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It’s one of the rare occasions that they ever come across each other. There Abe Haruaki stands, under the roof of a department store to shield himself from the sudden downpour, and here Kurai is, dropping his latest casual one-night stand off right across the street.
Concurrently, their eyes meet, vermillion clashes against claret.
It shouldn’t have mattered; they are simply acquaintances through truce reached after strife, never allowed to become more, but the very instant the knowledge that the last person he wishes to witness his dalliance happens to does such transpired, overwhelming guilt and shame freezes Kurai to his core. The Dodomeki has thought he could properly face Haruaki, that he is simply an ordinary human teacher at Hyakki Academy, and Kurai would also be an average individual whose existence would eventually fade and evanish through time, but it seems that he has underestimated the haunting of his desperation.
It would be easy to regard the human teacher with apathy like how strangers brush past each other and drive away, to return to his quarter to wash all the unsightlyness that lingers on his visage, and to call it a day, but at the heavy rain that shows no sign of ceasing and in the night old as sin, Kurai thinks against feigning unfamiliarity.
He would hate himself for this, the Dodomeki mulls, yet, walks out from his car with an opened umbrella in his hand.
It’s inexplicable that Haruaki always appears out of place, unfitting in front of a tiny store with malfunctioned LEDs and hurried passing crowds, but of a realm more sacred and celestial. He is folding his arms before his chest, one hand hooking a nylon bag with his lithe fingers, making himself humbler in a far corner where the roof extends. Kurai doesn’t dare to let his gaze lock on those eyes of refulgent vesper more than a second, lest being scorched and damned. Instead, he slightly tilts the umbrella towards Haruaki when the human notices his presence within the vicinity.
“Oh, Kurai-san. Good evening.”
It seems that although having espied the philanderer’s fling and being slightly taken aback that the Dodomeki willingly approaches him, Haruaki is unfailingly polite and treats him with no disgust. This benevolence of his is something Kurai tries to resent but fails every time.
“Good evening to you too, Abe-sensei.” Discarding the privilege of enunciating the name that he would never be able to utter with any less fondness, Kurai opts for standard courtesy, “It looks like you can use a ride home.”
The human teacher smiles, bashful when he peeks from his fallen bangs, “Oh, if only it’s convenient for you. I don’t want to intrude.”
“Why be so formal now? You didn’t seem to be bothered when tagging me along, putting both our lives on the line to save your students before.”
“Excuse you, that was an emergency!” Haruaki fumes with his typical girlish voice; Kurai silently adores the tantrum, “Today is your day off and the weather isn’t very auspicious, I deem you would rather blithely stay out of trouble.”
“What a surprise. You can realize you are trouble yourself, Abe-sensei?”
“Ugh, even when offering aid, you are such a meanie.”
“So, are you coming or not?”
Haruaki narrows his eyes as he assesses his options, pouting, and scoots closer to the Dodomeki so his clothes won’t get dampened by the rain. Kurai ignores the slight collywobbles in his stomach at the faintest scent of honey, strawberry and a hint of jasmine as well as the notion that the human teacher is a hair-breadth away from bumping his shoulder.
Only until both of them are settled inside his car does Kurai realize how thick the perfume of his latest liaison is.
“Sorry for the smell.”
Haruaki shakes his head, securing the seatbelt over him.
While the Dodomeki is grateful that the other party makes no comment about the perfume nor he evinces any distaste, surreptitiously and traitorously, a small fraction of his soul wishes Haruaki would at least mind. However exiguous it could be, irritation is better than apathy, after all.
To keep awkardness at bay, their banter is light-hearted and trivial, of the businesses they have been on, of travelled places, of encountered company, of tales told and lessons learned, of friends and family and all that jazz but never them alone. Because Haruaki is kind, he lets them dance on thin ice, gracefully endearing himself to the world with silly stories and charming smiles whilst Kurai just wants to break the glacier surface. And yet, because Haruaki is so, so kind, he doesn’t give Kurai any chance to talk about what they could have been instead of what they are by touching the jewel on his finger from time to time despite seeing the bleeding heart on the Dodomeki’s sleeve.
If the human teacher decries that Kurai is immersing himself too deep in envisionment, he hums an elusive tune and rivets his gaze on the road ahead because someone couldn’t even think for both their sakes. And Kurai is simply there, in a place where he no longer feels belonged.
It’s not unlike being drowned where his senses are as though clogged by thick and dense molasses, rendered dull and numb while life flashes before his eyes. Like a sense of déjà vu, except, it’s not. It’s just Takahashi Kurai’s life going on before his eyes as he sits from the furthest row to be a passive audience and cedes his role as the main character to a more deserving muse.
To be on that stage, it can be none other than Abe Haruaki whose brilliance is worthy of all love, eulogy and the standing ovation.
Kurai’s first impression of this particular man wasn’t very close to enticement at all – regardless of the obligation of investigating and countermeasuring the human teacher due to possible threats he poses, Haruaki is too ungainly and meek, barely vivider than shadows of passersby reflected on lens of his glasses, and too little of what the Dodomeki would invest any personal interest in.
Now, the private immoral part that he would like it to stay buried for good begs to differ from the depth of its grave, because from the moment he takes the first bite of the most sacchariferous fruit, Kurai knows his esurience shall never be sated.
It’s a trance how easily and wholeheartedly he falls for those vermillion eyes and euphonious giggles, how he starts to see them in the rising auroras and eclipsing eventides, in the auburn and mahogany of changing seasons, in the intoxication of burgundy and haziness of ember smouldering in sooty husk, and even after years of denying and eschewing, Kurai finds himself trapped in that trance still.
Takahashi Haruaki, what a fitting name. Kurai has imagined he and the human teacher would brandish the new label as well as the matching gold bands on their hands at every given chance, like being each other’s is their most prideful boast. He imagines some people would put up a front of jest or envy, then ultimately cheer for their beatitude for slotting so perfectly into one another’s life. And Haruaki would flush a lovely red, but laughing mirthfully all the same as he ensconced himself in the arms of his beloved.
In the end though, fate ridicules him because when Kurai finally manages to free himself from that artful trance, he realizes it’s not déjà vu that he is addled with; it’s reality, an alternate, twisted, and unerring reality.
Haruaki is exactly what Kurai envisions him to be, bearing his family’s appellation, gorgeous in white, smiling ever beatifically, but Kurai himself isn't the one who adorns such a mirthful smile on Haruaki’s lips.
It’s someone who he relentlessly despises the fact that they are tied by blood, Takahashi Akira.
Of course, Kurai hates his brother for many things, but never has he ever abhorred the youkai doctor so gravely that his entirety, his flesh and bones are poisoned by utmost rancor, so ragingly and rousingly that it mercilessly rips his skies and earth apart, so vitriolically that it ruins both of them.
“I’m sorry,” Kurai says, trying to make the sound audible, “For, well, all the stupid things I did.”
Haruaki slowly turns to him, unblinking, and replies softly.
“It’s fine, Kurai-san. I didn’t harbor any ill feelings towards you.”
The Dodomeki realizes Haruaki doesn’t directly address his question, carefully skirting around it. Maybe it’s better that way, because it would mean that the indentation Kurai left on him is still uncured and festering; maybe it’s worse that way, because it would mean that Kurai has no place left in Haruaki’s life and mind.
“That girl just now, is she your special someone?”
Haruaki breaks the silence this time with a topic Kurai has been vehemently praying to not be discussed. He forces himself to speak, nonetheless.
“No, just a one-night stand.”
“Oh, is that so…,” there’s a ghostly tinge of regret in the voice that trails off, “Well, I hope you can find that someone soon.”
Kurai wants to laugh.
As much as he is kind, Haruaki is his martyrdom manifested – cruel for not knowing countless nights Kurai has fantasized the faces of strangers as Haruaki’s, for wishing Kurai to find happiness with someone else that isn’t Haruaki, for feigning ignorance to the deed that Kurai has stolen a kiss from lips that should have only shared such intimacy with his husband’s, and for regarding the sensation which is paradise to Kurai with unconcealed horror and avoidance.
The Dodomeki wants to laugh, to spit profanity on the bestowed blessing, to declare that no, if he isn’t saved by Abe Haruaki, he would rather corrupt himself with unrestrained dalliances and debauchery than agreeing with evanescence of vermillion and rising sun, of springtide and unbridled gaiety, of the most seraphic smile and most beautiful soul, of what once cherished above everything. And followed by such display of audacity, Kurai would gladly stay vile and sinful if it meant to erase all the distance between them by collecting the man sitting so far away in his arms, carding his fingers through downy ebony locks, kiss him senselessly and deprive him of clothes, air and any thought that isn’t him.
Kurai inhales, glancing to his side.
Concurrently, their eyes meet, claret clashes against vermillion.
“Thank you,” is what he finally says despite himself.
Haruaki hums in response, gaze pinning elsewhere, “I know you are not very eager but come visit us if you have time. We are your family, are we not?”
Kurai makes a sound akin to a dry laughter, finally tired of refuting the truth.
“Indeed, we are.”
For the rest of that ride, they stay placidly quiet while the ruminative tempests never slip out from their tongue.