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it’s dark out when it happens, with the moon nothing more than a small slice of silver in the sky, shrouded by clouds and dulled by city lights. rain hammers against the roof, pouring down harder as the minutes go on. it’s loud enough to overrun the clock ticking patiently on the wall, to overrun the buzz of the stereo as it plays music curated by someone who isn’t there to hear it.
inupi tiptoes to high shelves and ducks to low ones, replacing misplaced items and organizing along the way. the whole while, he hums under his breath, savoring the quiet and the peace. he’s hardly ever alone, these days.
he’s recently found out that he doesn’t really mind, either.
hell, the only reason inupi’s by himself now is because draken had stepped out for a bit, leaving inupi to close up alone for the first time in weeks. he’d left out details of where, exactly, he was going, but inupi didn’t give it so much as a second thought. inupi had never been given a reason to question draken’s decisions, and there was no point starting now. draken had left with a gentle peck to inupi’s forehead and an all too tight squeeze of his hand.
inupi had watched him go.
the rain relentless; inupi let it fill his otherwise quiet mind, busying himself with the monotonous task of cleaning up around the shop. he goes through the motions without pause; he unboxes recent shipments, replaces skewed tools, dusts off the stereo.
it’s much later, when he’s running through last minute paperwork, that his phone rings from its place in his pocket.
the first thing he notices is this: kazutora h. is calling…
second, inupi notes the time: 11:19 pm. much later than he thought it was.
something unsettling sparks beneath his skin.
“hello?” inupi answers the call, setting his pen down. outside, lightning strikes a tower somewhere in the distance. the overhead lights flicker.
“oh, hey,” kazutora almost gasps, like he's surprised inupi even answered. “how-uh, how are you?”
his voice quivers, like he’s nervous or maybe shaken up. perhaps the storm? inupi stands, brows furrowed. “fine,” he says flatly. then, “is something wrong?”
there’s a breath of hesitation. inupi senses it as soon as it passes.
and then kazutora’s voice breaks in half. “look, i know this is probably, um, really hard—“
“what?” inupi interrupts, fingers clutched tight around his phone. thunder rumbles and he swears he can feel in his bones. “kazutora, what are you talking about?”
a longer, more irritating silence stretches before him. kazutora sucks in a breath. “you-you don’t know, do you?”
“know what?” inupi snaps, shocked to find his throat having gone completely dry. he could feel his heartbeat in his shoulders, down to his toes. “know what, kazutora?”
“it’s—inupi, it’s about—“
his knuckles turn white, skin gone clammy and cold. it could be nothing. it could be nothing at all, but kazutora’s hushed tone and subsequent sniffles tell inupi that it’s not just nothing. things had been going so well recently, for so long in fact, that inupi couldn’t think of a single thing kazutora might be this distraught over.
“about what? spit it out.”
things had been going well until takemichi showed up that day, until the run in with rokuhara, and then—and then.
oh.
“draken,” kazutora whispers, like it physically pains him to say the name. “he’s—“
oh.
almost instinctively, inupi flinches. squeezes his eyes shut, as if that could shield him from this— whatever this is. “no.” it’s out of his mouth before he can even think about it. he's not really thinking at all. “no, what—what are you saying?”
don’t let it be so, inupi thinks frantically, selfishly. it can’t be. he’s safe. he was supposed to be safe. draken promised he’d come back, promised they’d stay up to eat together. he promised. they were going to watch his favorite movie, curled up on their couch with no holes and wrapped in draken’s stupidly endearing childhood blanket he couldn’t stand to get rid of and—
“inupi,” kazutora says gently, half composed, as if he were talking to a spooked animal. inupi, he’s gone.”
dread shoots through his bloodstream like a merciless poison.
“i don’t, uh,” then he really chokes. “i don’t know the details, but listen—“
inupi doesn’t hear the rest. the whole world blurs around the edges, thunder rumbling threateningly again. as if anything could scare him worse than—than this. the room around him seems to have been sapped of its color and, sickeningly, its life—all at once. every single one of his bones felt as though they’d turned to lead, the poison working its vile magic.
on the other end of the line, kazutora’s tears never cease even as he swipes and swipes at his blistering cheeks. even after years of loss and terror, he mourns like a little boy losing his big brother. he mourns as though he has never felt loss as deep and tragic as this, even though he had personally met death years ago. it has been walking alongside him like a lost dog since then, nipping his heels every time he tries to slow down for a break.
the sting of death should not hurt as badly as it does, after all kazutora’s been through, and yet—
and yet he knows, perhaps better than anyone now, that inupi will suffer from this loss the most.
“are you still there? inupi?”
inupi sits back down in the chair, hard, the weight of such truths too heavy to take on all at once, or even at all. his hands fall to his lap, kazutora’s voice fading just like everything else.
what is this feeling?
it was acidic and toxic as it bubbled up in his stomach, crept up his throat. it wasn’t rage; he and rage were age old friends, and they knew each other quite well. it wasn’t even sadness—no, sadness was less a friend and more an uninvited ghost haunting his every move, his every breath. recognizable but not responsible.
the familiarity of this miserable feeling steals all the air from his lungs. he might be sick.
it was a fresh burn, raw flesh, simmering hotter than seemed possible. it was waking up with lungs full of acrid smoke, throat scorched and eyes unable to even shed tears. it was being lost in a place he should've known better than the back of his own hand, a place that had deteriorated into something he could no longer recognize, couldn’t find his way out of.
yet, this was different than it had been the first time. the first time had simply been a waiting game, waiting for the monitor to flatline, waiting for the phone call, waiting for the inevitable. it was waiting for what he knew he would never be able to come to terms with, but bracing for it anyway. clenching his fists tight when the news hit him and carrying the burden of it all like a good boy, like a little brother, like a mourner.
“inupi, listen, i don’t want to leave you by yourself right now, okay? so—“
this was tearing the floor out from beneath his feet, an earthquake under his foundation, his foundation that had been placed unknowingly and precariously on a fault line. this was obtaining something truly good, something he knew he hadn’t deserved but holding it greedily close to his heart anyway, and watching as it got ripped from his aching hands, entirely helpless to stop it and helpless to have prevented it.
“i have to go,” he says. his voice does not shake.
this was worse than turning around to see the home he'd grown up in doused in angry yellow, orange, red. it was worse than seeking out his sister, who’s bedroom was next to his own, who had kissed his skinned knees and told him he was brave, and not being able to find her. it was perhaps even more awful than seeing the shock and disbelief in his best friend’s eyes when he’d realized he’d saved the wrong person, the undeniable disappointment and the spark of years worth of poorly disguised resentment, possibly even something close to hatred, painted all over his face. a face inupi had so dearly admired.
this was worse than the nightmares that would wake inupi up several times a week, because there is no waking up from this. there is no waking up, and there is no one sleeping beside him, waiting for him to open his eyes, waiting with patient and open arms to remind him that he’s safe, that it was just a bad dream.
“inupi, wait—“
inupi hangs up the phone. lets it fall into his lap. he does not weep, not yet.
this was the worst possible outcome. as if the universe saw him, seishu inui, immediately identifying that which he loved most and wrenching it—brutally, ruthlessly—from his grasp.
no, instead he drags himself up out of the chair and exits the office, his movements numb and machine-like. staring but unseeing, his mind racing but unable to land on a solid, trustworthy thought, inupi makes his way out of the shop and into his and draken’s shared apartment just next door. when he crosses the threshold, his legs threaten to give out from beneath him.
and he makes the mistake of looking up. inupi catches sight of draken’s unfinished glass of water on the kitchen counter, of his jacket hanging off a chair at the dining table. his shoes on the floor by the door, that ridiculous blanket thrown across the back of the couch. their photos on the walls, big grins and squeezed shut eyes, arms thrown over shoulders and lips pressed to cheeks. photos and paintings bought from an art show, stacks of magazines and half-read manga.
together. they’d built this place—this life—together, this life that was halfway normal. they had groceries in the fridge, a couch without holes. the dryer was acting funny but draken had strung up a clothesline in the yard. the bathroom sink was stained with hair dye and the closet was full of clothes that belonged to no one particular person. the windows never sealed properly, but it was theirs.
inupi glances around and finds pieces of ken ryuguji everywhere.
once upon a time, inupi had been untouchable, unbeatable. a god in his strength. he believed with every inch of himself not a single thing that came against him could draw blood, no matter how hard it may hit. he knew it.
but seishu inui fell from his tower of isolated invincibility when he started collecting things—friends, a lover, vintage motorcycle magazines—things he simply could not bear to lose, things he couldn’t possibly miss out on. things that had stripped him raw and made him wholly, painfully human.
there’s a sticky note attached to the fridge with draken’s unmistakable scrawl across it: kiki’s delivery service when i come back, ok? :)
that’s right; that was the movie draken had talked about just this morning, telling inupi over breakfast that he needed to see immediately. he’d said, tonight. we’ll watch it tonight. inupi knew draken had loved that movie since his childhood, for reasons inupi didn’t quite get but had hoped to come to learn and understand.
overwhelming grief strikes true, drawing blood.
and oh, how he bleeds.
inupi crumbles to the floor, nothing but a mortal man, a glass boy shattered into a thousand unrecognizable shards. inupi takes a sharp breath, and he weeps—no, sobs. begging, asking why, choking on his cries, inupi’s fists meet the floorboards. over and over, until his knuckles are slicked red—more evidence of his mortality.
why him? why did it have to be him? why, this once and final time, couldn't it have been me instead?
inupi knows—just as he’d known years before, with every bit of himself—that he’d have taken draken’s place without even an ounce of hesitation. he’d have taken all of their places—draken, akane, shinichiro, and in his own twisted way, izana too.
why him? why him? why him?
as if he had not had enough taken from him already.
the door to the apartment swings wide, and for one wild, delirious moment, inupi thinks that maybe draken has come home. that maybe draken is reaching across the bed to stir inupi awake, to pull him from this nightmare and into his loving arms, to press one of his sweetest kisses to inupi’s temple and tell him you're alright now, i’ve got you. it’s over now.
kazutora, instead, stands in the doorway, chest heaving and cheeks ruddy. his jacket is wet with rain, his face completely stricken with grief.
so it’s true.
that menacing chasm of despair opens wider, threatening to swallow inupi whole.
“i’m so sorry,” kazutora whispers, as if he really needs to apologize at all.
he’s hit with a fresh wave of nausea and denial as kazutora falls to the floor beside him, wet hair and wet jacket and wet cheeks, wrapping his skinny arms around inupi’s shaking shoulders and pulling him as close as they can get. it’s not the same.
inupi all but falls into him, hands reaching and grabbing for something solid to hold onto. his fingers twist into like he’s trying not to slip away, like he’s trying to get his feet back on earth. forehead pressed hard into kazutora’s collar, over and over, he begs, “tell me it’s not true.”
“inupi—“
“tell me it isn't,” he gasps. “tell me he’s okay. tell me—“
“i’m sorry, inupi, i’m so—“
“it’s not true. it can’t be.” his helpless blabbering makes kazutora feel sick to his stomach. “please, oh, please.”
there was nothing kazutora could say or do to make him feel better. he held him as tightly and as closely as he could, hoping to maybe absorb or lessen some of his pain. when inupi had hung up on him, kazutora knew he had to race over here as quickly as possible. he knew all too well what it felt like to have to mourn alone, how damaging it was, how destructive it could make someone feel. kazutora couldn’t stand the thought of leaving inupi here by himself at a time like this, surrounded by memories and empty dining room chairs and new ghosts.
“i’m sorry.” kazutora wishes it were enough.
“please.”
“i’ve got you.” he knows it’ll never be enough.
outside, lightning strikes again. thunder follows shortly after, bringing trouble right along with it. somewhere in a city beyond, a boy misplaced in time finds he has long since run out of tears. a boy who’d thought he left his heart behind learns all over again what it means to lose something dear to him.
somewhere in the city beyond, a war has only just begun.