Mini Writes

Even if it is his birthday, Kume isn’t sure why there’s a cake for him.  Particularly in a place like this, where so many writers much more talented than him have gathered, what reason is there to celebrate him?

But there is a cake, and it would be rude not to eat it, even if it is part of some conspiracy against him.  Kume cuts himself a small piece and quickly retreats to his own room, dodging writers and library staff as he makes his escape.

About two minutes later, a knock comes at Kume’s door.  Kume hesitates to answer it, but-

“Kumeeee.”

-it’s Naoki, so Kume unlocks the door for him.

“Yo.”  Naoki lets himself inside, carrying a plate with a much larger slice of cake.  He promptly makes himself comfortable on Kume’s floor, right where Kume’s come to think of as ‘Naoki’s spot’.  It’s where Naoki lays down while Kume vents his worries and fears to him.

Kume shuts and locks the door behind him.  Maybe it’s more telling than he’d like that he only asks after he settles down next to Naoki, “What are you doing here?” instead of asking for his reasons for being here first thing.

“You hate eating alone.”  Naoki cuts off a piece of his cake, mostly frosting, and raises it to his lips.  “So I figured I’d come keep you company.  It’s easier for you than being in the middle of a party, right?”

It’s true.  Kume’s always found it lonely to eat alone, even if he’s not comfortable remaining where he’s the center of attention.  Naoki knows him too well.

“…Thank you.”  Kume hides a tiny smile behind his napkin.

They eat in relative quiet for a bit, relaxing in each other’s company.  Naoki finishes his larger portion at about the same time that Kume finishes his more modest slice, which comes as no surprise.  Kume sets his plate aside and wipes up his mouth.

“Missed some,” Naoki says.

Kume means to go over his mouth again with his napkin, but Naoki rubs his thumb over the corner of Kume’s lips instead to wipe up the remaining frosting.  Kume turns pink, which becomes a deeper red when Naoki sucks the frosting off.

“You’re blushing~”  Even with cake as a distraction, Naoki doesn’t miss the opportunity to tease.

“It’s your fault.  You’re being embarrassing.”  Kume stares at the wall rather than look at Naoki’s mouth.

Naoki chuckles.  “You’re so cute.  You know we’re boyfriends, right?”

Yes, Kume does know.  He doesn’t understand why Naoki would want to date him of all people, but Naoki has made it crystal clear that he does with both words and actions.

“You’ve had your tongue in my mouth.”

Of course Kume remembers that.  He could never forget the heat of Naoki’s lips and tongue and the way he invited Kume to taste more of him.

“And you’ve had my mouth on your-”

“I know, I know, you don’t have to say any more.”  Kume’s cheeks are flaming red now.  “You’re still embarrassing.”

“I know~”  There’s not an ounce of shame on Naoki’s face.  “I was gonna give you your birthday present, but if you’re too embarrassed, maybe I’d better not.”

“I didn’t say that,” says Kume, way too quickly.

Grinning, Naoki rises to his feet.  He pulls his belt off and tugs at his hakama, and Kume is just about to say that maybe a little foreplay would help him get in the mood before he spots black lace, and all concerns of not being in the mood are gone.

Naoki doesn’t take his hakama all the way off, because Naoki is terrible.  He just lets them hang low enough that Kume can see the hint of lace underwear before Naoki pulls him in for a kiss.  Kume shuts his eyes and responds too eagerly for someone who was just blushing over eating cake, but no one could possibly blame him.  (And in any case, he doesn’t plan to let anyone know but Naoki.  What they do is theirs to share and no one else needs to know the details.)

Without stopping the kiss or even slowing it down, Naoki undoes Kume’s tie and tosses it aside.  Then his sweater.  At some point he’s become shirtless and he hasn’t heard Naoki take off more than his belt, which is just unfair, and Kume pulls back to tell him so.  He opens his eyes and his mouth, then shuts his mouth.

Oh.  Naoki’s very good at taking off his own clothes quietly, it seems.  He’s lost his entire top half save for a black lace bra that should look ridiculous on him but only looks ridiculously attractive, and his hakama have fallen off and pooled at his feet, revealing matching black lace panties and Naoki’s arousal straining at the fabric.

Naoki grins.  “Happy birthday.”

Kume isn’t entirely sure how he gets the rest of his clothes off then, only that within a few seconds he’s naked and on his bed with Naoki on top of him.  He reaches under the mattress for the lube he’s started keeping there, but Naoki just laughs and guides his hand underneath his panties to feel his already wet hole.

Kume’s brain short circuits.  “Naoki, you…”

Naoki’s smile turns lopsided, probably because Kume has started rubbing the outside of his hole.  “Figured you weren’t - ah! - gonna want to waste a lot of time.”

He’s right, as always.  Kume tugs his panties to the side and lets him push him back onto the mattress.  Naoki lines himself up over him and sinks down.

Too hot, is Kume’s first coherent thought.  It’s too hot and wet and good, made only hotter by the sight of Naoki in lingerie.  Surely he doesn’t deserve something like this-

Then Naoki starts to move, and that wipes out all his self-loathing thoughts before they can take hold.  There’s nothing but the heat and pleasure, Naoki’s voice rising and falling on Kume’s name as he rises and falls on Kume, Kume’s hips meeting the rhythm Naoki sets.  There’s no room for anything else inside him but that.

He makes room for when Naoki finds just the right spot for Kume to rub against and cries out so loudly that the neighbors are sure to hear.  Later he’ll be embarrassed, but right now all he can think of is making Naoki make that exact sound again.  He keeps that angle and raises his hips, and Naoki’s voice nearly cracks.

When Naoki’s rhythm turns erratic and sloppy, whether from exhaustion or from overstimulation it’s hard to say, Kume grabs onto Naoki’s hips and takes over for him.  This is probably not what Naoki meant when he said they’d support each other, but Naoki doesn’t seem to be complaining.

“Kume, Kume, close close close-”

Kume pulls Naoki down for a kiss, and Naoki comes over himself, spilling white over black lace and hot skin.  Kume isn’t far behind, only managing a few more jerks of his hips before he comes inside of Naoki.

For a moment, all they do is lay there and catch their breath.  Naoki runs his fingers through Kume’s hair and Kume smiles against Naoki’s neck.

“…Still think your birthday party is part of some conspiracy?” Naoki asks.

“Do you ever think,” Tsujimura asks, “that the mastermind is calling you out, specifically?”

Ayatsuji doesn’t even look over at her, continuing to sip his coffee instead.  “State your reasoning.”

“Well…”  She starts to count on her fingers.  “Yesterday we had that case with the doll museum curator as the culprit.  A couple weeks ago there was a case in your hometown, in the same block as your old house.  A month before that, someone was incited to burn down a factory of your favorite coffee brand…  And before that there was the incident in the special ability department.  One or two might be a coincidence, but there’s no way all of these would happen in a row without it being related to you somehow!”

“And in this theory of yours, what is the motive for trying to get my attention?” he replies.  “The mastermind clearly already has it as much as any culprit can.”

That’s something most people can’t say, culprit or not, Tsujimura thinks.  She almost wants to say they should consider himself lucky, except for the part where they’ll die when Ayatsuji catches them.  That part isn’t so lucky.

“Aren’t they taunting you?” she asks.

Ayatsuji scoffs.  “Far from it.  No one puts that much effort into researching and arranging a way to taunt someone.  I don’t know why you bother trying to deduce anything.”

Tsujimura bristles.  Sure she’s not a super genius like Ayatsuji, but she’s a capable detective in her own right, and she’s better at plenty of things than he is, like…

“…They like you,” she says under her breath.

Now Ayatsuji turns to face her, raising an eyebrow.  “Hm?”

“They like you.”  She raises her voice: it’s a deduction she can put confidence behind, for once.  “They’re making these cases specifically for you as gifts.  You wouldn’t care if you were sent flowers or chocolate, but you like interesting cases.”

He falls silent for a minute, mulling that over while Tsujimura silently celebrates having come up with something that the great Ayatsuji didn’t think of.

“What sort of madman,” he says at last, “woos people with murders?”

She shrugs.  “The sort of ‘demon’ you’ve always said they were?  You’re the one who says I need to get into the heads of murderers to be better at catching them.”

“It wasn’t a denial of your theory.”  He turns away again.

She’ll take that as as close to a ‘good job’ as she’ll ever get from him.

Gifts have meaning and significance.  The language of flowers is well-known and respected.  A man can determine the type of feelings a woman has for him by the chocolate he receives from her on Valentine’s Day.

What, then, are the meanings of murder cases presented as gifts?  There is no guide in any book of etiquette that Kyogoku has read, though admittedly, he has not read all that many.

Do cases in Ayatsuji’s childhood home suggest that Kyogoku sees him as a child?  Nothing could be further from the truth.  No man or woman has ever earned Kyogoku’s respect and adoration as much as he.  …Two such cases within a few months would be pushing it.  Best to move elsewhere.

Then, something else with dolls?  An excuse to admire another museum or shop would be welcome… but the last time he went that avenue, some dolls were damaged during the murder, and Ayatsuji was unhappy over that.  Kyogoku’s suggestions are powerful enough to drive a man to kill, but not powerful enough to prevent any collateral damage.

Not the Special Ability Department again.  Ayatsuji prefers to see his coworkers as little as possible, whether they’re alive or dead.  Kyogoku, hardly a social butterfly himself, will gladly oblige him on that.

Perhaps something with chocolate or flowers would make his feelings more clear… but for Ayatsuji to enjoy them at all, the case itself would have to be especially complex.  Chocolate and flowers in themselves hold little appeal.

Kyogoku strokes his chin.  He does know a few troubled people working at a Dars factory…

“Are you going to eat all of those?” Tsujimura asks.  “We aren’t supposed to accept gifts for solving cases, but since you took them anyway, it’d be kind of a waste…”

Scowling, Ayatsuji pushes the box of chocolate into her hands.  “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”  Tsujimura immediately pops one chocolate into her mouth.  After chewing, she asks, “Why did you take it if you weren’t going to eat it?”

“According to your theory of these cases being gifts for me,” Ayatsuji says, “this chocolate is also a gift from the true culprit.  Maybe the civilian was well-intentioned and had no idea, but the mastermind arranged for the murder to take place here for a specific reason.  I have no desire to consume anything a criminal gives me, whether they are the one to hand it to me or not.”

“…But you insisted on taking it even when I told you not to…”

“You said I wasn’t allowed to.  You should know better than to tell me that.”  This would be more convincing as a reason if Ayatsuji didn’t suddenly turn away before saying it.

Tsujimura isn’t sure if she should find this cute or not.

Only about two weeks later, just outside of a florist:

“…I didn’t say anything this time, and you still took the flowers.”

“I know.  I much preferred it when you weren’t talking.”

The rice lilies end up in a simple vase tucked into the corner of Ayatsuji’s creepy doll basement.  Tsujimura finds them days later, still showing no signs of wilting.

She doubts that the mastermind could have arranged for the specific type of flowers an uninvolved party would give Ayatsuji in gratitude - more likely they were flowers that wouldn’t sell and wouldn’t be missed at the shop - but she takes note of the flower’s meaning anyway.  Rice lily, as much for love as it is for a curse.

Of all the skills Dazai had expected to need to learn in his lifetime, painting was not high on the list.

So why he found himself with a paintbrush in one hand and guide to painting cats in the other was beyond him.

Well, no.  Despite having been on hormone blockers most of his life, Dazai knew perfectly well the ways an alpha’s instincts tended to manifest and why.  Somewhere in the evolutionary chain, ‘look how good a provider I am, my nest is secure from the rain and made of many sticks’ became ‘look how good a provider I am, my house is attractively furnished and color-coordinated’.  So obviously, he knew where this sudden urge to paint cats on the agency’s walls came from.

He couldn’t even say he was that unhappy about the notion that he was trying to get Fukuzawa’s attention.  It was still asking for heartbreak and Fukuzawa could do so much better than him, but if he were going to have an interest in any omega, Fukuzawa was the one.

Just… wouldn’t it have been better to pay a painter to do it?  Or someone with the slightest artistic skill?  Dazai knew exactly how horrifying his paintings were and the screams he’d gotten.  He didn’t want to make Fukuzawa scream, at least not in that way.

Common sense warred with the alpha instincts of, ‘You can’t pay someone else to impress him!  It has to be you!  You decorate those walls right now, Dazai!!’

He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to at least practice painting.  He was a quick study, maybe he’d be able to get to a level that wasn’t horrifying before he ever put brush to wall.  Dazai downed the rest of his coffee - Fukuzawa always made it a little too sweet - and set to work.

Don’t try anything too complicated, Dazai.  Just follow the advice in the book.  Even you can become a painter if it’s for Fukuzawa.  Just start with a black cat.  Easiest thing in the world.  Follow the steps, and when you’re finished you’ll see…

…Ah.  An abomination.

Groaning, Dazai picked up the canvas and went to toss it out his front door.  He wasn’t particularly paying attention to where it landed - he’d have liked to stop thinking about it as soon as possible - but the sound of a sword slicing through canvas informed him that he just threw it directly onto Fukuzawa’s head.

Standing in between two halves of what could charitably be called a painting, Fukuzawa looked up at him, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

“…Using the trash bins would be better.”

“Yes, of course, director.”

For once in his life, Dazai picked up after himself.

So painting was a bust.  What about something he was actually good at?  Surely there was something in his skill set that would impress Fukuzawa.

His skill set included… well, obviously killing people wasn’t a good way to court Fukuzawa.  Neither was torturing them.  Lockpicking was less blatantly counterproductive, but still not a great method of wooing anyone.  He had a high resistance to most common toxins, he could reenact a Romeo and Juliet scene with real poison… no, something told him Fukuzawa wouldn’t appreciate that.

He could sing without breaking anyone’s eardrums, although he would definitely have to broaden his repertoire and sing something that didn’t involve suicide.  That was a ‘maybe’.

He could make a decent cup of coffee, but Fukuzawa preferred tea anyway.  Dazai didn’t think he’d seen him drink coffee in his life…

But Fukuzawa made a pot of coffee today, didn’t he?  He even poured a cup for Dazai.   Actually, every day that Dazai’s been in the office in the morning, Fukuzawa’s made him coffee.  And Dazai’s never seen him putting a coffee cup on anyone else’s desk, just Dazai’s.  And if Dazai was considering making Fukuzawa coffee to get his notice, then maybe-

As much as Dazai knew he was a genius, he sure could feel like an idiot sometimes.

…But he still had to impress him somehow.

Gifts.  Expensive gifts.  You couldn’t go wrong with spending a lot of money on the person you liked.  At least, that was what Dazai had gathered from observing normal people in normal relationships.  And he had plenty of money to spend - ‘mafia executive’ paid extremely handsomely, and he doubted he would ever use up all of his savings from back then.

The flashier the better, right?  A rainbow glass cat statue that’s twenty-eight centimeters tall should be noticeable enough.  It was a little on the cheaper end - less than eight thousand yen - but he’d at least see if Fukuzawa was receptive to gifts before he splurged.

Dazai tried very hard to look like he wasn’t paying attention to Fukuzawa’s expression when he came in and found the glass cat sitting on his desk.  It was easier than he expected, if only because Fukuzawa’s expression was the same as usual.

Fukuzawa gave the glass animal a pet on the head, and it was so cute that Dazai could die, but he didn’t say anything or indicate that he knew it was Dazai who bought it.  Maybe he should have included a card?  Or at least a gift tag?  But maybe that was too blatantly fishing for his thanks… ugh, why was this all so complicated?  Was this what normal people felt like all the time?

“Dazai.”

Dazai jolted, but only a tiny bit, which he thought was impressive of him considering that he hadn’t noticed Fukuzawa next to him at all.  “Yes?”

Fukuzawa’s expression was unreadable, save for the fact that his piercing gaze was pointed at the wall instead of at Dazai.  “…Would you like to go out to lunch?”

…now that Dazai thought about it… neither of them had actually asked each other out.  They’d been too occupied with wooing each other.

It’s ridiculous that even death has not saved Katai from the threat of the flu.

He’s not a doctor, but he’d think that not being technically alive or having a normal body should spare him from most diseases.  Nothing can travel up his bloodstream if he doesn’t have blood.  But now Touson’s sneezing in bed while trying to take notes about his own symptoms and Akutagawa has a fever and a headache bad enough to keep him from trying to smoke, and so the order of the day is flu shots.

Administered by Mori, of course.  No one else is qualified.  Not to mention the project is secret, and their secrecy would be slightly compromised by having outside doctors poke at the authors and draw ink instead of blood.  Just a little bit.

Touson was the first one to show symptoms, so the naturalists are the first to get their shots.  Makes sense, no complaints here.  Katai isn’t scared of needles.  It only took a couple minutes for Kunikida to get his done and over with, it won’t take longer for Katai.

Except.

Mori looks really good right now.

Mori looks good all the time, so this isn’t surprising or anything.  There’s nothing wrong with Katai acknowledging that he’s a handsome guy.  Always polished and well-dressed, with a chiseled jaw and gorgeous eyes, wearing gloves that remind Katai how skilled his hands are as a writer or a doctor or…

“You’ll have to hold still.”  Mori’s voice, gently chiding, snaps him out of his thoughts.  He hadn’t even realized that he was fidgeting.

“Eh - sorry, I didn’t notice.”  It’s true, even if it doesn’t mention what he was distracted by.

“It happens to everyone.  Relax your arm.”

Katai does.  Or, he does for a second, and then Mori’s thumb is gently rubbing over his upper arm.  Obviously he knows Mori’s just making sure he has the right spot to inject the needle, he knows that!  It’s not even that sensual or anything - hell, it isn’t even skin to skin contact - but it has Katai tensing up again.

Mori frowns.  “Tayama-kun.”

“I know, sorry, sorry…”  Katai has to make himself relax, or Mori will start to wonder what has him so tense, and then he’ll figure out that Katai has a ridiculous crush on him and everything will be awkward forever.

Weirdly, that thought doesn’t help him relax any.

Mori lets go of Katai’s arm.  “You weren’t afraid of needles when we met.  Or did you lose confidence in my care?”

It’s probably a joke (it’s hard to tell when Mori delivers every joke with a straight face), but still it brings out a protest immediately.  “Of course not, Sensei!  I’d trust you with my life!”

“But you’re still nervous.”  After a second passes without Katai denying it - he can’t - Mori says, “Take some time to calm down.  I have plenty of other vaccinations to give, you can have another hour to prepare.”

An hour might not be enough, but Katai just sighs in exasperation at himself.  “I’ll come back later.  Sorry for wasting your time.”

The next hour Katai spends trying to get his hormones to chill.  It is a difficult problem with a complex solution, involving: having a cold shower, being scolded by Kunikida for having a cold shower when the possibility of getting sick is the whole problem in the first place, throwing a wet towel at Kunikida when he suggests just fishing out his nurse magazines and taking care of it the old-fashioned way, complaining that he doesn’t have any of those magazines and even if he did Kunikida wouldn’t know about them, squawking when Kunikida reaches under his bed and pulls out one of said nurse magazines, shoving Kunikida out of his room, locking the door, briefly considering actually taking care of it the old-fashioned way, and ending up instead spending ten minutes looking up pictures of skin diseases and slugs and the occasional slug with skin diseases.

All incredibly crucial steps.

When Katai’s convinced that he can never have a sexual or romantic thought ever again, he returns to the infirmary.  Mori’s still there and still incredibly good-looking, but this time Katai will be a model patient.

Easy.  Hold still, relax his arm, sit through the alcohol wipe and the prick of the needle, don’t think too much about Mori’s hands or his jawline or how he looks really good in a suit.  Easy peasy.

“That’s it.”  Mori disposes of the needle, then puts a bandage on Katai’s arm.  “That wasn’t so hard.”

Katai rubs the back of his neck.  Since the motion didn’t cause searing pain, he’s pretty sure nothing went horribly wrong.  “I know, I just got worked up over nothing…  I feel pretty dumb right now.”

“I understand being nervous, don’t worry.  I’m just glad you were able to relax so that everything could go smoothly.”  Mori’s features soften a tiny bit, turning an already handsome face into a beautiful one.  “If I hurt you, of all people…  I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

There’s no way Katai can use being nervous about the injection that’s already over with as an excuse for why his face flames up a bright red.  He can’t even try.  “I, I should get going so you can give the next shot, thank you Sensei I’ll see you later!”  And he’s out of the infirmary before Mori can manage more than a syllable.

Over the few months they’ve been acquaintances, Akutagawa has learned that his author counterpart has friends.

Quite a number of them, actually.  There’s a man with a warm presence who says ‘Ryuu’ the same fond way his Akutagawa says ‘Kan’.  There’s a man with a wild mane and an easy laugh.  There’s a mustached man that the accomplished Akutagawa addresses as ‘sensei’, and…

“Oh, have you met Dazai-kun?”

He is nothing like the Dazai that once commanded fear among the Port Mafia.  His eyes are too bright, his smile too genuine.  His clothes burst with color, red and gold on fabric that would be ruined if a drop of blood was spilled on it.

He is nothing like Dazai, and yet this Akutagawa can hardly breathe when he turns the force of that smile on him.

“Any friend of Akutagawa-sensei’s is a friend of mine!  Pleased to meet you~”

Akutagawa doesn’t hear himself speak, but he must have said his name to get Dazai to light up even more.

“Akutagawa-sensei - no, Akutagawa-sama!  It’s such an honor!”  Dazai bows, while the other Akutagawa covers a chuckle with his hand.  Akutagawa can hardly blame him: the scene must be ridiculous, Akutagawa gaping like a fish while Dazai calls a stranger -sama.  Anyone would laugh.  He should laugh.

He can’t.  After coughing into his sleeve a few times, he mutters, “Likewise.”

Dazai insists on sharing contact information so they can stay in touch.  It saves Akutagawa the embarrassment of trying to ask without coming off as wanting to interact with another human being ever again.  He does insist that Dazai drop the -sama if they’re going to meet again: he might not always be able to hide his red cheeks behind his hand.

Places Dazai likes to meet: restaurants where he insists on paying for the meal.  Art museums.  Bars, though after Akutagawa expressed mild displeasure once Dazai’s never suggested them again.  Shopping malls.

Places Dazai does not like to meet: parks where people can have dogs about - he’s terrified of the animals, a counterpoint to the other Dazai’s disdain and malice.  Beaches.  Aquariums.  Anywhere Akutagawa doesn’t like.

(Akutagawa tries to remember if the other Dazai ever cared about what Akutagawa didn’t like except as a possible avenue of punishment, and comes up with nothing.)

“Sensei is my idol,” Dazai says, after finishing the last of his crab.  “He’s practically a god to me.  I know I’ll never surpass him, but if he recognized me and my work, that would be enough for me to die happy.”

Uncomfortably familiar.  Akutagawa nudges his nearly untouched food with his chopsticks.  “Has he not recognized you already?”

“He knows who I am now!  And I even get to speak to him personally!” Dazai’s dreamy expression quickly fades.  “But recognize my writing, my life’s work… no.  I’m not sure if he’s read any of it?  But I can’t just go and ask…”

“It would be easier to believe Dazai-san simply didn’t know what I’ve done instead of it not being enough for him.”  The words are bitter, spat out before Akutagawa can think to keep them inside.

Dazai - this one, the one that smiles like his whole heart is in his face - tilts his head a little.  “…I’m not qualified to give recognition when it comes to physical strength,” he says at last.  “That isn’t my area of expertise, it’d be an insult to you to try.  But I can say that you’re cute.”

Akutagawa, who had been about to say something about the Dazai who made him what he is being the only one able to give him validation, shuts his mouth.  After a second he manages, “What?”

“Cute.  Handsome.”  Dazai’s smile is entirely different with his eyelashes lowered.  “That is one of my areas of expertise.  I’d recognize you plenty.”

Even someone as socially inept as Akutagawa can tell when he’s being flirted with, or at least that he’s being flirted with now.  The part of him that hates human contact wants to recoil; the part of him that guards him with suspicion warns against being so vulnerable with anyone.

The part of him that craves any kind of approval from any Dazai says, “…I wouldn’t mind.”

To call Akutagawa’s body ‘thin’ would be too complimentary: ‘gaunt’ would be more appropriate.  His skin is covered in scars and pockmarks, and constant illness and malnutrition has worn any fat he might have had down to nothing.  Just unbuttoning his coat should be enough to make anyone reconsider touching him.

And still Dazai kisses his scarred skin without disgust, caresses his chest without comment on his ribs showing.  Akutagawa wants to question him on calling Akutagawa ‘cute’ and demand to know how anyone could find him attractive, let alone someone as beautiful as Dazai.  But he can’t say anything, because Dazai being genuine about it would undo him completely.

He can’t open his mouth anyway.  The sounds Dazai draws from him are embarrassing enough even with him biting the back of his fist.  Dazai’s lips and tongue on his chest make him whimper, and kisses on his inner thighs bring forth barely muffled moans.  He feels heat and wet and can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but sob Dazai’s name again and again until the world fades away around him.

Dazai surfaces for air, licking his lips clean.  “You look like you had a good time~”

Akutagawa is still panting for breath.  When it occurs to him that he hasn’t repaid Dazai for the pleasure, he sits bolt upright, only for the sudden movement to cause a coughing fit.

“Easy.”  Dazai rubs his back through his coat, a more gentle touch than Akutagawa is used to.  “Just relax for a minute.”

“But-”  Akutagawa coughs a few more times before managing, “I haven’t repaid the favor.”

“Already took care of it.”  Dazai gives a slightly sheepish smile as he wipes his hand off on the sheets.  “You seemed like you’d need a nap afterward.”

Akutagawa can’t say that Dazai is wrong, but this does nothing to settle him down.  “I can match you!  I will!  Don’t underestimate me-”

“It isn’t a competition?  Or a transaction?”  Dazai flops face-first onto the bed, and pats the mattress beside him until Akutagawa lays down as well.  “If you’re that worried about repayment, consider the sounds you made to be priceless.  And if you’re worried about doing it right: this is the part where you cuddle.”

Cuddling.  Akutagawa doesn’t know where to begin, but he manages to squash his urge to pull away or lash out when Dazai wraps an arm around him.

“…Your standards of ‘handsome’ are questionable.”  When Dazai only hums in response, Akutagawa scowls.  “You’ve seen my body.  Do you expect me to believe I impressed someone as beautiful as you?”

“You’re sweet.”  Dazai presses a kiss to Akutagawa’s cheek while Akutagawa is too stunned to respond.  “It’s always the handsomest men who fall sick, you know.  Like you.”

At two thirty-six in the afternoon on a Monday, Dazai realizes he has feelings for Fukuzawa Yukichi.

He remembers the moment clearly.  The scene: the agency’s backyard.  Fukuzawa and Kunikida are sparring, and Dazai is watching them, because-

Hm.  Dazai rests his chin on his hand and thinks: why is he watching this, exactly?

Not to see who wins.  Fukuzawa has never lost a match to Kunikida.  The conclusion is already known - just Kunikida forcing Fukuzawa to work up a sweat is impressive.

Because watching two attractive men fight each other is hot?  Well, of course it is, but even the most attractive men can only hold Dazai’s interest for so long.  The two of them have been going at it for five minutes and yet Dazai’s attention is still fixed on Fukuzawa.

Not Kunikida, he realizes.  Kunikida cuts a handsome figure as much as the president does, and his skin doesn’t gleam any less with sweat than Fukuzawa’s right now, but Dazai has barely glanced at him.  Looking at Kunikida doesn’t make Dazai want to bite his collarbone or pin him down and take him or embrace him-

Dazai makes a choked sound.  He’s pretty sure those two have their attention entirely on each other lest one catch them off guard, so neither of them caught the expression of alarm on his face when he realized there was a Feeling in there.

No, no, it’s just attraction, right?  Fukuzawa is gorgeous and Dazai doesn’t have any issue saying he’d ride him until he screamed, that doesn’t mean he has a crush.  It’s not like he wants to sleep next to him or go on dates with him or bring out one of those rare smiles-

He’s fucked.

That was two weeks ago.

Avoiding Fukuzawa isn’t terribly difficult: Fukuzawa spends most of the work day in the back, and when he does enter the front office, it isn’t out of character for Dazai to leave his work undone for some whim.  Kunikida will yell at him, but he’ll do that anyway.

It isn’t a permanent solution, but surely Dazai will get over his feelings.  He knows better than to think anything good can come of caring about another person that way.  If he cares about someone, they will inevitably be taken from him, and Fukuzawa is too important for anyone to lose.

Besides.

This is embarrassing.

Dazai’s lovestruck feelings do not go away.  He’s sure he gets more obvious about avoiding Fukuzawa, so much that even detectives besides Ranpo notice.  And if there’s anyone Dazai would have to be incredibly blatant to tip off-

Kenji sits on the bench next to Dazai and asks, “Did you and the president get in a fight?”

Dazai suppresses a sigh underneath a fake smile.  “Oh?  What kind of a fight would we get into?”

“I dunno, ‘cause everybody likes him!  And it seemed like you like him more than most people?”  Kenji swings his legs.  “If you didn’t get in a fight then I dunno why you keep leaving whenever he shows up.”

“I can’t possibly like Fukuzawa more than Ranpo likes Fukuzawa,” Dazai points out, clutching to the remnants of his plausible deniability.  “Or more than Kunikida does.”

“They like him different!  I bet you wouldn’t have him beat you up all the time-”

Dazai thinks about that for a second, then decides not to think about it too hard in front of a fourteen year old.

“-and Ranpo and him have known each other forever, right?  So it’s different.”  Kenji looks proud of his reasoning.  “You’re more like…  When my big sis was sweet on the boy from next door, but she didn’t wanna say anything because she was too busy on the farm, she looked at her boy like you look at the president. And now they’ve got two kids and a dog.”

“Fukuzawa is more of a cat person…”  It comes out weaker than Dazai would like.  “That’s a very interesting story, Kenji, and I’ll buy you a steak dinner if you promise to never repeat that to anyone else.  Ever.”

Kenji, whose eyes had lit up at the word ‘steak’, thinks about it… then shakes his head.  “I’m gonna tell.”

Shit.

It’s only luck that he manages to distract Kenji and rush back to the agency before Kenji realizes he’s disappeared.  Because Dazai absolutely does not want to talk about embarrassing feelings, but he wants a teenager to talk about his embarrassing feelings for him even less than that.

He’s out of breath when he arrives - trying to outrace someone who can leap along cars is exhausting even with a head start - and it takes him a second to realize that it’s Fukuzawa who’s answered the door.

“Dazai.”  Fukuzawa’s expression is opaque as always, but Dazai thinks there’s a little bit of concern in his voice.

Without answering, Dazai grabs Fukuzawa’s wrist - he’ll apologize later if tiger Atsushi eats someone while he’s confessing - and pulls him into the back of the office.  Fukuzawa follows, apparently willing to go along with whatever fit of madness has Dazai trying to drag him around.

In a room with thick enough walls that Dazai feels almost sure his coworkers aren’t eavesdropping, he shuts the door, leans on it, and says, “I have romantic feelings for you.”

At this moment, he wishes Fukuzawa wasn’t so difficult to read.  His eyes widen imperceptibly before glancing to the side.  Is that embarrassment?  Dazai can’t say.

“…I see.”

It’s about the answer Dazai expected.  He opens his mouth to apologize for making things awkward between them.

“I feel similarly.”

And then he shuts his mouth, lest his racing heart hover up his throat and out of his body entirely.  “…Ah.  Really?”

Fukuzawa nods.  There’s a tint of pink on his cheeks.

Dazai finds himself smiling, just a little.  “Good to know.”

The Fair Folk are God’s creatures, but everything is God’s creature, including monsters of the week and bad kids.  That doesn’t say anything.

The Fair Folk are not monsters of the week.  They are not of the devil.  They just are, and they would like to be left alone.

Classes don’t cover more than the basics of the Fair Folk.  Occasionally an after-school club teaches more about how to deal with them.  They fear iron and salt, so much that even the salt from a ramen packet will do.  They care nothing for the cross, the star of David, or the star and crescent.

Whenever you’re not listening to your radio, they can listen to you.  Usually you aren’t very interesting, but if you speak of them you must always do so politely.  They prefer to be left alone, but their pride is easily stung and their wrath swiftly visited.

Do not walk into a fairy circle.  Unknown lights in the distance may be from the devil or from the Kindly Ones: either way they are best not followed.

They do not lie, but that does not make them honest.  They do not break deals, but their deals are not safe to take, for the price is always greater than you expect.  Do not lie to one of the Fair Folk or break a deal even if it means you lose your life: there are worse things to lose.

Do not look them in the eyes, but never bow.

If they say they pity you, never ask why.

It is true that hundreds of years ago the Fair Folk switched human babies for some of their own, but that practice has long since ended.  For some reason, they have no desire to leave their children in modern human society.  Children may tease others for having eyes too wide apart or skin too pale, but they are only playing.  Kids will be kids.

(Kids sit on the playground with wet cheeks and wonder if a real changeling could make their skin as tough as stone when they were told to.  They try and try and try, and nothing changes.)

If you find yourself at their table, eat nothing, for you will be unable to leave.

(Children whose bellies are never full sit next to teenagers whose parents keep them on a choking collar and leash, and both devour the food in front of them.)

If you find yourself in their domain, do not sleep until you are home again.

(Children who cannot close their eyes in their own home for fear rest their head under the shade of a willow tree.)

If you find an outstretched, leafy hand when going between rooms, never take it.

(Children grab onto the only hand that’s been reached out to them and hold tight.)

Ashe not coming to dinner is unusual.  Though Noel can’t make much comment without sounding like a hypocrite, Claire had mentioned that he hadn’t been out for breakfast or lunch either.  She’d knocked on his door and gotten shouted at to leave for her trouble, so at least she knew he was alive, but Ashe yelling at people brought up an entirely different concern.

“…Hey, Noel, he looked after you when you were sick, right?  So if you go to check on him he might not get as mad!  Please?  Pretty please?”

Noel has never been able to deny Claire anything, especially if she said ‘please’.  And truth be told, he’s worried, too.

When he knocks on Ashe’s door, there’s no immediate answer.  However, when he calls out, “Ashe, are you in here?” the response comes back immediately.

“Yes.  Please kindly leave me alone.”

At least he isn’t dead and he’s well enough to respond.  Noel will count those as good signs.  “Can I bring you something from dinner?”

“Not unless you break the door down or pick the lock, I would think!”

Overly literal response.  Hm.  Noel corrects his phrasing: “If I bring you some food, will you open the door?”

“Yes?”  Ashe sounds bewildered by his own answer.

Noel has a suspicion of what’s wrong, but it won’t do any good to voice it now.  “I’ll be right back.”

He returns to the kitchen to heat some of the leftovers from dinner - Claire’s cooking, he knows nothing he makes himself will be worth consuming - then puts some attractively on a plate and heads back to the guest hallway.  “Ashe, I’m back with dinner.”

It takes a minute, but eventually the door opens.  Ashe looks… perfectly fine, actually.  His expression is less chipper than usual, but otherwise everything appears normal.

Noel lets himself in, and sets the plate on the table.  “It’s Claire’s cooking, I promise it’s delicious.  And that I didn’t make any of it.”

“I could tell.”  Ashe frowns.  “What I mean to say is I’m sure it’s been tested - I mean, erm…”

Noel can only let him fumble for words for a few seconds before he cuts that short.  “Honesty curses are terrible, aren’t they?”

“They’re awful and I despise them,” Ashe responds, with an expression quite a bit grumpier than Noel usually sees on him.  It quickly turns into something more neutral.  “…Ah, but may I ask how you knew?”

“Forgive me for saying this, but… you don’t usually answer questions so directly, or literally.”  Not without at least a little meandering first.  “And you look perfectly fine, so.  I guessed?”

Ashe puffs out a sigh.  “Now you know my secret.  That’s very dangerous to me, so I hope you’ll use this knowledge wisely!”

Ah.  That’s right, he should use any advantage he can get to protect Claire.  This would be a perfect opportunity to gain information about what Ashe intends to do here.  And it wouldn’t even kill him.

“…If I asked you something you didn’t want to reveal,” Noel says, “probably on accident, what would you do?”

“Kill you,” Ashe says.  His eyes go wide.  “Erm, that is - I wouldn’t - it was just-”

So no matter what he does, he can’t say he wouldn’t kill Noel or that he was joking.  That’s a dangerous curse: Ashe was right to hole up in his room.

Noel could probably ask one question and escape before Ashe could kill him.  It might be worth it: it might be everything.  He could ask why Ashe came to the mansion, what his wish is, his weakness…  It’s probably the right thing to do, strategically.  But Noel can’t take advantage of Ashe’s weakened state like that, not when Ashe willingly allowed him in.

“Don’t worry.”  Noel smiles, hoping to be reassuring but probably not managing it.  “The worst I’d ask is if there’s anyone here you like.”

“You.”

Both of them freeze.  Noel has to take a second to process before he goes red; Ashe moves his mouth, but only choked off sounds emerge rather than words.

Noel should leave.  He didn’t even intend for that to be an actual question.  He should bid Ashe goodnight and hope for the curse to wear off soon.  But his mouth moves before he can think: “Why?”

“You’re cute and sweet and incredibly handsome and you make me feel things I haven’t felt for years and I hate this stupid curse.”  After his curse-invoked sentence, Ashe covers his mouth with his hands, as if that would save him from further honesty.

Every word that leaves Ashe’s mouth just makes Noel turn more and more red, until he finally squeaks, “I-it’s a terrible curse and I should let you work it out by yourself, goodnight Ashe, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

He’s out the door before he can hear Ashe’s answer.

It’s a shame that Ango started remembering his past life only after his personality had solidified into something like ‘mild-mannered’.  If the memories started coming when he was an impressionable child, he might have turned into that free-spirited, rebellious Ango.

But he only starts to remember when he’s already old enough to know that asking people if they’ve remembered anything about past lives makes you sound like a crazy person.  So he keeps the visions to himself, and remains an Ango far too sensible to cover his floor in pesticide or remain in a city under bombardment just to see the spectacle.

Shortly after meeting Dazai and Oda, he remembers them, or people with their names, in that other life.  Being dragged drinking in this life was certainly more reasonable than shooting up like their past selves did… but he can’t say something like that lest he give Dazai ideas.

(Even as used to the flashbacks as he is, it’s still unsettling when he remembers a mirror of a conversation about using their Abilities to pick up women, almost word for word save for ‘Abilities’ replaced with ‘writing’.)

The other familiar name he recalls is Nakahara Chuuya.  Still tiny with a prominent hat, but far less intimidating.  Ango laughs as he recalls a drunken Chuuya standing a foot away and making punching motions rather than actually pick a fight - it’s probably the only time he’ll ever be brave enough to laugh at any Chuuya.  This Chuuya could kill him without blinking.

As bothersome as Ango finds the Professor Specs nickname, he doesn’t dare complain about it.  After he and Chuuya start seeing each other more often he gets used to that, too, until Chuuya decides to change it up with-

“Hegemony?” Ango repeats, eyes wide.

Chuuya shuts his mouth, as if that word had left it without permission.  “…Nothing.  Forget about it.”

“You called me that before.”  Despite their meeting being in private, Ango double checks to make sure no one else is around to hear.  “Do you remember that?”

“…In another life?”  When Ango nods, Chuuya sighs like he’s been holding it in for his entire life.  “I thought it was just me.  At first I figured it was some side effect of the experiments, making up memories to fill in the missing ones.”

“I’m almost entirely certain I haven’t been experimented on.”  Almost, but that’s as good as you can get with some things.  “What made you change your mind, if it wasn’t finding someone else who remembered?”

Chuuya’s mouth sets into a hard line.  “Some things I don’t have enough experience with to make up.”

That explains nothing and seems counter-intuitive, but Ango doesn’t think pressing would be a good idea.  It’s not important anyway, not compared to the confirmation that he isn’t going crazy.  Or at least if he is, there’s someone else going crazy with him.

They spend about half an hour sharing stories.  Ango tells Chuuya about Dazai, Oda and him getting high as a kite, and Chuuya tells him how he almost made Dazai cry on their first meeting.  (”I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with him this time around, the old one was way less annoying.”)  Chuuya mentions getting put in jail for breaking a street lamp, and Ango mentions running a betting scam at a bicycle track.  Ango brings up his son Tsunao, and Chuuya… falls silent, staring at something far away rather than meeting Ango’s gaze.

Just when Ango is about to change the subject to something less personal, Chuuya says, “Most of the memories I’ve gotten are about my first kid.  Probably since he was so important to me.”

Ango wonders what it says that most of his memories are about drugs and alcohol, or at least involve them.

“We wouldn’t be able to have kids in this lifetime,” he says instead.  “You wouldn’t bring them into your lifestyle and I would be too busy with work.”

Chuuya snorts.  “You’d probably miss your kid’s birthday doing an all-nighter.”

“Their birthday?  I’d probably miss their birth.”  It’s something he’s accepted long ago, that he’s not a good fit for fatherhood.  More importantly, speaking lightly about it has made Chuuya’s expression turn to something less pained.

Ango has discovered that he hates to see Chuuya hurting.

Maybe he’s transparent about his motives, because Chuuya reaches over and musses up his hair.  “Who knew you were such a big softie?”

Scowling (mostly because he’s right and partly because his hair was behaving for once), Ango says, “Don’t tell everyone.”

“Your collection is quite impressive,” Kyogoku says, peering over a doll.

Ayatsuji acknowledges his words with nothing more than a hum.  He doesn’t need to be told that his collection is vast: dolls are his only hobby, unless you consider solving cases to be a hobby that ends in death.  (His handlers would prefer he didn’t think of it in those terms, he’s sure, but his handlers would prefer a lot of things.)  Even so, there are still many dolls he hasn’t acquired and longs for.

Kyogoku is one of the few acquaintances (or are they friends?) that match his intelligence, however, and it would be a shame to drive him off.

“May I pick them up?” Kyogoku asks.

“With care.”  They aren’t fragile enough to shatter at the slightest touch, but gripping too hard would still break them irreparably.  Kyogoku may laugh like a monkey, but he’s far more gentle than one.

Kyogoku picks up a kimekomi doll, admiring her hair.  “You have quite a variety here…  I’m less familiar with the styles of Western dolls as I am with the traditional Japanese ones, but it’s clear that you care for all of them.”

Unsurprising: Kyogoku has always been more interested in Japanese tradition than Ayatsuji has.  Their conversations about mysticism are fascinating: Ayatsuji has never been one for stories of demons and gods, but Kyogoku’s critical eye towards unfounded claims of supernatural powers makes what he does believe in all the more convincing to Ayatsuji’s ears.

“A bold claim.  Many would doubt that I care for anything at all,” Ayatsuji answers with a wry smile.  “Or that I’m even capable of it.”

Kyogoku laughs.  It’s softer than usual, perhaps out of respect for their company’s tender (mostly porcelain) ears.  “And who is the one who says that few can understand his thoughts?”

Ayatsuji, of course.  He doesn’t verbally respond, but he adds a mental tally on a scoreboard under Kyogoku’s name: another win for him.  As always, they’re evenly matched: one rarely pulls more than one or two ticks ahead before the other catches up.

Kyogoku spends the rest of his visit in a sea of dolls and puppets, asking Ayatsuji their names and admiring their beauty.  Ayatsuji can’t say that anyone has responded so well to his hobby before, and sharing it with someone who appreciates it...

He can’t say he minds.

The next time Kyogoku visits, he’s holding a karakuri puppet.  A tea-serving puppet, one from the 17th century judging by the clothes.  It’s been well-maintained, but the materials show that it’s a genuine article and not a modern recreation.

“Shall I put it with the others, or would you like a demonstration first?” Kyogoku asks.

Ayatsuji breathes in sharply.  “The mechanisms still work?”

Kyogoku smiles.  He sets the doll down facing Ayatsuji, a short distance away, then goes to pour coffee into a cup meant for tea - two spoons of brown sugar, no milk.  When Kyogoku puts the cup on the doll’s plate, it starts to move forward, shifting its feet as if walking, then stops in front of Ayatsuji and bows its head.

Ayatsuji bends to take the cup from the doll and takes a sip.  As always, Kyogoku prepares coffee exactly the way he likes it.  “Amazing.  It must have received regular upkeep for hundreds of years to function so smoothly.”

“It’s a keepsake from my family.”  Kyogoku’s smile is difficult for even Ayatsuji to read, but he knows it’s not entirely happy or entirely sad.  “My parents taught me how to take care of it when I was a child.”

Ayatsuji frowns.  The puppet is amazing, he has nothing of the like in his collection and he doubts he could find its equal available for purchase anywhere, but…  “I can’t ask you to give me this.”  Family doesn’t mean much to him, but he knows it’s important to the majority of Japanese society, a majority that includes Kyogoku.  This doll could be sold for a sum beyond most people’s imaginations, but a family heirloom is even more valuable than that.

He is not a kind or generous person, he knows, but even he has limits.  More so when it comes to one of the few people he would almost consider a friend.

Kyogoku shakes his head.  “What use do I have for a tea-serving puppet?  I live alone, the only guest I’ve hosted in some time is you, and I have no other dolls to keep it company.  No, I insist that you take it: it will bring far more joy to you than to me.”

Joy may be part of the warm feeling in Ayatsuji’s chest as he carefully picks up the puppet to examine it more closely, but he soon puts a name to the rest: gratitude.

“…Thank you very much.”

Many people would doubt that Ayatsuji had ever expressed thanks, or ever would.  Even with someone he respects as an equal, Ayatsuji can’t remember ever thanking him for anything.

But Kyogoku shows no signs of surprise, only a wide smile that crinkles his face.  “Think nothing of it.”

Ayatsuji raises an eyebrow.  “And who is it that said one of my best traits was that I never stop thinking?”

Kyogoku laughs, and somehow Ayatsuji finds himself laughing along.  “So I did!  Another victory for you it is.”

The man Akutagawa keeps company with is a mystery.

Higuchi has seen him on multiple occasions, always dressed in a yukata or something similarly old-fashioned, with a pipe in his hand even if he doesn’t smoke around Akutagawa’s weak lungs.  She knows better than to stalk him: the incident with Gin had proven that nothing good comes of that.  Besides, a man is less of a threat to her… probably?

If she does happen by chance to see them together, it doesn’t hurt if she sticks around, trying not to draw attention to herself.  If overhearing him call Akutagawa ‘Ryuunosuke-kun’ makes her teeth grind and her fists clench, no one can really blame her.  He doesn’t look much older than Akutagawa, what gives him the right to speak so familiarly?  Her senpai would never let her call him that, but this stranger, who isn’t even in the mafia’s files, is closer than she’ll ever be…!

“Higuchi.”

Higuchi jolts.  Akutagawa is staring at her, distinctly unamused even by Akutagawa standards.

“Senpai, I…  I just happened to be passing by, and…”  Maybe she wasn’t as subtle as she thought she was, but she really did have other business in the area.

“Higuchi… Ichiyo, is it?”  The man is soft-spoken, which does nothing to stop her hair standing on end when she realizes he knows her name.  It’s not as though Akutagawa would have spoken of her or even thought of her.  “It’s an honor to meet you.”

If this weren’t company Akutagawa keeps, apparently of his own free will, Higuchi’s response would be more hostile.  As it is…  “You’ve heard of me?”

“I have heard your name.  Normally I would say that most everyone in Japan has heard it, but circumstances are rather strange lately.”  The man smiles without a hint of malice or irony.  “My name is Akutagawa Ryuunosuke.”

“He isn’t lying,” Akutagawa, her Akutagawa, says, before she can even process what that means.

“…How?”

The other patiently explains the existence of a library full of authors who share names with members of the mafia or the detective agency, summoned out of death in order to restore their works that are being consumed.  It sounds unbelievable, but her senpai nods along, and that’s enough for Higuchi to at least try to accept it as reality.

“And… I’m an author in your memories?” she asks.

“An author much more important to Japan than myself,” the writer says.  “Higuchi Ichiyo was one of the first important writers of her era.  Your face is on a bank note.  If your stories weren’t written in classical Japanese, you would be even more prominent than you already are.  …Between the two of us, there’s no question whose works are more valuable.”

The concept of being more important than Akutagawa, any Akutagawa, doesn’t process right in Higuchi’s brain.  She just stares, wide-eyed, as the writer inclines his head to her in a tiny bow.

The mafioso Akutagawa clears his throat.  “Don’t make an embarrassment of yourself.”  It’s hard to tell which of them he’s talking to, but he certainly is grumpy about it.

Smiling, the other Akutagawa straightens up again.  “Of course, I’m honored to have met you as well, Ryuunosuke-kun.  Honored and delighted to know that our name is carried by a young man as strong as you.”  He lightly pats his counterpart on the head.  “To say nothing of being hard-working, earnest, and cute.”

If it had not been for Aversa, Inigo would have stayed far away from anything with ‘of truth’ in the name.  But leaving a woman who, by all rights, ought to be dead alone to practice who knows what wickedness is foolish, so Inigo swallows the lump in his throat and gives chase with Chrom and Robin and the rest.

The air around the spring flickers and warps.  A mirror image of Chrom is the first to appear, but copies of the others in their group soon follow.  Inigo’s eyes meet with his double’s - that smile doesn’t seem so rakish from this angle, or does it always look so forced on him?

He turns away.  Self-reflection has never been his friend.

Battle is something he can focus on whether or not there are girls to show off for.  The rhythm is easy to fall into: attack, dodge, attack again.  He can focus on the movement of his opponent more than on their face.  It’s something learned from fighting Risen, when no one was safe from dying and being turned: if you don’t look at their face, you won’t recognize the person that this monster used to be.  Like that, you can fight the corpses of even your closest friends.

Attack, dodge, attack again, be sure that your opponent is staying down once they fall, turn to the next enemy-

It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t look at her face.  It wouldn’t matter even if he didn’t recognize her clothes.  His mother’s movements are imprinted on his memory long after she herself stopped moving.

Olivia swings her sword so gracefully.  He admires the beauty of the motion even when she’s swinging at him.

The cut in his side is shallow, but painful.  Inigo jumps backwards and tries to raise his sword for a counterattack.  Even if it’s Olivia, he has to fight or else he’ll die.  They all knew that: their parents weren’t there to rescue them anymore, so they had to fight no matter what pain they felt.

(He was lucky.  He buried his mother with as many honors as he could scrounge up.  If the grave was ever disturbed, it was after they had been forced to leave that area, and he never knew about it, let alone had to face her rotting corpse.  He wasn’t one of the ones who had to strike down their own parents.  Really, how pathetic can he be-)

His arms tremble and his legs quiver.  He can’t hold his sword steady, let alone attack with it.  He can barely stay standing.

Fail to dodge, fail to attack, fail to dodge again as the mirage closes in for another blow-

The steel of the illusion’s blade meets the steel of Olivia’s.  Olivia shoves, sending the mirage sprawling backwards.

“Inigo,” his mother says.  Right now, her back looks impossibly strong. “Maybe you should let me handle this one?”

…Ah.  He’d forgotten.  That isn’t his mother’s reanimated corpse trying to kill them.  His mother is still here, still protecting him.

Relief and love are thick in Inigo’s throat.  He can’t answer, so he turns to face another enemy that would dare to target Olivia’s back.  His mother is still here, so he has to guard her weakness the same way she guards his.  They can both afford a little weakness, as long as they’re both still fighting back to back.