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Akira Nishikiyama is a very image-conscious person.
He’s always cared about the way he looks; his hair, his clothes, his body, the way he walks, the way he talks, the car he drives, the gifts he gives– all of it is conscious and calculated. He attempts to compensate for being mediocre at best, and a complete failure at worst. Regardless of how he may act on the surface, and how collected or confident he may make himself appear, he’s fully aware of his own compensation, and even more aware of the many, many things he’s compensating for.
So, he’s been historically considered by some to be superficial, vain– whatever adjective one can think of to describe a person so concerned with how they’re seen that they go through a plethora of skincare and haircare routines, follow trends in fashion religiously, and even go so far as to save for months– even secretly cutting out meals some days– to get a luxury car to flaunt.
He may not be proud of himself or confident in himself in any significant way, but at the very least over the years he’s had some pride in how diligent he is with taking care of how he looks.
When the explosion happens, that tiny grain of pride gets crushed alongside several of his bones.
Aspects of a person can always be gleaned from the scars they wear.
Kashiwagi’s scar is obvious; it splits his face and can’t be overlooked or easily hidden. But it suits him. It’s a battle scar. No one questions him about it, but everyone knows automatically that whatever ordeal it came from, Kashiwagi survived and came out fighting. In a way, it’s a point of pride, and he seems long since at peace with it.
Kiryu doesn’t have any especially notable scars at all. That’s not to say he doesn’t have scars– he has hundreds, virtually countless, of all kinds one can imagine. However, none are disfiguring. None stand out enough to even think about unless you’re one of the few who’s seen him unclothed– which Nishiki has. Many times. And over a long stretch of time; he’s seen Kiryu take on scar after scar as he withstood injury after injury, getting progressively more severe the older he got. The first one he remembers seeing Kiryu take on was when they were in primary school; Kiryu jumped out in front of another kid about to get bitten by a loose, territorial dog and subsequently had his hand ripped open. The worst he remembers was some time in their 20s; after being tortured by Lau Ka Long. Nishiki still remembers how deep some of the stab wounds were– the puncture wounds by each of Kiryu’s shoulders don’t do it justice. Despite how much his scars tend to downplay what he’s been through, he holds absolutely no shame in them. Quite the opposite; they prove his merit, they evoke respect– Kiryu rarely ever fights for anything he doesn’t wholeheartedly believe in, thus his scars are all evidence of his commitment to the causes he serves. At the very least they mark his resilience.
Majima’s scars are different from Kiryu’s or Kashiwagi’s in that they, for the most part, were not even remotely on his own terms, and aren’t representing a cause or ideal so much as simple evidence of enduring torment. Also unlike the others, he’s genuinely been disfigured, and to such a degree that he’s feared by those who don’t even know him. Nishiki has always assumed it must hurt to be seen in such a way all the time, of course, but it’s been so long that Majima’s not just gotten used to it– it’s been woven into his identity. It’s been so long that the version of himself that had two eyes instead of one is distant and alien to him and to everyone else. Of course, additionally, his persona makes it so that no one can really judge his appearance by normal standards– at least, not without risking their own potential mutilation. His scars aren’t something he’s proud of, but they define him. They complete him.
And now, there’s Nishikiyama.
A year past the unfathomable events atop the Millennium Tower, Akira Nishikiyama is dead.
At least, legally he is. He still breathes, he still thinks, his heart still begrudgingly beats; yet he’s felt dead for a long time now. He was supposed to die that day– he wanted to die that day– but Kiryu wouldn’t accept such a fate for him, and subsequently prevented the ending Nishiki so desperately yearned for.
That is, after the attempt had been made and after the bomb had detonated.
According to the rogue doctor Kiryu had run him to in the minutes following the explosion, second and third degree burns tore through almost half the skin on his body. And that’s the damage done by burns alone. Shrapnel pierced and slashed permanent indentations into his flesh, some so deeply that metal had to be gruelingly fished out from beneath ragged flesh. A chunk of concrete debris from the roof big enough to compare to a hearty sedan had fallen and crushed his left arm; when Nishiki felt it go numb, he assumed he’d broken it pretty badly. When he woke up after falling unconscious, and looked down to evaluate just how much of his arm he’d have to keep in a cast for the weeks to come, he nearly went unconscious a second time trying and failing to process that his arm wasn’t simply numb– it was gone. From the elbow down, it had been so badly pulverized, burnt, and near-completely severed that there was no saving it. Amputating it was a sacrifice necessary to prevent the necrosis from endangering him further. Perhaps it saved his life, the doctor had remarked, as that arm was held out on instinct to shield his abdomen and ducked head from the blast. Kiryu seemed amazed by the supposed miracle. Nishiki couldn’t be more disappointed if he tried. He’d rather have been killed instantly and remembered with his image intact than spared and mutilated for life.
Now, more or less healed but still sensitive and easily irritated, his burns and lacerations are adorned with ribbons and patches of pink, dull purple, brown, red, and white scar tissue. Just shy of half his face is warped and discolored, the skin that was once kept so pristine through his tireless efforts now stretched and blotchy in the affected areas. His left eye is intact and functional, but somewhat obscured by the delicate tissue of his eyelid healing over awkwardly with some amount of cauterization, making for less overall mobility and a much larger blind spot. He could get this somewhat remedied through plastic surgery, but to do so would cost him, both financially and in terms of risking his identity being questioned. Besides, it’s not like any amount of cosmetic surgery can undo the scar tissue that is his skin now.
The burns encompass his entire right side for the most part; half his chest, most of his right leg, half his back– meaning the tattoo he once excitedly anticipated alongside Kiryu, completed over the course of years, are cruelly vandalized. Still recognizable; but, in a way, that’s worse than if they weren’t. Nishiki would prefer his identity (whatever that means– he’s never confidently known) to be truly erased, for one, but more than that, he’d rather not be shadowed by the debilitating, sickening feeling of shame that manifests every time he catches a glance of his back in the mirror, or on the rare, consciously-avoided occasion it’s in view of another human being. As much as he hates it, he also knows he deserves it. He also knows that it’s a poetically appropriate punishment for whatever higher power may exist to inflict upon him. He knows he doesn’t deserve the tattoo he once had. He can no longer live out the future it entailed. The warm memories of a younger, happier version of himself associated with it’s inception have grown cold and distant. That Akira Nishikiyama is as desecrated and obsolete as the koi inked into his back.
Kiryu, after a long period of patience while Nishiki struggled to dispel the coldness he’d developed over the last decade, had at some point started a routine of rubbing his back every few nights or so. Nishiki only finally agreed to this after Kiryu had insisted with the admittedly-not-untrue excuse that the chronic pains that plague him would be stifled at least a bit if he took the doctor’s advice and had the appropriate anti-inflammatory cream applied and worked into the agitated scar tissue. And, of course, Nishiki couldn’t do this himself when it came to his back– one of the areas subject to the worst, most persistent pains, only second to his stump arm.
Nishiki was, at that point, too tired and unmotivated to argue, so he’d soon find himself face down on the couch in defeat, Kiryu straddling his hips and looming over him, paying close attention to any muscles tensing, or whimpers slipping from Nishiki’s tight lips as he cautiously kneads patches of uneven skin, pieces of ruined artwork, tendons taut like rope on the verge of snapping.
All he thinks about– all he can ever think about while he lays there with Kiryu’s hands on his back, is that damned koi. How well it’s ruin represents him and the way his life has gone. How humiliating it is to know Kiryu can see it– that he can even touch it.
Unlike those of the aforementioned individuals, Nishiki’s scars don’t harbor any kind of pride, nor do they act as a symbol of endurance, or survival, or resistance, or anything honorable. How could they when he was the person solely responsible for them in the first place? No one had made him withstand physical torture, there was no cause he was fighting for, there wasn’t a battle to come out of stronger and wiser. Sure, he’d claimed to be taking “responsibility” for his betrayal and the subsequent volatile and selfish decisions he’d made by setting off the bomb and taking the blood-stained money with him– but to say that was the only reason for pulling the trigger would be too kind. He’s never said it out loud, but he knows damn well that in the heat of the moment he wasn’t really thinking much about taking accountability.
There were two main intentions, subconscious or otherwise. One– he wanted to end it all. He was tired of living just to fail at every endeavor, he knew he’d be of more use to everyone dead than alive, and he knew with that one action he could finally go down in history as anything but forgettable. Two– The worst of the pair and the one he feels the most crippling guilt and self loathing over, is unadulterated resentment. Resentment towards Kiryu, towards Kazama, towards Yumi, towards the world, towards his parents for bringing him into it. He wanted someone– anyone– to feel his pain. He wanted to force someone out there to think that maybe, just maybe they should’ve done something, reached out, treated him better, thought of him, anything. He felt sorry, he felt guilty, that’s a given; but in the last few seconds before it all went dark he was tired, and he wanted someone else to feel sorry for once.
In the most brutally honest terms– he didn’t just want to kill himself, he wanted Kiryu to watch.
The realization made him sick.
It eats at him. Constantly. How could Kiryu ever deserve that? To be haunted forever by the thought that he could be responsible for the brutal death of the person once closest to him? He knows Kiryu well enough to know that, though he hasn’t directly stated it, he feels responsible for everything as it is– and that’s with Nishiki alive and present. Despite Nishiki being pulled out of the rubble to safety (albeit metaphorically kicking and screaming), Nishiki can read him well enough to note the twinge of guilt in his face whenever he sees Nishiki try and fail to sit up in bed on the first try, as it’s his natural instinct to use his right arm to do so. Sometimes he catches Kiryu smoking on the balcony in the middle of the night, long after he’s said his goodnights, often shirtless and sweating, even in the dead of winter. Nishiki doesn’t ask about it when it happens. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he already knows. It’s a cold sweat, Kiryu’s heart is beating at an aching rate, he’s hoping the depressive quality of nicotine will steady his heartbeat, his shaking hands, and his racing thoughts. Nishiki’s had nightmares and flashbacks since he was a young child, thanks to his parents, and moreover, to Kazama. It’s easy for him to recognize when a person is going through the same motions.
All this to say, if he had succeeded in his attempt, he can’t even imagine how distraught Kiryu would be. How would he cope? Not well, that much can be assumed. Kiryu has never been as consciously self-destructive as Nishiki, but if distraught enough, he finds ways to indirectly throw himself at death through what seems like sheer recklessness. He could find his own tower, his own bomb; but he would never be the one to set it.
The fact that any part of him yearned to make Kiryu watch as his life was extinguished, and yearned further to make him feel any amount of fault in the matter– in his own eyes– is beyond evil. Nishiki knows he’ll never forgive himself for trying to hurt Kiryu. Whether hurting him in such a way was the rogue intrusive thought of a deeply suicidal man or not. He’ll never forgive himself.
Kiryu is still there.
He’s massaging lotion into Nishiki’s aching wounds and running his hands over his shoulder blades, spine, neck, and shoulders. For such a tough, muscular man with so much raw power at his disposal, his touch is remarkably gentle. Thoughtful. Through his touch alone it’s obvious that his intentions are genuinely, completely focused on making him feel better; nothing more complex, nothing more convoluted.
Has he always been this gentle?
He must pity me.
Does he pity me?
Whether there’s pity in his tenderness or not, there’s no way in hell he’s looking at the scars torn through Nishiki’s tattoos and thinking anything derogatory about them– about him. Nishiki adores him for how he can still see light in people who have long since gone dark. It’s incredible, considering the horrors he’s witnessed and the unfathomable number of people who have hurt him, and it’s miraculous that he’s managed to stoke the same flame of hope in Haruka despite her perilous beginnings. Nishiki hates how disgustingly, chronically cynical he is in comparison.
He’s always been like that, he notes to himself as Kiryu’s thumbs iron out a swathe of tissue at the base of his neck wrought with volatile nerves. His composure nearly cracks, but almost instantaneously the pain converts to vulnerable relief. Like the tight laces keeping Nishiki’s patchwork body together are being undone. He’s falling apart in Kiryu’s hands.
As if that’s anything new.
That’s all I’ve ever done, isn’t it?
When Nishiki was ejected from the trainwreck made of his and his sister’s early childhoods and found himself making un-parachuted landfall at Sunflower orphanage, he did not take to the transition well. Whereas Yuko, already the more resilient of the two, had some blissful unawareness due to her especially young age, Nishiki had seen too much, remembered too much, felt too much be ripped from his small, defenseless hands to swiftly adapt and overcome. He was inconsolable, sobbing almost nonstop at the absence of his parents, his house, his possessions, his life. He quickly learned that this behavior– crying like a traumatized child (which of course, he was)– wasn’t appropriate for a boy to do in the open, as it only drew older children looking for an outlet for their own troubles to him like sharks to blood. He kept quiet, hid what he could, didn’t snitch, and continued to be used as a punching bag for a few days.
The worst of it found him with his head hitting asphalt, his knees skinned on pavement, and his ribs kicked in as he held himself pointlessly and channeled what little strength he had into keeping himself from being sick.
And then it stopped.
Another kid yelled something from across the yard. He sounded angry, and he was getting closer. Nishiki braced himself for the force of two pairs of legs to jab into his sides, but nothing of the sort would come. Instead, when he opened his eyes, though he was still seeing double, it was obvious enough that a boy had shown up just to launch himself into a fist fight with his aggressor. Nishiki stayed on the ground, as silent and pulverized as roadkill. Despite the concussion, he remembers the exact words that boy said to him once the two of them were the only ones conscious. Kneeling down, soft concern in his pretty eyes and unwavering voice, he said all that he needed to in five words,
“Can I carry you home?”
Kiryu walked back to the orphanage slowly, conscious of his damaged cargo. Nishiki cried into the back of his neck the entire way.
He’s been falling apart in Kiryu’s hands since day one.
Has he always pitied me?
Kiryu’s hands freeze up, immediately pausing all motion at the detection of small, sudden pulses of movement beneath his fingertips. Nishiki’s shoulders barely, but visibly shake.
“Too hard?” he asks, blunt, but with genuine concern. Typical of him. Nishiki shakes his head nearly unnoticeably, as it blends in with his shuddering.
“No, it’s fine,” he responds, trying his hardest not to sound as pathetic as he feels. He knows it’s futile, and that his teary eyes will escalate to full-on sobbing at any given moment. So he exhales an unstable breath, preparing himself for the inevitable.
Nishiki has spent months giving Kiryu– and everyone else on Earth– a cold shoulder. Years if you consider the time Kiryu was away. These little sessions, however, have slowly, yet quicker than what seems possible for his situation, chipped away at his resolve. At first he hardly even gave feedback, insistent on blocking Kiryu out emotionally and solely treating the whole arrangement like a necessary transaction. Emotions were the last thing he wanted tied into such a desperately needed routine. Ironically, the attempts at dissociation were reminiscent of those of a young boy, curled up on the ground, bruised and bloody, wishing himself away from reality. As it was then, it is now; Kiryu grounds him. He will always come undone for Kiryu eventually.
“It’s not… physical,” he mutters, barely audible, but Kiryu is close enough to comprehend him, “and it’s not your fault.”
“Akira,” Kiryu states softly, letting the given name linger on his breath for a moment before continuing, “I know it’s been hard, but… I’d really appreciate it if you talked to me about it.”
Nishiki swallows as if parched and drops his head further between his shoulders; a picture of shame.
“You’ll think worse of me if I do.”
“Has that ever happened before?”
The retort hits Nishiki like a brick to the head. Like it should’ve been obvious, but his thoughts had become so twisted up and complicated that he failed to reckon that… he already knows things about Nishiki and about the things he’s done that are awful– that Nishiki himself won’t forgive himself for. It’s been years; they’re not young and naive anymore. And yet, Kiryu is still there. He can still feel the warmth of his skin and the weight of his body– his skin is rougher than it was before being weathered by prison, and his weight is that of a study, solid man who’s filled out his younger, lankier form in all the right ways. Time has warped them both, for better or for worse, but Kiryu’s loyalty and stubborn dedication knows no bounds. He’s still there, transformed and unchanged, despite everything.
Nishiki doesn’t know how to respond; he can only futilely squeeze his eyes shut as more tears run down his face. So, Kiryu takes initiative for him, but instead of saying anything this time, he leans to the side, holding onto either side of Nishiki’s waist and in one impressively fluid motion, lifts him just enough to slide himself onto the couch proper until he’s more or less underneath a relatively disoriented Nishiki. Then he does what his end goal of this move was all along; he wraps his arms around Nishiki and holds him. As much as he wishes he could put up a fight– physically or emotionally– Nishiki simply can’t. He’s dead weight in every sense of the term, and Kiryu doesn’t seem to mind at all. Actually, it seems like this was the expected outcome.
There’s no room for buffering. Nishiki is immediately crying into his chest, clinging to his shirt, like nothing had ever changed over their years apart.
“I’m sorry,” he says through gritted teeth and uneven breaths, “I really… really don’t deserve you. I don’t…”
One of Kiryu’s hands finds it’s way to Nishiki’s head, and with fingers slightly woven into his hair, he holds him closer. Nishiki can hear his heart beat through solid muscle. It’s calming. Grounding.
He’s warm. Nishiki almost always feels cold nowadays. He doesn’t now.
“I’m here because I want to be,” Kiryu is yet again blunt, but his few, concise words come with a strong impact, “doesn’t matter what you deserve or what I deserve. I want to be here, you want to be here. That’s enough.”
Nishiki attempts a deep breath, and he half-succeeds, inhaling shakily but exhaling long and slow. Doing so makes it feel like he’s melting onto Kiryu’s chest. He closes his eyes.
“I guess,” he murmurs softly into the crook of Kiryu’s neck as he lets his heavy eyelids drop, and drapes his uninjured arm over one of Kiryu’s shoulders, the warmth and weight of Kiryu’s sturdy arms and the exhaustion from his emotional rollercoaster ride coaxing him towards dozing off, “I… guess so. I…”
Before Kiryu can react or respond, it’s clear by the way his breathing steadies that Nishiki’s knocked out, asleep. So he keeps his hand gently entwined in his hair and lets him rest, a small, content smile on his face. He closes his eyes as well, comfortable in a way he’s only hoped to be for a long while.
“I love you too.”