So already have a kind-of-sort-of fic journal thing, buuuut as I have little idea what to do with my inksome, I'm going to throw stuff here too. Probably not everything I write, but some of it. Why not?
Written for Rena for CFUD's Secret Santa. Teeny tiny edits have been made to this version (mostly just me being picky about sentence structure).
Four Pieces of Takabe Youhei (and one that isn’t)
World Embryo
1505 words
i)
When they meet Youhei is grinning, tugging the goggles from his eyes and letting them snap into his hair before climbing off his scooter. Hayato clicks his tongue against his teeth, tapping the toe of his shoe to the cracked pavement and commenting with a dry lit that he does hope Youhei saw fit to not drive himself into anymore close calls on the way over.
Rena watches the way the boy laughs and throws up his hands and somehow manages to completely brush off the question without really bothering to answer (hey hey a lot of stuff happened, you know?) and Hayato rolls his eyes, shrugs a shoulder, inclines his head towards her as a kind of introduction.
“I’ve mentioned Arisugawa-san to you before.”
Youhei’s eyebrows lift into his hairline. He throws out a hand for her to shake (which she declines), touches her shoulder (she gasps), spins around to face Hayato again (a quiet one, huh?) and smiles back at her and says that he likes the ribbons in her hair (and she stutters and blushes and asks what that has to do with anything. He laughs again, but not unkindly, not at her.).
“I’m Youhei. Nice to meet you, Rena.”
“Arisugawa.”
“Ha, sorry sorry. Arisugawa.”
ii)
“What are you doing?”
She nearly drops her camera.
Youhei chuckles and raises his hands in surrender when Rena scowls at him. She wipes an invisible thumbprint from the lens as she waits for him to leave (she has learnt after repeat performances that when she ignores someone they tend to follow suite), but instead Youhei rolls his shoulders, stretches, and hunkers down with his back to a tree, watching.
Rena stares at him over her shoulder until her stiffening neck is enough to confirm that he has no intentions of moving. She considers packing away her equipment and leaving instead, but there is something about Youhei’s quiet distance, the way his eyes remain on the scenery and how his hands neatly fold together between his bent keens that doesn’t make his presence feel invasive and or impolite.
She twists on her heel, raises the camera and takes a few more shots (a footprint, an empty bench, a stray cat licking it’s front paw) but begins to feel self-conscious at having another there to witness her hobby, someone she has not half forgotten yet, and looks at Youhei again. He tilts his head at her in response, unsmiling.
“I came to tell you I’m your partner now.”
She lowers the camera. He tells her that Hayato woke up, that he’ll live, but he won’t walk again. Oh he can still use his jinki, but who would send a guy out there in a wheelchair, right? He begins to smile as he goes on, but it’s different and wrong and not the same way he flashed his teeth and crinkled his eyes when they met. Youhei falls silent, traces a finger through the dirt and adds, almost as an after thought, that if she doesn’t want him as a partner, that’s okay too.
“No.” she says. It comes out sharply. “It’s fine.”
He nods, stands, mouth forming back into that thin straight line that Rena finds preferable it to the strange expression he wore while they spoke. She brushes the hair from her face, brings up the camera from where it hangs against her chest to snap a photo of Youhei’s retreating back.
It’s too quick, too spontaneous, will be off centred and blurred and make her question why she even bothered to take it at all a day later when the film is developed.
iii)
“Arisugawa! Rena! Shit, come on you’re okay right?”
Rena blinks, the edges of her vision blurring. She has never heard Youhei’s voice take on that tone before.
“Yeah, there you go. Hey, don’t try to move, take it easy. I’ve got you, you’re fine.”
Hands under her arms, lifting her small body up and down again so her head is resting on something that is not the warehouse concrete, something yielding and warm.
“You… you shouldn’t have let down your guard until we checked.” He says. She squints and has to blink again before she can see him, notices his eyes are still a flashing yellow and that the blue streaks along his cheekbones have yet to disappear. He looks angry, brows knitted together, jaw clenched and stiff. But his words are shaky, soft.
“Mm.” She doesn’t feel like speaking. It takes her another moment to piece together from the angle of his face that she is resting on his lap. She suddenly feels hot.
“Hey, what did I just say about moving?”
“You…” she can’t finish.
“Ha, me.” His fingers run along her forehead. “You’re bleeding a bit. Does it hurt?”
“No. How bad--?”
“It’s not. Probably. We’ll have someone check. Don’t fall asleep, okay?”
“We should leave.”
“In a minute. Think I’ll have to carry you?”
“N-no. I can walk.“
Youhei laughs, quietly. “Yeah, I know, but I don’t want you to.” He slips a hand under he knees, curls an arm around her back and stands.
“Just let me do this, okay?”
Her silence is agreement enough.
iv)
“Rena—“
”Arisugawa.”
“Right, sorry. Come on though—“
“No.”
“Please?”
“Takabe.”
“But it’s such a pain to do by myself!”
“So stop.”
“The roots look stupid.” He wrinkles his nose, runs a hand through his hair. For Youhei, it’s the equivalent of pouting. Rena exhales in one quick, irritated breath and crosses her arms.
An hour later he has snagged the sleeve of her coat and is tugging her up the stairs to his apartment. It’s small, grey, empty. Rena sees nothing there that resembles Youhei in the brief glimpse she’s given as he pulls her into the bathroom.
He’s kneeling, head bowed with a towel wrapped around his shoulders as Rena applies yellow dye to the dark brown roots of his hair. Halfway through she has to stop, carefully run a cloth over her palms and tie her own hair out of her face. Youhei wipes stray running lines of dye from the back of his neck and forehead as he waits.
“Why do you do this?” Rena mumbles, picking through his hair with a comb to find what she’s missed. Youhei hums as he thinks, and Rena’s fingers twitch against his scalp.
“I look a lot like my Dad, you know?”
“No, I don’t.” Unlike herself, Youhei keeps no photographs.
“We don’t get along that well. Never did.” He shrugs, and chuckles apologetically when Rena has to fix the towel. She pauses at her work, frowning. It’s difficult for her to imagine Youhei not getting along with anyone.
“Arisugawa?”
“Do you…” she’s not sure if she should ask, and starts to blush.
“Do I…?”
“You don’t miss him.”
“Nah.”
“You’re family.”
“We’re related. Family is something else.”
Rena doesn’t understand and so doesn’t question further. Eventually she tells Youhei to get up and watches as he smiles at himself in the mirror, tucking his chin to his chest to examine the dye job.
v)
There are never funerals for the ones that die, but each year a memorial service is held out of respect at FLAG headquarters. Someone speaks of the fallen, of how they gave their lives for something good and worthy and potent. Photographs are placed around the room. You’re encouraged to linger.
The chairwoman sits in the front row, eyeliner and mascara perfect despite her watering eyes. She presses a handkerchief to a dry cheek and Rena watches the way Riku’s lips twist, the way his jaw hardens and his fists clench in his lap. She thinks it makes sense that he can recognize another liar so clearly.
The photograph of Youhei is at the back of the room, neatly mounted in a frame. He’s unprepared for the shot and expressionless. His back is to his scooter, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, head turned with his eyes directed at something off screen. The lighting is too overpowering on one side and too dull on the other, the angle of the camera making the viewer’s eyes want to trail down towards the corner where there’s nothing to see.
Riku steps up beside her, and she pretends to not notice the ways his gaze flickers from her to the portrait and back again.
“I don’t like the picture they used.” She says. Riku makes a sound in his throat.
Eventually the crowd thins and Riku says her name, softly tugs at her sleeve when he notices the chairwoman watching them. It shouldn’t be easy to look at him without glaring, to speak calmly and not in clipped, harsh tones. It shouldn’t be easy to let him curl his fingers around her wrist and gently pull until she’s forced to either follow or fight back. It shouldn’t be easy for him to lead her out of the room, away from the photograph that is not the Youhei she knew at all.
It shouldn’t be, but somehow is, terribly so.
Written for Rena for CFUD's Secret Santa. Teeny tiny edits have been made to this version (mostly just me being picky about sentence structure).
Four Pieces of Takabe Youhei (and one that isn’t)
World Embryo
1505 words
i)
When they meet Youhei is grinning, tugging the goggles from his eyes and letting them snap into his hair before climbing off his scooter. Hayato clicks his tongue against his teeth, tapping the toe of his shoe to the cracked pavement and commenting with a dry lit that he does hope Youhei saw fit to not drive himself into anymore close calls on the way over.
Rena watches the way the boy laughs and throws up his hands and somehow manages to completely brush off the question without really bothering to answer (hey hey a lot of stuff happened, you know?) and Hayato rolls his eyes, shrugs a shoulder, inclines his head towards her as a kind of introduction.
“I’ve mentioned Arisugawa-san to you before.”
Youhei’s eyebrows lift into his hairline. He throws out a hand for her to shake (which she declines), touches her shoulder (she gasps), spins around to face Hayato again (a quiet one, huh?) and smiles back at her and says that he likes the ribbons in her hair (and she stutters and blushes and asks what that has to do with anything. He laughs again, but not unkindly, not at her.).
“I’m Youhei. Nice to meet you, Rena.”
“Arisugawa.”
“Ha, sorry sorry. Arisugawa.”
ii)
“What are you doing?”
She nearly drops her camera.
Youhei chuckles and raises his hands in surrender when Rena scowls at him. She wipes an invisible thumbprint from the lens as she waits for him to leave (she has learnt after repeat performances that when she ignores someone they tend to follow suite), but instead Youhei rolls his shoulders, stretches, and hunkers down with his back to a tree, watching.
Rena stares at him over her shoulder until her stiffening neck is enough to confirm that he has no intentions of moving. She considers packing away her equipment and leaving instead, but there is something about Youhei’s quiet distance, the way his eyes remain on the scenery and how his hands neatly fold together between his bent keens that doesn’t make his presence feel invasive and or impolite.
She twists on her heel, raises the camera and takes a few more shots (a footprint, an empty bench, a stray cat licking it’s front paw) but begins to feel self-conscious at having another there to witness her hobby, someone she has not half forgotten yet, and looks at Youhei again. He tilts his head at her in response, unsmiling.
“I came to tell you I’m your partner now.”
She lowers the camera. He tells her that Hayato woke up, that he’ll live, but he won’t walk again. Oh he can still use his jinki, but who would send a guy out there in a wheelchair, right? He begins to smile as he goes on, but it’s different and wrong and not the same way he flashed his teeth and crinkled his eyes when they met. Youhei falls silent, traces a finger through the dirt and adds, almost as an after thought, that if she doesn’t want him as a partner, that’s okay too.
“No.” she says. It comes out sharply. “It’s fine.”
He nods, stands, mouth forming back into that thin straight line that Rena finds preferable it to the strange expression he wore while they spoke. She brushes the hair from her face, brings up the camera from where it hangs against her chest to snap a photo of Youhei’s retreating back.
It’s too quick, too spontaneous, will be off centred and blurred and make her question why she even bothered to take it at all a day later when the film is developed.
iii)
“Arisugawa! Rena! Shit, come on you’re okay right?”
Rena blinks, the edges of her vision blurring. She has never heard Youhei’s voice take on that tone before.
“Yeah, there you go. Hey, don’t try to move, take it easy. I’ve got you, you’re fine.”
Hands under her arms, lifting her small body up and down again so her head is resting on something that is not the warehouse concrete, something yielding and warm.
“You… you shouldn’t have let down your guard until we checked.” He says. She squints and has to blink again before she can see him, notices his eyes are still a flashing yellow and that the blue streaks along his cheekbones have yet to disappear. He looks angry, brows knitted together, jaw clenched and stiff. But his words are shaky, soft.
“Mm.” She doesn’t feel like speaking. It takes her another moment to piece together from the angle of his face that she is resting on his lap. She suddenly feels hot.
“Hey, what did I just say about moving?”
“You…” she can’t finish.
“Ha, me.” His fingers run along her forehead. “You’re bleeding a bit. Does it hurt?”
“No. How bad--?”
“It’s not. Probably. We’ll have someone check. Don’t fall asleep, okay?”
“We should leave.”
“In a minute. Think I’ll have to carry you?”
“N-no. I can walk.“
Youhei laughs, quietly. “Yeah, I know, but I don’t want you to.” He slips a hand under he knees, curls an arm around her back and stands.
“Just let me do this, okay?”
Her silence is agreement enough.
iv)
“Rena—“
”Arisugawa.”
“Right, sorry. Come on though—“
“No.”
“Please?”
“Takabe.”
“But it’s such a pain to do by myself!”
“So stop.”
“The roots look stupid.” He wrinkles his nose, runs a hand through his hair. For Youhei, it’s the equivalent of pouting. Rena exhales in one quick, irritated breath and crosses her arms.
An hour later he has snagged the sleeve of her coat and is tugging her up the stairs to his apartment. It’s small, grey, empty. Rena sees nothing there that resembles Youhei in the brief glimpse she’s given as he pulls her into the bathroom.
He’s kneeling, head bowed with a towel wrapped around his shoulders as Rena applies yellow dye to the dark brown roots of his hair. Halfway through she has to stop, carefully run a cloth over her palms and tie her own hair out of her face. Youhei wipes stray running lines of dye from the back of his neck and forehead as he waits.
“Why do you do this?” Rena mumbles, picking through his hair with a comb to find what she’s missed. Youhei hums as he thinks, and Rena’s fingers twitch against his scalp.
“I look a lot like my Dad, you know?”
“No, I don’t.” Unlike herself, Youhei keeps no photographs.
“We don’t get along that well. Never did.” He shrugs, and chuckles apologetically when Rena has to fix the towel. She pauses at her work, frowning. It’s difficult for her to imagine Youhei not getting along with anyone.
“Arisugawa?”
“Do you…” she’s not sure if she should ask, and starts to blush.
“Do I…?”
“You don’t miss him.”
“Nah.”
“You’re family.”
“We’re related. Family is something else.”
Rena doesn’t understand and so doesn’t question further. Eventually she tells Youhei to get up and watches as he smiles at himself in the mirror, tucking his chin to his chest to examine the dye job.
v)
There are never funerals for the ones that die, but each year a memorial service is held out of respect at FLAG headquarters. Someone speaks of the fallen, of how they gave their lives for something good and worthy and potent. Photographs are placed around the room. You’re encouraged to linger.
The chairwoman sits in the front row, eyeliner and mascara perfect despite her watering eyes. She presses a handkerchief to a dry cheek and Rena watches the way Riku’s lips twist, the way his jaw hardens and his fists clench in his lap. She thinks it makes sense that he can recognize another liar so clearly.
The photograph of Youhei is at the back of the room, neatly mounted in a frame. He’s unprepared for the shot and expressionless. His back is to his scooter, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, head turned with his eyes directed at something off screen. The lighting is too overpowering on one side and too dull on the other, the angle of the camera making the viewer’s eyes want to trail down towards the corner where there’s nothing to see.
Riku steps up beside her, and she pretends to not notice the ways his gaze flickers from her to the portrait and back again.
“I don’t like the picture they used.” She says. Riku makes a sound in his throat.
Eventually the crowd thins and Riku says her name, softly tugs at her sleeve when he notices the chairwoman watching them. It shouldn’t be easy to look at him without glaring, to speak calmly and not in clipped, harsh tones. It shouldn’t be easy to let him curl his fingers around her wrist and gently pull until she’s forced to either follow or fight back. It shouldn’t be easy for him to lead her out of the room, away from the photograph that is not the Youhei she knew at all.
It shouldn’t be, but somehow is, terribly so.
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