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Kita's night terrors are always the same. A repeated sequence of decomposing memories that refuse to be put to rest in the grave he dug for them. The plantation is still ever-vivid in the forefront of his mind, like his Lord hopes to haunt him with his servitude. Sleep does not come easy to him when he relives the torture of a past life that has not faded with his scars.
He's in the dining hall. An unnecessarily large room, bare aside from a long table, ancient oil paintings and chandeliers hung from the ceiling, not unexpected of the stupidly wealthy. This hall should be for a banquet, but only two sit at the table. His Lord sits at the head where they belong, joined by a Steel Inquisitor to their right. Spine-chilling things. It’s hard to call them human anymore, when they wear metal spikes like their own flesh and blood. They are talking about the journey from Luthadel, regards from the Lord Ruler, the progression of the Lord’s plantation and coalfields. Kita fills his head with white noise instead.
He heard the glass shattering before the chaos unfolded, quiet and muffled amidst his own swarming thoughts. He heard it as though his head was underwater. Shards hitting the carpeted floor were soft enough to go unnoticed. Even the shadows cast overhead were not enough to draw his attention back from dissociation. No, he remains lost somewhere far from reality until the table is collapsing, splintering beneath the weight of two unfamiliar figures. The other Skaa servants around him cower in the open, because there is no shelter to hide behind. Kita does not have time to react before the soft soles of his shoes feel damp. Spilt crimson soaks the carpet and seeps into the space where he stands.
When did his Lord fall so quickly?
Time is fleeing him – there isn't enough of it to process the disfigured skull of his former ruler, because he is disoriented by the barked laughter of strangers, the clattering of cutlery as the Inquisitor stands from their seat, and the glitter of gold boxings in the air between the opponents. His knees and fingertips stain with the blood of his Lord when he drops to the ground. There may be three cadavers by the end of this; Steel Inquisitors may as well be immortal. He knows from his futile time spent with the rebellion. Kita's blood curdles at the thought, because it will be him and his kin tasked with cleaning up mangled, rotting limbs. He can prevent this. He can. He is not bound to a master now that they are bleeding onto their own grounds. He knows of their filth and their greed, the same drive that crafted the chandeliers overhead made simple plates out of rare porcelain and cutlery out of nicrosil.
No impure metal will make him sicker than he has felt before. Worser pains come with starvation, coal fumes and the punishment from an unproductive day of labour. The carpet is littered with knives, forks and spoons of all sizes that fell from the table. Kita doesn’t remember much after reaching for one.
His memory falters, coming in vague waves of sickness, warm skin against his palm, the flare of burnt metal in his chest, the gut-wrenching sound of something torn free of flesh caging, and the haunting face of an Inquisitor with empty sockets where the eyes – or spikes – should be. Teetering on the edge between consciousness and unconsciousness, he remembers feeling weightless, having another’s heartbeat against his own and listening to the boasting of unknown voices as they took him from his former prison.
" 'Tsumu,” the voice says. Kita's lashes flutter as he comes to, bleary vision drifting to the source of the voice. Osamu is standing above the two of them, more specifically at Atsumu's side of the bed, with a disapproving expression and crossed arms. "Get yer ass outta bed."
Right. He isn’t stuck in that plantation anymore; that must’ve been many months ago now. Kita combs a hand through his hair to ease an oncoming headache and the unease that always comes in the morning after a nightmare. Usually, he doesn’t sleep in like this, though he figures he has Atsumu’s arm strewn over him to keep him close as the reason why. He feels a little lovingly constricted, as he’s tugged closer until his back presses against Atsumu’s chest. He whines and Kita almost smiles.
“No, ‘m busy,” Atsumu argues. Slurred words suggest that he isn’t entirely awake yet.
“Busy doin' what, exactly?”
“..Fillin’ up my bronzemind.”
“So in other words, lookin’ for an excuse to be lazy.”
Kita is freed from the prison of his lover’s arms when he is, essentially, yanked off of him.
There’s a dull thud followed by an unintelligible, half-asleep exclaim, and he assumes that was Atsumu hitting the floor. “And yer hoggin’ Kita all to yerself again. ..Mornin’, Shin.”
“Good mornin’,” he replies as he sits up.
He ignores the all-too-familiar sound of the twins scuffling to his right. They’ll sort themselves out eventually, even if that’s with a couple bruises here and there. In the meantime, Kita climbs out of bed to head to the bathroom. After almost a year of living like this, he still isn’t used to this. It feels like he is living like nobility. Enough clean, running water to bathe, wash his hair and brush his teeth, though he is stingy with it anyway. Clean clothes to wear that are more than just poorly-sewn fabric. Perhaps the twins gained this all through the slaughter they are so infamous for. And perhaps Kita should fear them for that – he does not, and never has.
It’s quiet when he leaves the bathroom; the twins, no longer seemingly so intent on shoving each other around, are in quiet conversation. But his presence is announced by the click as the bathroom door shuts behind him, both the twins turn in his direction and he catches the end of Osamu’s sentence, “go ‘n get ready, be quick about it.”
Atsumu waves him off dismissively.
Kita moves to step aside, to make way for him to enter the bathroom, but he’s caught by Atsumu’s arm around his waist. There’s a fondness to the way he sighs while he lets Tsumu pull him in. But the moment is ruined when Atsumu’s pursed lips do not meet another’s, but rather the palm of Kita’s hand.
“Brush yer teeth,” Kita says, with his hand over Atsumu’s mouth. The latter only pouts harder before conceding, retreating into the bathroom (and practically seething with the urge to jump his twin when Osamu starts to snicker).
The remaining two depart from the room to the kitchen instead. Or rather, Kita strides ahead to the kitchen while Osamu trails oddly slowly behind, to the point where he can tell he is storing his speed in his steelmind. Just yesterday, they showed similar behaviours. Kita knelt beside the twins in bed all day as they rendered themselves weak and ill for the sake of filling their metalminds, but knowing these two, they are never full. This kind of hunger has him slightly worried, but he already knows the answer before he asks, “where are ya headin’ off to today?”
Osamu shrugs, joining Kita at the kitchen island. Kita feels his chin settle on his shoulder and arms around his torso, “heard there’s been some allomantic activity in town ‘side from us lately. Inquisitors are gonna wanna snuff ‘em out.”
In other words, easy hunting grounds. Kita already knows there’s no dissuading the twins once they’ve made up their minds, so he doesn’t try.
“You should eat before you go.”
“Nah,” Osamu grins into the crevice of his neck, then leaves a kiss behind his ear. “We’ll grab somethin’ on the way.”
That never means anything good.
Atsumu rejoins them soon enough; his twin waits for him by the front door, but he turns to Kita first and foremost. Leaning down a little with his brows furrowed in that same endearing way they do whenever he doesn’t get what he wants. “How about now?”
Kita curls his fingers into the collar of Atsumu’s shirt, tugs him down just enough to kiss his bottom lip. “Be safe.”
───☆
When the twins return, it's around midday. Bickering amongst each other loud enough for the entire street to hear, but Kita can breathe a sigh of relief, because it means they’re okay. At least, he assumed so before they got inside.
Osamu is injured. He walks through the front door bare-chested, what remains of his shirt tied into a hasty makeshift bandage around his midriff. The fabric is a shade too black and looks oddly glossy at his side– it’s soaked in his blood. And yet, it doesn’t stop him from shoving Atsumu with his shoulder to interrupt him mid-taunt.
“Bein’ reckless again?” Kita questions with a raised brow, a disapproving glare settling on Atsumu, suspiciously unscathed. Because that’s typically how it goes. Atsumu gets a little overeager and makes the risky decision to throw himself right into the danger zone – no risk, no reward, or so he claims – and Osamu is the one to charge in front of his twin to take the hit. An offended noise, somewhere between a gasp and a scoff, catches in Atsumu’s throat. Before he can find an excuse to properly respond with, Osamu nods.
Atsumu awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “S’only a little flesh wound. He’ll be fine, right, ‘Samu?”
“Yeah, ‘course,” Osamu shrugs. “I won’t go down as easily as you.”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean–”
They’re intercepted by Kita stepping between them, falling quiet at the close distance. They can argue once they've been tended to and aren't bleeding out in the entrance of the doorway. Kita nudges both of the twins further inside, a hand tentatively settled on the small on Osamu's back, guiding him to sit on one of the stools around their kitchen island. He lets slip an almost exasperated sigh when his fingers curl into the fabric of blood-soaked bandaging. Which may be a little insensitive of a reaction to anyone else, but this isn't the first time he's had to tend to open wounds. If Osamu were in serious danger, he wouldn't be functioning as well as he is (which is well enough to squabble with his brother, even if only through glares and hand signs).
The underside of Kita's fingernails stain dirty and crimson as he tears apart the knot in Osamu's makeshift bandage. It falls loose, and he lets it drip from the kitchen counter. Atsumu makes some off-handed, intentionally provoking comment of the sight being gross. As if he himself hasn't been elbow deep in Inquisitor corpses to fish for a particularly appealing spike, but Kita isn't listening. He's too busy inspecting the deep-cut wound, likely ripped into by the serrated edges of imperial coins.
His thumb presses into the skin beneath it, eyes flickering up to study Osamu's expression, “it doesn’t hurt?”
“Nah," he responds, all too nonchalantly. A roll of his shoulders stains his abdomen redder. But it's obvious how determined he is to avoid Kita's eyes when his glare is steeled like that.
Somewhere behind him, Atsumu chimes in with a satisfied, "see, we're all good!"
“..Yer burnin’ tin, huh?" Kita presses.
“Maybe.”
“How many times have I gotta tell you not to do that? If yer gonna burn something, it should be gold.”
Numbness won't heal his wounds as much as it will make him oblivious to them which is, arguably, worse overall. Without pain, it is harder to gauge severity. His goldmind would grant him regeneration instead… Although with how often the twins seem to get out of trouble, he wouldn't be surprised if that metalmind in particular had no reserves left.
While that numbing of Osamu's senses lasts, Kita tugs open a drawer to spools of thread and the glint of a needle lost within the fabric. Stolen from the Skaa market but for a good cause. The needle breaks skin with ease, and the fibre tugs flesh back together. His hands slip and lose the knot once or twice while he's trying to tie it, fingertips too damp to handle such a thin wire. Steady concentration is shown in narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Endearing, even, to the point that when he finally closes the loop, there are lips against his own. Osamu glides his teeth over Kita's bottom lip with the intention to break skin, as if they are not already drowning in spilt blood. Kita leans in just enough to spark that hunger.
"Bedrest," he says when they part, rather abruptly, stepping over to the sink to scrub his hands free of vermillion. Affection can wait until he isn't teasing Death from its doorstep. Osamu groans and Atsumu snickers behind his hand. But the two of them walk Osamu to bed either way.
Atsumu can't stay still. Not that he typically can, but his shuffling on the spot is more recognisable than usual. He's like that when he has something he wants to say.
"Shiiin," he gives in, an eager lilt to his voice. He looks at Kita in the same attentive way a fox might stalk a rodent. "Shin, we got somethin' for ya, while we were out."
A blanket is tugged up above Osamu’s chest. Despite Kita’s urging him to let his eyes rest a little, he seems all too determined to stay awake as long as his metalmind lasts. In the meantime, he nods with almost the same amount of enthusiasm, a glitter in his eyes as his attention flickers between Atsumu’s grin and Kita’s furrowed brows. A gift? From one of their hunting outings? Kita supposes they must have stopped along a market on their way to return, or something. That doesn’t seem to be the case, though. Atsumu steps close enough that Kita is sure he can feel his heartbeat. The former is bewitchingly tender when he takes the latter’s hands in his own, pries open his fingers and presses something cold, mildly heavy and somewhat wet into the palm of his hand.
A small gift. Too thick to be a needle, too small to be anything but. Like a persian offering a dead catch, Atsumu’s eyes seem unblinking and almost predatory as he waits to observe Kita’s reaction. Kita unfurls his fingers to find a small metal spike nestled in the creases of his hand.
“Some poor bystander got a little too close in the middle of the fight, pretty gruesome stuff. Well, it was kinda funny at the time–”
Osamu kicks at his twin, who’d perched himself on the edge of the bed. He stands now, frowning, struggling to side-eye his brother.
“But anyway, we’re thinkin’ it must be tin. Tore straight outta their ear, ‘n all. Must’ve been one of those Mistings in hiding, or somethin’. You could put it to good use.”
Indulging in the art of Ruin… is an unspeakable act. The thought alone stirs a sort of sickness in Kita’s gut. Distant teachings of the Terris people that were once his home and family within the rebellion scold him for considering the power contained in this morbid little accessory. Kita’s eyes don’t dare stray from the object he is holding, as if it might vanish should he glance away even for a second. A heavy weight, a burden that sits somewhere between faith, morality and true love, rests on his shoulders. He hopes neither of the twins notice the subtle, uncomfortable twitch of his hands. The spike rolls over with the sudden movement and leaves a trail of dark, murky red in its path.
“Sorry,” Osamu sits up in bed enough to shrug, insincere, “it’s still fresh. ‘Tsumu couldn’t wait.”
Two pairs of eyes on him, expectant and starving, put too much pressure on his heart. He dreads to think that he would have succumbed anyway. Chasing the desires of the two monsters that have somehow settled willingly underneath his thumb. This is a sort of commitment, in truth. Not quite as pure and romantic as a profession of love, perhaps. But the spikes lining Osamu’s knuckles and the scutes down Atsumu’s spine crave his acceptance. If he’ll have them.
He’ll treasure their gift, and their sick intent. Once they rinse it clean, of course.
Kita doesn’t thank them. They’ll see his love and loyalty first-hand when he returns with sharp tin hanging from his earlobe.