Work Text:
A better place would be nice, Shiba thinks often. Somewhere without rickety doors and the occasional bug or two. Overhead fans that don’t threaten to fall when set on the highest speed. Walls that aren’t slightly stained. But there’s really no point. They can’t settle anytime soon, and settling together is out of the question.
Still, Chihiro insists on cooking.
He can’t handle convenience store meals. Maybe he doesn’t mind when they find a promising lead and end up very busy, but too many days without proper food will have him throwing up all the contents of his stomach on the side of the road somewhere. It stresses Shiba out, so he makes sure they have time to rest every few days or so.
The small dining room already smells delicious; soy sauce and pan-fried chicken, accompanied by charred onions and fluffy eggs. There’s rice in a cooker Shiba bought at a cheap appliance store, with only a few minutes left. Chihiro opens the lid and pours some sort of seasoning liquid inside, mixing quickly before closing it again.
Watching Chihiro do these mundane, domestic things relaxes him. It’d be more sensible to use this spare time to take a hot bath, or at least sit more comfortably on the sofa some distance away, but Shiba doesn’t want to miss any of this. The sound of Chihiro moving from one end of the counter to another, his slipper-clad toes brushing softly against the textured tile, could lull him to sleep. He can feel his eyelids droop, but his ears are still alert enough to catch the splash of running water, the clatter of their meal being transferred from the pan to their respective plates.
It makes him feel like a normal man, living in a normal home.
“Shiba-san.” Chihiro gently touches his shoulder. “The food is ready.”
…He’d actually fallen asleep. The spread in front of him isn’t much: a simple bowl of chicken and eggs over rice, and a glass of half-chilled barley tea. There aren’t any side dishes, nor any dessert. Even Shiba, who can barely cook, is capable of making this dish. It’s nothing extraordinary, but because Chihiro made it, it’s special. Standing on his tired feet, working with his sore hands, portioning carefully so they’d both have enough to fill their hungry stomachs. Shiba’s the luckiest man in the world.
Since they’ll be staying here for the next while, Chihiro’s dressed comfortably. Grey sweatpants and a black crewneck. He always wears his combat trousers and heavy sweater no matter what, insisting it’s comfortable once he takes the coat off, though Shiba knows better. This change of scenery is doing him good.
“It looks great,” he compliments, waiting for Chihiro to sit down and pick up his utensils before digging in. “You’re like a Disney princess, except you talk to food, not animals.”
“I don’t talk to it,” Chihiro says dryly. “And none of that made sense.”
“You’re so proper.” Shiba laughs. “Guess that’s a good thing, huh? I didn’t turn you into a thug.”
Chihiro looks confused. “Were you trying to?”
“Not even slightly.”
Shiba likes what comes after, too. His hands are calloused and dry. A consequence of too many careless fights in his youth, and later, too many instances of standing inside cramped bathrooms, crouched down to wash blood off skin that no soap will ever truly cleanse. Chihiro’s hands, though, are soft. When Shiba catches sight of his palms, he sees a familiar landscape of texture from washing produce, forging metal, and wielding a katana. They may be stained with blood, too, but that stain will never match Shiba’s in size.
They gather the dishes, fingers brushing and wrists bumping. Mumbled apologies. At the sink, they stand side by side, working in tandem. Chihiro scrubs; Shiba rinses. Dish soap drips from the dinnerware, paired with the running water, creates a mountain of bubbles. Steadily rising, about to overflow. Make a mess of them both. Shiba collects water in a rinsed cup, pours it over. The bubbles dissipate, making way for steel again.
“Stop splashing water,” Chihiro scolds quietly.
“Sorry, boss.” Shiba puts the cup away.
They have a good rhythm going right now: sharing a space, eating at the same table, cleaning together. Nothing complicated. A simple life, lived by two simple people. It’s nice.
Chihiro has good posture, uncharacteristic of a boy his age. Most teenagers Shiba sees are slouched, their necks bent over smartphones and gaming consoles. Chihiro rarely uses his phone, and he never plays games. He prefers training to that, then reading books, then maybe sitting quietly and meditating. The leisure activities of a forever home-schooled boy.
Shiba’s tried, in the past, to get Chihiro interested in other things. No matter what he presented, Chihiro found it all boring or childish. Hilarious, considering he was a child himself, and a bit of a boring one, at that, too. Shiba’s long accepted that he’s a little odd.
Still, Chihiro’s shoulders fall at times. Usually, it’s from exhaustion. Today, it’s from something Shiba hasn't found a name for. He doesn’t like thinking about it because it makes a familiar sickness arise in the back of his throat, but he knows.
He can’t fully comprehend what’s happening inside Chihiro’s head, which is why he avoids addressing it. If he knew, he could do something about it. Probably. If he tries asking, Chihiro will only brush him off. He’ll say he’s tired, or dozing, or accidentally ended up zoning out. Never a proper answer.
Does Chihiro know how noticeable it is? When his expression falls and his eyes glaze over, does he know it seems like there’s more happening inside of him than he can handle? His grief leaks out of him, forms a shape, then looms over and weighs him down. A black hole that’s slowly been eating him up. He doesn’t know. Shiba’s sure of that.
Chihiro doesn’t think anything is wrong. He won’t stop to observe his thinking patterns—and even if he does, he won’t ask for help, or won’t know how. For that, Shiba’s probably a little grateful.
He doesn’t know how he would help in the first place.
It feels the same whenever Shiba gets a reminder.
A tightening in his chest, the air leaving his lungs all at once, something crawling up his trachea and homing itself there. The urge to lean over the toilet bowl and throw up his breakfast. A stinging in his nose. The beginning irritations of a headache.
There’s hastily wiped blood on the floor, smears left in the cracks between the tiles. A tiny drop by the sink. The box of waterproof bandaids tucked in the cabinet is open, the cardboard lid slightly torn.
Shiba checks the trash can: a dull, rusted razorblade, dripping crimson, wrapped in toilet paper.
He sags against the wall until he’s seated, elbows resting on his knees. This is what happens when feelings become too big to handle. He wishes there were some way to work through this.
Some way that won’t inspire Chihiro to do it while hiding better.
They have nice days, too.
It doesn’t take very long for the exhaustion to melt away when they eat well and sleep better than usual. The heaviness that’d been surrounding them both is all but gone, leaving behind a pleasant lightness. It’s a little sunny today, too.
Shiba’s watching an old cartoon on the tiny television in the corner, the cheerful voices of the characters filling the room with a nice ambiance. Chihiro’s seated on the floor some ways away, Enten laid across his lap.
Due to constant use, the hilt wrap’s began to fray at the edges, chafing Chihiro’s palms more than helping him grip. Slowly and methodically, he’s been undoing the damaged cord, discarding it in a pile before him. He has plenty of spares in a pretty, crisp black. His hands move in a neat motion; wrapping and knotting and folding. He leaves spaces for tiny triangles. It’s mindless work, but he looks to be in a good mood. That’s all Shiba can ask for, really.
Once he’s at the halfway point, nearly finished, he pauses. He brushes the pads of his fingers along the finely woven cord, lingering on the delicate patterns made by the thread. Fidgeting. Worrying his bottom lip. Wiggling his socked toes.
Shiba lets out a huff of laughter. “What’s up, kid? Forgot how to do it?”
Chihiro glances at him, then back quickly. “...No. I was just thinking.”
“Woah, that’s a big deal,” Shiba jokes. Chihiro turns just to glare at him. “Don’t mind me. What’re you thinking so hard about?”
He fidgets some more. It makes him seem terribly young.
“The cord,” he starts.
“The cord,” Shiba repeats.
…
“It’s black,” Chihiro says, finally. Then, before Shiba can reply with something snarky: “Like your eyes.”
…
“...Black is my favourite colour,” Chihiro adds after, shyly, the apples of his cheeks a sweet pink.
God.
Chihiro often hurts himself during training. It’s nothing new; nothing unusual. The necessary woes of any katana wielder: strained arms, blistered hands, chronic wrist pain. Shiba’s used to seeing it.
Thankfully, these woes have compensations that can be offered: ice, bandages, braces. Simple solutions for simple problems. Little things Chihiro allows his assistance in. Shiba enjoys it because these small acts of care are all Chihiro will accept before deciding it’s too much.
Though Chihiro also accepts because he somewhat knows how Shiba feels about it all. Being a guardian to a teenager is difficult, especially when that teenager is the beloved child of your deceased best friends. Like a broken kaleidoscope, turning this way and that way, the image of him, and the image of her, superimpose onto Chihiro. In Shiba’s mind, father and mother and child blend seamlessly into one; the raucous youth he can’t shake off, and the proper adult he’s failing to be.
Chihiro is a reminder of the most painful of things.
Shiba promised her first, on her deathbed: I’ll take care of them both; Shiba swore to him second, standing over his corpse: I’ll finish raising him safely. Shiba looks at Chihiro now, and the boy before him is neither taken care of, nor safe. His greatest failure, standing on feet that’ve become steady in his negligence, looking at him with eyes full of adoration and respect. When his time comes, he knows he’ll face the wrath of both mother and father. He deserves nothing else.
When Chihiro gets hurt in a way lacking a simple remedy, the world ends. There’s only a burning house in the distance, the stench of smoke and iron, the crying of a baby, a weak hand desperately grasping his own, and the taste of something sour on his tongue.
Training is one thing. It happens somewhere safe, under supervision. It’s between Chihiro, Enten, and whatever obstacle he’d managed to find for the day. There’s nothing dangerous lurking here or there, nothing to be afraid of. It’s simply honing a skill.
But you can’t properly wield a katana without gaining real world experience. You have to put yourself at risk, apply whatever you learned while training, and refrain from backing out. Chihiro thinks this is the only correct method, and he’s right about that. Shiba disagrees, and he’s wrong, because he’s terrified.
The gash on Chihiro’s upper arm looks like it’s spreading. The cut stretches, takes away chunks of flesh and tissue, reveals bone underneath. Shiba’s pupils shake, vision flickering, becoming spotty. Chihiro is on a futon, face drenched in tears, bleeding out from between his legs. He blinks. Chihiro is lying in the dirt, unrecognizable, a mangled mess of blood and gore. It feels like everything is Shiba’s fault. He arrived too late, or he didn’t take precautions, or he looked the other way a second too long.
It’s directionless, his life. Throughout the years, he’s turned Chihiro into a compass. Whichever way the needle points, he goes. If Chihiro dies, what’s left over? What does Shiba have?
Does he even have the right to have Chihiro?
A broken whimper, followed by a tug on his shirt. “Shiba-san…” Chihiro calls out weakly, lips trembling.
Shiba quickly wraps his arm. When Chihiro sniffles, he pulls him close, holds him tight.
He doesn’t know what else to do.
“It’s not your fault, Shiba-san,” Chihiro says quietly, voice hoarse. “I wanted to go in there. I knew I’d get hurt.”
On the futon, Shiba’s hand lies palm up, Chihiro’s placed on top. Chihiro rubs the pad of his index finger back and forth, as if to comfort. Shiba closes his hand, ceasing the movement.
He has nothing to say.
The silence makes Chihiro uneasy and disappointed. It’s in the air, and still, he’s expecting too much. Shiba can’t give him anything. Won’t. Once that line’s erased, there’ll be no way to put it back. He’s no longer one for risks.
Chihiro’s nose stings: Shiba’s hand isn't closed all the way.