Work Text:
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
Chougi is just turning to a new chapter in the play he’s reading when the door to his room bursts open. He doesn’t need to look up to see who it is, doesn’t so much as glance. It’s not the first time Kunihiro has let himself in like this.
It doesn’t happen often and only after he’s been dispatched to the battlefield as captain. Having seen the citadel’s schedule for the day, Chougi had been half-expecting the visit. And so he keeps his eyes down, finishes turning the page he’s holding and reaches for his mug of tea as his uninvited guest begins clattering around.
First comes the slamming of the door. Kunihiro slides it hard enough that the whole frame rattles. Then there’s a frantic rustling of fabric, buttons being forced open and ties being pulled, the sounds of clothing being dropped clumsily onto the tatami. The shoes get thrown into the corner and Chougi sneaks a furtive glance to ascertain that yes Kunihiro is indeed leaving dried dirt and blood on the floor, how generous of him.
He doesn’t say anything yet. The first time Kunihiro had shown up like this, Chougi had accused him of trying to steal his room as well as his name and demanded he redress. Now he knows it’s easier to just let him get on with it, less painful for the both of them. He does allow himself a small wince as there’s the tell-tale clunk of a sword being dropped on the floor without care, not even cushioned on the discarded clothes. Disgraceful behaviour from someone who dares to use the name Yamanbagiri . Chougi is considering scolding him for it when Kunihiro raises his voice in a sharp demand.
“Look at me.”
Chougi fumbles his mug, spilling tea on his leg with a hiss.
“Now look what you’ve-”
“ Look at me. ”
There’s something about Kunihiro’s voice when he’s firm that’s impossible to deny. An edge of steel, as beautiful and inescapable as his blade itself. Chougi looks up from where he’s sat on the floor at his table and any words he had been meaning to scold Kunihiro with dry up in his throat.
Kunihiro is a state. Not only is he covered in mud and blood but it must have been raining wherever and whenever he’s been and he’s soaked through. Water drips from his shirt sleeves and sticks his golden hair to his face. He’s discarded his jacket and his cloak, the orange ties that usually bind his outfit together are crumpled on top of the pile, and in his hurry to remove his shoes he’s lost one sock as well. Chougi finds himself staring at that one bare foot on his floor with a sort of dull horror. It’s so ludicrous, so out of place, so unwelcome, and yet he can’t bring himself to tell this intruder to leave.
It’s not out of kindness, he’s sure. It’s probably because there’s something satisfying about seeing Kunihiro messed up like this. Not the physical wounds, although he does have plenty of those, no, Chougi isn’t interested in any injuries. He glances over them and instead raises his eyes to meet Kunihiro’s, to see the maelstrom of emotions swirling in his bright blue stare.
Humiliation. Frustration. Confusion. Rage, too. There’s so much dirt and rainwater on his face that Chougi can’t be certain but he suspects Kunihiro might have been crying. The corner of Chougi’s lips twitch into a smile.
“You look terrible,” he murmurs. “Are you sure you want me looking at you?”
Instead of answering, Kunihiro drops to his knees and grabs hold of the front of Chougi’s waistcoat. Chougi’s smile only grows as Kunihiro gives him a little shake, his brow creasing.
“Why me?” Kunihiro rasps. “Why not you?”
Chougi isn’t exactly sure what he means by that. Kunihiro probably doesn’t know himself. Why was he chosen as captain when he’s merely an imitation? Why had he messed up in battle and gotten hurt? Why hadn’t their master asked Chougi to lead instead? Why does everyone leap to Kunihiro’s defence every time he makes a mistake but condemn Chougi’s every move? These are all questions Chougi asks himself, too. He won’t admit it aloud that it’s something the two of them share.
It’s easier to pretend he has all the answers. He holds Kunihiro’s gaze without flinching and reaches up to take hold of Kunihiro’s wrists as if he’s going to forcibly remove him. He’s not sure why he hesitates.
“Because everyone loves you,” he says softly, bitterness lacing his words. “Why? Did you disappointment them again?”
His words strike home and he doesn’t need to remove Kunihiro’s hands after all. Kunihiro lets go willingly and recoils back as if stung. All of the fire drains out of him and he crumbles before Chougi’s eyes. It’s awful but fascinating to watch, beautiful in the same way glass is when it shatters, and Chougi can’t look away. Kunihiro closes his eyes and folds in on himself, crumpling to the floor and then curling inwards on himself, curling around where Chougi sits. He’s shaking from head to toe and even if he’s wet it’s not cold enough for those tremors to be because of the cold. Chougi watches entranced, as Kunihiro makes a small noise somewhere between a whimper and a groan and raises one of his hands to his mouth before biting down on the heel of his hand to stifle the sound.
It’s...pathetic. Chougi should want to laugh but he doesn’t feel like it. He’s not sure what he feels looking at Kunihiro now but it’s an uncomfortable, prickly feeling. For a time, he does nothing other than listen to the soft sounds Kunihiro is making and watch the way he trembles. Anyone else in the citadel would be offering empty platitudes, excessive sympathy, false optimism. Chougi doesn’t offer anything at all. It’s while he sits here in silence that he realises this is probably the reason why Kunihiro comes here at all.
There’s no one else Kunihiro can turn to when he’s like this. No one else who will let him have his meltdown, no one else who will allow him to feel all those negative feelings that seem to define him. Chougi understands that without needing to be told. He should hate it, or make fun of him, or do something to show his own superiority. Perhaps the way he shows his own weakness is in how he doesn’t do anything of the sort.
He’s not sure how much time passes, only that his tea gradually goes cold. When it has, he sets it down on the table and then hesitates with his hand suspended pointlessly in the air. He then brings it down slowly until he can brush the tips of his fingers against the drying ends of Kunihiro’s hair. It looks ridiculous, as alien a sight as Kunihiro’s foot had been earlier, and he stares at it for a moment with his brows slowly creasing in a delicate frown. He runs his fingers back and forth through the strands, captivated by the way the light catches the colour, not missing the way Kunihiro’s trembling eases just a little at the touch.
This is not the way things are supposed to be between them. They’re supposed to fight and resent and hate one another. It’s supposed to be simple. But there’s nothing simple about Kunihiro coming here to break down, nor about the way Chougi can’t stop stroking his hair in soothing motions he hadn’t known himself to be capable of.
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
The words come back to him like a whisper in his ear and he can’t stop himself from following the thought through.
It’s not hate he feels. His emotions are as strong and as violent but not that, never that. The truth is that he loves Kunihiro in a way he can’t explain even to himself. It’s not pure. It’s not simple. It burns agonisingly in his chest, hurts so much that it’s easier to pretend it’s hate that he feels.
The truth is that he has no intention of admitting otherwise. Kunihiro will eventually come back to himself and make ready to leave and then they’ll start talking, they’ll trade jabs and insults where others might share kisses, keep it up until balance is restored, until things feel normal again. Then they won’t talk about it. They never do. Chougi is certain they never will.
For now he holds his tongue and closes his eyes, brushing his fingers through Kunihiro’s hair. Just for a little longer.