#v;fma

"Wh--"

That's about all he can get out before his feet leave the ground an inch and his breath is promptly halted by the affectionate crush of Easy's embrace. Kamakiri bites back the urge to sputter--thinks the position he's in embarrassing enough without flailing and protestation--and instead goes relatively still, quiet.

...If his sudden acquiescence has anything to do with the small swell of joy in his chest, well. He'll just have to hope it isn't too obvious.

It only occurs to him once he’s slunk his way through the door, that Kamakiri has apparently made a conscious effort not to patronize the Devil’s Nest at anything less than ‘mostly decent’. He’s been in sour moods before, sure, even dropped in once or twice in one of his darker places--but if the harrowed, heaviness to his presence alerted Dolcetto, the man didn’t ask, and for that he was grateful. 

Now might be...a bit different. A despairing mood is much easier to cast a blind eye towards than the blood, dried and flaking along his fingertips, caked over immaculate nails--except for one, the ring finger of his left hand, where which the smooth and shimmering surface is decidedly...missing. 

It hurts like hell, of course, but he’s lost nails before. Mostly, Kamakiri is tired. So tired. And in this brief moment of wavering self-discipline, he’s decided he’s earned himself a drink. 

☁ = being caught in the middle a storm with them

The rain comes down in thick sheets, rendering the dirt and dust of Dublith’s streets to channels of slick mud. The rain is something of a pleasant surprise, especially during the warmer season--though whatever relief Kamakiri may feel from the steady rainfall is dampened (hah) slightly by the sticky sheen of humidity that clings to his skin. Oppressive as Dublith’s heat often is, at least it’s usually a dry kind. 

Still--he’s not one to be ungrateful for his surroundings. While the air of the Devil’s Nest hangs still and suffocating, he’s more than pleased to have escaped the pounding rain--he was quick to learn in his youth that despite the joys of basking in a summer storm, ruined, waterlogged supplies simply aren’t worth the indulgence.

In walks an example--a soaked-through Dolcetto trying most valiantly to keep muddy bootprints off the floor. Kamakiri’s eyebrows raise. 

“...thought you’d have smelled a storm coming.”

If there’s one thing to say about the Devil’s Nest, it’s that it’s at least pretty quick at disposing inhospitable guests. Kamakiri watches the man fly face first against the wall and into some inebriate coma with a faint air of satisfaction. 

Yes, it saves him the trouble of getting involved when loose-lipped drunks being to sling particularly vile words about--he’s grateful for that. 

He stands and blithely begins to gather the sad, splintered remains of a barstool. Placing the jumbled wooden fragments on the bar, Kamakiri dusts off his hands. 

He wonders why she even bothers deflecting--the faint joke only earns a sharp narrowing of his eyes--she can't surely have expected any different.

Well. Perhaps it's the painkillers talking.

...Kamakiri sets his jaw, lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure. The simple acknowledgement of Easy's wounded state, treated or otherwise, still brings a sour chill that settles, light on the backs of his shoulders. After a beat, he huffs, the sound more chiding than anything approaching humor.

"Pretty hard to believe coming from the one so frequently fussing over light bruises."

The tone is dry, relatively light, or at least approaching the implicit fondness that so often seep into his words with her, but Kamakiri cannot deny the frustration bubbling down deep. Absurd (and frankly, distressing) that she seems so incapable of treating herself with the same warm consideration which she so endlessly piles upon others.

He frowns. Draws in a slow breath and lets the exhale hang unspoken concern and disapproval between them. Before he reaches forward, brief, to give Easy's forearm a gentle squeeze.

"...You're ridiculous."

The sun is shining. Roa has slung a barrel of wine half Kamakiri’s size over his shoulder like it’s a dainty lace shawl. 

“...”

Whoa.

He feels...a little awkward, to be honest, just watching in silence while the man hefts about gargantuan crates and containers.

“...can I help with anything?”

He looks again at the colossal barrels and at once feels...even more awkward. 

It’s a long, late night--a rarer one, spent in absence of the Nest’s regular nighthawks. The bar is empty, save for Dolcetto and himself, and there’s an ease with which the hours pass, peppered with conversation only when the thoughts and words arrive organically. 

It’s times like these he feels more a resident than a patron--a concept as giddy and novel as it is unsettling. 

He’s stirred from companionable silence instantly when Dol pipes up. Kamakiri straightens, brow furrowed as he strains for any peculiar sound in the surrounding dark. He hears it then: a strange, sonorous rumbling, so faint he can hardly distinguish it from the night’s usual ambiance. 

“...thunder?” He murmurs, eyes fixed on the window.

His expression darkens. Dublith doesn’t get storms often. 

“...”

Kamakiri nods, glances briefly at the younger before returning his level gaze to the horizon. The morning air still carries a coolness on its heels, not yet heated by Dublith’s boiling sun, the arrival of which now only hinted by the hues of pink and red creeping into the lazy blues and purples of dawn. 

It won’t be long now, before those in their homes will rise and stir, disrupting the hazy stillness with the bustle of the early hours, some still sleep-sluggish, others frenzied with a rush of caffeine and a waiting schedule. 

...But not yet. 

Kamakiri takes in a slow appreciative breath, lets the clear, cool air fill his lungs before he sighs, and takes a seat beside her.