Chapter 1: Klotho
Chapter Text
It was hard to pinpoint what exactly made Mushitarou hang around Yokomizo so much.
Yokomizo was lethargic but still managed just enough energy to be a pest. He was messy, unruly, an alcoholic, and hardly organized. He loved to write those damn mysteries for God knows what reason. He complained of not having ideas also but rejected any Mushitarou gave him. Worst of all, he was patient, kind and always had a smile on his face when Mushitaro came by. There really shouldn’t be any reason to willingly subject himself to the torture that was an optimist’s company. So why did Mushitarou always seem to be by Yokomizo’s side?
If anyone ever were to ask, Mushitaro wouldn’t be able to give a good answer.
Luckily, nobody asked.
There was nobody else Mushitarou felt that he needed to talk to.
“Ding-dong.” Mushitarou droned, hoping his call was loud enough to startle Yokomizo. The idiot was so consumed with his work, he sometimes wouldn’t notice if someone came in or left. It was a blow to Mushitarou’s ego to be ignored.
He hated being be ignored, especially by someone like Yokomizo.
Especially by Yokomizo.
As expected, there was no response. There never was. Whether or not Yokomizo was truly so engulfed in his literature that he lost his hearing or whether he was simply playing hard to get, Mushitarou never knew. Yokomizo always was a subtle prankster, and never let anybody catch on to what kind of tricks he was trying to pull. Murder mystery authors and their secrets.
Yokomizo’s silence allowed Mushitarou to indulge himself in a small pleasure: physically tormenting the other man.
“Ow-!” Yokomizo yelped, rubbing the back of his head to where Mushitarou had struck him with a coiled index finger. To his annoyance, Yokomizo didn’t turn around. He instead waved his hand feverishly, signaling for Mushitarou to sit next to him at the table.
“Mushi-kun,” he started without checking to see who had flicked him. “I’ve got a good one this time. It’s not gonna be my masterpiece, but I think this one turned out pretty good. You see, I’ve been studying a bit more about the ways that different types of knives can enter the body. Of course, it’s too hard to get the readers to understand, and I’m not so fulluvit I’d put the definition straight in the pages. Here, here! Mushi-kun, give it a read, I think this one is okay.” Yokomizo rambled to his manuscript, his nose buried in his papers. Mushitarou liked mysteries, but hated them at the same time. The endless twists that made no sense gave him a headache. Somehow when Yokomizo was the one writing them, they became more unbearable to read. There was nothing Mushitarou would like to do less.
But as always, he obliged.
“Of course.” He sat down with a heavy scoff that he repeated in case Yokomizo didn’t hear it the first time. “Are your mystery novels ever any ‘okay,’ my dear colleague?” Mushitarou muttered, resting his chin over his clasped knuckles. He was usually one to hide his distaste for others’ hobbies. There was no need to quarrel with anyone he had no reason to. However, Yokomizo was a special exception. Mushitarou let his repulsion to murder mysteries quite apparent around him. And for some damn reason, the idiot never seemed to get upset.
He never did, not even when the doctors told him he had less time to live than the anchovy stock in Mushitarou’s fridge. He was going to be outlived by fish soup. What a joke.
Mushitarou’s fingers inched towards the stack of papers that Yokomizo had arranged in a thin stack. He slid the paper into his grasp and whipped his wrist to get the sheets standing vertically in his grasp. Reading with your eyes below you would have an effect on your back posture. Mushitarou kept telling Yokomizo that, but the shut-in had never cared about appearances. It was embarrassing to be seen in public with the hunched, hikkikomori brunette. His fashion lacked any taste unless you counted feudal Edo period Japanese attire.
Mushitarou’s eyes trailed down the paper as he read each crisp black character and ink stroke. Yokomizo always had nice penmanship.
It took about 20 minutes to read all the writing. Mushitarou was a fast reader, but he liked to give a little extra time to Yokomizo’s stories. He would give all the time in the world if he could, but alas, the sands of time were a limited commodity and neither of them had a surplus.
“It’s… original enough, I suppose.” Mushitarou started as he dropped the pages lazily back down to the table. “Wouldn’t it be more of a twist to make the killers three people instead of two?”
Yokomizo picked up the script gently and tapped the stack on the table to straighten the edges in alignment.
“Hmm…No…I don’t…nah. That’s…already… been done.” He said in between taps as he thoughtfully looked at the ceiling to consider the suggestion. A corner page stuck out still, and Mushitarou leaned across the table to tuck it back in with a scowl.
“Seriously? But it would make more sense that way, right? The mother and the son avenging the foster daughter, right? You should make the father in on it too, right?”
Mushitarou mumbled impatiently.
“Right?” He said again, awaiting a response of approval to his brilliant idea. Or at least a response at all. Yokomizo tended to forget he was having a conversation while he was talking.
Yokomizo shook his head, his shaggy chestnut hair whipping him in the face. Mushitarou resisted the urge to comb it.
“No, ‘cos the real twist is the father was dead all along. The mother is crazy ‘n she plus the son both wanna get revenge, but he wants to pin it on her. Duh.”
“How was I supposed to-!”
“I’m planning it with the next half of the novel. You’ll proof it for me, won’t you?”
Yokomizo tilted his way that reminded Mushitarou of a dog waiting for praise.
Mushitaro clicked his tongue with irritation.
“Of course I would.” You know I’d read anything you wrote for me. “I’m an author, and I can’t turn down the desperation of a fellow writer, no matter how irksome his begging is.”
Yokomizo’s gentle smile turned into a grateful beam, and he clapped his hands together with delight.
“You would? Mushi-kun, you’re the best!”
“If I’m the best, consider taking my propositions to your literature more seriously!”
“I do, Mushi-kun. But your propositions aren’t any good.”
“Why, you little-!”
Mushitarou was just about to whack the bastard into oblivion when there was a soft knock at the door.
“Yokomizo-san? It’s 12 sharp. Your treatment should be ready by now.” A woman poked her head past the sliding door. “Shall I walk with you to the apothecary?”
Yokomizo put his hands to his knees as he lifted himself off the floor. It took more time than it should have for him to get to his feet. Not too much longer, but longer than it someone who was healthy would take.
“Thanks for the offer, but I already got company.” Yokomizo bowed stiffly and slowly as he gestured to his friend.
The lady nodded and left.
Mushitarou eyed the door as it closed with a frown.
“Who was she? Your wife? Mistress? Concubine?” He grumbled, rolling his fingers absentmindedly over a fountain pen.
“A neighbor.” Yokomizo replied, rubbing his chest as he shuffled through his stacks of paper to get his sandals on. Yokomizo gathered his things for an outing in silence before Mushitarou’s voice broke it.
“I never agreed to going with you.” He spat, putting on his western shoes and straightening his jacket.
“Ah, but here you are, standing up to walk me out the door.”
“So it would seem, you despicable hack. You really should change those clothes of yours. You look like an imperial peasant.”
“Let the sick bury themselves in the shrouds they choose.”
“I’m getting you a coat!”
“How thoughtful. It is quite cold.”
“It’s to cover up your ancient outfit, you nimrod!”
“Of course it is. My mistake.”
Yokomizo made no move to put on the coat. Mushitarou made no move to give it to him. He simply put it over his sick companion’s shoulders and stuffed his frail arms through the sleeves. Yokomizo gave no thanks. Mushitarou gave no welcomes. It was as if they had been doing this for years.
Yokomizo glanced over his shoulder.
“I don’t hurt all that much today, but I wonder if I oughtta bring my cane.”
Mushitarou sniffed at that.
“What, is your unwilling escort not enough?”
Yokomizo turned back with a warm smile, the cane forgotten as he shuffled to Mushitarou’s side.
“You’re more than a cane. You’re like my seeing-eye dog.”
“Wh- how come I’m the dog?!” Mushitarou protested. “I’m far more well-maintained than some mangy mutt!” He ran a hand over his perfectly combed hair as though to check if it was still on his head.
“I thought you loved dogs.”
“You can love something and still be disgusted by its inability to keep itself properly groomed!” Mushitarou snapped.
Yokomizo tilted his head at that. He paused and opened his mouth like he was going to say something profound and inspirational.
“I want to get back by 1:15 so I can finish my story. This month’s deadline is gonna kill me.”
Mushitarou scoffed as he straightened his symmetrical bow tie.
“You and your stories.”
It had snowed a few days ago. It wasn’t as chilly as it usually was, but the roads were still damp and the air still frosted with each breath taken from a pair of lungs. One pair of lungs in particular had trouble with this endeavor.
“We’re almost there. Just a few more blocks.”
“I…I can m-make it…without…y-your…”
Mushitarou crumpled his lanky frame over his knees as he caught his breath.
“Your ch-cheerleading, dammit…” he gasped.
Yokomizo stood waiting for him patiently. Despite being terminally ill, he had always been the more athletic of the two.
“Want a hand?” Yokomizo offered with a tug of a smirk at his lips.
Mushitarou swatted his hand away. “That’s my job as your little ‘walking cane,’ isn’t it?”
Yokomizo put on his signature gentle smile and put his hands to his hips.
“I told you, I don't hurt that much today! Now’s as good of a time as any to pick up some medicine. Fix a roof when the sun is shining, right?”
Yokomizo had phrased his words like a question, but unlike Mushitarou, there was no expectation of agreement. He had waited for no response before continuing back on his way. Mushitarou cursed under his breath.
“Wait for me, you mystery maniac!”
Yokomizo’s pace had slowed on their way back to his house. Mushitarou didn’t want to ask if that was for his sake. The reply would be too humiliating. He instead busied himself by picking around Yokomizo’s medicine, a carefully wrapped brown paper package.
“You really oughtta not mess with a dying man’s remedies.” Yokomizo rested his head over Mushitarou’s shoulder as they walked as if he was as interested to see what was in the paper brick as Mushitarou was. Perhaps Yokomizo hadn’t picked out his medicines himself. A mystery author loved mysteries, after all.
Mushitarou unwrapped the thin string cord and peered inside the small box. Herbs and spices and teas and other various dried flora.
“Are you planning on making a hotpot, or a stomach cancer cure?” Mushitarou jeered as he sniffed the fragrant contents. It was overpowering, and he sneezed.
“Bleshou. And neither. I’m making myself tea. Traditional Chinese folklore says mixing ginger root with shan zha and chenpi is good for soothing digestion. Plus, it’ll taste good! Wanna try some?”
“I’m not drinking your voodoo potions.”
“You know you love the occult.”
“I do. But when you’re involved, it’s my job to object to everything you do.”
“Ha…” Yokomizo managed a weak laugh. “Hey, let’s pick up the pace. I wanna get home so I can try the tea. I’m hungry.”
Mushitarou knew he was lying. Yokomizo was never hungry anymore. He could tell Yokomizo wasn’t going to be feeling well by the end of this walk.
But as always, he obliged.
“Of course.”
Mushitarou was a proper man. He was well dressed, well-spoken, and (arguably) well-written. He could speak business and he could speak leadership and he could speak insults that would cut so deep it gave satisfaction to him when the victim burst into tears. He was good with his verbal dictation. Yokomizo was better with his inscribed dictation. An eccentric country recluse who nobody would assume the brilliant Kindaichi was a regular guy who liked feudal yukata and curled to sleep on a threadbare zabuton. He had the money to replace the damn thing. He said he ‘just didn’t want to.’
Idiot. Get a new pillow.
He always had been nostalgic of the bygone days.
They made quite a duo. They never got anything done together, and they always argued.
A crime writer and his biggest cynic.
Mushitarou was a proper man. He was a useful member of Rats in the House of the Dead. He was a master criminal. One thing he was not, was a housewife.
“If you could get it on the stove, that’d be great…Just boil some water-” Yokomizo’s voice hoarsely instructed from his office.
“I know how to make tea!” Mushitarou retorted, fumbling around Yokomizo’s kitchen.
The blundering fool had gotten pains on their walk back. It might not have been noticeable to a passerby, but Mushitarou noticed it immediately. His gait stiffened and his pacing was unsteady and he held his arms crossed protectively over his stomach. When they got back, Yokomizo crawled onto his zabuton with a feeble grin and asked if Mushitarou could prepare the tea for him. His stomach was hurting, but just a little bit! It was nothing to be worried about.
Like Mushitarou was going to believe that bullshit.
Tea was easy to make. In fact, an eloquent gentleman like Mushitarou had no trouble at all making tea. But his hands gave in to gentle tremors as he stirred a ceramic kettle every time he heard an exhausted shuffle of clothes and a muffled whimper of agony from the other room. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Watched pots really did never boil. He hastily mixed in random herbs and powders in hopes that maybe the more potent the drink, the better effect it would have.
“It’ll be ready in a second!” Mushitarou shouted across the house.
“Haha…better hurry it up, Mushi-kun! I feel like I’m going into labor pains.” Yokomizo groaned softly with an ironic laugh.
“Who’s the father?” Mushitarou allowed a slight smirk despite the rush. Yokomizo preferred playful banter during his daily aches. It helped distract him. It helped distract both of them.
Mushitarou speed-walked as quickly as he dared with the tray of tea in his hands. He sat beside Yokomizo, placing the tray on the floor. Yokomizo didn't like tea on the table. It might spill on his writing.
"Sit up, you lazy lump." Mushitarou commanded. Yokomizo's stomach cancer hurt far more than he let on. Mushitarou wished he could just let his friend lie there until the pain went away, but he knew it wouldn't for a long, long time. Yokomizo stirred despite himself. "Get up." Mushitarou said again, just as firmly as the first time. He knew it hurt Yokomizo beyond words to move.
But always, he obliged.
“Gh” he muttered, rubbing his face.
“Isn’t that your cue to say ‘of course?’” Mushitarou’s expression soured at the sight of his pathetic friend hunched over his pillow.
“Drink it.” Mushitarou sat cross-legged and cross-armed. Yokomizo sat curled in a Japanese kneel like he was about to bow. And bow, he did, as he held his ribs and took in deep breaths of air.
“Hey, you mystery maniac. Are you going to drink your voodoo potion, or not?”
“Yehayeahyeahyeahyeahyeahyeah.”
Yokomizo’s arm snaked out of his curled body to wrap his fingers around a ridged teacup as he propped his body up and brought the drink to his lips.
Mushitarou didn’t help him hold it, but his arms were tensed in preparation to bolt out and catch the cup should Yokomizo drop it.
Yokomizo drained the cup, slowly and with groans of pain that were guttural and nauseating. Each sip sounded like he was choking on acid and every sound he made would make anybody excuse themselves in abhorrent repulsion.
Mushitarou made no movement to leave.
“Well?” He raised an eyebrow.
Yokomizou set the cup back down like a shot glass, his eyes squeezed tightly together and his teeth biting his mouth shut. Was he hurting that badly?
“It tastes like ass.”
Mushitarou blinked.
“Huh-”
“How much ginger did you put in? It’s so damn spicy!” He whined quietly, thrusting a cup towards Mushitarou’s face. “Try it, it’s so gross!”
Mushitarou’s tongue darted out like a cat as he tasted it.
“It seems adequate to me.”
“That’s because you have no taste, literally! You need to put in more water and add more clove and honey.”
“Sugar isn’t good for you.”
“I’m dying. Let me have a final treat.”
Mushitarou relaxed as his Yokomizo took another disgusted sip and ranted about the proper preparation of medicinal tea.
“That could be a good idea for a novel. A poisoned tea! Come on, mystery maniac. I’m a genius, right?”
“Alreddybindun.”
“Tch. Of course it has been.”
Mushitarou uncrossed his arms and leaned in, inspecting Yokomizo for any signs of discomfort. He prodded Yokomizo’s face, drawing out a laugh from the sickly man.
“Is the tea working the mystery magic, or are you just messing around?”
“Who knows?” Yokomizo set down the cup. He tilted his head and smiled his serene smile. “Maybe it’s just your company that’s making me feel better.”
Mushitarou froze for a second before letting out a bitter ‘tch.’
“What a delightfully corny phrase.” He hissed, and pretended to scratch his nose.
“You’re blushing.”
“The damn tea was making the kitchen hot.”
Yokomizo’s smile didn’t change, but something in his eyes sparkled a little bit.
“Of course.”
Chapter 2: Lachesis
Summary:
Mushitarou struggles to juggle his work-life balance between Fyodor and his clingy bastard childhood friend.
Notes:
warning::: so yknow that yokomizo is very sick and i write him like a sick person. UNFORTUNATELY writing sick people feels like writing smut. its really. really. really hard to write sick people. they sound really weird. youll see.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was a strange feeling, to be needed.
Mushitarou had been needed hundreds of times for the Rats in the House of the Dead. His ability was a great one! A master ability for a master criminal. Being able to erase all evidence of a crime scene? It was no wonder he was needed. He had never been an outsider to the feeling. At least, regarding his gift. Everyone seemed to want to use it.
Mushitarou wasn’t sure Yokomizo even remembered he had one.
“Mushi-kunnnnn, wait.” Yokomizo whined softly. He whispered because there was no other volume his body could handle.
Mushitarou turned back. His hands rested on the doorframe.
“I have to go.” Mushitarou managed hesitantly. “I can’t stay just because you ask me to, even if- look, I have work to do.”
Yokomizo lifted his head from the edge of his zabuton.
“I write better when you’re here…”
Mushitarou clicked his tongue impatiently.
“I hate to break it to you, but work takes priority over your ability to write your little stories.” Mushitarou flipped his cellphone open. A message from Dostoyevsky. Pushkin had a plan for taking down the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency. The dimwit had committed a murder to get some info and left the security cameras in the building running. It was nothing incriminating, but a follow-up wipe of the tapes wouldn’t be too much of a hassle.
“Don’t go.”
“I’ll see you later, filthy hack.”
He shut the sliding door and left.
One.
Two.
Click.
Alexander Pushkin’s presence in every tape had disappeared from existence without any tampering. What a useful special ability.
Mushitarou walked out of the office complex with nobody to suspect him. Why would they? He looked as ordinary (but still better-looking and more proper) as anybody else on the street. Security cameras never picked him up. Locks were never damaged. Glass was never shattered.
Mushitarou would probably head back to the House when he was done. If it could even be called a house. Their base of operations was a damn hole in the dirt.
Certainly no place for someone as respectable as Mushitarou.
At least it was better than the Seventh Agency. At least he had somewhere to stay. And a leader who didn’t tie him to a chair.
Mushitarou let his concentration focus on brushing his hair as he walked back to their base of operations. He pulled a small comb out his pocket and straightened every hair perfectly in place. He wondered if Yokomizo had ever once brushed his hair. The tangled mane was as gnarled as a bird nest.
“I’ve cleaned up your little slip-up, Pushkin.” Mushitarou barked as soon as he found the balding bastard.
“Hm.” Pushkin huffed, scratching his chin as he flipped through a newspaper.
“A thank you would be expected.”
“Mthangks.” Pushkin’s fingers twirled his singular lock of brown hair.
Mushitarou sniffed. The state of modern man’s hair was a disgrace. On his way back from the job, Mushitarou spotted a boy with the most atrocious white haircut. His belt was even dragging on the ground like a tail. Outrageous.
“Pushkin, is there a hairbrush around here?”
Pushkin glanced up, his jowls framing a frown.
“Do I look like I carry one on me? I thoughtchu always had yer lil’ pocket brush.”
“Fair point, and no. That’s a pocket comb. There’s a difference.” You blithering fat hairless baby. “I have to run an errand.”
“Dostoyevsky hasn’t ordered anything new yet.”
“Not every errand is for Dostoyevsky! I have my own needs to attend to, unlike you little bootlickers. Tell Dostoyevsky I’ll be at my office for the night if he needs my ability.”
The Seventh Agency had hardly paid Mushitarou anything. He was more of a tool or a slave or a pet than an actual member. In the Rats in the House of the Dead, Mushitarou made a substantial amount of money. Fyodor Dostoyevsky was probably the smartest person in the world, and Mushitarou had no qualms working for him. He had his own quarters with thick books to read and polished china silverware.
He owed everything to Dostoyevsky. His savior, who freed him from a life of painful servitude into a life of quick work for as much freedom as he could ask for. Even if he was only going to stay in Japan for another week after the mission was over, that was more than enough time for Mushitarou. The final year of Yokomizo’s life was more precious than any payment or porcelain. Missing so much of it by being kidnapped by a criminal agency was unforgivable. Mushitarou didn’t know what Dostoyevsky did to dismantle the Seventh Agency, but he hoped it hurt. Bad.
Mushitarou walked down the streets of Yokohama with his hands in his pockets and eyed the streets. He should at least make his final days with his friend count for something. He had a little under two months. He stood for a moment on the sidewalk and looked into the display window of a jewelry store.
Oh. That could work.
He opened the door and poked his head inside.
“Welcome in, sir.” The store attendant bowed.
“Ah. Thanks.” Mushitarou walked in with an awkward bow. He picked up a few items and pretended to inspect them, not really sure what he was doing.
“Do you, er- have a brush? An expensive one?”
“Mushi-kun! You’re back.” Yokomizo’s face lit up. Yokomizo turned, sitting up at his table and he put his pen down. He turned himself towards the door, shuffling through his papers. “I’ve been getting an outline for a new novel, I- ow…Ugh.” Yokomizo doubled over, clutching his stomach as he winced. He smiled up at Mushitarou and forced himself to sit up. “I didn’t know you’d be back again tonight.”
“I must be something special if Kindaichi stops writing for once to greet me.” Mushitarou chuckled dryly.
“I never stop writing. Here, sit, sit sit sit sit.” Yokomizo patted the area beside him as he rummaged by his pages. Mushitarou instead sat behind him.
“I got you something. I had an old brush that I didn’t need anymore.”
“Ooh, lemme see. Lemme see.”
Mushitarou pushed his finger into Yokomizo’s cheek to make his face turn forward again. “Hey, I can’t fix your ugly mess unless you’re facing the other way. Turn around and get back to your work.” Mushitarou took a handful of curly brown hair into his grasp and brushed gently. It was a high quality comb made of ivory and jade. Simple and modest but still elegant. It was mostly based on Mushitarou’s tastes, but that was to be expected. Yokomizo was never one for material goods or gifts in general, and usually never noticed the quality of a product when he received it. Mushitarou had probably spent tens of thousands of yen on gifts Yokomizo barely registered. The sunlight seeped through the clouded green gemstone and illuminated a soft chartreuse glow under Mushitarou’s hand as he worked.
“I’ll be working on a masterpiece soon, I hope. I’d like to make an ultimate mystery so brilliant it transcends reality.”
“You have other stories still rotting around your house. You can’t make that.”
Yokomizo shrugged.
“I should try. Oh, I finished that other one a week ago. I published the murder of the island mystery.” Yokomizo hummed as he picked his pen back up and dipped it in the ink. He scribbled onto his paper and placed the page to the side when he had neatly filled in every square of writing. Mushitarou wrinkled his nose.
“I always hated that one.” He mumbled as he grabbed another thick wad of snarled curls. He moved his fingers up and continued to comb Yokomizo’s hair. His hair was unbearably messy. It took him nearly an hour to convert Yokomizo’s scraggly woolen head into silken tawny locks that fell in spirals at his shoulders. It was still tousled, but it was far better than it usually was. Mushitarou huffed with self-satisfaction as he ran his hand through Yokomizo’s hair one final time.
“Beautiful.” Yokomizo whispered to himself.
Mushitarou raised an unamused eyebrow. The dimwit probably hadn’t even realized Mushitarou fixed his appearance.
“I assume you’re talking about your story?”
“The death being revealed by the maid who finds a windup doll in the hallway…No, it’ll be in daylight. Yes, it’s perfect.” Yokomizo tapped his lip as he thought out loud to himself, engrossed in his writing.
Mushitarou sighed. Typical.
“Hey, filthy hack. I cleaned you up. The brush is a gift, so feel free to thank me when you wake up from your little trance.” He finished, placing the brush next to Yokomizo’s furiously moving hand on the table. After a few seconds, his grip on the pen loosened and he placed it parallel to the comb.
“You’re really too good to me. Thank you, Mushi-kun. I’m going to miss being here.” He faltered with a wistful smile as he stared with empty eyes at the paper in front of him.
Mushitarou shot up angrily.
“What the hell are you saying? You still have time!” He interrupted loudly, his hands clenched. Yokomizo tilted his head and blinked at Mushitarou’s outburst and then let out a gentle laugh.
“Oh, not like that. I’ll be staying out at an inn for my final novel. I was thinking some fresh country air would do me better as a writing room.” He reached up and squeezed Mushitarou’s hand reassuringly. His expression softened sadly and he looked down.
“I’ll just…I dunno. I like my house. I’ll just be a little homesick.”
…Promise?
The word had almost left his tongue before he even could stop it. He bit his tongue, hard, and closed his mouth before he said anything stupid.
He wasn’t supposed to be weak. He was supposed to be cool. Calm. Collected. Not begging his damned friend with a pleading look in his eyes.
It was the first time he had allowed himself to express weakness since…since the Seventh Agency.
Mushitarou wanted to say something but he didn’t know what he could say. He struggled to find words, but simply frowned and sat back down and started fixing Yokomizo’s hair again. Mushitarou hand reached for the brush before he simply started to groom Yokomizo’s hair with his fingers, combing his hand through his hair.
“Half the time I feel like I have no idea what you’re saying.” Mushitaro’s words were quiet as Yokomizo turned back to the table.
“Mushi-kun.”
“Hm.” Mushitarou made a noise to show he was listening.
“Will you stay the night for me?”
“Of course. What for?” Mushitarou eyes flicked up to the back of Yokomizo’s head as he continued to stroke his hair and raking through a small knot he missed before.
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow for the inn, and I want you to go with me. If you can’t, I want to at least spend my last night in this house with you.” Yokomizo leaned back and rested his head on Mushitarou’s collarbone, his head tilted up at the ceiling to make eye contact. Mushitarou looked down at his friend with a sour look.
Mushitarou sighed and placed his chin on Yokomizo’s head. “…I can. I will.” He muttered.
Damn it, if this was their last night, he was going to spend it here. In that stupid little house. There was no way in hell he wasn’t going to be with Yokomizo at the end.
“Don’t talk like that. You’ll get back fine.” Mushitarou chided as Yokomizou sat back up and slumped over his desk.
“I…Mushi-kun, I wanted to ask a favor of you.”
Mushitarou snorted, crossing his arms as he had nowhere else to put his hands now that Yokomizou’s hair was further away. “You always need me to do something for you.”
“For my final novel, I…”
Yokomizo fell into silence and Mushitarou leaned forward.
“You…what?”
“Ah…I…haha. One m-moment, Mushi-kun.” Yokomizou groaned with a forced grin. He brought his knees to his chest and held himself tightly together, as if maybe he could squeeze the pain out of his body if he compressed his body enough.
“Do you…do you want me to make tea?” Mushitarou got up hastily and took off his jacket. “I’ll go make some now.” He started, rolling his sleeves up.
“N-no, no. It’s okay. I’m not sure the tea helped all that much. Just stay here for a moment…” Yokomizo whimpered slowly. “I just need to wait a second. It’ll go away soon, I think. Sorry about this.”
Mushitarou fell to Yokomizo’s side with his hands hovering anxiously over his friend’s agonized body. He wasn’t sure if he should sit him up, make him lie down, comfort him, or leave him alone. So Mushitaro simply sat by Yokomizo’s side and put a tentative hand on the latter’s back.
“Hey, mystery maniac. It’s getting late. Do you need help getting to your bed? Or does an ancient relic like you still sleep on a futon?”
“Neither…I sleep at my desk.” Yokomizo responded, coughing into his fist.
Mushitarou grimaced.
“Where’s your room.” He demanded as more of a command than a question.
Yokomizo struggled to his hands and knees. “I don’t wanna sleep in my room. Don’t…” He flinched and tugged at his collar as if it was suffocating him. “…don’t go into my room.”
Mushitarou grabbed Yokomizo’s wrists and slung him over his shoulder like a backpack.
“Like I’m going to listen to that bullshit.” He shot back, hefting his friend’s body onto his back. Yokomizo was lighter than he remembered. He likely had been skipping meals or vomiting them back up. “You need to lie down on something that isn’t three centimeters of pillowcase.”
Mushitaro slid the door of Yokomizo’s bedroom open with his foot and laid him onto what felt like a bed. His hands groped for a light chain and he blinked as his eyes were flashed with white. Yokomizo surprisingly had a bed; not only that, but it was a western style mattress. The air smelled stale and dry. Yokomizo likely hadn’t been in his own bedroom for a long time.
Mushitarou sat on the edge of the sheets as Yokomizo heaved in deep lungfuls of air. The former tried not to focus too hard on his partner’s dry choking by looking at the decorations around the room. There weren’t many, most of the space was taken up by scattered papers with frustrated scrawls of murder mystery ideas and plots.
It amazed Mushitarou how surprisingly organized Yokomizo was. He placed everything away randomly and without order to the point of chaos, but somehow remembered where everything was.
The 3rd novel with the lullaby serial murders? The pages were stuffed underneath the stack of dictionaries to the left of the spilled teapot and the broken pencil.
The practice manuscript for the poison killing? Folded in the coat that was crumpled in the corner of the bedroom, obviously.
Like most of Yokomizo’s habits, it drove Mushitarou insane.
His eye caught on the high shelves on the walls. These kinds of shelves were usually reserved for precious items by a wife or a deceased relative; an old picture frame or a drawing from a child. Yokomizo was unmarried and had no late family members. A sick feeling rose in Mushitarou’s stomach as he imagined Yokomizo’s family clearing an opening in their own shelves for the young man.
Instead, they were filled with gifts. Gifts that Mushitarou recognized, because he bought them. Obsidian and gold fountain pens. Rare imported inks that were as dark as the ocean. Fine porcelain bowls and chopsticks. A crystal pocket watch lined with gold. A set of fine silver spoons. An antique abacus made of ebony wood. A pressed bouquet of amaranth and deep purple bellflowers. An exquisite butterfly in a cube of resin. His gifts became less practical and more decorative the further the list grew as slowly Mushitarou realized Yokomizo never seemed to use anything he sent. Mushitarou assumed he sold them or gave them away. There was a space on the shelves where there was nothing at all. That was when Mushitarou was kidnapped by the Seventh Agency. It appeared that despite the state of barrenness and untouched dust that coated the room, the gifts remained the one thing that were polished clean without a speck of dirt.
He knew Yokomizo never touched a single one of the gifts.
And yet there they were, sitting in their places of honor, on the top shelf, carefully and thoroughly cleaned without a single speck of dust on them.
He kept them.
All of them.
Every single gift Mushitarou had ever sent his childhood friend. Yokomizo had put them on the shelf. He had looked at them. Touched them. Cleaned them, probably. And yet he had never tried to use them.
He’d placed them on a shelf to look at and cherish.
What kind of dumbass did that?
"You moron." Mushitaro sighed. "I never knew you kept these things. I always imagined the packages piled up at your door because you were too busy writing to notice you had mail. I never saw you use anything I gave you."
Yokomizo rolled over in bed. "I didn't wanna use them, because you gave them to me."
“…Why the hell wouldn’t you use them? I bought them for a reason.” Mushitarou’s grip on a music box he held in his hands tightened.
He hadn’t touched any of them. Not a single one.
The gifts had been nothing more than meaningless decorations? A waste of his money?
"The point of half of these is so they CAN be used!"
"I know..." Yokomizo laughed quietly. “They just…mean a lot to me.”
Mushitarou looked at him, bewildered.
“I can just buy you new ones if they break.”
“That’s not the point.” Yokomizo laughed, then held his stomach. “Agh, ow…haha, this- this really hurt.” He breathed, his voice strained.
That idiot…
Mushitarou placed the music box back on the shelf before sitting down on the edge of Yokomizo’s bed again. His hands gripped the sheets angrily, his hands balling into fists.
“You’re an idiot. You idiot, you idiot, you idiot-“ he muttered lowly to himself, his shoulders beginning to tremble.
"Please don't be mad." Yokomizo murmured, reaching a hesitant hand out.
“I’m not mad.” He lied through gritted teeth.
He wasn’t mad that the idiot had been so sentimental that he preferred letting the gifts collect dust instead of using them.
He wasn’t mad that the idiot had been so attached to his useless belongings that he let them sit on display instead of throwing them away.
He wasn’t mad that the idiot hadn’t once even touched the gifts that Mushitarou painstakingly picked out for him, thinking that the man would appreciate them.
He wasn’t mad.
"They mean to much to me to let them be soiled with the work of daily life. I need them here. They remind me too much of you." Yokomizo whispered even more quietly, his hands outstretched with aching remorse.
The words repeated over and over in Mushroomarou’s mind like a broken record. Yokomizo had not used them and continued to not use them because of that?
Mushitarou closed his eyes and gripped Yokomizo’s hands tightly, feeling the other man’s pulse from the veins on the back of his hands. His hands clenched around Yokomizo’s.
His eyes were still closed as he spoke, his voice quiet as he trembled. “…You’re an idiot. You complete moron. I hate you, you mystery maniac.”
Yokomizo put his forehead on Mushitarou's knuckle.
"I'm sorry." He murmured.
“…Don’t apologize. Don’t say that. Don’t- don’t say you’re sorry. Not to me.”
Mushitarou pulled Yokomizo’s hands away from his face and held them on his lap. His eyes slowly opened and he stared at the dimly lit room, avoiding the other man’s eyes. The only light came from a dim yellow lantern placed on a desk in the corner.
“…”
He was not going to cry.
He absolutely was not going to cry.
Mushitarou took off his tie and laid next to Yokomizo in the bed. It was small, cramped, and Yokomizo’s feverish and twitching body didn’t make it any more comfortable.
Regardless, Mushitarou wrapped his arms around his friend and they fell asleep together.
Notes:
throwing rocks at elephant with little boy saying "gayyyyyy"
Chapter 3: Spindle
Summary:
There's an inn that Yokomizo wants to stay at. Mushitarou, of course, comes along. It seems like Yokomizo has something important to tell him.
Notes:
Mushitarou wakes up the next morning and hes like”ugghh what the bungo happened” and yokomizo is sitting on the other side of the bed coughing up blood with a rose between his teeth
Chapter Text
Mushitarou’s fingers ran over a plush fabric he didn’t recognize as his own bedding. He kept his eyes shut despite the sunrise light making his vision a blurred red anyway.
Mushitarou woke up the next morning to find the space between his arms cold and empty. His eyes fluttered open and he sat up to find himself alone in an unfamiliar room. He panicked for a moment before remembering last night. He had gone to bed with Yokomizo.
Panic immediately set back in as he realized Yokomizo was gone.
“Hey, are you there?” He called once he forced himself to stand up. There was no response from the rest of the house.
…No. He wouldn’t have gone far. That idiot would have probably just stumbled back to his desk to work on one of his stupid novels, or maybe he had gone to the bathroom.
But what if he had gone farther? What if he had left the house? He could be anywhere, collapsing from fatigue.
He scrambled out of the room and flung the door open to run face-first into Yokomizo.
“FUCK! I eh- good morning.” Mushitarou yelped in a way that was very normal and composed. He cleared his throat and brushed his hair back and pretended not to feel the pain on his forehead.
Yokomizo had his own hands clutched over the red mark growing on the front of his skull. His eyes were shut tight with soreness but he managed a warm beam.
“Mornin’ to you too, Mushi-kun.”
“Yeah, yeah, good morning. What time is it?” He muttered gruffly, wiping his face with one hand as he attempted to straighten himself out. It was difficult when his body felt like it hadn’t fully caught up to his brain, and his brain, frankly, wasn’t having much luck either.
“Five in the mornin’.” Yokomizo scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “My chest hurt and I couldn’t sleep.”
“Five in the morning?” Mushitarou repeated, more to himself than to Yokomizo. “And you didn’t wake me? You could’ve at least let me know you were up.”
Yokomizo shrugged. "I didn’t wanna bother you."
“You damn mystery maniac, you should’ve woken me up. I—” He stopped himself, unsure what exactly he had been going to say. After all, what could he have done? He was hardly a doctor, and Yokomizo was too stubborn to listen to him anyway. He suddenly realized that he had slept in his work clothes. He would need to change into a new suit. Damn. Maybe Dovstoyevsky wouldn’t notice.
Yokomizo winced again, his hand pressed tighter to his chest. “Yeah, well, it’s nothing serious. Just some muscle cramps.” He waved it off with a weak smile, clearly trying to reassure himself as much as Mushitarou. “I’m fine.”
Mushitarou stared at him for a beat longer, still feeling that prickling irritation, but it was hard to stay mad when Yokomizo was so obviously trying to act fine. It was his nature, always pushing things down and pretending like they didn’t matter. That was a part of him Mushitarou had come to expect, even if it drove him crazy.
With a frustrated sigh, he stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck, and muttered, “Fine. But next time, you wake me up. Got it?”
Yokomizo simply nodded, then looked up at him. His expression was softer now, almost affectionate in a way that made Mushitarou hesitate before he stepped away from the doorframe.
“Jesus. Five in the morning…” Mushitarou groaned, rubbing his eyes. Of course it was. Only Yokomizo would drag himself out of bed at such an ungodly hour with a chest ache and a smile plastered on his face, as if sheer optimism alone could stave off the discomfort. His brain felt foggy, his body still heavy from the sleep he’d only just gotten used to. He felt like had forgotten something.
“You shouldn’t be up this early,” Mushitarou grumbled, brushing past Yokomizo into the small kitchen. He didn’t need to see Yokomizo’s face to know the man was trailing after him, goddamn clingy as ever, his footsteps shuffling faintly across the wooden floor.
The kitchen was as chaotic as Mushitarou had expected. Plates balanced precariously on the edge of the sink, mismatched utensils clattered in a drawer that barely closed, and a faint layer of flour dusted the counter like snow. Yokomizo had obviously tried his hand at a hobby other than writing and it had clearly gone to shit.
Mushitarou sighed and rolled up his sleeves. “Sit down before you keel over. I’ll make breakfast. Lemme cook for you. ”
Yokomizo chuckled softly, though it quickly turned into a rasping cough. He slumped into a chair with a heavy thud, clearly too drained to argue. His head lolled back against the chair, eyes closing briefly as he murmured, “You’re always doing everything for me nowadays. You’re too good to me, Mushi-kun.”
“Someone has to be,” Mushitarou muttered under his breath, scanning the kitchen for something—anything—edible. The refrigerator was a graveyard of expired condiments and lonely vegetables clinging to life. He grimaced and settled on rice and eggs, simple enough even in this culinary wasteland.
“Who the hell even feeds you?”
“My neighbor. She’s a nice lady.”
Mushitarou’s scowl deepened bitterly.
“You need to start doing things on your own, you bastard. Stop mooching off some other lady’s time. You really shouldn’t have someone who has their own life babysitting you if she’s just a neighbor.” Mushitarou scoffed.
Yokomizo put his hands on his chin. “Why do you care? Jealous I’m hanging out with a nice single lady~?” He said smugly.
Mushitarou’s face flushed pink and he turned around, holding the spatula out like a weapon. “That’s-!” He blurted, then shut his mouth and continued to rummage through the fridge. “Shut up.” He grumbled to himself.
Yokomizo exhaled softly through his nose with a restrained smile.
“I’m just messing. You wouldn’t want to swap places with me anyway. I doubt you’ll ever go and get yourself a wife, Mushi-kun. She’s nice, but I don’t think you're her type.”
Mushitarou glanced back for a moment and he opened his mouth to say something.
He decided against it.
As the rice cooker hummed to life, Mushitarou cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them with practiced efficiency. The sound of the fork against the ceramic filled the silence, accompanied only by the faint wheeze of Yokomizo’s breathing. It was a sound Mushitarou had grown too used to. It really shouldn’t have been. The sound of his friend in pain from his godforsaken stomach cancer should be a noise that was not normal to the human ear. Damn it. Why him, of all people?
“You’re staring,” Yokomizo’s voice cut through his thoughts, light and teasing. Mushitarou blinked to see his friend watching him with that same infuriatingly calm smile, his chin resting in his hand. Mushitarou’s head shot down at the bowl as he stirred the eggs more furiously.
“You’re imagining things,” Mushitarou retorted.
“Careful with the eggs.”
Yokomizo’s gaze lingered a moment longer before he closed his eyes again, his head tilting to the side as if even holding it up was too much effort. Mushitarou frowned but said nothing, focusing instead on cooking the food. When he set the bowl of rice and a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs in front of Yokomizo, the latter’s eyes lit up with gratitude.
“Scrambled eggs? You couldn’t make authentic Japanese food with someone strangling you to do it! Ah- sorry. I…I sound ungrateful. Thanks, Mushi-kun. You’re a lifesaver.” Yokomizo said, tapping his chopsticks on the table to straighten them.
“Eat slowly.” he instructed, sitting across from him with his own bowl. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he wasn’t a fan of the idea of watching Yokomizo struggle to finish a meal alone.
The room fell into a silence as they ate, the clink of chopsticks against ceramic the only sound. Yokomizo picked at his food, his bites small and hesitant. Mushitarou watched him out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to notice when Yokomizo’s hand faltered and he nearly dropped his chopsticks.
“You’ve lost weight.” Mushitarou said finally, unable to keep the observation to himself.
Yokomizo’s smile turned sheepish. “Writing does that to a man. You wouldn’t believe the hours I’ve been putting in.”
“Hours you could’ve spent sleeping,” Mushitarou shot back, his tone sharper than he intended. Yokomizo’s expression didn’t waver, but his shoulders slumped slightly, a telltale sign that the jab had landed. Mushitarou sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“Just… take care of yourself, mystery maniac. I can’t keep picking up your slack forever.”
Yokomizo’s laugh was soft, almost wistful. “You’ve been saying that for years, Mushi-kun. Yet here you are.”
Mushitarou didn’t have a response to that, so he focused on finishing his meal and let the quiet settle over them once more. By the time they were done, the sun had risen fully, casting warm light through the kitchen window. Yokomizo’s face looked more healthy in the daylight, but the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced.
He stood and gathered the dishes, ignoring Yokomizo’s feeble protests.
“You cooked,” Yokomizo said weakly. “Let me clean.”
“You can barely hold your chopsticks,” Mushitarou countered, already rolling up his sleeves again. “Sit down and rest before you collapse.”
Yokomizo huffed but didn’t argue further, leaning back in his zabuton in defeat. When he glanced back at Yokomizo, he found his friend’s head drooping, his eyelids fluttering shut.
“Hey,” Mushitarou called softly. Yokomizo’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he said defensively, though the yawn he stifled immediately after betrayed him.
“Go lie down,” Mushitarou said. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”
Yokomizo hesitated, his gaze flicking to the clock on the wall. “It’s too early to nap…”
“It’s never too early to not die from exhaustion,” Mushitarou snapped, crossing his arms. “Go. Now.”
For once, Yokomizo didn’t argue. He stood slowly, swaying slightly before Mushitarou caught his arm to steady him. The contact lingered for a moment longer than necessary before Yokomizo pulled away with a quiet thanks.
“Idiot,” he muttered to himself, though he wasn’t sure if the word was meant for Yokomizo or himself. Probably both.
“Shit.” he gasped to himself. He should’ve told Dostoyevsky. He hadn’t even thought to let him know he wouldn’t be coming home last night.
Mushitarou cursed under his breath again and grabbed his wrinkled teal jacket from the floor of Yokomizo’s office. “I should head back!” he blurted, feeling the familiar weight of guilt tugging at his chest. He hadn’t even left a message or anything. It wasn’t like Dostoyevsky would have come looking for him, but still, he hated leaving things unfinished.
“You’re leaving?” Yokomizo’s voice broke through the silence, sounding almost hesitant, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to ask. Mushitarou glanced over his shoulder, seeing that Yokomizo was watching him from where he stood by the door.
“Yeah, I need to get back to Dostoyevsky,” Mushitarou said, running a hand over his face again. “I forgot to tell him I was staying here.”
Mushitarou hesitated before he turned back to face Yokomizo. “I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”
Yokomizo smiled faintly, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Mushi-kun.”
“I sincerely apologize for my lack of proper communication. I stayed at…I was somewhere else last night. At my office. The mineshaft life doesn’t suit my sleeping style.”
Dostoyevsky’s eyes narrowed with a faint smile.
“It is not problem to use the abode I give you. You’ve caused no trouble to our plans. If I need you, you will pick up, yes?” He said this like an order rather than a request.
“I will.”
Mushitarou turned to leave.
“Your tie is missing.”
Mushitarou’s hand instinctively went to the base of his neck. His bow tie was, indeed missing from its usual spot on his shirt.
“I…”
“It is hard to forget tie in your daily ensemble, considering you wear same set of clothes every day. How strange of Mushitarou for something regarding appearance to slip his mind.”
“I just hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night.”
“Mm. I’ll need you in three days to go over the plan to destroy the agency. You join me, yes?”
“Of course.”
Mushitarou adjusted his jacket with meticulous care as he strode out of Dostoyevsky’s hole in the ground. Dostoyevsky had been less concerned about Mushitarou’s absence than he expected, though the icy precision in the man’s words still left Mushitarou uneasy. The brief report he’d given seemed enough to satisfy for now. Dostoyevsky had only nodded, sparing him the intensity of his piercing gaze before dismissing him to his own devices.
And shit, Mushitarou forgot his bowtie at Yokomizo’s house. He had plenty of spares at his office. That was probably even more suspicious. It wasn’t like he could use the ‘I lost it’ excuse. But Dostoyevsky hadn’t pried, luckily.
There were ‘other people’ that Dostoyevsky was concerned with. The Armed Detective Agency, most likely. Dostoyevsky had a tendency to talk about them for slightly too long. Though it wasn’t that strange, Mushitarou figured his mind wandered to Yokomizo as often as Dostoyevsky’s did with that Dazai man. Mushitarou snorted to himself. It was almost comical how the two were so alike in the ways that half their thoughts were occupied by someone they loved to hate.
Now free for the remainder of the day, Mushitarou’s thoughts drifted back to Yokomizo. As they always did. Part of him was disappointed in himself for having such terrible taste in company. He hadn’t been able to shake the memory of Yokomizo’s weary smile last night just before he was cut off talking about his ‘final story,’ or whatever. It was irritating—Yokomizo always had that peculiar talent for leaving Mushitarou unsettled, though not in the way most others managed. There was no malice to it, no hidden venom in his words. Just an infuriating honesty.
When Mushitarou arrived back at Yokomizo’s home that afternoon, he found the other man surrounded by a chaotic assortment of belongings. Open bags and neatly folded piles of clothing were scattered across the floor, accompanied by an assortment of pens, notebooks, and other writerly paraphernalia. Yokomizo himself was seated cross-legged in the midst of it all, eyes narrowed at a small stack of documents as though deciding its fate.
“What in the world are you doing?” Mushitarou asked, stepping into the room and immediately surveying the mess with a disapproving eye.
Yokomizo looked up, his expression brightening when he saw his friend. “Mushi-kun! Packing, of course,” he said cheerfully, though his movements were noticeably sluggish. “I want to make sure I don’t forget anything important for the inn.”
“Packing?” Mushitarou repeated, arching a skeptical brow. “You’re taking an entire library with you, it seems.” He gestured to the notebooks and papers that threatened to overflow the travel bags.
Yokomizo grinned sheepishly. “I work better when I have all my notes with me.”
Mushitarou sighed and shrugged out of his coat, folding it over the back of a chair before stepping closer. “And what, exactly, do you need all these notes for? You already have your so-called masterpiece planned, don’t you?” He nudged a dictionary with the tip of his shoe.
Yokomizo’s expression softened, his usual exuberance dimming slightly. “I… I just want to make sure everything is perfect. If this is going to be my last big story, it has to be right.”
The quiet vulnerability in Yokomizo’s tone caught Mushitarou off guard, and he found himself sitting down across from him before he could think better of it. “You’re overthinking.” he said bluntly, picking up one of the notebooks and flipping through it. “Your stories have always been ridiculous, and yet people adore them. If you’re expecting some divine inspiration to strike just because you’re holed up in an inn, you’re delusional.”
Yokomizo chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Harsh as ever, Mushi-kun. But you’re probably right. That’s why I want you to come with me.”
Mushitarou froze, the notebook halfway closed in his hands. “What?”
“Come with me to the inn,” Yokomizo repeated, his voice steady but his gaze oddly intent. “You’re the only person who really understands my work. Even if you hate it.”
Mushitarou stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words. He wanted to dismiss the idea outright, to claim he had more important things to do than babysit a dying writer in the countryside.
“You were being serious? T-that’s ridiculous.” Mushitarou said at last. “What possible use would I be to you there?”
Yokomizo shrugged, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Company, mostly. And maybe a little help with brainstorming. You’re good at pointing out plot holes, even if you don’t mean to be.”
Mushitarou groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”
“But you’ll come?”
He sighed heavily, already regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Fine. But only because I know you’ll be hopeless without me.”
Yokomizo beamed, his entire face lighting up with gratitude. “Thanks, Mushi-kun. You do so much for me and I’ll never stop being grateful.”
“Filthy hack.” Mushitarou muttered, reaching for another notebook to sort through. He sifted through the pages of incomprehensible scrawls with the book up at his face.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the packing was mostly complete. Yokomizo had managed to pare down his collection of notes to a somewhat reasonable amount, though it still took two large bags to hold everything. Mushitarou had insisted on handling the heavier load, refusing to let Yokomizo strain himself further despite the latter’s protests.
“You’re not exactly in peak condition,” Mushitarou had pointed out, hoisting one of the bags onto his shoulder. “Let me handle it before you collapse halfway to the car.” Mushitarou wasn’t exactly in peak physical condition either, and he grimaced as his footing became unsteady. He wasn’t exactly weak, but his only daily exercise was strutting through the city and brushing his hair for hours at a time and staring up at the ceiling to hold back what’s on my mind and when they ask me how’s me doing I say I’m just fine and when th
Yokomizo had relented with a sheepish smile, and the two of them set off for the train station in silence. The streets of Yokohama were quieter than usual. Mushitarou found himself matching his pace to Yokomizo’s slower strides.
When they reached the station, Yokomizo’s energy seemed to wane further, and Mushitarou guided him to a bench while he went to purchase their tickets.
The journey itself was uneventful, marked by the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels and the occasional quiet exchange between the two of them. Yokomizo spent most of the ride gazing out the window, his expression unreadable as the cityscape gave way to rolling hills and dense forests. Mushitarou, on the other hand, busied himself with a book he’d brought along, though his attention frequently strayed to his companion. Every now and then his head would snap back to the attention of his book and Yokomizo would pretend not to notice.
By the time they arrived at the inn, the sky had darkened to a deep indigo, scattered with stars that shone brightly against the rural backdrop. The innkeeper greeted them warmly, showing them to a modest but comfortable room with two futons laid out side by side. Mushitarou set their bags down and immediately began unpacking.
Yokomizo, meanwhile, sank onto one of the futons with a tired sigh. “It’s nice here,” he murmured, his voice soft. “Quiet. Peaceful.”
“It’ll do, I guess.” Mushitarou replied. The inn had a certain rustic charm, with wooden beams and shoji screens that exuded a sense of timeless simplicity.
His face soured with disapproval. Mushitarou had never been one for ancient Japanese history or architecture. That much showed in his European-style clothing and bedroom and silverware and whatever else he owned. Yokomizo always favored the old look of rural wooden homes. He said there was something he liked about the way some things were timeless.
“I would give anything to be immortal like that.” He had said once.
Once everything was settled, Mushitarou turned his attention back to Yokomizo, who was curled into the futon with a contented smile. “Are you planning to get any actual work done, or is this just an elaborate vacation?”
“Ah…I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Bastard.”
Chapter 4: Odi et amo
Summary:
Mushitarou hates himself for everything he's agreed to.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Can you believe they don’t have a single decent cafe in this town?” Mushitarou grumbled, slipping his hands into his pockets as they walked. “The food lacked in quality and attempted to make up for it in quantity. The portion sizes out here are repulsive.” He spat with distaste.
“Don’t you have anything positive to say for once?” Yokomizo laughed. “I liked the food.”
“You like anything that looks like rubbish.”
Yokomizo shrugged, unfazed.“I like things that look good on the outside, too.”
It was late by the time they returned to the inn. The cool mountain air had a crisp bite to it and the night sky was filled with glittering stars.
"Rural Japan getting on your nerves?" Yokomizo smiled with his hands nestled in his yukata sleeves.
“Everything here is backwards." Mushitarou said with a huff. He kicked a pebble on the path. "No modern amenities. No cafes selling anything edible. No cars or cell phones. It's like we've time-traveled backward into the feudal era."
“You don’t even like having phone calls. I like phones. I like the kinds with the curly cord on them.”
“What are you, five? I just like modernity of the west. Out here, it’s so mundane and primitive.” Mushitarou frowned, crossing his arms and giving Yokomizo a scathing look. Yokomizo did nothing to notice it, continuing to walk. He kicked the pebble Mushitarou had just kicked earlier. Mushitarou felt a strange annoyance at Yokomizo taking his rock, like it was a soccer match.
"It's timeless." Yokomizo whispered thoughtfully, looking up at the sky. "I'd give anything for that kind of immortality."
“You and your immortality fetish.” Mushitarou scoffed, rolling his eyes. “What’s so good about this place? The silence is creepy, the only source of entertainment is the stars in the sky, and it stinks like nature.”
Yokomizo threw a leaf at Mushitarou and made a face. "Will you not call it a fetish? It sounds gross and you sound like a perv."
“Maybe because you have a fetish.” Mushitarou said, brushing the leaf off his shoulder. “Some people are into legs, or ankles, or even hair. You’re into immortality. It's the same thing.”
"Is that why you're always brushing your hair? .....gross." Yokomizo made a dramatic gagging face, and shoved Mushitarou away like he was diseased.
“My hair is a symbol of my status.” He snapped haughtily, tucking a lock of his hair back into place, stumbling to stand up straight again. “The amount of time and effort I spend on my appearance is an investment to my image. It’s far more logical and respectable than whatever nonsense you spend your time on.”
"I'm not reading that essay." Yokomizo said as he kicked off his shoes to enter the inn. He shoved his feet into thin slippers.
“Tch. You’re not even going to dignify it with a response?” Mushitarou huffed in indignation.
Mushitarou’s dress shoes clicked loudly against the wood as he walked. He didn’t take off his shoes most of the time when he went into a home. He preferred the European lifestyle opposed to the Japanese.
He walked over to his own futon, starting the process of unbuttoning his blazer.
“Just what I expected from a filthy hack like you.” he muttered, discarding the jacket and folding it over the back of a chair. Yokomizo didn’t bother changing and simply laid face-down on his futon.
“Your job makes you more of a pretentious prick than I remember you being back in junior high.” Yokomizo rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow. “What’s your occupation? Being a professional cynic?”
Mushitarou scowled.
“Business median contractor. I’d rather not talk about work.”
“But you’ll listen to me talk about mine, right?” Yokomizo grinned.
“As if.” Mushitarou wrinkled his nose to show his distaste and undid his tie.
He paused when he noticed Yokomizo’s eyes on him as he started unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you staring at?” he asked, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. He self-consciously pulled his shirt closed.
Yokomizo's face flushed and he quickly turned away.
"Nothing. Sorry."
Mushitarou's eyebrows furrowed as he watched Yokomizo turn away. He finished undressing and crawled into his futon, deliberately facing away from the other man.
Mushitarou turned onto his side, facing away again. “Go to sleep.”
“Goodnight, Mushitarou,” Yokomizo whispered, voice oddly gentle.
Mushitarou closed his eyes and pretended not to hear.
How long had it been? Two hours? Three? Why the hell couldn’t Mushitarou fall asleep already?
“You awake?” Yokomizo whispered, voice barely louder than the wind slipping through the cracks in the windows. Fuck. Caught.
“No,” Mushitarou replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Yokomizo snorted quietly. “Can’t sleep?”
“I could if you’d shut up.”
But Yokomizo didn’t shut up. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How quiet it gets out here. No city noise, no traffic, just... nothing.”
Mushitarou sighed, rolling onto his back to glare at the ceiling. “Yes, it’s very weird. Terrifying, even. I’m quaking in my European shoes.”
Yokomizo ignored the jab. “It makes me think,” he said, voice softer, thoughtful. “Like, when we die, do you think it’s like this? Just... quiet?”
Mushitarou turned his head, eyes squinting through the muddy darkness. “Are you always this morbid before bed?”
Yokomizo chuckled, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry. I just... I’ve been thinking a lot about endings lately.”
Mushitarou propped himself up on one elbow, peering at Yokomizo’s silhouette in the dim light. “If you’re going to start spouting poetry about the fleeting nature of life, I’ll suffocate you with my pillow.”
Yokomizo grinned, teeth flashing in the darkness. “Would that make you a murderer or just an overly dedicated friend? I prefer being strangled. It’s much more erotic.”
Mushitarou flopped back down with a groan. “Killing you would make me a man finally free of your insufferable musings.”
They lay in silence again, the tension of their earlier conversation lingering like smoke. Mushitarou hated how easily Yokomizo got under his skin — how the man could dig into topics he had no business touching and act like it was all just part of a game.
But it wasn’t a game. Not really.
"Hey.”
"Mushi-kun?"
“You said it’s immortality you’re after, right?” he asked into the darkness, not expecting the question to turn out the way it did.
Mushitarou hesitated, wrestling with something internal. Finally, he found his words.
“Do you… Really want that?”
He waited for a response, his stomach tight with tension. When the silence dragged on for longer than he could bear, he blurted out. “Forget it. It’s stupid.”
"I don't have forever. I want to make a lasting impact before I go, right?"
“You already have a lasting impact.” Mushitarou said, his face scrunching up in confusion. “Your stories are always in the best-sellers shelves. Every year there’s a new great review on your books. You’re one of the more famous writers of our generation. I doubt a single person on Earth has never heard of Kindaichi’s detective stories.”
"T-that's an exaggeration. My novels are only popular in Japan." His voice cracked with embarrassment under the covers.
He lifted himself slightly off his futon, propping himself up on his elbows. “Why on Earth do you still want to strive to have a lasting impact?”
“An exaggeration?” Mushitarou scoffed in disbelief. “Who cares where you’re popular? You’ve established yourself as one of the greatest writers in modern Japanese literature.”
Yokomizo slowly got up. He coughed silently into his fist and crawled out of bed.
"Come with me." He whispered.
He whispered back, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the other guests in the inn.
The sudden seriousness in Yokomizo’s tone was jarring, and Mushitarou found himself getting up at his friend’s request. “Where are we going?” Mushitarou stared at Yokomizo, confusion written all over his face. “What?”
Yokomizo walked ahead with his hand open behind him, beckoning Mushitarou to hold. Mushitarou made no move to hold his hand and eventually Yokomizo’s arm drifted back to his side. He pulled out two chairs at a small, round, coffee table by the window.
"I hate having regrets. That's why I've always done whatever I've wanted."
Yokomizo hid his face behind a small children's doll. The faint moonlight illuminated a pale stripe across the room, lighting up a section of the doll’s face.
Mushitarou leaned against the window, watching him in silence for a beat before finally responding.
“Why now?” He took a moment to consider his words before speaking again. “Why are you telling me this?”
"For now...I'm happy with the life I've led." Yokomizo set the doll down and put a tentative hand to his stomach. "But now, at this point...I'm working on a time limit of sorts."
“Is...is your stomach really that bad?”
Mushitarou watched as Yokomizo traced the outline of his stomach. His eyes flicked up to find that the author’s gaze had darkened, his expression suddenly distant.
"It's a kind of bowel cancer. They gave me a year tops." Yokomizo said with a weak smile.
“Tch...” Mushitarou grimaced, his shoulders slumping. He averted his gaze. “Damn it...Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could’ve- we could have done something…”
He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly aware of how useless he was. He couldn’t do anything to help his friend. He was completely powerless. What the hell was he going to do? Tell the cancer to go away?
"Before the time comes, I'm going to complete the ultimate mystery." Yokomizo looked up with a little more seriousness in his expression. "Everything's already in place... except the single most important key."
Mushitarou arched an eyebrow. “What key?"
"The killer...of course." Yokomizo leaned forward. "If this put-on gets revealed midway, it'll all be for naught. I need a real life murderer. One who has...an existing motive to kill." Yokomizo’s chestnut eyes glittered with the stars. Small, dim, bright, and soon to burn out. Mushitarou once heard that light from stars can travel even after they died. Maybe Yokomizo had already burnt out. Maybe he already believed he was dead.
"Mushi-kun..." Yokomizo set his hands on Mushitarou's gently but firmly clasping them. "I'd like to make a request from you."
Mushitarou was silent, digesting what he had been told. He could see the desperation in Yokomizo’s eyes, the sheer stubbornness.
“What do you need me to do?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"You're already agreeing?" Yokomizo laughed gently into his fist before coughing.
Mushitarou met Yokomizo’s gaze, his own expression blank.
“Of course.”
Yokomizo’s lips tugged with melancholy amusement into a weary smile. His grasp on Mushitaoru's hands softened.
"I want you to kill me."
Mushitarou felt like his body just fell through the floor.
”What…?” He forced out, his throat closing in on itself.
“I won’t be here forever. I just…I want to make something perfect. A mystery that transcends reality. I want to make something more than art.”
“No. No, you don’t mean that. You want…” His voice broke. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re asking me to kill you?”
“You can have the manuscripts! All of them. You can sell them.”
“I don’t want the manuscripts, you asshole! I want… You can’t be asking me to do this.”
“I’m sorry, I…”
“Stop with the apologizing! Did you ever think about how this would affect me? My only friend since school dead by my hands? You’ve known me for this long. You should know I’m not going to agree to your repulsive little scheme.”
“Please, I know it’s a lot to ask, and this will be the only chance I have to make something worth remembering. I want people to remember me. I can’t die a nobody. I’m not famous or popular, or liked, or…or any of that.”
Oh.
Oh.
That was how it was.
“…So I wasn’t enough, was I?”
Yokomizo’s mouth hung open a little.“I never said that, I…”
“I hate you, you filthy bastard. I hate you so fucking much.”
Yokomizo’s expression was unreadable and gentle. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” Mushitarou snapped, looking away. “Apologizing now doesn’t change how disgusting you’ve been, you pathetic rat. You make me ashamed to be your friend.”
"Mushi-kun. Tell me yes." He whispered, his voice cracked softly. “You’re my best and only friend.” Yokomizo's hands reached out to touch Mushitarou desperately, his stiff fingers splayed for Mushitarou’s to lace between. It was late at night when Mushitarou got emotional. It was late at night when Mushitarou had irrational thoughts about doing things he shouldn’t and hurting people and maybe himself and maybe doing something stupid and he would talk to himself just to get his mind off things. Mushitarou wished he was alone. He wanted to talk to himself. Anybody but Yokomizo. This was normal, right? Everyone got a little loopy later at night.
Mushitarou paused, looking at Yokomizo’s hunched form.
“No.”
Mushitarou got up, pacing back and forth across the hall. He clenched his hands into fists. “Damn it, no. What am I supposed to do without you?”
"Please." He said a final time. "Please, Mushi-kun." He managed gently, his droopy amber eyes distorted with tears and his thick eyelashes holding droplets of salty water that threatened to roll down his flushed face. He took a deep and unsteady breath. Yokomizo's hands slipped from the table and clenched at his sides. "I'll die anyway. This way, you can forget about me. Just do this for me."
“This isn’t-“ He trailed off, his voice raw with frustration. “Damn it, you stupid asshole.” He broke off, unable to hold back his contempt. He grabbed the front of Yokomizo’s shirt and clasped the fabric in his fists.
“You… you bastard. This isn’t fair. You can’t just expect me to-“
He didn’t finish. He knew it was futile. His head bowed down and rested into Yokomizo’s collarbone. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry.
“Yes.” He whispered, unable to resist any longer. For Yokomizo, he would do anything. "Of course." He hated himself as he said it. God, how he hated himself. He hated himself for agreeing to Yokomizo. He pressed his face further into Yokomizo’s neck like he wanted to fall into his skin and disappear in his body. He wanted to decay into nothing. At least then he would be with Yokomizo. Mushitarou looked up to face his friend.
"I knew I could count on you. You truly are...my only friend." Yokomizo whispered, pressing his forehead against Mushitarou's. Their noses brushed against each other and their breaths soft on each others’ lips. Mushitarou wanted to hug him. He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to bite him. He wanted to kill him.
Yokomizo. Yokomizo. Yokomizo. Fuck you, you bastard. Fuck you.
How could he ask him something like that? Mushitarou wanted to kill him and kiss him and eat him and never let him leave and then maybe kill himself while he was at it. He hated himself.
God, how he hated himself.
Notes:
leave a comment if you think this fic is cool at all. it would be neat. or if theres mistakes. i dont have betas
Chapter 5: The Perfect Murder
Summary:
"Ha ha ha! The sheer depth of the genre is one of its attractions."
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The next morning, Mushitarou woke up to find his bed empty of Yokomizo again. Mushitarou blinked, his sleep-fogged brain trying to catch up. He stumbled out of his bedroom, still half-asleep, his hair a mess. When he got dressed, he found Yokomizo already sitting in the living room of the inn, scribbling away. He rubbed a hand over his face, his expression drowsy. He squinted at Yokomizo, taking in his focused gaze.
“You’re already working?” Mushitarou frowned, running his hand through his hair to make sure every strand was in place.
”Mm." Yokomizo said wordlessly, not looking up as he typed away.
"Hey." Mushitarou leaned against the front of the sliding door with a bored scowl. "Pick one. Death by stabbing, poison, strangulation, or physical violence? Which do you prefer?"
Yokomizo remained hunched over his desk, his foot bouncing with nervous energy. "Hmm. Probably death by stabbing. Poison requires knowledge of chemistry, and it isn't fair to the readers." Yokomizo muttered, pushing a stack of paper away and scribbling on his sheets.
Mushitarou narrowed his eyes with annoyance. "I'm not talking about your new novel, you despicable hack. I'm talking about how I should kill you."
Yokomizo looked up with a grin. "Oh, come on now, stop. But seriously, give me some new murder ideas. I'm not going to make my deadline this month."
Mushitarou shrugged with a sneer. "Here we go again, huh? Mystery novels are just insider games that are bound by external rules imposed by the author. Dying messages, various gimmicks, enclosed spaces. They're completely detached from reality. You want puzzles, go solve a math equation or something."
Yokomizo laughed softly to himself. "Your distaste for mystery novels hasn't changed since back when we were in school together."
“Yeah, thanks to you!"
Mushitarou stood still for a moment, thinking.
“How about this? A real-life detective and a fictional detective end up swapping places...and the real one has to deal with the twisted logic of fiction while the fictional gumshoe is lost in the absurdity of reality. avant-garde, no? it's the best way to put an end to the entire mystery gen-"
“Too bad. That sub-genre already exists. It's called ‘meta-mystery.’” Yokomizo smirked with a gentle laugh.
Mushitarou paused.
"......oh."
He quickly regained his confidence and spat out another idea as quickly as he could to impress Yokomizo.
"Then try this on for size- a detective takes on a killer, but the killer winds up murdering someone with a magic spell...and the detective has to use magic to solve the crime. Tell me that isn't a novel approach to mystery solving, it'll become a sensational work that'll make all other mysteries into a thing of the pa-!"
"Oh yeah, that exists too. It's called ‘anti-mystery.’" Yokomizo smiled.
Mushitarou froze for a while with disappointment again before flinging Yokomizo's papers into the air in a frustrated tantrum. "AAARGH! You venomous, insectile mystery maniacs!" He shouted to nobody in particular.
"Ha ha ha! The sheer depth of the genre is one of its attractions." Yokomizo laughed hard at Mushitarou's outburst, hugging his sides as he cracked up.
"You-" The only thing preventing Mushitarou from strangling Yokomizo to death on the spot was the realization that it would deprive him of the chance to come up with more stupid ideas. "Stop laughing! It's your fault this genre is so oversaturated!"
Yokomizo's gentle grin face slid into a slight empty stare, his mouth falling.
"...But I kind of get what you're saying. No matter how innovative the novel you try to craft, before you know it, you're shunted into a corner of the genre." Yokomizo set down his pen with a soft plink. "The 'Ultimate Mystery' could never exist." He whispered.
Mushitarou's eyes widened slightly at the sudden seriousness in Yokomizo's voice. He could hear the resignation, the quiet sense of defeat in his friend's tone. He paused, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He held a hesitant hand out, not really sure what for. Maybe to pat his shoulder or bring him in for a hug or brush his stupid, messy hair behind his ear. Yokomizo sat up suddenly, and Mushitarou quickly retracted his hand and looked away.
"Hahaha!" Yokomizo burst out sheepishly. "Ah, look at me~! I got a little too excited over our first literary discussion in a while. I'm starting to spout nonsense." He covered his red face with his yukata sleeve.
It wasn’t that funny. Stop laughing like an idiot. Mushitarou wasn't amused by Yokomizo's attempts to brush off his words. He stared at his friend for a while, watching in silence as the author tried to regain his composure.
"Hey." He said firmly, his voice soft but stern. "That wasn't nonsense… it was what you really felt, wasn't it?"
Yokomizo’s eyes glazed over and he stared straight ahead, like he was staring through the wall into outer space. He scratched the back of his neck, his droopy sleeves conveniently covering his expression.
"Nah. Anyway, it's been a long time since I've gotten to talk shop with you, and I guess I couldn't help but spill the beans."
Mushitarou studied Yokomizo with a frown. He could hear the fake cheeriness, the weak attempt to change the subject. Here Yokomizo was, on his final days, finally talking to Mushitarou about something that actually mattered.
But damn. He never was strong enough to call him out for it, was he? Mushitarou was so weak.
"You always change the subject before a debate is over. No wonder you've never had any real friends. Not even way back at school." He scoffed.
"You're one to talk when you don't even have any real friends either." He shot back with a grin.
"Maybe I really should kill you..." He sputtered and attempted to cover his slightly pink face with one hand.
Yokomizo clapped his hands together in delight. "You will? I knew I could count on a great guy like you~!"
Mushitarou's face grew redder as Yokomizo giggled. "...Stop that. You're not supposed to like it when I threaten to murder you."
Yokomizo shrugged and laid down on his back on the zabuton, stretching. "Hm."
"You really are too carefree." He muttered, watching Yokomizo lie on the zabuton. "It’s easier to be carefree when you’re out in an open space and not throwing up blood."
"You throw up blood?!"
Yokomizo narrowed his eyes like he was trying to remember what he just said.
“Uh…no? I’m not doing it now, right?”
God, if he could stop being so unserious for one second. “I…” Mushitarou’s words failed him for a second before he spoke again, more softly this time. “Fuck you.” Yokomizo glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow at his swear.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were so upset about the fact I’m not vomiting right now.”
Mushitarou scowled. “Not that. It’s just the fact you didn’t tell me. And you still think you have the right act like everything’s fine. You’re the only author in the world who would devote everything to his stupid books even while it’s killing you.” Mushitarou brought his knees to his chin, trying to find a way to be sincere without sounding like a sentimental idiot.
“I meant it as a compliment. You act like you still have some fight in you. Even if…Even if you’re dying, even if you’re too skinny like a paper doll, even if you’re tired all the time.” Mushitarou crossed his legs and tapped his foot with embarrassment. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Yokomizo really knew how to piss him off without even doing anything. “…You haven’t given up yet. No matter what kind of bullshit you put yourself through, you’re still here, writing novels.”
Yokomizo tilted his head over to stare at Mushitarou, his sleepy eyes looking up at him through his eyelashes.
"I want to spend my final moments with things I love, right?"
Mushitarou rolled his eyes and scoffed, but his face burned. “S-stop being so melodramatic… just say you love me instead of acting all philosophical.” His foot tapped faster, unsure of where to vent his nervousness.
“Aw, was I being that obvious? I thought my hint of 'things I love' on the topic of writing mysteries was pretty slick." Yokomizo grinned, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Oh, be quiet.” Mushitarou looked down, his face still flushed a rosy pink.
He was quiet for a moment longer, before he cleared his throat to break the silence and mumbled sheepishly. “…I-I know you meant me and your mystery novels.”
"Wow. Figure that out all on your own, did you?"
“I preferred it when you changed the subjects away from the sincere and sappy talk." Mushitarou snapped back. He glanced at Yokomizo sprawled out on the floor. “How are you even comfortable like that anyway?”
Yokomizo smiled silently and patted the side of the mattress next to him.
Mushitarou watched Yokomizo for a moment, frozen at the silent gesture. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, stiff and silent.
Yokomizo gave Mushitarou a friendly headbutt before turning to the other side and curling up into a tight ball.
“I’m kinda thirsty.” Yokomizo said to himself.
Mushitarou fell back, a little surprised by the unexpected headbutt. He felt the bed shift as Yokomizo snuggled closer. A moment later, a hand grabbed his. He froze again, feeling Yokomizo’s bony fingers intertwine with his.
"This way I know you won't leave me."
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” He muttered back, shifting his hand so that he could thread his fingers through Yokomizo’s hand, holding it tightly.
There were no calls from Dostoyevsky the next morning. Yokomizo was rolled into a tight fetal position, his fingers resting weakly on Mushitarou's without the conscious effort of clinging to them now that he was asleep. His other hand was clenched to his chest, holding something small and glassy.
Mushitarou didn’t move when he woke up. The light-headed feeling of a peaceful sleep had gone by the time the sun rose. He watched Yokomizo’s sleeping face for a long while. The author’s face was relaxed in rest, his amber eyelashes closed, the shadows underneath them dark and heavy. His hair draped over his features in messy strands. So much for the brushing the other day.
Yokomizo stirred in his sleep, groaning as he began to sit up and rub his eyes. “I've gotta... start writing." He yawned, the first thing he said.
“You need to sleep, hack.”
He laid his hand on top of Yokomizo’s forehead. “You have a fever. Rest.”
Yokomizo stared up at Mushitarou with a dull look in his eyes.
"I need to write. I have to finish this novel."
“Hold up."
Mushitarou reached out and grabbed Yokomizo by the shoulder and firmly pushed him back down onto the mattress.
“…You’re literally dying. You need to rest first and foremost. You’re not some robot who doesn’t need rest.”
"Fine." Yokomizo slapped Mushitarou's hand off. "Don't touch me." He mumbled before rolling back under the covers.
Mushitarou sat in place, watching Yokomizo roll over and bury himself in the blankets. Annoyance bubbled in his chest, but he swallowed it down. It wasn’t the first time Yokomizo has been stubborn, and it won’t be the last.
“….Hmph.”
Yokomizo stirred up a few minutes later and crawled groggily to his desk.
Mushitarou was still watching like a hawk tuah spit on that thing as Yokomizo dragged his body to his desk. “…Just what do you think you’re doing?”
"Book. gunna write."
“Oh, no you’re not.” Mushitarou grabbed the author by the collar of his yukata and dragged him back to the bed.
“You’re going to rest. You’re not doing a damn thing except sleep and rest for today.”
"I already did!" Yokomizo struggled like a kitten being dragged by the scruff of his neck across the slick wooden inn floor. "Leggo. I'm not tired!"
Mushitarou forced Yokomizo onto the bed, and laid him flat on his back. He shoved Yokomizo’s shoulders to the ground, looming over him.
“Damn right you are. You’re tired, and you’re sick, and you’re dying. Stop trying to make yourself more exhausted than you already are just to finish your damn novel!”
"Let me go." Yokomizo squirmed around lazily. "I hate you. I hate you." He muttered, and he started to cry. "You're so mean to me, Mushi-kun. I wish you died." He weeped and crawled further under the covers.
Mushitarou watched with a grimace as the author sobbed under the sheets. A small glass bottle rolled out of the covers. "Nooooo, my sake..." Yokomizo whined as he sobbed, reaching for the bottle.
Mushitarou leaned over and snatched the bottle away from Yokomizo, holding it out of reach from the author. He was pissed that Yokomizo was drinking without him realizing, but that was another lecture he’d have later. He wasn’t a stranger to Yokomizo’s tears, but they only reminded him of the fact that his friend really was dying.
“I’m not letting you drink with a fever.”
"It's a disinfectant. It'll cure me." Yokomizo said under his breath and sniffed theatrically.
Mushitarou set the bottle down on the table.
“Nice try, genius. I’m not so stupid that I’d fall for your ‘I need alcohol to live’ lie. You just like being a drunkard.”
“Alcohol is good for you." Yokomizo muttered under the covers and continued to weep. "I hate you."
“You keep saying that, but I doubt you really mean it.”
Mushitarou laid down next to him on the bed. He prodded the sniveling lump of sheets with his finger.
“We both know you don’t hate me that much. I bet you’re glad I’m here, whether you admit it or not.”
Yokomizo said nothing. He was silent for a long time. Eventually, his crying subsided and his breaths became slow until it was evident he had fallen back asleep.
The damn author was so peaceful and defenseless when he slept.
A small sigh of relief escaped Mushitarou’s lips. He reached over and brushed the tangled hair away from Yokomizo’s sleeping face. It was getting bad. The sickness and the stress of it all was wearing him out every day, both physically and mentally, and there was no mistaking that.
He was reading a book from inn shelves, but he wasn’t really paying attention to the words. His mind kept circling back to Yokomizo’s condition. The sun was setting outside, and Mushitarou was watching over Yokomizo the entire time.
“Mnh.” Yokomizo eventually got back up, stretching. "Okay, I've slept all day. Time for work." Yokomizo turned to Mushitarou like he was waiting for permission to head to his desk. Mushitarou set his book down and gave Yokomizo a stern look.
“You really think I’m going to let you work again? Seriously? You need to rest, even if it’s just for today.”
"I slept all day! I've gotten nothing done, and I'm lying here doing nothing. You're not my housewife, I can do what I want." Yokomizo said, his frustration growing.
Mushitarou was getting annoyed too. Yokomizo was so damn stubborn and pushy as always.
“And I’m not letting you overwork yourself to death, idiot!”
"I'm going to die anyway, so I might as well use my last moments to make something worth remembering me for." Yokomizo spat, standing up and plopping himself down at his desk with a slight snarl.
It was that statement that stopped Mushitarou from arguing. He clenched his fist, but he didn’t argue anymore.
He was going to die anyway. Of course he would say that. Of course we would try and get Mushitarou to pity him, again and again. He fell for it every damn time.
“Of course.”
"If you're going to act like a housewife, go get something for us to eat. I haven't had anything all day." Yokomizo dipped his pen into a well of ink and started writing. "Since you made me sleep all day." He added under his breath.
“…You want anything specific?”
No response. Mushitarou sat there, almost staring at Yokomizo in disbelief for a moment. Yokomizo said nothing as he kept writing.
He closed his eyes, counted ten, and exhaled. “Damn you and your silent treatment.” Mushitarou muttered before getting up. He let out a sigh and put his jacket on.
“Drives me insane.” He scoffed to himself. “I’ll be back. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
"Mm."
That was a no, then.
He stepped into the restaurant down the hall of the inn for a while. The smell of spices and cooked meats hung in the air, along with the sound of sizzling food as he walked towards the front counter, placing his order and watching the cook work. Soup is good for sick people, right? Or was it too salty? Would it make his stomach worse? Shit. He had no idea. Mushitarou picked up two bowls of soup and handed over a few dozen yen. At least the food here was cheap.
…He would put the expenses on Dostoyevsky’s business account.
Mushitarou returned to the room while carrying two cups of miyabi in his hands.
“I swear you’d die of starvation if I didn’t force you to eat something…”
“Not true. I eat with my family on New Year’s Day. Sometimes.”
He closed the door behind him with his foot and walked over to the desk where the author was writing his novel furiously.
“Just say thank you.”
"Thanks, darling." He said, not looking up from his work.
“Don’t ‘darling’ me.”
Mushitarou leaned over, peering over at the novel Yokomizo was writing and trying to make out the words. His handwriting was so neat and pretty.
“Any progress?”
"Definitely. Katsuko... when she dies, it's going to… yeah. And it turns out the lover isn’t the man with the three fingers." He grinned to himself, tapping his foot.
Mushitarou stared at Yokomizo, trying to comprehend the plot of the novel he just rambled off. He was so lost, but whatever. It’s not like it mattered if he understood the plot or not. At least Yokomizo was being his normal insufferable self again.
“…right. Good for her, I guess.” He shrugged before holding out one of the ramen cups. “But eat this first.”
His lips parted. "Ahh." He said, not bothering to look up.
He stared at Yokomizo for a moment in disbelief, wondering if the author was actually expecting him to feed him.
“Yokomizo. I’m not spoon-feeding you. You’re a grown ass man, feed yourself.”
Yokomizo dipped his head to the bowl and sipped the rim. "I want sum kijoshu."
Mushitarou was starting to regret that Yokomizo was back to his normal insufferable self again.
“Of course you do. But you’re under the weather, so no alcohol.” He looked at Yokomizo skeptically. “I didn’t even bring any sake with me, so don’t even ask. You finished your other bottle and I’m not getting you any more.”
Yokomizo turned to Mushitarou, his eyes studied Mushitarou for a moment with an intelligent and sharp look to them. "I'm sorry for getting mad at you." He said firmly.
Mushitarou was surprised to hear those words coming out of the author’s mouth. It was unusual for Yokomizo to apologize for anything, much less when he was upset.
He could count the number of times Yokomizo had apologized on one hand. The stubborn bastard.
He stared back at Yokomizo for a moment before he averted his gaze to the side. “I— It’s fine. Just… don’t do it again, okay?”
"You're the best, Mushi-kun~!" Yokomizo clapped his hands together with delight. "After dinner, we can celebrate our renewed friendship over some drinks."
“Fuck no!”
Notes:
Mushitarou schizoposting in r/darkhumor am I the asshole for killing my wife and then myself
Chapter 6: Himeros
Summary:
im running out of ideas okay man i just found out today that most fanfiction authors have drafts and plot diagrams for their stories. i just write whatever. im sos sorry spadilles my faithful 1 mushimizo fan but i think im falling off
Chapter Text
“Fucking Christ!” Mushitarou shrieked, jumping back.
“Morning, Mushi-kun!” Yokomizo beamed. It was nearly 6 in the morning. The two had barely gotten enough sleep. Yokomizo had been writing the entire night, and Mushitarou had been…god knows why he stayed up. He just watched the damn author write. What a waste of time. Mushitarou woke up to find his friend’s futon empty (again) and figured this was becoming a regular occurrence. He had gone into the bathroom to wash his face before getting ready to find Yokomizo already there.
“There-there’s, um-” Mushitarou choked at the sight of a smeared, deep ruby liquid dribbling down Yokomizo’s face and mouth. Jesus, he looked really gross. Mushitarou really wished Yokomizo had a less gross disease. No, no. This wasn’t so bad. Some people have wives with leprosy and have skin rotting off, or whatever. He forced himself to swallow his sickness. “You’ve got some blood on you.”
Yokomizo touched a theatrically naïve finger to his lips and looked at his hands, now dipped bright red.
”I’m… experimenting with my femininity via makeup.”
“what”
”Well, being mistaken for a girl back when, uh, back when I used to go out made me start thinking about the effects of, um, androgyny in society, and in my newest novel, I was, uh-”
“Quit your bullshit. How long have you been vomiting blood?”
Yokomizo pursed his lips.
“Like, total? Or since this morning?”
God, he was unbearable.
Mushitarou was never going to win this argument. It wasn’t like he was going to fight with him on this anyway. Mushitarou grabbed a hand towel and began wiping Yokomizo’s face. He shirked away like the towel was made of acid.
“God. You’re really not fooling anyone. I can’t believe you.”
Yokomizo didn’t look apologetic in the slightest, but let Mushitarou dab his face for a moment.
“You don’t have to keep acting like I’m some kinda guy who can’t do anything myself.” Yokomizo grumbled, pushing Mushitarou’s hand away.
”You’re not doing well. At least let me-“
“Can I get a cigarette?” Yokomizo interrupted. He grabbed the towel and dragged it across his face, leaving a thick streak of blood like a paintbrush on the fabric. He tossed the rag to the side. “I want a cigarette.” He said again, more promptly. He strode out of the bathroom.
”You’re going to kill yourself faster.” Mushitarou followed him, storming after him.
“I don’t have anything else to do.”
“You could write.”
“Haven’t you always been talking about how I should be relaxing instead of writing?”
“Well…yeah, but…” Mushitarou was at a loss for words.
He knew that if he told Yokomizo to just lay down and rest, the moron would just stay up all night anyways. He really should stop being on Yokomizo’s ass all the time. It was stressing the both of them out and not helping Yokomizo get any better. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Fine. One cigarette. That’s it. You’re not lighting a whole damn pack.”
Yokomizo grinned and pulled a box out of one of his bags.
”Want one?”
Mushitarou’s face wrinkled slightly.
“I’m trying to quit.”
“Y’know, there’s been a study that says that people who say they’re trying to quit versus people who say that they’re not smokers is actually-“
“Shut up.” Mushitarou held his hand out. Yokomizo grinned, a little pleased with himself at his successful peer pressuring. He held the carton over Mushitarou’s and tapped out a thin stick into his fingers.
“Light?”
Yokomizo brought a small container of matches from inside his yukata.
“Do you just carry those around with you? You really have a smoking problem.”
“Hush.” Yokomizo scratched the match to the side of the box and produced a small, flickering light. He brought the flame to his cigarette and waved his hand; the match disappeared into a ribbon of smoke.
Mushitarou did a double-take at his own hand and held it out impatiently. Yokomizo looked at the cigarette in Mushitarou’s hands as if he had never seen one before. He pointed out his lit cigarette, the charred tip facing Mushitarou like he was going to cast a spell with it.
“You couldn’t spare to use your pre-lit match?” Mushitarou grimaced but let their cigarettes press together until his own began to gray with heat.
“Look, it looks like our cigarettes are kissing.”
Mushitarou stifled a small smile. Stupid. He brought the orange end to his mouth and took a small drag. Yeah, it was bad for him. But part of him missed the feeling of his lungs filling up with poison. Yokomizo breathed his smoke directly into Mushitarou’s face.
“Would you quit being such a pest?!” Mushitarou burst, flailing his arms to wave off the smog.
Yokomizo surprisingly didn’t answer and curled his legs to his chest.
He was used to Yokomizo being a bit of a pain, but not to the point where he was actively trying to be an ass. Mushitarou slowly ceased waving and let his eyes fall on his friend.
“You’re being annoying.” He said bluntly, crossing his arms. Yokomizo’s pestering tended to be harmless, but something was bothering him. Mushitarou could tell. Ugh, did he really want to talk about the gushy, sappy shit with Yokomizo again? Mushitarou was so bad at feelings.
“More so than usual. You’ve got something on your mind.” Yokomizo’s lips tugged up despite trying to be serious.
“Me being annoying is an indicator of me being sad?”
”No. You’re always annoying. But something is different.”
“I…I wish we weren’t friends.” Yokomizo admitted with a bitter sigh.
Ouch. Okay.
”Is there a reason for you saying this, or are you just trying to make me start some self-loathing?”
“Oh, haha,” Yokomizo wrung his hands sheepishly, trying to form more sentimental words. “It’s just that…I sort of wish we hated each other. I don’t want you to miss me.”
“I’m not going to miss you that much.” Mushitarou interrupted defensively.
“Ha. Liar. But what I’m trying to say is- like, if you killed me like you hated me, it would be easier for the both of us. Part of me fantasizes that after you kill me, I’m out of your life forever. I really…I don’t want to be a bother.”
”I do hate you, you hack!” Mushitarou slammed his fist on the table next to him. Yokomizo jumped with wide eyes.
“I hate your damn stubbornness and your stupid smoking and your idiotic drinking habits. I hate that you never eat, I hate that you don’t take care of yourself, I hate you leaving at night to god knows where and coming back wasted. I hate that you never listen and do things for yourself-” Mushitarou took a long, deep breath and continued his rant. Yokomizo sat with the cigarette crumbling in his hand with a rather dumbfounded expression.
”You piss me off more than anyone else in the damn world! You smoke nearly 50 cigarettes a day! You’re a shut-in and unsocial, but you’re always so sweet and kind to your fans it makes me sick. You’re a damn bother, you’re messy, you’re annoying, you’re insufferable!” Mushitarou exploded, throwing his hands in the ai as his pent-up frustration boiled to the surface. He struck a finger into Yokomizo’s chest and jabbed at him angrily. “I hate being your friend! And I hate that you’re my friend! I hate how much you mean to me, and I hate how much I care about you!”
Mushitarou breathed out. Once. Twice.
His angry rant ended and he stood there, panting with his shoulders rising and falling with every exhaled breath. His face was hot. God, he felt like a mess. His chest felt heavy. With the adrenaline rush wearing off, he suddenly felt a bit embarrassed and looked away. He suddenly felt vulnerable for a moment, but he pushed away the feeling. He didn’t want to look any more pathetic than he did already.
“…I hate how worried I was these past few weeks, just because you haven’t been doing so well.”
Yokomizo looked at his lap with a guilty look. It wasn’t like the cancer was his fault. Mushitarou took deep breaths to collect his emotions. He stared at Yokomizo with an intense, piercing gaze.
“And I hate how scared of losing you I am, because I…I…”
Mushitarou swallowed his words. He couldn’t say anything he’d regret. Keep your stupid shit in your mouth and don’t say anything. Don’t say anything.
“I can’t…”
The words caught in his throat in a thick lump.
“I can’t lose you. Damn it, you piece of shit, you don’t get to leave me, you don’t get to leave me, I swear-”
He clenched his fist so hard his knuckles turned white.
“I couldn’t stand waking up and not seeing your stupid face.”
He swallowed hard and ran a frustrated hand through his hair before continuing.
“I hate you for making me care. I hate that you’re all I can think about.”
Mushitarou let out an uneven breath.
Say something. Say something. This was so fucking embarrassing. Yokomizo watched with an inscrutable expression throughout his entire rant. Yokomizo looked at him for a while and then tapped out his cigarette ash on the floor beside him. He put it down and bowed into himself, his face into his lap as he curled down quietly, without noise.
Mushitarou inched forward and sat slowly next to Yokomizo. He wasn’t sure what to do. What was he supposed to do? Hugs were out of the question. Comforting words were out of the question. He hated mushy, sentimental things. He wasn’t going to-
He tentatively reached out a hand, and lightly patted the top of Yokomizo’s head.
God, he hated this.
This sort of tender affection was awkward and new. He didn’t know what to do, and he felt exposed. He hated feeling this vulnerable, but he hated losing Yokomizo more than he hated feeling vulnerable. He hated that he cared so much about this damn idiot.
Yokmizo unfurled ever so slightly, and crawled weakly over to Mushitarou.
"It would be easier for us to go through with my murder if you hated me." He whispered softly.Mushitarou stayed still as Yokomizo leaned towards him. He stiffened, but allowed the author to lean heavily against his side.
“…I don’t want things to be easier.” Mushitarou exhaled.
“I wish things turned out differently, Mushi-kun. I wish things were different, and I-i, wish I didn't have to die." Yokomizo turned his head into Mushitarou's shoulders and weakly draped his hand onto Mushitarou's suit shirt, clinging for dear life. “I don't want to die. I don't want to die, Mushi-kun. I don't want to die.”
Hot blobs of salty tears spilled from his eyes. Those eyes that were always so gentle and tired looking and shone like the sun were dripping with sadness and hurt.
“Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry.” Mushitarou tried to sound comforting, but his words came out choked. He tried to speak more firmly, but he was cut off as a quiet sob from Yokomizo’s mouth against his shoulder sent a wave of hurt through him.
He slowly wrapped his arms around Yokomizo, and pulled him closer. Why did Yokomizo have to be like this? Why was he such an emotional piece of shit? Why did Mushitarou love him so much?
“Don’t cry, damn it. Don’t cry. Please…”
Yokomizo fell apart into his arms immediately.
"I don't want to die, Mushi-kun. I-i can't die! I don't want to!" He gasped, coughing on his words and choking on his tears. "I want to live. I wanna live, I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die!" His fumbling hands grasped at Mushitarou's collar tightly, as if he was going to slip away. "I don't want to die! Please, please, I don't wanna die!" He sobbed to himself, his voice growing to a scream with hysteria. "Don't let me die! D-don't leave me, I don't-!"
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
Mushitarou could hardly speak. His voice was shaking, and tears stung at his eyes as his chest grew so tight he wondered if he was going to have a heart attack. What the fuck was he going to say? ‘Don’t worry, you’re not going to die.’ All he could do was tell Yokomizo to stop screaming. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Mushitarou wished he would stop talking already,
He tightened his arms around Yokomizo, holding the other man tightly and burying his face into his brown messy hair. “Shut up, shut up—“ Mushitarou pleaded, wrapping his arms tight around the distraught author.
His heart felt like it was going to tear to shreds. His stomach felt like a writhing snake was twisting around his insides, making him feel nauseous. He couldn’t stand to hear Yokomizo in such a state. It was horrifying.
Yokomizo choked on his own sobs, his grip around his friend giving out as he fell pathetically into Mushitarou’s lap. He sat curled up like a weak animal, clawing at his face like he could scratch the tears from his eyes.
“…No, no.” Mushiararou clutched onto him again, trying to keep him from collapsing any further. He lowered the two of them to the floor, sitting with his legs tucked tightly to his chest and holding the weeping author close against him.
Yokomizo’s tearful face was buried into his shoulder, tears staining the red fabric. The sobs came out of his mouth in thick waves. He looked so weak and fragile.
“Tell me you’ll never leave me, Mushi-kun.”
“…I won’t ever leave your side.” He said, his voice cracking. “I won’t ever leave you.”
"Nnh- Mushi-kun..." Yokomizo whimpered slowly and shakily, trying to steady his breathing. His crying slowed gradually as he leaned into Mushitarou's chest. "You make me feel so good, Mushi-kun. You're so nice to me..."
“Don’t say that to me.” Mushitarou replied, his own voice strained and quivering. He wrapped his arms tighter around the other man, as if trying to shield him from the world. “Shut the hell up.”
He took a deep, shaky inhale and pressed his nose into the crook of Yokomizo’s neck.
"Sorry. I'm rambling..." Yokomizo twitched slightly and squeezed his eyes shut. "You're just so good to me, and I don't know why."
“You’re always doing something that pisses me off.” Mushitarou grumbled in an attempt to keep up his usual attitude, despite the fact that he now held the author close against him like a drowning man would cling to a life boat.
“But I guess…I like being here for you.” Mushitrou’s voice was low and weary as he admitted it to himself out loud.
“You like that I'm needy and dying. You like having power over someone. You like having someone who depends on you like I do." Yokomizo whispered. Leave it to Yokomizo to ruin a moment with his scrutinizing observation. The worst part was, he was right.
“No. No, no. Shut up. I don’t.”
Mushitarou hated how accurately he hit the mark. That was a part of it. Seeing Yokomizo this vulnerable and in need of him was satisfying. Like a cat who had caught and kept a weak bird. He had never seen Yokomizo so desperately reliant on someone before. It was almost intoxicating. How many more fucking times could Mushitarou say ‘shut up?’ He was starting to sound like a broken record.
“I hate it.”
Mushitarou fell silent, because he really couldn’t deny it. He did enjoy it. In an odd way, he enjoyed having power. He liked being in control of someone. He liked how vulnerable Yokomizo was because of his sickness.
"You want me to stay alive for you. You like that I need you. You're attracted to the broken mess of a man that I am, and it's something you finally have in the palm of your hand to own." Yokomizo leaned back with a weak smile. Insufferable. He’s so insufferable. Mushitarou wanted to punch him as hard as he could.
The words pierced him with an uncomfortable sense of guilt and shame.
There was a part of him that liked seeing Yokomizo so weak.
There was a part of him, deep down, that wanted to keep him like this. Vulnerable and desperate, needing him to keep going, depending on his comfort and company to live.
He couldn’t deny it.
“I hate that part of me.”
"But it's there. And we both know it's there. And we both know I like having you fawn over me so desperately. And we both know you like having someone so weak to own." Yokomizo leaned back onto his forearms, looking up at Mushitarou.
"It's a win-win."
“…I’m not…” Mushitarou started, but found his voice trailing off.
It was true. He would miss the dependency and the reliance. He would miss how Yokomizo hung on his every word, craved his comfort and attention.
He would miss how much power he had over the broken, ill man. And how he could keep him here, with him, for as long as possible.
“...Fuck it.”
"We need each other. In our own, fucked up ways, we need each other. And we want each other more than we care to admit."
God, if he could stop talking already. If Yokomizo could just drop dead and Mushitarou could just forget about him entirely, right now.
He couldn’t fight the truth.
Neither of them could.
Both were stubborn, prideful, and selfish. They were both a mess in their own ways, and they were two sides of the same coin.
Yokomizo needed him. It felt good to hear that.
“…yeah. We do.”
Mushitarou let out a long breath, staring down at the body lying next to him.
Yokomizo looked so fragile, lying on the floor and curled into himself. It was a pitiful sight, but a stunning one. He was weak and broken, but he was such a beautiful wreck.
A beautiful wreck that needed him and him alone. No, no, no, no, no. Fuck, he hated Yokomizo. He had to. It wasn’t possible he didn’t hate him.
“You’re really something…” Mushitarou murmured, moving to rest his hand on the side of Yokomizo’s face, his thumb brushing the tear-stained cheek. He stared down at him, a mixture of emotions stirring within him, making his heart ache.
“You’re wonderful.” Yokomizo laid back, looking up at Mushitarou and holding his hand on top of Mushitarou's. “I can only hope I fascinate you as much as you do to me.”
“Fascinate me? Fuck…I think I’m obsessed with you.” Mushitarou said, somewhat surprised at his own admittance. He ran his fingers over the author’s face, tracing a path over the curves and lines. “You’re just…infuriating. Impossible. Stubborn. You drive me insane. And I can’t get you out of my head.”
Yokomizo stared up at him with tired golden eyes. "I feel like I'm dreaming." He cupped Mushitarou's hands and Yokomizo tilted his head into his friend’s grasp.
“What do you mean?”
Mushitarou let him move his hands, staring at the author intensely. He could feel the warmth of Yokomizo’s skin through the fabric of his yukata.
God, he hated how weak he was to this man. He hated how he gave in to his touch so easily, how his own body melted under his gaze.
He hated how Yokomizo got to his heart so easily. Yokomizo really had Mushitarou wrapped around his little finger without even trying. Did that asshole even know how far Mushitarou would go for him?
"I feel like I’m not really here. Like I’m never going to wake up, and that every hazy detail is slipping from me. But everything feels so right. And good. And I don’t want to wake up." Yokomizo closed his eyes slowly. "I think you make me feel good."
“I…make you feel that way?”
Mushitarou let his fingers trail over Yokomizo’s collarbone, then his neck, slowly creeping up to his face once more. He could feel the other man’s pulse in his vein, the rhythmic beat of a heart that was alive.
He could feel himself getting attached. No, he already was. He hated it. What he would do to keep that heart beating.
“No one else…”
Mushitarou suddenly leaned over, and Yokomizo’s breathing hitched as he felt the other man’s hot air on his face. What was going on? This wasn’t really how normal friends acted with each other, right? The two had always had a weird relationship. It never got this complicated, though. Or did it? No, this was definitely not normal. Stop. Stop. Stop. Mushitarou’s body screamed at him to stop,
“No one else makes me feel like this. Sick. Vulnerable. Out of control. Desperate. Helpless.” His hands moved from the author’s chest to his waist, holding him close.
“I hate that you’re my weakness.”
"That's funny." Yokomizo's eyes fluttered open. "I feel strong. Desired. In control. Only you make me feel like this."
“You’re making little to no sense.” Mushitarou muttered, but he didn’t protest when Yokomizo ran his hands up his forearms. “You don’t feel that way with anyone else?” He said, his voice slightly strangled. He wanted to die. This was so wrong. This was so fucking wrong. He felt sick to his core.
Yokomizo undid his yukata top and shrugged it off his shoulders.
"I don't want to feel that way with anyone other than you, Mushi-kun." Yokomizo rested his fingers self-consciously on his white button-up shirt.
Mushitarou found himself watching the other man’s every movement. His eyes followed the way the yukata slipped off of Yokomizo’s shoulders, and he couldn’t help but wonder what he would look like with more skin revealed.
God, he was getting way too distracted.
He swallowed, suddenly feeling a bit dry-mouthed.
“Y-you’re just saying that because you’re sick…”
"I'm saying that because I want you.”
“You’re not thinking clearly right now.” Mushitarou protested, his heart thumping in his chest. He was trying to sound strong and firm. He was trying to keep his common sense and self control intact. But seeing Yokomizo, the usually air-headed and aloof author, suddenly so vulnerable and sensual? It was going straight to his brain.
Yokomizo tugged on Mushitarou's bowtie gently, putting his face to his.
"I can't think clearly with you, Mushi-kun. I don't care if I'm not right in the head." Yokomizo whispered hoarsely.
He felt like the temperature in the room was suddenly 10 degrees hotter.
Fuck. He really wanted him.
Yokomizo’s face was so close to his he could feel the man’s ragged breaths against his skin. He could feel the other man’s lips brush against his as he spoke, and he had to resist the urge to grab him closer right then and there.
“H-hey, you’re killing me here…”
"If only we could die together, then." Yokomizo's fingers slid up his neck and he kissed Mushitarou slowly, his breath hot and weak. Dying didn’t sound so bad right now. This was insanity.
“You’re a delusional psycho…” Mushitarou breathed against the other man’s mouth as he felt the kiss. His pulse was starting to race, and his common sense was begging to shut off.
He knew how wrong this was. It was sick, wrong, twisted. It was cruel and selfish. He was kissing a dying man. His best friend. They weren’t even dating. They weren’t even gay. He should have just told him no. He should have pushed him away, and tried to keep his sanity in check.
But god damnit, he was losing his fucking will with every passing second.
Oh, hell with it.
Mushitarou’s brain felt like it was on fire.
He was helpless to resist, he felt his will slip away as Yokomizo’s lips met his. His heart pounding in his chest, he lifted a hand and threaded his fingers into the author’s hair, holding him in place as he kissed him harder.
"Nh- Mushi-kun..." Yokomizo whined softly, clutching the lapel of Mushitarou's suit with a mild grip.
Wow. Mushitarou couldn’t remember the last time he had kissed anyone. Maybe a girl or two back in junior high. But they never made him feel like this. The high of being touched like this was making his thoughts fog up and his movements stiff and clumsy. Mushitarou tried to keep himself in check and act more dominant than he really was. He gripped Yokomizo's waist, lifting him up and pulling him closer. He shifted himself, laying him on his back and pinning his body against the floor. His heart was pounding so fucking fast.
"Mushi-kun, Mushi-kun, do y..." Yokomizo managed between kisses, his eyes squeezed shut. "Do you love me...?"
Mushitarou felt his brain spinning rapidly, trying to process the whole situation.
Did he love Yokomizo? No. Yes. Fuck. Maybe. He didn’t know anymore.
Goddamnit, how did things spiral so fast? How did they end up here, pressed together on the ground, kissing with a desperate hunger?
“I- are you blind? You should know already…”
"Say yes." Yokomizo said desperately, his fingers clenching Mushitarou's suit tighter. "Say you love me, Mushi-kun. You've never once even said my name this whole time we've been together. Never at my house. Never on our walks. Never while we’ve been in this inn."
He was right. Mushitarou never said Yokomizo’s name.
He always avoided it, even when no one was around.
It felt weird! He couldn’t say his name. They weren’t that close. It was easier to call him derogatory pet names. Maybe he was worried how attached he would become if he started treating Yokomizo like a person instead of an object.
Even now, with the man under him, desperately begging for his touch, he hadn’t even thought to actually say it. His brain felt like it was running a hundred miles an hour as he stared blankly down at Yokomizo. Here he was, treating Yokomizo like another human. Most people tend to treat their friends with affection and respect instead of pinning them to the floor and stripping off their clothes. It wasn’t like Mushitarou had a lot of other friends, anyway.
He swallowed, his throat feeling dry and his heart racing.
“…I love you. I love you, Yokomizo.”
He was stunned at how easily the words slipped out of his mouth. It almost sounded…natural, as if he had said it thousands of times before. How many times had he wanted to say this out loud?
“I love you.” He repeated, with more confidence. His voice was firm, but tender. He took a shaky breath and repeated it again, just to feel the words on his lips. “I love you. Yokomizo, I love you.” His tongue felt heavy as he repeated himself. What he would give to put in Yokomizo’s mouth. “From the start, I’ve always wanted you, Yokosei.”
"You love me? You really love me?" Yokomizo said breathlessly, wrapping his arms around Mushitarou's neck. "I've chased you for so long. You were always making me want you. I've always been so alone, but when I'm with you, I feel...I dunno. God, I'm losing my sanity." Yokomizo undid his hakama waist knot with fumbling fingers, looking down awkwardly. He was so fucking cute.
“I don’t want to desire you this much. I really shouldn’t. I’m not even gay, but I really…” Mushitarou muttered, watching as the cloth loosened around Yokomizo’s hips. He stared at him with a heavy mixture of desperation and frustration.
He knew what they were doing was wrong. It was sick, twisted, self-indulgent.
But he couldn’t stop himself. He had already gone this far, right? Might as well keep going. It wasn’t like it felt bad, either.
“I should stop talking…” He sputtered, lowering his body and moving closer to Yokomizo.
One of his hands moved to lace between Yokomizo's, Mushitarou's other hand moved down to undo his own belt.
"Hah... ah, Mushi-kun..." Yokomizo pressed his forehead to Mushitarou's, breathing heavily. "Are you-?"
“Be quiet…” Mushitarou muttered, his head spinning as Yokomizo breathed against his skin. His chest was tight. His heart was racing. His brain felt like it was going to overheat and shut down at any second. Oh shit, Mushitarou was a virgin. What if he was terrible at this? What if Yokomizo had already had experience with this kind of stuff? Mushitarou shoved aside the unwarranted shot of jealousy that coursed through him.
It wasn’t like they were actually together, or anything. Mushitarou shouldn’t really care if Yokomizo slept with anyone else. Mushitarou tried not to let his sheepish trembling show too obviously as he pressed Yokomizo to the wooden floor of the inn.
He slid his hips against the authors awkwardly, but god, it felt good anyway. He bit back a hiss of pleasure.
"Ah- nhg. Mushi-kun, fuck…we shouldn't be-" Yokomizo whined, closing his eyes tightly, his legs wrapped around Mushitarou's back and his fingers clenched Mushitarou's hands tightly.
“I know, I know...” Mushitarou groaned, his mind rapidly losing itself in a haze of need and desperation.
He didn’t care if it was wrong, or screwed up, or messed up.
He didn’t care if he was being cruel and selfish.
All he knew was the sound of Yokomizo’s weak moans in his ear and the heat between them.
“…shh, just…just shut up and let me...Fuck, Yokosei, there are other people in this building. We’ve got to keep it down.”
"Stop telling me to shut up, Mushi-kun. It's not my fault if I- ah," Yokomizo gasped, his voice quiet and shaky. "I wanna hear you talk. Say things to me. I need your voice."
“You’re...insatiable, Yokosei.” Mushitarou murmured, his forehead resting on Yokomizo’s shoulder. His breathing was ragged and shaky, his body trembling with a mixture of nerves and desire.
He felt like he was going insane. Every moan and whine from the author sent a jolt of heat directly through him.
It was making his brain melt and his self control disappear. He wanted to hear every sound that Yokomizo would make, every hitch in his breath, every gasp and cry.
Mushitarou blinked.
What time was it? Fuck, it was so late in the day. Sunlight was already seeping through the shades of the inn windows.
Mushitarou slowly came to consciousness, his brain slowly piecing together his situation.
He was…naked?
He groaned softly, his head pounding, and slowly opened his eyes.
His gaze flickered down, and he could see a head of messy brown hair resting against his chest. His eyes widened, and he suddenly remembered what had happened the night before.
He stared down at the author in disbelief, his heart racing, and his mind suddenly flooded with memories from the night before.
Oh.
Shit.
He could vividly recall everything that had happened. He remembered the way Yokomizo's body had felt, pressed against him, the way he'd cried out his name in a broken moan, his back arch and his fingersnails gripped tightly on his spine.
He inhaled a shaky, ragged breath, his heart pounding against his chest.
He was never one for one-night stands, but this was even more extreme. He was lying naked in bed with a man who he hated. His childhood best friend and nemesis. Who also had stomach cancer and was going to kill himself in a week. Fuck.
They weren’t even gay. Mushitarou wasn’t gay.
"Mnnh..." Yokomizo murmured lazily. He tilted his head up with a barely awake smile. "Mornin', Mushi-kun."
Mushitarou froze, his mind struggling to form a coherent thought. He swallowed, his throat feeling dry as he stared down at the man wrapped around him. He remembered every moment of last night, all the heat and desperation, and suddenly he couldn’t look at Yokomizo without being reminded of it.
“G-good morning…” he managed to reply as he gently sat up, trying to escape the author's clingy arms.
Mushitarou took the chance to slip away from the futon and gather up his clothes from where they had been left in a pile on the floor.
He quickly got dressed, and his eyes darted over to the author, who sat up with the sheets pooled around his lap.
Yokomizo rubbed the sleep out of his golden eyes and blinked before looking around.
Slowly, realization dawned on him. Yokomizo suddenly remembered the events of the night before, and Mushitarou could see the heat rise to his face.
"We, um-?”
“Yes. We did.” Mushitarou interrupted quickly, averting his gaze as he buttoned up his shirt. He tried desperately to maintain some sort of composure.
His brain was still spinning, and his heart was still pounding. He felt dizzy, unsure of what to say or what to do.
Yokomizo tugged the blanket up slightly to cover his chest. There were shallow bite marks and scratches on his skin.
“We should probably pretend this never happened.” He blurted.
“…yeah. We should."
Mushitarou agreed, trying to ignore the heat in his chest as he pulled a comb through his hair.
He should be happy about this. They both got it out of their system, and they could pretend none of it happened. Things could go back to normal.
So why did he feel so…disappointed?
No, he didn’t. It felt good temporarily, but it wasn’t right.
Mushitarou nodded briskly, looking away from the marks on the author's skin and straightening his tie.
“We... we were both just not thinking straight. It was...a mistake.”
“Yeah.”
brussell_sprout on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Mar 2025 03:47AM UTC
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definitely_not_jeagan on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Mar 2025 04:17AM UTC
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brussell_sprout on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Mar 2025 04:18AM UTC
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Spadilles on Chapter 2 Sat 08 Mar 2025 10:39PM UTC
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definitely_not_jeagan on Chapter 2 Sat 08 Mar 2025 11:29PM UTC
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pyranne on Chapter 4 Mon 10 Mar 2025 08:55AM UTC
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definitely_not_jeagan on Chapter 4 Mon 10 Mar 2025 10:51PM UTC
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definitely_not_jeagan on Chapter 4 Mon 10 Mar 2025 10:51PM UTC
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Meow (Guest) on Chapter 4 Sat 15 Mar 2025 09:36PM UTC
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LunaLovegood12345689 on Chapter 4 Sat 07 Jun 2025 07:34PM UTC
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Spadilles on Chapter 5 Mon 17 Mar 2025 05:19AM UTC
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Spadilles on Chapter 5 Wed 16 Apr 2025 08:07PM UTC
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definitely_not_jeagan on Chapter 5 Thu 17 Apr 2025 11:54PM UTC
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definitely_not_jeagan on Chapter 5 Sat 19 Apr 2025 02:01AM UTC
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brussell_sprout on Chapter 6 Wed 23 Apr 2025 12:49AM UTC
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Spadilles on Chapter 6 Tue 29 Apr 2025 04:35AM UTC
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LunaLovegood12345689 on Chapter 6 Sun 08 Jun 2025 12:20AM UTC
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definitely_not_jeagan on Chapter 6 Sun 08 Jun 2025 06:32AM UTC
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LunaLovegood12345689 on Chapter 6 Mon 09 Jun 2025 01:27AM UTC
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