Chapter Text
Yuga Hazuru wakes up to the chill of winter.
The way he rises from his slumber is abrupt and sudden, akin to a quick slap to the face.
Quickly and violently, his eyes peel open, his mind feeling like it’s been doused in water as an immediate coherency blooms in his mind. And the world, when he uses his eyes, is strangely more vivid. It’s like there’s a filter slapped over the lenses, changing the way he perceives colours.
The fact he’s so alert first thing in the morning is a telltale sign that something is amiss, that a strange phenomenon is at hand because Yuga usually takes forever to shake out of his sleepy stupor in the morning.
Instinctively, he knows something is wrong.
He turns his body that’s still tucked under the covers. And proceeds to notice a multitude of things with startling clarity. The fact that sunlight does not hit his face per usual, nor does his sheets feel pleasantly cool under him. In fact, they rather feel soft in the way he doesn’t expect. He moves his hand, clenches the layer on top of him to roll the texture in the palm of it. Feeling, seeking, its the texture of… fleece?
This is not his room.
He stares down.
Instead of his silk ensemble of his pillows and thinly padded sheets, instead, is a crepe pile of large and heavy quilts with two fleece blankets. They are swaddling and weighing down on him. This isn’t his bed, he realises, trying to shuffle away from the heavy and smothering layers. He has to scoot like a worm to escape the grasps of it as he wriggles from confinement and frees his limbs with a small gasp. Smothering indeed.
He finally takes time from his upright sitting position to finally look around the room. It’s medium sized but not small and the walls are in a shade of greyish blue.
It holds hints of childhood nostalgia compressed in the crowd of nicknacks paving the room in sprigs of colour. From the line of figurines of various cartoon characters on the shelves to the collage of posters covering the wall behind him. A whole collection of them, ranging from sizes small to big and they are meticulously organised, sorted by colour.
And, a power rangers' poster, the classic team smack dab in the middle of everything.
His legs swing over the edge of the bed and his feet touch the wood panels before being retracted. It's warm, but not warm enough. Yuga looks over the edge to see a pair of slippers and refrains from getting out entirely the time being. He clutches his arms, shivering. The heating is on in the room, slipping warmth into his bones yet the temperature feels closer to near arctic conditions, it's intolerable. He decides to stay in bed for the safety of his body.
Freezing. His body instinctively wants to crawl back into bed under all the warm layers, but he persists with chucking the stifling layers off of himself. A struggle in itself! He’s not out of the bed but at least he is not packed into it like before.
“Cold.” He mutters in regret. He blinks, lips turning downward in thought. The tone of the word surprises him, coming out more bitter than intended. He realises that this boyish voice does not belong to him.
It can only mean one thing. Yuga’s reached the circumstances in which he has exchanged bodies with his soulmate. Ticked the box of fate to have been in contact, skin to skin contact with them for the second time. Someone who he now has to experience life through for a period of time, switching bodies, back and forth.
Okay, so maybe he should have considered the small wrench in his study routine and some of his training.
He searches the room for a reflective surface. He needs a face to the body. Just to check and see if his suspicions really are correct. To verify that this body is actually his soulmate’s and that Yuga didn't accidentally concuss himself in his sleep and accidentally become brain damaged while being absorbed in a fantasy to where he is convinced he found his soulmate while actually being in a coma.
He also needs to discover who he is.
Yuga looks down to see his fingers that are delicate and thin, nail beds in a fair pink and are cut in squoval shapes instead of the straight edge rectangles that Yuga favours. His body is swaddled in thick fleece pajamas that — despite acting as a compressed blanket in itself — doesn’t completely keep out the cold. It’s still warm of course, but for some reason his body still seeks out the remnants of heat. The comfort found in layers he usually doesn't reach for.
He turns to the phone next him on the bed, plugged to the wall and charging. Bingo.
He peers into the screen to see some vague features he can discern but can’t arrange. What meets him is a face, murky in the dark of the room and especially so when staring at a blank phone screen. Large eyes, fine eyebrows, thick bottom lip, and a pronounced cupid’s bow. He just can’t put his finger on it, the borrowed one, anyway. He squints to get a better look, but the lights are off and the curtains only slight ajar to which he can’t see who greets him back. He needs a proper look.
A feeling of familiarity kicks him in the stomach like a soccer punch, yet his head is lagging a bit behind in processing who actually greets him back.
Who is it?
Who is someone that he had initiated recent skin contact with in the past few days.
He looks at the fingerprint scanner, he presses the pad of his right thumb in with thankful success. He swipes through the homescreen, jabs the camera app and-
“Aoba?” He blinks, shocked. His face is brushed with a hint of pink on his cheeks, the cold frost of Winter colouring each cheek with soft shades of tulip pink. His hair is slightly mussed up as the pure onyx locks stand sprightly up at the back. Yuga cards his hair through these bits and watches how the small tuft protests under his attempts at taming it. It can’t be called a mess, but it’s certainly a bedhead.
It makes sense. He had taught Aoba about the crescent kick mere days ago.
The face reflects back a minute expression of surprise when his eyes stare at the screen with recognition. Aoba genuinely looks like this when he’s surprised? His eyes are pulled comically big, doe eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights look.
He stews in contemplation, then watches the face turn abruptly sinister. Too expressive!
His eyes sweep the room cautiously, dragging to glance at the oak door with levied suspicion. He stares back at the phone and holds it up, face level. Just to get a better look of Aoba’s face.
He gives a smile, well attempts to at first.
The edges of his lips twitch up jerkily at first, like a puppet leaping up by its strings. Awkward and unpractised, the expression feels strange to proceed through before he sees it in full.
The gloomy expression casts way to something bright. Perfect pearly teeth on full display, small boyish dimples. A pure, sparkling look. He creases his eyes up, curious and well, wow. He tears his gaze away from the camera, shocked and shakily settling it down. He feels like he just got blinded first thing in the morning.
Then, he thinks whilst laying down in bed atop of the blankets this time and ponders in the same manner he always does.
Yuga runs through tactile scenarios in his head, watching the way each plan spans out. He should contact the soul clinic for a written out exemption or at least an extension for some of his quizzes and tests. ‘My report is due next week. Aoba’s my soulmate.’
He stares up at the ceiling with resignation. He can almost recall his mother’s voice lecturing him about his workaholic tendencies. He really needs to finish that report, that long paged, no good book report he still needs to complete for Literature class.
It’s fine. Sure he feels a bit out of place, but he’s used to spontaneous changes and decisions. Independence and all that. He prides himself on his self reliability.
A plan forms in his head, quickly spinning together as the motions practise through his head, strands weaving to create a map, rigid and faultless. Call Aoba, arrange an appointment on the dot with the other boy, converse afterwards and sort out commute plans and if they lived near each other, so on and so on. Oh and maybe have Aoba attend the wedding he needs to go to. Aoba, his soulmate.
He pauses slightly.
Soulmates.
Yuga has never really put that much previous consideration into the thought of soulmates. It’s natural for people to commercialise the thought of a fated significant other, small tests popping up everywhere and the constant reminder of ‘Your fated someone!’ plastered on billboards and small posters everywhere.
Yet he was and is always too busy chasing his goal of pursuing a proper career in MMA and throwing himself into his academics. Chasing life with a relentless passion, signing himself up for charity projects, streaming and recording himself to document his checkpoints and achievements which soon became a habit to boot. The notion of soulmates always introduced itself in his head occasionally thanks to the luxury of his highschool life.
His classmates at school always liked asking him about the idea of seeing that special someone who you would grow to understand and vice versa. Prodding around the fantasy of ‘another half.’
Squeezed and tucked neatly behind the ballooning thoughts of his commitments, he put off the idea of that ‘one person’ to focus on the bigger picture, the framework of a far future to which he always carved into and chiselled away at. He didn’t account for the miscellaneous, or rather, the humongous halt to his art process. An extra person to adjust for in the grand scheme of things.
Maybe he should have contributed more to the conversation yesterday in class, really put his head and contemplated more on the very possible and non-avoidable case of switching bodies instead of just dismissing it and thinking, ‘I’ll put a plan on it later.’ like he always did in the things he didn’t put on full priority.
He gives a considering hum.
Soulmates. Aoba and him. He can’t get it out of his head.
Aoba’s a polite boy outside of his terrifying presence in formal matches. Perfectly respectable if not a bit misguided and twisted in his strong hunger for victory. Despite looking a bit dreary, he finds that Aoba is actually enthusiastic in his own niche way.
A tiny bit like Kenshin. He clicks his teeth in thought and thinks about a sinister figure reigning a sulky frown on his face, shadowed and threatening with a foreboding look in toll. Aoba would probably dislike being compared to the guy. So, maybe Yuga does shudder a bit at the mental image, perhaps he does fear Aoba, a bit.
Stuck in his own thoughts, Yuga doesn’t realise that he hadn’t accounted for a particular and crucial aspect in his mulling. The possibility if both parties were busy. Dang.
“Aoba!!!” A voice calls, knocking on the door. “Be prepared in two hours! We need to get there early, and remember to avoid Aunty Toshiko!!” A hurried voice calls behind the oak door before the padded sound of footsteps trickle away.
Ah.
Scrap of plans. He had to first inform the maternal figure in the house of the now dire news. Aoba Suzuki is now Hazuru Yuga who needed to apparently attend a wedding venue, he also had to attend one. The realisation hits him like a truck. Suddenly, all his perusing worries have gone from a coasting ten to a level seventy hurried disaster.
He sees the time on the phone.
Two hours to get this sorted!
‘Oh god. Forget about my report. I need to prepare to spill all this to Aoba’s parents.’, or rather Aoba’s mother at the moment.
He strides through the hallways, panic stricken with no time to waste. He goes past vivid paintings of bright art, potted plants of green which sprightly stick up at the entrance. Ordinate. Tasteful in a sense which hints of a homely atmosphere. He’d take time to admire the scene better, if he wasn’t rushed for time.
He patters down the stairs, navigating the lower hallway gently coloured in cream. In the kitchen tiled with grey tones, he walks up, navigating behind the island counter.
“Oh Aoba. You’re up earlier than expected.” A homely woman with a striking resemblance to Aoba smiles. Guilt riddles Yuga’s conscience as he bows sincerely at a full ninety degrees. She looks confused.
“Sorry Ma’am. I’m actually Yuga Hazuru and I seem to be your son’s soulmate as I found out today.”
The woman’s face drops from her kind expression, shock colouring it a ghastly white shade. She looks as if to be a few seconds away from fainting, her mouth hangs open, eyes peeled wide and she clutches her chest, silenced.
“Huh?”
“Oh uh. Stand up dear, please uh-”
“Yuga Hazuru.” He politely offers, coming back to meet her nervous eyes.
“Yes, Hazuru-kun. I’ll sort something out.” Her eyes sink deep in contemplation, a sudden switch up from her frantic attitude before snapping back to their frantic state. “Meru!”
A girl with brunette hair shovelling cereal into her mouth at the table perks up, tearing her eyes away from her phone in hand and looks over at Yuga in surprise. “Eh. Aoba? You’re up- or well, out of bed earlier than usual. What do you need mom?”
“It's code red! For Aoba!”
Code red?
“Ah.” She walks up with her finished cereal bowl, depositing it within the sink. “Hm. Can’t she-he? I dunno. Can’t they just pretend to be him? Aoba’s not doing anything important at the reception. It’ll be good to ring him up in the meantime and tell him what’s going on. You got a phone right?”
And well, under normal circumstances he would have just simply done just that. Yet, he's also busy.
“I’m afraid I also have to attend a wedding as well. And uh, did you just say reception?” Yuga asks, a small grimace plays on his lips.
What were the chances that Aoba also has to attend a wedding on the exact same day?
Meru rinses off her bowl in the sink before hanging it onto the metal rack. She stares at the fridge, squinting at the metal door. “Yeah. Details say it starts at two. I suppose we could just drop you off for your event, but we'd be chopped for time. Still could work, eh, probably."
The time, sounds oddly familiar. Like the details on his invite.
He drags his eyes across to where she's squinting as he shuffles closer to where shes staring at.
Yuga's eyes widen as he looks at a slip of paper detailing the location. A pleasant surprise indeed. Call it a pure coincidence, but Yuga thinks maybe something like fate is at play. His eyes flash with a confident glint, a plan forming in mind with something steady, resolute and set in stone. A recipe for success.
“Suzuki-san.” He says, catching the mother’s attention. “I also have an invite to this wedding.”
Yuga isn't a judgemental person.
So when he peels back the closet door to take a gander inside, Yuga isn't taken aback by the variety or rather lack of, that greats him. Not taken aback.
In the sparse closet, hosts: three of the same green checkered shirts, a shark gym hoodie, a shark onesie, two sets of a full school uniform, a familiar thick brown coat which wore three wooden toggles, two khaki pants, one grey jacket and well, nothing more than that.
Why does Aoba have the selection of a cartoon character? He doesn't note that in his small internal notepad, sparing that detail as he sweeps the hangers to the other side of the closet and finds what he's looking for.
He takes out a black suit and takes it into the bathroom with him.
He steps into the quaint area, eyeing the shelves. On the bottom is obviously the sister’s items, on the top according to what he was told, is Aoba’s. He stares up in confusion. Did he mishear?
“Hazuru-san! Do you use facial products?” A voice calls from the hallway.
“Yeah. I think your mother told me that the top shelf holds his things, but all I can see is some old hand soap and a jar of-well, something” He calls out.
Dubbing it ‘something’ is far more polite than voicing his true thoughts and saying ‘I think it’s a jar of suspiciousness which oddly resembles lube from the packaging.’ Maybe he’s staring and searching around in the wrong place.
Yuga looks back in the mirror, touches his face as his skin meets back with a type of smoothness and suppleness it took him at least a year of true trial and error to emulate. His skin is practically pore less. There’s not a spot of acne. Yuga’s envious, the skin is practically sparkling. Does he really need any facial products at this point?
Meru – she says it’s fine if she’s referred that way– sticks her head into the bathroom. She’s already prepared. A simple tulip pink dress cut just above the ankles, a simple dab of make-up on her face, she’s already as prepared as can be.
"That's- well. He does have stuff. It's just that, that’s the ‘stuff’ in mind.” She juts a finger to the top shelf to which is looking at and gives a small grimace, as if to convey the thought that she is both terribly aware and disgruntled by the nature of items. “Bar soap is what he cleanses his face with, and the jar is some lab made moisturiser he picked off from a University's open day. I haven’t actually seen what it looks like inside.”
Yuga stares at the dismal soap with surprise. It’s the size of a hair clip. It’s worn, slightly crusty and unfortunate in stature, like a single shrivelled up slice of pickled radish. The jar is clean, of course, and both products are hygienic as can be, but the quality of both is dubious at best. He uncaps the lid, stares at it, and frowns.
Well, the contents are worse than the outside. Somehow.
Yuga’s hit with the fragrant scent of rosemary, it smells nice, a bit too nice, like a ‘whole perfume store nice’. Pure roses and a flower garden liquified into a goopy mixture which is pearlescently glossy and is a stark shade of pure purple. It’s something that should have stayed on the opposite side of whatever stall at the University that Aoba picked it up from.
He is ninety-five percent sure that this thing is not skin safe. It’s bright in a way that puts his old lava lamp to shame.
“I think it’s glowing.” Yuga says weakly, pointing to the radioactive glimmer winking back at him. Meru also stares at it, disturbed and disappointed. Yuga doesn’t want to be rude, but like this, he can see the family resemblance. The sour look, the sheer disgust in her face which resembles how Aoba gets whenever Kenshin is praised or even mentioned.
She takes the thing from his hand, caps the container and lobs it in the bin. Poomf. Perfect aim. Easily, efficiently, and effectively. Her face shifts back to the passive look beforehand yet her eyes are still vivid with the colour of horror, understandable in this situation.
“Mom wants him presentable, spick and span and all that, just make sure he looks neat. Don’t bother with the soap.” She says while handing him a very cutesy yellow headband. “I promise that whatever impression you have of Aoba now is privy to change.”
She leaves the bathroom to leave him to prepare.
He pushes his bangs back and finds himself being slightly taken aback at the view of a full forehead. Aoba looks less gloomy. Wide eyes, clear and bright face with shocked wonder which can openly be seen with no shady bangs to obscure the expression on hand.
Yuga closes the cabinet door from the top and gets to work. Splash, emulsify, lather and gently rub in for a minute or so, rinse off seven times – because he sort of gets some in his eyes- and then he finishes off the routine, toner in hand to soak, moisturiser to pat in.
After that’s done, his face feels extremely refreshing. It’s dewy, it’s bright and practically radiant. He feels thankful about Meru tossing out the suspicious moisturiser which sits dismally in the bin.
He looks down.
With tentative hands, his hand hovers over the buttons of the pajamas hesitantly, it feels like a breach of privacy, to just undress, yet he has to do this. To not only wear Suzuki’s skin, but to also see the mark that solidifies the fact Aoba Suzuki is truly his soulmate.
He unbuttons the top button, working his fingers down as he carefully slides off the fleece top with particular care and puts it onto a robe hook. He glances back.
There he sees it. It has followed him from his original vessel to Aoba’s.
The soul mark is the image of an object which is laid on each and every individual from birth. For most people it’s a small symbol that represents who they are or perhaps a small reflection of their identity.
For him, Yuga feels like the picture which lays on his skin embodies who he is, a mirror of his identity. It's a vivid depiction of a lifelike crane in a proud standing position. He touches the skin and feels the comforting texture of feathers against the pad of his index finger. The bird is pressed against his left pectoral, over his heart. Well, Aoba's heart.
He breaks away from his marvelling as he identifies a difference, the crane has moved ever so slightly. The thin legs bent, the large wings slightly raised. It’s as if the bird is considering the thought of flight. Yuga recognizes that this is the first sign of the body exchange, a bestowment from the universe which signifies that they have switched bodies. A sign of change.
He assumes the next body swap when his soul slides back into Aoba’s vessel – if his memories don’t betray him – will show the next stage.
Yuga tears away from his gawking, promising himself that he will observe this further in his own body and give Aoba his own privacy for the meantime.
Yuga reaches for the suit and carefully shrugs it on. The style of the outfit is loose in the way that differs to what he had previously picked out to wear at his own apartment. It’s a modest choice, perfectly respectable, even if it’s a bit plain. Black slacks, white dress shirt, and a nice vest to which the satin tie tucks itself under before he pokes his arms through the blazer to complete the look.
He combs through his hair with his fingers and manages to tame down the bed hair with relieving success. He does what he can before meeting up with the other two.
Aoba’s mother looks alarmed for a minute as her arms raise to straighten his sleeves before stopping, apologising for intruding his personal space and backing off. Meru whispers it’s because their mother always has a tendency to nag and fret over Aoba.
The three shuffle into the car as Aoba’s mother tabs Yuga's address in hand and asks about menial things to fill the car ride. She asks him about his school and he hears the audible sigh of relief when he says he’s a high school student, just a year older than Aoba. Then he’s questioned about his family, how his studies are, his favourite subjects and if he does any extracurriculars to which he says—
“MMA. I used to only do karate but I switched over.”
“Oh my! What a coincidence! My boy Aoba also does MMA. I don’t know too much about it so would it be ignorant for me to ask you if you know him?”
He offers a polite smile. “Not at all. In all actuality. Aoba was one of my opponents in the preliminaries at Koshien. We sparred for the finals.”
“Oh my dear boy.” Aoba’s mother sighs. “I take it that he’s enjoying it? I have no clue why he joined though. I remember it like yesterday. A fee months ago he had just come home from school, showed me a slip of paper and said that he ‘joined a gym’ so he’d become stronger right out of nowhere.”
“We’re from different gyms, so I can’t report from my own observations if he enjoys it, but he seems- invigorated by it.” He nods in thought. Good choice of words, non suspicious, a great delivery even.
He doesn’t want to say, ‘yeah, your son instilled a sense of fear into me and even though he’s perfectly kind off the ring, it still makes me shudder thinking about our fight.’
She breathes out a sound of relief. “That’s. That’s good enough.”
One hour and twenty four minutes.
“Yo Aoba.” Yuga calls from the outside of his apartment, knocking against the oak door. “I’m coming in now.” He announces before pushing the PIN into the number pad, internally revising the fourteen digit code in his head and hearing the successful chime of the door.
“Hazuru-san, hello.” Aoba nods in greeting, voice pattering on a soft tone. From this angle he notices the yawn of sleep still encompassing Aoba. The boy looks frazzled. Although he’s prepared himself decently and has looped his tie with a full Windsor knot, the pressed clothes unwrinkled, Aoba looks displaced. He looks unsure in a way that’s different from that reserved demeanor he usually hosts which is fair enough in all entirety. Yuga’s also still adjusting to the whiplash from the difference of their senses.
“Sorry.” Aoba says, eyes lingering on his face, a passing and more decipherable expression on hand, a look of consideration. “I did your skincare routine but I couldn’t follow what you wanted to do for your hair.”
It’s fine. It’s not bad, but it’s a little messy than how he usually wears it. Unstyled, but okay, flat and straight as usually. However, he still urges with the itch to adjust it, to flatten it and put it back to his usual style.
“It’s okay. How are you finding things?” He suppresses that tendency, remaining in place.
“Strange.” Aoba says, honestly.
There’s a canyon of silence. A brief wedge of awkwardness that Yuga’s unused to. He doesn’t know what to say. For some reason, all his charm is vaporising away from his spirit, his tongue fumbling heavy and dumb in his mouth, all the efforts in his brain are instead fixed on thinking, rolling up his thoughts he’s been thinking about ever since he realised that Aoba and him were truly soulmates.
How do people just do it? Accept the fact that they have a soulmate? Talk to their soulmate? Yuga’s aware there’s not really something between them two that’s definitive. Aoba and him aren’t strangers but they aren’t friends either. Loose acquaintances in a sense; people that know each other but don’t go out of their way to converse outside of coincidental interactions. A person who’s sitting on that fence between stranger and friend and tiptoing that line, borderline carwheeling on it.
“So. Soulmates, huh?” Yuga brings up the topic, then winces internally. He could have been less blunt about it. He’s out of his element. And he feels a bit awkward, stilted and stiff and so not like himself. “Sorry, no. I said that rather rudely.”
“It’s fine.” Is the reply. “Let’s have this conversation later. My mom’s a little nagging about being tardy.”
Yuga nods, hesitant and understanding. Grimacing slightly at his own lack of consideration and he’s disappointed in himself for not fully processing situations like he usually does. He’s usually more organised than this, yet he’s unexpectedly flustered.
“Oh, and uh. I know you said it was fine if my hair’s like this, but you can say if you prefer to change it. It’s your body, we have a few minutes to spare anyways.”
Oh phew.
And so, Yuga takes him to the bathroom, has him sit down on the little stool whilst he plucks vials here and there from the cabinet. He tiptoes for the straightener on the far left shelf and settles it on the counter. Aoba stares at it.
“Your hair’s already straight.” The boy on the stool says. The tall chair being pulled from the island in the kitchen area.
“I’m attempting to make it slightly wavy.” Yuga informs as he soaps up his hands. Rinse, fluff up the gel, scrub under his nails, interlock the fingers, curl around the base of the thumb, rinse. Dry.
Aoba makes a sound of acknowledgement, eyes wandering as he watches each of the vials whilst Yuga reaches for the hair milk to first lather into the strands.
He sinks back into the methodic procedure of hair styling. Though the hands, the tools to the application are foreign- the steps applied are all the same. He rushes as he pumps a pea shaped amount of product in the middle of the palm, lathering evenly and thinly through the hair on every end.
Don't touch the scalp, scrape close, but don’t touch.
‘Take the heat protectant and cover the eyes’ He thinks before seeing the small jerk of Aoba’s surprised shoulders when Yuga’s cold hand touches the warm surface of Aoba’s face.
“Cold!” The boy on the stool voices surprise as Yuga huffs a tiny laugh out before coughing his throat and apologizing soon afterwards. He continues on to spritz on the heat protectant.
It’s a small deviation from the routine, but, almost nice with company in the white block of the apartment.
When it comes to the straightening part, his hands are unused to the grip of the appliance. It fits funny in his grasp and it nearly slips out – like a slippery fish – when he fiddles with the buttons. He doesn’t want it clattering to the floor; it’s the best one he’s ever used.
“Don’t burn me please,” Aoba says.
“I won’t.”
Finally finding a better way to grasp the straightener, he gives a gentle curve to the fringe with a steady hand, quickly feeding sections of shiny hair through the medium heat as Aoba remains in place as an incredibly good mannequin head. He looks transfixed at the now, thankfully, steady work of Yuga’s hands. Aoba's eyes do flicker occasionally at them in scepticism when he wanders to the sides, but Yuga’s good with his hand eye coordination. Changing bodies doesn’t render his previous experiences useless.
Bingo. Presto. Yuga finishes with a flair and, wow. He looks pretty decent.
“No burns, see?” Yuga gives a small smile.
Aoba stares at the reflection for a few seconds which feels like minutes. He rubs his chin and wears this look of consideration as if he’s mulling over the idea of something. Aoba tosses his hair, wordlessly flips it and hosts an incredibly interested gaze as he resumes staring at the mirror.
“I really wanted to try that.” The boy says, ominously.
Before Yuga can ask about what Aoba means by that, his eyes flash to the small digital clock above the toothbrush stand and hurries them out of the room. Even rushed, he still took too much time!
They run out of the door with jangling keys in hand, take the lift, then at ground level turn back into the lift, go back to the apartment, actually lock the door and finally, proceed back to the car.
They both settle into the car whilst Aoba dozes off.
Thirty minutes to spare.
The wedding is a fanfare of vibrant colours. Organised in a beautiful spring garden shone with the spritz of love. Romantic at its core, the bride kisses the groom while he pulls her into a fanciful dip. They laugh and, well, Yuga is privy to a tear which slips out from the corner of his eyes. He watches it with admiration, the display of love which opens itself. Thank goodness they made it on time.
Even if he doesn’t have any connections with the two in the limelight, they’re delighted on this special day. Bright complexions of infatuation highlights the joy of the couple. The scene almost comes out of a fairytale as the flowery mood paired with the gentle sound of the classical quartet in the background makes it feel almost unreal.
They pepper each other with kisses, affectionate and laughing. The groom tosses the bride around, her white dress which plumes with elegant chiffon layers sweeps the petals of roses up as the light breeze spreads them around. It’s ideal in the way nothing has gone wrong. The way they enjoy themselves with no peril in sight.
There is no saving of bridesmaids from a cracked heel from the stage’s steps. There are no spontaneous acts of preventing a chandelier from dropping down and kicking it out of the couple in danger. And certainly not preventing a southward ‘I object’ that interjects midway between the vows that turns into a violent brawl to which he has to intervene.
Instead, he finds himself enjoying just watching. To him the atmosphere is still quiet, but it’s good in a pleasant way.
After all the sweet speeches which move the couple, making them glow with happy expressions as they pull the guests indoors to proceed with the rest of the day.
He sees how Aoba makes an immediate beeline to the snack station, watches how his face cautiously looks both ways, this way and that, with sharp and alert eyes. Yuga proceeds to walk in his direction, slipping through the crowd to make his chance to talk to the other boy.
He needs to discuss more with Aoba about the soulmate situation, but somehow, there’s an announcement that intercepts his plans of communication. “Broccoli toss!” The bride hollers.
Yuga is somehow ushered to a crowd of bachelors. Various men who stand about, staring at the vegetable. Some are excited, others purposefully stand a bit back to not get caught. Aoba's packed amongst the crowd, somewhere in the front.
The Groom tosses the broccoli and it launches, taking off in a perfect parabola. The path ambitious, the destination as it descends?
His face.
It smacks it’s leafy greens against him before sliding with a comical and dismal ‘pprrpt.’ and deposits its slightly wet buds into his hands. What?
“I caught it?” He says, confused.
He slightly turns his head and suddenly he’s being tossed in the air by the other bachelors in celebration. He’s utterly bamboozled. How did he get to this state again?
He’s put back onto his feet and he shuffles around. He's left wandering around for a few minutes before he sees Aoba. Someone he knows!
He approaches the boy, who sticks out from the crowd and is resting at the snack station.
Like this he has to look up at his own face, and well, Yuga’s not exactly used to having to crane his neck and look up. Of course Aoba’s not short by any means, he's at a perfectly respectable average height for Japanese males, but compared to Yuga’s body? The difference feels jarring, the mere six centimetres between them feels disorientating.
He catches the small furrow between the thin brows, pinched in thought.
“Are you okay?” Yuga finds himself asking. “You look a bit…. disturbed.”
Coincidentally Aoba is the one that voices the height discrepancy, bringing up the topic in a manner that can be described as disappointed, even a bit petulant if Yuga squints through Aoba’s monotonous front. “I never knew I was so short.” Aoba says, turning his head away slightly, tilting it in a manner that slightly obscures his face.
“Aoba. You’re average height.” Yuga offers, slightly bemused.
Aoba sulks and scowls. “I can see my hair parting.”
“I think five foot seven is perfectly respectable.”
“We are only six centimetres apart.” And okay, maybe Yuga does chuckle a bit when he says it. Trying to avoid the small laugh bubbling rumbling in his throat.
Then. Yuga gets roped away. There’s no other word to describe the middle-aged lady dragging him away and talking his ear off than ‘nagging’. Her voice involuntarily causes a shudder to ripple through his body, a pit of dread swirling inside. Aoba’s body recognises this woman as dangerous. There’s a lingering string of foreign emotions that swirl around in the vessel, a heated amount of annoyance building up alongside that rooted feeling of dread.
And, well. Yuga’s also met his fair share of annoying people. Pestering in the way that sometimes presses on his buttons, pushy in the way that makes him want to flee. This Aunty Toshiko takes the whole pie.
Yuga shoots over a helpless look over to Aoba. And. Well.
Aoba’s wrapped in conversation with his sister! Totally distracted and not available in the slightest!
Before Yuga can attempt to slide out of the interaction, Aunty Toshiko keeps him grounded. Whenever he tries to end the conversation in clipped attempts at politely evading the topic, it swerves back to her chatter. Yuga doesn’t want to call it meaningless. Yet it really is. He’s the wrong person to be chatting about this to.
Also, she has this unnecessary habit of pinching Aoba’s cheek. Little pincers that grab tissue and jostle it. His body is singing for escape.
Aoba does swoop in to save him eventually. Face stone cold with a bored expression as he interjects cleanly, knife cutting tone that slices between indifference and just that hint of thinly veiled customer annoyance.
Her attention shifts, a scary look of sudden interest in those eyes. Tiny, raven like, exceptionally beady. She pesters, prods to ask Aoba personal questions.
Aoba is lying blatantly through his teeth as he says, “Sorry Aunty. I have a girlfriend. I appreciate the offer.” This guy is far from being taken, Meru told Yuga in the car whilst the boy was asleep, that the boy before him is as single as someone can be.
Yuga narrowly avoids quirking an eyebrow at the shameless lie.
“Oh, what a shame.” Aunty Toshiko tuts as Yuga captures the sight of Aoba hosting a disgusted look. Nose wrinkled, gaze averted skyward and a clenched jaw. Damn, this guy really doesn't like the lady.
“Indeed. I bet your daughter is a wonderful person. Nice talking to you Aunty. Let’s go Haz-Aoba-kun.” Is what Aoba somehow manages to say, stringing Hazuru along with a frantic tug that somehow conveys the jumpiness in the boy's nerves.
“Oh if you really must.” She says and gee, Yuga can really see the blatant glower in Aoba’s eyes. He’s never seen himself so full of abject discomfort. It’s like watching a fish wriggle on a dry sea bank after it’s been yanked out of the ocean.
“Thanks for saving me.” Yuga whispers when they are out of earshot. Aoba spares a cautious glance back as they lose sight of Aunty Toshiko. Yuga is cradling the skin where he was pinched at the cheeks too many times, grimacing at the sensation and rubbing at the sore area. Ouch.
“Meru told me to.”
“Suggested actually.” The girl corrects, popping out from nowhere as she’s next to them, a plate in hand with a fork wedged in the middle of her toppling tower of fruit. She takes off soon afterwards, surprisingly agile, scampering off with a rushed excuse of being needed elsewhere.
So Aoba really did come out of his way to help Yuga? It was oddly generous of him, thoughtful even. Even if his methods of saving Yuga did bloom out of his blatant discomfort from the beady eyed lady. He watches as Aoba hesitates to choose from the selection of drinks. Carefully, Yuga plucks a drink from the table. “It’s apple cider, my favourite. Would you like to try?”
The boy nods slightly and Yuga feels the slight graze of their fingers come into contact from his hold to Aoba’s. He’s hesitantly sipping at it before the dark eyes become as large as saucers. The boy unconsciously hums, voicing his obvious pleasure at the taste and peering over the rim. "It’s incredible.”
It’s like Aoba’s reached an epiphany, a whole new revelation as the shock is a stark expression, a vivid colour of sheer wonder directed to the cup in hand. It makes Yuga amused.
“Apple’s my favourite fruit.” Yuga explains, smiling slightly. He’s seeking for a snack in sight, observing the station yet nothing's really sticking to him, well, nothing could really spark the same momentous discovery that Aoba’s struck of having apple cider in Yuga’s body.
He watches Aoba shuffle to the side. His hands delicately manoeuvre to a stray plate, taking a serving spatula in hand as three slices of perfect pink cake is deposited onto the porcelain tray. Aoba holds it out in offering. It’s really pretty. Beautiful even. The filling of the peach and mousse are so even they look painted on between the fluffy layers of the sponge cake. The exterior of it is equally beautiful, only an artisan’s eye for the impeccable could have created this. Yuga isn't a glutton, but wedding food is always delicious, much better than Natto. This one though, looks almost divine in a way.
He's surprised he’s missed it over his perusing.
“For you.” Aoba says. “This is my personal favourite. It’s a peach mouse and sponge cake.” Aoba explains. They walk back to the dining table so Yuga can properly appreciate the taste and it’s-
“Amazing!” Yuga marvels at the first bite. The flavour is delicate, practically manufactured to Aoba’s taste palate, nonetheless. He reckons it’ll taste good if he is to savour it in his own body. “You said it was your personal favourite, right? May I know the brand?”
“It’s actually home made.” Aoba admits. “Me and my mom baked it.”
“Really? It looks professional quality to me.” Yuga praises and he sees the way Aoba slightly squirms in his seat next to him. His cheeks pinken yet his face remains still, like painting on the rosy circles on a babushka doll. “I’m ashamed to admit that I was a bit disappointed when you said that. It’s a really great cake.”
Yuga shovels another slice in tow, and he feels like gluttony itself. The way his stomach continues to rumble in hunger even after he’s chucked two slices into his mouth and yeah, he understands why Aoba took the initiative to give him such a large amount. Trying to fill up his stomach is like trying to fill up a jug with water only using small cough syrup cups.
Then, Aoba asks to try it as well. Yuga watches the way Aoba bobs his head down when popping the fork into his mouth. “It tastes a bit different.” He murmurs, though it’s not out of discontent; rather this seems to be another shade of surprise. “It’s good, but it's also sweeter. The cream taste is enhanced in your body. The peach taste isn’t as strong. Still balanced though.”
They go back to enjoying their respective food in peace. Aoba is slightly chatty in a way that’s unexpected, not in the way that Kenshin likes to prattle and boast but a rambler. Oddly enough, it’s kind of relaxing. The way Aoba spares the occasional smile as they talk about their food is nice. They talk about things, simple things. Like how Yuga is also coincidentally invited to the wedding because of the bride being his younger when he was younger, or how the groom is Aoba's uncle. Something past the rush of the events before them. It's like wading in calm waters.
“Aoba, don’t look behind you, but I think that’s your Aunt. She has a girl with glasses next to her, around our age.” Yuga whispers.
“That’s her daughter.” He replies, horrified and shrinking back into the white cushioned chair. His eyes wary, flickering like small candles in the wind.
“They can’t see us. They’re walking away now.”
Aoba breathes a small sigh of relief.
“I really hate that lady.” He says with vehement disgust on his face. Hazuru would even go as far as to say it’s the most emotionally charged statement that he’s ever heard from the boy. “You’re lucky this time, but the moment she comes around again, be extremely careful. She’s hard to shake off. Especially when she brags about her daughter, you’re going to be subjected to a thousand comparisons before you can crawl back to the car.”
“How did you come to dislike her?” Hazuru tilts his head, curious. Personally he isn’t one for disliking people on such a visceral scale. Yet the way that Aoba says it, means it has to be somehow warranted. Especially if it sounds like that coming out of the boy’s mouth. Abject disgust, something that sours his face like he’s just bitten into a lemon.
Aoba pauses for a minute. Silent, unresponsive.
“She sucks.”
Yuga’s a bit taken aback. “Is that all?”
Aoba stares at him, eyes speaking to say ‘Hey, you wanted this.’ and before Yuga can utter the words that he doesn’t want to impose and doesn’t wanna press because it sounds like some dark revelation that’s going to come into light, Aoba lazily looks back, reciting the words like clockwork.
“She gave me four counts of diarrhoea that had sessions lasting from two hours to four because her baking sucks. She force fed me food that I didn’t like to the point of vomiting it all out and as a result of this, now she has a restraining order that my mom slapped onto her. Still doesn’t stop her from talking to me, and pinching my cheeks apparently.”
“...What the hell.”
Now what is he meant to respond with? ‘Cool beans bub?’ and then move onto the next topic? Offer a sympathetic shoulder? Well, at least Yuga knows now to steer clear from her.
“Restraining order?” Yuga echoes, intelligently yet again, yet it sounds more like a dumbfounded cough sparkling like a lighter at the back of his throat and shooting off at his vocal cords. Yet, Aoba looks faintly amused, face ticking up in this smug look that’s not quite petty satisfaction but also isn't one of derision. Like he finds humor in the situation at hand, or rather, Yuga’s reaction.
“Are you joking?” Yuga arches a brow.
Aoba shakes his head, face caught in a creased eye grin with his lips curling up, feline in nature. His hand shelters his mouth, and almost comes across as mocking, if not for the glint in those eyes, strangely deep despite it just being Aoba residing in his own body so it should be anything but. It’s an intense look.
“No. You just seem very dumbfounded. It is all true by the way. That’s why my mother lectured you about her, right? probably told you to ‘avoid her at all costs.’ or something like that.” He taps his chin, in thought.
“I do recall.”
“Oh well.” Aoba shrugs, casual, like he didn’t just drop something worrying to fret about. Aunty Toshiko, a walking criminal! “ Just beware that the lady’s a total nutjob if you are considering dating her daughter. My personal story aside.”
He tosses a glance over at Yuga, in that casual way that he does, careless yet decided. “I’m going to the balcony”
And Yuga follows him. It’s not out of a senseless obligation but merely out of some mundane desire. Something like curiosity.
The two boys weave between the hallways. They don’t get lost or stuck between the hallways. They climb up the spiral stairs of the establishment as Yuga observes the fuzzy warmth of the lights glow from the chandeliers above them. The hallways are paved with windows that are lazily pierced with coloured murals, casting fractures of a prism’s worth of colours on the cream walls next to them.
Aoba makes his way through the two glass doors, wedging them both open and fixing one in place before making a beeline for the balcony in sight. He's hanging his arms over the stone ledge that is thankfully clean. Long limbs, his limbs, cradles a bored hand in face. He stares out at the scene and Yuga does too.
“It’s rather beautiful.” Yuga says as he walks up beside; he means it. The colours in Aoba’s vision are more vivid than his own. Where Yuga’s eyes capture sharp details like the shutter of a camera; Aoba’s eyes hold a bright quality to them, emphasizing the pigments of the world and strengthening the depth of their hue. The clouds above them are like swirls of coffee foam. The orange shade washes away to the violet of the sky slowly swallowing the remains of day. It makes him relaxed watching the steady set, almost dazed as feels himself relaxing.
Aoba gives a noncommittal hum.
“Aoba.” He finds himself initiating. “You said something about seeing everything differently through my eyes. What do you think now? About being in my body, what are your thoughts on this situation? I never really got to hear your perspective in full.”
Aoba blinks back, mulling over the words.
The boy doesn’t respond at first, takes a moment to pause. Dark eyes still spinning, collecting nifty thoughts in that tactile mind of his.
“It’s different.” Aoba starts, his gaze continues to linger on the setting sun. The way it stretches its bright rays over the sky, searching for something. “Every detail is amplified. The texture of the clouds are… there but it feels like I can see them in perfect clarity. I mean, I do have perfect twenty twenty vision but this is different. The colours are more dulled, not by too much though, but everything's been amplified in terms of resolution. What about you Hazuru-san?”
It makes sense. Yuga does see the world at decent clarity under normal circumstances, but maybe he was taking it for granted before. Seeing small text on milk cartons from afar, catching details when observing matches a few dozen rows away. It really makes him think about the differences in their lives.
“Your vision is brighter. The colours are more vivid in shade and how you see motion surpasses mine. It’s weird but also, strangely…. Enlightening when I’m really just seeing the world in a different lens.” Yuga finds himself admitting. Literally putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. Residual feelings left over by the borrowed vessel, the interactions and the growth of their conversations.
Exchange. It’s not an alien manoeuvre. Far from synchronised but it’s at this bizarre state of equilibrium. Balanced and strange.
Aoba stares at him now, and Yuga stares back.
Yuga comes to the conclusion that Aoba stares a lot, thinks a lot. Minute pauses, microseconds of contemplation paced within those dark eyes that absorb so many things at once. They absorb the ambient light of the sunset, they absorb the pigments of the vivid world around them, and most importantly, Yuga’s focus.
“I think the same. I think there’s something strangely cool about being in someone’s body. Seeing something from your perspective is a bit weird, but it’s also something I’m happy I’m experiencing, even if it will get in the way of training from now on.”
“Me too.” Yuga says, honestly. He wholeheartedly agrees with Aoba’s words.
Aoba goes back to looking at the sun that’s now, little by little getting eaten away, devoured by the wake of night. Aoba doesn’t seem entranced, far from it. He stares at the clouds with a resigned look, unreadable, stoic in the way he usually is and slightly detached. He doesn’t call the quiet expression reserved nor calm, more like. Considering, yet there’s a glimpse of something else in there.
Something mysterious.
Yuga finds himself discovering that he doesn’t mind getting to know Aoba a little better as a person. Beyond their world of MMA.
Maybe, he’s even looking forward to it in a way.