Chapter Text
There’s a boy near the train tracks.
He looks kind.
You don’t know his name. You certainly don't know his age, or where he lives, where he goes to school, where his parents are, if he even has parents.
All you know is he is a boy, and he sits near the train track.
That is, in your opinion, quite enough to pay attention.
He is young. He is a boy. He looks tired though there are no bags under his eyes; cold though there are clothes on his back; hollow, though he is so young.
There is a boy. His hair is some strange mix of blond and black, like he tried to dye them but changed his mind halfway. You wonder which is natural; they both look at home on him, as far as you can tell.
He sits alone. He sits, which is a relief, you suppose, for he sits near the train track.
If he were standing; if he were moving, maybe you would call someone. Approach him. Ask, where are your parents? Have you an older sibling, an aunt, grandparents? A guardian, a friend, someone I could call?
Why are you standing so close to the train tracks? Don't you know it's dangerous?
You could get killed, you know.
Perhaps that last sentence would be a mistake. Perhaps you wouldn't even ask anything; perhaps you would just call the police, something equivalent.
But the boy is so young, and he is just sitting. Surely it's foolish, but you allow yourself to hope.
He is just sitting. Past the borderline, even.
There is a barrier, between him and the train tracks. And he is sitting. Surely it's foolish, but he is so young, and the gods must be merciful, surely they must care more for the young.
He is just sitting. He is just a boy.
His clothes are clean and his hair is brushed and there are no bruises on him. He is just a boy, sitting near the train tracks.
That is enough to watch him. That is enough to sit, as well, near the train tracks, on the steep slope of the hill, near him. It is not enough to ask.
He is just a boy. He is simply sitting.
You think he looks kind.
oOo
The first thing Yukine did, upon waking up, was flinch away from them.
It had almost been picturesque. Him, blond roots only starting to show, face calm and free of anger, bandaged up like he had been after the purification, after Bishamon, after heaven. Yato, and Hiyori, sitting by his side. The sun filtering through the open windows, the attic that smelled like dust. The shrine she’d made, left near the windows; Yukine’s school books that Yato hadn’t tidied properly, if he’d even touched them at all.
The silence, broken only by Yato’s rasping breaths.
There had been no warning, for her, no eyelids fluttering, no shaking of Yukine’s head from side to side. Certainly no tightening fists, those had been carefully tucked away under the covers, them and the bloodstained nails. Yato had just breathed a little quicker, and looked at his shinki with open hope, and knelt by his side in a picture far too familiar.
There had been Yato, face tearstained, hovering over him, and he had opened his eyes, and they had widened, and he had shrunk away from Yato without a single thought.
The worst thing is there had been no confusion in his gaze. He had known, quite clearly, who Yato was; and in a single movement he had shut his eyes like a boy waiting to be hit, and he had made himself small like he had not cut heaven itself not a month ago.
The worst thing, actually, was he had waited. The worst thing was he had expected Yato to do it. The worst thing was, even expecting it, he hadn't fought back.
The worst thing was the way Yato had stilled. The worst thing was the way unbridled, unaltered anguish had carved its way onto his face, the way guilt had gouged his eyes out, the way anger had traced patterns of bloodstains over them, the way despair had washed them away in a flood the likes of which one should not survive. The worst thing was the way his face had been blank a second later, the way he had stepped away from Yukine, the way Hiyori could read physical pain from how tense he held himself. The worst thing was he had to hold himself, and hold himself away.
The worst thing was Yukine had flinched.
The worst thing, in truth, was Hiyori could do nothing about it.
oOo
There is a boy near the train tracks.
He looks scared.
His hands are tightened into fists. His shoulders are too high up, his movements tense and staccato. His knees are bunched up against his chest and his arms circled against them like he’s trying to protect himself with his own limbs.
His hair is a strange mix of blond and black, so very unusual.
He’s not crying. He’s not trembling, though it could be he simply doesn’t allow himself to, could be he holds himself too tense.
He is looking at the train tracks, and you’re too far away, from the balcony of your apartment, to truly know; but you don’t think he’s crying.
You don't know anything about the boy. You don't know why he is here, why he is alone; why he doesn’t have a uniform, shouldn’t he be in school?
He is just a boy, sitting near the train tracks, and your heart seizes.
He is just a scared boy, sitting near the train tracks, and you should hurry outside, you should not hurry, you should not give him a single reason to move or run or act. You should be calm and composed and you should say the exact right things and you should call someone.
You should be there. You should go to him; you should not approach him. There is someone near the train tracks, and he is a boy, he is just a boy, surely the gods will protect children, surely they will at least protect children.
You should hurry outside. You should not let him leave your sight. You should call someone; you should not overreact.
There is a boy near the train tracks and you don’t know where the emphasis should sit.
There is a boy sitting near the train tracks. He is behind the barrier, at least. That is a kindness; that is an act of the gods. It gives you just enough time to go outside, sit near, be there.
In the time it takes for you to step outside, he is gone.
oOo
The first thing Yukine had said, bleeding through his bandages, hair black as night, was, "You should release me."
And there had been one name in Yato's mind, only one link to prove he was real. There had been none of the blight spreading across his neck as proof they'd survived. There had only been the churning, awful, spreading guilt, the pointless, boiling anger; the infinite, threatening grief that he could have looked into and lost the memory of light.
"No," Yato had said.
Bishamon would have struck him, had she been there. Any god would have, in fact, any Yato would have held in any regard at least. Shinkis are not tools; shinkis were people. To forget that was to beg to be stung, to forget that was to forget that those were the people you had not saved, to forget that was to forsake the weight of their deaths, the sound of their last breath, their final pain.
And to forsake that was to forsake the meaning of divinity.
Bishamon would have struck him, she who loved her shinki like her children. If any of them -even dearest, darling Kazuma, who she surely would crumble without- had stepped forward, had asked to be released, then she would have apologized, and would have obliged immediately.
Shinkis are nothing without a name, gods like to pretend. It is a lie, it is a truth; and for a shinki to ask to be nameless, was the god's greatest fault.
If you had failed them so terribly, so fundamentally, then the least you could do was praise their courage, shoulder their deaths, and let them go.
But Yukine had stood before him, trembling, barely bandaged, eyes full of tears, and asked, and Yato had said no.
To curse a shinki to be nameless is to kill them twice.
Yukine would never die again, protected by Father's curse. The ayakashis would never reach him. The heavens would never take him in.
And to curse a person to be alone; that is deserving of an eternity of torture.
oOo
There is a girl near the train tracks.
Her name is Yuzu. Her hair is black and falls straight down her back. She is six and her parents are at work, her grandmother supposed to watch her.
But you know her grandmother's health has been steadily declining. Yuzu is left to her own devices, more and more. You do not blame the parents, could not; they are lovely. You'd offer to watch her, but you aren’t home regularly enough.
Today Yuzu plays near the train tracks. You lose your breath when you realize exactly how near. There is no ring warning for the train crossing, here, just a low barrier a child could slip under, and Yuzu is playing with a ball.
The ball escapes her grasp. You see her cry out more than you hear, and when she heads towards the wooden barrier your heart stops in your chest.
It takes you too long to lurch out of your stupor, to throw yourself out of the balcony and into your entryway, to nearly jump through the stairs, to slam the front door of the building open. It takes you too long and the rhythm of your heart hammering in your chest is a constant reminder of the seconds you could be wasting.
You could be worrying about nothing, the gods know how much you do that, but Yuzu usually plays either near the river or next to the steep, steep hill, and wouldn't a six-year-old find train tracks fascinating?
Trains are automated these days, aren't they?
Children are curious, and if the metal was to start vibrating, wouldn't she stay?
She is just a child. She doesn't know any better. You could be worrying about nothing, but she is just a child, the gods be merciful, she is just a child.
You rush through your porch only to find Yuzu safe, up, up on the hill that towers over the train tracks. Her ball is in her hands; she seems in the middle of talking to one of her imaginary friends.
You nearly faint here and there. The rush of adrenaline leaves you so suddenly you find yourself almost nauseous, and instead of vomiting you let out a delirious, relieved laugh.
Thank the gods, thank the gods. One should look out for the children.
You send out a wordless thanks to the heavens, and collapse on your front porch. You watch, from afar, Yuzu play with her imaginary friend, until your trembling leaves you and you regain your senses, and rush up to her to coax her back home.
oOo
The first thing Yukine said, when Kofuku saw him -the real him- again, had been a frantically apologetic, if slightly delirious, "Sorry for putting Daikoku in danger."
Kofuku had gaped at him. Her eyes had filled with tears immediately, which had been unfair; she should not have put more on him, this teenager who shouldered his own death.
To cover them she had launched herself at him, gathered him up in a trembling embrace the likes of Hiyori's, muttered, voice trembling, "Yuki, we were so worried-"
Yukine had flinched back, inhaled a whimper, and collapsed.
Kofuku had only managed to hold him up at the last minute.
There, on his left side, visible through his simple white yukuta; a growing bloodstain, from the goddess of poverty. Kofuku's useless without Daikoku, she really is.
"Yato!" She had shrieked, hands hesitating to relax and let Yukine onto the ground or hold on. Yato had surged out of home, worried and hesitant in a way that was entirely unlike him, and paled at the sight of Yukine, so visibly unwell.
Kofuku had seen him sneak a hand at the back of his neck, almost confused, before clenching them and cursing, low and infuriated, under his breath.
Then he’d hurried to their side, and gestured for Kofuku to let his shinki down. But in-between a breath and the next, Yukine’s eyes had flown open again, and he’d straightened and shrunk back out of the grasp on him like it was instinct, until he was breathing heavy and vacillating, but standing alone.
“Wha’,” he’d mumbled, the picture of a sick, confused child. Kofuku had taken one, two, three quick steps back, and Yato had taken none forward.
And Yato had taken none forward.
Instead he’d spread his hands out reassuringly. He’d said, “Yukine,” in a voice so soft it was almost a plea.
Yukine had blinked. Almost unconsciously, his left hand had searched for something to lean against or grasp on, while the other had drifted down to the bloodstain on his side.
Then he’d said, “Ah,” and blinked once more, and held, shakingly, his hands out to Yato.
One, two, three striding steps, and Yato had held on to him; and it would’ve been a picture-perfect, Kofuku had thought, it really would have, had Yukine not held himself so tense, and had the back of Yato’s neck not been so unmistakenly pristine.
oOo
“What’s your name?” You ask the boy near the train tracks.
He looks young. You can’t tell how young, would place him somewhere in middle school, maybe the very beginning of highschool. You’ve never been good with ages.
“Ah,” he startles. It hadn’t been your intention, you’d tried to make your approach as telegraphed as you could, had taken it as a good sign when he’d looked straight at you and said nothing. Looking back it might have been a warning, and you wince.
“Nevermind,” you say quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d be bothering you.”
It feels like a poor excuse, but it seems to work. He blinks at you once, and twists his face in a smile that looks almost unnatural on him.
“That’s… okay,” he reassures. He seems hesitant, but not wary; perplexed, maybe. It’s entirely possible, you remind yourself, that you have been worrying over nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he continues. “I didn’t know I’d been taking your spot.”
Your smile, you hope, looks more natural than his. “It’s fine,” you answer. “It’s the first time you’re here, after all. You haven’t taken anything. And I mean- well, the hill is nice, but the view not so much.”
Stumbling your way through a conversation with a barely-teenager should be easier than this. Your smile feels more like a hypocritical, vaguely threatening grimace now that you’ve maintained it for so long.
He looks back at the train tracks and looks thoughtful. “My sister and I used to play here, before,” he offers as an explanation. "On this hill, and down, too."
Your smile-grimace freezes on your face. “Ah,” you manage to utter. It’s entirely possible , you remind yourself, that you have been worrying over nothing.
"Elder sister?" He simply nods. "She isn't with you now?"
Something passes over him; you could not say what for the life of you. "No," he answers, voice curt and closed off. “No, I’m alone.”
You hold back a flinch from the blade-like quality of his voice. “Okay.” You swallow back the rest of your questions, sit in silence.
You have nothing to do, ‘til five.
“Aren’t you going to leave?” He asks, sharp and unpleasant, looking up at you.
The gods must be merciful; he is just a child.
“Not yet,” you answer. “Unless you want me to.”
His shoulders come up around him. It’s the only answer you get.
oOo
“Could you talk to him?” Asks Yato, one day, both of them covered in bandages that burn to look at. Hiyori opens her mouth to reassure him and finds herself lacking.
“You should talk to him,” admonishes Daikoku shortly, passing by. Yato tenses, almost snaps back; Hiyori watches him rein it in, watches his shoulders tense and unwind with near physical effort. They are sitting too close, assuredly, before the table, watching the garden.
Yukine is upstairs, resting; it took Kofuku an eternity to coax them down, to lead them to drink and eat something. The timid sunlight traces patterns of light and shadows that dapple over the entryway. The sun rises once more and they sit in silence.
Yato sighs.
“Sorry,” Hiyori says. “I’ve- I’ve tried. He doesn’t listen to me. Yato, maybe he needs you to talk to him.”
Yato folds his hands into fists, carefully, gently. “He won’t listen,” he says, frustratedly. “And I can’t tell- I don’t have-”
He doesn’t reach for his neck, again. He’d stopped, the moment he had seen Yukine wincing at the gesture.
"You mean you don't know what he's feeling," she guesses. He grimaces but the set of his shoulders is defeated.
"Yeah," he admits frustratedly. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say."
The gods, sometimes, are as foolish as humans. Together Hiyori and Yato make a terribly useless pair.
She folds her hands into her lap, observes the ragged edges of her nails mutely. Grips at the cloth of her skirt.
"I don't know either," she murmurs, to these boys she's saved so many times.
She should have known, that it wouldn't be so easy. That it wouldn't be enough, to collect them from dangerous places, to stand by them amongst shadowed creatures.
She is planning to be a doctor, and she should know, that recovery is so terribly long. That you can stay touch and go for such a long time.
If Yukine was to go-
"It feels so big," she chokes out, blinking rapidly. "Even to me. So to him, I can't imagine."
Yato watches her with worried eyes, not even hiding his concern. He's been so serious, these past few days, hasn't slid back into his jokes and carefree persona like he usually does. This is him on alert, she knows, this is him when he is forced to be someone else, and she wishes she could ease the burden off his shoulders, but she is just a girl, and he is a god.
His burdens would crush her, she thinks.
"Yeah," he concurs. “I wish- He used to talk to me.”
Such simple grief. Here, in the center of Hiyori’s lungs, sits the memory of her grandmother, which is all she has left. This is nothing to lose; this is everything to lose.
“He’s-” not angry, but who knows? Okay, but who knows? Still ours, but if the sun and the mountains and the rivers do not know- who will?
“We’re troublesome, uh,” laughs Yato. “I’m sorry, Hiyori. You should be focusing on your life.”
Hiyori brushes a speck of dust away from her skirt, loosen her grasp and smoothes over the folds until it sits right. Absent-mindedly reaches over to the soft scarf Yato’s wearing, straightens it out. Grips it just a tad too tight.
“I’m not leaving,” she states, and marvels at the lack of a waver in her own voice. If the rivers and the mountains and the sun do not know- then that is just that, and patience will lead them a long way. “And he’s not, either, and you’re not, anymore.”
Yato’s hands come to tug at hers. She loosens her grasp almost reluctantly, flushes and snaps them back when she realizes what she said.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to imply-”
Yato shrugs. “No, I did leave,” he admits with a bitter twist to his gentle smile. “Yukine won’t yell at me for it, so it’s only right that you do. I left both of you.”
Hiyori bites her lips. “You had Heaven’s orders,” she murmurs. “You wanted to protect us. It’s okay. I figured- I wished you’d have trusted us, but I understand. We were vulnerable. You couldn’t afford it.”
Because you were, too, goes unspoken.
Yato fiddles with the end of his cloth belt. He’s not wearing his familiar tracksuit, left in a yukata for ease of access while the wounds may reopen, and the unfamiliarity of it all leaves Hiyori unbalanced, unsure of where she stands.
“Let’s just stay,” she suggests, so terribly inadequate. “He used to talk to us- he’ll do it again.”
Yato hums quietly. “Maybe,” he allows. "He asked to be released."
Hiyori leans into his side, carefully, carefully. "Well, don't let him go," she says. "He does trust you, you know."
Yato stays silent. There are centuries' worth of deaths behind his eyes. They color him silver and brimstone.
His inhales are so quiet. The house used to be so loud. Some days, the faith that it will be again is the only thing keeping her upright.
"Trust me, uh," he echoes. "For no good reason." He shakes his head. "Hiyori, you should've seen him- he drew a line between him and me, did you know. A spell I taught him, to protect himself, and he used it against me."
Down, down, down. Yato's hands sit.
Hiyori offers him a sad smile. "You saved him."
"I left. I- practically left him to Father's mercy, when I knew- named Kazuma-"
"Not that," she corrects. "That night, in the city, when we were running- you saved him. Nora told me, that eventually he would have faded, that eventually he would have been corrupted. You saved him."
Yato closes his eyes briefly, shuts them tight for mere seconds. Hiyori is intimately familiar with how grief looks on him, these days.
"Every shinki is someone we couldn't save, you know. And we use them as weapons."
Yato's burdens, she knows, would crush her.
"Okay," she whispers. "Well, you buried him."
"I would have saved him, if I could," he murmurs. "Back when he was still alive. I would have saved him."
Hiyori blinks. And blinks, and blinks. Her god of fortune, her kindest ghost. She'll run out of tears crying for them, one of these days.
"I would have saved him," pleads Yato.
A ghost's duties would cut her, a god's burdens would crush her. As human, the only thing she can do is wrap her arms around Yato, and have faith, and say:
"You will."
oOo
There is a boy near the train tracks.
He's been here before.
Your heart feels heavy, watching him. A voice in your head whispers, this isn't how it's supposed to be.
He looks so young. He looks so young.
He's been here before. How unfair; how terrifying.
Your heart feels heavy. There's a knot in your throat. You think, I'm tired. You think, Where's your family? You think, Please, please, please.
Your cup of coffee burns your hand. You have work, soon.
You think, Please, please, please.
It could be a prayer. If it'd work; you'd make it one.
You think, Please, please, please.
The boy sits on the barrier. His right leg is folded against his chest, his left one kicking idly in the air. His face rests against his folded knee. You can't see, but you think he looks contemplative. You think-
You think-
You think, Please, please, please.
You have work, soon. You have to leave. You should leave. You should stay. You should try, at least. You should not get involved. You should talk to him, maybe. You should not overreact. You should not underreact.
You should drink your coffee.
It's bitter on your tongue. The boy isn't moving, doesn't seem to want to get up.
He's sitting on the barrier. He sat on the grass, last time.
Well, it rained during the night.
Well, he's sitting on the barrier.
You think, Please, please, please.
You think of the way his shoulders came up like habit, last time. You think of the way he stayed like that, like the tension didn’t hurt to maintain. You think of the way he is so young, and he is alone.
You think you’re going to be late.
You think, Please, please, please.
And you go to work.
oOo
"When will you come back to yourself?" Asks Yato.
Yukine flinches. He always does, these days, when Yato talks to him. If looks could kill, Daifoku would have a corpse on his hands.
Well, Daifoku’s not here. It’s just Yato and Yukine, sitting in the attic in the soft midafternoon light. Yukine shrinking away from him.
"Yukine," says Yato, too soft, too kind, too pleading.
Yukine sets his jaw. His nails, painted chipped black, dig into his palms. His eyes start to shimmer. Yato feels fuckall.
It’s okay, he reminds himself. It’s okay, and if it isn’t it’ll have to be. This isn’t something he gets to change or fix and it’s not even about him, except in the way it can’t be about anybody else.
“What do you mean?” Mutters Yukine. He shifts his tone halfway through, starts aggressive and angry and ends up defensive and hurt. The soft lilt of a question is missing from the sentence, only added belatedly.
Yato taps at his hands, and then at his hair. Yukine flinches away from him at the first contact and he stays deathly still at the second, until Yato’s hands are safely back in his lap. Yato doesn’t know what it means.
“The fangs and ears might be gone, but you’re not back,” he points out, instead of lingering until he drowns.
Yukine colors slightly. "I didn't go anywhere," he protests, which is patently untrue no matter how you look at it. Yato raises an eyebrow at him.
Yukine shrinks in on himself more, somehow. "Aren't you supposed to go out and be a god? Do something?"
"I can't very well do that when my only shinki is hurt," reasons Yato.
Yukine doesn't say something biting about naming someone else, or asking Kazuma, like he would have two days ago. He doesn’t ask that Yato release him and find someone else to fight by his side, like he would have two weeks ago. Instead he just looks down mutely.
"It's safer," he mutters.
His voice never rises like it used to. One thing at a time, Yato tells himself.
"What?" He asks.
"It feels safer," corrects Yukine. He gestures at his hair. "It's… harder, to remember. Like that."
Yato goes very very still.
"What's that mean," he manages to utter through dread coursing through him.
Yukine sighs. He blinks, and in an instant the Yukine from before Yato fucked up monumentally stands before him; blond hair and gold eyes and completely human. His kid.
"I think the cold killed me," he says conversationally, and Yato watches with horror as his eyes glaze over. "It was cold. I think I hurt my fingers trying to get out, but I couldn't feel them. There was nobody around. He left- he left- he left-"
And before Yato can do something -take his hand, call for Hiyori, travel back in time and commit murder, feel like a failure- Yukine inhales painfully and his hair goes a strange mix of light and darkness again.
"See? Safer," he says, smiling weakly. "I don't know how Mizuchi does it."
"What- what," asks Yato. "What- what the hell, Yukine- why'd that help?"
Yukine bites his lips. His fangs are back. Yato hates them viscerally.
"I don't-" And he curls in on himself. "I'm cold. This- it's easier. I don't think anyone expects the monsters to be people."
“Because they’re Ayakashis,” points out Yato.
Yukine shrugs. “Yeah,” he answers evasively. And then he frowns. "It just- gets hard, sometimes. Pretending to be a person."
Yato frowns. "You are a person."
"Alright," agrees Yukine. "Pretending to be human, then."
Yato feels thoroughly unbalanced.
“You are human.” The only alternative to humans is god, or Ayakashis. Yukine’s not an Ayakashi. No matter what some might say.
“I’m dead,” corrects Yukine. “Humans don’t have their emotions linked to someone, or memories sealed. They can’t turn into weapons, or anything else, and they certainly can’t do this.”
His fingers form the familiar gestures of a borderline: index and middle finger together, thumb out, the rest of his fingers folded together against his palm. He slashes forward, between himself and the way to the stairs, and sure enough, a border starts shimmering.
It’s just as strong as it used to be.
“Hiyori can do things a human can’t usually do, but she’s still human,” counters Yato calmly.
Yukine grits his teeth. “Hiyori’s not normal, ” he points out. “And she’s not dead.”
“No, but, Yukine-”
Yukine sighs. He holds up his hands up to Yato placatingly. “I’m not saying I’m- a monster, or something,” he reassures. “I’m just saying- shinkis aren’t humans. We’re spirits. We don’t belong over there. You kept repeating that to me, didn’t you? And I guess it's important that we keep acting according to humans’ moral code, but we’re not- ”
He cuts himself off abruptly. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “This is just- safer. Easier.” He curls in on himself. “Maybe I’m just making excuses.”
Yato’s heart hasn’t stopped aching since he gathered Yukine in his arms, unconscious and abandoned, and apologized in a murmur. It pangs painfully each time his normally defiant kid shrinks back out of habit Yato wishes he never had to remember.
“You don’t have to. Go back, I mean,” he clarifies, stopping his hands from reaching out. “If you feel better that way.”
Yukine scoffs. “Now you’re just making excuses for me.” His border is still glowing; at least he didn’t trace it between the two of them.
“I’m trying to help.”
“By letting me be a coward?”
“Yukine…”
Yukine sets his jaw. “Nevermind. I’m fine,” he declares. “I’m gonna go see Hiyori.”
The border blocks the way to the stairs, so he ducks through the window. Yato raises a hand towards him and doesn’t catch the back of his t-shirt at the last minute.
“Tell her hi,” he says instead. “Stay safe.”
Between the two of them the coward had always been Yato.
oOo
There is a boy near the train tracks.
“Do you know him?” You ask the highschooler.
She smiles at you hesitantly. She’s really quite pretty, you notice, when she doesn’t seem so worried. Her uniform is a bit ruffled, like she fell asleep in it. There are dark marks under her eyes. You eye the yellowing bruise on her knee uneasily, then look back to the boy, dozing on the hill, yet again.
“We’re friends,” says the highschooler. “Well, he’s younger, but- we’ve known each other for a bit.”
“Oh,” you say. “Well, do his parents know he’s here? They must be worried. He spends whole afternoons here.”
She blinks, like that’s new information to her. “Oh,” she whispers, infinitely soft. “Yes, they must know.” Something in her gives in, but you couldn't say what for the life of you.
It’s to be expected. You don’t know her. It’s entirely possible, you remind yourself, that you are reading too much into nothing.
“There’s just- something happened,” she explains, voice soft. “Recently. So they’re giving him some space.”
She sounds tired. She sounds infinitely, enduringly sad.
It's entirely possible, you remind yourself, that you have read this wrong.
“Oh,” you say. “Was it- he mentioned a sister.”
She looks surprised. “Really?”
You nod. “Said that they used to play here.”
“Ah,” the highschooler nods in understanding. “I didn’t know. I suppose- that’s part of why he’s here, yes. But- well, it’s complicated.”
That’s a nonanswer if you’ve ever heard one, but you decide not to ask any more questions. This is, after all, none of your business.
You’re just concerned.
“I don’t mean to pry,” you say apologetically. You almost make mention of the reasons for your worry, the low barriers near the train tracks, the silence when you sat next to him, the repressed shaking- but she is just a high schooler. A concerned senior, or friend, at most. Certainly too young to ask.
You hope, too young to know.
“No, no, it’s okay,” she reassures. "I would be worried, too. He's still so young."
She sounds older than she is. You look at her, dark shadows painted on her face, bruises on her knee.
"Are you alright?" You ask quietly.
She blinks at you.
"What?"
You shrug awkwardly. "You said something happened," you explain. "To him, but- maybe- you sound close to him. And you- I just wanted to make sure."
"Ah," she says. Her voice faraway. "Yes. Yes, I'm okay. It's just- I lost my grandmother recently. It's been a bit hard."
"Oh," you say, and feel guilty for noticing the ruffled uniform, the dark shadows. Sometimes the best you can do is pretend not to notice, but you've never quite known when to stay silent. Too perceptive for your own good, your aunt used to say. "My condolences."
She smiles frailly. "Thank you. Please don't worry about me. I'm okay."
You think, she looks on the verge of toppling. You think, firmly, I don’t know her.
"Okay," you agree quietly. “And him?”
She looks back at the boy. He looks small, in the distance.
"I’m worried,” she admits earnestly. “But- he has us. If he wants to. And he’s brave.”
You think, that doesn’t sound like enough. You think, well, what would I know?
“Thank you for being concerned,” she says, and bows lightly. “I can’t be grateful enough. Please keep an eye on him for me?”
She looks worried.
She looks kind.
“Of course,” you say, and bow back.
oOo
Kazuma sits down next to him.
“You’re worrying your god, you know,” he comments, and for a moment it’s all as it used to be, Yukine new to this life and Kazuma a teacher of some sort, pretending to know anything.
“I know,” says Yukine, sighing. He's seated on the side of an artificial hill, just next to the train tracks. His hands are around his knees, his white sneakers dirtied, the top of them covered in stray blades of grass and flower petals that stick to the leather with morning dew.
The sun is barely rising in the distance. In the half-light, Yukine looks completely, inevitably young.
“How come you’re here?”
Kazuma feels himself tense, but can't help it. Yukine raises challenging eyebrows at him. The grass is wet with morning dew under him, and he shifts uncomfortably.
Veena had let him go with a frown, but barely a protest. He misses her, even now.
“Visiting you,” answers Kazuma. “Yato won’t let anyone near.”
“Has to do with how all of heaven wants to lock me up for all of eternity,” says Yukine easily enough. His voice holds a sarcastic tint Kazuma remembers from the Sorcerer's.
He frowns. “You shouldn’t be so flippant about that,” he says.
Yukine hums.
“So why are you here? Why not ambush me at Kofuku’s?”
Kazuma shifts uncomfortably. The answer is, they don't trust me around you, but he doesn't say it out loud.
(Maybe it's even worse. Maybe it's they don't trust you around me.)
"I'm sorry it took so long," he murmurs.
Yukine laughs a bit. "It's fine. You stole my god, and I didn't want to see you."
It lands too abruptly in the middle of them. Kazuma swallows back the guilt, smothers it before it can reach Veena.
“Yukine-”
“It’s alright,” says Yukine. “He’s- he released you. He wanted to protect me. You wanted to protect your god. It’s alright.”
It’s obviously not, if the way Yukine sets his jaw and speaks too quickly is any indication. Kazuma isn't enough of a fool to reject forgiveness, though, and start a conversation he doesn't want to have. If he said, It's not, though, what would Yukine say? No, it isn't, you're the reason I became this?
And then what?
"Hiyori's worried as well," he continues instead. Yukine frowns, which is more reaction than Kazuma had gotten with Yato.
"I've told her I'm okay."
"Well, she doesn't seem to believe you."
Yukine stays silent, which means he heard Kazuma's reproachful, you're not.
"They're worried," he says, softer. "They love you."
It's somehow the wrong thing to say. Yukine glares and digs sharp, black nails into the ground. "I know that," he grinds out. "And I am. Okay, that is. I just- he's going to have to trust me on this, okay? Because he can't know anymore, and- they're just going to have to trust me on this. I'm fine. "
Kazuma studies him, the too-big hoodie, the simple white t-shirt, the lack of blond hair, the snarl. The name in red on his collarbone.
"You're running from them," he points out.
"Yes," grits out Yukine. Then, "No." Then, "Have you even talked to Yato since it all? You don't get to lecture me."
"I talked to Veena," retorts Kazuma. Yukine's shoulders stiffen more, if possible, but he bites back whatever it was he was about to say.
“Alright,” he says dubiously. “Alright. Well, I'll talk to him.”
There's a moment. Then Kazuma says, "Before or after you get him killed?"
He half-expects Yukine to try and punch him. Instead he says, “If he calls, I’ll go. He knows that.”
Kazuma hums, rather than saying something like you’ve got to know that’s insane. “ If he calls.”
“I can’t do everything for him,” retorts Yukine, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
“He can’t do everything for you, either,” points out Kazuma. “Can’t chase after you if he doesn’t know-”
Yukine glares at him. “I’m past asking people to save me,” he spits out, so angry.
Kazuma used to think him ungrateful. He still does, but he thinks he doesn’t have all the answers.
"It's not asking him to save you," Kazuma denies. "It's just- Yukine, he loves you."
Yukine looks so angry, and so sad. Both at once, sadness imbued in the way his eyes close and tighten, anger written in the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw.
He clenches his fists and unclenches them very slowly. He opens his eyes and he says, "I'll talk to him."
Kazuma doesn't believe him.
"Stop coming here," he suggests. "It's dangerous. There's a barrier crossing nearby, it attracts Ayakashis."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
Yukine, wordlessly, draws a border in-between them. "I'm fine."
Kazuma knocks on the shimmering wall with his knuckles, once and twice and thrice. "Yukine."
Yukine huffs through his teeth, rolling his eyes to the sky. For a second he looks like a normal teenager, then he sighs, and he just looks tired.
The barrier drops.
"Kazuma," he breathes. Tired to his bones, the both of them are worn-out and exhausted, the fabric of their resolve so bare you can see through it. "Did Bishamon ever save them?"
Kazuma blinks. Looks at the overcast sky instead of staring quizzically at Yukine.
"Save who?"
Yukine curls into himself. "The people at the crossing."
Compassion is a value. Wishful thinking kills shinkis.
"No," says Kazuma. Lying would hurt his god.
The silence hangs. Yukine grits his teeth. There's a flower at the crossing, in a water bottle, wilted and sad. There's an Ayakashi, distorted and monstrous. Kazuma eyes it with suspicion.
Yukine nods, once. "Alright. You should get back home."
It feels like a test he's failed. "We died," points out Kazuma. The unfairness of it hasn't stopped catching up to him. Maybe it never will. "We tried so hard and we died."
His voice is plaintive, almost. Too young for the centuries that have passed by him. But he died and it isn't fair, and he tried and it wasn't fair, and they didn't even. It's just a crossing. They just had to step back. He tried so hard and they just had to step back.
Yukine bares his teeth at him. "You get back home," he repeats, like the word means something else. "Your god loves you."
He says it like it's a curse. He says it as if it's the only blessing that can possibly matter. He says it like he could cut Kazuma's throat and he wouldn't mind, like he's so angry he could kill.
Yato would get stung, if Yato still could.
Kazuma's lost so much, trying to save them. When do you cut your losses? How do you forgive the reason why you remember your last breath?
"Talk to him," he orders. "He misses you."
Yukine rips up a blade of grass from the soil.
He looks nothing like a normal teenager. He looks like a vengeful spirit, a cautionary tale, the audience after a tragedy, eyes red and exhausted.
When do you cut your losses? When they don't want to be helped.
Kazuma leaves.
oOo
There's a boy near the train tracks.
He replaces the wilted flower in the bottle, carefully.