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The life of a little fox in the city isn’t always fun. Sure, there are times where he can have a laugh messing with the clumsy wolves who underestimate his petite figure; or sometimes he manages to sneak through the backdoor of a baker and enjoy the heavenly taste of warm bread. But most of the time it’s just cold, and lonely.
Mind you, the fox doesn’t need anyone to survive. Despite how small and light he looks (and is), he can pack a punch, many older and taller guys have learnt that the hard way. He’s also smart and crafty so really, he’s fine living on his own.
But… there are times where, crouched on a soaked carboard in the darkness of a narrow street, he wishes he could have what other people have. He sees them walking on a bright perpendicular avenue and none of them look lonely. Even the ones who seem alone walk hurriedly, like they have a purpose, somewhere to go, and the little fox wishes he could have something like that. Like a friend. But he has never learnt how to make friends so he just watches from afar with a wistful frown on his face.
***
The first time he sees the little prince, he is sitting at the corner of the narrow alley he currently sleeps in.
It’s a dark dead-end cramped between two buildings well on their way to disrepair, in the heart of a poor neighborhood. He likes this dead-end and even more this corner, because right across the road, there is a tiny island of insouciance in the form of a square for children. There is always laughter that floats around like a pink cloud of childish happiness over the wooden games and he likes how it makes him forget about his own sempiternal grey sky.
The little fox only watches from his corner, because the last time he tried to play there with two siblings, their mom took them suddenly and glared at him before walking away very fast. He didn’t know moms could be mean like that, but well, it’s not like he has anything to compare with. There was the old lady with the shopping trolley full of garbage that lived near him a few months ago, but one day she’d tried to put him in said trolley because she thought he was a ‘new kind of pigeon’ or something, so maybe he shouldn’t count her as a major mother figure in his life.
The point is, he likes watching the other kids play. He can watch them for hours, but then sometimes he forgets he exists and it’s a weird feeling. He knows most of the kids from sight because he sees them regularly, and he figures they must live in the buildings encasing the square. Even though he recognizes all of them, they all kind of look the same, none of them really standing out because they’ve grown up in the same place, surrounded by the same people all their lives.
But one day, there’s a kid that stands out. Although all the other children are running around, making a lot of noise and playing on the games, this boy is sitting on a bench in the late afternoon sun, reading a book, his feet far from reaching the ground. The little fox doesn’t know when people are supposed to learn how to read exactly, but he’s never seen anyone his age with such a heavy-looking book and such a focused gaze.
They are other reasons he stands out though. First, he has a very fancy appearance, with clean clothes and shiny curly brown hair falling all around his delicate features. Second, he is very pale and thin though he seems taller than him. The little fox wonders if he gets out of his house often. Also, there are no grown-ups with him, whereas all the other kids have a grown-up watching over them with bored eyes or chatting idly with other grown-ups.
Finally, it seems like all of his body is covered in bandages, from his neck to his palms and probably until his ankles. Even his left eye is hidden. It’s weird.
The little fox isn’t old but he’s had years of living in the street to sharpen his instinct. Something makes him uneasy about this boy. Not that he seems dangerous, there’s just some kind of… emptiness in his eye. Something the fox doesn’t see in any other kids his age, but rather in the grown-ups who are always surrounded by bottles and a clinging sour stench. He’s intrigued.
It’s the first time he’s ever seen him since he’s started occupying his corner of the street but, the day after, he comes back. And the day after that. And the day after that. The little fox finds himself waiting for the moment he walks into the park, always at the same time around the middle of the afternoon and settles on his bench to read his book, one different almost every day.
Then, one day, something at the corner of his vision makes him narrow his eyes.
There are few people left in the park at this hour, like usual, but three boys a little older than him and definitely taller look at the calm kid on his bench with dumb smirks and equally dumb laughs. The fox sees them head in the boy’s direction and hover over him, casting a shadow on his book. The little prince takes a few seconds to react, then looks up with a bored eye at the three boys in front of him. They start talking to him but the little fox is too far to hear. The bullies look frustrated by how unimpressed their victim is, but then the boy says something for the first time and they explode.
One of them hits the book he’s holding and another one grabs his wrist to pull him off the bench and send him sprawling in the dirt. The last one starts kicking his stomach, yelling insults, but the boy still doesn’t react, just takes the hits with some pained noises.
After just a few seconds, the kicks stop coming and the boy is left panting on the ground.
Right in front of him, there’s a short boy with bright but dirty red hair, even brighter blue eyes, crossed arms and an angry glare standing before the bullies.
There are a few seconds of silence, then they all start laughing at him.
“What do you want, shortie? Are you looking for your teddy bear?” the dumbest-looking one says. The others laugh at his joke.
“I’m not short, asshole, I can kick your ass whenever you want.” The little fox snarls in answer.
The bully stops laughing at that and frowns at him. He’s surprised by the boy’s language, especially since he looks so young and delicate.
“I’m not kidding, shortie, go the fuck away. This fag needs a lesson.”
The tiny redhead glares harder and doesn’t move.
“Aww, are you his boyfriend or something? Great news, guys, we’ve got two fa-”
He doesn’t have time to finish his sentence, because the next second he’s rolling on the ground, clutching his crotch and whimpering. The other two bullies take a step back in surprise but recover quickly and jump on the fool that dared punch their friend. There’s an awful crack when the first one’s nose breaks and a scream when his legs are swept from under him and he crashes on the floor. The last one standing looks at his two friends for a second then, terrified, turns around and runs in the opposite direction. The rest of the bullies quickly join him and soon the quiet boy and the little fox are left alone.
“You’re welcome.” The little fox says.
“Why would I thank you?” The other answers flatly, as if he hadn’t had the shit beaten out of him just a few seconds ago.
“Huh? what did you just say?”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“You obviously needed it, you moron! Why the fuck didn’t you fight back?” The little fox grits his teeth and tightens his fists, unable to understand how anyone could just take the hits and not fight back.
“I had everything under control.” The little prince stands up laboriously and dusts his clothes.
“Sure you had!” The redhead scoffs.
“I did!” The taller boy answers petulantly. “I don’t need help from someone who clearly hasn’t taken a shower in decades.”
“I’m eight, so that’s not possible!”
“You’re eight? No, I’m eight, you’re five.”
The little fox kicks him in the shin harshly rather than answer to that.
“Ow! Why would you supposedly save me from bullies and then turn into one!” The other yells.
“Because you’re an asshole!”
“No, you are!”
“No, you!”
Soon, they are rolling once again in the dirt, fighting, each trying to get the upper hand and if possible plant the other’s head in the ground.
Of course the little fox wins, because the other has the strength of a wet noodle even though he is much taller than him. They end up lying next to each other on the floor, only now realizing how dark it’s gotten while they were fighting.
“I should go back now.” The brown-haired boy says quietly.
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
The little prince stands up, dusts his clothes once again, and slowly walks away. The little fox is left alone, but the silence (as silent as the city gets anyways) isn’t as heavy as it usually is. As he gets up to go back to his dead-end, a thought comes to his mind. He said ‘see you tomorrow’ as an affirmation. How can he know I’ll be there tomorrow?
Of course the little fox is there the next day. The other boy doesn’t seem surprised to see him sitting closer to the bench than usual, on the wall separating the park from the street, still at the other end of the square, though. Then, the next day he’s sitting on one of the wooden horses, a little closer. It takes him a few days, but at some point he ends up sitting right next to the dark-haired boy, peeking at his book though hardly understanding any of the words. A few days later, they start talking. Or, well. Arguing is probably more accurate. But it’s still something, and the silence doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
One day, the boy comes back with a book, that he hands to the little fox. It seems very short, way shorter than the books the boy usually reads, and there are drawings inside. The redhead wonders if he’s being mocked but the taller boy seems serious for once, so he takes it. His friend then points and names each of the letters forming the title, smiling a little. It’s the first time the little fox has seen him smile so genuinely. The boy walks away after that with a little wave of his hand.
***
T-H-E-L-I-T-T-L-E-P-R-I-N-C-E is what the title says. The little fox doesn’t know what all the letters mean together, but he keeps the book.
The other boy never comes back.
Silence starts weighting heavy again, but it’s okay because the little fox doesn’t need anyone. Will never need anyone.
The months pass and the little fox teaches himself to read with the few letters a mysterious little prince left him with. He gets lost in the stars and foreign planets and colorful characters he finds in the pages. There’s one sentence he likes particularly.
You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.
It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
***
“Oi, Ane-san! Where the hell is my shirt?”
“Language, Chuuya. And I washed it yesterday, it’s by the sink.”
At eleven years-old, Nakahara Chuuya finds a roof in the apartment of two struggling students who know what the child is going through. They find a grant for him to go to school for a while, and for a couple of years it seems to work.
Yosano Akiko is a medical student, a dark haired woman with a butterfly pin on her head and caffeine constantly flowing through her overworked body. She works long hours at the hospital, both because it’s a part of her formation and because they desperately need the money, and she comes back every evening with purple shadows under her eyes.
Kouyou Ozaki studies IT at the university thanks to a grant on merit, and pretends she doesn’t use her skills to get Chuuya out of trouble every time he does something stupid. She’s a dignified and elegant woman with long bright red hair which makes people think she really is related to Chuuya. They both secretly love it.
“Thanks for the laundry, Ane-san, I need to get going now.”
“Already? Are you at least coming home tonight?”
At first Chuuya tries, he really tries, to stay out of trouble, but he was never taught social conventions, so his impulsive and fierce personality often gets him in situations he can’t get out of on his own without digging himself further into a hole. But the more he gets himself in danger, the more he becomes addicted to it, and at fifteen, as money gets shorter than ever for his big sisters, he drops out of school and finds easy jobs that take minors, dirty jobs. Soon the apartment becomes more of a shelter for when he needs to lick his wounds or find an unwavering, if weary, support.
“Chuuya, please be careful for once.”
He stops by the door, one hand on the handle. He flashes what he hopes is a convincing smile.
“You worry too much, Ane-san. I’ll be okay.”
At eleven, the little fox is taken out of his forest of concrete and garbage and solitude to live in the humans’ society. The book a strange boy once gave him is left to gather dust on a shelf, under the first roof he’s ever had for himself.
At fifteen, fueled by adrenaline, restless energy, and a desperate need to exist in this new world, he finds a purpose in street art.
***
Night never weighs heavy on the rooftops of the city. The lights, always moving, always flashing, the noise, always buzzing, always rushing, it all lightens the burden of the darkness dripping down the tortuous streets.
In one of them, a deserted street perpendicular to one of the main avenues, the relative silence is troubled by unusual sounds, a metallic one like a can being shaken and the more discreet noise of paint being sprayed. There’s also an overpowering smell of chemicals and sewers, but the latter isn’t unusual in the slightest. A figure, dressed in black from head to toes and wearing a beanie, a face mask and heavy boots, is standing in front of the wall of a nameless house, a thoughtful frown carved into their features. They choose a spray paint can from the multitude in their bag, shake it, then make a wide and graceful arc to add more color to the artwork on the wall.
The Fox is known throughout the town (and especially the police stations) for the beautiful yet controversial street art they scatter in the most creative and incongruous places. Provocative and subversive messages can be found in the morning on walls no one thought could ever be painted on. On skyscrapers rooftops, on the side of tall bridges, in the middle of popular squares under the watch of dozens of cameras… Once, a police station bragged that they had caught the mysterious artist. The next morning, a giant leaping fox had been painted on the wall of one of the cells but nothing appeared on the security cameras.
But tonight is a quiet night for the Fox and he chooses to stay on floor level. His knee still hurts from three nights previous when he’d climbed a statue to paint on its face and had been forced to jump from the top when cops had appeared out of nowhere. He’s starting to feel more than annoyed. Lately, more often than not, he has to run away and leave an unfinished piece behind because of those bastards chasing him. All the lost paint cans he accidentally had to leave behind too are starting to get expensive and he’s considering taking on a second job, a difficult task when you’re only 16 and already look younger than your age.
The young boy takes a few steps back to have a broader sight of his work. His lips curl into a smirk. This one should piss them off. He’s pretty satisfied with the result, only seeing one or two details to touch up.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” A sudden gruff voice, tearing the night apart around him, makes him jump.
Fuck, the cops. That’s bad, that’s really bad. He has no intentions of being caught tonight.
He sees one policeman at the farthest side of the street something like twenty meters away from him, so he grabs the nearest cans around him, shoves them in his duffle bag as quickly as he can before taking off towards the other side. Just as he reaches the end of the street, a figure appears and the Fox almost slams into them. The cop’s partner, he thinks immediately, and he throws a punch blindly, determined to get out of here free. The silhouette ducks however and the Fox almost sprawls on the ground, carried by the momentum.
“What the-” The man -no… a boy?- starts, but sees the cop running towards them, so he grabs the Fox’s wrist to run away instead, and drags him in his tracks. The Fox thinks better than question it, and they sprint, turning on the main avenue but quickly leaving it, feeling too exposed. The Fox pushes the other boy in one of the side streets and takes the lead, guiding his companion deeper in the heart of the city, where shops are less fancy, buildings are less steady and people avoid looking at weird boys running at full speed like they’re trying to lose a tail. They reach a crossroad and abruptly stop, the Fox hesitating a second on which path to take, taking off again once he’s found it. A hand grabs his as they enter a narrow street, plunged in darkness.
“Wait!” The other boy is bent over, face almost invisible among the shadows, and he’s panting heavily, his words coming out as a gasp. “I- I can’t-”
“Come on, we don’t have time-” The Fox tugs anxiously at the hand that holds him in place.
“Police! Freeze!”
Both boys turn around in an instant as a silhouette barely visible against the distant streetlights closes the street. Panic rises in the Fox’s throat like bile and he turns on his heels, prepared to run, but another silhouette appears on the other end of the street. They’re trapped.
Fuck, no, no, no, he can’t be caught. If the cops aren’t half as stupid as they seem and had time to look at the piece he’s left on the wall, they’ll make the connection, and then he’ll risk a lot. He’s fucked, he’s so fucked, his whole body is frozen and his heart beats violently against his ribs because he sees nowhere to go. The Fox needs space and freedom like he needs air, he can’t go to jail, or put his sisters in trouble again. He can’t afford to. His eyes travel frantically all around him, scanning the shadows, looking for a way out, his breath grows shallower by the second and his heartbeat louder and louder until it feels like the world is throbbing painfully in his ears.
The cops approach slowly, each on a side of the street like predators, and the Fox, trapped, feels like throwing up.
Suddenly, he’s thrown against the wall by the boy who ran at his side and, hidden in the shadows, he feels him take his beanie and mask off his face to put them on his own and his bag is snatched from his grips. A smirk glows in the dark and the boy, way too close from the Fox for comfort, says:
“I won’t go to jail, trust me.”
His voice is soft and inappropriately amused for the situation, and his breath brushes the Fox’s face. He finds he doesn’t mind it that much.
Then, the boy peels himself from the shadows and walks in the middle of the dimly lit street towards one of the officers, hands raised, smile hidden behind the Fox’s mask. A flashlight is shoved in his face.
“Oh~ seems like you caught me!” he singsongs, “I’m not going to resist, just know I grabbed this one (he points at the Fox nonchalantly) against his will, he’s got nothing to do with me.”
The cop closest to him scoffs. “Are we supposed to believe you, you punk?”
The boy shrugs mockingly. “I mean, just look at his face. Do you really think the famous Fox you’ve been chasing for months now would look like a braindead carp?”
The Fox stares ahead, absolutely dumbfounded. What the fuck is going on? Who the fuck is this guy? Did he really just insult him? Then his brain catches up with the situation.
Pinching his side to draw tears, he opens wide his big blue eyes, brushes a lock of hair behind his ear and takes a shaky voice as the light turns to him. “Wh-What is going on? I was just going b-back home to my mom and now I’m here and I d-don’t know h-how or why…” he fake-sobs.
In the darkness, he barely sees the other boy’s eyes widen in surprise at his act, then glint with mischief. The Fox is fairly sure he’s not imagining it, and he thinks he likes that look even in a weird stranger’s eyes.
“Ah!” The latter cries dramatically, “what a tragic story! Will you keep this little boy (who the fuck’s a little boy, the Fox thinks angrily) away from his mother on such a dark and scary night?”
“Shut up, you little bastard!” The cop, a bitter-looking man with a scowl dug into his features, spits in his face as he takes the handcuffs from his belt. He looks at the Fox, takes in his frail appearance, his wide innocent eyes, and his gaze trails a second too long on his body. It makes the boy’s skin crawl in disgust and anger rises in his chest. “You get out of my sight and go back to your mother. We’re taking this one.”
The Fox doesn’t wait for him to change his mind. He walks quickly away, barely preventing himself from running, and, just as he gets out of the street, he looks back. The pigs are manhandling the other boy towards the other end of the alley, more brutal than they should be towards a boy who looks barely 16, but he doesn’t seem bothered. On the contrary, his back is straight and chin held high, and the Fox guesses he still has this glint of mischief in his eyes, even as his mask is roughly taken from his face.
He looks like royalty, or something. As much as he hates elites, the Fox finds he’s not that annoyed.
He had fun.
***
The Fox doesn’t know it, but the boy who was arrested at his place that evening is released the moment he sets foot in the police station and gives his adoptive father’s last name. He receives sheepish apologies from the police chief and the cops who arrested him try to disappear behind their desks. A black car with tainted windows come to get him and Dazai Osamu slides in, eyes dead, shoulders slumped. Mischief long gone.
He’ll probably find a good bridge to jump off of in the morning if the punishment he’ll definitely receive doesn’t mess him up too much.
***
“Oi, Tachihara! Are you paid to fuck around or can I have my drink?”
Tonight’s a free night for Chuuya. He’s finally got an evening off from work and he intends to spend it quietly. His friend Tachihara works at a bar he’s never been to before, a bar full of cheap alcohol and cheap furniture, trashy music playing way too loud in the background and trashier clients speaking over it, leaning on sticky surfaces, spewing smoke and slurred words all the same. Chuuya doesn’t mind it, he disappears in the background.
“Chill, man,” His friend answers on the other side of the counter, “What’s the emergency?”
“I’m thirsty.” Chuuya replies, leaning his cheek on his fist, elbow on the counter. He’d rather his skin doesn’t touch its surface.
“Get laid, then.” Tachihara smirks and slides a full glass towards him, its golden liquid splashing a little around.
As if Chuuya has time or interest for that. At eighteen, he works two jobs to be able to eat at least a meal a day and pay rent since he’s moved in his own apartment. He’s cashier in the morning, waiter most evenings and on the week-ends. Combined with his nocturnal activities, his real life, Chuuya is perpetually exhausted. It’s worth it though. Street art is all his life, his only love, and he doesn’t need anything aside. Not that anyone knows about it.
Chuuya scowls, “Oh yeah? You got names?”
“Tch I know you don’t mean that,” Tachihara rolls his eyes, “I’ve never seen you even remotely flirt with anyone. Such a waste.”
That makes Chuuya snort. As if anyone would be able to bear his short temper, terrible social skills and even worse sleep schedule. He’s way better off alone.
“Oh there’s that fucking weirdo again.” Tachihara snickers and points discretely in the direction of a man who just entered the bar. The guy is tall but slender, too slender under his beige trench coat and too formal attire. He shakes his brown hair, careless of raindrops splashing the customers around him, then looks in their direction as if sensing they were talking about him. His dull brown stare and the strange bandages that seem to envelop his body tug uncomfortably at Chuuya’s memory, but he avoids his gaze right before their eyes can meet. Tachihara’s right, he looks weird.
“What about him?” Chuuya asks, even though something tells him he shouldn’t.
The young man with the bandages sits at the counter and gestures at Tachihara, who just nods. He’s sitting far enough that, with the noise around, they can still speak without being heard.
“The guy has two moods when he comes here,” Tachihara starts, while filling two glasses with whisky and a round ice cube. “Either he fucking skips in here like a schoolgirl and talks literally anyone’s ears off and flirts with any girl he meets-,” he stops speaking a few seconds to bring the two glasses to the man in question, who barely lifts his eyes off the counter to acknowledge him. “-or, like tonight, he’ll order two glasses though he’s alone and only drinks one, but doesn’t speak to anyone, except to get himself in trouble.”
Chuuya hums as he takes a sip of his own drink. “You sure he doesn’t have a twin, or something?”
“Right,” Tachihara laughs and winks at his friend, “As if the world needs more weirdos than it already has.”
“Fuck off.”
Tachihara only rolls his eyes. “Oh and I haven’t told you the best part yet. The only thing that guy talks about is suicide. Seriously, bastard thinks it’s romantic to ask a girl for a double-suicide and is surprised when they all reject him. But apparently he’s as bad with flirting as he is with killing himself, fucking madman.”
Chuuya doesn’t say anything, feeling irritated for some reason. He’s not sure if it’s at the stranger or Tachihara. He doesn’t like it when people talk about death so lightly, when staying alive has always been a struggle for him and he feels like he’s only ever survived all his existence.
“Anyways it’s probably better for him that he’s such a fucking loser-”
Chuuya snaps at that. “Tachihara, shut the fuck up, man.”
His friend looks at him in surprise, then shakes his head wearily before leaving his side of the counter to chat with other customers. “I’m just kidding, man. Don’t fucking sit at the counter if you’re going to be a dick.” Tachihara mumbles.
Chuuya sighs and lets him go without saying anything. He knows he can be difficult at times. For a few minutes, he lets his gaze get lost in the amber of his drink, drawing circles with his glass on the counter to see the liquid twirl and slosh around.
“Scared of drowning in there?” A lilting voice rises from his right.
Chuuya looks up from his glass to see the weird man Tachihara was telling him about. He looks even weirder from this close, where Chuuya can see dead fish-like eyes, an infuriating smirk and dirty bandages. There’s definitely a memory there, buried somewhere in Chuuya’s brain like a word on his tongue, but it keeps escaping him.
He can recognize a taunt when he hears one though. “What the fuck does that mean?” he glares.
“It means-” he stops and grins condescendingly, as if speaking to a child, “That if I were as tiny as you, I’d be scared of drowning too.”
For a second, Chuuya is too stunned to speak. Then anger catches up to him, and all the irritation and frustration he’s accumulated for a few too sleep-deprived weeks almost make him punch the man in front of him. He barely restrains himself.
“Do you have a death wish, you bastard?” he growls, trying to keep his voice low as people have begun to stop speaking around them.
“I do, actually! But I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it,” he laughs provocatively, “not with this height.”
Chuuya is almost shaking with barely contained rage, his fists clenched so tight his nails might break the skin of his palms. He stands up abruptly, making his stool topple to the ground and grabs the collar of the other’s shirt to bring his face at his level. He realizes his mistake when the man’s taunting smile grows even larger.
But then he looks in his eyes. They’re terrifying. Once again a memory threatens to surface but stays hidden under the layers of protection his brains has built over his childhood.
They’re dead. Utterly, desperately, dead. Cold and empty, a black hole threatening to swallow him whole. There’s no real taunt, no cruelty either. Just plain apathy.
Chuuya lets go of his collar, downs his glass without a word, then takes his wallet out of his pocket and drops a bill on the counter. The man’s eyes widen but he ignores him.
“This covers for my drink and another glass for him,” he quietly tells Tachihara in the silence that has fallen over the bar. He grabs his coat and throws it over his shoulder before brushing past the gaping dead-eyed man and walking out the door.
He feels no satisfaction at managing to shut him up.
The black hole swallowed his anger, now he just feels empty.
***
Chuuya finds himself going back to the bar a little more than a week later. He feels like he owes some kind of apology to Tachihara - not that he’ll actually say ‘sorry’ - and he could use a drink to prepare himself for a long night of playing hide and seek with the police, hopefully not enough that he’ll have to leave a half-finished piece behind.
He doesn’t even make it inside the bar.
The night is young and there’s a hot, foul stream of air running along with a thick mist in the streets of Yokohama. The atmosphere is strangely heavy, quiet, as the shadows and the haze start to weight on the shoulders of those who haven’t yet found shelter from the dark. Chuuya feels his strides quicken and his boots pound on the pavement as he straightens his collar to cover the bottom of his face.
Tachihara’s bar is barely at the corner of the street when he hears it. Groans of pain, muffled blows and low snickers. Some poor soul is getting beaten in a narrow alley right behind the bar, he guesses.
Chuuya won’t stop. He knows he won’t stop. It would be stupid and all of his life has made it so his body’s instincts won’t even allow it. He shouldn’t even look, he should ignore it and keep walking and forget it.
“I’ll make you stop fucking laughing, you fucking pansy!”
Chuuya looks.
Then he stops.
It’s him, the weird guy from the bar. He’s curled on the floor, surrounded by four silhouettes, laughing and snarling and kicking him one after the other. There’s blood dripping from his mouth, his nose, running from his forehead, staining his light coat and lighter bandages. He’s shaking with laughter, even as his breath is stolen by the consecutive blows he takes to the ribs, even as he groans and wheezes in pain.
“What the fuck’s your problem, psycho!” One of the silhouettes growls.
That’s when Chuuya understands. So that’s what he was trying to do, last week, pushing his buttons, provoking him. He wasn’t looking for a fight, he was looking for a beating, maybe even for death. He thinks back to those dead eyes that had looked through his, barely seeing, barely present. He should’ve understood then.
But well, who is Chuuya to deny a man his dreams? If that guy wants to die so bad, there’s nothing he can do about it, right? Even if he saves him now, nothing will stop the madman from finding other brutes to finish him. Chuuya will not save the life of someone so happy to throw it away.
Right?
But then again, who does this asshole think he is to throw his life away? Who is he to decide it’s not worth shit and he can hurt himself all he wants, inflict his death on the people who know and love him, on the person that will find his corpse and be scarred for life? Chuuya thinks of how many times Kouyou told him to be careful, genuine fear in her eyes for her adoptive little brother. He thinks of how many times Yosano patched him up with hands shaking with anger towards this life he’d been thrown into.
It’s too easy. It’s too fucking easy.
“Oi, assholes! Don’t you see he’s fucking looking for it?” Chuuya calls before he can stop himself.
There’s a moment of silence during which the brutes take in the man who interrupted them, only broken by the painful coughs and wheezes of the man on the floor.
One of the men, built like a tank, with a square jaw and shaved hair, a dangerous glint in his eyes, stares at him, looks him up and down. Fucking nazis, just my luck, Chuuya almost shakes his head at his own stupidity.
“Keep walking, kid, there’s nothing to see here.”
The atmosphere is tensed, so tensed it could be cut with a knife, as the four skinheads judge the newcomer, and Chuuya feels anger rise in him, almost despite himself.
Tension slowly rises until the silence is pressing down on the street like gravity, all the city sounds completely drowned and forgotten. One of the men slowly gets a knife out of his pocket, another clenches his fists and the dull streetlight shines on brass knuckles. Chuuya’s heart beats loudly in his chest as he slides into a fighting stance, in his veins a thrilling mix of adrenaline and an instinctual fear that was beaten into him when he was just a child.
Ah well, nazis are always the most fun to beat up after all.
Just as the tension becomes unbearable between the two parties and it’s clear they’re about to throw themselves at each other, a gurgled giggle completely shatters it. The five men look in bemusement at the silhouette on the floor. He is shaking with laughter, blood still running from his nose in streams.
“Hahaha he called you a kid…” he giggles still, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He looks at Chuuya with a smug grin and there’s a glint in his eyes, giving a little life to his otherwise dead stare.
Chuuya bristles in anger and points at him menacingly, with a deep scowl carved in his features. “You.” He spits, “After I’m done with these assholes I’ll take care of you.”
And suddenly the short redhead disappears and it takes one of the skinheads to collapse with a muffled groan for them to realize the fight has begun. A heel in the groin sends the first man to his knees, then, before any of his opponents can react, Chuuya grabs the back of his head and smashes it against his own knee, letting him sprawl on the pavement like a puppet whose strings were cut out. He doesn’t stand back up, blood pooling on the floor from his broken nose.
The remaining three men overcome their shock in less than a second, but it’s enough for Chuuya to jump back and avoid being surrounded. The man closest to him, armed with a knife, thrusts his blade straight towards the redhead’s stomach. The movement is ridiculously slow for Chuuya though, who’s been on the receiving end of such attacks dozens of times. Something he’s learnt from the multiple -and most of the time unfortunate- fights he’s found himself in, is that as long as you lead the dance, as long as you steal your opponent’s momentum, then it’s like stealing their breath and there’s nothing they can do to harm you.
The knife slides a mere centimeter from his stomach as Chuuya rotates his hips to avoid the blade, but it could have been meters away for how harmless it is to him at that exact second. In one fluid motion, the shorter man grabs the other’s wrist and encourages his momentum before slamming the edge of his hand on the back of his neck.
Another man down, in a handful of seconds.
The two skinheads left -one with brass knuckles, the other with a pocketknife- size him up quickly and prudently, and the slight glint of respect in their eyes tells Chuuya they’ve stopped underestimating him. As if I need any kind of respect from this human trash.
He springs before they have time to think too much about his fighting style. He throws his foot in the opening he sees in Pocketknife’s guard but in the corner of his eye he sees Brass Knuckles reacting and he barely has time to swirl on himself to avoid the blow that would’ve no doubt broken his jaw. He lands clumsily on his ankle and feels it twist on the uneven pavement, sending a flash of pain in his leg. It nearly distracts him from the armed fist aiming for his stomach but he shifts just enough to absorb the blow and let it steal a grunt from him rather than throwing him against the wall.
Chuuya suddenly crouches and sweeps his foot to catch Brass Knuckles’ legs, barely holding a wince as his ankle sends a painful throb running through his leg, but he’s already prepared to leap, to meet the second man and-
Hurried footsteps echo in the street and a fifth man appears, out of breath.
“The fucking cops are coming, we gotta fucking go, now!”
Pocketknife swears and sends Chuuya a dirty look, but they waste no time collecting their unconscious comrades, only throwing a last kick at the dead-eyed man still on the floor before fleeing the scene.
Chuuya takes a painful second to catch his breath and evaluate the damages on his body. His ankle definitely suffered from his bad landing but he manages to move it, so nothing’s broken there. His ribs also took a hard hit but he’s fairly certain they’re alright, probably just bruised.
The young man still sprawled on the ground however…
“Get up you bandaged waste of space,” Chuuya growls, “I didn’t just fuck my ankle up for us to get caught, alright?”
The redhead bends to grab the man’s arm -who mutters something about “getting along with Kunikida-kun” or whoever the hell this is- and slides it around his shoulders to help him stand up. He’s supporting most of their weights and his ankle and ribs scream at him in protest, but he finds himself more annoyed about how light the stranger is, even though he’s much taller than himself.
“Do you ever eat?” Chuuya scowls at the man he’s half-carrying away from the street, into a maze of narrow alleys. Fucking princess, he thinks.
The bastard throws him an undecipherable look before smirking. “It happens. Have you ever eaten soup? Or drunk milk?”
Chuuya nearly snaps at that, would’ve snapped if he hadn’t had his fun punching nazis right before. He still glares:
“I’m not above just dropping you in the middle of the street, so you’d better shut the fuck up.”
“You’re not above much at all, Chibi.” The other snickers.
Chuuya abruptly stops walking and throws the princess’s arm from over his shoulders, but it just sends the latter staggering a few steps before he recovers his balance and starts walking on his own.
Chuuya gapes at him in outrage. “Were you able to fucking walk all along? I can’t fucking believe you!”
“But Chibi was so happy to help!” The man flashes a bright grin, then singsongs, “I heard it’s important to make short people feel import-”
He barely has time to duck to avoid Chuuya’s fist from connecting with his face, but he just laughs and keeps walking carelessly among streets gradually growing larger and brighter as they near the center part of the city.
Chuuya stares at his back with a thoughtful frown. The man before him is much tougher than he looks. There is no other indication that he got the shit beaten out of him mere minutes ago, apart from the drying blood on his beige coat’s collar and his white bandages. He is quicker, too. Even though Chuuya didn’t put all his strength and speed in his attempted punch, he is suddenly persuaded that the man could have taken the four skinheads by himself or at least escaped easily.
The cold void in his eyes has receded now however, and Chuuya thinks the mischief and almost childish pettiness written in the lofty set of his shoulders look better on him than crushing sorrow and consuming emptiness.
“Do you even know where you’re going?”
The stranger turns his head to look Chuuya in the eyes then taps his own temple slightly with a smug smile. “Of course! I have the entire map of Yokohama memorized in detail.”
“That’s not possible.” Chuuya scoffs, but for some reason he believes him. He’s just not about to admit it to his face. The asshole smiles knowingly as though he’s able to read his thoughts.
Maybe he is. There is something almost inhuman about the stranger, but Chuuya wouldn’t call him a monster or a demon or an alien or whatever dehumanizing names people give to others they don’t understand. There’s almost a vulnerability in the bottomless intelligence he sees in the man’s eyes and a sorrow even deeper, ageless. It feels like staring into an abyss and it staring back at you. It feels like l’appel du vide pushing at your back as you stand precariously on the edge of a cliff battered by the wind. It’s dizzying.
They walk in silence for what seems like hours. It’s a comfortable silence, too. The night is still quieter than usual in Yokohama, all sounds of distant sirens and motors muffled by the fog clinging to the concrete buildings and drowning all natural skylights. Chuuya follows as they leave the city center behind them again and get deeper into darker neighborhoods and narrower streets, all vaguely familiar to the street fox he used to be. Maybe still is.
It’s been years since he’s been here though. He doesn’t like remembering the past, has no will to dwell on it, so most of his childhood is buried in his memory under layers of new experiences, new faces, new emotions.
Wandering down these roads brings back old recollections though. It’s all distant and blurry, more like repressed sensations and forgotten feelings. It tastes like danger on his tongue, sharp and thrilling, like dull loneliness, and the bitterness of being left behind. Chuuya isn’t sure where that last one comes from but he’s sure there’s a memory linked to that. He’s not sure he wants to dig it out, however. It tastes too much like sour disappointment and a childish fear of abandonment like a child’s parents turning the lights off for the first time and shutting the bedroom door behind them.
Buried in his thoughts, Chuuya still feels a gaze burning a hole in the side of his face. He turns to look at the tall man beside him but finds him facing forward, still walking, his hands linked behind his head and a small mysterious smile on his lips. Then he realizes he’s humming softly, a song he doesn’t recognize. It’s nice, though. Chuuya is wary by nature and because he’s never had any other choice, but he feels almost safe with this weird stranger with self-destructive tendencies.
“I recognize this place,” Chuuya murmurs, keeping his voice low as though not to disturb the quiet atmosphere which has settled around them.
The brown-haired man doesn’t stop humming but looks at him with an eyebrow slightly raised to encourage him to keep talking.
“I used to live here,” he doesn’t specify in the street, not one of the buildings, but the stranger nods knowingly, “that corner (he points to the embranchment between a few perpendicular streets forming a square, old wooden games in the middle) used to be my safe space. I looked at the children there and imagined I could play with them.”
“I didn’t have friends growing up either,” his companion for the night smiles wistfully, “well, not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” Chuuya repeats. The stranger steps over the fence partly surrounding the square and Chuuya has to jump over, a hand on his hat to keep it in place, earning himself a teasing smile but no comment. They head automatically towards one of the benches without even thinking about it.
“I guess I did have a friend for a few weeks, but I had to leave him because my adoptive father didn’t approve of that.”
“He didn’t approve of you having friends?” Chuuya frowns. What’s the point in adopting a child if it’s to keep them unhappy?
“Apparently I spoke too much about him and he was scared he’d become more than a friend.” This makes Chuuya scowl further but the other man lightly chuckles. “It’s pretty funny because I was something like eight at the time.”
They both fall silent for a moment, Chuuya silently fuming at such bad parenting. He doesn’t remember his own parents but he starts thinking that maybe it’s better to grow on your own than be raised to hate yourself.
After a few minutes, the taller man starts chuckling mirthlessly again. “Well, eight or not, he did a bad job of fixing me in the end. That friend probably really would’ve grown to be more than a friend eventually.”
The self-deprecating tone hits Chuuya first, then the meaning of his words. The anger he’s been repressing in the face of a battle that’s not his to fight comes back full force. With shaking hands he stands up to face the stranger then grabs his collar violently, rage burning in his eyes.
Unlike at the bar, the man -whose gaze has turned dead again- is surprised by his action and the fury contained in his clenched fist.
“There’s nothing -hear me?- nothing to fix about this. If anyone ever says those words to my face, I will destroy them, so if you say that about yourself one more fucking time, I will fucking punch you too.”
Through the haze of rage he’s in, Chuuya vaguely registers that he is (slightly) choking the man before him, who’s desperately holding the hand clenching his collar and lifting him from the bench. Chuuya lets him go with a huff and the stranger slumps on the bench, but the redheaded man suddenly changes his mind. He grabs the crumpled collar again and smashes their lips together.
The dark-haired man lets out a noise of surprise and his eyes widen, but Chuuya slides the hand not holding his collar along his shoulder to seize his jaw and shift the angle of the kiss slightly to deepen it. The gasp turns into a moan just as surprised as Chuuya moves his lips and drags his tongue softly over the other man’s bottom lip.
They separate just a few seconds later and Chuuya lets a small smug smile draws itself on his face at the other’s breathlessness. Confusion quickly turns into a hopeful air on the latter’s face, confusing Chuuya in return.
“So you do remember me?!”
Chuuya gapes in return. “Huh?”
The bandaged man studies his dumbfounded face for a second then breaks into giggles. “Or do you often just kiss random strangers?”
His smile spreads at the sight of Chuuya blushing like a teenager, clearly struggling between anger and embarrassment. “It just felt right, don’t be an asshole about it,” he grumbles. Then his head snaps up as the other’s words register to his brain. “Wait, what do you mean- why am I supposed to remem-”
Oh.
It’s not exactly a memory, but this bench, this bickering, this feeling of safety in the middle of a concrete jungle of animosity… He might not be exactly the little fox he used to be, but his instincts haven’t disappeared.
“I… I’m that friend, right?” Chuuya asks tentatively. “The friend who could’ve been more.”
The stranger -that sorrowful, defeated version of a little prince that was robbed of his childhood- merely smiles at him.
***
(A week later, in the middle of another quiet night.)
Chibi (03:05): we should go somewhere
Mackerel (03:08): Where?
Chibi (03:08): idk
Chibi (03:09): just
Chibi (03:09): somewhere else
Mackerel (03:25): okay
Mackerel (03:26): There’s something I need to do first though
***
The day is young but Chuuya can tell by the quality of the air and the bright pink coloring the sky that the nicer days are coming. He’s leaning on his even brighter pink motorbike, parked on the side of the road, on a bridge overlooking the river running on the outskirts of Yokohama. He’s waiting, back to the road, the saturated morning sun gently warming his skin and coating the world in a surreal golden halo.
Blinded by the sun rays, he almost misses the silhouette coming his way, walking with precarious balance but flawless confidence on the railing separating the road from the river far below. Now, Chuuya is not subject to vertigo but his heart misses a beat when the bandaged bastard -his bandaged bastard- stops right in front of him, arms spread wide, wider than his taunting grin, hovering and casting a shadow over him but looking like he could fly away at any moment.
“What-” Chuuya struggles to keep his cool and takes a deep breath, “What the fuck are you doing up there?”
The asshole has the gall to beam down at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump!” He winks. “Unless you’re actually interested in a double-suicide, in which case…”
Chuuya finally snaps and grabs the front of his shirt to get him off the railing. He jumps gracefully and lands right in front of the redhead, smoothly bending down to steal a kiss from him.
“You know…” The man whispers against his lips.
“Mmh?” Chuuya hums distractedly.
“I was certain you actually were hiding a bald patch under that ugly hat of yours.”
“You-!” Before his companion has time to jump out of his reach, Chuuya grabs him into a headlock and squeezes just enough for him to let out a wheeze. Of course, it’s more of laughter than actual choking but Chuuya decides to ignore that. His real laughter is pretty nice after all.
That’s when he notices the dark bruises on the other man’s knuckles. Chuuya releases him from his hold then raises an eyebrow at the bruises.
“It’s okay,” The dark-haired man shrugs but there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, something between cold anger and sadistic satisfaction. “I just had to say good-bye to my dear father.”
Chuuya shakes his head but can’t hold back a small smile. It’s nice to see him actually fight back for once.
“We should go by the way, I’m not sure he appreciated my heartfelt farewell.”
***
The wind roars in their ears, louder still than the sound of the powerful motor beneath them. Both men are hunched over the motorbike, the taller man’s arms tightly circled around Chuuya’s narrow waist and his face tucked in the crook of his neck. There’s a new taste on their tongues, as for a second the sweet flavor of freedom overpowers the bitter tastes of self-loathing, sorrow, abandonment and loneliness. For a second it’s just the both of them.
“Hey!” A scream barely heard over the roaring of the wind.
“Mmh?”
“What the fuck even is your name?”
Only the sound of a bright laughter answers that question.
***
"Who are you?" asked the little prince, and added, "You are very pretty to look at."
"I am a fox," said the fox.
"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince. "I am so unhappy."
"I cannot play with you," the fox said. "I am not tamed."
"Ah! Please excuse me," said the little prince.
But, after some thought, he added:
"What does that mean-- 'tame'?"
[…]
"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. It means to establish ties."