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( soft laughter well practiced in wending its way through the slightly less soft cough, harumasa's posture remains relaxed, his hip pressed into the counter, arms lightly folded as he watches the larger cat and much smaller cat interact. the way it lets lighter manhandle it as such does bespeak a certain curiosity and affection, or at least not outright dislike. it had taken a while for it to warm up to harumasa, who isn't hurt by the much quicker warmth here. that's how it is for resocializing of any creature; the first is the hardest.
what comes after, at least for a while, is usually easier.
despite boiling water earlier, he foregoes it, the faint tremble in his body a kind of warning he's learned to listen to if he can, when he can.
the side lighter dropped the cat on depresses under its lightfooted path in circles, making indentations on the neatly lain covers, tugging a snagged paw free as if it meant to do that, only to whip around endearingly at the trail of harumasa's fingertip along its side. it butts its head against his pale knuckles and his smile changes: somehow younger, fond and a moment far away. then it's his usual smile as he peers up at lighter, having sat down on that same side of the bed.
with his free hand he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. )
That's your side β
( an alert comes through on his phone, and the then slighted feline leaps down and disappears.
the sigh from harumasa is more dramatic than it needs to be. )
β or take the whole thing, something's up.
( as he stands, he thinks he makes it natural: the clap of his hand to lighter's arm as if to say "all yours". if it steadies him on his way back out to what serves as the common area of this little unit, well, a bonus. he closes the door behind him with a cutesy wave and a "good night mr. mercenary".
truth: the alert is not work, not technically. also truth: he didn't think this through. his apartment really isn't equipped for this, but oh well. he settles on the couch, leaning up to flip his laptop open for the look of it, then leans back again, breaths shuddering through him a little cold, a little both dry and wet. closing his eyes gives a bit of relief, and he decides that thinking of how warm lighter felt in proximity is a silly if accurate observation.
he finds himself wondering what brought lighter out here anyway. maybe some work with the proxy? certainly not just for a convenience store pit stop. there's sometimes this sense about the undefeated champion: the way a person's years and experiences manifest in their presence even when they're not telling you anything about themselves. ah. it doesn't matter. probably. i'm just tired.
not meaning to fall asleep usually leads to just that. even being in a separate room likely wouldn't hide night terrors from someone like lighter but it is what it is. he'll play it off if he needs to.
[ "Something" is right. it's always, "Something." ]
Yeah, sure. [ his diffidence has rusted over in his throat, only clapped slightly loose by the hand to his arm, one, and the click of the door, two. ] 'Night.
[ distracted, he doesn't think to turn the light off.
there's this dance that they have that's still at work here, he thinks, falling back onto his shoulders against the height of the pillows at the sparse headboard of harumasa's bed. not the elegant adage only remembered by grainy video nowadays, or the light footfalls across the glaring iron wetness of the arena floors, just enough to take a hit, just enough to deal one. the cat returns as his thoughts roll over one another as the thunder rolls outside the window, and lighter spends untold minutes combing rough fingers through its fur.
neither of those things are what this is, but there are echoes of it even when no one's there to witness it. feints and passes, things meant to move a person along to the next stage, round, or act before they linger too long, looking at the current one. that's always been his lot, hurtling forward towards whatever's next. sleep, morning, parting ways. really, whatever.
but that's the problem with people like them, even when he's pretending like there isn't one. they're always looking. too far, too deep.
lighter is deathly afraid of missing something he shouldn't.
which is why he thinks he dozes there for minutes maybe, atop the covers with the cat's steps marking little paths across the mattress as if looking for something. at least until he hears something from beyond the bedroom's threshold, just loud enough to sheer that scant brush with sleep. he pauses, strains his ears, eyes already aching — but the rain slicks down too hard, its pattering gusting against windows. there's a strange familiarity to it, waiting for something he knows will happen.
so, he gets up. making eye contact with the cat, he lifts a finger to his lips. ]
Stay here, alright?
[ will it listen? who knows, but he's nothing if not a man who tries.
with that, he eases the bedroom door open and stares into the living room, gaze shifting from the now dormant laptop's screen to the couch. ]
( the dream isn't always the same. it's just that there are always things in it that are the same. for example: it's always raining. for example: he never gets through to anyone. for example: a fate worse than death.
on the table next to the laptop: a camera, a half open envelope of developed photographs. he'd meant to go through them...was it the other day? close to that. assorted subjects: belle and wise waving and beckoning respectively, miyabi and yanagi with the fond exasperation in the latter and unreadable gentleness in the former, soukaku who came up a little too close to fast but it's cute anyway, birds in flight, the catch of light on the water, an undefeated champion mid murder of another lollipop, so on and so forth. inside the table, in a drawer most people don't notice: medicine. not so bitter, or just as bitter and he's used to it by now. if asked, he'd say he prefers the photos and maybe he would also laugh.
in the dream, of course, no one asks. 'he' has become not himself, in their eyes before it happens. and then it happens. and then β
β confusion. it's raining outside too, for real. bloodless hand twisted in his shirt, waking is always like escaping drowning by a hairsbreadth. or less. everything hurts, and he tells himself not to panic. those first few instances where he cannot quite see must be mitigated by certainly being able to hear the storm, hear his own rattling breaths which instinctively he tries to quiet, with minimal success. so blindly he reaches, a habit well honed but he's shaking; he manages to open the drawer but can't quite grasp the little bottle of pills. it drops and he hears them scatter. )
[ there's something funny about the way people are drawn to what they're not supposed to see. lighter's had that well beaten out of him — he's had to focus on the sight of blood, bone, and bruise for so long that he no longer feels any inclination to look. that was the rule. don't look at the audience. don't remember that you exist. what that left was a hollowed out vision of the things he was meant to destroy; nothing more and nothing less than a means to an end he thought he would never come anyway. so it stands to reason that this bloodless, boneless, bruiseless affliction captures his attention, dim but unshielded, no longer afforded that little bit of cowardice.
he wants to live, but can't. the man's breathing echoes in his ears, so different from the rattle of death that he knows. it's the shaking of someone desperate to live, instead. lighter sighs, the noise of it just loud enough to announce his presence in this moment barely on the cusp of a nightmare. he steps into the living room, footfalls heavier than necessary, a quiet whuff of fabric and skin marking his kneel beside the couch. warmth runs off him, cutting through the ozone of the storm.
and it's not to touch or to look but to sweep up the pills in fingertips too nimble and deft to cause half the destruction they have, depositing most back into the bottle save the two he motions for harumasa to take. his other is already reaching for a glass of water. ]
I'm no expert, [ lighter says, all gritty neutrality warmed by the way his blood runs. ] but I'd think a bed would be more comfortable for this sort of thing.
( sometimes, lighter lorenz makes asaba harumasa laugh. sometimes, he makes him think. and sometimes, he makes him quietly quietly quietly...something he hasn't got a word for. it's not as grossly simple as sadness or even as offensive as pity. curiosity? surely. but that alone does not explain the handfuls of photographs where the undefeated champion features in such a soft seen light, whether alone or with the proxy or one of the fellow sons of calydon.
their reciprocal business relationship would have been enough reason to accept the rainy call, but it isn't that either.
so. what?
despite a glib tongue, things like 'it doesn't matter' are for use strictly in dire situations where the only thing he can do to try and make someone feel better is shapeshift into something as flighty but kindhearted as the wind he's decided to chase. until he can't anymore. until he can feel nothing, see nothing. until. so he doesn't drag himself upright to accept the pills with such a statement.
instead, unsurprised but dismayed as a shaking arm fails to push himself up after all, shoulders rigid as his dreams, he huffs and strains and ...
...laughs. a little. it becomes coughing, and the pills in lighter's hand remain un-taken so far. harumasa's smile doesn't somehow bely the physical duress his body experiences; a permeating softness inside the struggle.
eyes downcast, lashes dark from how wet they are, he covers his mouth so his voice comes out muffled, as if in a small small cavern for secrets only. )
Honestly...
( inhale. exhale. inhale. shuddering exhale. )
... hate to raise my tab but...can you...
( again, he tries to push himself to an upright position. sometimes when it gets bad like this, his body won't listen to him. he said "honestly" to lighter and he was. is. asking for help. though he generally tries not to. but the other honestly rests as a tightrope walker on a heartstring: honestly? i'm scared. another rattling breath gets drowned by the uptic in the storm outside, and a four-footed friend re-emerges from the bedroom, not to grace lighter or harumasa with her touch but rather to slink past and disappear into some of the apartment's shadows, chasing something people can't see or hear as often is the case for her at such a small hour. )
[ harumasa has never allowed him guilt for the dichotomy of their situations on the scant and brief occasions that it comes up. in the end, the truth of it is this: harumasa has his life, and lighter has his life. to whatever end, however slow or fast that end might come to meet them, those things cannot be changed. they can be compared, but only so much. realism on his part, optimism on harumasa's. lighter can't completely scrub his heart of its natural remorse, the emotion too burned into its chambers, but he can temper it. as he has tempered most things, no matter how deep the memories run.
even without guilt, lighter hesitates to touch him, hands nimble in an animalistic way but always fighting for human gentleness.
not that he's ever forgotten gentleness, but the way he learned it was never whole.
he places the pills down on the table, aslant from the photographs, watching them long enough to make sure they don't roll before easing up to his feet. he takes a seat on the edge of the couch, near harumasa's legs, back craning slightly as he leans over. one arm slips beneath the slender breadth of his shoulders, fitting entirety around his back as he pushes upwards rather than pulls. gentler this way, he thinks. he hopes. he tries. ]
Up you go. Just let me know when you're ready.
[ for what, he doesn't specify. the pills. for him to let go. or not to let go.
and if that overworked backbone of his decides against harumasa's wishes, well. at least he'll be there at the front too. for whatever it's worth to him in that moment of glaring intersection, between cold and fire, between the softened flint of frustration and the whetstone of fright.
lighter frowns, the expression too honest on his face before he can consciously control it — harumasa is cold, even drenched in sweat. ]
( lighter touches in a way harumasa associates with someone both intimately familiar with touch and also estranged from it. considering his experiences, that would track; but it's not quite so simple. nothing with people ever is. but to harumasa it's enough that he understands, that he doesn't make him say it all out loud since he's not sure he could, that when he moves forward to help him harumasa can feel the warmth of his hands that makes him shiver and the strength of them too, all interwoven with something as gentle as a flicker of light touching the backs of closed eyes. kindness? humanity?
fear?
words happen at a slower speed, drowned in harumasa's affliction in a way that makes it seem as if he is hearing him, even this close, from deep underwater. but he sees that moment, that look on lighter's face that somehow makes him seem incredibly soft looking to harumasa who, despite the near violent shaking of his hand, reaches up to slide a cold palm and fingers along lighter's jaw, then a bit up, thumb drawing a smooth line under one star-shorn eye.
he smiles and it's at odds with the physical collapse of his body, because it's the same smile he has when he's fine; because β
β he is fine.
another stroll through the gates of hell and back. because he wants to. everything is worth it; he had decided that a long time ago; because if everything isn't, then nothing is and someone who wants to live so badly can't afford to think otherwise. some people might not believe him if they knew the truth of his condition and harumasa knows that too. his brightness makes many things seem like lies.
funny though. he's never particularly felt disbelieved by present company.
it's too hard to keep his hand raised after all, so light fingers drag down the side of lighter's face, his jaw, his neck, try to anchor at his shoulder, and can't. a soft laugh. )
Ha...ah...mmm. Now...now's fine. Don't worry.
( whether 26 or 260, most of the time people die beyond their choosing. this makes asaba harumasa more similar to ordinary people than he ever imagined. is it growing up? is it discovering things about his master? is it the man holding him who slips into harumasa's failing lungs like leather worn sun or late night fire. he's freezing but somehow has stopped feeling it, almost dizzily warm in his head even as lighter will feel the faint tremors in his body persist.
i did try to warn you, he thinks drily, and then, most dangerously of all a thought gently buried: how it's nice to not be alone, even if no one else should have to deal with him like this. he'd rather take sick leave all over the place, be considered a flake and even a bad employee hired by favoritism, than expose people to this aspect of his reality, especially to this degree. which begs the question why did he cave tonight, already knowing he wasn't doing well?
he can use the excuse of lighter even asking, but of course that's not just it.
when harumasa was little, there was a time when he waited for someone to come back, a luxury one can only have if one has had someone there. ah. has he gotten so used to working with lighter, with running into him in the square, with...that...
hm.
fortunately or not, his own coughing derails his thoughts, but without thinking at all, the tension and release in harumasa's body like some broken bow, has him leaning in more. you're here, he thinks, though he's known it for nearly an hour now, having brought the man in himself. just a bigger stray. and it's enough of a fond feeling more than a thought that harumasa's pale lips smile again. )
[ familiarity is a thing not often considered until one stands on the precipice of losing it. lighter knows too well what hindsight is and how it affords good vision. some days, he doesn't even have that, play as he might about it. at odds with himself, his eye flinches beneath the gentle path of harumasa's thumb, but his weight cants into his palm as if he can instead anchor the airy drift of it with the warm height of his cheek, a stray in so many instinctual parts. at least until his touch disappears over the divot of his shoulder, its intent obscured by worrying faintness. like a tide without the mooring of gravity, the trembling way it rolls in and out.
lighter can't fight this battle for him. his heart might have tasted the the blackened bitterness of his own betrayal, but his body burns strong as his means of atoning for it. if not with fists and fire, then with blood and bone, the currency of people left with no other recourse. physical strength does nothing against the clutch of illness.
but he has learned in slow, wary increments. in having freedom, lawless as it is. to be close.
after the way the roar of the crowd has imprinted itself on his soul, he doesn't think he could hold up the way harumasa has held up, the esteem of the new capital riding on his shoulders — shoulders that seem so fragile against the curve of his arm. yet somehow, it suits him. if lighter never has to be in the public's eye again, he would prefer it, a creature more suited to stalking along an underbelly in support of a cause. an honor that prowls, that metes powerful coincidences.
so, then... as harumasa draws close to him, making him fight to not be too aware of it, to not imagine gratefulness where it might not be... are these quiet shadows cast long and stormy against the walls of an apartment no one will ever know he visited perfect for him to do something stupid in?
the thought flashes in his mind, momentarily flooding his nerves with anxiety, feverish and white hot.
again, a simple dichotomy. he's here. ]
Hey, first of all... [ lighter takes a deep breath, shoulders sloping and rolling as a prompt for harumasa to easier put his arms over them. ] I'm not worried.
[ a lie. ]
And second of all, I'm going to ask for forgiveness before I ask for permission. Fair warning.
[ because harumasa is a cop and could make his life extraordinarily difficult in a way that won't actually have repercussions, and lighter likely wouldn't even blame him if he did, but he's going to Make A Decision even when he's usually so loathe to do so. as if cupping rough hands around a small fluttering to keep it safe from its own influence. ]
Turn a little this way. [ he shifts harumasa aside, the dogtags around his neck clattering softly against skin. ] And relax.
[ one arm tightens around his back and the other slips low beneath his knees. in one easy hoist, lighter pulls harumasa against his chest and picks him up from the couch. he pauses, clears his throat, and steps around to head back towards the bedroom. ]
( the lie makes harumasa laugh, a mistake because it's always bound to become a struggling cough in his current state; the smile doesn't wane though, the faintest shrug to narrow shoulders as he does his best to accommodate the direction. well. half. "relax" is a grain of salt they both understand as well as something like "trust me", like "i'm not worried", like "i'm fine". like.
and harumasa does like him.
useful. amusing. kind whether he knows it or not. some people carry a sense of some kind of fight even when they stand with their posture relaxed and their head canted as if considering the weather and nothing more. the red scarf sometimes catches harumasa's eye, when they are outside, and the flicker thrush of it in the wind is like a flame no matter the hour. he doesn't need the shadowed ghosts of lighter's details to know they are there, but he also already knows perhaps more than most.
nosey.
but if lighter had a real problem with that, he wouldn't be here, right?
well. hard to say with kind people.
he feels very light, held and lifted, and it is almost like he's not fully tethered to his body. if he couldn't feel lighter's contrasting body heat, it would be more cause for worry; but he can. so, shivering, he finds tiredness betrays him and his head falls, face sort of pressed at the juncture of lighter's neck and shoulder. it's a bit of a strain to keep his arms looped up around as he is, but it also lets him stay close; lets him stay.
forgiveness? permission? some of harumasa's stuttering little breaths tickle near the clattered dogtags. )
Ha...do you...really think I'd nitpick my midnight hero?
( yes he would. if he was feeling more up to it.
it's also deep past midnight, but never mind.
he breathes. slowly. so slowly. but he breathes.
one hand ends up curled more at lighter's nape, harumasa's thumb again with the back and forth motion. it's unconscious this time, but maybe instinct really is a thing. like with the smaller stray darting past them right through the champion's legs. for a champion fighter, sometimes harumasa feels like he can all but taste the nerves coming off of him. even now, being so deliberate. maybe his touch means nothing. that's alright. maybe it would be easy too to dismiss as incidental. just holding onto what he can hold onto; who.
wind whispering around a tenacious, flame that, sometimes, seems to whisper back.
fair warning.
harumasa's eyes close again though he's still conscious. yeah.
Yes. [ lighter answers instantly, voice flattened and dry, the husk of the warm desert native in his throat. ] The fact that you aren't is almost worse.
[ but he's not worried, remember.
it's simply because he's got an observant streak, a thing cultivated in him as a means of survival when there were opponents out there bigger, meaner, stronger, and far more connected than him out there. that's what he'll say, anyway. lighter has learned to look, even when it scares him. he's learned to sense enough to fray his nerves at the ends from overuse, all char and grit, burning the wick at both ends — enough to count the seconds between harumasa's breaths puffing weakly against his skin, to note any lulls, stutters that seem out of place. too quickly and too openly, he's making that cadence familiar. a decision insomuch as a touch of fear makes decisions.
losing is the hard part about familiarity. the part that made lighter decide that he was never going to lose again, so long as he's also still breathing.
not that such conviction always rides on grandiose declarations; rather, it's in the way his skin heats beneath the absent rub of harumasa's thumb. like a bone-deep obedience to something gentle, more pronounced for its long absence. lighter fights a sigh, half because it'll jostle his precious cargo, half because he shouldn't need to take that deep of a breath to center himself better.
he's really done it, he thinks. the tips of his ears are hot too.
locked in as he is, he manages to watch his step with the stray skittering underfoot now that all parties are in the bedroom again. he really is quite stable on his feet, hip checks aside. it jumps up onto the bed ahead of them, tail giving a curious curl. ]
Better be careful down there, [ lighter warns, levity haloing his tone of voice. ] if either of us takes a topple, there goes your meal ticket.
[ brusque, his "threat" well-meaning. leaning down at the bedside, lighter lowers harumasa into a seat against the mattress, the arm beneath his knees sliding loose first. his other, the one around his back, is much slower to retract, suddenly unsure of losing contact.
it's only fair. that's what the dull pang of the wound beneath the bandage on his forehead tells him.
lighter mirrors the earlier concern, the curled flats of his knuckles brushing beneath harumasa's bangs at his temple, sourcing that cold sweat, how severe it is. ]
( a normal cold on harumasa looks significantly worse than it would on your average person. this isn't even that, but it might resemble such. fever complete with cold sweat and tremors that never seem to stop. but lighter's touch only has him wearily opening his eyes and smiling rather brighter than the slowness would suggest. )
Ah...thanks...for not worryingβ
( he interrupts himself with coughs that take a little time to subside, only to bleed into a soft laugh. )
I guess I owe you one.
( there's no excuse for reaching up to touch the back of lighter's hand, nor to holding it in a way that lets him lean into the palm. if lighter wants to stop him, he certainly can; if lighter doesn't want to stop him, well, that's fine too. it's less about feeling relief from warmth but rather grounded by human touch. real. alive. here.
still here.
when harumasa was no more than a boy who still had a penchant for strawberry cake and his master's approval, he was even more shameless.
terrifying, in its own right.
even when he lets go it's not because he's having mercy or decorum; it's because he's shaking too badly, so it falls to the side. ah. someone like himself shouldn't even daydream about these things, much less do anything about them; but maybe it can't be helped. asaba harumasa β wind chaser. impossible possible things.
the smaller stray makes a piteous sound. it's not too different from "food?" but it is different even so, punctuated by how it slinks closer and lets its tail drag around harumasa's arm and wrist. much like lighter perhaps: not worried. but you know. present. a witness. who happens to help. not worried at all. but strays always give themselves away. it's probably true of harumasa too to a degree, despite his worldclass lying license. but with sorts like lighter and the quadruped cat, it's even more so. harumasa doubts they could stop caring even if they wanted to; even if they still do, sometimes. but loss is a thing you carry or it crushes you, and if it's the former it wends its away into everything else: you know how it is to not-have because you know what it is to have. sun or rain.
"not worrying" that is fingers to the temple, or a sort of secret laugh layered in soft coughing: i'm glad it's you. not really intelligible, but the sentiment persists. so: sun despite the rain. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
what comes after, at least for a while, is usually easier.
despite boiling water earlier, he foregoes it, the faint tremble in his body a kind of warning he's learned to listen to if he can, when he can.
the side lighter dropped the cat on depresses under its lightfooted path in circles, making indentations on the neatly lain covers, tugging a snagged paw free as if it meant to do that, only to whip around endearingly at the trail of harumasa's fingertip along its side. it butts its head against his pale knuckles and his smile changes: somehow younger, fond and a moment far away. then it's his usual smile as he peers up at lighter, having sat down on that same side of the bed.
with his free hand he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. )
That's your side β
( an alert comes through on his phone, and the then slighted feline leaps down and disappears.
the sigh from harumasa is more dramatic than it needs to be. )
β or take the whole thing, something's up.
( as he stands, he thinks he makes it natural: the clap of his hand to lighter's arm as if to say "all yours". if it steadies him on his way back out to what serves as the common area of this little unit, well, a bonus. he closes the door behind him with a cutesy wave and a "good night mr. mercenary".
truth: the alert is not work, not technically. also truth: he didn't think this through. his apartment really isn't equipped for this, but oh well. he settles on the couch, leaning up to flip his laptop open for the look of it, then leans back again, breaths shuddering through him a little cold, a little both dry and wet. closing his eyes gives a bit of relief, and he decides that thinking of how warm lighter felt in proximity is a silly if accurate observation.
he finds himself wondering what brought lighter out here anyway. maybe some work with the proxy? certainly not just for a convenience store pit stop. there's sometimes this sense about the undefeated champion: the way a person's years and experiences manifest in their presence even when they're not telling you anything about themselves. ah. it doesn't matter. probably. i'm just tired.
not meaning to fall asleep usually leads to just that. even being in a separate room likely wouldn't hide night terrors from someone like lighter but it is what it is. he'll play it off if he needs to.
with a smile. )
no subject
Yeah, sure. [ his diffidence has rusted over in his throat, only clapped slightly loose by the hand to his arm, one, and the click of the door, two. ] 'Night.
[ distracted, he doesn't think to turn the light off.
there's this dance that they have that's still at work here, he thinks, falling back onto his shoulders against the height of the pillows at the sparse headboard of harumasa's bed. not the elegant adage only remembered by grainy video nowadays, or the light footfalls across the glaring iron wetness of the arena floors, just enough to take a hit, just enough to deal one. the cat returns as his thoughts roll over one another as the thunder rolls outside the window, and lighter spends untold minutes combing rough fingers through its fur.
neither of those things are what this is, but there are echoes of it even when no one's there to witness it. feints and passes, things meant to move a person along to the next stage, round, or act before they linger too long, looking at the current one. that's always been his lot, hurtling forward towards whatever's next. sleep, morning, parting ways. really, whatever.
but that's the problem with people like them, even when he's pretending like there isn't one. they're always looking. too far, too deep.
lighter is deathly afraid of missing something he shouldn't.
which is why he thinks he dozes there for minutes maybe, atop the covers with the cat's steps marking little paths across the mattress as if looking for something. at least until he hears something from beyond the bedroom's threshold, just loud enough to sheer that scant brush with sleep. he pauses, strains his ears, eyes already aching — but the rain slicks down too hard, its pattering gusting against windows. there's a strange familiarity to it, waiting for something he knows will happen.
so, he gets up. making eye contact with the cat, he lifts a finger to his lips. ]
Stay here, alright?
[ will it listen? who knows, but he's nothing if not a man who tries.
with that, he eases the bedroom door open and stares into the living room, gaze shifting from the now dormant laptop's screen to the couch. ]
no subject
on the table next to the laptop: a camera, a half open envelope of developed photographs. he'd meant to go through them...was it the other day? close to that. assorted subjects: belle and wise waving and beckoning respectively, miyabi and yanagi with the fond exasperation in the latter and unreadable gentleness in the former, soukaku who came up a little too close to fast but it's cute anyway, birds in flight, the catch of light on the water, an undefeated champion mid murder of another lollipop, so on and so forth. inside the table, in a drawer most people don't notice: medicine. not so bitter, or just as bitter and he's used to it by now. if asked, he'd say he prefers the photos and maybe he would also laugh.
in the dream, of course, no one asks. 'he' has become not himself, in their eyes before it happens. and then it happens. and then β
β confusion. it's raining outside too, for real. bloodless hand twisted in his shirt, waking is always like escaping drowning by a hairsbreadth. or less. everything hurts, and he tells himself not to panic. those first few instances where he cannot quite see must be mitigated by certainly being able to hear the storm, hear his own rattling breaths which instinctively he tries to quiet, with minimal success. so blindly he reaches, a habit well honed but he's shaking; he manages to open the drawer but can't quite grasp the little bottle of pills. it drops and he hears them scatter. )
no subject
he wants to live, but can't. the man's breathing echoes in his ears, so different from the rattle of death that he knows. it's the shaking of someone desperate to live, instead. lighter sighs, the noise of it just loud enough to announce his presence in this moment barely on the cusp of a nightmare. he steps into the living room, footfalls heavier than necessary, a quiet whuff of fabric and skin marking his kneel beside the couch. warmth runs off him, cutting through the ozone of the storm.
and it's not to touch or to look but to sweep up the pills in fingertips too nimble and deft to cause half the destruction they have, depositing most back into the bottle save the two he motions for harumasa to take. his other is already reaching for a glass of water. ]
I'm no expert, [ lighter says, all gritty neutrality warmed by the way his blood runs. ] but I'd think a bed would be more comfortable for this sort of thing.
no subject
their reciprocal business relationship would have been enough reason to accept the rainy call, but it isn't that either.
so. what?
despite a glib tongue, things like 'it doesn't matter' are for use strictly in dire situations where the only thing he can do to try and make someone feel better is shapeshift into something as flighty but kindhearted as the wind he's decided to chase. until he can't anymore. until he can feel nothing, see nothing. until. so he doesn't drag himself upright to accept the pills with such a statement.
instead, unsurprised but dismayed as a shaking arm fails to push himself up after all, shoulders rigid as his dreams, he huffs and strains and ...
...laughs. a little. it becomes coughing, and the pills in lighter's hand remain un-taken so far. harumasa's smile doesn't somehow bely the physical duress his body experiences; a permeating softness inside the struggle.
eyes downcast, lashes dark from how wet they are, he covers his mouth so his voice comes out muffled, as if in a small small cavern for secrets only. )
Honestly...
( inhale. exhale. inhale. shuddering exhale. )
... hate to raise my tab but...can you...
( again, he tries to push himself to an upright position. sometimes when it gets bad like this, his body won't listen to him. he said "honestly" to lighter and he was. is. asking for help. though he generally tries not to. but the other honestly rests as a tightrope walker on a heartstring: honestly? i'm scared. another rattling breath gets drowned by the uptic in the storm outside, and a four-footed friend re-emerges from the bedroom, not to grace lighter or harumasa with her touch but rather to slink past and disappear into some of the apartment's shadows, chasing something people can't see or hear as often is the case for her at such a small hour. )
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[ harumasa has never allowed him guilt for the dichotomy of their situations on the scant and brief occasions that it comes up. in the end, the truth of it is this: harumasa has his life, and lighter has his life. to whatever end, however slow or fast that end might come to meet them, those things cannot be changed. they can be compared, but only so much. realism on his part, optimism on harumasa's. lighter can't completely scrub his heart of its natural remorse, the emotion too burned into its chambers, but he can temper it. as he has tempered most things, no matter how deep the memories run.
even without guilt, lighter hesitates to touch him, hands nimble in an animalistic way but always fighting for human gentleness.
not that he's ever forgotten gentleness, but the way he learned it was never whole.
he places the pills down on the table, aslant from the photographs, watching them long enough to make sure they don't roll before easing up to his feet. he takes a seat on the edge of the couch, near harumasa's legs, back craning slightly as he leans over. one arm slips beneath the slender breadth of his shoulders, fitting entirety around his back as he pushes upwards rather than pulls. gentler this way, he thinks. he hopes. he tries. ]
Up you go. Just let me know when you're ready.
[ for what, he doesn't specify. the pills. for him to let go. or not to let go.
and if that overworked backbone of his decides against harumasa's wishes, well. at least he'll be there at the front too. for whatever it's worth to him in that moment of glaring intersection, between cold and fire, between the softened flint of frustration and the whetstone of fright.
lighter frowns, the expression too honest on his face before he can consciously control it — harumasa is cold, even drenched in sweat. ]
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fear?
words happen at a slower speed, drowned in harumasa's affliction in a way that makes it seem as if he is hearing him, even this close, from deep underwater. but he sees that moment, that look on lighter's face that somehow makes him seem incredibly soft looking to harumasa who, despite the near violent shaking of his hand, reaches up to slide a cold palm and fingers along lighter's jaw, then a bit up, thumb drawing a smooth line under one star-shorn eye.
he smiles and it's at odds with the physical collapse of his body, because it's the same smile he has when he's fine; because β
β he is fine.
another stroll through the gates of hell and back. because he wants to. everything is worth it; he had decided that a long time ago; because if everything isn't, then nothing is and someone who wants to live so badly can't afford to think otherwise. some people might not believe him if they knew the truth of his condition and harumasa knows that too. his brightness makes many things seem like lies.
funny though. he's never particularly felt disbelieved by present company.
it's too hard to keep his hand raised after all, so light fingers drag down the side of lighter's face, his jaw, his neck, try to anchor at his shoulder, and can't. a soft laugh. )
Ha...ah...mmm. Now...now's fine. Don't worry.
( whether 26 or 260, most of the time people die beyond their choosing. this makes asaba harumasa more similar to ordinary people than he ever imagined. is it growing up? is it discovering things about his master? is it the man holding him who slips into harumasa's failing lungs like leather worn sun or late night fire. he's freezing but somehow has stopped feeling it, almost dizzily warm in his head even as lighter will feel the faint tremors in his body persist.
i did try to warn you, he thinks drily, and then, most dangerously of all a thought gently buried: how it's nice to not be alone, even if no one else should have to deal with him like this. he'd rather take sick leave all over the place, be considered a flake and even a bad employee hired by favoritism, than expose people to this aspect of his reality, especially to this degree. which begs the question why did he cave tonight, already knowing he wasn't doing well?
he can use the excuse of lighter even asking, but of course that's not just it.
when harumasa was little, there was a time when he waited for someone to come back, a luxury one can only have if one has had someone there. ah. has he gotten so used to working with lighter, with running into him in the square, with...that...
hm.
fortunately or not, his own coughing derails his thoughts, but without thinking at all, the tension and release in harumasa's body like some broken bow, has him leaning in more. you're here, he thinks, though he's known it for nearly an hour now, having brought the man in himself. just a bigger stray. and it's enough of a fond feeling more than a thought that harumasa's pale lips smile again. )
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lighter can't fight this battle for him. his heart might have tasted the the blackened bitterness of his own betrayal, but his body burns strong as his means of atoning for it. if not with fists and fire, then with blood and bone, the currency of people left with no other recourse. physical strength does nothing against the clutch of illness.
but he has learned in slow, wary increments. in having freedom, lawless as it is. to be close.
after the way the roar of the crowd has imprinted itself on his soul, he doesn't think he could hold up the way harumasa has held up, the esteem of the new capital riding on his shoulders — shoulders that seem so fragile against the curve of his arm. yet somehow, it suits him. if lighter never has to be in the public's eye again, he would prefer it, a creature more suited to stalking along an underbelly in support of a cause. an honor that prowls, that metes powerful coincidences.
so, then... as harumasa draws close to him, making him fight to not be too aware of it, to not imagine gratefulness where it might not be... are these quiet shadows cast long and stormy against the walls of an apartment no one will ever know he visited perfect for him to do something stupid in?
the thought flashes in his mind, momentarily flooding his nerves with anxiety, feverish and white hot.
again, a simple dichotomy. he's here. ]
Hey, first of all... [ lighter takes a deep breath, shoulders sloping and rolling as a prompt for harumasa to easier put his arms over them. ] I'm not worried.
[ a lie. ]
And second of all, I'm going to ask for forgiveness before I ask for permission. Fair warning.
[ because harumasa is a cop and could make his life extraordinarily difficult in a way that won't actually have repercussions, and lighter likely wouldn't even blame him if he did, but he's going to Make A Decision even when he's usually so loathe to do so. as if cupping rough hands around a small fluttering to keep it safe from its own influence. ]
Turn a little this way. [ he shifts harumasa aside, the dogtags around his neck clattering softly against skin. ] And relax.
[ one arm tightens around his back and the other slips low beneath his knees. in one easy hoist, lighter pulls harumasa against his chest and picks him up from the couch. he pauses, clears his throat, and steps around to head back towards the bedroom. ]
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and harumasa does like him.
useful. amusing. kind whether he knows it or not. some people carry a sense of some kind of fight even when they stand with their posture relaxed and their head canted as if considering the weather and nothing more. the red scarf sometimes catches harumasa's eye, when they are outside, and the flicker thrush of it in the wind is like a flame no matter the hour. he doesn't need the shadowed ghosts of lighter's details to know they are there, but he also already knows perhaps more than most.
nosey.
but if lighter had a real problem with that, he wouldn't be here, right?
well. hard to say with kind people.
he feels very light, held and lifted, and it is almost like he's not fully tethered to his body. if he couldn't feel lighter's contrasting body heat, it would be more cause for worry; but he can. so, shivering, he finds tiredness betrays him and his head falls, face sort of pressed at the juncture of lighter's neck and shoulder. it's a bit of a strain to keep his arms looped up around as he is, but it also lets him stay close; lets him stay.
forgiveness? permission? some of harumasa's stuttering little breaths tickle near the clattered dogtags. )
Ha...do you...really think I'd nitpick my midnight hero?
( yes he would. if he was feeling more up to it.
it's also deep past midnight, but never mind.
he breathes. slowly. so slowly. but he breathes.
one hand ends up curled more at lighter's nape, harumasa's thumb again with the back and forth motion. it's unconscious this time, but maybe instinct really is a thing. like with the smaller stray darting past them right through the champion's legs. for a champion fighter, sometimes harumasa feels like he can all but taste the nerves coming off of him. even now, being so deliberate. maybe his touch means nothing. that's alright. maybe it would be easy too to dismiss as incidental. just holding onto what he can hold onto; who.
wind whispering around a tenacious, flame that, sometimes, seems to whisper back.
fair warning.
harumasa's eyes close again though he's still conscious. yeah.
fair. )
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[ but he's not worried, remember.
it's simply because he's got an observant streak, a thing cultivated in him as a means of survival when there were opponents out there bigger, meaner, stronger, and far more connected than him out there. that's what he'll say, anyway. lighter has learned to look, even when it scares him. he's learned to sense enough to fray his nerves at the ends from overuse, all char and grit, burning the wick at both ends — enough to count the seconds between harumasa's breaths puffing weakly against his skin, to note any lulls, stutters that seem out of place. too quickly and too openly, he's making that cadence familiar. a decision insomuch as a touch of fear makes decisions.
losing is the hard part about familiarity. the part that made lighter decide that he was never going to lose again, so long as he's also still breathing.
not that such conviction always rides on grandiose declarations; rather, it's in the way his skin heats beneath the absent rub of harumasa's thumb. like a bone-deep obedience to something gentle, more pronounced for its long absence. lighter fights a sigh, half because it'll jostle his precious cargo, half because he shouldn't need to take that deep of a breath to center himself better.
he's really done it, he thinks. the tips of his ears are hot too.
locked in as he is, he manages to watch his step with the stray skittering underfoot now that all parties are in the bedroom again. he really is quite stable on his feet, hip checks aside. it jumps up onto the bed ahead of them, tail giving a curious curl. ]
Better be careful down there, [ lighter warns, levity haloing his tone of voice. ] if either of us takes a topple, there goes your meal ticket.
[ brusque, his "threat" well-meaning. leaning down at the bedside, lighter lowers harumasa into a seat against the mattress, the arm beneath his knees sliding loose first. his other, the one around his back, is much slower to retract, suddenly unsure of losing contact.
it's only fair. that's what the dull pang of the wound beneath the bandage on his forehead tells him.
lighter mirrors the earlier concern, the curled flats of his knuckles brushing beneath harumasa's bangs at his temple, sourcing that cold sweat, how severe it is. ]
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Ah...thanks...for not worryingβ
( he interrupts himself with coughs that take a little time to subside, only to bleed into a soft laugh. )
I guess I owe you one.
( there's no excuse for reaching up to touch the back of lighter's hand, nor to holding it in a way that lets him lean into the palm. if lighter wants to stop him, he certainly can; if lighter doesn't want to stop him, well, that's fine too. it's less about feeling relief from warmth but rather grounded by human touch. real. alive. here.
still here.
when harumasa was no more than a boy who still had a penchant for strawberry cake and his master's approval, he was even more shameless.
terrifying, in its own right.
even when he lets go it's not because he's having mercy or decorum; it's because he's shaking too badly, so it falls to the side. ah. someone like himself shouldn't even daydream about these things, much less do anything about them; but maybe it can't be helped. asaba harumasa β wind chaser. impossible possible things.
the smaller stray makes a piteous sound. it's not too different from "food?" but it is different even so, punctuated by how it slinks closer and lets its tail drag around harumasa's arm and wrist. much like lighter perhaps: not worried. but you know. present. a witness. who happens to help. not worried at all. but strays always give themselves away. it's probably true of harumasa too to a degree, despite his worldclass lying license. but with sorts like lighter and the quadruped cat, it's even more so. harumasa doubts they could stop caring even if they wanted to; even if they still do, sometimes. but loss is a thing you carry or it crushes you, and if it's the former it wends its away into everything else: you know how it is to not-have because you know what it is to have. sun or rain.
"not worrying" that is fingers to the temple, or a sort of secret laugh layered in soft coughing: i'm glad it's you. not really intelligible, but the sentiment persists. so: sun despite the rain. )