OKAY HEAR ME OUTTTTT (a collection of scenesssss):
Hitoshi really hates being a psychic 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.
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’s hallucinating the dark bird-like creature crawling down the main street in broad daylight is enough to distract a guy.)
He groans as he bullies his limbs into functioning as, well, limbs.
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 gash on his shoulder.
“Watch it,” he grumbles sourly, already regretting asking for assistance in stitching up the wound.
“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.”
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.
“About a metre behind you.”
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-“ Hitoshi says gently.
She looks up fearfully. “Hide,” she whispers frightfully 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 11am. 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.
“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 at least have a location this time?”
“Across town in Mustafu.”
“Alright, pick me up from work on your way?”
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.
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?” the blonde 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.
“‘Tosh, you good to walk or do I need to manhandle both of you out of here?”
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