Work Text:
Ikuto dreams of him, flesh–made and whole.
It comes in flashes of memory: two boys born into the fold of war, twin flames stoked in blood and rot. Where one goes the other will follow, clutching the hand of his other half.
He remembers: the feeling of their entangled fingers, their lungs aching as they ran, the dimple of Hajime’s cheek.
They grow older. There is little work in the aftermath of war and joining the Kamunabi is practically an inevitability. Ikuto learns more of his partner, adapting to his form and style, pairing their strengths together.
They excel at what they do—some of the best amongst the Kamunabi. Until two becomes five, becomes six—then the lightning comes and knocks them out of the sky.
He bears witness to it all.
Cloaked in the static emitted by Kuregumo, speed is no obstacle for Sojo Genichi. Ikuto’s comrades are dead before he knows he should be in mourning.
With his attention split, he can't see the attack before it is felt rocketing through his body and burning him alive. He hears screaming in the tones of his voice. His body feels light. He thinks he might be falling.
He thinks about Kiyohiko and Makoto and Shiyumi. He thinks about Kazane and Chihiro.
As he falls, he thinks about Hajime.
(In their youth, Hajime had kissed him, and it had felt like breathing for the first time.)
Ikuto wakes up and the Anti–Kuregumo Special Forces are dead.
In this Kamunabi–sponsored hospital, his days fall into a routine. Something in the side of his head gnaws at him, insistent and obtrusive. The nurses come in to change his blood soaked bandages from where he rips the stitches out as he sleeps. He feels pain in limbs that have long since shattered, mangled and rotten and torn off of his body.
He picks at food he doesn't deserve and sleeps knowing that his comrades lie cold underground. Kazane gives him Hajime's mask in silence. He holds it between his fingers and doesn't notice when the boy leaves the room.
Ten days have passed and it still smells like him. Ikuto doesn't know how long he stares at it, catatonic.
He falls asleep with the mask held close to his chest.
(“Don't get all in your head about it,” Hajime teased, but Ikuto could see the joy he wore bright on his face, the curve of his smile as it dipped under his mask. He was flushed and warm and alive, pressing into Ikuto like he couldn't bear to be apart from him. “That’s a promise from me, Hagiwara. I'll stay by your side until you die!”
Ikuto laughed.
“You promise?”)
His headaches worsen.
He replays the moment over and over. Remembers Hajime hauling him out of the water. Remembers his own hands covered in grit and gravel. He sees Hajime when he sleeps.
He thinks he hears Hajime when he's awake.
His doctor has stopped looking at him with pity, and started looking at him as if he's grown a second head. His hands itch until he shifts the iron sand from his clothes into the hulking form of another, winding and shadowy and trailing out of his partner's mask.
The mass pushes him to his feet. Steadies him when he can barely hold his own weight. Tells him to get his act together.
Walks and breathes just like he did.
Ikuto cannot recognise how he feels anymore. He kisses Hajime and ignores the feeling of oil spilling down his throat, constricting his lungs.