Work Text:
“I have a delivery for Igarashi Kagerou.”
And so, Fenix remains; stripped of its name, of the glorious ship which fell into the harbor, shattering into fragments children still cut their feet on as they dip their feet into the water on a hot Summer day. You could paint the current buildings Blue Bird use with endless coats of paint, and it’d still reek of whatever Fenix was in the end. They’re lucky, he supposes, that they get to simply go on—trials would have been uncomfortable times in the spotlight, and civilians are prone to forgive as long as they get something out of it. Or perhaps it is the urge to move on, to abandon everything which feels like a gaping wound.
“Erm, are you sure? We have an Igarashi Daiji, but no Kagerou.”
“Isn’t that his demon? You know, the man who wears black,” the second guard asks out loud, and surely, Blue Bird could put some sort of effort into their pitiful security, “either way it should be fine if we bring that to him, right?”
Underneath the delivery cap he wears, Orteca lets out a soft sigh. “And then who would be guarding the entrance?”
As if he couldn’t have simply taken another route, slipping between concrete blocks to find an emergency exit whose door always jams, leaving it open—or simply walking in wearing that unremarkable uniform.
“Ah, things have been rather calm lately to be honest,” the older guard waves his hand dismissively, gun resting against his body—that’s for show, nothing more. To discourage people from stealing secrets which have already been exposed months ago.
“Yeah, where’s the action?”
“Idiot! Imagine if we were under attack again? Surrounded by all those riders who fight without any consideration for their surroundings? I’d rather quit.”
“Mr. Sunegawa, come on, at least we wouldn’t stand there for hours.”
How long do they plan on holding that impromptu meeting in front of the entrance, that’s the sole point Orteca is interested in. Ah, it's been a while since he had to fake being a concerned citizen—well, yesterday he bit a guard until he bled, although that’s not comparable. Jail is akin to spilling parts of you on the floor, only for them to be washed away.
(Sometimes, he has to return the favor to his tormentors, that’s all. And blood splattered again his face brings a familiar warmth, akin to the Giffstamp in his hand.)
“Oh my, you both make good points. I’d rather have us live in a peaceful world though, what happened last year—it was absolutely terrifying for an average person like me,” and he laughs, eyes shielded by that cap with a logo of whatever delivery service is popular these days, “may I go in? I’d rather ensure this is given to the right individual.”
(He should have left a note to the person who abandoned that and the matching jacket in the laundromat’s dryer, something highlighting the importance of returning right before the cycle ends, as to not disturb fellow customers. Alas.)
“We’re not supposed to let unauthorized visitors inside though, my apologies.”
Oh yeah, really? No unauthorized visitors? When Orteca waltzes in without any trouble, adopting stolen identities, reusing the same lies until someone finally realizes what he’s been doing? Someone should give George Fucking Karizaki the memo that something being hilarious and entertaining to you doesn’t mean it’s appropriate.
“Ah, well my boss will kill me if those flowers end with someone other than Igarashi Kagerou, and I’d rather not risk it. I already messed up an order this week, and you know how it is.” Bouquet in his hands, he squeezes them together in an apologetic gesture, ensuring he doesn’t crush the flowers. “Please.”
“I remember being that age, things were indeed rough.”
Okay there, old man.
So, how was jail? Did you enjoy the shitty food and guards on a constant power trip?
“Doesn’t mean we should let the kid in, be reasonable.”
“How about one of you walk me to Mr. Igarashi’s office? Or cubicle, I’m not sure how Blue Bird works, to be honest.”
He’s been there so often since he started escaping that he’s familiar with where Karizaki puts the spare key to his home, which locker belongs to Kadota Hiromi (sometimes, Orteca will slip love messages inside, pretending they’ve been written by Karizaki, just to give them a fun and enriching sex life—or simply to cause a divorce, depending on his mood) and, more importantly, that the vending machine on the second floor of the right building has been out of commission for the past six months and no one seems to even care. What if he wanted a snack, hm? Is he to blame for forgetting to get something on the way as he’s being chased and busy having to steal an impressive number of things in the shortest possible time frame? Certainly not.
The canteen demands a badge, one with a chip inside, and that’s such a hassle to find some stupid scientist who isn’t wearing his around their neck—he’d rather remain in the side building where George goes insane between his uncomfortable couch and a desk always covered in abandoned ideas jolted down in a hurry on paper than risk being caught by a wet trout. Anyway, thinking about all that isn’t doing anything for his current predicament.
As if he was sharing a secret, the guard who seems to loathe his current job leans forward a bit, a hand next to his face as he whispers: “No no, Mr. Igarashi is like the big boss, he has his own office on the second floor.”
“Is that so?” And, as if he was returning the favor of shared information, Orteca replies: “He must have a secret admirer then, this bouquet is definitely from a lover.”
Here is the only thing which interests people more than peace and the fate of the world: who sleeps with their superior.
That would be him~
Back to the actual conversation though.
“Hey, kid, don’t go and start rumors like that, it ain’t right.”
“Wait, what if that’s true? Oh my god, I can’t imagine Mr. Igarashi with anybody, that guy’s always so stiff and awkward.”
“That’s not the proper way to talk about your boss. Our boss, in case you’ve forgotten. Why would I even be interested in the identity of that mysterious—love interest?”
“Because it’s fun? I bet it’s Dr. Karizaki.”
Orteca has to repress a laughing fit, swallowing it back as he hides his face behind the bouquet. Nah, Karizaki is into fish, more specifically the common trout. A shame they can’t even get their gossip right.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, as I’m sure you’re both as busy as I am—I’d just like to deliver this and leave. I must head to my next job right after that, and, as I said before, my boss isn’t exactly keen on lateness.”
Of course, he could knock them out, trained soldiers or not, they wouldn’t expect it.
(Doesn’t matter that his hands ache, shoulders on fire, body split apart by what’s keeping him restrained for hours each day—he’s still perfectly capable of punching someone.
He’ll bite and claw his way inside, if he must.
After all, going back would mean getting caught and an inevitable end to that game he has no choice but to be a part of.
They will run around endlessly, yet they never check their own headquarters, as if he wouldn’t be foolish enough to slip in.)
Sunegawa, the tired one, eventually empties his lungs in one go, side stepping just enough to give access to the door. “Second floor, take the stairs or the elevator straight to your left. His office is at the opposite end of that hallway. Walk until you see a conference room, and your destination is the door right after that one.”
“Ah, thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver! I shall hurry, then.”
Truth be told, Orteca has never been in Daiji’s office; why would he? Usually that moron isn’t even around, too busy hanging with the rest of these so-called heroes, or heading on another nonsensical mission where orphans get saved and the public’s view of Blue Bird improves a bit. At least that’s what happens when Kadota Hiromi isn’t accused of child kidnapping—repressing a chuckle, as that wouldn’t be appropriate to be heard laughing to himself in an empty hallway, he continues walking forward.
Ah to hold a bouquet while walking down a long aisle—isn’t that a simulacra of a wedding, somehow?
That’s what he should say to Kagerou! His reaction would be so filled with disgust that his insides would twist themselves into something painful. Oh well, that’s not exactly a proper aisle inside a church, for the gray linoleum reminds him more of the abandoned warehouse with its bare concrete than of something meant to inspire something holy.
What about the wings though? Black and white feathers crashing on the ground into an indecent pile of broken promises, one side of Daiji’s mind severed for what he thought was a permanent ending—ah, once again, isn’t that a divorce, the kind where you murder the other party so they don’t truly get the freedom they crave, rather than anything wedding related? The cap, loosely secured over his hair, keeps falling in front of his gaze, and he pushes it back just enough to actually see where he’s going.
Finally, that’s the office; a small room tucked at the end of a hallway, nothing akin to Akaishi’s delusional grandeur, and his pitiful tastes regarding interior design; it suits Daiji though, to be so normal and unimportant.
Orteca knocks, twice, and then gets in, only to be met by a completely different person. The demon who created himself as human as possible. “Hi, Kagerou. Missed me?”
(He bets the guards quickly called Igarashi Daiji, ruining the surprise.)
“Not really,” he lies, and Orteca has spent so long pressing buttons, pushing Kagerou to the brick of an internal explosion, that he’s perfectly aware of how it works, between them, “what the fuck is that?”
(It doesn’t work, actually, that’s their whole gimmick.)
“A delivery for Mr. Igarashi Kagerou. A bouquet from a special someone who has obviously a raging crush on that loser. And shouldn’t you be sitting behind the desk rather than on it?”
“Says the guy supposed to be in his cell. Call me by that name once more, and I’m throwing you out of the window.”
“Since when are you sensitive about that last name of yours?” Orteca laughs, shutting the door behind him. “Aren’t you half of Daiji?”
“We don’t say Igarashi Vice or Igarashi Lovekov!”
“Those aren’t names suitable for human beings, unlike yours.”
Will this be a new world record for their shortest time together without a fight worming its way between them, bouquet thrown aside and that desk misused for devious deeds?
“Beyond giving me an identity crisis, do you have a reason to be there, or can I switch back to a corner of Daiji’s messed up brain?”
“Oh my, don’t do that to me. I came all this way,” holding the bouquet between them, Orteca removes his cap, shaking his head so his hair falls nicely around his face, “it’s a gift for you only, so at least make an effort and accept it properly.”
“Why?”
“See, when two people appreciate themselves like we do—”
“Oi, I’m talking about the flowers. Isn’t that a weird ass gift? Like the shit you get when you graduate high school or something.”
With an exaggerated gasp, Orteca closes the space between them, pushing the bouquet against Kagerou’s chest, a couple of flowers brushing against his throat.
“So, you’ve never been given flowers before? What a pity.”
As Kagerou takes in the weight against his body, slowly grabbing the plastic wrapping around the bouquet, it’s as if he was worried something was hidden aside, akin to an explosive or whatever Orteca would have found funny to do to him.
“Isn’t that just your ticket inside Blue Bird though? You dressing up like that, shitty jacket by the way, pretending you’re capable of being a person and not whatever you really are. You could have just grabbed an empty envelope or some shit, no need to go that far.”
“And miss on an opportunity to beguile my way in? The guards at the entrance are somehow convinced Daiji is having a passionate affair with Dr. Karizaki, which I couldn’t refute, as I’m a mere delivery person with a miserable life and pitiful salary.”
“I always underestimate how smitten by chaos you are… With Karizaki?! As if I would let Daiji be bullied romantically by that guy!”
Ignoring the displeasure splattered on Kagerou’s delicate face, Orteca climbs next to him on the desk, crossing his legs at the ankle. So, he’s dying to ask once more, did you miss me? Am I not the first person to give you something like that, doesn’t that make me special? In the same way a deformed gummy in a pack of twelve makes you feel. Some sort of pity mixed with an urge to sink your teeth in and rip it apart first, as it’s different and shouldn’t be.
“As Daiji’s biggest hater, I’m surprised you’re so ardent about keeping him away from our terrible scientist.”
“That’s the thing, I’m the only person allowed to toss him around! Anyway, they smell nice, these stupid flowers of yours. What are they? Like, do they have names or something?”
“Each has its own meaning, actually.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
“I’d rather have you fuck me, if I can choose—don’t elbow me, Mr. Evil Bat. I shall explain, if you give me a second. And isn’t your own sister named after a flower?”
“Yeah, she is—it’s just not the same, is it? You’re telling me that people pick flowers one by one when they ask for bouquets in dramas? That they go through a Wikipedia page or something of what each means? Why are humans so earnest—”
“In fact,” as if he was rehearsing a speech meant for pious followers, Orteca lifts his chin, adopting a teaching expression as genuine as he can muster, “many won’t go through the hassle. They buy an already made bouquet, or ask the florist to create one for them. You’re precious to me though.”
“You stole someone’s wallet and they had a ton of cash, or something, am I right?”
Ramming his heels against the wooden desk, Orteca pouts. “Not the point.”
“Don’t go blabbing shit about me being important when all you mean is that you turn insane when you’re bored, so you craft those fucking schemes which only make sense to you.”
In what world is that even an insult? If Orteca is lying and manipulating just to spend ten minutes with Kagerou, isn’t it an act of affection? It should be; why are his actions always seen through moral lenses, when they’re simply tied to basic emotions these idiots believe he doesn’t have.
“That one is a white camellia,” he blurts out, folding his arms over Kagerou’ shoulder, pointing at a flower on the side of the bouquet. There are three identical ones, all on the edge of the masterpiece he created, “it means waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“To see you, obviously.”
Tension runs up Kagerou’s jaw, and he clenches it, probably thinking Orteca won’t notice. As if he hadn’t built a fantasy world in his head where he dissects Kagerou over and over, until what was once pretty and warm turns cold and simply dead.
“The sunflowers? They’re for passionate love, and they follow the sun, did you know about that? As the day goes on, they’ll angle themselves so they always get that warmth—akin to you and Daiji craving to be seen and recognized yet being left bare and staring at your feet once the sun is gone.”
Tired eyes search for his own, and he replies with a radiant smile, as if he was anything close to sunshine, him who was left to rot forever. If anything, he’s the soil which was polluted decades ago, and cannot be cleansed, only abandoned until it eventually turns into something useful in another life.
“So what, you built a bouquet out of insulting stuff just to piss me off?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Orteca can’t stop grinning, “may I go on? Don’t you crave to know what I’ve made for you inside and out?”
“Tsk, fine. So, what’s next?”
(Orteca won’t fully explain, not willing to dwell on why there are seven sunflowers, and not one more. Hidden love should remain this way, shouldn’t it?)
“White lilies, for purity—I got those with Daiji in mind. Also, white is his color, isn’t it?”
“You’re just digging your grave a bit more with each flower, you know?”
“And what if I am? Green chrysanthemums, and those are there due to their color, I wanted you to carry a reminder of myself around. Green suits both of us though, doesn’t it? From what I gathered, it’s fitting for new beginnings. Although, I’ve heard that in France, chrysanthemums are associated with death, so that’s a flower you want to avoid bringing when you’re a guest to a French host.”
“Do I look like I even know French people? Geez, you’re annoying. Did you push all that knowledge in your brain just for me?”
“Perhaps. I’m a genius, therefore there isn’t truly a challenge in this though.”
Fingers drum against soft hair, gliding through strands to tuck some behind one ear. Ah, isn’t that the romantic mood that Orteca was yearning for? Kagerou has to ruin it by twisting his lips into something not quite displeased, as if he was grasping at feelings without a clear idea of what to make out of this.
“And finally, out of season yellow tulips, for which I had to pay extra. And we’re done.”
“Go back to the part where you explain what those tulips are for. Oh wait, you skipped it completely,” sarcastically, Kagerou looks down on him, plastic wrapping creaking underneath his grip, “is it for wild sex or something equally amusing to you?”
“Ah, to be honest, I haven’t researched that one. It just looked pretty—and I had money to spare.”
Isn’t it the part where it falls apart, words sharply cutting through pretenses? The moment where flowers are thrown on the floor, just to be trampled on—Kagerou seems on the verge of handcuffing him to the desk and abandoning him there. Oh wait, that’s more Karizaki’s kind of fun.
“So, what do I do with it?”
“First of all, find a vase or they’ll wilt. The rest isn’t my problem,” slipping away from what’s not even an embrace, as he was simply using Kagerou as a cushion, Orteca jumps back onto his feet.
Tentatively, he clenches his fist, testing the resistance of each finger, ensuring his body won’t fail him in a crucial moment. Isn’t it humiliating to be almost human, to have been stripped of his armor and his pride? Tilting his chin up, he stares at the beacon of confusion holding a gift he didn’t expect, Kagerou’s expression impossible to read as he takes in each flower.
“They’ll die no matter what, don’t get attached. If they get to soak in water though, they’ll brighten your desk for a couple of days.”
“What’s the point then? If they won’t last.”
Ah, demon going on human as he is, Kagerou asks such foolish questions. Orteca puts the cap over his hair, rolling the sleeves of the jacket a bit so the seams don’t ram against sensitive wrists.
Isn’t love some kind of everlasting performance where you must keep the act going until the curtains fail, or else the public will leave out of boredom? “The sheer joy of finding something so inherently beautiful you have to cut it open until it bleeds, just so you can bring it home. And then, as you watch over it, you realize it’s neither of those things anymore.”
“What the fuck are you even saying?”
Orteca bursts into laughter, and it’s so sharp his throat aches. “Humans can’t help themselves, they destroy everything they touch, just so they can have five minutes of happiness. What I mean is that flowers are pretty, and so are you.”
Shouldn’t it be enough? Why digging into the dirt for details, why is there that profound desire to have a full understanding of unstable concepts? Yellow tulips, he could add, are for one-sided love, just like you’ll never get it.
Instead, he walks to the man still on the desk, fingers slithering against the back of his neck, pulling him down for a single kiss. Not worth what he paid for the bouquet—that should warrant a long session of them ruining Daiji’s paperwork with sticky stains—alas.
“Since when are you calling yourself ‘human’, Orteca?” Is what is whispered against his lips, both of them breathless, the bouquet cradled against Kagerou’s chest with unusual kindness.
“I sure did not.”
“You implied it, how is that different? You’re seriously getting on my nerves, you know. Gifting me stuff I have no use for, calling me pretty all of a sudden, what’s your deal?”
What of the gap inside his chest, where his father pressed his foot so hard his rib cage broke? What of the fragments which fused back together wrong, so now every time Kagerou calls him out, they all squeeze around the heart, slowly but surely piercing it until it’s fated to bleed out, leaving nothing but something dark and empty behind?
“What do you want from me?”
Kagerou goes on, and all he actually wants is for him to shut up, and couldn’t they kiss until the world ends and the flowers are nothing more than dried petals crushed between rotting bodies? Well, surely the flesh would decay so badly the flowers would be consumed by bugs—anyway, none of that matters.
“Everything I can get, obviously. The half of your soul I can reach for, these stolen moments which are, as you said, merely cogs into infuriating plans where all I wish for is to regain what has been lost rather than what I could have been.” And here, as he leans, burying himself in the crook of Kagerou’s neck, he has dreams of ripping the skin apart, for flowers to be soaked in blood, body left on the scene. That’d be simpler than admitting that he has no idea of what they mean to each other—does it even matter, as they’re not quite human, no matter how they yearn to be one (lies, they’d claim in unison, I’m a demon, humanity disgusts me!).
“That’s not a fucking answer at all, you’re just—you always do that, so forward, so keen on doing anything for a sliver of attention, yet at the first thing which feels real, you run. Like the fucking coward you’ve always been.” The flowers aren’t tossed against a wall, although they end up abandoned behind Kagerou, just so his hands can be free to cradle Orteca’s head, forcing him to look up. “In that stupid metaphor of yours, aren’t you the flower?”
“Eh, you weren’t even listening properly… How pitiful.”
“Akaishi cut you out and then watched you die, how is that fucking not the same thing?”
“That’s not what I meant! How much of a fool are you?!” Why is he the one exploding, when rage is supposed to be Kagerou’s thing whereas Orteca gets the murderous urges, and they can share the jealousy, he guesses. All those horrible emotions are the little they’re allowed to own, everything kinder reserved for the rest, for beings who don’t fumble with the idea of humanity, the kinder souls who don’t keep on running away until their soles are bleeding on the pavement. “He needed a tool, and simply picked the best one he could find—I was chosen. At least there was someone in this disgusting world who had a use for me!”
“And who is the idiot now?!” Kagerou refuses to relent his grip, keeping Orteca close, so he returns the favor, one hand on Kagerou’ shoulder and the other tangled into dark hair. “You want me to make a fucking bouquet with your remains then? To put a ribbon around your body and mine, to say that Daiji and you were pretty as you bled out—you metaphorically and Daiji not so much. So what, am I supposed to put our corpses in water for a few days and then that's all? We don’t become anything else?”
How did the conversation take such a drastic turn, Orteca wouldn’t be able to tell, for Kagerou’s grip reminds him of someone else, for there are tears welling in his eyes and he isn’t even sure of what they’re saying any longer.
He has to force every part of his body to remain there, rather than drifting away.
“So what, you just gave me flowers as some kind of prank, as a reminder that we’re simply fools? Is that all I’m to you, a fellow creature you can hang with—someone not quite human either, yet human enough for sex or whatever stuff we do when we’re bored. You’re telling me that there is nothing beyond whatever we are now, which isn’t anything? It can’t be more because you don’t even consider me to be a person, do you?”
The hold lessens, muscles around his jaw pulsating from the phantom touch of Kagerou’s body against his. He feels the hands as they leave his body, and as they push him away so Kagerou can get back onto his feet. All that only to sink onto the floor, knees against his chest, the inside of a wrist pressed against the corner of a teary eye.
Isn’t that why Orteca shouldn’t be allowed around people? Isn’t that scene the exact picture of why he should remain locked up forever?
His heart bleeds into his mouth, and it’s all he has ever tasted over the past year. Something impossible to swallow, an endless pool of things one shouldn’t say, yet he cannot keep inside for some reason.
“The tulips are for one-sided love,” is all he manages, eyes darting towards the door. Ah, the cap he was wearing fell onto the floor, shouldn’t he pick it up? His brain sends confusing signals, many following the nerves from his shoulders to the hands, causing them to ache with uncanny familiarity.
“Which side? Yours or mine? Which one has been pretending?”
“Both?” He has to leave. Or else—Orteca hesitates, and that’s enough, he supposes. If they weren’t human, they would have long laughed it off, rather than lingering, wouldn’t have been so bothered by ‘what are we?’. Nonetheless, if they put a name onto that shared heartache, it’ll haunt them forever, won’t it? “Do you want me to sit with you? And then—”
If you’re intolerable, let me be the one to tolerate you.
Hey, why aren’t they allowed nor capable of saying something like that?
“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare promise that things will go back to normal—what’s even normal for us? Quick sex and teasing, obsessive attachment that I try to play casually and you aren’t even making that effort.”
With choked laughter, Orteca awkwardly plops himself next to Kagerou, staring at the door and everything which could be solved if he were to leave and get caught by Karizaki and being beat up by the guards, and isn’t adulthood a replay of childhood, except with different actors and better makeup budget?
“You’d date Daiji?”
“I’d rather kill myself. We’re way too similar, him and I. It’d be akin to watching yourself in a mirror, except with a face not as good.”
“Hey, that’s also my face, asshole.”
“You don’t wear it the same way, at all. So no, I wouldn’t date Daiji.”
“I’m stuck like this, you know, I’ll never have my own body. Not forever—perhaps for a couple of days, at best. I’d have to break a belt or involve Karizaki, or do something super annoying.”
Oh.
Oh okay.
That might justify Kagerou’s outburst, he supposes. Deluded dreams of becoming human—and why would they want that? Isn’t it enough to remain as distant monsters, untouchable concepts only meant to come out for a hint of mayhem?
Apparently not.
Ah, how foolish they are.
Their love has been falsely named grief, all this time.
Is that all? That little answer to every single moment where they attempted to push the other away? Is it simply how they mourn?
Time they can’t spend together, bodies which aren’t truly theirs—why hasn’t anyone warned them that longing to such an extent, that wishing to never be apart, was called love?
“No one would date someone sentenced to 666 years in jail. I barely get one day out per month. And that’s when Karizaki doesn’t forget about me.” After a pause, fingers hovering near Kagerou’s hand, yet not daring to reach, Orteca adds. “We could solve so many problems by getting rid of George Karizaki.”
“Oh, so you want 1000 years in jail or something?”
Kagerou makes a suspicious noise, as if he was fighting back tears, which is usually not how any of this goes, thus Orteca is not equipped to give an appropriate emotional response. Last time someone cried in front of him—wasn’t it right before Julio tried to destroy the city—okay, he’ll go back to that later.
“We can’t date. Like, physically it’s downright impossible. And mentally it’s so shitty.”
“The logistics are horrendous, yes. We’ve both been pretending we didn’t care for each other… Although how could we have known what those feelings were and not simply label them as adulthood aches? As we finally realize that there was a semblance of mistake there, ah, it’s such a lamentable story.”
Kagerou rolls his wrist, exposing his palm. Some kind of invitation Orteca supposes.
He has no clue what to do, so he tentatively pokes the soft skin with a finger, only for his hand to be caught into a tight grip.
“Would you date me, me as the demon, me as half of a soul, or so you call me?”
“No,” Orteca responds, and he squeezes the hand back so hard his nails will leave moon crescents all over Kagerou’ skin, “I’d date you as Kagerou. As a whole person—I’ve been saying horrible things, haven’t I?”
“Do you even know how not to?”
“I’m afraid not.”
A foot nudges his.
“Don’t stop talking, loser.”
“Honestly, we aren’t managing that terribly. Sure, our situation isn’t ideal.” As his hand gets crushed by Kagerou’s (who would have known hope was so destructive? Certainly Igarashi Daiji), Orteca sighs, “we’ve managed to see each other though, since my arrest—perhaps I need a lawyer.”
“What the fuck do you mean by ‘need’, don’t you have one?”
“Not to my knowledge?”
Kagerou’s head snaps in his direction, akin to an angry twig. There is something in his gaze which would be sexier if Orteca’s fingers weren’t slowly losing blood circulation.
“Let’s go back to your plan regarding the murder of Karizaki. It’s probably easier to find a way around your sentence than giving me my own body.”
“We could work on both.”
“Which part of ‘I’m a demon’ is too hard for you to understand, Orteca?”
“The one between your legs?” As Kagerou groans, successfully distracted from the tears which have left his eyes gleaming in a way which infuriates Orteca, as no one should be allowed to cause that sort of emotional damage to Kagerou.
(Except that he’s the culprit, as always.)
“One day I’m going to dump you, and no one will know we’ve been dating so it’d be even worse.”
“Or so you say. You wouldn’t dare abandon me after we kind of admitted we’re… Well, us. If I have to study science for ten years to give you your own body, oh well, at least I could get textbooks in jail to speed up the process. I could surpass Karizaki without much trouble, I’m sure.”
“You’re completely insane. Impossible. Insufferable!” With each word, resolves seems to worm its way inside Kagerou’s heart. “I’ll find you the best lawyer. And I’m getting you out of jail since it’s not helping with whatever is fucked with your brain.”
“Pinky promise?”
“What are you, five?!”
To be fair, Orteca has never done one of those. He simply wanted a reaction out of the little bat.
That’s enough though. Enough for Kagerou to look at him, enough for him to realize he’s been on the verge of breaking Orteca’s bones—which would have been a bit complicated to justify in front of Karizaki—enough for their lips to melt into a mess. Hands tugging and grabbing, whispered promises which wouldn’t have made any sense five minutes ago.
“I hadn’t heard of the tongue style promise, but why not, I guess.”
“Hey, don’t ruin this. You’re going to have one hell of a time in rehabilitation already.”
“...By lawyer I assumed you would simply pay someone to get me out and get the charges dropped.”
“You killed more people than I have fingers, you fucker. I can’t stage a prison break or mess with the law illegally enough to fix that—so you’ll have to lie even more, which you’re good at, at least. Maybe someone will manage to fix whatever’s going on with your head, as a bonus.”
“Oh so you don’t want me to be sexy and charming any longer?”
A forehead slams against his, not hard enough to hurt, although Orteca lets out an aggravated ‘tsk’.
“Your vibes are off and I’m never showing you my penis until you fix that.”
“How dare you—”
“Just kidding. Not about the vibes though. And, as for myself, I will always live with Daiji, and be a part of him. I can’t leave him or he’d make a deal with another dubious entity. However, it’d be great to have a couple of hours of freedom each day. Is that greedy?”
“Oh totally, demonic even!” Orteca gives a small peck on Kagerou’s lips, before unfolding himself off the floor, “fits you. Anyway, I had plans to steal my belt and vistamp—”
“You stay there, you me, and the flowers we need to find a vase for before they fucking die.”
“Sounds romantic, I’m in.”
And then, as Kagerou gets up, his head slams against the side of the desk, and suddenly Orteca is stuck with someone else.
“Hello, Igarashi Daiji.”
The poor guy massages the top of his head, tears in his eyes as he tries to tell himself this is nothing. Kagerou didn’t have to switch—typical of him to take the easy way out.
“After what I’ve heard, Daiji is fine…” Ah yes, the mental connection. Kagerou didn’t announce he was broadcasting to the wet blanket station—oh well, that would have come out eventually. “He’ll say it next time, I guess.”
“Hm, what are you talking about?” Orteca asks, as Daiji picks the flowers in his arms, looking at them with something soft in his eyes.
“The magical words both of you are terrible at. Urg, my head.”
Orteca tip toes, as he wouldn’t manage to reach the top of Daiji’s head otherwise, fussing over him by trying to figure out where he collided with the desk. He inspects the other for a minute, earning a couple of pained sounds.
(He has seen people do that before, and copying the false concern isn’t as tedious as one might think.)
“You’ll live. Bruised, and probably with a headache. Nothing out of the ordinary for a soldier though.”
“Thanks, I guess? I’ll grab an ice pack while we get a vase—I think there must be one in the breakroom. Normally, I’d throw you directly at Karizaki. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be fair to do today. Stick with me though. No leaving my eyesight.”
“Fair enough.”
Plucking a single lily out of the bouquet, Orteca makes a grand gesture of tucking it behind a stunned Daiji’s ear. Not quite the aforementioned ice pack, although it does suit him, the white flower contrasting with that innocent blush alongside the bruise growing underneath black hair. “Here you go, Daiji.”
“You know Kagerou is going to kill you for that.”
“Eh, he says that but he wouldn’t~ Doesn’t he love me?” As he pronounces the forbidden word, akin to a threat or an ancient curse, Orteca presses a kiss against Daiji’s cheek. “That’s for him, and for you too.”
Daiji lets out something strangled, and frankly, hilarious.
“Okay?! You’re a confusing person, just so you know.”
“I’ve been told so before, yes.”
As they leave the office, Daiji quickly checking if the way is clear, he suddenly sighs, as if remembering something.
“Blue Bird’ security truly is a joke, isn’t it?”
“On the bright side, I can visit you more often.”
“That’s not comforting at all. I need to do something about it, eventually. Once we’ve figured out what’s up with your six or seven life sentences… How will we even tell mom and dad Kagerou is dating a mass murderer.”
“You could start with just ‘murderer’, and then gauge their reaction.”
“Not helping, Orteca.”
“My bad.”