here, hold my breath

i. Izuminokami wakes up warm.

The first thing he sees is the paling sky. Sleep-addled, it takes him some time to place where he is, who he’s with; to connect the lace blinds hanging down the windowsill to Mutsunokami’s room, to recognize the breath ruffling the hairs at the nape of his neck as Mutsunokami’s. The revelation blooms: Mutsunokami’s room, Mutsunokami’s breath, Mutsunokami’s hand against his hip, damp with sweat.

It’s too warm. He squirms in place, tries to kick his legs out from the tangle of blankets. Behind him, Mutsunokami makes a noise like a snuffle, fingers tightening before pulling away.

“What’s wrong?” The mattress dips, and Mutsunokami’s face peeks into view from out of the corner of Izuminokami’s vision, blotting out the light leaking in through the shoji at his back.

Izuminokami shuts his eyes, buries his face into the pillow. “S’too warm,” he grumbles. He feels, more than hears, Mutsunokami’s laugh: a puff of air, and a glob of saliva that strikes his cheek. He swipes at it with the back of his hand, hissing.

“That’s what you get for hoggin’ the blankets,” Mutsunokami says, voice lilting upwards into that grating region between mocking and teasing, “if that’s all, I’m going back to sleep.”

It’s not like I told you to get up. Izuminokami gives up on wrestling with the strip of cloth wound around his ankles in favour of swinging his legs backward into Mutsunokami’s shin. Mutsunokami yelps. Izuminokami basks in that momentary triumph; celebrates his victory by yanking the blanket over to his side. “Shut up. I’m going back to sleep,” he declares, ignoring Mutsunokami’s cry of outrage, his whisper-shouted, “I said that first!”

Halfway into his doze, he feels it again -- the wide, warm swathe of Mutsunokami’s palm, perched over his hip. Feather-light, like cradling a butterfly.  

ii. “The hell are you doing?” Izuminokami slurs, when the loose, hanging knot of his Mutsunokami’s obi brushes over his bare chest, tickling him back into wakefulness.

Mutsunokami hovers above him, arms poised on either side of Izuminokami’s head. Caught off-guard, his face is stuck somewhere between his customary grin and furrowed-browed surprise. “Nothin’ important,” he answers, something sheepish filling in the edges of his smile. “Go back t’sleep.”

You woke me,  Izuminokami almost bites back, instinctive with the push-pull of their daily repartee, but Mutsunokami raises a hand, cards it through a lock of hair plastered by sweat to Izuminokami’s forehead. A gentle movement, understated in a way Mutsunokami often isn’t in the day, all loud voice and louder motions. The intimacy of it makes Izuminokami pause. Makes him stay silent long enough for the moment to break, when Mutsunokami drops himself back down on Izuminokami’s right. He tosses an arm over Izuminokami’s waist, starts snoring, as soon as his head hits the pillow. Raucously loud, right into Izuminokami’s ear.

Izuminokami grumbles, contemplates digging the point of his elbow into the exposed swathe of Mutsunokami’s ribs. Still -- it’s warm. Mutsunokami radiating heat like a hearth, the arm pressing into his abdomen a comfortable weight; secure, almost tranquil, save the snoring. It makes Izuminokami feel a little more pliant, somewhere closer to forgiving.

He can forgo the elbowing, just for tonight, he decides; turns over, so that Mutsunokami is curled tight around his back, and lets sleep take him.  

iii. Izuminokami wakes to a bright flash, the clash of thunder, and a hand, brushing slowly through his hair splayed out over the pillow. The rhythmic tug at his scalp pulls him back to the brink of sleep, but he fights the ebb; tries to blink the lethargy out of his eyes as he reaches up overhead to curl his fingers around Mutsunokami’s wrist.

“Why are your hands so cold,” he complains, as Mutsunokami starts. Under his thumb, pressed into the base of Mutsunokami’s wrist, Mutsunokami’s pulse jackrabbits. The frantic beat drags him out of his cocoon of blankets. Rolling over, he props himself up on an elbow, slides along the futon to rest his head in the taut curve of Mutsunokami’s side.

“Was it the rain?” he mumbles.

“The rain,” he repeats, when Mutsunokami hums quizzically in response, “did it wake you?”

Mutsunokami pulls his arm out of Izuminokami’s grip. “Mm, something like that,” he replies, “it’s no big deal.”

Fabric rustles. Mutsunokami curves his arm around Izuminokami’s shoulders, cold fingertips skating down his ribs. Izuminokami tips his head back into the crook of Mutsunokami’s elbow, feels Mutsunokami’s muscles tense to take his weight; feels the sinews in Mutsunokami’s arm quiver -- a barely-there, nearly-imperceptible tremor.

He can see Mutsunokami like this, backlit by the lightning through the shoji: his unruly, tufted hair; the strong jut of his jaw; the silhouette of his face, turned away from Izuminokami, hidden from view. Izuminokami traces the angle of his gaze, down the length of his room, to the sliding door, outlined by intermittent light. Ah, Izuminokami thinks. Like something sliding into place; like his stomach sliding out of place, lurching, hollowing.

He scrambles to fill the hole left behind. Gapes futilely, swallowing spit. He stretches, hands reaching up towards Mutsunokami’s jaw; falters, fingers sliding around the inches of air between them. The movement catches Mutsunokami’s attention, his chin tilting down as if he’d been tugged. It’s far too dark for Izuminokami to make out his face, but he can picture it well enough: Mutsunokami, eyes bright and hard, with the sharp curve of his grin stopping short at his cheeks.

 “Nothing is coming in through that door,” Izuminokami blurts. The words rise in his throat, involuntary and sour as bile.  

Mutsunokami stiffens as if he’s choked, tension blooming down his neck to his forearm. Then, with an exhale, he slackens. Goes limp with a huff of laughter that shakes him all the way down to his ribs, rocking Izuminokami in the cradle of his left arm.

“Yeah,” Mutsunokami answers. The light cadence of his voice is sandpaper against Izuminokami’s nerves. “That’s right.”

“I’m always right,” Izuminokami retorts out of habit -- but there’s no bite to it. He reaches under himself, extricates the corner of the blanket from where its been tucked beneath his thigh, and drags it over Mutsunokami’s lap. “Come back to bed. I don’t want you talking my ear off about fatigue tomorrow.”

“I think you’re gettin’ us mixed right up,” Mutsunokami snipes.

There is a chuckle in his response that lifts a weight from Izuminokami’s chest. Mutsunokami’s arm, as he eases it back from Izuminokami’s shoulders, setting his head down on the pillow, is careful, as always. Izuminokami tugs at his hip, until Mutsunokami has slid down beside him; pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, and keeps his arm there, resting against Mutsunokami’s chest, close enough to his heart to feel its slowing beat.

A hand brushes against his hairline, Beside him, Mutsunokami has started to snore, but his fingers, curved over Izuminokami’s temple, tap at his skin, gentle and hypnotic. He turns his face into it, into Mutsunokami’s slowly warming palm, and lets the touch lull him back to sleep.

iv. Izuminokami stays awake. On his side, face to the window, he watches the lace blinds flutter in the draft. He knows how it looks, can superimpose the image of its delicate floral detailing along its hem from memory. He’s woken up like this often enough: Turned towards the window, Mutsunokami curled at his back, close enough for Izuminokami to feel his breath on his skin, yet not close enough to touch.

Mutsunokami’s breath is warm at his neck; measured breaths, constant enough to count time to. It’s the same way he breathes when they are out in the field, when they are hidden in the boughs of trees, or behind a thin, sliding door. Soundless; the thrumming tension of deliberate quiet. Izuminokami sets his breath to the same rhythm, the shallow in-out; doesn’t notice that he’s mirroring Mutsunokami until his chest starts to hurt.

It takes time, and Izuminokami battles his heavy lids, the urge to scratch the itch crawling along his thigh, until -- there it is. Mutsunokami’s hand, skirting up the curve of his back, and the gentle, gradual pressure of him bringing it down to rest over the jut of his hip bone. He worries, for a moment, that the sudden hammering of his pulse will carry itself down to where Mutsunokami’s fingers have curved in close over the thin fabric of his yukata. But, Mutsunokami says nothing, does nothing more than place his hand over that single point of contact; and Izuminokami holds himself still until long after Mutsunokami’s metronome breath has slowed.

Then, careful to not displace the hand Mutsunokami has resting over his hip, he turns over; eases a lock of hair loose from where its been pressed under Mutsunokami’s cheek -- cringing as he brushes through an unmistakably wet spot -- and where its been tangled around Mutsunokami’s fingers. It’s clumsy; here, close enough to feel Mutsunokami’s breath fan out over his collarbone, he can see Mutsunokami’s lids flutter, rousing fast. His hand, folded into a loose fist in front of his chest, clenches convulsively.

Izuminokami reaches out, puts his own hand over it; feels Mutsunokami’s grip slacken, fingers unfurling and twining around his own.

“I’m okay,” he says. Mutsunokami’s answering sigh of laughter fills the silence; Izuminokami can hear his smile in it, wide and bright.

He tips his head into Mutsunokami’s, close enough to touch, and lets his eyes slip closed.

There is something cold in the the cant of Mutsunokami’s smile when Yagen greets him over breakfast. Something steely and sharp, that makes Yagen’s hands pause around the handle of the pitcher, a question cresting the tip of his tongue. But, he quashes his unease with an easy grin, cedes, unruffled, into their morning routine: Mutsunokami spooning eggs and sausages off the shared plate in the center of the table, sneaking exactly one more sausage than Hasebe, ad-hoc minister of home affairs, has deemed appropriate; and then, with an impish wink, slipping half said sausage onto Yagen’s plate, as Yagen, straight-faced, gingerly tips coffee into the cup Mutsunokami slides across the table. Mutsunokami, reaching across the table for the milk and sugar, spooning an unholy amount of each into his coffee; Yagen making oblique passes at the state of his teeth, until the dark liquid turns a murky off-white color to Mutsunokami’s satisfaction.

He knows the steps. They’ve settled into this dance since Yagen first stepped out of the forge, into the bite of the cool spring air, reeling from the shock of being; when the citadel was a yawning castle populated by a motley band of three. Mutsunokami had slung a arm over his shoulder, a warm, steady weight, saying, “Bet you’re hungry. We’ve got just the thing!”

Except--  

Today, the coffee is black as coal. Mutsunokami takes the cup, lifts it to his lips, and takes a generous gulp. Yagen watches Mutsunokami out of the corner of his eye, wiping the spout of the pitcher down with a towel, as Mutsunokami’s eyebrows tick, Adam’s apple bobbing. Watching, as Mutsunokami pulls his cup away from his mouth, face pinched. Yagen looks away for an instant, to set the pitcher back on its stand -- just long enough for Mutsunokami to smooth out the crease between his eyes, school his face back to its standard grin.

“No dessert for breakfast, today?” Yagen asks.

Mutsunokami laughs, a sheepish guffaw. “A little variety now and then ain’t bad,” he replies. He cuts into his sausages with the edge of his fork, into large bite-sized chunks. As usual, ignoring the knife that Yagen lays out on the table every morning, over the napkin, near the crook of his right elbow. “Wanted to switch things up a little.”

He jousts his fork at Yagen, accusatory.  “It’s healthier, too! Aren’t'cha always getting mad at me about it?”

“Not mad, no,” Yagen answers, “merely concerned for your well-being. It would be bad form for our team captain to be down and out from tooth decay, wouldn’t it?”

Mutsunokami laughs, again. A small one, barely a chuckle; a puff of air hissed through clenched teeth.

“Right,” he says. He spears a piece of sausage with his fork, nibbles at a corner, looking neither at his plate, nor at Yagen. His eyes are fixed at a point somewhere behind Yagen’s left shoulder, when he continues, voice absent and flat: “That’s not leaderly at all, is it?”

Yagen’s knife stills, clicking against the ceramic plate beneath it.  

“Captain, about tonight’s mission,” Yagen says.

There is, perhaps, something in his voice, some unintentional gravity, that draws an instant reaction. Mutsunokami straightens, alert; reeled back into their kitchen, from whatever space he had been drifting just before. Midare, curled up by Mutsunokami’s knees, during a mission briefing some months ago, had poked Mutsunokami between the eyebrows, laughingly calling it his “leader-face”, a passing joke that stuck fast: Mutsunokami, leaning forward and listening, an encouraging smile ready at his lips, as he looks over Hirano’s paperwork; as he fastens a bandage over Aizen’s skinned knee; as he pores over maps with Hasebe and Yagen by his side.

The next words fall heavy and halting from his mouth. Yagen says, feeling like he’s driving a knife into Mutsunokami’s awaiting side: “The new recruit, will he. Will you be alright?”

Mutsunokami’s expression flickers; shutters for a bit, pinching as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of something acrid and bitter. Then, it settles, like a curtain dropping over his face; a resolute, smiling mask.

“Don't worry 'bout it,” Mutsunokami says. He reaches across the table, and rests his hand on Yagen’s head. A warm, steady weight, for a fraction of a moment. Then, he stands, picking his up his plate, still laden with sausages, his fork speared into a half-eaten piece balanced on the edge. “I’ll see you tonight, Yagen.”

“Take care, captain.”

When Mutsunokami slips into his room without knocking, balancing a tray in the crook of his elbow as he toes the shoji open, it’s already past midnight. Izuminokami tenses, lips pursing, but Mutsunokami presses a finger to his lips, slides the door shut behind him, gently, cautiously, cushioning the click of wood with the pad of his thumb. Stooping to a kneel, he lays the tray out at the side of the desk, shoving paper and pens out of the way with the flat of his palm.

“I was writing, you idiot,” Izuminokami hisses, more breath than words.

“Didn’t see hide or hair of you or Horikawa at supper. Thought I’d check if you were still alive,” Mutsunokami replies at a low whisper, “unfortunately, here you are.”

“Ass,” Izuminokami parries, a skillful monosyllabic riposte; he puts his pen down on the table, laces his fingers together, and stretches his knuckles, stopping just short of letting them pop. “Kunihiro has to get up early for breakfast duty.”

Closer now, Mutsunokami can make him out in the corner of the room, swathed among the shadows cast by the dimmed lamplight; a bundle of blankets, tufted with black hair. “We’ll save him some food, then,” Mutsunokami says, sliding the tray closer to Izuminokami, insistent.

“We?” Izuminokami repeats. “I don’t remember inviting you over for supper.”

“Did’ja think I’d filch something from the kitchen, and not take something for myself?” Mutsunokami grins, teeth glinting white. “C’mon--” he reaches across the table, snags Izuminokami’s discarded pen between his fingers. “--I’ll pay you back for your hospitality. Hand me the abacus.”

Izuminokami rolls his eyes. “You’d better pay me back threefold,” he says, unearthing the abacus from under the displaced pile of paper. “Finish three days worth of accounts, and I’ll consider your debt settled.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. How ‘bout you stop yapping and eat?” 

As if in demonstration, Mutsunokami snatches one of the onigiri splayed out across the plate; it fits snugly into the curve of his palm, before he shoves half of it into his face in a single mouthful. “Barbarian,” Izuminokami mutters, as Mutsunokami dribbles rice and spit down his chin, chuckling with a full mouth. Izuminokami lifts one of the onigiri off the plate. It is misshapen, lumpy; hefty and packed together by a too-generous, haphazard hand. Rice scatters over the table as he carries it to himself, more grains falling loose as he takes his first bite. The taste of pickled plums dances on his tongue.