K I Z O K U

( he only knows how to love with his fists. )

it is adrift in their peripheries, tiptoeing alongside the shoreline. leaving nothing but gentle footprints that fade away with the breeze. he catches them disappearing before his eyes and thinks nothing of it. off to the nearest wasteland they go.

all that’s left of their lungs would be the smokes that linger. the air is polluted, more and more, as well as their organs. and lodged between those would be their voices, staining the atmosphere with inane talks. it never goes that in-depth with kaz, despite the connection that binds them since they were too young to comprehend that the globe rotated on an axis.

trivial, just how they would leave it. and atlas likes it that way.

                                       ( in-depth doesn’t go hand in hand with the dogma                                          living between the ridges of his reconstructed spine. )

He doesn’t want to be dull.

There are many ways to make changes to the world around him, but none so far have peaked his interest.

                                                                                                                            Let it rot.

His insatiable greed was not something he acquired from his parents. It’s never seemed to be something that his brother got. He is not the only witness to the destruction it can cause, but he alone knows the weight of it. Plenty of people would have folded under it - he sees their like every time he walks into a board meeting.

                                                                                                                             Climb.

“Like a fish in a bowl.” He takes a sip from his glass.”Just check on it every once in a while, make sure it has food. Show it off to your friends.”

The next words out of his companion’s lips don’t sound quite right - unpracticed, maybe. The discomfort is evident. So he switches gears.

“He was practicing and fell wrong.” 

Sentences are more fluid this way. It feels more like home; a fabricated familiarity that’s ripped apart as soon as the sounds hit the walls of their temporary reprieve. They’re still an ocean away from where they started.

“But he’s okay, for the most part. They’re going to release him in the morning.”

His mouth is smoke and wine and he doesn’t remember when he came to favor the combination.

and @itaidoshvn is wrought into the achromatic state.

in the calm after the storm there are two bodies colliding, enveloped in the high of natural substance surging in the brains. wired: the commodities exchanged would be nothing but fingerprints, skin on skin. they’re swimming in the chlorine of the frictions, marking the hotel room with a pool of sighs. it’s nothing too deep, just chin-height, enough for them to float but not enough to drown. feet against the bottom; anchored, elevated. this is the art of submersion, with disclosures repeated. once again, and another, and another, and another. this one has gone on and on for years and he does not see the end of it.

and at the ends of the nights, when the pool is drained and they are weary, he does not really know what it means, too. for the both of them. for him.

this is one of these nights. he smells too much like kaz, sillage-tinted. he never really likes perfumes himself, often just resorting to one or two that his mother bought for him, if not the scent brought along with his soap. when he’s like this, he’s reminded of each finger digging deep into his hip, leaving crescents when the nights grow tired. when he’s like this, he’s reminded of each person who has left their inkling atop his canvas, inscribing invisible signatures that never really fade.

he might not seem like it, but he remembers them. one by one, beyond or beneath him, with their faces flushed red before relief floods in and takes over.

                             ( they, after all, decay together overnight. )

bottled carbon dioxide stranded on the poolside, they’re nothing but the aftermath of dysphoric euphoria. there’s almost no substance, there’s almost emptiness. but what they need to know is that there’s kerosene on top of the water for them to light. the night is in flames until it is not. and then they rest.

they are resting.

another puff of smoke tendrils between them. he pours more drinks for them after, handing the glass over to kaz as he leans his back against the bed frame. nothing new with this, almost like a habit. after they come down, they would drink and smoke, coloring the room in more vices. he likes listening to kaz talking, and he likes avoiding when it’s his turn to speak.

he is never much of a talker, unlike his father. and unlike his father, he is never much of a good hypocrite.

as good of a liar as him, perhaps. and in some others, but for some reason, between the two of them, kaz reminds him more of his father than himself.

Years, they’ve been together. Not anything special, just acquaintances that share some extracurricular activities. He’s never been especially interested in this sort of thing, never really craved it, but he’s not averse to it, either. As they gasp for air and his fingers grip familiar skin, digging in until there are marks, he gives himself over to his baser instincts. Autopilot.

He feels nothing.

Sometimes he wonders if the other party gains anything other than physical satisfaction out of their arrangement. Atlas doesn’t seem to expect anything more out of him, has never asked for anything he’s not capable of giving; there’s no commitment. 

It’s all just part of a business deal.

Kazuya knows that their families are both part of the same organization. There is a tangible link between them that’s made it relatively easy to make his moves.

In this structure, Kazuhiro sits higher than Sano. And that is something that he has known for a long time.

He sits up, head against the backboard, and listens to the faint hum of the air conditioning. This place has silk sheets and he feels a little more in his element. The wine helps. As it’s pressed into his hand, dark eyes follow the other man until he’s too close. Warmth engulfs his side and he finds himself slipping down just far enough to feel soft hair on his neck.

His limbs are tired, but he takes a drag when the cigarette is passed his way. And he considers.

“Nothing too interesting recently.” He exhales and watches his toxic cloud dissipate. “School is dull, work is boring.”

He hums.

At least it feels that way, air expanding his lungs to fuel unfurling of limbs, spinning, leaping, weightless. Carried by nothing but a simple, sad melody that drifts in from somewhere. He can’t make out the song. Something about it is off – it’s minor key, it’s not supposed to be happy, but he knows it shouldn’t be discordant either.

In his dreams he is dizzy, and dimly aware of an ache. It nags at the edges of consciousness until he is no longer dreaming, but everything feels the same.

He’s weightless. His head is swimming. He wants to move, but he can’t. He blinks, trying to dispel the confusion that’s settled over him like a fog, but all he’s left with is that wherever he is, everything is white. White ceiling, white walls, white curtains with the sun shining through. White sheet over him, and– oh.

White cast over his leg. His hand fists tighter into the covers and he breathes in deep through his nose, fighting back the anger that comes from being immobile and in pain and helpless. At the worst possible time, with finals coming, and his father’s passing and all that entails, and dance the only thing that’s been keeping his sanity intact.

Turning his head against the pillow brings more dizziness and nausea with it, and he knows they’ve got him on some pretty strong meds. Which is an ominous sign, given how badly his ankle’s still throbbing regardless. There’s a radio on his nightstand and someone’s switched it on. The classical station. That brings a tiny quirk to the edge of his lips – not quite a smile. It’s thoughtful, at least.

He reaches over and switches it off. He’s not in the mood for anything that reminds him of what he’s missing out on. He’s debating whether to summon the nurse and ask them to turn on the T.V. for him when voices in the hallway pique his interest instead.

It’s white - it’s sterile. They didn’t pass by pediatrics on the way to this corridor, so he’s not seen any color since they stepped inside. Even the carpets in the reception area were bland.

His mother is talking to him - talking at him - and he can’t seem to focus. This is important, a hundred percent necessary for carrying out his plans, but his mind is busy replaying ugly images of the night before. He hasn’t slept and the world is blurred at the edges.

“...ve to push back the decision, I guess.”

He perks up a little and tries to piece together the rest of the statement, turns his attention to the woman that gave birth to him.

“I agree. It would be too much for him right now.” He runs a hand through his hair as she sighs, reiterating that the board won’t be happy about it.

“I could... help out. If they’d have me, I could run things until he’s better.” Or until the end. “I already know the business, and it’s better than bringing in someone else.”

She looks uncomfortable, and it looks like she’s about to protest when he notices the shift. Something is different - or rather, something has disappeared. It’s too quiet.

The music stopped.

It had been drifting out of Takashi’s room for some time now - he’d turned it on to try and make them both feel more at home. He brushes past a nurse to head inside, effectively ending the conversation. Relief engulfs him at what he sees.

His brother is awake. 

He scrubs a hand down his face.

                          YOUNGBLOOD COLLECTIVE

                          ❝ I don’t do drugs.  I am drugs.❞                                          ~Salvador Dali

                                                 are you hiding something?

It’s enough to make anyone lose it. Takashi’s just having a minor breakdown, though. No big deal.

While he’d love to believe it’s as easy and painless as Kazuya makes it sound, he’s not naive enough for that kind of blind faith. Still it’s a glimmer, however faint, of something beyond this cage beckoning him in.

“All right.” He’s stopped pacing and he gives a nod, gaze distractedly roaming the concrete. “Yeah, that sounds good. We can stall them. They can’t argue with that.” He’s still not sure he believes it, but at least saying it aloud has taken the edge off his panic.

Now all they need is to change the will. And their names and identities. Fleeing the continent never sounded so good.

He loves them dearly, but he finds it just a bit easier to do so now that they are useful in his endeavors.

He’s not sure what he felt for his father.

“If there were a time for truths, it would be now. I don’t mind.” It’s a casual admission, but perhaps one too hefty for right now. he shouldn’t have said that, but it’s too late. Continue. “He was a very traditional guy, I guess. ‘It has to be done the way it’s always been done’ - grandpa was like that, too. Still, we’re his kids, and he should’ve listened to us - you’re right.”

There’s a pause, a calculated sigh, and for a moment he actually does feel guilty. He was the one who took their father’s future away; he destroyed any possible chance of the man changing his mind and giving his sons a second thought. In a universe of infinite possibilities, it could have happened - by some twist of fate, it could have happened. Yet, it would have been extremely unlikely. Kazuya does not live his life in a realm of could-haves and what-ifs. he lives in this reality. The feeling washes away with the rain.

“We don’t have a lot of options, true, but there are a few things we can do. I’ll take care of it.”

She figures a simple phone call will do. Father speaks of business deals and possible mergers, but it’s the years of wondering that prompt her hands to dial a number scribbled on the back of an abandoned receipt. The line goes unanswered and she smiles, a little knowing and a little wry. She’s nothing but a quiet mouthful of apologies when the beep signals voicemail; what she manages to force past a constricting throat is up to him to decipher. She hangs up and shuts her eyes. Exhaustion descends upon heavy eyelids like a winter blanket.

When her phone gives way to a short vibration, it’s recognition before verification. She pictures the number on her screen before her eyes pick it up. A quick scan, then a small snort. There was still some hope left for honesty after all. 

Tonight isn’t possible, is it? It’s late - so late that it’s already technically morning and no self-respecting restaurants are still open. So he flips through tomorrow’s schedule. It’s a Tuesday: a class day and a work day, of course. But he’s on leave from the office until Thursday, he remembers, and classes end at four. It’s just a matter of working with her schedule, after that.

                                                                                    [ s m s : s a y o ] i’m screening your calls. any time after 4 works for me. when are you free?

The next expression his face adorns is something twisted, torn between tired and disgust. Whether the feeling is a byproduct of his own actions or someone else’s has yet to be decided. Tired overcomes and he lays back; his head hits the pillow hard.

Even on the softest bed he’s had in years, his thoughts won’t cease, won’t quiet down enough to let him sleep. Scenarios, no matter how ridiculous they may be, end up playing out behind his closed eyes and he begins to see this whole thing more like any meeting he’s thus far been to - strictly business. The dread leaves him almost immediately, he begins to calm the annoyance that had been building behind his temples.