Chapter Text
One must die to be reborn. This was the dogma by which all warlocks first called their summon. Kenma had known that as he drafted his circle, armed with a protractor, ruler, and the knowledge that by nightfall, he would be dead, and by morning, he might be something worse. He’d known this as he stripped off his shirt and covered every inch of his skin in runes of alchemically fabricated black ink that left stinging pins and needles in the wake of the brush. Even as he knelt to lie in the circle’s bare center, shuddering as his skin pressed against the cool cement, he’d shivered less from the evening chill than from the reminder that his body might soon be as cold and rigid as the floor itself, if this ended badly. Perhaps it was this knowledge that made the incantation seem distant, even as he felt his lips forming around the words.
“ Audite me. Exaudi me. Veni ad me. Da fortitudinem. ”
Nothing. No sound, no movement, not even a breeze. All was quiet.
Too quiet.
His heart began to race, like hooves pounding against a racetrack inside his chest. He knew, somehow, that he was no longer alone.
Later, he would remember with startling clarity how in a single moment the cool of the floor suddenly burned as the circle burst into flame and how, for the first time since he’d begun preparations for the ritual, a single thought drowned out the roar of the surrounding inferno.
What if you don’t come back?
He had scarcely a moment to feel the cold bite of fear before the flames washed over the center of the circle and he knew nothing more than blistering heat scorching his skin and the stench of burning hair and flesh. He might have screamed. He doesn’t remember if he did or not, but what person wouldn’t when burning alive? He doesn’t remember how long he lay there before the flames died, swiftly as they had come, only that they took him with them.
—
For as long as Kenma had known Kuroo, he’d been aware that something was distinctly odd about his best friend’s family. Kuroo’s father was a professor of physics at a nearby university—a normal enough career—but no one was quite sure what his mother did. When asked, anyone in the family would say she was a stay-at-home mom, but it was rare she was over when Kenma and Kuroo went to the latter’s house after school to hang out. When asked where she was, Kuroo had once, while mindlessly flipping through a book on Egyptian mythology—an odd choice for his more scientifically minded friend— said that she was at work.
Then Kuroo turned ten and suddenly, twice a week, he wasn’t able to hang out because of “lessons”. What these lessons were, exactly, wasn’t entirely clear. When asked directly, Kuroo would say it was extra science tutoring, but Kenma knew Kuroo well enough to know his friend was top of his class in science. Something was clearly going on, and though Kenma was curious, he was willing enough to set the topic aside for the sake of his friend’s privacy–that is until he found The Book. The Book was a slim, leather-bound tome with no title on the cover. Kenma had found it lying on the floor of his friend’s less-than-tidy room when visiting one afternoon and he’d opened it mostly because it looked shockingly similar to a magic item that could be collected in the game he was currently playing. The cover page had proudly declared the book to be Simple Hydrolysis Alchemy for First Year Apprentices and Kenma had been in love at first sight. The pictures and diagrams looked like they’d come straight out of a video game or adventure story and Kenma, a little guiltily, had taken the book home without asking.
That night, he completely ignored his homework for subjects like Acidic Elemental Runic Processes and Arrays for Hydrolysis of Salts. He stayed up all night reading The Book, not questioning why Kuroo had it – because honestly, who wouldn’t want a book like this? He’d assumed it was simply a lore book that accompanied a puzzle game, a genre that Kuroo played often, and it really was like a puzzle. Every diagram had an order and pattern to it that Kenma was able to pick out with a little work, even as the diagrams grew more and more complex towards the end of the book. Perhaps it was that pattern that inspired him to put the diagrams into a computer algorithm.
So that was how Kenma filled his afternoons twice a week while Kuroo was at his “lessons”. He came up with numerical values to represent the various alchemical symbols and began testing combinations until several months later, he had something that worked. Every time he put in his reactants, the computer spat out the correct amount of products. Once he realized it worked, the only thought on his mind was that he couldn’t wait to show Kuroo.
…….
Death is strange. He has no real consciousness of his surroundings, no real sensation of touch, taste, or smell. He cannot see or hear, yet there are images and words. He is unconscious, blind, deaf, and numb to everything, but he has never felt more aware. And this awareness is focused only on the entity before him.
The spirit is wisps of shadow cut by crooked veins of flame, as tangible as it is intangible. The shadows slope and curve, forming a muzzle and two pointed ears before sweeping back to tangle with whorls of orange, blue, and yellow fire that dip into the curve of a spine. From there it rises in two ropes of dark smoke, inky black tendrils that flicker and curl into lashing tails.
The dark head tilts and glowing, pupilless eyes watch, curious, almost playful in spite of the rush of pure strength and power rolling off the being like stormy ocean waves.
You want a contract?
Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t answer.
You think you have what it takes? Life and death is pretty heavy for a human. You’re kind of small.
For the first time since dying, he feels. It isn’t cohesive enough to be a thought, nor does it last long enough, but for a sliver of a moment, irritation, needle-sharp and brittle, cracks through his being. A laugh, warm and loud, rumbles in the darkness.
I see. Well, it’d be a shame if you died now. We’ll see what you’re made of.
The flames sputtered out and he knew nothing.
—-
Kuroo isn’t happy when Kenma shows him what he’s created. In fact, he looks somewhat horrified.
“You shouldn’t have taken this,” he says, quickly shoving The Book into his bag. Kenma is sad to see it go.
“What is it?” He gives Kuroo, who looks a second away from bolting out the gym doors, a weird look. “I don’t recognize the franchise.”
“It isn’t a game,” Kuroo snaps, shouldering his bag and heading for the exit despite the fact that volleyball practice is about to start. “And it wasn’t yours, you shouldn’t have touched it!”
Kenma skips practice that day and goes home, ignoring his mother when she asks about his early arrival. If he’s crying, that’s between him and his pillow. He doesn’t understand what he did wrong and now, it looks like Kuroo might never talk to him again.
That’s why it takes him by surprise when Kuroo turns up an hour later with The Book in his hands.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” he says, shuffling awkwardly. “Do you have a minute? There’s something I want to show you. Bring your program.”
Kuroo takes him a few streets down to a little house with an overflowing herb garden and a shed in the back. They approach the shed door and Kuroo knocks. “Sensei? It's Tetsurou. I brought someone to talk to you.”
The door is opened by a tiny old woman with a severe, disapproving expression. There’s a book in her hand and a silk scarf over her hair. When she speaks, it’s with a thick, Mongolian accent. “We don’t have lessons today. Why have you come?”
“I think you should meet my friend,” he says. “He made a computer program that performs hydrolysis arrays.”
The old woman looks between the two of them, and then her expression sours. She smacks Kuroo upside the head with her book. “So that’s where your textbook went? You gave it to this mundane boy? How on earth could you be so foolish!”
Textbook? Mundane? What is going on?
Kuroo pushes Kenma forward, gesturing wildly at the laptop in his arms. “I know. I didn’t mean for him to have it, but you have to look at what he’s made! It’s genius!”
The woman glares at Kuroo for several, long moments before sighing and stepping out of the doorway. “It’d better be, boy. Stop loitering and come in. I’ll make tea.”
—----
Tea. The smell is faint and earthy and it slowly draws his attention to the dryness of his mouth. Then, like a bucket of ice water, feeling returns to his limbs and everything is so unbearably heavy . His chest spasms and his eyes snap open as he gulps down a lungful of air, then sputters because it burns . The motion shifts his torso and suddenly his leaden arms and legs are pulling him down. He hits the floor and there’s something pinning his arms to his side. What’s happening? Where is he? Where is the spirit? Why can’t he move—
“Hey, Hey. Calm down, you’re gonna be fine.”
He knows that voice. Still sucking in short, raspy breaths, he blinks and the world comes into view, first out of focus, then warping into crystal clarity he’s never experienced before. He squints against the harshness of it all, focusing on the person who’d spoken and relaxing as he spies black and white hair slicked into horn-like spikes. Bokuto smiles.
“That’s it. How about you get back on the couch and I’ll get something to help you breathe? You sound like a dying possum.”
Kenma tries to glare through his coughing, but Bokuto has already turned away and gone out the door. He realizes where he is now. Aside from the lumpy couch falling apart at the seams, the small room contains a desk, an office chair that’s missing a wheel, and a bookshelf so overstuffed that two towering stacks of books loom like crooked sentries on either side. This is Kuroo’s office.
“Here you go.” Bokuto reenters carrying a beaker of something giving off red steam. He’s not sure if the expo-marker runes dotting the glass, the beaker itself, or the steam worry him more. Despite the certificates above his workbench that proclaim his status as a master alchemist of the first order with a first-order distinction in physical alchemy and a third-order distinction in medical alchemy, Kenma has seen enough experiments gone wrong to make him wary of anything medicinal Bokuto gives him that hasn’t been bottled up to sell in the shop below. Bokuto may be brilliant, but when he makes mistakes, they tend towards potentially deadly.
“I promise, it’s not that bad,” Bokuto says, misinterpreting his suspicious look as he presses the beaker into Kenma’s hands. “Might taste a bit metallic, but it’s got allspice in it. Drink up.”
With a short prayer that whatever’s in the beaker won’t make him spontaneously combust, Kenma tips it back—
—And struggles not to cough it back up when thick, spice-saturated liquid hits his dry throat. Bokuto pounds on his back, then lets him sag back into the couch once he’s drained the beaker of its contents.
“What am I doing here?” He rasps, finally able to speak once he catches his breath.
Bokuto raises an eyebrow. “You mean why did Kuroo call me at two am screaming about you setting yourself on fire in the garage?” Knema winces. He hadn’t thought anyone would look for him until morning. Bokuto flops into the desk chair, the wheelless leg screeching, and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’d say I was going to ask you the same question, but I think that’s answer enough.” He points to Kenma’s torso and Kenma looks down, blinking at the twisting black marks, red and blistered like a brand, creeping across his collarbones and over his shoulders; a warlock’s mark. The markings are slathered in a cloudy white slime that smells vaguely herbal with sharp metallic undertones, no doubt some other concoction of Bokuto’s.
“Where’s Kuroo?” He asks, looking up at the alchemist as he wraps the blanket over his shoulders to cover the mark.
Bokuto cringes and Kenma narrows his eyes. Bokuto gives him an apologetic look. “He’s downstairs in the shop with Yaku. The twins kind of went nuts when he brought you in.” Kenma blinks, waiting for him to continue as Bokuto rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “It was kind of scary. You had a ton of really bad burns, there were weird summoning arrays on your arms and… you were kind of dead.” He shifts in his seat, not looking Kenma in the eye. “Tsumu freaked out when he couldn’t feel your mind in your body and that freaked Samu out because if you were actually dead and had screwed up your ritual, some kind of spirit was probably about to invite itself in, so…”
Kenma stared at the alchemist. Then he realized what Bokuto was insinuating. “They were going to destroy my body?”
“They didn’t know! No one but warlocks study that kind of summoning!” He gestures wildly at Kenma’s torso. “No one knew what was going on and you were freaking dead, dude! And then you were sort of alive but—”
“That’s what happens when you summon a spirit directly into your body,” Kenma hisses, pushing himself up using the arm of the couch. His legs wobble, but hold. He isn’t sure how well they’ll work when he starts walking, but he’ll use the broom in the corner as a cane if it means getting downstairs to prove he is, in fact, not dead.
Bokuto shoots up from his seat as Kenma looks towards the hoodie slung over the office chair. “Hey now, maybe you should sit down—“
“Can you hand me that jacket?” Kenma unwraps the blanket and takes a shaky step towards the desk. Bokuto looks hesitant but hands him the hoodie. It’s too big for him; the sleeves hang over his arms and the hem falls just above his knees. Still, it’s better than showing up downstairs in charred pants and a blanket toga.
Bokuto hovers behind him as if he might topple backward any second, which he supposes is a fair judgment, but it doesn’t mean he likes it. “What about the stairs? I really think—“
“I’m fine,” Kenma says, stepping out of the office into the alchemy lab outside. He pauses, taking in the obscene amount of beakers, jars, and equipment covering the normally well-kept lab bench. Bokuto’s chicken scratch writing covers the blackboard spanning the other side of the room and a calculator sits on the floor beside several sheets of drafting paper strewn about the epoxy-coated concrete.
“Eh, don’t mind the mess. I guess I kind of went nuts too,” Bokuto says from behind him. Kenma looks away from the clutter and continues with his original objective of getting to the stairs. The stairs usually leave him winded, but he’s so exhausted they have to stop at the landing so he can catch his breath.
“I could’ve brought them to you,” Bokuto says, looking concerned. Kenma shakes his head. “I want to go home. I would’ve had to come down for that.” Before Bokuto can object, he starts down the last flight of stairs. It’s only when he gets to the door that he pauses to think. What will he say? What would everyone think?
“You were sure of yourself earlier. Why does it matter what they think?”
Kenma would’ve fallen if not for the door keeping him upright. A rumble of warm laughter echoes in his mind.
“What? Did you forget about me already?”
Before he can respond, a loud crash comes from the downstairs shop.
“What the hell ‘Tsumu?”
“Don’t ‘What the hell’ me, there’s a thing, I can feel it thinking!”
“A thing.”
“I don’t know, it ain’t human.”
“What do ya mean it ain’t human?”
“It feels all fiery and smokey and shit, what kinda human—“ A chair screeches as it scrapes the floor followed by footsteps.
“I fuckin’ knew it. He brought a damn—“
The door opens suddenly and Kenma falls into whoever yanked it open, drawing a startled yelp from the person as they crash to the floor. Kenma’s head spins. He vaguely recognizes Bokuto’s panicked voice as he’s tugged to sit upright against one of the shop’s dusty bookcases. A nap sounds really good right now.
“Holy fuck, he’s alive.” Kenma’s gaze drifts towards the voice, blinking as it lands on a man with mustard yellow hair wearing a comically dumbfounded expression. A hand reaches out and smacks the man over the head and Atsumu’s confusion turns into a wince.
“It’s just Kenma, you dipshit,” the owner of the hand grumbles. He’s the other man’s mirror sans the yellow hair.
Atsumu looks up, rubbing the back of his head with an indignant glare. “Dipshit? I’m not the one holding enough artifacts to take on a fuckin’ demon.”
Osamu at least has the decency to send Kenma an apologetic look as he slides a rune-adorned dagger the length of Kenma’s forearm back into his jacket. “Yer the one going nuts over spirits. Aren’t they usually ‘smokey an’ shit’,” he says, mocking his brother’s words from earlier.
“Yeah, but—“
“Can you two keep your mouths shut for once in your lives?” A head of light brown hair appears at the entrance to the staff room. The man levels a glare at them before his gaze falls to where Kenma sits against the shelf and a look of horror crosses his face. “Why did you bring him down here?” Yaku is in front of him and Bokuto in an instant, fussing with Kenma’s borrowed hoodie and closing the zipper up to his chin. “He can’t even stand, what were you—“
“What the hell were you thinking?” Faster than he can comprehend, a hand pushes Yaku aside and Kenma is pulled tight against a warm torso covered in a knit sweater. Even if he hadn’t recognized the voice, the sweater smells like salt, old paper, and the white tea detergent Kuroo buys because it’s the only one that comes in a recyclable bottle.
“I’m fine,” he says, words muffled by the thick blue fabric. “Just tired.”
“The hell you are.” Kuroo pulls back to look at him, hands running over his hoodie-clad arms as if looking for any unaccounted broken bones or lesions. “You died .” His voice cracks on the word and Kenma feels an immediate rush of guilt.
“I did,” he admits. “Technically, I’m still dead.”
Something profoundly sad washes over Kuroo’s face. His hand comes up to Kenma’s neck and he holds still as his friend pulls up his phone’s stopwatch to take his pulse. After a minute, Kuroo frowns. “One-eighty. It’s fast.” He looks at the reddened marks on Kenma’s collarbones, then meets his gaze again. “What form did the summon take? I need to know what’s normal for it so I know if you’re tachycardiac. All the reading I’ve done says that’s a sign the summon isn’t integrating properly.”
“It’s some kind of cat,” Kenma says. An irritated growl echoes through his mind and he’s immediately aware of the source of his new summon’s annoyance. He rolls his eyes. “A large cat,” he corrects.
“You may wish to consult a veterinarian, but I believe cats are known to have higher resting heart rates,” an old, familiar voice says and Kenma’s eyes widen. He struggles not to trip over his feet in his hurry to stand and bow. Kuroo holds him upright as he copies the gesture.
“Nekomata-sensei,” he says. “I didn’t realize you’d been called in.”
The old man smiles, then looks Kenma up and down. “I could hardly stay away when one of my alchemists’ lives was in the balance. You gave us all quite a scare, Kozume.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Kenma says, looking at his shoes. Nekomata might own half the business at Birds of Omen, but at his age, he was only ever called in for regular staff meetings and emergencies. “I had planned to undergo the ritual privately and seek assistance once I was conscious again.”
Kuroo whips around. Kenma doesn’t meet his eyes.
“Seek assistance once you were—do you know how stupid that was?
“It wasn’t,” Kenma mumbles. “If I survived the summoning, the spirit I summoned would keep me alive.”
“And if something went wrong?” Kuroo looks furious. “If something went wrong, what did you plan to do?”
Kenma shrugs, still looking at his shoes. “If something went wrong, I was going to die anyway.”
“But why?” Kenma can’t make himself look at Kuroo’s expression. He doesn’t need Atsumu’s abilities to know his friend is heartbroken and betrayed that Kenma didn’t trust him with his plans. Suddenly, Kuroo’s hands are on his shoulders and he looks up instinctively. He wishes he hadn’t. There are unshed tears in Kuroo’s eyes and the hands on his shoulders begin to shake. Kenma has seen Kuroo cry exactly twice—once when they were seven and eight when he broke his arm skateboarding and again nine years later at his mother’s funeral. He wants to pull the taller man close and tell him he doesn’t have to cry.
“You’ve never even hinted you wanted to be a warlock,” Kuroo says quietly. “I’ve never even seen you read about it. Why did you do this?”
There are many ways Kenma could answer that question. He has nothing but answers to that question. But Kuroo can’t know them.
“That’s my business,” Kenma says, trying not to let guilt consume him as Kuroo’s face falls. He instead looks back at Nekomata. “If there’s nothing else, I want to go home. Is that ok?”
Nekomata looks between him and Kuroo, then gives them one of his pleasant smiles again. “Given your roommate’s expertise, I see no reason you can’t. Keep an eye on him, Kuroo. I want both of you to take the next five days off. I understand the worst of the integration happens then.”
Kuroo nods and ducks into the stairwell. “I’ll grab my stuff and we’ll head out. I’ll only be a minute.” His fading steps on the stairs are both a pain and a relief.
“Kozume.” Kenma looks up at Nekomata and freezes at the knowing look the old sorcerer gives him. “We’ll talk again when you’ve regained your strength and returned to work.”
———
Narantuya Plejidiin is not what many would call a pleasant woman. As she leads them to the main house and sets the kettle to boil, all she does is berate Kuroo and flat out ignore Kenma.
“You’re far too careless, Tetsurou,” she says as she spoons loose-leaf tea into a teapot and takes a selection of earthenware mugs down from the cabinet. “I told your mother she should train you herself until you were old enough not to waste my time.” She shoots a glare at Kenma, the first indication she even remembers he’s there since they first showed up at the little shed in her backyard. “And bringing a mundane into my workshop. You’ve got some nerve breaking the statute like that. The amount of paperwork needed to vow him to secrecy is tremendous.” Her glare returns to Kuroo. “I don’t care if he’s your friend. As an apprentice, you have a duty to keep our world a secret.”
“As an alchemist, I also have a duty to expand the knowledge of our science,” Kuroo protests. He shrinks back as her glare intensifies, but it seems even her ire isn’t enough to deter Kuroo’s stubbornness. “Kenma has proved that arrays can be modeled by a computer. Don’t you see what potential this has for alchemy?”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” the woman snaps as she sets a cup of tea in front of Kenma, who cowers a little in the face of the human tempest. She gestures impatiently to Kenma’s laptop. “Show me, boy.”
Somewhat afraid for his life, Kenma quickly pulls up his program and flips the screen towards her. “Um. You need to pick a salt, an aqueous medium, the vessel type, and any symbols you want to add to the hydrolysis symbol.”
“Runes,” she corrects sharply. “Not symbols. I want you to dissolve ten grams of ammonium chloride in five hundred milliliters of holy water within a sea glass vessel adorned with the runes for seeking and death. In return, I want the pH of the resulting solution and a full process array done in proper alchemical notation. Tetsurou, work the answer out on paper.”
Kenma squints, not quite sure what a process array is, but Kuroo says nothing, so Kenma assumes his program will spit it out. He looks at the key he made for numerical inputs, then gets to work. Two minutes later, the program spits out a diagram like the ones that cover the pages of The Book, the pH, and a chemical equation. Half an hour later, Kuroo produces a similar result drawn out on a few sheets of notebook paper.
The woman dons a pair of thin reading glasses and goes over Kuroo’s work first. Then, she looks at the output of Kenma’s program. Kenma starts as a small, thin, almost vicious smile turns the corners of her lips.
“Well. It seems to work.” She gives Kenma a pensive look. Then, “You will come with Tetsurou next Tuesday at four. I do not tolerate tardiness. See that you aren’t late.”
Kenma frowns. “Late for what?”
She just smiles that vicious smile again. “Alchemy lessons, boy. What else?”
—------
Kenma is in hell. There’s no other explanation for why he’s burning out of his skin against the all-at-once soothing and painfully frigid bathroom tiles, waiting for the newest bout of nausea to pass. A bottle of water is set on the floor beside him and he looks up, Kuroo’s face above him blurring out of focus before sharpening into startling clarity.
The alchemist takes a seat on the floor by the sink. “Can you sit?”
Kenma nods, then doesn’t move as his muscles fail to respond to a single command he gives them. Kuroo chuckles, then helps him to sit up. The open bottle is suddenly at his lips and he drinks like a dying man in the desert.
“I’m guessing your summon is fire-natured?” Kuroo caps the bottle and lets Kenma lean against him when he inevitably slumps again. “You have a temperature of forty-two. If I didn’t know you were in the process of integrating a summon, I’d have you admitted to the hospital by now.”
“Fire,” Kenma mutters. He isn’t sure if the words are intelligible, nor does he care right now. “Sounds about right.”
“It’ll settle down,” Kuroo reassures him. “The first day’s supposed to be the worst.”
“Stupid cat,” Kenma mutters. He winces at the rumble of laughter that follows his words. “Shut up,” he whispers. The damn cat just laughs again.
Kuroo hums curiously above him. “It’s already talking to you, is it?”
“He,” Kenma corrects, blinking up at Kuroo as his vision does the weird focusing thing again. “He thinks this is funny.”
Kuroo’s face hardens. “He thinks your pain is funny ?”
“ Not your pain,” the creature says huffily . “You’ll come out stronger for it in the end. It’s the hovering I find ridiculous.”
“No,” Kenma answers. “He thinks your coddling is funny.”
Kuroo scoffs. “This? Coddling? This is not coddling.”
Kenma, with great effort, raises an eyebrow.
“It isn't!” Kuroo insists, crossing his arms like a determined toddler. The expression is actually so like what he remembers of his friend’s stubborn fits growing up that Kenma almost smiles. Almost. That would take effort for which he doesn’t have energy.
“Even if it was,” Kuroo continues indignantly, “My best friend literally died less than twenty-four hours ago. I think I’m entitled to fret any way I please, thank you.”
“Oh please,” The creature purrs. “Hundreds of humans died daily attempting to summon me. Your body might still give out before I’ve settled into this new vessel.” Kenma can feel his amusement and has the odd sense that the creature would be preening if it were in front of him right now. “You aren’t special, kid.”
The creature brings up a point Kenma hasn’t taken the time to process yet. He hadn’t tried any of the super-specialized arrays when preparing for the summoning. He hadn’t been too picky and was willing to take on any spirit except a demon–no warlock in their right mind wanted to play host to such a creature–and had drafted his circle accordingly. Essentially, his summoning had been a call into the void for whatever spirit of power found him acceptable. However, he can already feel the itch of foreign magic creeping under his skin–and he knows from its dull, electric pulse that this is no ordinary spirit. There was nothing ordinary about living decay, and that’s what this magic feels like–heavy as lead and congealed like old blood, lit by an outside power that burns like lightning. He wonders what it is. His thoughts are met once more by that amused rumble of laughter.
“Didn’t I tell you life and death were heavy?”