Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing that greets Sakurai as he steps into the library is the warmth, crowding almost uncomfortably against his wind bitten skin and fogging up his glasses. Still, it’s a welcome alternative to what he’s left outside: his least favorite part of Seasoning City’s winters, days when it isn’t quite cold enough for snow but more than enough to make for a miserable damp and wind.

At least the library is close to his apartment, on a route Sakurai has all but memorized by now on account of its convenience. Instead of the usual reading material, however, he’s here for something different: a quiet place to talk. He moves past the front desk and pauses, eyes roving the tables clustered by the bookshelves surrounding them. Most of the occupants seem to be students, surrounded by textbooks and papers they regard with varying levels of focus, so Muraki’s bulky, suit-clad frame crammed into one of the wooden chairs makes him easy to spot. As Sakurai approaches he sees the older man’s space is much more sparse, just a single book held open with one hand.

“Muraki. I hope you weren’t waiting long.” 

“Ah–no, not at all,” Muraki’s face never was the expressive kind, sharp angled and stoic as a statue—but the haste with which he shuts his book and studies the other as Sakurai rounds the table says a fair amount. Curiosity, or maybe even nerves? Well, what Sakurai relayed over the phone yesterday may have been rather…vague. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”

Immediate, to the point–something Sakurai usually appreciates. He’s been trying to give his efforts to rejoin society the same focus he gave his work in Claw, but small talk was a skill that stubbornly continued to evade him. At the moment, though, Sakurai finds himself wishing for a few more minutes to collect his thoughts. He shifts in an attempt to find a more comfortable position in the chair, but the wood remains cold and hard against his back. 

“There’s been some unforeseen problems. At work.” He’s gone over this starting dialogue several times in his head on the way here, but the words still don’t come easy. A beginning twinge of rare self-consciousness causes them to trip over his tongue, and the next sentence comes with even more difficulty: “I need advice.”

Muraki’s eyes widen, almost imperceptibly–though coming from him, the man might as well gasped aloud.

“...I see.”

“You sound surprised.” 

“A-ah, well, when I received your call, I feared there was some…trouble, with Koyama again.” He says, and Sakurai quietly huffs–a valid assumption, he supposes.

“No. As I’ve said , I am more than capable of handling the situation there.” 

“Of course, but—“

“To the matter at hand,” Sakurai cuts in, keen on keeping the conversation on course and away from that topic. “I know out of all of us, you have the most experience working in society before you came to Claw.” He clears his throat, trying to temper his tone away from the edge that’s beginning to creep in. “How would you avoid your powers…acting on their own?”

The admission hidden behind the question is already enough to make his skin crawl–certainly not helped by the tension already in Muraki’s furrowed brow spreading further across his face.

“You’re not saying…” Muraki trails off before trying again, speaking with more measured caution. “You always said you had perfected your control over your curses, I would have thought–”

“I have .” Perhaps it’s rude, interrupting his senior--especially with such a tone–but some deep seated instinct of pride wins out over the more recent concern for manners Sakurai’s been trying to cultivate. “I’ve never known of an esper whose conjurations could rival my own.”

Muraki doesn’t continue his line of thought, mouth now closed into a frown. Their silence fills with the calm ambience of the library, murmured conversations and clattering keys, yet Sakurai still feels uneasy under the other’s gaze. Studying, too intent, too knowing .

“Sakurai,” He begins, with a chiding tone that immediately takes Sakurai back to his younger years in Claw and makes him bristle. “We have to show humility. It is only through facing our weaknesses that we’ve been able to come this far.” Sakurai’s jaw tenses with the effort to keep a scowl from his expression. All this parroting of Reigen’s teachings, but who was it that relapsed with that ridiculous face paint a total three times in the month after the division disbanded?

“I’m aware of that.” 

“Then you’re aware we have to be honest ,” Muraki pauses, stares at Sakurai with an expectant look as if waiting for another interruption–when none comes he continues: “Tell me what exactly has been happening.”

Sakurai braces himself, taking a breath. There’s nothing for it but to do just that. 

He starts from the beginning: a pen at the register whose tip began to slice through receipts as easily as a knife, a product on a shelf he found to hold traces of unfortunately familiar negative energy. Flickering lights in the refrigerated section that had quickly stopped once Sakurai, caught up in the chaos of rapidly mounting tasks, finally noticed it. Small things, though still humiliating. His last admission in regards to an actual customer , however, the thing that finally brought Sakurai to swallow his pride and dial Muraki’s number, tastes even fouler upon his tongue than the rest. 

“Just as she went to leave…I saw it. She was marked with a curse–one of mine. I got rid of it immediately –” a mortifying interaction, done under the flimsy excuse of brushing a spider off her shoulder, “--but the fact remains that none of this should be occurring in the first place.” He finishes with a harsh exhale through his nose, watching the other warily for a response. Muraki’s frown has only grown deeper.

“And you’re certain that wasn’t…deliberate.”

“Of course it isn’t, after everything’s that’s happened you think I would still do something like that?!” Sakurai only notices the way his voice has risen when a conversation at a nearby table falters. Ignoring the curious glances, he takes a breath and repeats his answer. “It isn’t. I’m certain of it.”

“...I see.” Muraki is silent for a while, eyes lowered to the book closed in front of him as if it might have some kind of advice inscribed on its back. “I’m glad you informed me about this, but I’ve never had such problems myself,” he shakes his head “Well, I do recall an exam in secondary school–mathematics, perhaps–I was so focused I didn’t even notice one of my clones had appeared beside my desk, explaining it to my teacher was …”

His rambling trails off when his gaze flits up to meet Sakurai’s and he finally notices the impatient glower directed at him. Muraki sheepishly clears his throat, posture straightening back into professionalism. 

“In any case. You’d know more about these abilities of yours than I ever could,” He concludes. “Unless there’s more you can tell me.” 

There is, Sakurai knows, but can is a fair distance away from want to . It’s unfamiliar territory, to put his power into words for someone else’s understanding. Back when intimidation was a necessary tool for him, the mystery of it all was convenient–an advantage.

But things are different now– he’s different now. Isn’t he? 

“You know about my methods of creating my jugan. I lay my ill intent upon an object until it gains…an aspect of use.” Sakurai pauses, gauging how to phrase it. “But of course, another common focus of a curse is a person.” A beat as he waits for it to sink in, and sure enough Muraki’s eyes go larger than he’s ever seen.

“You…cursed yourself.”

“In a way. When I was young, my abilities were unfocused. Volatile.” Sakurai uncurls one hand into splayed out tension, eyes tracing the web of veins across the pale skin. “My curses merged into my aura, and I learned to make use of them. As a final line of defense.” 

If he brought his aura forth they would be plain to see around it, glowing red made dark by a layer of spiritual filth.

“They’ve been there ever since.”

When he glances back at Muraki the other’s gaze rests on his hand as well, looking at it like Sakurai just held up a pipe bomb instead. Still, to his credit Muraki stays fairly composed—replying in a low, albeit uneven tone after another stalling cough. 

“…goodness. I suppose that explains some things, when you first joined us at the division.” Sakurai grunts in vague reply, bracing for another of Muraki’s tangents of reminiscence on how much of a handful he was, but fortunately it never comes. “So, you believe they are responsible for your…recent trouble.”

“Yes.”

“And could you not just dispel them?”

“It’s not that simple,” Sakurai shakes his head, nudging his glasses back up into place. “It’s not a question of if I could. Like I said, they’re a line of defense, a reflex–I may still need them one day.”

One terrorist group toppled didn’t mean there wouldn’t be other misguided espers rising up to fill the void of ambition it left. In the days after the smoke cleared to reveal healed scars and a battle won(plus a giant vegetable), it was agreed among the former cadres their work wasn’t yet over. Really, it had just begun. Muraki should know this, but–

“That’s what your jugan are for, aren’t they? Even I can see they’re a better alternative than this…” Muraki gestures vaguely, looking over Sakurai with a distinct expression of disapproval. “Thing you cannot even control.” 

Sakurai exhales harshly through his nose, hand curling into a fist against the table. It isn’t for lack of trying . The past two weeks he’s tried to keep a tight leash on his aura, monitoring it for any further incidents–unfortunately, as sustainable as trying to go about life controlling the pace of one’s breathing.

“Maybe you should consult Master Reigen about this, I’m sure he would know what to do–”

“That won’t be necessary.” Sakurai immediately grimaces at the suggestion. “I…I’ll find a way to handle it.” 

Reigen. The inscrutable man who waltzed into a den of wolves with uncaring ease, who dismissed Sakurai’s most powerful weapons and brushed off his fury like it was nothing more than some dirt on his suit. To be frank Sakurai is still mystified by the man–his rather undignified moments evenly numbered by ones of power and insight–but his respect for him remains absolute. Having to tell Muraki about this was humiliating enough. 

The defeat of the 7th Division still plays through his mind these days. The shock, the indignance, the shame, Sakurai can recall it all like it was yesterday. If Reigen was to speak on this situation…well, it wasn’t hard to speculate: any respectable member of society wouldn’t let those he’s responsible for be put in jeopardy. 

And Reigen would be right. But Sakurai can still feel an acute reluctance dragging him down, searching for some kind of alternative to…whatever the dispelling of his curses would entail. Maybe it’s the lingering will of the sullen, vindictive child that brought them forth in the first place. Maybe he hasn’t changed as much as he thought. 

It’s clear now that there’s more work to do. 

“Are…are you certain you can ?” 

“Yes. I will handle it.” Sakurai repeats, not so much a statement of optimism than an ultimatum towards himself. He abruptly stands, now distracted with the burgeoning growths of a plan crowding his brain. “I apologize for taking up your time.”  

“Wait, Sakurai.” Muraki startles to his feet as well, his chair squeaking back with the movement. Sakurai eyes him warily, pulling on his coat, but all that follows is a silence. Muraki’s jaw just hangs slightly agape, mouth working in faint formation of words. When he finally speaks it’s with the quiet of resignation, as if settling on something else than what he wanted. “Just…be careful.”

Be careful, he had said when Sakurai, back then an ornery teenager impatient to gain the standing of an adult, made clear his plan to prove himself to their president. Be careful , he said after the division fell, when he stood back as Sakurai retrieved Koyama from where he lay in a pile of fallen rubble. But when Sakurai’s cheek was split apart into a scar Muraki said nothing, and Koyama’s continued involvement in Sakurai’s life has since been met with the same passive caution. 

With all that’s changed one thing remains constant: Muraki observes him from a distance. It’s not that Sakurai ever allowed anything else from him from the start, too untrusting of past adults who claimed his best interest at heart and turned out useless. But looking at Muraki now, the creases on his aging face now deepened with concern, Sakurai feels a strange pang in his chest and can’t help but acknowledge the other in a nod.

With that he leaves the library, the chill outside soon surrounding him again as he makes his way back to his apartment. 

—

When did all of it start? It must have been as soon as his powers awoke, when Sakurai’s wishes for the hands that harmed him to be punished actually began to produce results. Before he realized the potential of the toy sword stashed beneath his cot his curses came forward, called to his defense in a manner as instinctive as breathing. 

Bruised skin, ruined clothes and broken glasses were soon avenged–though not immediately. Vindication crept in slowly, subtly. Some of his tormentors became plagued with night terrors, sounds of panic scraping against the peeling wallpaper at night. Others received cuts and bruises of their own from ‘unfortunate accidents’. Some of them got sick.

By the time Sakurai gained enough awareness of his curses to realize what was going on, he made no move against them. Why would he? Under the shroud of rumors that began to surround him, for the first time in his life, he felt safe.  

And as Sakurai’s days in the institution dragged on in their excruciating pace layers upon layers of grimy spite enfolded him, clinging like flies on a corpse. 

When Claw found him he was taught to restrain his power, focus it, but never to protect others from it. The closest he got was in the refinement of his arsenal of jugan, removing the power from any he deemed unworthy. To ask Sakurai to exorcise a curse from someone would’ve been as strange as the idea of calling on Miyagawa to put out a fire, as asking Koyama or Tsuchiya to mend someone’s broken bones. Claw found the value of the 7th Division—little as it apparently was—in the destruction wrought by their abilities, nothing more. 

As such, when it came to dispelling curses he was admittedly…out of practice. It was something Sakurai rarely concerned himself with. 

For so long, he had deemed no one important enough to save.

But both Claw and the scar on his cheek are gone now. He’s left to contend with both the harsh revelation of his equal footing with the masses, and the gravity of past actions that makes their normalcy feel like something Sakurai can never reach. The commoners he now passes on the street– fellow commoners, he still has to remind himself–are both ignorant and enviable. Unaware of the threat in their midst, moving through the mundane world they live in with such…ease. 

As Sakurai steps onto a crosswalk he sees a young girl coming from the other side, the pull of her mother’s hand failing to disrupt her apparent mission of stretching steps wide to remain between the painted bars. She’s in her own little world, eyes down with a faint, mischievous smile fixed on her face. 

In the initial seconds of instinctive thought Sakurai could think of three—no, four different ways to incapacitate the mother. The child could’ve become one of the many who ended up bound and unconscious in the back of Sakurai’s car just as easily. 

He doesn’t want to. But he could. For years, he did. 

Sakurai walks faster. The way things stand, the less time these people are exposed to him the better.

—

He kneels on his bedroom floor now, door closed, half of a katana in his hand. The position is a familiar one; when first encouraged to explore the bounds of his powers, Sakurai found the presence of his blade to be a grounding force whenever he needed to draw them out. Even broken as it is this remains the case, old energy gently shifting where his hand connects like its own kind of fragile pulse. 

The moment Sakurai retrieved the sword from his closet he had found himself unsheathing it as he used to, a reveal of plastic falling short of instinctive expectation. It didn’t feel right to merely grab the thing without any sort of…acknowledgement. A pause, a respectful silence like that of visiting a grave. The rest of the jugan were his tools, first and foremost, but all those years that sword was less a weapon than it was a close companion. A protector.

The stone-cold knowledge that combats that sentimentality, the fact that this blade embodies everything that held him back, still is a bitter pill to swallow sometimes.  

Sakurai fits the remnants of the jugan into its sheath, offering it an illusion of wholeness again before holding the weapon with both hands flat against his knees. Next, he urges his aura outward into the center of his focus, allows its blood-red dark to cloud his perception of his surroundings, and begins. 

Closing his eyes, he can feel the energy thrumming beneath the shadowy murk of his curses–a weight that was always oddly comforting, even now. But now Sakurai urges his aura up to fight against it, power arcing with pointed purpose to tear and carve through. Really, it’s a similar method to the way he’d project it from his sword or pistol, but this time it’s a much stranger sensation. Like fighting against himself. 

But it needs to be done. Passivity would do nothing in the face of years upon years of ill intent woven into his being, running deep as the marrow in Sakurai’s bones.

There. Something gives—a fracture in the shield held around himself, a stitch in a seam loosened just enough to get a hold on. But it’s a victory that lasts mere moments before the extent of the task at hand fully hits him. 

Despite all of Sakurai’s experience and his own ownership, these curses are nearly impossible to distinguish from one another and even harder to grasp. Still, there’s nothing for it but to try and approach it how he usually does: latch onto what he can, tear it away, cast it aside, make it disappear. However, the action presents an uncomfortable resistance that makes Sakurai’s face tighten–it’s almost painful , like a knot in hair tugging against the scalp. 

In the end, he finds that he cannot sustain it for long. His hold slips, the trance faltering, but with a stubborn set in his jaw he begins again. And again. Sakurai loses track of how many times, but for each cycle he can feel his efforts losing their focused edge–descending further and further into the unfocused thrashing of a trapped animal. Finally stubbornness gives way to logic and he releases the knot of exertion all at once, a shuddering breath forced from his lungs as his aura retreats. The world floods back in with violent clarity. 

It takes a moment for the room to stop spinning. Once it does Sakurai casts his bleary eyes downwards, taking stock of his situation.

His aura appears as it always has, its crimson still dark, still baleful. He’s succeeded in purging some amount of it, Sakurai’s certain, but whatever progress he made hasn’t seemed to amount to much. He feels the same as ever.

The unpleasant graze of a wayward piece of hair catches his attention, and when Sakurai smooths it back into place he realizes how clammy his skin is. No, that isn’t right–he feels worse .

“…damn it.” 

Sakurai slowly forces himself out of a kneeling position, wincing at the ache of protest shooting up his legs, and for a while he just sits slumped on the floor with his jugan kept in a white-knuckled grip. He’s still trying to will away the nausea in his gut and the throb in his skull when there’s the grating buzz of a phone from his back pocket. With a frown and a hand that he can’t seem to keep steady Sakurai pulls the offending object out, finding two new messages sent in quick succession. 

Heading back. Still feels like a waste of time, you know.

Wait, already? Koyama had left just before he began all of this, certainly not that long ago, to visit a handful of businesses he thought he might have a chance at for work. Sakurai frowns down at the phone, some lecture on being thorough and persistent forming in the back of his mind–but then the numbers at the corner of the screen inform him that indeed, more than an hour has passed since then.

Has he really lost track of that much time? With a heavy exhale Sakurai rises to his feet, not bothering with a response–he’ll press Koyama for elaboration once he’s home, maybe nag him into doing more applications online. Once his jugan is stashed back into his closet Sakurai makes for the bathroom, in hopes that some water on his face and painkillers will help settle himself back into composure.  

He runs the faucet, staring vacantly into the mirror until he finally musters up the energy to cup his hands in the sink. The cold of the water isn’t refreshing, isn’t even grounding, just an unpleasant shock that leaves Sakurai’s cheeks tingling. With a grimace Sakurai blinks the droplets from his eyes, reaching for a towel.

And that’s when he hears it.

A noise, just barely audible underneath the rush of water. Sakurai swiftly dries his face and turns on the faucet to hear better, just barely catching the end of it. Background noise tainted by activities from surrounding apartments is far from unusual, but something about this puts him ill at ease. He could’ve sworn it was… footsteps , soft and far, far too close–just outside the bathroom door.

“Koyama?” 

No, there’s no way he would have gotten home so quickly–

As Sakurai swings the door open, aura flaring, something else mingles into the sound: the muffled, hushed laughter of a child. Not one of delight or humor, something far more unkind. 

His head pounds. A memory slips in to provide connection, unbidden and unwanted: that was the kind of laugh that years ago would’ve left Sakurai frozen in his cot, waiting in the dark, wondering if he was going to be the punchline. 

Trying to ignore his quickening heartbeat he storms out into the living room, unsure of what to even expect. When that room proves unchanged he searches the rest of the small living space, even checking the front and balcony door for anything ajar. Both locked. Finally Sakurai stops in place, listening, almost in hopes that he’ll hear those sounds again and realize it was just children playing on the floor above. 

The empty apartment is completely silent.

Chapter Text

As much as Sakurai would like to strike this ‘mission’ off the list so he can move on with his life, progress proves frustratingly slow. His shifts at Smilemart continue to demand his time oblivious to what needs to be done. At home, finding an opportunity for it proves difficult when there’s often a restless, unemployed ex-terrorist hanging around. Even with his frankly abysmal sensory skills, Koyama’s bound to detect something amiss if they were both in their– Sakurai’s apartment. 

The only person aware of Sakurai’s predicament is Muraki, and he prefers to keep it that way. Koyama has problems of his own to worry about right now. One could call the sentiment oddly considerate–but truthfully even if Koyama didn’t , Sakurai can’t see the other esper giving him anything other than oblivious commentary and a headache. 

So he bides his time, waiting for days where he can be sure he’ll be undisturbed for an hour or so. 

The second time he tries removing the curses from himself Sakurai expects to be met with less resistance, or at least have a better handle on the process. But as he’s forced to stop and the sensations pour back in, he can’t say he feels any more successful or any less exhausted than the last. 

With a grunt of pain Sakurai shifts his weight off of his legs, letting his gaze unfocus as he idly massages the cramping muscle. It’s just another part of the ritual Sakurai had developed for himself– he couldn’t even remember when or why he started it. Sitting in seiza style, just as he’d been made to as a child until his misbehavior was adequately paid for. 

One of such times trails behind the sensation, memory as impossible to ignore as the ache. 

Sakurai was made to sit on his feet and face the dingy wall of the dormitory, unable to occupy himself with any other thought than when the caretakers would come back to relieve him. The why of the punishment is harder to recall. Did he hurt someone? No, he wouldn’t have. 

Not then, at least. 

He can remember hoping it would be Yokota-sensei appearing in the door, with her pulled-tight bun and seemingly endless wardrobe of florals–it’s almost startling how easily her face comes back. She used to speak kindly to him, and Sakurai preferred her company to the rest of the caretakers. After all a smile, even when it rarely reached those dark-ringed eyes, was still a smile. 

Sakurai had hoped, then when long minutes ticked by and the pain became unbearable he prayed. Not even for Yokota-sensei, for anyone. It was then that his gaze, restless with discomfort, became caught on something dark on the ground beside him. 

A dead cockroach, twisted into pulp by force of a foot or book and left to be forgotten behind the shelf. 

Even in the shadows Sakurai could make out the milky residue webbing across its ruined body, the way the broken segments of its limbs stick up like dying trees. The only thing Sakurai could think about besides the straining agony pulling at his shins was that, if he kept going like this, his muscles would seize so tight they’d snap his own legs to match. His stomach had twisted, as it does now from the mere memory.

If he ended up dying there, he would wonder—as the possibility felt very real some days—would they sweep him out of sight too? 

Sakurai barely makes it to the bathroom, legs nearly giving out, before he throws up. He hears something scuttle across the tiles behind him. 

The doings of a spirit was the first conclusion Sakurai arrived at. When his own powers failed to sense anything out of the ordinary, he resorted to contacting Matsuo–giving away nothing but the bare minimum, naturally. However, the only pressing issue in the apartment had apparently been Sakurai’s interior decoration which was, in Matsuo’s words, “spectacularly dull”. Moreover, he’d claimed the nearest paranormal activity of any note was in the complex down the block. 

After seeing Matsuo(and his prying questions about Koyama) out, Sakurai had been left to confront the pattern he’d faintly hoped was a coincidence: not just that his recent work seems to be triggering this, but it also is getting worse. That, unfortunately, has proved to be the only consistency Sakurai has to work with.

And it’s been driving him insane. 

Sakurai could handle it if it were predictable. He’d know what to plan for, even allow himself time to recover as necessary. Fit it as another block in the not-quite-mundane schedule he’s made for himself until the situation resolves completely.

Instead, removing his curses feels like the shoddy cleaning of rusted metal: scraping away grit with what meager tools he has, only to find himself cut by whatever memory ends up exposed. Whatever he’s burdened with then bleeds outwards into the rest of his life: strange sounds joined by nightmares, joined by paranoia Sakurai thought he’d finally got a handle on since the fall of Claw. Now, purged or not, he can’t go a day without unwanted reminiscence churning inside his skull and—

“Oi.” A sharp snap of fingers abruptly materializes before his eyes, forcing Sakurai to flinch out of his thoughts. He lifts his gaze to find Koyama looming over where Sakurai’s seated on the couch. “You’re doing it again.” 

“Doing what,” Sakurai answers curtly, words pointed into more a warning than a question as he bats the other’s hand away. Before the other can even answer he changes the subject. “What did you say?”

Koyama’s frown only deepens and he crosses his arms, apparently perceptive enough to see the message of ‘drop it’ but not smart enough to heed it.

“I keep telling you, you’ve been spaced out all week. Take a nap, or something.” 

Outside is overcast, the clouds dark with suggestions of rain, and the dimness of the apartment mingling with several restless nights makes the suggestion rather appealing. In defiance Sakurai straightens his back away from the comfort of the sofa’s cushion, pushing his glasses up into order. 

“Enough, Koyama, just tell me what you said.” He says, determined to bring the conversation back to the original, more tolerable subject–something about groceries?

Koyama glowers down at him, but just as his lips seem on the verge of forming an argument it dissipates into a huff. Once the other’s gaze leaves him, Sakurai relaxes somewhat. He watches Koyama check his phone, idly carding his fingers through the jet-black mop of recently dyed hair—a more recurrent habit, now that it’s longer. Koyama’s still resisting the idea of keeping his piercings off, but surprising progress has been made in making him appear less…unruly. In no small part to the fact that the less his appearance matches public memory or police records, the better.

Despite these changes being his idea, however, Sakurai admittedly hasn’t gotten used to the clean-shaven face and grown out hair. At least it looks less like a small, spiky-furred rodent has died on the top of Koyama’s head and more like there’s a…larger, darker rodent. Nevermind.

“I said, I’m off to get the stuff for dinner,“ Koyama finally answers, thumb fluttering across the screen to deliver rapid strings of characters before tucking the phone away. “You’re on for it tonight, right? Curry, you said?” 

“Mm,” One of the few meals Sakurai’s learned to put together with minimum dishware casualties. Inwardly he wilts at the reminder, but after all the effort spent hammering concepts like “even distribution of chores” into Koyama’s skull, Sakurai knows he’s as obligated to their arrangement as he expects the other to be. He just says “Take your umbrella.”

With grunt Koyama moves around the couch and towards the apartment’s entryway, getting what he needs together. Sakurai keeps his eyes on the tv, one that may as well have been playing static for how little he’s retained from the current program, more focused on the other moving behind him. He hears the clink of keys, the footsteps nearing the couch again, feels the weight of a large hand making its best attempt to ruffle Sakurai’s hair. 

“Later.” 

Sakurai doesn’t turn his gaze, just makes another vague noise of acknowledgement, but his focus immediately narrows down on the contact. It slides down the back of Sakurai’s head, warm, calloused fingertips grazing against the tension at the nape of his neck. All at once he’s struck with the inane impulse to lean back and into the touch. 

Before he can act upon it, the hand withdraws. Koyama’s footsteps begin again, growing distant until they disappear entirely behind the closed door.  

It’s strange. If someone tried to do that when Sakurai was a child, he’d have recoiled—a little older, and he’d just as quickly strike their hand away. To be touched was at best an empty gesture from the caretakers, at worst a risk of harm. Even as Sakurai grew into adulthood and began to take infrequent partners, intimacy was never the goal. Physical contact was deemed as much of an unfortunate part of satisfaction as sweaty skin or sore muscles. 

He could never pin down when this shift happened with Koyama, when begrudging tolerance turned to something much more…receptive. Still, it isn’t as if the discomfort has vanished. It just comes once the moment passes, and Sakurai is left disgusted at how complacent he’s become. 

At least it won’t last forever. Koyama will find a job, a place of his own, others much better suited for normal life to surround himself with. And Sakurai can keep to himself, his work. Letting that connection fade like the group that brought them together, and enjoying the quiet. That was what he always wanted from the start, wasn’t it? Quiet. Something Sakurai never had back in the facility, growing up in a cramped building with not enough dorm rooms and too many cots and too many voices. 

There’s still nights he swears he can still hear them, murmuring echoes right before sleep claims him.

An applause roars on the TV and Sakurai blinks back into the moment again with a grimace. Seems like now that he’s trying to put his past behind him, it’s all he can think about. What a joke. 

After a moment’s hesitation he turns off the TV, finally rising to his feet. Every step towards his bedroom now feels weighed down slightly, like Sakurai’s aura itself is trying to pull him back. He knows why. What began as vague sensations of unease has since bloated into dread each time his broken jugan returns to his hand–and each time he puts it down, his doubts only worsen. Is it really possible to let all of this go?

And even if he could, what would even be left?

Seiza style again. Maybe he shouldn’t, but it just feels…fitting. For the punishment he no doubt deserves.

Something’s different about his aura when Sakurai activates it this time–a sign of change, the closest thing he’s gotten to a reward for his efforts so far. Now, though, it’s even more unpleasant to look at: the former deep red now muddied and dull. Sakurai doesn’t dwell on it for long, impatience and nerves both taking their hold. The instinctive brace that comes a millisecond before a needle enters the edge of a wound, uncomfortably drawn out.

Now when the purging process starts there’s a desperation to it, far less care than before. Sakurai carves at his own aura however he can, no matter how much it hurts—a gut-deep sense of wrongness scraping up the notches of his spine like nails on a chalkboard. Because there will be relief at the end of it, there has to be, and the sooner he reaches it the better. 

When exhaustion forces him to stop again, however, it still feels so far away. He’s still unclean.

Sakurai grits his teeth, the hands on his jugan clenching down against the urge to bare its blade and tear the nearby wall open. 

How long will he have to keep this up? He’s finally started trying to change, to fix himself, so why couldn’t things just be easier for once in his goddamn life? 

The frustration at least makes sense. Sakurai tries to cling to it–anger always was better than fear–especially with the inexplicable quickening of his pulse and tightening of his chest. The kind of panic that would take its hold when Sakurai was younger, one or two or three of his tormentors approaching, and it’d dawn on him that there were none of the caretakers around. That no one was going to help–

Enough. 

The thought resounds so loudly in his head Sakurai isn’t entirely sure he didn’t just say it aloud. He takes a trembling breath.

I’m the one in control here.

He starts again.

He starts again, aura creeping across the back of his eyelids like veins. It’s fine. Ignoring the protest every part of his body now strains with. It’s fine. I’m not the weakling I used to be. Pushing himself farther than ever. I’m not–

Something inside him pushes back.

As Sakurai’s heartbeat thunders even louder in his ears, the heaving muscle thrashing against his ribcage like a trapped animal, he realizes something has gone horribly wrong. 

Curses roll off his body in waves–not being purged anymore, just flooding out into his surroundings like blood from an open vein. Sakurai can’t stop it, can hardly see with the filth swirling in his vision, but at the same time he understands. The extent of what all this is, the pain in all its ugliness laid out before him. 

It’s worse. Far worse than he had ever imagined.

A clatter as his jugan slips from his hold, then a much stranger sound: a pained, choked-out cry . Vaguely he realizes that it had crawled out from his own throat. The fibers nestled in the sockets of his skull twitch erratically, pulling his eyes this way and that, searching for something–

Help me.

It’s the last thought Sakurai has before everything’s washed away in rotting crimson. 

The boy stares out at the scene before him through a spider’s web of fractures. Cracked lenses contained by round, ill-fitting frames. The third pair of glasses these past few months–- Yokota-sensei won’t be happy with him.  

His lungs heave with panicked breaths, straining against the knee crushing down against his ribcage. He’s surrounded, four other boys a few grades above him, two of which now pin him against the grit of the empty lot.

The boy’s first mistake was the route he had chosen walking back from school: the threat of dark clouds overhead made him take a shortcut. The second was trying to fight back. His feet and fists connect with only enough force to irritate, to make his assailants double down. 

When one of them pulls out a pair of scissors from a backpack, larger than the kind the teachers let them use, the boy's stomach drops.

These bullies were from the orphanage too. They knew the boy had no money—neither did they. In their world, any meager scrap of ownership that could be scrounged up was precious. Something to be torn away, if you wanted someone to hurt. The fabric of the boy’s jean leg, already ragged at the knee and pocked with holes, gives way easily to expose his shin to their peals of laughter. The one with the scissors holds up the ragged denim like a piece of trash, nose wrinkled in disgust—as if his own jacket wasn’t hiding a size-too-small shirt no one cared enough to replace. 

The boy starts kicking again, enough that the blade scrapes stinging lines onto his shin, but the others only change targets. Greasy clumps of chopped-off hair drift down, clinging onto cheeks wet with frustrated tears. 

That’s just how it was–the worst always came from the oldest ones. Those children struck by painful awareness of their expiration dates–not ones of life, but of belonging . When round-faced novelty contorted into something older, less appealing. Something with awkward, jagged edges unlikely to ever fit into the homes they used to hope would take them. 

The boy would join their ranks one day, but for now he’s something easy to turn their hurt upon, to humiliate. An insect, small and ugly and twitching against the dusty ground until it’s finally crushed for a flicker of satisfaction. Defenseless. 

Or so he thought.

They leave the boy behind, and through his swimming vision he sees something odd. A dark spot on the back of one of the bullies’ necks, trailing shadows behind it like smoke. The scene shifts. 

The boy is older now, and someone is choking him in his bed.

Through the dark and his own unfocused vision he recognizes Genta, one of his dorm mates. Katsuo’s friend, who had held the boy’s shoulders down while the other held the scissors.  Katsuo went to the hospital last week. 

Genta’s lip trembles, and when he speaks it’s in a strangled whisper like he’s trying not to cry.

What did you do to him?! I know it was you!

But even if the boy was willing to explain, the hands around his neck are wrapped far too tightly to allow any words. He just stares back with dull eyes, body wracked with instinctive attempts at breath as he grasps at his assailant’s wrists. Amidst the adrenaline comes something else, a rage dark and sickening and rising like bile into the boy’s constricted throat. The grip releases at once–Genta recoils back and gags. The boy notices the others are awake too, frozen in their beds with eyes shining in fear as they watch him. He hates them all.

He finally gets his own room after that.

The first taste of flesh the toy sword has is his own. An accident, as the boy sits on his new cot and examines the strange feeling that’s recently been emanating off of it. He stifles any sound of pain, a skill he’s mastered by now and uncurls his fingers from the plastic blade. Exposing dull metallic paint now smudged with red. He smiles.

But that relief doesn’t last.

He did something bad today, so he’s hiding in his room. His powers seem to have claimed the door, keeping him safe for now, but there’s no windows, no way to escape from the noise. Every thud of a fist against the door makes him flinch.

Yokota-sensei is on the other side, with some of the other caretakers. She never smiles at him anymore. The boy had thought she’d be relieved to learn he could finally defend himself against the scum of this place, but Yokota-sensei’s face instead turned pale and she’s never met his eye since. She had kept telling him to not get involved, to be the better person. And now she’s calling for him through the door, voice shrill with poorly-concealed panic. That he’s not in trouble, they just want to talk. 

Traitor. 

The boy trembles with fury. He is better than the others. A slap on the wrist isn't enough-they deserve this, he deserves to do this to them—

A harsh slam, a swing of a door, light floods into the room.

Get away from me.  

The boy barely catches a glimpse of the intruder, a bulky silhouette bearing strange violet coils, before it all disappears under the tsunami of curses he throws at it.

Over the roar of power thundering against the boy’s skull there’s a shout of pain he can hardly hear. The haze of filth clears as quickly as it came, slipping back into the shadows, exposing a stranger standing in a different, yet oddly familiar room. 

A…stranger…

No, he…he knows him.

That red-purple light melts off the intruder’s arms, revealing skin blackened with marks of a curse everywhere they hadn’t covered. On his chest, too–it heaves with a ragged, wheezing, horrible noise.

Sakurai watches in horror as Koyama staggers to his knees.

Chapter Text

Reality rushes back in with a twist of vertigo–it sends Sakurai’s vision lurching, wrestling his moment of lucidity back into nothing but blind nausea. When it finally steadies enough for him to think again, however, he doesn’t find anything much better: just a clarity so harsh it’s almost painful. The knowledge of where he is, who he is.

Who he’s hurt, with powers he thought to have a mastery of for years. 

Focus. Get up. Help him.

Sakurai tries, but is only able to part-stumble part-crawl across the floor, lips forming an utterance of Koyama’s name his throat fails to give voice to. His aura ends up reaching the other before his own hands do, already racing to undo the damage by the time Sakurai finds a hold on Koyama’s arms. To support the other or hold himself up, he’s not even sure.

Meanwhile Koyama just sits there, hands still slightly raised in an attempt at a guard, the sharp lines of his features contorted between pain and disbelief. 

“What…what the fuck…was that for…” He wheezes out, ashen face downturned to stare at his own shaking hands. Sakurai can’t come up with an answer, far too preoccupied with mustering up enough power to remove the curses before they do further damage.

Compared to what he’s been trying to do to himself, it’s far easier. Still, the intensity of the marks takes Sakurai aback: from both the force of the blast and the potent spite carried in them there’s bruising to flesh and aura alike. In the back of his mind he suspects if it weren’t for that technique of Koyama’s taking the brunt of it, the state of his arms could’ve been even worse. 

Don’t think about that right now. Aura weaves through cursed skin, grasping at as much as it can reach. Fix this. For once in your life properly help someone. But for all of Sakurai’s demands for focus, both his mind and body still reel from…whatever all that was. Adrenaline sears through his blood, locking him into a perpetual state of unsteady breath and racing heartbeat. His head feels torn open and raw like a wound.

“Hey. Hey. Talk to me, Sakurai.” Koyama presses despite the strain in his voice, oblivious to how much concentration the other needs right now. Another mark of ill intent cast away, then another. Only when he’s certain everything’s been properly exorcised does Sakurai finally try to speak.

“I–” He finds the weight on his chest barely leaves room for words. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Who did this? Claw?” Koyama abruptly stands, balance faltering before he storms further into the room and looks around. There’s a flicker of relief in seeing Koyama's hands and arms moving as normal, but when the purple light reforms on them it doesn’t look right: wavering and distorting like melting wax. “God damn it, I knew there were more of those bastards out there–”

“No, ” Sakurai shakes his head. “It was me. Just me.” 

Koyama’s restless steps come to a halt.  

“What’s that supposed to mean.” 

“My powers, I…I lost control.” 

“Huh? Lost control doing what? ”

Sakurai stares down at his now clenched hands, feeling his shoulders tense. Just thinking about it makes his head throb. Damn it Koyama, I don’t need this right now–

“Doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Koyama’s words drag with sarcasm, but there’s something in them that seems almost…distracted. Sakurai turns to see the other has his phone pressed to his ear. 

“Wait–what are you doing?”

“What do you think, I’m calling Muraki.”

“Don't.” The phone flies out of Koyama’s hand before Sakurai even realizes his aura has flared again, ricocheting against the wall and onto the hardwood with a resounding clatter. Koyama recoils, a curse punching out of his mouth as he gawks at where the device used to be, then to where it fell. He makes no move to retrieve it, apparently deeming complaint a higher priority by the snarling twist of his face. 

“Why the hell not?! That guy can deal with” his hand flails out in vague suggestion “--whatever this is, way better than I can.” 

“I don’t need anyone to ‘deal’ with this,” Sakurai hisses, defiance urging him to rise to his feet but his damned limbs still refusing to comply. “I can handle it—“ A heave in his lungs cuts him short, forcing him to try again: “I can handle it if you’d just leave me alone.”

To his dismay Koyama instead kneels in front of him, far too close for comfort. As the other stares with something dangerously on the brink of concern, Sakurai has never missed his days at Claw so much as in that moment. At least then, he could’ve forced Koyama out of his space, back into line with the sharp edge of a blade and sharper words.

Now, he has nothing but a broken toy and a voice he can hardly trust.

“Jeez, just—just calm down. Deep breaths.” The last part has an uncertain lilt at the end, as if Koyama’s asking a question rather than giving guidance. Sakurai’s seen the man grab a kid by the hair to send his head slamming into a wall, grinning as if the sound of bone against brick was a funny joke. And here’s that same person now, telling Sakurai to breathe.

If he had the air in his lungs to do so, he might’ve laughed at the absurdity of it. 

“Do you think…do you really think any of that is fucking helping, Koyama?” Koyama’s grimace says enough, but it’s quickly covered up with the bluster of indignation.  

“Damn it Sakurai, at least I’m trying—“

“If you want to help so badly, then—then just get out of here.” His eyes drop to Koyama’s arms. Even though the curses have been removed, there’s still bruises winding around them in shadowy patches. Sakurai has seen Koyama battered and beaten countless times now, sometimes even by his own hand, but something about this makes him sick. “Before…before I curse you again.” 

He doesn’t know if he means those words as a warning or a threat, just that he wants to be alone. Either way, it’s a resounding echo of arguments that would fill industrial white hallways and neon-lit meeting rooms, barbs that came as easily as breathing. As such Sakurai expects the typical response: a snarl and tirade from the ill-tempered brute he worked with back in the division. The darkening of Koyama’s expression indeed warns towards a fight but he makes no motion for it, instead spitting out a single, sharp-edged word.

“Fine.” 

With the heavy thud of his hand against the floor to brace himself Koyama rises to his feet, stalking past where Sakurai’s seated to snatch his phone off the ground. Sakurai doesn’t look at him. Not when the sound of footsteps passes by and halts in the doorway, not when he feels Koyama’s gaze weighing on his shoulders.

Mercifully, Koyama doesn’t say anything else before turning to leave. When the door finally closes, the solitude that washes over Sakurai is sweet relief. He learned long ago, solitude is safe . Even when it aches. 

Gradually, his breath starts to even out. Only now Sakurai realizes how dark it’s gotten, the bedroom cast in the dull indigo of a sunset that’s come to a close. His hand seems to have found his katana again, thumb tracing back and forth against the tsuka in an echo of the idle gesture that comforted him as a child. But now, the textured surface and the very motion of Sakurai’s fingertips all feel strangely distant, like they’re coming to him outside his own volition.

Sakurai doesn’t know how long he just…sits there. Trying to reconnect the reality of these sensations to his mind, fogged up as it is. He attempts to take stock of the sounds surrounding him: the faint hum of the radiator, the distant roar of wind, the scrape of tires against asphalt from the street below. After some time Sakurai notices something else is joining them–beyond the door to his bedroom he can make out more footsteps, the dull thuds and clatters of objects being moved around

The first thing his mind goes to is Koyama having an outburst a few degrees from a tantrum, making his frustration known despite their distance–especially once there’s a random clang of what sounds like…metal. The fog in Sakurai’s head slips away somewhat, a much more familiar irritation starting to rise to the surface, and he half expects to hear the slam of a door as Koyama goes off to sulk. But nothing comes

Maybe it’s not even that. Maybe he’s hearing things again. 

Only when the smell of food wafts into the room does it finally register as Koyama making something in the kitchen. At first the fact only vaguely processes, insignificant. Eventually, though, as Sakurai finally starts to feel present in his body again, the beginning pangs of hunger unfortunately make themselves known. That, as well as the chill in the air creeping through the thin fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt. He finally forces his limbs back into motion, grabbing one of Koyama’s hoodies left draped upon the desk chair. 

For a few seconds he just stands there staring at the door, still wary of the light and noise pooling out from underneath. Coming closer, Sakurai realizes it’s ajar–understandable given the way the handle’s warped, nearly wrenched out of the wood by some combination of brute strength and telekinesis. Maybe he should be touched that Koyama used his head enough to not bash through the locked door altogether.  

Trudging through the hall, Sakurai finds himself tending in anticipation of whatever argument awaits him. Once his bleary eyes adjust to the brightness of the kitchen, however, all of that irritation drains away.

Koyama’s made a mess of the countertop as he always does when he cooks: sauce bottles and used measuring cups scattered around, scraps of vegetables spilling off a cutting board to join a dusting of wayward seasonings. Koyama himself is at the stove, stirring vegetables around a sizzling pan with practiced ease.

Sakurai’s eyes fall on the empty grocery bags shoved off to the side, and all at once he remembers the task he had, mundane and impossibly distant now. He was going to make curry for dinner. Shit. 

“Koyama,” He begins, and while there’s a brief pause in the other’s movements, Koyama doesn’t look up. “I was supposed to do that.”  

Sakurai realizes how stupid he sounds as the words slip out of his mouth. He was supposed to do a lot of things. Supposed to be better, a diligent example for Koyama to follow. Not to fall apart and leave him to pick up the slack. Sakurai stares at the bruises on Koyama’s arms as they move, even more stark and ugly in the light of the kitchen. Maybe he should be relieved that he’s apparently able to move as normal, but Sakurai just feels…heavy.

“Forget it, food’s already made. Hope you’ll be less bitchy on a full stomach.” Despite the grumbling, when Koyama finally turns to look at Sakurai he seems more pensive than anything–giving him a once-over before turning back to the food. “Sit.”

He does as he’s told, finding their places already set at the table. Eventually Koyama brings the pot from the stove over to its holder at the center, and Sakurai finally gets a good look at the contents: thinly-sliced meat, vegetables and mushrooms all piled into a dark, still-bubbling broth. Sukiyaki. He blinks.

“That’s not curry.” 

“Dumbass. Like I’d stoop so low to use that instant shit you make me buy,” Sakurai immediately opens his mouth to argue on grounds of time and their budget, but then Koyama adds “...was gonna make this tomorrow, anyway. You…looked like you needed it.” 

He says it reluctantly, like a confession he’s bracing to be criticized for. It’s then that Sakurai recalls the furrowed-browed stares he’s received these past few days, when Koyama seemed to think he wasn’t paying attention. A hand stroking back along his hair, resting at the nape of his neck. You’ve been spaced out all week. 

Sakurai’s chest tightens, suddenly struck with an ache he can hardly put a name to. After everything that’s happened this show of consideration is enough to leave him speechless, just staring at the bowl.

“You got a problem? I thought you loved this stuff last time.” 

Sakurai shakes his head. He did–having the dish for the first time after they helped Tsuchiya move into her new apartment, all going out to celebrate afterwards. It’s just a shock Koyama remembered that to begin with. The other gives him a sideways glance before he retrieves two smaller bowls from the counter: kabocha. That’s right, they’re in season now—and another favorite of Sakurai’s. He swallows thickly, that strange mix of guilt and gratitude again welling up in his throat.

“...thank you.”

Koyama just grunts, taking his seat.

They eat in silence, Koyama shoveling food into his mouth with one hand and scrolling on his apparently intact phone with the other. Sakurai envies having an easy place to put his gaze. He just tries to focus on the food, which admittedly isn’t difficult. It’s delicious: the beef all but melting in his mouth and the warmth of the salty-sweet broth radiating through his chest. 

Well-used a life spent doing the bare minimum of cooking for himself–no one offered to teach him, and he never asked–Sakurai had always assumed Koyama was in the same boat. When they started living together it had been a shock, albeit a pleasant one, to find at least one of them knew his way around the kitchen.

Good food notwithstanding, the heavy silence still tugs at Sakurai’s attention as they both eat. Then there’s the way Koyama keeps sneaking glances at him over his phone, the wince that flickers across his face as he reaches across the table for his water. There’s still this base instinct to let it be, to keep Koyama in the dark– but deep down Sakurai knows those are the actions of the man he used to be, and not to trust it. After everything, he…owes him this.

“Koyama.” 

Koyama immediately meets his gaze, and whatever beginnings of an explanation Sakurai had been conjuring up dies on his tongue. Like when a customer attempts small talk with him and he feels as though he’s never spoken to another person in his life, mind wiped blank. Maybe it’s the exhaustion.

Sakurai just stares back for a while, lips parted slightly, then he notices Koyama has hardly touched the meager amount of kabocha in his bowl. Some petty impulse takes hold of him and he reaches across the table, stealing a piece. 

“ Hey. ” Koyama protests, only on principle–Sakurai distinctly remembers him complaining about the sweetness of the vegetable before. He chews, swallows–buying himself time to think–and finally exhales.

“Be quiet if you want me to explain what happened.” 

Koyama does, jaw snapping shut and phone set down with almost comical speed. 

It ends up easier explaining the situation just as he did Muraki: starting with the presence of the curses in his body–something Koyama just offers a vague ‘huh’ about–then all the problems that arise when they act out of Sakurai’s control. Unlike Muraki, however, Koyama’s much more prone to interruption.

“Cursed oden tongs, huh…” he snickers, “What do you use that for? Whacking people’s heads?”

“That’s not funny, Koyama.” Although, maybe he’s onto something…

“Fine, fine.” Koyama pops another piece of cabbage in his mouth and waves a hand dismissively, continuing to talk as he chews. Sakurai is struck with the sudden urge to lunge across the table and throttle him. “You still haven’t told me what made you freak out like that.”

“I was getting there–” He stops himself, sighs, takes a sip of water to let the irritation settle. “These curses are old. All tied to..my life before Claw. There’s an incredible amount of negative energy involved,” Koyama has an odd look on his face, brow scrunched up–like when Ishiguro would lecture about a plan he doesn’t really understand but is trying to seem in the know anyway. Sakurai attempts to simplify it. “They haven’t been leaving without a fight.”

“Oh. Damn,” Koyama stares down at his food, scratches the back of his head, “I don’t really get a lot of that stuff, but…even I could tell. Got home and it was like I could barely breathe.” Sakurai nods wordlessly. He knows the feeling tenfold. 

Silence falls again, but this time he can all but hear the wheels turning in Koyama’s head as the both of them finish their meal. Soon enough, he speaks up. 

“Y’know, what I’m not getting is, you’ve had all this curse stuff for years, right? Why’s it all acting up now?”

It’s…a good question. With several possible answers Sakurai never could decide on.

“Maybe it’s…” He settles on one he has the easiest time believing: “Karma. ‘If you curse someone, you dig two graves’, isn’t that what they say?” Koyama looks unimpressed with the proverb.

“Ease off the melodrama–I’m in the same boat here, you know.” He waves a hand. “What about work? You got problems with it?” Sakurai sips another spoonful of broth, but this time the taste is soured by the reminder. Stilted conversations with customers, countless blunders from his coworkers he’s barely managed to bite his tongue against, a constant, self-induced pressure to perform correctly–both as an employee, and as a better person.

…maybe it hasn’t been easy, even before the sudden volatility of his powers. Not that Sakurai has any desire to admit this to Koyama.

“I...” He chooses his words carefully. “...haven’t received any complaints from the manager.”  

“Not what I asked.” Koyama says flatly, “Every time I see you in there you look like you’re either gonna stab somebody, or yourself,” He pauses. “More than usual.”

“Get to the point, Koyama.”

“What I’m saying is, neither of us have a great track record with other people. And this job has you putting up with a lot of ‘em.“ Sakurai glowers down into his glass but says nothing–both statements are more or less accurate. “Have you really been okay with that? 

Koyama raises an unfortunate point: the breadth of Sakurai’s human interactions for the past few years has primarily involved lecturing Awakened lackeys, tense conversations with his fellow Scars, and telling kidnapped esper kids in the back of his car to keep it down. A job in a convenience store, plain as it seemed, is a whole other world. Maybe Sakurai had considered it before, that his curses might have been once again responding to his own discomfort. But he told himself that surely he had grown past that kind of juvenile, pathetic lack of restraint. 

“Of course I have, I–I have to be.” Sakurai finds himself sputtering, but he’s already starting to realize: Koyama can actually be observant—only when it’s absolutely irritating, apparently.

“Ohhh, no. No, you’re bullshitting.” Koyama rocks forward from where he was leaning, jabbing his chopsticks at him with a crooked grin: “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing either!” Sakurai breathes out a sigh of exasperation, finally relenting, but still shoots Koyama a dirty look.  

“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.” 

“When I’ve had weeks of you acting like you’re some kind of expert on being normal while I can’t even land a job? Yeah, I do.”

Sakurai blinks, taken aback by the edge of bitterness in his voice. Fighting Claw, that was an easy enough course to set Koyama on once he was convinced they were an enemy. But when it came to life as a commoner, being part of society, Sakurai didn’t think Koyama even cared past the point of the bare minimum. His lips part, trying to form a response but coming up short, and Koyama rolls his eyes.  

“Relax. You’re still doing a better job of it than I am, that’s for sure.”

Sakurai bristles at his dismissive tone, lip curling into a sneer as he retorts:

“A low bar, don’t you think?”

The moment the words leave his mouth he regrets them. As he watches Koyama blink in surprise, Sakurai expects some kind of retaliation. Instead, the stunned blankness on Koyama’s face shifts into an upwards twitch of his mouth, not quite reaching his eyes. With a slight shake of his head Koyama breathes out a dry laugh, looking down.

“Yeah. Guess so.”

He abruptly stands. Sakurai’s gaze follows him warily, but Koyama just silently gathers up his dishes and brings them to the counter. Instead of returning to the table, however, he just grabs his phone and strides past to the couch--dropping down onto his usual spot with a huff. Clearly deeming the conversation over. 

Sakurai stares down at his now empty bowl, feeling that twinge in his chest again—but even before Claw, apologies had always been a useless tool in his eyes. No matter how many times they were repeated, or how loudly. As a boy Sakurai quickly learned that by saying sorry, you were just giving an admission that you didn’t have the power to protect yourself. That you had no choice but to offer flimsy, placating words as your only line of defense against cruel consequence. 

Still, he finds himself rising to his feet. And as Sakurai moves to sit beside Koyama on the couch, leaving careful space between them, he tries to come up with something nonetheless.

“...it wasn’t my intention to be so harsh on you,” He begins, “I know you’ve been trying. And you’ve been doing…better, than I expected—“ Koyama’s scowl only deepens as the words continue to stumble out of Sakurai’s mouth. 

“I don’t need to hear this shit from you. Forget it.” He grumbles, shifting more of his weight against the armrest to further turn away. Sakurai frowns, at first indignant at the way his apology has been dismissed, but…maybe it wasn’t the best attempt. He takes a breath, feels the guilt again rise in his throat. But this time, allows it to spill out into soft, simple words. 

“I’m sorry.”

There’s a slight turn of Koyama’s head, his piercings glinting under the light as he looks at the other out of the corner of his eye. Finally he sighs, slinging an arm over the back of the couch behind Sakurai’s shoulders. 

“I said forget it.” Something in his voice has softened, though, as he tilts his head back to gaze up at the ceiling. “Just wish these bastards would give me a chance. At this point I wouldn’t even mind working at a place like yours. Can you imagine?”

Sakurai just nods silently, averting his eyes. The idea had crossed his mind, once or twice, but something always stopped him from acting on it. Years of being forced into cooperation by Claw has given ample evidence that he and Koyama were only really compatible when it came to violence–something they’re trying to leave behind now. Not to mention the fact that by involving Koyama in his work, Sakurai would be putting his own precarious reputation on the line–a risk some part of himself insists he shouldn’t trust the other enough to take. Koyama keeps talking, oblivious to his doubts, shifting his arm to clap a firm hand down on Sakurai’s shoulder.

“Guess I still could, how’d you put it…” Voice dropping to a rasp he suddenly leans in, the smile tugging at his mouth Sakurai knows to mean nothing good. “…‘do something with my body?” Heat immediately flares in Sakurai’s cheeks at the reminder of the…ill-phrased suggestion he made some time ago.   

“This again, Koyama—I meant manual labor.” 

“Well if you change your mind, I’m always open for requests.“

“Enough.” Sakurai elbows him away to no avail—Koyama just snickers, offering an opposite lean of mock surrender before his arm returns to the other’s shoulders. Sakurai lets it. Once Koyama’s laughter fades, however, his expression sobers up.

“Can’t see how brooding about all that curse stuff is gonna help…whatever’s going on in that head of yours.” As if to emphasize his point he reaches over to poke at Sakurai’s forehead. “Aren’t there any other options?”

“I can’t manage my work properly if I’m worrying about my powers on top of it,” Sakurai makes a face, craning his head away. “It’s for the best. I won’t let something like this happen again” He meets Koyama’s scrutinizing gaze with a stern look of his own–finally, Koyama simply shrugs.

“If you say so.” He slumps back with a heavy exhale, making himself comfortable with clear intent to take the other down with him. Sakurai, however, glances back over the couch where the mess of the kitchen still lurks behind them.

“Wait, I should—the dishes—“

“Later.” Koyama’s hold only tightens, accompanied by a playful nudge at Sakurai’s knee with his own. He turns his attention to the TV. “Think Mobster’s got a match tonight–you’ll want to see this too, right?” Sakurai grimaces at the thought of sitting through another boxing match, but doesn’t argue. It’s his fault after all, for being drawn in by the… visuals once or twice–now Koyama’s mistaken him as actually invested in the sport. Not to mention he still owes Koyama for the meal.

“Fine.” Sakurai hands him the remote. 

The apartment again fills with noise from the TV and Sakurai tries to keep himself in the present moment, to focus on the satisfaction of good food and the quiet companionship of another. But the domesticity still hasn’t stopped feeling foreign, some time-worn piece of Sakurai bracing for the rug to be pulled out underneath and the calm to shatter. His thoughts keep going back to that dull haze of red, to the fear, to the afterimages of scenes that still linger in his head like a nightmare.

And as Sakurai sits curled up on the couch, tired eyes not-quite watching the television, he finds his hand clasped around his shin. The phantom cuts from the scissors still sting. 

Chapter Text

In the following days Koyama keeps his distance longer than Sakurai expected, acting out their typical routine almost as if nothing had happened. Almost. 

Sometimes Sakurai still catches a wince flicker across the other’s face as he extends his arm or twists his wrist. Then there was that sudden disruption of his lunch break: Koyama bringing him a cup of coffee and a knowing look much to Sakurai’s chagrin(even more infuriating was how the coffee had been exactly how he takes it—when did Koyama learn that?). 

Still. In the wake of a night with dreams that left him more exhausted than when his head hit the pillow, Sakurai hardly had grounds to complain. 

Saturday arrives, one of his days off. A welcome relief from the constant vigilance of trying to make sure his powers don’t step out of line. Normally this would also be a day he’d try to get Koyama out of the apartment, but Sakurai hasn’t laid a hand on his curses in the days since he lost control. It nags at him through the morning, but every time he dares to think about it the memories and the dread are enough to make him nauseous. Finally he resigns himself to some semblance of rest, bracing for the work week ahead. 

That is, until Koyama speaks up while they’re doing the dishes after lunch.

“Hey, Sakurai.” 

Sakurai makes a questioning noise from where he’s crouched by a cabinet, focusing on fitting a newly cleaned pan into the precarious stack inside. 

“The stuff you’ve been doing with your powers—getting rid of curses or whatever,” Koyama gestures vaguely with the wooden spoon he was washing. “Next time, I want to be there.” 

“I–what?” Sakurai sputters, his focus on the task at hand decisively shattered as he stares incredulously at the other. At first he wonders if this is Koyama’s idea of a joke, but his expression is perfectly serious. “No, absolutely not.” 

“Why not?”

“Why not—did you forget what happened last time?” Sakurai’s face twists into a grimace as he stands, his next words heavy on his tongue. “I hurt you.” Koyama just rolls his eyes.

“We were Scars, Sakurai, we’ve hurt each other tons of times. I can take it.” After putting the last of the dishes on the counter Koyama holds out his arm with a flourish of his still-wet hand. It sends some droplets against Sakurai’s face and he wrinkles his nose, casting out another glare before finally taking a look. The rolled up sleeves of Koyama’s hoodie reveal mostly unblemished skin—though Sakurai immediately hones in on the still-yellowed patch where the worst of the bruises were. “Can’t be any worse than what I got from your little meltdown.”

Sakurai instinctively bristles at that incident being reduced to a ‘little meltdown’, but he manages to bite back a retort. Bringing up that mess risks being pressed for further details, the way Koyama’s been so keen to pry lately. 

“If it goes the way it did before…” He finally mutters, “I don’t want you to see me like that.”

“Well tough luck, I already did.” Koyama points out, abruptly swiping the dishcloth from Sakurai’s hands to dry off his own. He studies Sakurai for a moment, as if searching for some sign of relenting, and when he finds none he sighs “Look. Someone has to be around to snap you out of it if you go in over your head. Again.” Sakurai gives him a skeptical look. 

“And you’ve deemed yourself the best candidate for that because…”

“You’re impossible,” Koyama growls out, raking a hand through his hair . “Look, I just–if something happens to you, what am I supposed to do, huh?” All at once the frustration on his face falters into wide-eyed abashment. Before he turns away with crossed arms and a huff, Sakurai can catch a tinge of red in his cheeks. “Gonna be a pain in the ass if I have to find another place.”

Back in Claw, Sakurai would easily toss this in with all the other reasons why Koyama does what he does: the man’s a self-serving fool, only willing to put in effort when it comes to tearing others down. Of course he doesn’t want to lose this arrangement, it’s convenient. Not that Sakurai had been much better. All this started from a flicker of pity, a sense of superiority, and, more importantly, his wish to make sure Koyama didn’t cause any more trouble if ‘commoner life’ proved not to his liking. 

But now, all Sakurai can think about is the warmth of a meal made for him. Being called into the living room he had barely touched when he lived alone, a space now often filled with sound: grumbling over inaccurate fight scenes in the action movies, practicing(or arguing over) interview questions, Sakurai sharing a story from work while Koyama lies with his legs sprawled over his lap. 

He remembers the first thing he heard through the ringing of his ears after Claw’s defeat was his name–panicked and hoarse as Koyama called for him through the smoke.

 ...idiot. 

“Fine.” Sakurai huffs out, and Koyama immediately perks up.

“Really?

“But if I tell you to leave, you leave. No argument.” He says sharply, jabbing a finger at the other in warning. “Come with me.” 

“Wait–now?” 

“Yes.” Before I change my mind. 

Sakurai isn’t really sure where the sudden drive is coming from as he heads to his bedroom, Koyama following behind. Maybe if he gets it over with and nothing happens, Koyama will let it drop. Or perhaps having someone else around will actually help tether him–a strange, unexpected spark of optimism.

He retrieves his jugan from the closet, getting in position. Koyama sits down across from him, shifting his weight in an attempt to get comfortable on the hardwood.

“We can’t do this on the couch or something? 

“This way is best for me to focus. Now…” Sakurai clears his throat, forcing back the current of nerves starting to swell in his chest with a stern set in his jaw. "When I begin, do not make any physical contact. You're risking enough just being here as it is." Koyama’s lip curls.

"Enough with the lecture already, I’m–”

"Then take this more seriously," Sakurai insists. "I don't know what'll happen to you if I...lose myself again."

"C'mon, you're not that dangerous-"

"Koyama."

"Alright, alright. I won't touch you," He raises his hands in surrender—not without a drawn-out eye roll. “Now go on already, let's get this freaky curse shit over with."

Tempting as it is to remind Koyama that he's the one who insisted on being here, Sakurai ultimately shares the sentiment.

It isn’t any easier to concentrate with another’s gaze boring into him, but eventually Sakurai succeeds in blocking it out enough to properly start. The tension of focus takes its hold as he tentatively starts probing his now dull-colored aura, feeling out the curses still lingering inside. It’s…noticeably less than before. The realization at the very least is encouraging and Sakurai imagines himself reaching, emboldened to move further forward and grasp at what’s left. Like Koyama said, get it over with– 

There’s a choked off sound across from him.

Sakurai’s eyes flash open, aura recoiling out of the edges of his vision as he swiftly looks over the other for any sign of trouble. But Koyama seems fine–just offers him a sheepish half-smile, a waver of held-back laughter in his voice.

“You look like you’re trying to take a shit.”

And Sakurai thinks he must really be out of it–or maybe the comment just took him so off guard, because he actually has to shut his mouth to restrain a noise dangerously close to a laugh. He forces it down into a scowl.

“What are you, twelve? What part of focus don’t you understand?” He jabs the end of the sheath into Koyama’s gut for emphasis–not as hard as he could, but with enough force to make him grunt. Despite this Koyama seems unphased, his grin only widening. 

“My bad, my bad.” 

Sakurai breathes harshly through his nose, settling his jugan back on his lap. With one last warning look at Koyama he shuts his eyes, resuming his work. 

For every second that ticks by, every move to tear away a curse feels much more tangible—and painful than before. Like his power is abrading against Sakurai’s very skin, a blade carving away the surface into paper-thin shreds of flesh. A part of him wonders if he dared to open his eyes again, he’d see blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt—no, no he won’t, he just needs to focus .

Sakurai’s jaw aches from the building strain as he steels himself to push further, but before he can do anything else something new tugs at his attention. An odd kind of pressure, gently weighing down on his white-knuckled hands but rapidly becoming more intense. Sakurai pauses, concentration quickly fracturing as it dawns on him: it’s not coming from himself, it’s coming from…

“Koyama– stop. ” The words burst out of him in a panic, far louder than necessary for their proximity. “What are you doing?!” Koyama flinches, the red-purple energy that had been crossing the gap between them now recoiling back.

“Your aura’s going all over the place” he finally answers, squinting at the space next to Sakurai’s head. “Had a bad feeling about it. Thought I could…I don’t know, hold it back.” Sakurai gawks at him, at first just…bewildered by both Koyama’s thoughtlessness and this strange plan of his, but that soon gives way to anger. 

“I can assure you, you can’t. How many times do I need to tell you– don’t interfere.”

“Well your way of doing it seems to just keep going to shit, so how about you try mine for once–”

“Enough.” Sakurai grits out in frustration. “Stop pretending like you have any idea what’s going on, you’re just going to make things worse–”

As his voice rises his aura follows suit, ashen power flaring out in the corner of his vision. Before Sakurai even realizes what he’s doing his fears are confirmed right before his eyes: a cursed mark abruptly spreads off of Koyama’s shoulder, angrily writhing as if the skin was lit with a dark flame. Shit.

“Koyama–”

The other cranes his neck to get a better look, scowl darkening his expression. Sakurai quickly lifts a hand from his jugan, ready to intervene, but suddenly Koyama just…bats at the curse as if it were nothing more than a pesky mosquito. Crimson and violet pulses across his skin, and the marker gradually dissipates. Sakurai stares in surprise, distress still frozen on his face–Koyama glances back up at him and scoffs.

“What’s with that look? You’ve gone soft, Sakurai.” 

His grip suddenly closes around Sakurai’s wrist, firmly pushing it back down. 

“You think after all these years with you, I never figured out how to deal with some scrawny-ass curse like this?” He continues, all confident, reckless bravado. “Last time was a fluke, is all.” Sakurai frowns down at where their hands connect, stone-cold doubt now colliding with the warmth of Koyama’s palm.

“But I–”

“I told you, I got it,” Koyama insists. “Just…shut up and do what you gotta do. Trust me.” 

Trust me. Sakurai looks back up at him, at the face that, while altered, is one that’s remained a constant presence for all these years. Before he can think better of it he shuts his eyes, and does.

Now he can feel Koyama’s aura, flowing forward from his grip around Sakurai’s wrist. It had always carried an odd density to it, purple energy bleeding out and seething like some kind of viscous poison where others spark and glimmer. Any time Sakurai would open up his senses to it he’d immediately wish he hadn’t, struck by a power nearly as repulsive as his own. Back then, it hadn’t been any surprise Koyama used it the way he did.  

Lately, though, that weight seems to have shifted: now less a hand upon his throat and more an arm around his shoulders.

It still feels…strange, a foreign presence in a space meant to be Sakurai’s own, but even that discomfort proves oddly grounding. Whenever there’s a familiar twist of panic, like the sudden sensation of falling on the edge of sleep, there comes Koyama’s power to interrupt it. Giving him a reminder of the world outside his head. Then, anytime that violet-red starts to curl across the back of his eyelids too clearly, swaying his focus, Sakurai lets his own aura rise in warning–after some initial hesitation, Koyama’s backs off without a fight.

Eventually they fall into a cautious rhythm, a push and pull of regulation done by feel, no words necessary. Sakurai’s long since learned how easily any sense of time slips away when trying to purge himself, but he finds himself certain he’s been going much longer than his endurance usually allows.

It has to be almost over, it has to be. 

Take hold, tear away, purify. Again and again, until…

…

All at once, something unravels. It comes from someplace deeper than his skin, his blood, his bones—but still as palpable as a twitch of muscle or a shiver up his spine. 

“Oh shit.” 

Koyama’s voice drifts in with an uncharacteristic hush, more than enough to pull Sakurai out of his trance to look. He seems fine, though winded–a sheen of sweat on his forehead and all manner of creases still furrowed in his face–but Sakurai’s distracted by the way he’s staring wide-eyed, pointing at something. Sakurai follows it down towards himself and can’t help the catch of breath in his throat. 

Green light is radiating off his body, brightness harsh against a gaze that still expects a darker hue. As Sakurai keeps watching he realizes even the way it moves has changed: pointed waves twitching with energy where it used to ebb and flow like the smoke of a dying ember. 

As the world fully floods in he feels painfully exposed, but not with the kind of anxiety that’s been so commonplace these past weeks. It’s as if some unseen grime atop his skin and eyes has been stripped away, leaving every nerve tingling with sensations that seem too sharp, too real. His fingers spasm against his jugan, the rasp of the cording around the handle enough to send sparks through his hands.

Sakurai shuts his eyes against the sudden assault, but the green still flickers on the back of his eyelids. He’s…seen this hue before, he realizes. A long time ago.  

The caretakers said they were too old for night-lights now, but his fear of the dark didn’t care about the passage of time–it left Sakurai curled up with the covers pulled over his head all the same. It was his powers that came to soothe him, the calm glow of what he’d later learn to be his aura softly illuminating the space he made to protect himself. None of the other boys in the room could see it, this was his alone. 

These powers weren’t much yet, only able to move small objects. But one day, Sakurai used to think, he could turn them into something special. Then, he’ll steal the records of his parents he was sure the institution had, leave this place to find them. In a spectacle of light, he’d show them how special he was, the worth he didn’t have before. The gray eyes his father might have shared with him would widen, his mother’s would light up behind the glasses he always imagined her having. Look Dad, see what I can do? He could tell them how he was the fastest reader in his class, how the caretakers praised him for his quiet when the others were loud. I won’t be any trouble, Mom, I promise. 

He wouldn’t even ask why he was left behind. That wouldn’t matter, once he was taken into their arms—once he was finally back where he belonged. Sakurai used to run the scene again and again through his head, slow as a lullaby, imagining the warmth of the blanket as theirs. 

“...Sakurai?” 

The name sounds so far away. Sakurai, the only piece of his family he was left with. Just a blank space on a document that needed to be filled. 

“Sakurai, snap out of it–”

Hands are on his shoulders, a slight shake making his head fall forward. By the time Sakurai realizes another memory is taking hold of him it’s already welling up behind his eyes, far out of his control. He sees Koyama shuffle closer, leaning to try and meet his downward gaze, and panic bolts through him. I can’t let him see me like this.  

But instead of an instinct for words to spill from his mouth, to force the other away, he just feels a familiar pull. Aching at the core of his chest, urging him to the closest thing to comfort he’s had in a long time.

He’s so tired of fighting.

Sakurai lets himself fall—resigning to simply hide his face by resting his forehead against Koyama’s shoulder. Everything still crowds into his skull: he can feel the t-shirt fabric graze against his brow as Koyama stiffens, hear the other’s mouth working, trying to find beginnings of sentences that never come out. And when a few tears finally slip free, they leave burning tracks along Sakurai’s cheeks. He has no choice but to sit there, arms hanging limp, staring down without seeing anything at all. 

Koyama clearly doesn’t know what to say, and Sakurai can’t speak either—only able to offer ragged breaths barely kept away from the border of sobs. Despite all Sakurai has done—the years of tempering himself into cruelty, his present fight to follow Reigen’s command, to grow up —that lonely boy hiding in his bed never went away. It’s his wounds that now ache in Sakurai’s chest, never healed, just left to fester. How could he even begin to explain that?

Before he can try Sakurai feels a hand settle between his shoulder blades, causing him to jolt. The aura that had been warily ebbing away returns in full force, now joining Koyama’s arm in encircling him. It still moves slowly, cautiously, but something about its presence helps—just as before. Its pressure dulls the too-sharp edges of his senses, allowing Sakurai to think straight and his breathing to slow.

The last knot of resistance unravels, and he feels himself sink further into the other’s hold. Maybe…maybe Koyama doesn’t need him to explain this. Not now. 

Sakurai lingers in that quiet contact for more time than he probably should. Less time than he wants to.  

Finally he works up enough energy to shift back, out of the grasp of hands and aura alike. Koyama lets him go immediately, though Sakurai notices a tendril of purple curling out as if to follow before retreating. Irritatingly, the other doesn’t do him the courtesy of averting his eyes–Sakurai hastily turns away from that intent, questioning gaze, wiping the remnants of moisture from under his glasses. Koyama’s voice is inescapable though, its usual rough edges softened into low, uncertain words.

“What happened? Did it work?”

Did it? Sakurai focuses his senses inward again, searching for the pulse, the whispers of ill-intent that had haunted his every waking moment. When he realizes they’re nowhere to be found, it’s less the resounding, invigorating relief that he hoped it would be. He certainly feels different, lighter, but the sudden absence of weight mostly just leaves him…off-kilter.

“…it seems so.” He takes a breath. Another, and another, trying to clear his head of the tired fog encroaching now that those too-clear sparks of sensation have settled. The silence drags along at an agonizing, awkward pace–finally broken by Koyama clearing his throat. 

“Hm.”

Sakurai looks back up, finding the other’s gaze tracing along the line of his shoulder.

“What?”

“I had my bet on it being green. Guess the blue’s close, though.” He says, and Sakurai blinks. All at once every facet of his exhaustion is immediately overridden by a years-old instinct: Koyama has made an incorrect statement, and Sakurai must rectify this immediately.  

“Koyama, it is green.” He lets his aura flare out for emphasis. Unconvinced, the other grabs for the Sakurai’s arm and frowns down at the apparently inscrutable energy surrounding it. 

“No, it’s blue.”

“Fine then, it’s cyan. Or turquoise. 

“Those aren’t fucking words, you’re making those up. Green-blue.”

“It’s my aura. I’m calling it cyan.” 

“Whatever.” Koyama tosses his head in a dramatic roll of his eyes, but there’s now a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So. What now?” 

The question takes Sakurai off guard–he’d barely considered anything past this point beyond vague hopes of normalcy. He thinks for a moment on the immediate present, reaching behind his glasses again to rub at his eyes, and the answer comes easily. 

“Now,” He exhales heavily. “I just want to sleep.” 

“A nap ? Look at you, slacker.” Koyama snorts out a disbelieving laugh, to which Sakurai responds with a withering look. Abruptly he claps a hand down on Sakurai’s shoulder, using it as leverage to push himself to his feet. “Alright, alright, I’ll leave you to it.” 

Despite his nonchalant gait Koyama seems hesitant to leave, glancing back at Sakurai with the kind of concern that always lies awkwardly upon his harsh features. He’s too busy staring as he opens the door, however, that he forgets the state of the still-damaged handle: the habitual force nearly unbalances him as the door easily gives way. Sakurai huffs in faint amusement as Koyama stumbles, swearing under his breath before all but stomping out of the room.  

Now left alone, however, Sakurai feels himself slump. With half-lidded eyes directed nowhere in particular he gets to work undoing the buttons of his shirt, fingers working more out of instinct than anything. He figures if he’s going to take a nap—a habit Sakurai has so often tried to avoid on account of diligence–he might as well allow himself the indulgence of sweatpants and one of Koyama’s t-shirts stolen from his side of the drawer. 

Once he’s changed Sakurai returns his jugan to the closet, exchanging it with the rolled up futon usually kept inside during the day. It’s a relief to lie down, but the longer he does so the more something feels…off. Even under the insistent weight of fatigue Sakurai’s thoughts manage to squirm about, his limbs unable to find a comfortable position. 

Maybe it’s some stubborn instinct of vigilance, covering for the sense of vulnerability that still tingles through his skin in absence of his curses. Maybe it’s that loneliness come back to haunt him. Regardless, when he’s not thinking about what just happened Sakurai finds himself thinking about how he should be resting–which all together amounts to no sleep at all. 

He waits for a while longer, bleary eyes wandering the bedroom washed out in the cold light of a cloudy day. A sound draws Sakurai’s attention to the ajar door: the murmur of the tv now filters through, a reminder of the presence of another nearby. He grimaces up at the ceiling for a while, weighing his options, before he sighs and shoves away the blanket. 

To hell with it. It’s not like there’s any more damage he can do to his dignity today.

Sakurai keeps his glasses off, familiarity guiding him through blurred shapes into the rest of the apartment. He finds a familiar scene before him: Koyama sprawled out across the couch, attention lazily divided between his phone and the tv. Perhaps what happened took more out of the other than Sakurai realized—upon getting closer, Koyama looks like he’s about to doze off himself. He perks up when he sees Sakurai though, propping himself up on an elbow with a curious look. 

“You need something?” He questions, to which Sakurai only offers a vague grunt as he sits on the edge of the couch. 

“I’ll sleep here.” A pause, as consideration for manners comes in as an afterthought. “If…that’s alright.”

The surprise that flashes over Koyama’s face doesn’t last long, soon settling into a grin of smug satisfaction. Of course, he wouldn’t let this kind of request go without commentary either–but his mouth barely opens before Sakurai clamps a hand over it, smothering words he’s certain will be even more irritating.  

“Shut up and move already.”

The couch isn’t particularly spacious, the kind of bare-minimum furnishing the apartment came with that Sakurai never felt necessary to improve. After some shifting and grumbling they manage to slot against each other, Sakurai practically draped atop Koyama with his head resting on his shoulder. It’s adequately comfortable, and Koyama isn’t complaining either–he just shifts a little to reach for the remote, lowering the volume before his hold returns to the other’s back.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” He murmurs, a low rumble in his chest against Sakurai’s ear. “Told you I could help.” 

Sakurai makes a face, shutting his eyes in an attempt to ignore that comment, but he can’t deny the truth of it. Even if it is a wound on his pride to have needed help in a mission that was his responsibility, from Koyama no less. 

The edge of shame has since been softened by the pure relief of being done with it all, but it still keeps any kind of gratitude from being put into words. He just nods with a vague sound of affirmation, turning his face further into the other’s chest.

“This curse stuff seems more trouble than it’s worth. I don’t envy you." Koyama continues, hand now moving in lazy circles against Sakurai’s back. “Be more like me, just beat the crap out of folks instead.” Sakurai feels the corner of his mouth twitch up despite himself.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now stop talking.” Koyama hums, thankfully not saying anything more. 

The other’s aura is much fainter than before, reigned into a passivity, but in this proximity Sakurai can still feel it beneath his hand, his cheek. A rhythm steady as a heartbeat, gradually smoothing out the static of Sakurai’s nerves into a haze of quiet. As he feels his body slacken his mind begins to sink down into memory, but not the same dark waters as before. 

He thinks of Yokota-sensei, of a quiet conversation while she had cleaned Sakurai’s scraped up knees and grimy face. Gentle fingers trying to neaten his hair, the strands still uneven after getting chopped away. 

You’re still young, you know. She had tried to smile at him, strained and pitying. One day things will fall into place for you, and it’ll all be worth it. You’ll see.

Of course, hopeful platitudes like that quickly lost their substance when Claw came to their doorstep, and Sakurai was handed over just as swiftly. As childhood rotted into vicious adolescence, he grew into the belief that there was no limit on suffering in life. The world didn’t care how much you had already, it would continue to beat you down unless you fought back. 

It’s a moment of peace like this that his younger self never would’ve been able to fathom having, yet here it is in Sakurai’s grasp regardless. Tangible in the warmth against his body and the rise and fall of Koyama’s chest, all in a place he’s finally started to call home. He shuts his eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, she was right after all.

Chapter Text

“...memories? You mean…back before we found you.”

“Where else?” Sakurai sighs, breath clouding around his face as he leans back against the park bench. “The past is where most curses get their power, after all.”

He takes a sip of one of the coffees he picked up for himself and Muraki, savoring the warmth more than the flavor of it. There’s still a chill in the air but at least the sky is cloudless, allowing the sun to soak into Sakurai’s face and the dark of his coat. The former greenery of the park isn’t much to look at, mostly barren with the season, but he casts his gaze out to them nonetheless. Mostly to avoid Muraki’s.

“That’s…” The other trails off into an uncertain pause. “Are you alright, Sakurai?” Sakurai doesn’t even have to look, Muraki’s voice paints a clear picture of concern on its own.

“I don’t know.” Not much else to say but the truth. “The situation has improved, at least. For a while it felt like it was just getting worse.” 

Purging all the curses he’d accumulated indeed had its intended effect: in this past week no matter how stressful work got, Sakurai’s powers remained within his control. However, despite his wishes for an immediate recovery of normalcy, these days have also proven things won’t be so cut and dry. There’s still nights where dreams take a darker turn, still moments when Sakurai finds himself lost in thought with only time-worn memories for company.  

But this time the memories remain just that: memories. Eventually whatever shadows they bring pass, no phantom sounds or sensations to disturb him. Not ideal, but…it’s a start. 

“What’s important is, I’ve since accomplished my goal. It isn’t a problem anymore.” He finishes, finally casting a glance in Muraki’s direction to see his reaction. 

“…I see. I thought I sensed something was different–I’m glad.” Muraki just takes a drink from his coffee, a pensive crease to his forehead. He’s silent for a while, elbows on his knees with a downward gaze, until abruptly he straightens with a surprised sound. 

Sakurai leans to see what caught his eye. A cluster of pigeons were ambling along the walkway while the two were talking— now a few have wandered over until they’re all but waiting at Muraki’s feet. 

“Oh all right, all right…” From his coat pocket Muraki procures a small bag of seeds, spreading them around with the ease of having done so many times before. Sakurai raises a brow.

“You’re not supposed to feed wild animals, you know.” He comments, attempting to take on a teasing tone. “That doesn’t seem very good for society.” 

Muraki pauses mid-throw, head snapping to stare at him. He looks so stricken it’s almost comical, and Sakurai quickly tries to rectify the situation. 

“That…that was a joke.” 

Muraki looks so surprised at the prospect Sakurai honestly feels rather offended. He glances back at the pigeons, mouth drooping into a pitying look. 

“But just look at them, they’re starving.” 

Sakurai looks, and just sees what are effectively blobs of feathers now huddled around their food and stuffing their faces. “Hm.”

There’s just quiet between them for a while, tinged with the ambience of the city and the murmuring coos of pigeons. That’s one of the benefits of being in Muraki’s company: compared to Sakurai’s usual, it feels good to be in the presence of another person who didn’t feel compelled to fill the silence with small talk. However, Sakurai can sense an odd edge of tension in the other’s aura that keeps said silence from its usual comfort. Soon enough, when Muraki speaks up again there’s an odd sort of strain to his voice. 

“I…I apologize, Sakurai. I should have been of more help to you.” Sakurai’s brow furrows with displeasure–so they’re back to that subject. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. There wasn’t much you could have done.” 

“It would’ve been better than doing nothing at all.” Muraki’s hands tighten into fists on his lap, and Sakurai finds himself struck by the despondency in his voice. “Better than just…abandoning you to that. ”

To his credit, it wasn’t as if Muraki hadn’t tried : the week after Sakurai explained the situation there were a few calls to ‘check in’, much to his dismay. To prevent any unnecessary involvement from the other Sakurai set a distance that past experience told him Muraki would respect(that Koyama, of course, did not). After a few weeks of vague assurances and dismissals the inquiries eventually ceased, and Sakurai figured the matter had been forgotten–out of sight, out of mind, right? 

Hearing the other now, however, the guilt falls leaden in his stomach. Has Muraki still been worrying, all this time?

“You didn’t abandon anything” Sakurai finally says, trying to regain a stern edge to his voice. “It was my choice to not get you involved.”

His mind races to take hold of something to remedy the situation. He lands on a barely put together topic he’d been considering bringing up anyway–likely not much better than a distraction, but it’s the best he has. “That aside, there’s…something else I could use your advice on.” That catches Muraki’s attention, softening his expression into something almost…hopeful. 

“There’s a reason this all started at my work.” Sakurai vaguely echoes Koyama’s summation of the situation which, unfortunately, hit the nail on the head. “When I’m around the people there, it all becomes so clear how…apart I am.”

All things considered he should be more self-conscious about this, bracing for judgment from yet another person who could never understand him–couldn’t he? But the words keep flowing anyway, more freely and with less careful thought behind than he’s usually comfortable allowing.  With a start, Sakurai realizes maybe Muraki could.

“Claw is gone, but sometimes I look at myself and the way I think and I might as well have never left.” Sakurai’s hand unconsciously scrapes down his cheek, a habit from back when there was the texture of a scar to feel. “I’ve been given ample time to adjust properly to the world, and I just keep…failing . ”

Sakurai realizes his gaze has fallen to the ground, as if weighted by the admission. He turns his head up to find Muraki staring, seemingly taken aback. 

“It’s…not like you to be so rash, Sakurai.” He pauses, a thoughtful exhale fogging up the air around his mouth. “You weren’t really expecting this to only take a few months, were you?”

Sakurai just makes a frustrated noise. Spoken from another’s mouth like that it may  sound…unrealistic, immature even. But another part of him still can’t be content with that. He has the freedom from Claw, the knowledge of what his goal is, the resolve –why couldn’t that be enough?

“These things take time. Truly, you’ve been doing well for the situation." Muraki continues, words treading along at a cautious pace. Sakurai doesn’t argue for once, just sullenly, silently lets them sink in. Suddenly, something in Muraki’s face brightens. “But also, perhaps I could connect you to a place that offers career counseling. I found it by recommendation of Master Reigen.” He adds, with a hint of pride. 

“Career counseling.” Sakurai repeats. The term ‘counseling’ tastes sour on his tongue–immediately bringing to mind the strangers brought to see him during his later days at the orphanage when the caretakers didn’t know how else to handle him. Infuriating people, who believed they knew exactly how he thought and felt.

“Yes, they can provide the kind of advice you’re looking for–like how to better work with others. I had been trying to convince Terada to reach out to them, but…” Muraki shakes his head. “You might find it to be of more use.”

Sakurai grimaces. Muraki had more patience for Terada than Sakurai could ever muster up for a better man–and even patience only goes so far. Why the other hasn’t just given up, he could never understand. That oily bastard aside, though, if Muraki could vouch for this place...perhaps it was worth a shot. Better than nothing, at the very least. 

“Alright. Send me their information, I’ll think about it.” He says. Muraki hastily pulls out his phone, fiddling with it for a while before his face twitches with a sound of surprise.

“Ah, the time. I ought to go pick up Mukai–she’s staying with me for the weekend. But I sent you an email–” 

“That’s fine. We can discuss this later.” 

Sakurai silently watches as Muraki gathers his things and rises to his feet—but instead of a wave of farewell he’s met with a solemn expression, weighted with intent to speak. It takes a moment for Muraki to do so, though, stalled by a cleared throat and an uncertain shift of footing.

“Things have changed since you were in Claw. Or…anytime before.” His hand falls lightly on Sakurai’s shoulder in a tentative pat. “You aren’t fighting alone anymore. Don’t forget that.”

A jolt straightens up Sakurai’s spine--but it isn’t the familiar edge of aversion from years past that would’ve lashed out into scorn: forcing away such sentiments that, Sakurai once believed, could’ve been nothing but empty gestures. Instead there’s just a faint prickle of self-consciousness joined by a swell of warmth, light in his chest, and while he’s still not sure what to do with it Sakurai allows himself to sit with it nonetheless.

“Right.” he says quietly, “Thank you.” Muraki offers a small smile, awkward on his face as his often are, but genuine nonetheless.

After the other leaves Sakurai lingers on the bench to briefly look over what Muraki sent him, still accompanied by the pigeons that now eye him for food. They lazily scatter once he finally stands to leave–though he does catch a shot of a particularly fat one to have Muraki show Mukai later. 

Instead of heading back home, however, Sakurai goes the opposite direction. There’s something else he needs to do.

The timing works out well once he arrives at Smilemart: it’s late enough that the lunch rush has passed, still early enough the local schools haven’t let out yet. As such the store is quiet, just one customer at the register and another milling about the aisles. After a quick search he finds his manager checking inventory in the back room, reading glasses perched upon her weathered face as she studies a clipboard.

Sakurai finds himself immediately straightening in the doorway once her gaze turns to him. He’s long since learned Manager Kimura is a leader to respect, both bluntly stern and quietly generous—the fact she gave him a chance despite his inexperience spoke enough of the latter. A disapproving look from her, however, could give the gleam of Division Leader Ishiguro’s mask or even the cold stare of President Suzuki a run for their money. He clears his throat, running the lines over in his head again. 

“Good afternoon, Kimura-san.”

“Afternoon.” She glances down at her watch with a furrowed brow. “I didn’t think I had you coming in today.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Sakurai nods, hands folded behind his back– missing the presence of his jugan to occupy their jittery energy. “Are you available at the moment? There was a matter I wished to discuss.” 

With an affirmative grunt Kimura waves him in, attention returning to the shelves in front of her. Sakurai steps past the threshold in a single, stiff motion.

“I had heard Okamoto-san will be leaving at the end of the month” He says, and Kimura nods without turning his gaze, finger tracing to count a line of boxes before jotting down something on the clipboard.

“That’s right. Told me she’s pursuing her education, going for something in teaching. Smart kid.”  

Sakurai can’t agree nor disagree—he and Okamoto rarely spoke outside of work-related dialogue. Only now does it strike him how little he knows about any of his current coworkers. Another thing to work on in the future, maybe. But for now…

“As I’m sure you’re aware, this would leave us with one less pair of hands for the coming new year.” Hearing the words spoken aloud, he begins to second guess them all at once. The volume of his voice falters. “What I mean to say is–If you haven’t already lined someone up, well, I was just…just…”

Wait. Questioning his leader’s personnel decisions, as the least experienced subordinate among their ranks? He’s overstepping his bounds, he must be, how did he not realize this sooner? Sakurai’s mind races, trying to put together some group of words that can regain the good standing undoubtedly slipping through his fingers. Kimura, however, simply lifts a quizzical brow and turns to face him.

“You were just what? Speak up, now.”

Last chance to back down. It’d be so easy to–to awkwardly excuse this encounter as just a simple request for confirmation and go on his way.

But Sakurai doesn’t want to. Not when there’s a chance to do some good–to pay back what he now owes. 

At this point I wouldn’t even mind working at a place like yours. Can you imagine?

He’s only recently allowed himself to linger on the subject, now, his imagination tentatively venturing into scenes where Koyama once again is working at his side. The typical sounds of the work day, the hum of refrigerators and muffled music now joined by familiar footsteps and rough-edged voice–a piece of home. It won’t always be easy, Sakurai knows that well, but…neither of them would be alone.

He realizes now he would be more than fine with that. 

With a steadying breath he looks his manager in the eye and continues, voice even and clear: 

“I’d like to make a recommendation.”