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Okuyasu should’ve been more careful. Should’ve kept his distance, and done a better job tracking Josuke’s movements from afar. Ms. Higashikata warned him to lay low and take care when she left to scout ahead, but he couldn’t sit still and couldn’t focus and the last time they’d seen any other zombies was almost a week ago, now – unless it was more recent – time’s a blur anymore –
Flat on his back, Okuyasu’s arms tremble, struggling to hold off the brunt of Josuke’s weight. Made difficult by the way he keeps lunging in, poised atop Okuyasu. Fingernails scrabbling for purchase on the ground, bloodstained teeth gnashing around a scarf.
It takes all Okuyasu has to hang on. His hands are cramping, the ends of that scarf wound around them. A flimsy fabric barrier between Josuke’s mouth and his skin, very much breakable but it’s all he has.
Rather. It’s all he dares to use.
Hurting Josuke would be –
Okuyasu can’t.
His heart is jittering frantic in his chest, and his eyes keep blurring with tears. He blinks them away as fast as they come. Has to keep it together, because this could get real bad in a lot of ways if he loses focus. It’s hard. Faced with empty bloodshot violet eyes that are all glazed instead of sparkling like they should be. Like they used to be. Months and months ago.
Snarling, Josuke lurches forward and Okuyasu jolts. Panics. Picks up a foot and wedges it into the bend of Josuke’s middle which – hurts –
Flare of throbbing pain from his ankle, twisted last night, thanks to all this rubble. Just more of Okuyasu not being careful, and now his grip on the scarf is wobbling, elbows bending against his will, all of him weakening pathetic because of the pain the heartache the cozy-warm of this scarf that was a gift.
He won’t be able to keep this up much longer. Josuke is heavy, and he’s pushing Okuyasu into the ground with his weight. The toes of his work sneakers dig into the ground as he presses forward. Leans on Okuyasu’s sore leg at the same time as he figures out his hands are useless on the ground and those previously well-manicured nails start reaching for Okuyasu himself.
Not good.
Not good at all – Okuyasu failed the immunity test and now Josuke’s grabbing at his wrists, prying at his hands, dirtied fingers digging in.
“Josuke,” Okuyasu sobs – bites his tongue hard, after. Can’t help the tears that overflow, leaking from the corners of his eyes even as he swears, sniffing hard. Wishes he could rub his eyes but can’t spare a hand right now so more blinking will have to do.
It’s no use talking. Josuke can’t understand, even if he hears. Josuke isn’t in there –
Another growl from Josuke (who is in there, has to be in there, Okuyasu can’t believe anything else and Ms. Higashikata has hope, too, so it can’t be wrong to believe in this – it can’t – no matter what anyone says) and Okuyasu breathes deep to steel himself. His nose is all blocked, though, so he sucks air in through his mouth, filling his lungs to capacity.
The foul tang of decay is on his tongue. Leftover smoke from this morning’s low campfire that was more embers than wood, for safety purposes – though seems like it attracted Josuke.
Or maybe it was something else. That brought him here.
Hunger, obviously, a voice that sounds an awful lot like Keicho hisses in Okuyasu’s brain but he bats that aside even if he can’t bat aside how badly the memory of Keicho stings – how it lines up with Josuke above him in a way that’s just plain awful, and again Okuyasu almost loses his grip on this scarf.
Almost buckles his arms and bends his sore leg and lets Josuke down on top of him to bite and infect – and – and –
Held breath whooshes out of Okuyasu’s mouth on a gasping sob, his lungs quivering right along with the rest of him as he breathes. Shaky and too-fast.
Josuke is baring his teeth. Dirty, chipped fingernails dig crescents into Okuyasu’s wrists.
He has to do something.
Too bad every option he can think of involves hurting Josuke, who’s barely clinging to life as it is. He tackled Okuyasu to the ground, here, and Okuyasu’s heart is still lodged sore in his throat, swelling more by the second, grief choking him – oh, if only he’d been more careful, he could’ve intercepted Josuke! Before any of this happened.
Could’ve properly caught him. That was the plan. The entire reason he and Ms. Higashikata struck out on their own. They’d thought if they could only find Josuke – if they could – meet him – catch him – then maybe…
Shit. Seeing him up close is so much worse. Makes hope sink like a stone in Okuyasu’s gut. There’s no life in these glazed eyes. Josuke’s skin is cold. Icy pale.
They should’ve known, Okuyasu and Ms. Higashikata, when they passed through the hospital. All wrecked and blood-splattered with stumbling figures haunting its halls, no Josuke in sight. Just undead and re-dead. Corpses. Abandoned organs. Smashed gurneys and upturned beds and spilled pools of bleach and stray scalpels and shattered medicine bottles, pristine white splashed red all over, stench of death.
Okuyasu is gagging on it even now. Josuke shouldn’t smell like this. He should smell like fresh spring bodywash and rich expensive cologne.
Or maybe disinfectant and sweat. After a long shift.
God – he’s still wearing his scrubs – lavender fabric stained a rusty brown in places – Okuyasu can’t –
Lifting his uninjured leg takes some doing. It’s half-tangled between Josuke’s where they scramble against the ground, driving him heavier and heavier on top of Okuyasu, bearing down that much more, not much space left between their faces, rotting stale scent wafting with every horrible gurgling grunt that spills from Josuke’s dripping mouth.
His teeth click around the scarf. It’s starting to tear under the pressure. The corners of Josuke’s lips aren’t faring much better. Straight teeth aren’t as white as they used to be but he’s still so strong and fast and Okuyasu has to get his leg free –
For a moment his throbbing twisted ankle bears the full weight of Josuke, Okuyasu’s elbows threatening to give out as he shifts the bracing of his good leg just enough to get it between him and Josuke – whimpers as he does.
Then he pushes, rolls, twists. Shoves with both hands to keep Josuke’s thrashing head away as Okuyasu flips them.
And oh, god, the outraged shriek Josuke lets out as he’s slammed into uneven concrete – it pierces Okuyasu’s skull, lances sharp through his chest. He can’t stop crying, straddling Josuke in this torn-up old alleyway. Decrepit buildings and fallen down fencing and – fuck – it was supposed to be a good vantage point – if only Okuyasu had paid attention, he wouldn’t be choking out, “Sorry, Josuke, I’m so sorry,” while pinning that horribly familiar writhing form to the cold unforgiving ground.
This racket Josuke’s making might attract others, the rest of that pack he was lingering with – Ms. Higashikata went to see if she could spot them, do some recon, find an ambush spot –
Imagine her surprise when she comes back.
Shit, Okuyasu sobs. His muscles are flimsy elastic, stretched taut and ready to snap under pressure. Joints all jelly. But he hangs on. Doesn’t know what the hell else to do. If he lets go, he’ll have to fight, but Josuke is chewing like crazy on this scarf, keeps bucking off the ground rough, and his hands are scrabbling at Okuyasu’s face, now. One wrapping to his neck, pushing on his throat.
Last time he had Josuke beneath him it was – not at all like this. Okuyasu’s knees pressed to chilled flesh. Josuke’s hands slamming into his chest to try and upend him, nails scraping down his front, catching on his shirt as Josuke squirms and wiggles and rolls side to side. Won’t hold still. Isn’t calming.
Even with all of his own weight now pressing down on Josuke, Okuyasu isn’t going to be able to hold him for much longer. Is having a hell of a time catching his breath and keeping his wits.
His head is spinning, sore where it was dashed off the ground. Stomach turning sick.
There’s a grotesque, rotted-red hole in Josuke’s arm. A ripped away chunk of flesh and a half moon of teeth marks. Grey-green at the edges. Above it is another ring of holes, scraped skin. Okuyasu tries not to look at it, but Josuke’s face is –
Worse.
No part of him is good to look at.
Okuyasu’s vision blurs all over again. Tears dripping onto a mottled cheek, bruised and torn and leaking something dark as Josuke thrashes, snarls.
“Josuke,” falls out of Okuyasu’s mouth again. He can’t help it. His fingers are cramped sore. Moving them closer to Josuke’s head might be a mistake, but he has to. Only has one idea in his dizzy brain. “It’s me,” he says, hands inching their way along scarf fabric. Adjusting his grip. Getting ready. “It’s Okuyasu – remember? We’re –”
Josuke flails extra frantic, and Okuyasu presses his lips tight together, leaning down. Riding it out. Ignoring the throbbing of his ankle, screaming of his muscles, thickness in his throat. He can barely see, he’s got so many tears – but maybe it’s better this way, better if Josuke stays a pale, bruised blur.
“We’re fiancés,” Okuyasu says. Spits the words out fast. Angles his chin up, because those cold dead fingers are trying to get between his lips, working to pry him away.
He’s crying in earnest, now. Choking on sobs that he can’t stop, tears flowing free. Whatever dam he’s held in place since Josuke didn’t come home finally cracking under the pressure at the worst possible time. Aching hollowness yawning wide in his chest, leaving him so horribly empty in a way that he hasn’t felt in years. How’s he supposed to have hope here, now, like this?
Josuke is visibly rotting, hair drooping in a tangled grimy mess. He’s missing an earring and his bottom lip is busted open and slime dribbles from the corner of his mouth, dark with old blood and who knows what else.
Yet – even with all of that – Josuke is familiar. He’s Josuke. The same as he’s always been.
Someone that Okuyasu loves.
Another sob breaks free of his chest, breaths hitching in and out. His concentration sways, wavers, doesn’t break. He keeps moving his grip on the scarf inward on either side until both hands are close enough to Josuke’s gnawing mouth and rolling head –
Then Okuyasu eases up on the pressure just enough to let that head lift off the ground, surging in toward him but he’s faster, wrapping the scarf tight around the back of it – looping it, pulling tighter –
A gag. This scarf is long enough to wind three times around Josuke’s head. Stuffing his mouth then covering it. Muffling his aggravated snarls and keeping those horrible teeth at bay no matter how he wrenches his head this way and that. Okuyasu holds fast. Sniffles hard and hangs onto that scarf. Ties it in as secure a knot as he can, gasping out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” on an endless loop that does nothing to fill the hole in his chest.
No time to give it a rest, yet – Josuke’s mouth might be out of commission but the rest of him is free – fingernails clawing twice as frantic at Okuyasu’s wrists – trying to get his hands out of the way of that homemade muzzle.
He can’t let that happen. Can’t let Josuke get away. Grabs for dirty cold fingers that grab for him. Winds up wrestling with a thrashing Josuke.
It’s a lot like those playfights they used to get into while arguing over video games. Okuyasu is still willing to swear he never cheated at Smash Brothers, no matter what Josuke had to say about it – god, that makes him cry harder, shit, he can’t see, his heart hurts, stomach twisting into a knot –
The way that Josuke’s arching to scrape his head along the pavement isn’t helping either. He’s trying to remove the scarf. Catching it on rubble but he’s going to hurt himself, doing that!
“Josuke – stop, easy –!”
He’s already cut up and bloody and bruised and broken enough – shit –
Okuyasu abandons frenzied hands in favor of cradling Josuke’s head. Another part of him that’s too-cold. Remnants of gel and grease that comes from it being unwashed make Josuke’s hair tacky, not smooth like it should be, but the weight of him held braced in Okuyasu’s palms is the same as ever. Familiar in a way that’s almost comforting. Only exacerbates the empty ache.
He loses himself, for a half-second. Heart faltering, body slack. Only for half a second – but that’s all it takes.
Beneath him, Josuke lurches upward, those newly-freed hands shoving at Okuyasu so strong and sudden that they succeed in knocking him off while Josuke surges to standing. Stumbling around on dead feet while Okuyasu flails backward.
He has to stand up, scrambles to his feet and almost buckles, twisted ankle giving out. He nearly falls right back over, only barely managing to tip his body forward instead.
Toward Josuke, who’s made it a couple steps, is reaching for his gag, stiff fingers prodding the knot, shoving at fabric –
Luckily, these days, Okuyasu is faster than Josuke is dexterous. Throws himself forward on unsteady legs, gets around front and latches on quick as he can with a grip that’s almost like a hug. Desperate and tight. Pinning Josuke’s arms to his sides at the elbows, leaving him unable to reach his face.
Okuyasu hangs on with all he’s got. No matter how squeezing chilled flesh – pressing his own body into it – no matter how it makes his stomach churn, he won’t let go. For Josuke’s sake. For Josuke’s own good, Okuyasu can’t let him slip away – not any more than he already has – dammit, this crying shit is really – getting in the way of things. How’s Okuyasu supposed to maintain strength or focus through all these tears and a clogged nose?
All of that thrashing around isn’t letting up any, either. Makes Okuyasu’s head spin, how much Josuke’s wiggling, how he keeps right on stumbling around. No way will Okuyasu be able to hold onto him for very long. Not with those nails digging into the back of his jacket, clutching hard enough to tear. And, god, his ankle –
He’s biting his tongue hard against the pain. Eyes squeezed shut – which is not ideal for finding a way out of this, but the smell…
Shit, it’s overbearing, this close. Stale decay filling his nostrils, his cheek pressed firm to Josuke’s shoulder. A position that used to be so comforting is making his insides twist and turn and protest and he has to pull it together. For Ms. Higashikata’s sake. For Josuke’s sake, Okuyasu has to detain him without hurting him more than he already is.
Wrenching his eyes open, Okuyasu plants his feet. Stands as firm as he can, ignoring the flare-up of pain in his ankle. If he can just manage to force Josuke further into the corner, they’ll be okay. Get him to where Ms. Higashikata stashed their supplies last night, tied down into a wagon with sturdy rope and bungee cords for safe, easy transport. A system they’ll have to rethink after this but that’s not his concern right now, as he’s gritting his teeth and pushing-dragging Josuke toward the wall.
Josuke doesn’t go without a fight. Far from it. He’s leaning into Okuyasu, digging his own heels in. Sneakers scraping across concrete as he grumbles behind his gag, outline of his flexing mouth visible. Trying to close around any piece of Okuyasu it can.
Meanwhile Okuyasu aims teary eyes at the ground and keeps moving.
He’s afraid he’ll collapse, if he doesn’t. He reaffirms his hold around Josuke, whose arms keep jerking outward, trying to pry free. Muscles flexing familiar, no matter how cold. Bruised, strange. Bloody.
The crumbling building isn’t far, at least. Okuyasu gives one last almighty shove, slams Josuke harder into brick than he means to – sniffles out another apology, seems like, “I’m sorry,” is all he can say anymore – god –
A hitched sob, and he’s angling himself, skin scraping raw from his knuckles as he shifts his grip on Josuke’s middle. Leaves one arm wrapped around while extracting the other to grip Josuke’s elbow. The one on the arm that’s not bitten but is no less filthy from weeks spend wandering around undead – oh, Okuyasu has to stop thinking – empty his head and just do things.
Later, he can think and break and cry all he wants. When Josuke is secure.
…Before Ms. Higashikata comes back…
A deep breath, and Okuyasu steadies himself. Pushes Josuke’s captured arm back around behind him, even as those nails scrabble across his sleeve. He succeeds in grabbing it with the hand at Josuke’s back, clutching it along with a handful of Josuke’s scrub shirt while twisting, shoving himself flush against Josuke.
Pinning him to the wall, as firm as Okuyasu can so he doesn’t slip away when Okuyasu darts out a hand to reach for the wagon, undoing the knot with a few swift tugs.
He has to shift his body back and forth some while he works. Swap between stunning a squirming Josuke against brick and grasping at the ropes and bungee cords – once he has Josuke’s arms secure it’ll be easier – just a matter of finding something to tether him to –
One last bungee hook to undo, and Okuyasu will have –
Shit!
Josuke wrenches rough, his arm slipping free, and he shoves at Okuyasu who stumbles on that flimsy twisted ankle, yelping loud as Josuke makes a run for it. Both hands tugging at the scarf around his mouth while he staggers toward about a million hiding places and too much wide empty city and if Okuyasu doesn’t do something now he might never ever find Josuke again and so Okuyasu lunges for the rope, snatches it up, moves.
Trips on his stupid fucking ankle but grits his teeth and keeps chasing no matter how it hurts or how his head throbs in protest. Throws himself toward Josuke while he’s distracted with that makeshift muzzle.
By some miracle, Okuyasu tackles his writhing zombified fiancé.
They hit the ground hard – way harder than Okuyasu meant to – he couldn’t help it – all the breath knocked out of him where he lands on an outraged Josuke’s back, and he’s crying again. Tears dripping sore out of wrought eyes as he works quick as he can. Knees pressing to Josuke’s thighs, hands yanking stiff bloodstained fingers away from the scarf.
“It’s okay,” he mutters out, words all watery. He sniffs hard. Tries again. “Josuke, s’gonna be alright – I got you, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, please, it’s – it’s okay.”
He still has that length of rope. Finagles it beneath Josuke’s stomach – it’s flexing, not heaving with breath because Josuke is dead (god he can’t be) but – muscles shift as he writhes, trying to wrench himself out from under Okuyasu.
As soon as the rope is wrapped around Josuke’s body-and-arms once, Okuyasu ties it off tight as he can. It digs into Josuke’s skin. He forces himself not to worry about that. There’s no blood circulating. Not anymore. Josuke will be…
He’ll be fine. The same.
Okuyasu should focus on this knot, craft the strongest one he knows to better latch those flailing slippery arms to Josuke’s sides. That accomplished, he can scramble off of Josuke’s thighs. Backwards, careful, slow. Because Josuke is still vying to get away, but as long as Okuyasu keeps hold of this end of the rope, he can’t. Won’t make it more than a step.
Okuyasu hauls Josuke upward-backward-crooked with more murmured apologies. Pulls until Josuke falls to sit flat on his ass, grunting out wordless protests at being kept tied here, feet working over the ground to try and get himself up or shuffle away – but Okuyasu doesn’t allow it. Surges in, grabs the loop of rope, and holds Josuke steady while wrapping the rest of it around and around him. Until there are multiple layers of rope securing his arms.
Hands trembling, Okuyasu ties the rope to itself, ensuring that this knot is good and sturdy, too.
There. Now at least Josuke can’t get the muzzle off.
Not that he’s holding still, even with his newly immobilized arms and sitting on the ground as he is. His fingernails are scraping over cement, breaking against the rough of it because it’s all he can reach like this, feet continually frantic to find their way beneath him, pushing his body up to no avail.
If Okuyasu lets go of this rope in his hands, there’s a very real chance that Josuke will run off tied all defenseless like this. That would be even worse than him running off free – so Okuyasu curls his fingers into the coils of rope. Takes a breather right here on the ground, sinking into a seat on his knees and catching his breath. Kind of hard, with these tears still threatening to flow, heart choking his throat.
He manages, though. Pulls on Josuke to resettle him every time he twitches forward or upward.
Having him permanently caught is…it doesn’t offer as much relief as Okuyasu hoped it would. Sure, Josuke isn’t out wandering the world anymore, so that’s some peace of mind, but – what if he’s –
Shit. Okuyasu sniffles. Scrubs a sleeve under his nose and mutters out a watery, “Dammit.”
Because there’s no such thing as a cure. No matter how much research is done, no matter how many immunes are studied, there’s nothing, so what if Josuke is beyond help? What if there’s no hope at all, not even a single flickering speck, and he stays like this forever, and Okuyasu has to – to –
A growling sort of wail crawls up his throat, and he lets his forehead fall to thud between Josuke’s roiling shoulder blades.
Thinking like that won’t do anyone any good! It’ll only break his heart worse, wring out all the tiny pieces it’s in. He has to believe in Josuke. He has to. The only thing for it is to trust and love and care for him. He’s the one who’s believed in Okuyasu all these years, even when Okuyasu convinced himself he was a far-gone hopeless case. Josuke never gave up on him. Not once. Not through the worst of the worst.
So what the hell kind of person would Okuyasu be, if he gave up on Josuke now?
Two more heavy taps of his forehead to Josuke’s back work to knock sense back into Okuyasu, and he gulps down the rest of his crying. There’ll be time for that, later. For now he winds his hands over rough rope, then casts out a glance for the bungee cables.
Turns out they’re not far away. Just over at the other end of this alley, where Okuyasu dropped them.
So it’s just a matter of bracing his feet and dragging a snarling, frustrated Josuke backwards into the alley. Tugging by the rope until the bungee cords are within reach, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he goes to avoid spilling more apologies that won’t help, in the grand scheme of things.
Once they’ve got Josuke back to normal, then Okuyasu can apologize. A million times over, he’ll say sorry. When Josuke is aware enough to hear it.
Bungee cord acquired, Okuyasu weaves, wraps, and ties it to Josuke’s rope as securely as he can, rigging it to be escape-proof. Hopefully. Not like he’s planning to let Josuke out of his sight for even a second, won’t give him the chance to finagle free, not on Okuyasu’s watch. It’s better safe than sorry, though, and once’s he’s satisfied with its sturdiness, he drags Josuke by the cords to test – it holds fast. Good. Okuyasu hooks the makeshift leash to the chain link fence blocking the back of this alleyway, then hurries around to Josuke’s front.
Josuke lunges forward. Damn near throws himself at Okuyasu who scrambles just out of reach. Even with Josuke’s arms and teeth out of commission, Okuyasu doesn’t want to have to fight him, or recapture him – never wants to do anything that could hurt him ever again. Shit…
The ropes and cables do their job, at keeping Josuke confined. So that’s…good. Even struggling to his feet doesn’t do Josuke any good, no matter how he protests. Screaming behind the scarf. Horrible rotted slime dripping from his wounds to further stain his scrubs. Pompadour drooping all dirty into glassy, enraged eyes that are driven by pure hunger. Veins standing out too-blue in paper white skin tinged sickly green, only going more grotesque the more he struggles.
It isn’t getting any easier to look at Josuke, like this. Okuyasu keeps right on staring, anyway.
His heart cracks apart that much more with every passing second. It almost seems like a crime that the sky’s so brilliantly blue right now, sun glaring down from above to show off every gory detail. Sunshine reflects off of the single diamond stud left in Josuke’s ear, the gem miraculously clean compared to the grime coating the rest of him.
Whatever well of energy zombies run on, Josuke seems to be running out of it, now. Either that, or he’s realized there’s no way for him to break free, because he goes tottering back against the chain link. It rattles under his weight. His chest heaves on a growl.
Then he sinks heavy-stiff to the ground. Legs sprawling beneath him like a puppet with cut strings.
He’s all slumped and defeated. Horrible bloodshot eyes staring unfocused in Okuyasu’s direction. And he’s shaking, too. Trembling so hard that the fence vibrates, metal clicking against itself on repeat.
Blood is visible around the rope where it’s cutting into sickly skin, and Okuyasu watches it pool-then-drip slowly. With a heavy, very much broken heart he sits down across from Josuke. Mirroring his posture but staying out of reach, falling with the same lack of grace, because Okuyasu’s knees are finally giving out. His ankle, too.
…
What now?
The campsite is a bit of a mess, for starters. Supplies from the wagon are scattered all over, thanks to their missing supports and Okuyasu’s scuffle with Josuke alike. He should probably get everything into some kind of order, before Ms. Higashikata comes back. Gotta do something with his hands, anyway – keep them occupied – maybe he’ll be able to stop thinking – to take his mind off of Josuke –
Shit, Okuyasu doesn’t have it in himself to move. Won’t be able to get his mind off Josuke if he tries. Couldn’t ten minutes ago or a week ago or months ago and certainly won’t be able to ever again as long as either of them lives.
Josuke is all Okuyasu’s thought of for forever and with him here – like this – now –
Yet again, Okuyasu is sniffling. Wiping hard at his nose with a sleeve, scrubbing his eyes with palms sore from gripping rope too tightly. Never mind that scarf.
…In a way it’s fitting that the scarf made its way back to Josuke. Okuyasu made it for him in the first place, after all…
Ah, dammit – Okuyasu’s eyes are impossibly hot – maybe he and Ms. Higashikata should’ve worked out a way to signal each other. She should be here. She wasn’t going that far away, and if she gets in a scrap with zombies, she’ll no doubt fire her gun, which Okuyasu will hear. They’re probably even within shouting distance, but his voice is too hoarse to scream right now. They ran out of battery power for their radios two towns ago. Were working off of used supplies to start, and haven’t found anything good in weeks.
And.
Well…
Okuyasu probably could reach her, if he really, really tried. He could even drag Josuke along to go and find her, maybe.
Selfishly, though, he…wants some time. To be alone with Josuke. Even in this gruesome, twisted state, Okuyasu’s found him at last, and that’s – he doesn’t wanna break too much in front of Ms. Higashikata – wants to be able to be strong for her, if she needs him – and – he’s having trouble – not crying, see –
Josuke’s frustrated gurgles are dying down, all of him trembling taut over there. At the ready, if Okuyasu is guessing right. Like he could snap again and thrash around at any second, even if he’s resting still for now.
Something Josuke hacked up during his fuss is staining that makeshift muzzle of his. Leaking out the bottom along with old blood from that gash on his face. Who knows how long it’s been there. He’s a complete mess of a zombie. Not as decayed as some of the atrocities that Okuyasu’s seen, granted…
But if Josuke had the headspace, he’d be devastated, right now. He always kept himself so pristine, before. Beautiful and put together. Sleek and smooth and shiny and so, so kind –
Fuck, Okuyasu’s eyes are stinging hotter. He can’t just sit here.
Shifting up onto his knees, he crawls over to the pile of upended supplies. If Josuke’s going to be sticking around, the least Okuyasu can do is clean him up, some. Use whatever they have to make him that much more presentable. Maybe he’ll be more comfortable that way, too…? If zombies even care about their messy state – probably not, but Josuke always did – and oh, Okuyasu just doesn’t know what else to do.
They don’t have a whole lot, by way of supplies. And they’ve got even less stuff geared towards hygiene, because water is hard to come by, out on the road. It’s stockpiled, in sanctuaries and quarantine zones, big cities set up to be safe. Out in the rest of the world, though? They gotta prioritize. Pick and choose.
Hydration is more important than cleanliness. A thought that’d make good ol’ Tonio’s head spin.
…Ah. Shit.
Now Okuyasu’s eyes are going wet again. As if they’d ever really dried.
“I…” Talking is useless, maybe. Okuyasu can’t take the silence anymore. The distant wind echoing hollow between empty buildings and Josuke’s occasional grumbling are the only sounds, and Okuyasu’s head is gonna keep running in unpleasant circles, anyway, so he might as well narrate those circles. Get shit out of his head while he gathers a few alcohol wipes, as much water as they can spare, and an extra scrap of fabric. “I don’t know what happened to Tonio.”
It feels strange. Admitting that out loud. Makes the differences between then and now real jarring.
His fingers meet the cold metal of a familiar cylindrical can. A mostly-empty bottle of expensive hairspray that he’d found when raiding houses last month. Ms. Higashikata hadn’t said anything, when he’d packed it away with the other more necessary supplies. Just watched with unreadable eyes.
Okuyasu tucks the can under his arm, gathers the rest of his meager offerings, and then shuffles back over to Josuke on his knees.
“You remember Tonio, right, Josuke?” Surely that knowledge must be somewhere in his head. The virus can’t have pushed everything out, can’t have taken all of Josuke. (If it did, Okuyasu will just have to remind him of it all, of who he is –) “We – we had our first date at his restaurant. And you…” Hands trembling, Okuyasu tries hard not to spill too much water, wetting the cloth in his hand. Josuke’s eyes are bloodshot and empty. Watching. “You swapped plates with me. When my pasta was too spicy.”
There’s no response from Josuke. Even if he could speak, that gag would make it impossible to get anything out, Okuyasu figures. Not like there’s much to a zombie’s vocabulary aside from snarls and shrieks, but he’d give anything to hear Josuke’s voice again –
Swallowing the stubborn, ever-growing lump in his throat, Okuyasu reaches out. Carefully lifts that drooping pompadour out of the way to wipe at the grime coating Josuke’s forehead. His fiancé jerks at the touch. Rumbles out a startled noise, head lurched back against chain link – but Okuyasu follows, shifting forward. Keeps cleaning.
“And remember our second date? I dunno if you’d consider it a proper date, but – I always did.” Okuyasu sniffs hard. Ignores the tears that drip free when he means to blink them away. Josuke’s skin is chilly and fragile under his touch, even as most of that dirt and blood is scrubbed off. “We were just hangin’ out in your room. Listening to that Prince album while we went through your clothes, ‘cause your mom wouldn’t let you buy those new slacks unless you freed up some space – and – and you –”
Okuyasu’s breaths are getting shakier. He tries to rein them in, but the unsteady trembling that his heart’s doing doesn’t make it easy.
The bits of Josuke’s face that are behind the scarf will have to stay dirty for now, but Okuyasu can clean up most of him. Run this improvised rag over eyebrows that are still as perfectly shaped as they were when Josuke left for work that final, fateful morning.
“You kissed me.” The words tumble out strange, and cause a new twist in Okuyasu’s chest. “Or, uh, we kissed, I guess.” He pulls the stained, wet fabric away. Clenches it tight in a fist while searching Josuke’s glassy eyes for a hint of anything. “For the first time. That was our first…”
Oh, Okuyasu cannot do this. Presses both fists to his eyes and chokes on a stifled sob. Memory lane is a horrible rose-colored mistake that sends pain lancing through his insides extra-sharp, when held next to the dim dusty grey of now.
Shaking himself as he shakes out the rag, Okuyasu stares only at his own hands while rewetting the cloth. He folds it to a cleaner spot to tackle Josuke’s cheeks. Careful of that ugly, gaping wound; most of which is hidden beneath the scarf – Okuyasu will leave it for later. If he ever gets the chance to get that close to Josuke’s mouth again.
“And then, a few years later, when you…when you proposed to me, that same Prince song was…I’d put the same album on, for –”
The celebratory dinner that he’d made from scratch with his own hands. In Josuke’s university apartment’s tiny kitchen. Because he’d just finished his tech courses and Josuke was gonna graduate in a year and things were looking so, so bright.
Okuyasu bites his tongue on a whimper. Can’t believe he’s got this many tears left in him, still – shouldn’t he be dehydrated by now, or something? All this crying makes it hard to see what he’s doing, as he zeroes in on the straight bridge of Josuke’s nose. Cleaning the soft skin beneath indigo eyes that stare at him without really seeing, Josuke’s weight sagging boneless against chain link.
Forcing his heart to keep calm, Okuyasu sets the wet rag on his knee, and tears an alcohol wipe open with his teeth. “This might sting a bit,” he warns, before dabbing at the gash on the side of Josuke’s face. Unnecessarily, maybe.
But, again, Josuke flinches at the touch. The most response to sensation Okuyasu’s ever seen on a zombie, not that he usually pauses to look for that sort of thing on the others. But this is Josuke, and his dead eyes are flashing while he presses himself back into the fence with a low snarl. So Okuyasu murmurs out that it’s okay. That Josuke is okay.
“Y-you were so proud of that apartment, y’know?” Okuyasu pushes on, despite the fact that this conversational jump would be hard to follow even if Josuke were coherent in his own head. Doesn’t matter. Okuyasu won’t stop. “I think you liked it even more than the one we got to be closer to your internship – and –”
The alcohol wipe slips from between Okuyasu’s shaky fingers. Blows away on a stiff summer breeze, stained with gore. He tears open the second one. Dabs at some of Josuke’s smaller scrapes with it, glancing between the sparkle of his earring to the sunshine reflected in empty eyes and hates how hollowed out all of it makes him feel. He wants Josuke back completely. Has him. This…piece of him.
Hope flounders against despair, rolling around with it, overlapping, fighting. Okuyasu swallows a sob.
“And I know you liked it more than the housing we were stuffed into after the outbreak. In that quarantine zone.” This wipe is crumpled in Okuyasu’s fist. His free hand propping Josuke’s chin – the underside of which is smeared with gore. He drops the alcohol wipe to scrub dully at this newly revealed spot with the washcloth. “But at least we were safe,” he tells familiar-gone-cold eyes. “We were together. Like now.”
Together, sure. Not safe. Not anymore.
Not for a long, long time.
Josuke’s face is as clean as it’s going to get, under these circumstances. It’s the same as ever. Completely and utterly and horrifically different, at the same time. Like some macabre caricature of what it used to be. Recognizable but with nothing behind it.
It hurts to look at. Okuyasu can’t bear to take his eyes off of the sight.
There’s dark bruising beneath Josuke’s eyes, making him look even more exhausted than those all-night hospital shifts used to. His skin is still green-pale, his wounds don’t bleed like they should, and his hair is an unraveling mess above it all – so Okuyasu sets on fixing this, next. As best he can, anyway. They’ve got a comb somewhere, but he doesn’t want to leave Josuke’s side to go and find it.
His hands will have to do, brushing messy strands back. Teasing them into shape – all the while he keeps talking, words keep coming. They don’t want to stop anymore, all shaken loose and accompanied by memories.
“But then the virus reached us – remember? Some escaped specimen, or something, they said, and…and we were all supposed to stay inside, stay safe – only –”
Only Okuyasu can remember it like it was yesterday. The alarm raised, whatever sirens their little sanctuary had on hand blaring while someone drove around with a loudspeaker, declaring that there had been a contamination, some kind of breach, their own private outbreak taking place behind walls that were supposed to keep that shit out.
Ms. Higashikata had grabbed his hand and they’d stared at each other with wide terrified eyes because –
“You were at work,” Okuyasu finishes, wetly. Blinks out a few more tears. One of his scarred, dirtied hands stays in Josuke’s hair while the other reaches for that hairspray. It’s Josuke’s favorite brand.
The familiar scent that wafts through the air when Okuyasu sprays it is – it makes his chest ache. That hairspray smells soft and sweet in the way that Josuke used to, before all the rotting. Okuyasu even remembers to use the side of the bottle to smooth strands into place, so as not to get his hands sticky. Just like Josuke showed him. Years and years ago. When they were first years in high school.
A lifetime ago, by now.
Hell, the outbreak feels like a lifetime ago.
Never mind the second wave that got Josuke.
“You were at work,” trembles out of Okuyasu’s mouth again, no steadier. “Right there in the hospital, takin’ care of people, even the ones that came in all bitten up – and we radioed over, but you wouldn’t leave –”
Another sob clenches Okuyasu’s chest, the hairspray can slipping from between his fingers to thunk to the ground. His hand clenches empty, hovering beside Josuke. The shape of him going all blurry as tears flood Okuyasu’s eyes, stinging and spilling hot down his cheeks. There’s no fighting it off anymore.
“You wouldn’t leave your patients,” he manages to choke out. Comes out all choppy and incoherent. He keeps talking, anyway. “You were always like that – always puttin’ others before yourself – looking after people even when you were the one hurt or in danger – an’ I love that about you, so much – but just this once, couldn’t you have…”
He can’t say it. His hand falls to Josuke’s shoulder. The joint is all stiff and cold, but he grips it tight. Keeps his wet eyes focused on that familiar face that’s all wrong now.
“W-we came to get you,” he forces, words trembling. “But – you were already gone.”
Not gone to safety, not gone to hide, not even gone to death, but worse than any of those. Gone-gone.
“We hoped you got out, somehow, or that you were safe, but things were overrun and we had to move but we couldn’t stop looking for you – and – when we saw you like this – I just –”
Refused to believe it. Okuyasu couldn’t break and he couldn’t give up hope. Except that he’s done both of those now, hasn’t he? Faced with this irrefutably undead Josuke, what the hell can he do? What’s left for him? God – what’s left for Tomoko? She’s Josuke’s mom – they only really have each other – and Okuyasu can’t – he can’t do this.
Breath strangled out by sobs, Okuyasu gives in. He slumps toward Josuke’s shape that’s just as comforting as ever, even if it hurts to hold onto him now, as he is. Cold and stiff and twitchy, stinking of death and stale blood. Still Okuyasu clings to him, buries his face in Josuke’s shoulder and pretends that it feels the same as it used to. Soaks up what he can.
Tied in place, Josuke is still. Of course he is. If he strains at all it’s only because he’s trying to bite Okuyasu through the scarf gag – but Okuyasu is crying too damn hard to care. Digs his fingers into dirtied scrubs and sobs. Grieving absent warmth.
“Please, Josuke,” he chokes out. Almost gags on the influx of death. Hangs on tighter. “Please don’t leave me. You –” Another gulp of thick, foul air. “You hafta be in there somewhere. So…”
Fuck, Okuyasu’s chest hurts. More than it ever has before. Worse than when he first saw Josuke stumbling around mindless and dead and bloodied – why did he think his heart would patch itself up when they were together? Why did he want to find Josuke? Why would he catch him and keep him like this – it’s so much worse – having him here – tangible but still so gone – obvious from the way he stays utterly limp in Okuyasu’s arms – head lolling –
Eyes squeezed shut, Okuyasu rubs his cheek along Josuke’s shirt. Wipes away tears but probably only makes more of a mess of himself. Doesn’t care, can’t care. Too busy hiccupping out sobs that just won’t stop.
“Please, please hold on. Okay? You have to – alright? Please.”
He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, aside from the fact that it’s impossible.
“I know you’re in there somewhere,” impossible, but he can’t let go of the idea. Can’t let go of Josuke. “So please – please come back – you gotta fight it, okay? You can’t be gone, you’re so –” bright beautiful determined lovely impossible. “We’ll find a way to save you.”
Impossible. It hasn’t happened yet, not a single documented case of recovery – but Okuyasu can’t imagine any other future. Refuses to exist in a world that cruel. Cries harder at just the notion.
“We’ll save you. I promise.”
If Okuyasu squeezes tight enough, focuses past the horrible trembling sobs he can’t help, he can almost feel his own thundering pulse thrumming through Josuke. His warmth seeping in to chase out the chill of death. As if something like that were possible. As if his touch bleeding through would be enough to haul Josuke back from beyond the brink.
“Please just hang on.”
Because Okuyasu has Josuke with him, at last.
And he’s never letting go again.