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There are some days when Kubota decides time is slower. These are the days when it's so hot, too hot to properly sleep, and he lies awake, stretched out on rumpled sheets, and watches sunlight play across the window over the bed. The heat makes everything that happens in the semi-darkness something like a dream; the air is thick like liquid, like every movement meets resistance, and it's impossible to breathe without feeling as if you may drown. On this afternoon, the curtains blot out most of the glaring sunlight and a fan stirs the air over his head; he blows a thin stream of lazy smoke into its path, and then reaches up and carefully tips the ash of his cigarette onto the windowsill beside the fan. Above him, the smoke eddies and flows, moving like waves. In this thick drowning-air, Tokitoh can sleep, and he curls away from Kubota, his hair splayed over Kubota's shoulder. Kubota hums softly to himself and watches the ceiling, his fingers combing through Tokitoh's bath-damp hair, and Tokitoh's breath is warm against the inside of his arm.
When Tokitoh is awake, he is loud and vivid and sharp, glaring and impatient. He is real and exasperated--I'm here, Kubo-chan--and angry but real, and Kubota does things to him like ruffle his hair or kiss the back of his neck, just to get that indignant squawk, that punch to the shoulder that sometimes actually hurts. When he is awake, he is insistent and impossible to ignore. When he is asleep, he touches and reaches out and allows himself be touched, and is, again, impossible to ignore. He aligns himself against Kubota and does not complain if Kubota aligns himself back. Kubota can breathe Tokitoh's smell and touch Tokitoh's glove, lightly trace the lines of knuckle and nail, and Tokitoh does not jerk his hand away.
After Kubota's cigarette has burned to nothing and he has put it on the windowsill beside a pile of ashes, he does not sleep. His fingers twist gently through Tokitoh's hair, and when he looks, it is like he holds shadows or ink in his hand. He reaches over and draws his nails across the nape of Tokitoh's neck, traces the bumps of spine. Tokitoh shivers in his sleep, but he does not shift or wake and swat Kubota's hand away, and so he does not stop. He lightly draws the outlines of flowers over Tokitoh's bare skin--peonies and anemones and chrysanthemums, folds of petal and stem--his fingers sliding over ribs and that curve to the small of Tokitoh's back, and his fingers come away with sweat on their tips. He feels himself smile, and his pulse booms in his ears. Somewhere on the street below, glass breaks, and a siren sounds from far away.
And there are some nights when time jerks into high-speed, lurching along like a train without brakes. These are the nights after summer's heat has loosed its hold and winter claws at the edges of everything, and the wind cuts like a lucid, vicious thing. These are the nights when things happen, and they are real and bloody, steaming in the cold. These are the nights when Kou calls Kubota and asks him for a favor, and Kubota accepts because he knows Kou wouldn't ask if he didn't mean it, and Kou asks because he knows Kubota won't refuse.
So Kubota has a job.
It is a night where everything is sharp and brittle and crystal-clear, and Tokitoh scowls so hard it looks like it hurts, bitching that I don't have anything to eat for dinner, and Honestly, Kubo-chan, you're gonna get caught in snow or something, and Kubota finally set off from Kou's after the sun was well-set, stamping his feet against the cold, a small box in hand. 'Be careful,' Kou says, and so Kubota knows that it's one of those jobs, one of the ones that isn't going to turn out well, no matter what, because Kou may tell him many interesting things before sending him on an errand, but it is never to Be careful. He lets out a resigned sound and starts across the city to the pickup, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. The smoke fills his lungs and he thinks that he's a little warmer.
So Kubota thinks of smoke and Tokitoh and red flowers and wishes it is spring. Spring means sun and maybe summer and heat, and Tokitoh will complain and flop around the apartment, dropping meaningful comments about how maybe they need an air conditioner that works, but Tokitoh in spring is happy, because spring is not winter. In the winter, Tokitoh has nightmares that he wakes from clutching at Kubota's hands so hard that they could could break. Kubota watches Tokitoh's face when he wakes from a nightmare, sees those wild, darting eyes, feel Tokitoh's rigid body against his own, and he can only hold Tokitoh and wait for him to really, really wake up.
He reaches the building--a huge abandoned warehouse, looming high and dark over his head--and he steps gently over the pile of crumbled sheet metal in the doorway and says quietly into the empty darkness, 'Pardon my intrusion.' The air is empty and cold and burns the back of his throat like ice, and silence and a faint echo greets him. He watches the condensation from his breath fade, and as he takes his cigarette from his mouth, the burning ember of its tip traces an afterimage before him. There is a set of creaking metal steps to his left, stinking of rust, and first he drops the last of his cigarette onto the bottom step, and then he climbs them, his footsteps echoing endlessly around him. They hear him coming--who wouldn't?--and so they are ready for him when he finally clears the landing and steps into slatted moonlight, his long coat rustling against his knees.
There are four of them, all sprawled on top of dusty wooden boxes, leering from the shadows cast across their faces: unshaven, gaunt, heavy, stupid. Unprofessional compared to Kou's usual clientele, utterly regrettable idiots. Maybe. Kubota nods to them, dipping his head because he can see how rigid their affected stances are, how fake their bravado. When he raises his head, he is smiling 'Well,' he says, and he shows his teeth in this smile, because he remembers that one only shows one's teeth when one intends to kill.
'There's been a change of plans,' barks one, and he stands, his fingers twitching at his sides. The others nervously pull themselves through moonlight shadows to their feet, making affirmative noises and trying to look dangerous. Their leader draws himself up, cocking his head to the side. 'You can just leave that there with us. We'll take good care of it. We appreciate the delivery service,' he sneers. His hands open and close, and he crams them in his pockets with a rattle of change and rings.
Kubota lets his eyes move up the ladder of shadows between them and raises his eyes to look the man in his shadowed, dirty face. He smiles at him and nods again. 'Excuse me,' he says, and turns back to the stairwell.
There is a dry snick from behind him, and pounding footsteps as one of them rushes at his back with a knife, which Kubota is expecting, but the man is quick, which he isn't. His arm is bleeding from a grazing cut before he rams his elbow into the man's face, bone snapping as he drives the blow home. The man makes a sound of shock, and the whites of his eyes show glistening and bright as the moonlight falls over his face. Kubota flicks his fingers out and snatches at the knife's handle, the blade's thin edge against his thumb, and he whirls, his coat flaring like wings behind him. The other men are yelling as their comrade goes down, and the second does not have time to draw his gun before Kubota shoves his friend's knife into his soft throat. Blood pours over Kubota's hand as the man gasps and vomits dark blood, his trembling hands going to cup the ragged edges of the wound. His hands are slick and hot, and Kubota pulls his fingers from the knife's handle and the man's desperate grasp with an audible, wet sound. Kubota shoves the man away and he falls heavily to the floor, making sounds like he is sobbing and choking; Kubota wipes his hand on his jacket as he reaches for his gun with the other, and fires, holding Kou's package snugly against his side. The sound rings like a crashing bell in the empty building, bouncing endlessly from steel rafter to steel rafter, and the splatter of blood and thicker things is lost in the din. The last two men are staring at him, stupid and silent and frozen in their blocks of cool light, and so he shoots again, and one collapses, screaming as he moves to clutch his ruined kneecap. Before the man's full weight hits the floor, Kubota fires a third time, and the screaming stops amidst the thunder.
And then there is one. He has a gun in his shaking hands, an old revolver that looks as though it hasn't shot a thing in ten years, and tears stream down his cheeks, slick and wet in the moon's thin light that stripes his face in cool grey and black. Gunsmoke hangs heavy in the cold air, reeking and sharp and eddying through shafts of light to mix with the man's panting breath. He looks at Kubota and his mouth twists and forms a word that could have been a curse, and the revolver's spring creaks in the silence.
Kubota looks at him and smiles.
When Kubota walks into the warmth and soft light of Kou's shop, Tokitoh starts yelling. Kou gives an elegant, apologetic shrug, and Kubota can smell the tea in the air, mingling with the odd, spicy scents from Kou's shelves. He can imagine Tokitoh drinking furious cup after furious cup, and he smiles, handing Kou his battered package. 'I got some blood on it,' he explains, and Kou waves a hand and steps away to stow the box. Tokitoh hisses at him that he shouldn't be smiling when he's covered in blood and please stop ignoring him, and Kubota smiles at him, too, without showing his teeth, and says he is doing nothing of the kind.
And that's when Tokitoh notices his arm and yells, 'Kubo-chan,' in a desperate, exasperated sort of way and tugs him by his other sleeve to Kou's counter and demands that Kou do something. And after Kou has sent Kubota to the back to clean up, Tokitoh follows and watches, glaring ferociously as Kubota sheds his bloody jacket. Tokitoh sits on a stool and kicks his feet, grumbling under his breath, and Kubota gently removes his button-up shirt, teasing it away from the wound. He wets a cloth and wipes at the blood splattered across his neck and cheeks, and after he cleans his glasses he blinks at Tokitoh through them and splashes a little water his way. Tokitoh bristles and snaps, 'Don't be stupid.'
Kubota peers under the washcloth at the knife wound. 'Okay,' he says, even though he can see Tokitoh from the corner of his eye, squirming in his seat like he has something else to say. Kubota drops his shirt in the sink and plugs the drain. When he turns on the water, Tokitoh clears his throat impatiently, and Kubota turns and leans against the sink. 'Yes, Tokitoh?' he says softly, and Tokitoh blushes and looks away. In the soft light, his neck is pink, and his hands grip the edge of the seat so hard that his knuckles are white.
There is a very long pause. 'Don't be stupid,' Tokitoh mutters, glaring at the floor through his flush. When Kubota says nothing, he raises his eyes and scowls meaningfully at Kubota's hand where it holds a blood-stained washcloth against a wound.
'Okay,' Kubota says again, and smiles. Tokitoh's nose twitches, and his eyebrows lower a little more. He opens his mouth to say something, and then Kou slips through the curtain from the other room, a roll of bandages in his hand. Tokitoh snaps his mouth shut and turns red again, and he jumps to his feet and storms his way through the doorway, the curtain flaring in his wake. Kou gives him a mild look as he steps aside, his robe rippling in a fall of cream and rose-red, but Tokitoh doesn't look up. When Tokitoh has gone, Kou turns to Kubota's arm and says nothing. He bandages the shallow cut and offers to replace Kubota's shirt, but Kubota shakes his head and says it's fine.
As Kubota is wringing out his shirt, Kou says, 'He arrived shortly after you left.'
Kubota folds his damp shirt over his arm and reaches for his coat from where it is draped over a chair, flaked blood lying on the floor beneath it. He pulls it on over his bare skin and smiles at Kou. 'Thank you,' he says, dipping his head as he buttons his coat closed. Kou gives him a mild look and a small bow, and Kubota ducks through the curtain to the front of the shop. Tokitoh is slinking around in the shadows of the shelves, eying jars and hanging herbs, and he jumps guiltily when Kubota stops beside him.
Outside, the moon is clear and shining like crystal, a round pearl in the sea of night. Kubota lights a cigarette and exhales smoke at the chiming stars, and the air is cold and close against his bare collarbones. He walks with his hands in his pockets, his neck craned up, and Tokitoh's steps echo beside him. Tokitoh is jittery and noisy, blowing clouds of condensation before himself and muttering about cold and snow. Once, his teeth chattering, he asks Kubota what the hell, isn't he cold? Kubota smiles and tips the ash of his cigarette and says, 'I'm not,' and it takes until he reaches over and slides his hand against the nape of Tokitoh's neck and beneath the neckline of his jacket and shirt to touch warm skin for Tokitoh to snort and call him weird, but he does not jerk away.
The next day, Tokitoh makes faces and pointed comments until Kubota agrees to stay home with him, and Kubota sips coffee and Tokitoh plays video games all morning as the web of frost on the windows melts a little in the sun. After the heat kicks in, the apartment isn't miserably cold anymore, and Tokitoh stops complaining. Kasai visits, and he messes with Tokitoh, banters and ruffles hair, and he mentions that he heard weird rumors about gang activity in the area, and Kubota nods politely and asks is that so. Eventually, Tokitoh ignores their conversation, and once he wanders away to poke at his paused game, Kasai gives Kubota a look like oh my god you poor fuck, what are you doing, and when he leaves, things are quiet again. Kubota is sprawled on the couch, smoking thoughtfully in the direction of the ceiling, and Tokitoh is curled up on the couch beside Kubota, a blanket tucked up under his nose.
'Stupid Kubo-chan,' he mutters into the blanket. 'You should have taken me with you.'
Kubota smiles around his cigarette and doesn't reply.