Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keicho’s eyes levelled steadily on him, arrow drawn and glinting gold in the sunlight that broke between the window slats. The whole room was black and yellow. Dark muddy shadows, sound of bated breath, zebra stripes on his brother’s face in those hunter’s eyes, so ready to take the shot.

Okuyasu wanted to trust him.

“It won’t hurt that bad,” level soothing voice, memories of being shushed to sleep while things got broken downstairs, “don’t you start crying on me.”

He closed his eyes tight, flinching with preemptive tension. “Just do it.”

Whizz of the arrow. Bow’s metallic twang. The point pierced him in the gut, through the thin fabric of his singlet top, and he coughed as its force knocked the wind from him. Dizzying pain, curses falling from his breath unconscious. The stabbing didn’t hurt as much as the memories it brought up like bile-- of broken bottles shattering against his back, wayward punches, knife-fights in alleys with stupid kids because he was a stupid kid-

“I told you not to fucking cry on me.”

He shuddered in a breath, looked up at Keicho through teary eyes. The zebra stripes lit up on him like a halo. Fire on his skin.

“Sorry.” He dropped his gaze. Keicho’s hand fell heavy on his head, string of pets that pushed him down to heel.

“Just clean up.” He wrenched the arrow from his skin, drew a hiss. “I’m going to check on that thing in the attic.”

That thing --(Okuyasu clung to the thought)-- was their father.

He waited until Keicho was gone to keep on silently crying. Every creaking step and shuffle made him stop, hand clenched to his mouth and heart apace. The blood dried on his skin, and he waited like anything was going to happen. Like someone would come, smiling gently, and tend to his aching wounds.

The sky went dark outside, and Keicho made himself dinner without saying anything. Okuyasu stared at the window slats, counting three separate stars a hundred times as the cold seeped in to claim his bones. His dad upstairs was crying. He wondered if he was hiding under his sheets.

“Show me again.”

Okuyasu had had enough of monsters, and didn’t like this thing-- the stand --that’d taken up residence inside him. But it made Keicho happy. Somehow. As he swiped at the bottle on the table, twisted it up into a dwarfish hunk of glass-cut-short and almost-water, he caught the glint in his brother’s eyes again. Liquid gold. Okuyasu was actually doing something right.

“Again.” Another bottle lined up, tall proud thing not knowing what was coming.

Okuyasu groaned, stretched his arms out and shot him a reproving look.

“Isn’t that enough? It’s the same thing every time. I’m tired.”

“Try to take the whole thing out.” Keicho insisted, sliding the bottle toward him an inch.

He pouted, but complied. Got the ghost to place its hand flat on the bottle’s rim, pushing down until it disappeared like magic. The tabletop crawled forward when he pulled away-- mud sliding in reverse. An ugly knot was left in the shape of his hand.

Keicho smiled for just a second. “Let’s find you something bigger.”

“Oh, c’mon!”

Sharp inhale that made his heart stop. Keicho slammed his hand into the tabletop.

“Can you stop fucking complaining for just one second? Don’t you get what’s happening here?”

Okuyasu inched back.

“No, you fucking don’t, do you? Goddamn shit-for-brains.” He sneered, words hitting like a beating.

The table’s knots seemed all too interesting now, in the dim grey and brown of the power outage. Okuyasu readied his nerve, blood pulsing in his guts-- a warning sign, like the shivers that crept down through the layers of his skin.

“You know you’ve gotta explain shit to me. I don’t get it on my own.” He said.

Keicho could deliver the most patient sighs when he was most ready to hit someone.

“If you can use this right,” his voice was ice,“you might be able to kill our father.”

Okuyasu’s stomach dropped.

Their house was oh-so-dull on the inside, stale air and stale colours from the way they’d shut it up; but in the corners of some rooms were the remnants of before. Red stains turned brown then red again on the edges of the kitchen counters. In the dark right now they glowed, neon spots in his vision sending him sick. He couldn’t remember who made the stains-- him, his dad, or Keicho.

“I don’t wanna.”

He barely let himself breathe the thought. Keicho reared up above his vision, mountain of black stretching to every corner with a violent hum like popped flourescents. He tasted the punch, even if it only hit the wall.

“You’re fucking joking.” Keicho snatched up a pot, threw it against the table with a crash. “You’re fucking joking, what did you think this was all for? Do you think this was for fucking fun!? Okuyasu?”

His voice rose with every word, syllables like explosions. Okuyasu’s name was an insult in his mouth.

“You wanna just fucking leave him there? Is that what you want? You want to be stuck here, in this stupid fucking house, with that thing for the rest of our goddamn lives!?”

“He’s not-” The words didn’t come past shallow breaths. Okuyasu hunched down, curled his arms around his sides, tried desperately not to cry. “I just don’t want him- He’s still-”

“He’s not our dad.” Keicho stalked up, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to meet his eyes. “He’s not. Our. Fucking. Dad. He is a monster.”

Their stares stayed locked for far too long, cold and empty bitter thing passing between them and Okuyasu realised he could say nothing. He unclenched his fists from his jacket, brought them hesitantly between him and his brother. They found home around his wrists, pushing softly back.

“Stop.” He knew he sounded like a child, but he couldn’t care. “Stop it, you’re freaking me out.”

Keicho was scrutinising, silent. Eyes dark with something unsteady, mouth drawn thin into a scowl that warped him, shadow-light, into a young and bloodless portrait of their father.

“You wanna know what’s going to happen if you just leave him up there?” His words fell low like ocean tumble. “You wanna come upstairs and see what you’re sticking us with?”

Okuyasu locked his gaze, expression flat and body still. No reaction, when he was at his worst. No provoking the adder into snapping.

Keicho broke into a laugh. Electric oil. “Don’t play dumb with me. I asked you a question.”

Maybe if he waited, he would move on. Not require an answer. If he didn’t say it again-

“I said, I asked you a fucking question.”

Deep, calm breath. There was no good response. “Okay.”

“’Oh-kay’?” Dopey mimicry of his voice. A few more repetitions, harsher and stupider.

Without warning, Keicho grabbed his hair, dragging him by the scalp towards the stairs.

“Come on, Okuyasu, come look at your daddy.”

They marched upstairs and he was pushed to the floor, legs folding under him like a collapsible chair. The thing-- his dad-- their monster --was shuffling around its box. Keicho lobbed a kick at its skull, teeth-baring grin at the sound it made.

“He looks just like you.”

He drew out his stand, and the room began to buzz with the sound of activity. Tiny machines, tiny people. Easily quashed underfoot.

Okuyasu squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears as the military assault began. A million firecrackers, whistling shells, tank tread grinding on uneven floor. Tiny spots in his vision and muffled pops over the roaring of his blood in his head. He could’ve pretended it was New Year’s Eve-- if their dad wasn’t wailing over all of it.

“Hey, look, you little asshole.”

His brother was upon him all of a sudden, tearing his arms apart. He stood over him from behind, dropped his grip on his wrists to pry his eyes open.

“I said look, because this is your fucking fault right now.” Shrapnel tore their father to pieces, hundreds and thousands of pinprick holes that Okuyasu knew stung like bees. “Look, it’s not even fucking killing him. You’re making me hurt him for no reason.”

They knew it wouldn’t work. Keicho had shot him before until he all but fell apart-- mass of gelatin and yellow teeth and oozing eyes all quivering around a pain that never stopped. But when he let up, their dad came back together again. It was their last resort in a sea of a hundred killings; no thing fanciful, practical, grounded or deluded could stop the fleshy monster from growing back, agonising, drip-drooling and moaning, in seconds, hours, days. The walls still stunk from indoor fires and toxic baths and god-knows-what, and if Keicho’s stand had smoking guns they might’ve never cleared the air enough to breathe.

And Okuyasu was so sick of watching his father die.

“Do you want me to stop?” Gentle, soothing voice. The Keicho he liked. The hand in his hair, brushing back, not pulling or slapping. Gentle eyes, soft and still.

Okuyasu heaved back a sob, nodding into his touch with a grateful sigh.

“Then just do it, Okuyasu. It’ll only take a second. He won’t even feel it.”

He didn’t want to. Oh god, he didn’t want to. But the offer came like a salty breeze after finally breaking the surface of the waves, weighing light on the skin and filling up empty lungs and granting implicit welcome to eyes that’d been clenched so hard against the dark. Oh, it’d just be so easy to take those first breaths. He didn’t even have to move from his spot.

He heard the violent blare of the swiping hand, of tissue being torn away and vanishing out of sight, out of mind. Keicho stayed clutched around his shoulders, light touch growing firmer, and he didn’t open his eyes so he could imagine that he was being smiled upon.

“Do it again.”

Again? But he’d done it. It was over.

“Fucking hell, Okuyasu, do it again! He’s coming back!”

Sharp crack against the back of his head. He blinked his eyes open, saw the mess he’d left unstitching and bubbling out like rice set too hot.

He swiped him again. Again. Again. The spuming flesh came back faster, too fast to take away, and soon he realised he was just hurting him-- right hand falling with a snap in a rhythm, ancient thrashing in reverse --and he stopped himself with horror. The thing-- his father-- screamed, unending, until Keicho beat him into silence.

“Well, that was useless.”

The words filled the void, cold and empty. Okuyasu wasn’t sure if the sun had set or he’d somehow sucked the light from the room. He wanted to vomit.

“There’ll be someone else.” That came mumbled underbreath, between heavy footsteps towards the arrow in its case. “I’ll find someone with something stronger. We’ll do it. We’ll do it.”

Okuyasu stayed in his place, breathing conscious and silent. Shrinking into the floor in the hopes it might hide him.

“It figures.” He knew he was addressing him, even if he didn’t turn. “It figures you’d be fucking useless.”

Heavy, heavy footsteps down the stairs and out the door. Heavy footsteps that hung torturously in the air until Okuyasu thought he could suffocate, if they didn’t stop pressing down on his throat.

Chapter Text

Okuyasu was four years old the first time that somebody hit him. It was a vague, foggy memory-- maybe he’d broken something, or put on an attitude --but next thing he knew he was on the ground, and the great hulking mass that was his father was determinedly beating him to a pulp.

That was the first time he saw that Keicho loved him, too. Because his big brother, no more than six back then, had jumped in the way to take the hits for him. Screamed at him over the sound of crafting bruises to go hide, to not come out until he found him. Later that night, he’d hid beside him in their closet, wiping his tears and comforting him until he finally managed to fall asleep.

Keicho had been mature for his age-- Okuyasu wasn’t sure why people thought that was a compliment. What was there to praise in a kid that cooked his own meals and raised his brother? A kid who knew first-aid before basic maths, who identified alcohol by strength and robbed grocery stores just to put butter and rice on the table? Was that really what parents wanted from their children?

It made no sense to Okuyasu, but maybe he was just being stupid.

He’d thought it was a good thing when their dad began to mutate, after all. All he’d understood then was that he was sick, and weak now, and that they’d never be hurt again. Keicho would take over control. And Keicho loved him.

And Keicho learnt about love from a father with bruise-knuckled fists. And Keicho, laden with stress, broke and buckled like a child. And Keicho, unlike Okuyasu, had a brother who was a burden, who was helpless, who needed food and protection and doubled the labour of the household without putting anything in by himself.

And Keicho hated. And he took it out on him. And Okuyasu accepted it because it was all he’d ever known.

The house stunk of the cheap incense Okuyasu had bought with their dwindling money. He’d need to get a job soon. In the throes of grieving, he hadn’t been able to think about it.

Cool air was coming in from outside now, at least. Keicho wasn’t there to insist on the window-boards. Still, he felt almost afraid to look out onto the street-- it just felt unnatural, all these indefensible holes in the walls, like he’d opened himself up and watched his guts spill out. He was sure Keicho would have something to say if he was there. Something awful.

It was all just such a mess, good god. He didn’t know what to think so he stopped trying, just ran numbly through the household tasks and stared numbly at the altar and cried numbly, and comforted himself, and waded slowly through the unbroken silence. The smell of sandalwood was a background constant, incense sticks in a plastic tray that he was frightened to let burn out. They hadn’t had a family altar for twelve years. He had a lot of backed-up prayers to send.

The sun was sinking low, and he hadn’t turned the lights on. Hadn’t closed all the windows, so a hot breeze swept in. It caught the spiralling incense smoke and spread it across the room, blanket of haze that caught the wide gold sunbeams and dripped them down to Okuyasu, who’d been kneeling on the floor for hours.

He might’ve memorised every inch of the family photo-- the only one salvaged from Keicho’s destructive rampage, age twelve, after the first time he’d tried to kill their father. Okuyasu had scraped up the tatters when he was done and hidden them away, and then forgotten about them. Another fuzzy scene from the blank book that was his childhood.

At this point, Okuyasu knew his parents’ faces better from the picture than from memory.

He curled into a ball and sobbed silently into his knees. Chest tight, breaths jerky and stuttered. Wasn’t it stupid to cry if nobody cared? Who did he expect to come running? Keicho had died for his sake-- it wouldn’t be him.

Creak on the stairs. He froze, wiped quickly at his face. Held his breath, eyes darting over the room. There was nowhere to hide. He couldn’t escape without being seen. His heart sped, frantic and shaking and filling him with a nervy, cold adrenaline as he choked on his acid spit. The door slid open. He hadn’t realised he was hyperventilating-- he cringed into himself, nails digging into his arms, eyes lowered.

But Keicho was dead. What was he doing?

The footsteps were lighter and softer. But Okuyasu couldn’t look. He’d already started bawling like a baby, jesus christ. It seriously was pathetic. He hadn’t even touched him yet and it already hurt so bad.

Vague moan. Small hand patting his knee. It was Dad. It was just Dad, who couldn’t hurt him now. Keicho was dead. Keicho was dead. Why was it a relief that Keicho was dead?

He felt sick at himself. Crawled backwards, hit the wall and cowered. His nails dug into his skin, bare arms, scraping old trails until the blood ran deep. Everything came in flashes of black and white. His dad was there. Coming closer-- no no no.

Shrinking back further, he kicked him and screamed “Get away from me!”

Throaty wail. His father scurried off under the table, sobbing phlegmy gibberish. Downcast and trembling like a dog. Okuyasu looked at him and almost wanted to hit him again, because it was his fault-- everything they’d suffered was his fault. And how dare he come near him.

But his father snivelled and hid his head, and as much as he couldn’t stop his wild rage, Okuyasu couldn’t stop aching for him, either. He looked like a child. And they were family, whatever that meant-- however much that even mattered. Whatever scars he’d left him with, Okuyasu couldn’t help but love him.

He wiped his eyes and crawled shakily towards the table. Stopped when his father turned. Fell to a seat and held his arms out, spoke soft.

“Hey. ‘M sorry. C’mere.”

A silent second. His dad hiccuped, and crept slowly into his lap. Okuyasu wrapped his arms around him. They sat in the darkening indigo, rocking slightly. The last of the incense burnt out.

“Things’ve been kinda tough.” He mumbled, gaze on the floor. “But it’ll get better. I’ll look after us. Neither of us’ve gotta be scared anymore, alright?”

His dad gurgled. Okuyasu wasn’t even sure if he understood. But there was something in there, right? A little bit of the man he’d been.

“I love you.”

It felt so unfamiliar in his mouth he could’ve cried. He didn’t. But then his dad wiggled up and placed his hands on his cheeks, touched his crisscrossing scars and gave him the most miserable look-- and Okuyasu remembered suddenly that he was in charge, now, and he let himself burst into tears. Quick noisy sobs, shuddering through his body. His dad hugged him back.

“It’s okay.” He replied, to the sorry that was implicit. “It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

His dad didn’t believe him. He didn’t believe himself. But he wanted this so badly, he’d say anything.

A week dripped past like molasses. Two weeks. A month. Before he knew it, it’d been a whole season since Keicho had passed on. He logged every second, every calendar page, more used to the concept by the day. Keicho was gone. Keicho wasn’t coming back.

And the time just kept slipping by.

Spring came again. Cool breezes, falling blossoms, drying puddles on the concrete path and clear sky for miles, seamless fade over the sea. The living room windows were wide squares of sunny blue, drenching the room in a haloescent glow. Josuke sat on his couch, chin in his palm, as Okuyasu completed his after-school chores.

Feed the cat. Check on dad. Open a window to let the fresh air in. Light new incense on the altar.

Familiar scent of sandalwood twined up into the air, cloying curls that spun and faded in the gentle breeze from outside. He stilled, breathed it in. Stared down at the family photo. It’d been imprinted in his memory long ago, and the path his gaze took was almost muscle memory now. Familiar strangers. Alien bond. Like another universe adjacent to his own.

“You okay?” Josuke asked.

Okuyasu started; he hadn’t noticed his approach.

“Yeah, man. Just thinking.”

His gut sank heavy, strangling tightness in his throat-- too much smoke. He turned away towards the window, towards Josuke. Deep breath of fresher air. Eyes briefly shut.

“It’s a year today, y’know.”

“Oh.” Quiet dismayed sound. Josuke pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool. It’s whatever.” Admission within him that he’d kept close to his chest, that he’d buried, ashamed of it. “I… I don’t miss him.” And his breath hitched, and Josuke found his hand. “Am I a shitty person?”

“No! Of course you’re not. He…” Josuke sucked in a breath through his teeth, wiped the tears that Okuyasu couldn’t stop. “He was a dick to you. If you don’t miss him, that’s okay. It’s normal not to miss someone that hurt you.”

Okuyasu leant into his touch, his hand warm against his cheek. It was tender. He buried his face into his palm.

“I still love him.” Shaky breath; he put his hand over Josuke’s, to make him stay. “Is that…”

Caring smile. Light eyes, fluttering lashes. Thumb grazing his knuckles. No pressure.

“That’s okay too.”

Okuyasu sighed. Drew into Josuke, wrapped his arms around him, felt him hug back tight. The scent of pomade enveloped him, where he’d pressed against his neck. They blended together in the dayglow.

“Guess I’m not being too bad then, after everything.”

“Okuyasu.” Serious. Weighty. Like a holy word on his tongue. He drew back and he was bleached by the sun’s argent light, glowing outlines, fading white and blue.

“You’re the best person I know.”

It felt better this time when Okuyasu said ‘I love you.’