Work Text:
For as long as he could remember, he'd been the butt of cruel jokes and on the receiving end of pranks only found funny to the giver. Whether it was because of his e-pulse or because of his status as the prodigial artist, or because people simply didn't like how out of place he was compared to themselves, it always ended the same way. A rumor starts, spreading across campus. Girls give him disgusted or amused looks. Boys bump into his shoulder hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground. His desk is covered in marker. A vase of flowers sits on it every morning and no one says where it came from.
The class representative only gasps and apologizes but tells him to put it back on the window sill and not to dwell. His classmates don't bother to hide their giggles as he scrubs hard to clean the marker off his desk. He's left almost alone to clean the classroom by himself, accompanied by his Sapotama who tells him he feels unwell, that he might need to talk to someone, that they are health lines to contact should he continue to feel like a waste of space and energy. Bruises accumulate under his clothes. He learns how to put on foundation and brace for impact. If they can't see you tremble, they won't keep slamming their foot down into your stomach until you cough up bile.
Apathy is easier to control. Easier to hold the reigns of. People leave you alone if you seem unapproachable. The world moves on whether or not you decide to move along with it for that is the way of life, no matter who you are or what family you were born into. Learn to not give them a reaction. Learn to shove your fear deep down under until it's barely recognizable to you anymore. Learn to suppress, and you will live a long and filling life, health center lines be damned.
But, that emotion needs to go somewhere—needs to be released somehow, or else it will rot you from the inside out, decaying all that you are and ever will be. Fear will turn to anger that transforms into white hot fury stabbing into your core, always at the ready to burst into flames that eat away at your heart until nothing but ash remains.
And oh, does it explode so beautifully—hot and wild and ready to destroy because that is all it is good for—destruction and terror and nothing more, and nothing less. It boils in his blood until it bubbles to the surface in an explosion of anger so potent that the temperature of the air drops and Tomoro is left dazed, boneless as he crumples in on himself.
Too much was what Glowing Dawn had once said. Too much. Too much. You need to tone it down. He needs to reel everything in less his adoptive family become exasperated with his ever growing issues, with him once more pouring all that hot white fury into his e-pulse and letting it go wild.
Supress. Supress. Supress. Supress.
Makoto doesn't deserve your snarky comments. Reina doesn't need your apathetic attitude. Kyo would do well without your tantrums. Gekkomon will be happy when you don't flood him with your negativity.
Supress it. Do your best to keep yourself in line. Control yourself. Be the bigger person. Hold onto that fury and let it melt you from the inside out, never letting go until you've become consumed by the grief of what had once been.
No one ever tells you what it feels like when you're bursting at the seams, ready to unravel and become chaos itself. It is an itch he cannot scratch deep under his skin. It is a feeling he cannot decipher wriggling about like a parasite within his organs. Learn to control your emotions they tell him, ignoring the way blisters grow and pop from his feelings, sending showers of stabbing hot anger into anyone unfortunate enough to stick around for him to implode, chaos bursting from every seam on his skin until he is nothing but a dangling puppet free for the masses to use however they deem fit. Free to be mocked.
To be judged. To be treated as lesser than dirt because he had done what they asked and had abided by their rules and yet still—they shun him, cast him out, say that he misunderstood while never taking responsibility for the being they created.
With fury for blood, he is a walking bomb that ticks down to doomsday, always on the verge, tipping near the edge, just close enough to be handled as fragile but far enough that he cannot break as they intend him to, steeled in indifference that cracks into pieces only when it can be shot at with enough precise aim. His brother. The guilt of hurting another human being. Being cradled by warmth that he had since lost the access to.
Watching the mirror of himself with all the self righteous fury that he claws at to keep at bay only for it to continuously bubble to the surface, for him to hold out a hand and propose for both their sakes a solution that rids them of their limitations, that places them in shoes that fit them for once, never too loose or too tight, that lets the world fall apart and get swallowed up by the very fury it was adamant on stomping out for good.
He, who lets Tomoro feel without reprucssions, who laughs in the face of unbridled chaos and stares him down without a hint of hesitation even while Tomoro's light is blinding, encompassing with feelings he didn't know he could have, feelings he'd buried underneath a layer of indifference to keep himself afloat, to remain unaffected, to be safe in a world that was intent on violating him down to his core.
Raito truly brings out the worst in him, the absolute hideousness he's tried to keep at bay, dragging it out with well timed quips about how awful he is at one thing or another and playing badminton with his emotions that still throw even Tomoro himself for a loop. Crying over the idea of Raito leaving. His stomach twisting itself into knots at the thought of anyone in Glowing Dawn finding out where Tomoro really gets his bruises from, why he often stumbles and shambles about, every part of his body aching in memory of Raito tackling him to the ground, kicking him across the roof until he crashes into the shallow water below, dodging his flimsy blows until Tomoro puts more power into them, grazing his cheek and making him stumble, crashing back down to earth.
When the idea of sparring had first been introduced, there were stakes that presented themselves—the ultimate prize to entice Tomoro into accepting without a single doubt in his mind—and all Raito had to do was promise. All he had to do was give Tomoro one of those lopsided smiles of his and go—"one win, and I'll stay with you for the whole day." And it hadn't even been the week, or forever, or until the ends of time, but it was something. It was something after days and days of never seeing him since he'd shook sense into Tomoro and Klay was gone for good and Mummymon's hypnosis left a sour, curdled taste in Tomoro's mouth that had the world pressing down on his shoulders, solved only by watching Raito fall to the ground from his newly learned leg sweep only for the boy to counter by flipping into a handstand, his foot smacking right into Tomoro's chin and sending him careening off course.
The heavy ache that settled in the swell of his bruise only furthered Tomoro's increasingly bad habits, made him press his hand against it until it felt ready to burst from the nerve endings alight with pain and the suffering, the discomfort, the feeling of something all to his own has Tomoro drunk, the only explanation, on grasping it and never letting go. Torn knuckles. Split lips. Bruised sides. Aching jaws and broken noses. His chest feels ready to burst at the seams, his arms too small to gather up all that leaks out and spills all over.
And Raito never leaves things unsettled. A debt is a debt. Justice is justice. Repayment is only as is when it is given for the right amount of reasons. Tomoro stands his ground unyielding in the face of someone who can end him in a million different ways and Raito's hands burn against his skin and his eyes bore into Tomoro's very soul and even when soaking wet, leaning on each other on the submerged apartment building, legs dangling from the edge, Raito takes an odd amount of time to wrap Tomoro's hands while pressing down on the torn knuckles until Tomoro feels them erupt into flames.
They don't speak. They almost never do. Actions are better than words. Tomoro cannot begin to comprehend what is bursting from the center of his chest and he thinks, perhaps, neither can Raito, who tilts Tomoro's hand back and back and back until the risk of seeing the bone puncture through his skin is bubbling under the surface. Then, and only then, does he let go, wiping at his mouth, the blood on his own hands a stark contrast to his olive peach skin.
The cuts that are scattered across him are even more so. Scrapes from sliding across rubble. Tears from grabbing onto rusty metal railings. Their hearts beat in sync, a rhythm of control that Tomoro's never been able to keep in check, always spiraling into disarray but here and now, his tempo is still, the beat steady, and he can breathe when he couldn't do so before.
Rhamphomon's shadow flies above them, the sound of their wings flapping in the air echoing in his ears as the clouds disperse from the wind. "You're leaving?" Tomoro can't help it when he voices his thoughts, tilting his head as he wipes at his nose, smelling the rich scent of iron that sticks to him glue. "I thought we were just taking a break."
"You're soaking wet," Raito responds as he stands to his feet, placing his fingers in his mouth to whistle, standing at the edge of the roof, wind ruffling his hair chaotically without a bandanna to keep it in check. "Keep going and you'll get a cold, loser," he snorts as Rhamphomon's shadow comes back, their back claws landing on the roof edge, digging into the cement.
He throws his leg over his digimon's back, sliding across to sit comfortably on top, both hands placed on the back of Rhamphomon's neck for balance. "Besides, I gave you a souvenir that will last ya a while, if you don't put ice on it." His chin throbs at the reminder, each movement of his jaw sending sharp stabs of pain throughout his face.
Tomoro rubs at it, pressing his fingers into the fat of his cheeks and dragging them down, digging his blunted nails in until he can feel the bone. "I didn't give you one," he grouses under his breath as Raito shakes his head to get his hair out of his eyes.
"Huh?" He squints. "Ya say a word, Four Eyes?"
His accent is the thickest it's been since. Words and phrases smush together and roll off his tongue with ease. "I said, don't be a fucking stranger," Tomoro utters out the lie without hesitation, trying to catalogue all of the bruises Raito had on his person. The swell of his cheek from Tomoro slamming his foot into it. Handprints on his wrists from being grabbed and pinned. It's nothing compared to the swelling on his jaw, the splatter of purple and blue against his abdomen that resembled the explosion of a star—a perfect match to the boy who gave it to him, swinging his leg so fast that Tomoro flew across the roof, bouncing and rolling like a ragdoll.
A miracle his head hadn't cracked open when he crashed into the water, coughing and spluttering while the salt stung at him like a video game character taking damage from being poisoned as the journey went on.
"Fuck off," Raito sneers at him, holding up his middle finger as Rhamphomon pushes off the roof, causing the edge he'd been on to crumble into pieces. "I'll do whatever the hell I want and right now, what I want is to get away from you. Rhamphomon!"
The wind picks up as they burst into the air, dissolving the clouds in their way, and Tomoro keeps his eyes on them until they become a speck of purple in the distance.
Beneath his feet, the building shakes as the water bubbles and bursts before Armalizamon comes shooting from the depths, tail slashing at the air. "Tomoro!" He chirps, claws slamming down onto the roof as he leans forward. "Are you done? Are you? Can we go home now?"
Jaw aching, and the feeling of his blood rushing in his ears, Tomoro clambers up on top of the giant lizard-dinosaur. "Sure," he mutters as he digs into his pocket, feeling his body sway as Armalizamon pushes himself away from the submerged building and starts to walk off.
His fingers brush against cottony fabric before curling tight as he buries his face into Armalizamon's scales and feels his head spin.