Chapter Text
"He doesn't actually care about you, you know."
Don't let her get to you. He lets the silence hang between them for a moment, lets it stretch until any second longer'll shatter his resistance with a twang, and mutters, "Shut up."
"If he did, he'd be here by now. You remember how quickly he arrived when it was Hiyori who'd been taken away."
His reply comes faster this time. Faster, and more forcefully. "Shut up."
"It hurts, doesn't it? But the truth is—"
"Shut up—!"
He slams a fist against the wood-panelled floor, and mercifully, thankfully, she finally shuts up. Shuts up and glides out of the room with a soft pitter-patter, the sound of socks against floorboards being only thing that distinguishes the stray from a ghost (hah, that's funny since they're all dead anyways).
Only then does he let his head loll back and the first tear slide forth.
The battle remains a blur. Even after having had all the time in the world to contemplate it, to try and pin down the exact moment where everything'd gone straight to hell (nah, worse than hell—Yukine's already been there, done that when it comes to the real thing), he's still drawing a blank.
Steel against steel, that feeling of wanting to protect, and every fiber of his being focused on cutting, parrying, stay sharp, he needs you. It'd been something like that.
He occupies the time like this, going over and over each detail as if otherwise, it'll all slip away. It's better than focusing on the sliding doors and alien aura around here, as that'll just take him back to I wanna go home—thinking like that'll sting his master, and Yato needs all the focus he can get right now.
'Cause Yato's definitely coming for him. He is.
At some point, even their best hadn't been enough. One misstep, one lunge too far, and then Sekki'd been spinning up and into the air. What'd happened during the battle hadn't been Yato's fault, he'd decided right off the bat. In terms of battle prowess, both god and human (or whatever the fuck that dad of his is) had been evenly matched—at least, when Papa had been playing nice. They'd both realized it at the same time when he'd stopped, Yato a bit sooner than his blade; eyes widening, the knowledge hitting home that his dad's goal all along hadn't been to cut him down as his taunts'd implied, the once-god of depravity had been powerless to stop what had followed.
"Yato fought well, damnit."
Yukine's nose twitches automatically in preparation for the blast of sweat from an inevitable armpit-lock ("Aww, look at how sweet he's being! Did'ja hear that, Hiyori?"), and by the time he realizes that it isn't coming, it's already too late to stop it.
His face crumples, and along with it, the rest of him.
At least he can't say they haven't made him as comfortable as possible (in other words, every inch of him feels like fucking shit and I just want Yato and Hiyori) here. With a grunt slipping from lips pressed tightly together enough to prevent much else from escaping, he falls onto the thin futon that's served as his bed for the past few hours. Or has it been days?
It might have been days since he's last seen anyone besides the stray.
He squeezes his eyes together, not wanting to consider that possibility. The guilt of stinging (I'm sorry, I'm really trying) probably sends another jab in Yato's direction, and the desire to scream is suddenly overwhelming. Being cooped up here, not knowing anything or being able to get out (oh he'd tried, breaking nearly everything and pounding against every last surface in sight), is probably the worst punishment possible.
The fact that there's always light seeping in from the hall outside is the only small comfort he has here, and rolling over, he reopens his eyes purely to focus on that single spot.
It'll be alright. It'll definitely... be alright.