Chapter Text
Flick, and a little flame is born at the tip of a case filled with lighter fluid. A little flame is born and it's bright and small and bursting and weak and burns and hurts and heals and melds and it's useful as much as it's harmful.
Tossed, and the little flame along with its home of lighter fluid is thrown towards a house. A broken and hurt and dusty house, full of red and broken windows with a door barely screwed to its hinges, and dust bunnies that are practically sentient.
No matter how long this house existed, it wouldn’t matter anymore. Because just as it had existed, it was gone. Burnt to ash and gray, dark, and dull. Just as it was born from ash and gray, dark, and dull.
It's leaving behind a hellscape that he should have abandoned a long, long time ago. It's escaping a world that has passed its expiration date. It's unlocking a doorless cage with walls for bars.
Walking away from a burning pile of gray that was once red, Teru Minamoto decides that maybe this time he'll allow himself to live for himself. Maybe this time he'll learn to forget about responsibility, and maybe this time he'll make his own decisions.
???
Stomping the bud of a cigarette to the floor, a little flame dissipates into nothing. Teru pockets his lighter and stuffs his hands in his pockets, walking tall and aloof towards the door to a bar.
It sits in a crevice of an alleyway, in deep dark Tokyo city. Unnoticeable unless looked for, it's dark and dingy and dull and ever so dimly lit, perfect and quiet and an easy escape.
Pushed open with only Teru’s foot, the bar door creaks open with a weak and lackluster jingle. It smells hot of gin and beer and whiskey and anything with a hint of alcohol and it's nauseating to the virgin nose.
Mingled in with the sound of angry people, the quiet and reserved, the stuffy and annoyed, the new and the old. A stuffy sensation fills the air, and it feels so hot.
Hot of gin and whiskey, hot of anger, hot of temper, hot of stuffiness. Everything is too warm, and Teru Minamoto is not used to it. He is not used to heat. He's not used to lighter fluid and alcohol and cigarette buds and the stuffy sensation of bars and angry people.
This is not Teru Minamoto's home, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to force it to become his. This will be his. One day and eventually.
Even if the smell of burning gin and whiskey feels painful in his nose, even if the stuffiness is making it hard to breathe, even if the angry people frighten him ever so slightly, even if taking in the cigarette’s tobacco puts him in a coughing fit. Even if this isn't his home, it will become it. To be fair, he doesn't have much of a choice otherwise.
Today isn't that day though, this isn't his home, and he can't take the nauseating feeling and stuffy sensation and the burning of everything.
So, he steps out and takes out another cigarette from its pack and flicks a lighter on. A little tiny bright flame sparking.
???
“You're killing your lungs smoking that shit,” squinted, judgmental eyes, walk over to the door of the dingy, dull bar. He waves a hand in front of his face fanning away the smoke.
“And drinking kills your liver and brain,” Teru spitefully drags out a blow of smoke, letting it heat up the air and consume the atmosphere.
“Don't blow that in my face, asshole,” the man with too much to say grumbles as he pulls his glasses off and cleans them with his collared, button up shirt. He seemed too well dressed for a place like this. But then again, Teru was in the same attire.
Button up and slacks, both of them.
“We're both killing ourselves, what difference does it make?” Teru sighs, putting the cigarette back into his mouth. He hates the burning sensation that comes along with it, but he doesn't stop.
“Touché,” and then the loud-mouthed man opens the bar door, the sad jingle ringing for just a second before the door closes behind him and Teru is alone again.
Smoke and fire surrounded him.
???
“The usual,” Akane sighs, sliding into a bar stool and resting the briefcase that was once in his hand onto the floor leaning against his stool. Pulling his glasses upwards on top of his head, he looks around for the familiar face of the bartender.
“You really think I got your order memorized? You’re not that special,” The bartender walks over to Akane, resting his elbows against the bar table. He’s a tired man with grays and blacks mingled into his hair, his age and experience shown in the wears of his face and the chain that lines his glasses. His cunning and wise eyes show he’s got a long way to go before life takes its toll on him. Akane’s known him for years now, and yet he still isn’t shocked that the man doesn’t know his order; cunning, not kind.
“Whiskey sprite on the rocks,” in a monotone voice, Akane rolls his eyes and takes his phone out of his pocket. When it lights up, there's only one notification.
???: Sorry doesn’t mean shit. I meant what I said. I hate your fucking guts.
His grip on his phone tightens and he feels an ache from within. It’s a burning sensation. Pain? Grief? Anger? Guilt? Regret? He couldn’t give less of a fuck. It was a burning sensation, and it was as painful as it was intoxicating. Like a dose of ecstasy, he felt both so high and so low all at once. How one stupid, simple, message could affect him so. Knowing how easily his emotions swayed didn’t help him feel any calmer.
“Don’t blow a blood vessel there. I won’t be the one cleaning it up,” the old man slides the glass towards him, and quickly sets his phone on the table with the backup, Akane catches the drink. As soon as the cup is in his hand it’s being chugged in one go.
“Don’t choke,” was the last thing the old man said before walking away to take another sad, angry young adult's order.
Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Akane sets the glass down and stairs absently into the void of the bar table. There’s a burning sensation building up in his throat and in his eyes and he can’t tell if he wants to cry or scream or maybe both.
He doesn’t know where to go from here. He’s stuck. He’s stuck in a stuffy and hot bar with a burning sensation building up all throughout his body, with a sour attitude and rising hatred. No one to go to, nowhere to be, no passions, no love, no friends, nothing. And all he can think about is how overwhelming existing really is.
???