Work Text:
The world was vast. Any small child would have hurt their neck craning it skyward, only to see an expanse of iris-burning blue and dribbles of white in place of the marshy hues they’d grown to depend on for comfort.
Vast was the word. Vast was the feeling when the shapes beyond the glass slipped away momentarily into the darkness, that horrifying void — growing by the second, loneliness tied to its feet like a shadow. Lost.
It’s difficult to breathe when you’re surrounded by that much space. Even adult lungs can struggle against the immensity of such a concept, but a child’s lungs would contract in fear, making the space loom even larger, seizing the chest painfully… mercilessly.
There was too much dust too, too much dirt. Too cold. Too wide. Too many unknowns, too many smells, too many strangers, not enough glass, not enough silence and not enough familiarity for a child — an experiment — to cling to.
So what else could they do but cling to themselves? Huddled to the hard, inconsistent earth, weak arms wrapped around legs that were no match for the world.
Yet.
Someone would find him here. They had to. The man with the clipboard… the shadows and shapes that were faceless but undeniably there. Someone would take him away from this infinite space, so raw on his skin, so harsh in his chest.
Someone.
No one.
❀࿐ ❀࿐ ❀࿐
Chuuya took a deep breath, reorienting himself in a room that stretched above him like an endless sky. Before him, a large frame was suspended on the wall, surrounded by flowers. He stood opposite, momentarily lost.
The statues that surrounded him wore black, just like he did. They moved slowly, shadows bumping into him with quick apologies as he continued to stare up at the face he knew would haunt him from the moment he left, to the moment he returned as the one to be mourned. Hushed voices turned to whispers, lost to high ceilings and stone walls — where the solemn murmur of respects being paid were absorbed rather than amplified.
Fitting, that he still had that effect even in death.
Chuuya let his gaze retrace the frame from corner to corner, all the while making a conscious effort to steady his breathing. The act itself was hypnotic enough to empty the room again, leaving him to stand there, effectively alone.
Tear-soaked parchment tears easily. So too do words uttered without sincerity. Thin whispers were soon drowned out by the deafening pulse in his ears, each thrum attempting to fill the empty static with… something.
Yet ‘something’ was a frame holding the image of a man, inexplicably empty if it weren’t for paint and canvas. Nothing.
Chuuya frowned.
Whoever they’d commissioned had done a pretty shit job.
Kouyou had always had a fondness for art. Chuuya had listened to her, on many occasions, discuss the various portraits that lined the walls of her office. As a result, he’d picked up a few things about how to analyse a piece.
For instance, the importance of lighting. This artist had chosen a darker study, his tormentor’s face loomed from the shadows in chiaroscuro. He might have assumed it was a simple black and white piece had it not been for the scarf, draped around his neck like one long shackle. A “gift” from the previous boss, sanguine and damning.
He’d also inherited his pose, fingers steepled over the desk in amused contemplation. Or contempt. Yet, unlike his predecessor, this man had been a reluctant leader. It had been a promotion to a title he had never wanted, a legacy he had never craved, and the irony was that the brunet, despite his flaws, had in fact… led.
As far as the organisation was concerned, this was an undoubtable loss. And to Chuuya, it would always be a bitter reminder that he would continue to fall behind, as he always had, reaching after the other boy’s back with outstretched fingers.
Unable to follow.
The dark had never suited him, as much as he’d endeavoured to convince the world otherwise. But, the light had never suited him either, so far as he’d never had the chance to find out.
Regardless, Chuuya thought, skin so accustomed to the dark would have only ever burned.
So what had that left?
Double black, broken into pieces, forever unbalanced. A blindside, left blind.
A portrait.
Chuuya felt his fingers curl around his right arm before taking a small step back, willing himself to look again at the only tangible thing left of his old partner.
The lighting was one thing but the medium was another. The chosen means of his immortalisation had been oil, several layers thick. Chuuya could have taken his forefinger to the surface and peeled away the skin there in clumps, digging right down to his cuticle. It would have been impossible to separate one layer from the other, and he imagined the prick watching any fruitless attempt to try with a teasing grin.
The beast in him wanted to see that grin for himself. To claw at the man’s arms until there was nothing left but oil-thick blood and scars on the canvas. A macabre attempt to mirror what he knew lay beneath.
Maybe then, he’d feel him, right there beside him. One last time.
Because that was always the point. Nobody was allowed in, and nobody was allowed to see more than he cared to reveal. Even this, an image intended in his likeness, kept the bandages firmly on; to remove them would have been to remove his face entirely, until there was nothing but empty canvas — just as he would have wanted.
The whole effect was hideous to say the least. Unnerving. Accurate.
Accuracy stoked the flame of the illusion — enough for it to be just the two of them, now, alone in the boss’s office. The rest of the gathering, just moving impressions, a trick of the light.
Impressions.
The careful composition before him, the desk and the throne, almost centered but deliberately not — would all give the impression of authority, to anyone else. Of dignity. Of a man to be respected, if not feared. And many did.
Yet, Chuuya thought the desk drowned him. A responsibility far too big for the kid he’d once known. Where others saw power, even cruelty, all Chuuya could see were the flashing lights of a hundred screens in motion; the cherry red of an arcade system.
“Come on! Is Chuuya even trying?”
The flashing lights turned to candles, to the taste of wine and whisky, combining and colliding, over and over. The busy arcade morphed into secret corners, to an unforgiving oak desk on his back. To balconies. To rooftops.
“You lost again, stupid slug!”
It was all too large, again. Too wide. The portrait shrank further away until it could’ve fit inside his pupil, the only one visible, swallowing Chuuya whole.
The world spun, shapes blurring as Chuuya felt himself stumble backwards, his hands meeting the tiled floor in cold greeting, before he managed to push himself back up and into a seated position. His arms wrapped themselves around his knees. A raft in the ocean.
He rested his forehead against his thighs, relishing in the darkness they provided. At some point, a gentle hand came to rest upon his shoulder, the gesture — though intended to comfort — only served to pull him deeper within himself, towards memories and sensations he’d prefer to keep buried.
If he could.
Chuuya felt his stomach squirm. It wasn’t uncomfortable — but it was… strange.
The head on his shoulder was smaller than he’d imagined, heavy though — fragile and completely defenceless in sleep.
He’d originally been faking it just to piss him off, until the sniggers had turned into something deep and sincere, free of all burden. And Chuuya had just… let him. He was the boss, sure, but more importantly, he was just a person. Burnt out and touch starved badly enough to be rendered completely unarmed in the face of something so simple as warmth and familiarity.
He hated him.
And he hated that he cared for him. That feeling in his stomach had a name, he was sure, one that he didn’t want to say aloud.
It was more than a naive wish for proximity, but more like…
A strong desire to protect.
‘Lost again.’
Yeah, he guessed he had.
*
He must have been there a while, in the end; the floor beneath him was no longer cold. Eventually, he managed to uncurl himself, and found that the hand had retreated. He was surprised to find that he missed it.
Looking around, the place was largely empty. Hirotsu was waiting for him near the door, his expression assuring him that shame wasn’t necessary. He felt his jaw unclench.
When he finally stood, his cheeks were sticky and his whole body ached. He found that the frame — and the picture inside it — was… no longer enormous.
No longer hideous.
Just a painting of a man he’d probably loved.
Perhaps he’d been hasty to dismiss their depiction straight off the bat. It wasn’t all bad. He actually found himself pitying the artist, whoever they were; he bet the work had made their hands bleed. But, he supposed, they’d earned whatever small fortune they’d received in return.
The Port Mafia weren’t known for half-measures, after all.
With an encouraging nod, Hirotsu replaced his hand on his shoulder, and wordlessly led him from the room.