “Is there something bothering you? Something I can help you with?”
Nishiki hesitates. As he waits for him to build up the courage to say it, Kiryu skims through his memories. (He's curious! It's not like Nishiki would know). He's saddened by all the blood and betrayal making up a significant portion of Nishiki’s life. He had hoped his death would have helped keep his sworn brother from the darker side of the Yakuza world as he rose to the top, but it seems that once you've had fratricide under your belt, there's little else stopping you.
Well, he isn't here to judge. Dead people don't pass judgment, after all.
“. . . I forgot what you looked like.”
Kiryu drags himself back into the present. “Hm?”
Nishiki's hands clench more tightly around his utensils. “Last week, I woke up one morning and I realized I couldn't remember what you looked like anymore. How fucked up is that, right? I steal away your life and then have the gall to fucking forget your face??”
“You haven't seen me in years.” Kiryu tries to reassure him. “It's normal to forget-”
“It's not!!!” He slams his fists on the table. “How dare I forget you?? Like I didn't watch the light die from your eyes, like you weren't one of the most important people in my life??? Am I so content with my life that I just let my memories of you slip by and let you die a second time???”
Kiryu doesn't know what to say to that. He wants to hug Nishiki, but he doesn’t because despite all the tears he knows Nishiki is still drinking in the sight of him, still committing every detail of him to memory in hopes that he’ll still remember Kiryu’s face once he wakes up. So instead Kiryu just keeps close, hoping his backrub is comfort enough.
“I tried looking for my pictures of you, but I couldn’t find them anywhere.” He sobs. “I don’t know where I could have misplaced them.”
‘Why don’t you ask Kazama or Yumi?’ is what he doesn't ask. Kiryu knows that a wide rift has developed between them and Nishiki ever since his death, knows that it would take some serious grovelling on Nishiki’s part for them to even entertain him, let alone give him a picture of Kiryu. Hell, he doesn't even know if Kazama is still keeping that picture of the three of them, with how much hostility there seems to be between the two patriarchs. Kiryu’s glad Yuko and Reina are still there for Nishiki, but unfortunately he doubts either of them have a picture of him.
No, he needs to take a different approach, one that wouldn't touch on that aspect of Nishiki's life. When was the last time Kiryu had his picture taken? That would be . . . Ah! The real estate office! Didn’t Marina insist they take a photo of the two of them and Yamanoi to commemorate their partnership? He's about to suggest that Nishiki visit them when he hits a snag in Nishiki's memories. Oh, right. The office was technically under Tachibana Real Estate, and from the looks of it, his old boss and his sworn brother were . . . not exactly on the best of terms once Tachibana found out who killed Kiryu. There was no way they'd give Nishiki a copy.
Kiryu keeps looking through Nishiki's head for ideas until he sees it. A blurry memory of a Nishikiyama Family member, whose name Nishiki didn't care to know and whose face he didn't care to remember, except for the fact that he pulls out a small car from his pocket. A gift for his daughter, he proudly says, showing it off to his fellows. Nishiki had felt a pang of wistfulness at the sight before turning away.
What Kiryu gleans from the memory is that the Pocket Circuit Stadium is still open, and he knows for a fact that he's mentioned to Nishiki how often he’s been there. “I'm the best pocket circuit racer in Kamurocho.”
Nishiki looks at him like he's crazy. “Uh, what?”
“I'm the best pocket circuit racer in Kamurocho,” he repeats. “The Dragon of Pocket Circuit, they called me.”
“. . . Good for you?”
“They take photos of the winners and hang them in their Hall of Fame, you know.”
Wide eyes stare back at him. “They . . . do?”
He nods. “The stadium is still open. Fighter can show it to you if you ask nicely.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Of course,” Kiryu confidently lies. He has absolutely no idea if Fighter is still working there (if he is, Kiryu hopes he’s being paid a decent wage now), or if his picture is still being displayed. But Nishiki needs a reassuring answer right now, and if that means he needs to lie a bit then so be it. No one ever said people in dreams can’t be liars.
Nishiki doesn’t reply, turning his attention onto his plate of food instead. He's eating the curry with vigor now though, so Kiryu takes it as a win.
. . . at least until he notices that Nishiki is grimacing slightly with every bite.
Kiryu's eyes narrow in suspicion. “How do you like the curry?”
“It's okay.” Nishiki shrugs. He’s purposely avoiding Kiryu’s gaze. “. . . A bit too strong for my liking. The one I ate in Shibuya was much better.”
Kiryu is silent as he processes the very unsolicited critique of his cooking skills. “. . . I take it back. I hate you.”
Nishiki splutters. “What?! Hey, no takebacks!”
“You come to my house, eat my curry, and then you have the audacity to insult my cooking-”
“Why are you more upset about this than me murdering you??”
“Because this is a matter of pride! Just because it isn't like your ‘chicken avocado quesadilla’ or whatever the hell you ate last night-”
Nishiki chokes on the next spoonful of rice. “Man, I am so glad this is a dream, otherwise I'd have no idea what you just said with how badly you butchered that word.”
“English is hard, okay?” Kiryu defends himself, cheeks warm.
“That word isn't even English, so . . .”
“What? But it uses English letters. Are you trying to say it's actually Chinese?”
“No, it's a different language.”
Kiryu stares at him. “Stop pulling my leg.”
“I'm not! There are more languages out there than just English, bro.”
“I don’t believe you. You're just trying to change the subject. Really, if you don't want to eat the curry rice anymore, it's fine-”
“I didn't say I wasn’t going to finish it!” Nishiki yanks the plate back out of Kiryu’s hands, looking quite ridiculous as he clutches it to his chest protectively. “Just . . . I might need a bit more rice to dilute the flavor.”
Kiryu looks at him skeptically, but ultimately obliges by scooping off his own rice into Nishiki’s waiting plate. He can get some more for himself later.
“Also can you stop smelling like raw sewage? You’re kind of ruining my appetite.”
Kiryu rolls his eyes at that. “If you don’t want me smelling like sewer water, then stop dreaming of me covered in sewer water,” he retorts, crossing his arms to subtly press a palm against the aching hole in his chest. He’d forgotten how much getting shot had hurt.
“Don’t word it like that, you’re making it sound like it’s a kink of mine.” Nishiki groans. “What do you want to be, anyway? You want to go back to being a 40-year-old DILF?”
“What’s a DILF?”
“Uh . . . a really sexy dad.”
“Why Nishiki, I never knew you felt that way about me.”
Nishiki snorts, then starts coughing as the curry enters his nostrils. Kiryu pours him a glass of water while chuckling. “Oh, shove it,” he growls in between coughs, wearing his least threatening glare. In the next blink, Kiryu is 40 years old, his chest pain is gone, and he looks like ‘a really sexy dad’ again.
. . . wait. “‘Dad’? Where did you get that idea?”
Nishiki jerks his thumb at the wall behind Kiryu. “The drawing. Unless you’re the one who made that?”
Kiryu turns around automatically and sees Haruka’s cute crayon drawing of him and a cat they met one day, surfing the waves. The coolest cat in the world, Kiryu had commented. When the cat inevitably vanished, Haruka had solemnly presumed that the cat went back to claim his next life. They spent the rest of the day praying for the cat’s safe journey.
“No, Haruka drew that.”
“Who’s Haruka?” Nishiki asks, scooping more food into his mouth.
“A little girl I met.” He remembers that moment, the feeling of someone accidentally bumping into his soul and leaving a thin tether. Following the thread led him to a little girl washed up on his beach. He had carried her home and tucked her into his futon, then prepared some soup for when she woke up.
When she finally woke up, she woke up crying, and the soup was left forgotten as he rushed to comfort her. After the initial tears, Haruka had been awfully calm and accepting of her new situation. It was while eating the overcooked soup that Haruka opened up to him, telling him the story of how she had ran away from her orphanage to look for her mother.
He didn't ask her about how she died. He's bodyslammed enough taxis to figure out exactly what injuries a hit-and-run can leave.
“She’s out visiting friends.” At least, that was the excuse she gave him when she went out with Pochitaro. Haruka's a lot more perceptive than him; it's possible she knew Nishiki would be dropping by and decided to give them their privacy.
“That's good.” Nishiki gives him a small smile. “At least you have company here.”
Kiryu smiles back at him, a smile that lasted only until he looked down again at Nishiki’s plate. “Why didn’t you touch your carrot? You love carrots.”
Nishiki shoots him a flat glare. “If you don’t want to hear me say mean things about your cooking, you should stop asking questions like that.”
“I can take it,” Kiryu stubbornly insists.
“Fine. Then tell me: why the hell did you put in an entire carrot?”
“Well carrots are good for you-”
“No, I meant why the hell did you put an entire carrot in your curry?”
“What's wrong with that?”
“What's wrong with-,” Nishiki spears the vegetable with his fork and waves it in his face. “It's fucking raw, Kiryu!! That's what's wrong with it!!”
“No it's not.”
Without breaking eye contact, Nishiki puts the vegetable in between his teeth and bites down, the crunch of uncooked carrot echoing loudly across the kitchen. Huh, guess it is.
Kiryu frowns. “I don't see why, I put it in the pot long enough-”
“Because you didn't fucking chop it! Why do you think people go to the trouble of chopping vegetables??”
“They didn’t want to bother with chewing?”
Nishiki throws his hands in the air in exasperation. Hm. Is that why Haruka always left her carrot on the edge of her plate? He had always figured she was just being picky with her food. In a normal situation, he'd have scolded her gently for not finishing her plate and about needing to eat her vegetables to grow up healthy, but well there's really no reason to when they're both dead. Maybe that's why she never mentioned anything about the food being undercooked either.
“17 years and you never learned to cook curry properly. Unbelievable.”
“Well it's not like they have cookbooks in the afterlife.” Kiryu huffs, miffed at the insult. “If you're so concerned about my cooking, then go put a bullet through a cookbook. That might bring it here.”
Nishiki laughs. “I have to admit, that sounds stupid enough to actually work. Now let me eat my subpar curry in peace.”
Kiryu smacks him hard across the back, then returns to his gentle ministrations. Nishiki doesn’t say anything, but Kiryu knows he finds the contact relaxing. He waits until Nishiki has finished most of his plate (surprisingly, even the carrot) before speaking up.
“After you finish your food, we should go somewhere.”
“Where do you want to go?” Nishiki asks through the next mouthful.
. . . Huh. Where indeed. He didn't really think that far ahead; he’s long lost the ability to make long term decisions. Well, they should go somewhere new, someplace neither of them have ever been to. It would be fun to see what Nishiki’s imagination can come up with. A festival, perhaps? Or . . .
“How about an amusement park? I've always wanted to try riding on a spinning horse.”
“You mean a carousel?”
Kiryu nods.
“Okay, I'll see what I can do-”
“After you finish your food.”
“Jeez, alright, alright! Don't get your sewer water-soaked underwear in a twist.”
----
Nishikiyama wakes up with a start, his phone blaring loudly from the alarm he set. The aftertaste of strongly seasoned, undercooked curry rice is still on his tongue. His last memory of the dream is of him and Kiryu at 15, hugging each other tightly as they laugh in exhilaration with every dip of the dragon-shaped roller coaster and scream in fear because Nishikiyama forgot to dream up safety bars and seat belts on the screeching metal deathtrap. With Kiryu's warmth in his arms, Kiryu's scent in his nose, and Kiryu's laughter still ringing in his ears, he grabs the sketchbook from his side table and draws.
The moment he finishes, he starts tearing up.
It isn't perfect by any means - and he vows to practice sketching more just so he can capture his sworn brother's image perfectly - but it's good enough. Nishikiyama doesn’t know how old this Kiryu is - 15? 20? 40? - but he sees the curve of Kiryu's happy smile, the dark eyes that hold nothing but love for him despite everything, and he knows that he'll never forget what Kiryu looks like again. Won't let himself forget ever again.
His eyes drift to the bottom drawer of his side table, where he knows Kiryu's pocket circuit car is hidden. He has no idea where the Pocket Circuit Stadium is, but he's not opposed to wandering around looking for it. It would do him well to walk around Kamurocho without anything nefarious in mind for once. Nishikiyama wants to see if this Fighter guy still has that picture, if he still remembers Kiryu. Maybe he’ll even befriend him.
But first, he's going to buy a cookbook.