Hello, Death. I Like Your Hat.

Cat people:

me when I get home:

me the entire weekend:

inspired by this tumblr post https://www.tumblr.com/smilingmarauder/818864404086030336/idea-for-an-erasermic-ghostbusters-au-where

(A collection of scenes - unsure if I should continue but I felt inspired and the brain worm will not release its hold)

…

Hitoshi really hates being a medium sometimes.

Don’t get him wrong, that skin-crawling feeling he gets when near spirits isn’t at the top of his list of fun things to do, but that’s not the crux of the issue. Oh, no, it’s the blinking awake in a completely unfamiliar basement of some rickety shack to a face full of holy water that really gets him sometimes. Which, by the way, is how he started this delightful clusterfuck of a day. It’s the small joys in life, really.

Water flies as he shakes his soaked hair free of the salty liquid, spitting out the rest and trying not to let the sting in his eyes bother him.

It’s always a bit of a shock to his system when he gets possessed, so he’s not surprised when his ears ring and the vision of the boy in front of him swoops violently. They’re gripping a water bottle with white-knuckled intensity. The crumpled plastic is covered in sharpied crosses he notes.

“Relax kid,” he says.

The freckled boy—teenager?—looks relieved; his shoulders unclench and he takes a hesitant step forwards.

“A-are you okay?” he asks quietly, eyes wide and studying him carefully from below a nest of curly green hair.

He takes a moment to consider his question, because yeah, is he ok?

His wrists ache and his mouth is parched (yes, despite the volume of holy water), and man could he devour an entire three packets of instant noodles. And, other than the splitting headache and whole-body-numbing exhaustion, he’s all-in-all been worse off before. So, yeah.

“Peachy,” he replies dryly. He wriggles his wrists to test the rope around them; it doesn’t budge. “Could you untie me?”

…

The next time Hitoshi is possessed is a bit more of a doozie, he will admit. (Although, not entirely not his fault, the ghost walked into him this time like it had some vendetta or something, and it took him by surprise. What can he say, three hours of sleep and wondering if he was hallucinating the dark bird-like creature crawling down the main street in broad daylight is enough to distract a guy.)

Fuck, his head hurts.

He groans as he bullies his limbs into functioning as, well, limbs.

It’s dark.

The floorboards creak under his sneakers as he wobbles upright, and he shuffles forwards until he hits a wall, its plaster dusty beneath his finger tips. He inches along it until he texture changes to fabric- a curtain- and he tugs it open. A faint wash of yellow comes in from what he assumes is a sole streetlight, though he can’t see much through the dust caked on the glass. It’s enough to barely outline the—what he assumes—attack, dust-covers draped over items tucked into the other side of the small space away from the slim window.

What is it with ghosts and creepy houses anyway?

…

Shouta winces as Hizashi swipes an alcohol swab over the graze on his shoulder.

“Watch it,” he grumbles sourly, already regretting asking for assistance in stitching up the

“Oh, hush,” the blonde responds, wiping down a sewing needle with the same swab. “Sit still.”

Hizashi makes quick work of stitching the cut back together, spraying it with some antiseptic before slapping a large bandaid over it.

He lets out a breath and pulls his sleeve back down.

“What were you thinking diving out into traffic like that? You’re lucky you got away with just a graze.”

Shouta huffs.

Hizashi purses his lips, frowning a little. “Another ghost then?”

…

He taps the back of his hand against Hizashi’s.

“There’s three of us on this train right?”

“Just you and me bud,” the blonde says with forced cheer.

“Noted.”

“Where?”

“About a metre behind you.”

“Wonderful.”

…

There’s a small girl in the room.

“I can,” she pauses, thinking, “fix things,” she settles on.

Her form wobbles; she hunches and crouches, hands clutched to her chest tightly.

“Hey, it’s ok-“ he says gently.

She looks up fearfully. “Hide,” she whispers harshly before disappearing from sight. Presumably into the floorboards.

It’s at times like these Hitoshi wishes he had ghost powers. But he supposes the whole living thing gets in the way of that. (In second thought, he decides he’s very much okay with that. Y’know, the whole being alive situation and not being brutally murdered.)

Hitoshi tries his best to contort himself below the desk that’s shoved under the drape and not choke on a cloud of dust in the process. The room chills a moment later, goosebumps prickling along the exposed skin of his arms.

Man, he really doesn’t wanna call his uncle again.

…

The trilling ringtone of Shouta’s phone wakes him at the ungodly hour of 4am. His eyelids grate upwards, focusing just long enough to pull the ringer across the screen and put the blasted thing on speaker phone. He lets it flop on his chest unceremoniously.

He hums sleepily in greeting.

“Uncle Shou?” the voice asks hesitantly, barely a whisper. “Um, I-“ the signal warbles oddly, almost static; he hears clattering and a curse, which has him bolting upright and alert-

“Hitoshi? Where are you?”

“crap- fuck- uh, I sent you my location, I’m a bit-“ he checks his screen quickly, a location marker pinging up across town. The line goes static again, then crackles back to life- “Actually,” Hitoshi says, tone suddenly calm and lilting, “everything’s under control. Don’t worry.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond before they hang up and the location marker drops off his screen.

He’s scrambling to grab his bag and shove his feet into his boots within the minute, calling Hizashi on speaker and throwing his phone on the dash of his car as he swerves onto the main road.

“You’re up earl—“

“Hitoshi’s in trouble,” he says quickly, cutting through a traffic light just as it changes from orange to red.

“Again? Damn, that kid is more of a ghost trouble magnet than you Shou.”

“You’re telling me.”

“You at least have a location this time?”

“Across town in Mustafu.”

“Alright, pick me up from work on your way?”

“That’s the plan.”

Shouta parks with slightly more vigour than necessary, wrenching on the parking break before hustling to grab his kit from the backseat.

Hizashi looks a little queasy from the rough ride, but he moves quickly to match him.

It’s not hard to find the place they’re after, because there’s only one house at the end of the road that looks abandoned and overgrown.

…

His nephew shudders as he draws in a breath, eyes unfocused for a moment before settling coldly on him.

Shouta swears.

Hizashi steps up beside him. “oh good, you found him,” he says cheerily. “You okay Hitoshi?”

The furniture in the room shakes, loose objects hovering in place.

Shouta puts a hand on Hizashi’s shoulder, pulling him back from Hitoshi a little.

“Not friendly?” he asks hesitantly.

“Not friendly,” Shouta confirms.

The levitating objects fly at them with speed and they dive out of the way. A vase flies by his ear, shattering on the wall behind him.

Hizashi fiddles with his pack while Shouta distracts his possessed nephew, clipping on a long-nosed attachment.

Hitoshi manages to knock him back, and the wind is knocks from him as he’s sent flying back into the wall. He sees stars as the back of his head smacks with equal force. Before he can get his shit together, Hitoshi’s hands snake around his neck and he can’t breathe—

He pulls at his wrists but they’re stuck firm with superhuman strength. His fingers slip, darkness encroaching on his vision as he chokes-

He feels a wet splatter on his cheek and he’s released abruptly. He hits the floor, gasping, as he tries to collect himself. Hitoshi’s covered in slime, crumpled in a heap on the floor, and the ghost is shrieking; the radio clipped to Hizashi’s belt goes haywire—

Hizashi rushes over, pulling him up as he tries to get his wits back about him.

“Where is it Shou?” he prompts hurriedly. “Could use your eyes man.”

Shouta blinks the stars out of his vision, pulling his blaster free.

“Center of the room,” his voice grates against his vocal cords and he coughs painfully against the bruising. “Two paces forward, one left.”

He aims as best he can, Hizashi following suit, and they suck up the raging ghost.

The room falls eerily still.

Hitoshi groans as he comes-to, scraping off a thick layer of slime from his face. His expression twists into disgust.

“Thanks for the save Uncle Shou,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion.

Shouta careens into the wall as they make to leave, his balance shot.

Hizashi slips a hand around his waist, pulling his arm over his shoulder.

“Easy there,” he says gently.

Shouta startles as his hand passes through Hizashi’s, a chill numbing his fingers and crawling up his arm. Hizashi gives him a sad smile, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be.

“Busted, huh?”

Shouta’s breath catches on the lump in his throat as he spots Hizashi’s golden hair splayed out across the floorboards. “No,” he chokes, because he can’t- he can’t be-

“Use me Eri,” Hitoshi says gently, holding out a hand to the small girl. “It’s okay.” She takes his hand hesitantly, her form shimmering as she steps into him. Hitoshi shudders and draws in a breath, eyes clouding momentarily before he’s blinking quickly. He looks at his hands, clenching and unclenching them slowly.

“Wow,” Hitoshi says softly, childlike awe coating his voice.

“Eri?” Shouta asks, pulling Hizashi’s body closer. Grey eyes meet his in response. “Can you fix him?”

Hitoshi—Eri—nods, settling a hand on Hizashi’s chest and breathing out a slow, deliberate breath. Hizashi’s ghost form winces, taking a knee as he loses his balance. “Ow,” he says.

“Hizashi-“

“It’s okay Shou. I think,” he lets out a hiss and his form flickers like static, “I think it’s a good thing-“

He fights every instinct he has screaming at him to wrench the ghost possessing his nephew away from him.

The room is quiet for a painstaking moment.

Then, Hizashi takes a breath, and emerald green eyes are blinking up at him

lazily.

“Hey,” the blonde says, his voice husky like he’s just woken up, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Shouta lets out a wet laugh despite himself.

“Fuck you,” he says as he swipes the dampness from his cheeks.

Hitoshi sways then careens sideways as Eri’s small form appears and shimmers weakly beside him, hands clutched at the hem of her dress.

Hizashi sits up tentatively, a hand rubbing lightly across his chest. “Thank you Eri,” he says, giving her a shaky smile. “I thought I was a goner.”

She nods shyly, her hands unclenching. “You’re welcome,” she says. Her form wavers again, fading to a washed out haze. She looks out the window as the first rays of dawn start to creep through. “I need to go.”

Hizashi nods, his smile turning sad. “It’s okay. Rest in peace yeah? You did good.” A small smile pulls across her face before she fades completely.

Shouta blinks at the blonde as his gaze lingers where she was standing. “You could see her?” he realises.

Hizashi turns to him, blinking quickly as his expression turns to puzzlement. “Apparently.”

…

Hitoshi hasn’t regretted being conscious more in his entire span of existence. Bones aching, head thumping a steady rhythm against his eyeballs, and a deep-set exhaustion that’s makes even his lungs feel like anvils, are but a few reasons he’d rather be Not Awake right now. But, alas, his doting family smacks his cheek and pokes at his ribs until he peels his eyelids open, just to receive an eye full of stubble and the bruise-coloured bags of his uncle’s face. Small joys and all that.

“Hey kid,” his uncle greets as he comes to, somehow managing to look worse than Hizashi feels. “How you feeling?”

Hitoshi groans dramatically as he rolls upright and rubs a clumsy hand through his hair. “A truck would have been better,” he mutters unhappily.

Dark eyes blink at him tiredly, a head full of black hair titling slightly in question.

Hitoshi gives him a dead-panned look. “You know what? Never mind.”

They eventually make their way downstairs and out of the abandoned house. There’s a small doll with silver hair and a dress that looks astoundingly like Eri, and Hitoshi’s chest pangs a little at the thought of the girl. Hesitantly, he takes it. Something to remember her by and all that.

They stumble out onto the street as the sun makes its way above the row of houses on the street, and they unceremoniously collapse into the car. Hitoshi leans forward into the front cab, settling the doll snugly in the empty cupholder under the radio. His uncle’s eyes flick briefly into the rear-view mirror, a touch of something soft flitting across his expression so briefly he nearly doesn’t catch it before they refocus on the road ahead.

“Let’s go home,” is all he says as they pull out onto the highway.

Hitoshi hums in affirmation, his head settling like a weight against the cool glass. As the rumble of the engine and the warm air from the heater pulls his eyelids half closed, he takes a brief moment to be grateful that the events of the day did not result in them ascending to the status of Vengeful Sprit. Like any day, he counts that as a win.

…

“Shouta!” Hizashi’s panicked voice calls across the house.

Shouta drops the onion and the knife he’d been holding and bolts down the hallway to where he’d heard the shout, expecting to find- well, he doesn’t know what he expects, but it certainly isn’t Hizashi scrambled unceremoniously on his ass, pointing like an ogling toddler at a zoo.

He follows the slender finger across the room.

There’s a small girl standing there meekly with her hands clutched in her dress, silver hair flowing softly down her back and arms covered in faint scars. She blinks up at him with wide grey eyes.

It’s Eri, he realises.