Chapter Text
It is a soggy, silver-gray day at the tail end of winter when Kirishima’s net lifts a man from the water.
He doesn’t notice the man at first. He's not even looking at his net as it dredges up from the sea. This time of year with this kind of ship there's little chance of a good haul. It was probably a stupid idea to waste the fuel coming out here but he'd gotten tired of staring at the ceiling in his shanty, waiting for the money to run out.
Kirishima’s busy watching fragments of light reflect off the waves. The air is crisp and clean. It is a nice day, if not a successful one.
The net swings at the edge of his vision. It drips dark globs of silt and muck onto the deck. There’s a pale arm hanging from one side.
That gets his attention. He scrambles first to the controls and drops the net. It crumples and Kirishima runs to it, falls to his hands and knees, and starts to push aside folds of nylon, mud and kelp.
The arm belongs to a man about his age, maybe a little younger. Kirishima can’t be sure. He is very pale and he doesn’t move when Kirishima lifts him up by his shoulders. His body is cold. Panic fizzes Kirishima’s brain, makes his hands shake as he pushes back a tangle of dirty hair to look at his face.
The man is very beautiful, he realizes numbly. His lips are blue. He isn’t breathing.
It’s been a long time since Kirishima took a CPR class. Not since high school when they carted in a big plastic dummy torso to practice on. He'd been more embarrassed than he had been focused on actually learning what to do back then.
He lays the man down on the deck and tilts his head back. His mouth is as cold as the rest of him and it tastes of saltwater. Kirishima breaths into him until his chest hurts. He pushes at the man’s sternum, bearing his weight down hard once, twice. Then the man jerks and gurgles to life, struggling weakly out of his hold.
Kirishima leans away. The man rolls over and vomits water onto the deck. When he's done heaving, he alternates between coughing and sucking in wheezing, gasping breaths of air. His whole body is shaking. Kirishima watches him for a moment, mouth agape. After he’s certain the man is done purging himself he shrugs off his own jacket. It’s old yellow rubber, meant mostly to keep the water off, but it's better than nothing. Whatever the man's wearing it is shredded and soaked all the way through.
When Kirishima moves to tuck the jacket around him, the man jerks away. He snarls like a wild animal. He's pale and shivering. He must have been out in the water for a very long time. It’s a miracle that he survived.
Kirishima holds up his jacket.
“I don’t wanna hurt you. It’s okay,” he says, keeping his voice soft and level. “Please...just take this. It’s cold right?”
The man doesn't move. He stays pressed against the edge of the ship but he glares at the jacket with an almost hungry look. Kirishima holds it out further.
“Take it.”
Eventually the man wobbles forward on all fours like an animal still getting used to moving around on semi-solid ground. He snatches the jacket and scrambles away out of arm’s reach.
Once he's got it on he remains pressed up at the edge of the prow like a barnacle. Kirishima can see his eyes darting around the boat before settling back on Kirishima. He twitches when Kirishima moves. His hands curl into fists.
“Easy,” Kirishima says, sitting back on his heels and holding up his hands, palms out. “You’re...you need a hospital or something.”
The man’s eyes go wide at that. He whips his head back and forth. It sounds like he's trying to talk but the only noise that comes out of his throat is a raspy kind of growl. It's too rough to sustain language. Kirishima winces. It sounds painful.
“No dude. I just found you in a
net
you need to go see a, a doctor or
someth-
”
Kirishima doesn't get a chance to finish. Even half-drowned and still gasping for air, the man is very fast. One moment he is folding tightly in on himself, the next he’s sprung forward, throwing the entirety of his weight against Kirishima.
He's smaller than Kirishima but his body is dense. Kirishima hits the deck. The wind gets knocked out of him as the man digs his knees into his chest.
He snarls again. His hair drips cold salt water all over Kirishima’s face. There’s a hand wrapped around his neck that makes breathing hard. It’s trembling. The surface of his palm is rough against Kirishima’s neck. The man lifts him up by the throat and slams him back down against the deck. He does it again and Kirishima sees stars. Above him, the man is shaking his head hard, flinging water and mud everywhere like a dog. He looks afraid. Then, suddenly, the hand around Kirishima's neck is going slack. His face is bare inches away and Kirishima can see the light dimming in his eyes, like a fire going out. He goes limp on top of him, nearly as dead as he was when Kirishima first pulled him out of the net.
Pyre O'Water is one of those little towns that feels like it should be wiped off the map in a generation or so. The town proper is just a few dozen old buildings clinging to the coastline. Every year more and more of them empty out, their owners heading further south towards the bigger ports or further inland towards the cities. Everyone left has been born here, their family roots dug in generations deep. No one comes to a place like this by choice, not even tourists.
Kirishima's grandmother lived here all her life. Her father settled here back when the town was shiny and new, before the cannery had opened and before newer, shinier port-towns cropped up all along the coast. He'd bought a few acres of land a ways out of town and built a little shanty house near the fjord. Other than a few coats of paint, it's largely the same house he left to his daughter over 50 years ago.
It's a lonely place for someone to live. There's two graves out back, one for his grandfather and one for his grandmother and on days when Kirishima is feeling particularly macabre he stares out at his back yard and wonders where exactly someone will think to stick him when the time comes.
The man is frighteningly still. If it weren't for the barest rise and fall of his breathing, Kirishima would think he was dead. The moment that he's docked, he's bundling him up in his coat and rushing him inside.
The clothes have to go. They’re sopping wet and the fire that Kirishima’s slowly coaxing to life inside the metal belly of his stove will do nothing as long as they’re sapping whatever warmth Kirishima can give straight back out of him. The shirt and trousers are both shredded. They're made of the same strange material, black and deceptively rough for how smooth it appears, like sharkskin.
He tries not to look as he peels wet fabric off wet skin but he cannot help but notice the scars. They are everywhere, criss-crossing his body in violent nonsense patterns. The palms of his hands are the worst. They’re covered in a shiny layer of tissue, like they’ve been burnt multiple times and his neck-
Kirishima frowns. He hadn't noticed it before when the man was all covered in mud. There's a mark on the man's neck, an ugly purpling bruise that's black at the very center. He winces in sympathy just looking at it.
Well that explains the voice thing.
Whatever happened to this guy before he ended up in Kirishima's boat...it wasn't good. Kirishima curls his hands into fists and looks away. He stands up and moves to shake the dust out of an old quilt. The man doesn't move when he tucks it beneath him to shield him from the cold floor. Hours pass before he does anything more than roll around in his sleep to wriggle closer to the fire. Kirishima uses the reprieve to wash down the deck of his boat and digs some old loose leaf tea out from the back of the pantry.
By the time the man stirs the sun is dipping below the horizon. It's still awful dreary cold outside but it's hard to tell now with the stove turning the air inside toasty and the setting sun casting the light in shades of orange and red and gold.
Kirishima hears the man grunt. He watches his eyebrows draw together in an angry frown. After a moment, he pushes himself up on trembling arms and looks around.
Kirishima waves. “Hi….I uh, made tea?”
He nods over at a chipped mug he'd set near the stove. The man blinks at the cracked yellow mug. He shifts and then looks down at the crumpled heap of blankets pooling over his legs. He frowns.
Kirishima flushes.
“S-sorry,” he stutters, suddenly flustered. “You were freezing...and your clothes were all wet so I thought-”
The man grunts again. He gathers the blanket tight around his shoulders and waist and tries to stand. The first time he sways and falls to one knee. He growls when, Kirishima moves to try and help him. It’s a rough, almost feral sound. It reminds Kirishima of a cornered dog. The second time he tries to stand he manages it. He looks shaky, but he makes it the few steps between his original position and the bench beside the kitchen table, settling heavily and taking the mug into his hands.
Kirishima eyes the scars again as the blankets pool around the man’s waist. Some are fresh, angry red, as if the skin has just barely healed over. He thinks again about asking the man if he’d like to go to the hospital. But remembering what happened last time he thinks better of it.
The man glares down at the tea. He sniffs it a few times and then pushes the cup towards Kirishima in a clear command for him to drink it.
“Uh, okay,” Kirishima says, bemused. He leans forward and takes a long sip from the mug. He’s not a big fan. He'd tried to fix it as much as he could with the last scrapings of sugar from the bowl but the leaves only have a little while longer before they’re unusable, even by Kirishima's standards. “Thank you? I’m more of a hot chocolate guy myself.”
The man glares at him but eventually he lifts the mug to his own lips and takes a sip. Immediately he sticks out his tongue, nose wrinkling.
"Too sweet?" Kirishima asks.
The man nods.
“Figured it’d be better than bitter,” Kirishima says with a shrug. "Sorry."
The man rolls his eyes. He keeps drinking the tea. Kirishima watches his gaze drift up along the length of Kirishima’s shoulders and over his face, no doubt sizing him up.
"Kirishima Eijirou at your service." He smiles at the guy, and sticks out his hand. There's no social script for dealing with a mostly mute mystery man who you caught in a net. Kirishima figures the best thing to do going forward is just to be polite.
The man opens his mouth to speak. All that comes out is a rough, gravely kind of wheeze. It's clearly painful and Kirishima watches as the guy starts coughing immediately, gripping at his throat like he's afraid it might split apart without his hand holding it together. He is horrified as the man opens his mouth a second time in a clear attempt to try again.
"Don't talk!" Kirishima says in a rush. "If it hurts don't do it!"
The guy gives him a disgruntled look, even choking on his own pain he's got the energy to look defiant.
Kirishima reaches out and flicks him between the eyes.
The guy reels back. He rubs at the spot on his forehead and stares hard at Kirishima.
"Dude, don't be stubborn. If it hurts, it hurts. Don't force it."
He gets up to hunt down a pen and paper. He doesn't do much writing but his grandmother left a couple notebooks around and there's a mug of barely used pens collecting dust on her old writing desk. He sets them in front of the guy and flops back into his chair. He's only 24 but fishing isn't exactly easy work and it wasn't made any easier getting knocked around by a half drowned madman. There's an ache and a pain in every part of him that can be bothered to have feeling in it.
The man glowers down at the pen and notebook as if they've personally offended him. Kirishima can't help but chuckle. He's about to say something when he grabs the pen and writes, "You saved me from the water." He writes the way he looks, pressing the pen so hard that it practically cuts into the paper.
"Yeah, well uh, it's my boat that caught you really so uh, thanks boat."
The man scowls and circles the "you" again. There is something sharp in his gaze.
“Okay,” Kirishima says. His mouth feels dry. “Saved you.”
The man grunts and gulps his tea. He glances out the window, nose wrinkling in distaste.
"Where are we?" He writes.
"A few miles outside of of Pyre O’er Water," Kirishima hums. "Population 200-something. Welcome. This is my grand old house…further down the road is the town proper. I can take you sometime l-"
The man shakes his head so fast that Kirishima is surprised his neck doesn't crack. He remembers how the man slammed him into the deck of his own ship when he mentioned taking him to the hospital. No hospital. No town. No people then. Interesting.
"Okay," he says, placating. He smiles when the man gives him a wary look. "You can just stay here."
The man stares at him like he's grown a second head. He scratches out, "Why help me?" On the pad and waves it at Kirishima's face.
"Oh uh, cuz you look like you need help?"
That doesn't seem to satisfy him. If anything it looks like it made him more confused. He backs away a couple of steps, eyes darting from Kirishima to the door.
It's already grown dark outside. No doubt it'll be even colder than it was this morning. Outside, there's nothing but empty marshland for miles.
"Uhm," Kirishima says and he can see the man is shifting very slowly, almost imperceptibly, so that he's facing the exit.
"You don't have to stay?" He offers meekly. "If you don't want to? But it's cold out and maybe you'd like to stay at least for the night? You can take the bed if you want and I'll keep on the couch?"
The man studies him for a long moment before he finally seems to assent. If he relaxes at all, Kirishima doesn't see it but he does stop looking towards the door. Instead he scratches out on the pad. "Keep the bed. I'll take the couch." After a second he adds, "just for the night."
"Okay!" Eijirou says brightly. "I'm Eijirou Kirishima by the way, what's your na- is there something I can call you?"
He clearly picks up on Kirishima's fumble, lip curling when he half says and half swallows the word "name." Still, he stays in place, and he writes "B" at the bottom corner of the pad. Kirishima thinks maybe he's going to add more but he very deliberately sets the pen aside and looks at Kirishima like he's expecting a challenge.
Kirishima just shrugs and smiles. "Okay, B it is. Nice to meet you."