Birthright Universe - Bits and Bobs
[Title] Snipe
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Slight gore; brief descriptions of violence.
[Notes] The 27th War of Heirs, Book 2
[Summary] Clover Ellis has a job to do.
Clover didn’t like her. She was too quick, too small, too sure. Sugata always had a plan; it was usually centered around getting Kazuya out of a place before anyone had realized he was there. Clover supported this endeavor, but she couldn’t help but question most of Sugata’s methods.
“They’re up ahead,” Sugata said, steadying her horse with a hand on the mare’s neck. “Four of them.”
Kazu sank into his saddle. He was definitely not cut out for all of this, that was for sure. Clover had spent enough time with the boy (she still thought of him like that, even now when he was taller than Sei) to know that violence was not in his nature. It was a stark contrast with Sugata, who seemed to be primarily composed of violent solutions to daily problems. Sei clucked his horse forward far enough for him to meet Kazu’s eyes. Whatever passed between them was something only that pair could ever understand.
“Are they armed?” Arlo asked, looking up. He’d hopped off his mount to check the girth on his saddle. He was in charge of the animals on this little trip of theirs, as usual, and while he’d selected their mounts based on both speed and steadiness, once fights broke out he had his hands full keeping track of five horses.
Sugata dealt with hers. Clover suspected the animal was armed to the teeth as thoroughly as her rider.
“Yes, but not well,” Sugata answered Arlo. Sable was looking at a map spread out on the ground. He had pinned each corner down with a rock, but the fading light was making it harder and harder to follow. Sugata had told them lanterns were too dangerous to carry openly, and he’d had to satisfy his need for vision with one of Arlo’s lighters held aloft.
“There’s a ravine about twenty yards up,” he announced, pointing at the dip. Sugata dismounted to look. She and Sable had a strange agreement not to really discuss anything unpleasant. Sugata was not generally inclined towards discussion to begin with, but Sable couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut if he had questions. After the first few were answered frankly, he decided this was one area of learning he preferred to remain ignorant in.
“We’ll box them in,” Sugata announced. Clover looked up at the hilltop in front of their proposed ambush point. It was clear enough; even as the sun continued to dip below the horizon, visibility wouldn’t be too much of an issue.
“All four, then?” Clover asked matter-of-factly. Sugata met her eyes dead on.
“We can’t risk a messenger,” she said. “Will you handle it?”
Clover had to give the girl credit where credit was due: she was very careful with her word choices, and she never asked ‘can’. She knew what Clover was capable of, almost as much as Arlo did. Her skills had been required far more recently than she’d hoped her future would present, but it couldn’t be helped at this point. There weren’t any better options, and calling any of this a ‘choice’ was a joke. A sick, twisted joke.
“Arlo,” Clover said, dismounting. “The horse.” Arlo took the reins, putting a rough hand on her shoulder. His face, despite the light laugh lines set in around his eyes, was serious.
“Clo?” he asked. He didn’t need more words than that. His tone was soft, but familiar enough to the others that Sable and Sei turned around.
“I’ll take the rifle,” she said, removing the case from her packs. “The hilltop, over there.” Arlo removed his hand, satisfied with the expression on her face. Sable and Sei took his cue and returned to what they were doing. Kazu was still looking sick, but Sugata had turned on him. Clover looked away. She didn’t like watching the Awakening; there were some things she had been better off never seeing. Lord knows she’d seen enough blood.
The hill wasn’t steep, and she climbed it in the dark with a quiet, lithe grace. Setting up the rifle took no time; it was instinct now. She didn’t need to think about it. She’d spent years-more years than she ever wanted to number-alone on hilltops just like this, waiting.
The fight broke out not long after the Awakening finished. Clover could see everything play out in the ravine below. Arlo had pulled the horses out of the fray; Sable and Sei stood close to Kazu, each on high alert. Kazu was... not something she wanted to look at. It still upset her on some gut level to see him like that.
Sugata was slaughtering. She’d killed one man’s mount and slit his throat when he got free of the dying animal. The second man was done in with a knife through his eye. The third held up a good fight for a few minutes, ducking some of her blows and slashing out wildly with a curved saber of some kind, but Sugata had valuted off her horse, dragged him to the ground and smashed his skull against a rock.
The fourth man had fled, kicking his poor animal so hard it lurched forward, foaming at the mouth as he dragged on the reins in his panic. He looked back at the fight and seemed, for a moment, to think he was getting away.
Clover’s shot through his forehead ended that delusion. She only ever needed the one.
As Kazu withdrew his magic from Sugata, Clover repacked the rifle. She checked it over as she did, careful of the parts that would still be hot to the touch. Satisfied it was properly stowed, she climbed back down the hill. Arlo had brought their animals around, smiling peaceably at everyone. He always did his best to lighten the mood when he could. Sable looked like he always did after these skirmishes: slightly sickened.
Kazu was pale, but seemed pleased the fight was over. Sei was silent at his side, a warm and steadying hand between the boy’s shoulders. Sugata was covered in blood, again. Sometimes it seemed like she bathed in it.
“Sable,” Clover said. “Tell her where the river is.”
Sugata’s face softened; somewhere, deep in there, Clover knew a human girl existed. And even if no one else saw it, it was still there. It was still enough to remind her of another time, another place, another girl, when the same rules of kill-live-kill applied.
Clover smelled of flint and gunpowder; Sugata smelled of sweat and blood. They both had dirty hands.
“Thank you,” Sugata said. Clover didn’t answer; she merely nodded her head.
Clover didn’t like her. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t help her survive.
[Title] Remember
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Slight gore; brief descriptions of violence; reference to TBI
[Notes] After the Western Quiet War, Book 1
[Summary] Arlo remembers some things better than others.
Arlo lost count, after a while. He’d tried to remember them all, faces with names, names with faces, round and round as face after face and name after name disappeared. The first ones hurt the most; Kendall, Charlie, Hannah. Then Matthew-or was it Michael? Maria, or Mary, or Marta…
Losing track was the hardest. He realized that as many people as he knew, and more, were never coming back. They were gone, and would stay gone, and someday their faces would fade as thoroughly as their names had.
“Sergeant Courtney,” Peter-Paul? said, reaching out with a bloody hand. “Courtney, please.”
This part wasn’t real. He knew it wasn’t; dreams always felt different from the real thing. He wasn’t afraid in the dreams. He was many things, but never fear. He knew what happened next. He knew that his hand wouldn’t reach Paul-Patrick? He knew he would be forced to leave, to keep walking, to let that man die because there wasn’t time to stop.
Arlo Courtney had a great appreciation for time, these days. When he woke up in the dark, in the middle of the night, he didn’t look at his watch. He never needed to. He could feel the hour like a sixth sense with astonishing accuracy. He would sit up at four, kick off the blanket at four-twelve, pad downstairs at four-sixteen.
And at four-twenty, he sat down on the back porch, looking out over the garden and smoke. On the field, it had been cigarettes, as many as a man could smoke without immediately dying from it. But he’d never liked the tar, or the paper burning away. It felt brief, and when his entire existence had a distinct ‘brief’ quality to it, he had to just deal with it. Now, he had the time to tap out the tobacco and put it in the pipe. It was a nice one, more than he could probably afford at the time he received it, and his fingers had worn a miniscule groove around the bowl.
At four-thrity, give or take five minutes, Clover joined him. She wasn’t quite as punctual, but she hadn’t needed to be. Precision took an entirely new meaning for her.
“It’s going to kill you,” she always said when she sat down.
“Hasn’t yet,” he responded. She sighed, tucking her feet up under her. She was wearing a shawl; it wasn’t that cold, halfway through May, but Clover seemed perpetually chilled. In the winter, she’d come down with an entire down duvet wrapped around her. They sat in silence for a while, Arlo smoking and Clover waking up, until eventually one of them began.
“Henry Washer,” Clover started. “Short. Really short, maybe this high in boots.” She gestured out in front of her; it was indeed a low stature. “He was a decent shot, but he wasn’t good at a quick reload.” She paused, picking her words. Clover was careful with words, especially with Arlo. “That’s when he got hit, of course. He dropped his powder. They tapped him right here, smack in the middle.” She tapped her forehead with one finger before letting her hand fall to her lap.
“Carol Remmington,” Arlo said. “She was noisy, always shouting about something. Everything made her mad; dirt, cold, hot, loud, quiet, dry, wet-it never mattered. She always had an opinion that she made sure everyone within spitting distance knew. Her horse bucked her into a river on a jump and she smashed her head on the rocks. Drowned before we even caught the horse.”
Clover snorted. Sometimes laughter was the only response they could muster. Crying hadn’t ever helped, that was for sure.
“Do you remember-what was her name? She had the two eyes, one green and one blue,” Clover asked, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. Arlo watched the pale line of her throat, his smoke curling around her delicately.
“Sienna?” he suggested. “Sienna-“
“Marshall,” Clover finished for him. “That woman. That woman.”
“The horses liked her well enough,” Arlo said diplomatically. Clover growled.
“Horses like anyone with a sugar cube,” she said. “They’re no judge of character.”
“They like you,” Arlo chuckled.”
“Except Daisy,” Clover reminded him. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
“For what?” he asked innocently. She reached out and flicked his forehead between the eyes. She did that a lot; usually he deserved it. For Daisy, he definitely deserved it.
“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “Daisy and Clover. It was perfect.”
“Cute,” Clover said blandly. “Real cute. Of course, it didn’t matter she had the sourest temperament known to man and beast.”
“Aw, that’s not fair,” Arlo said. He tapped his pipe, shaking the leaves around. “She had her moments.”
“That horse ran me into tree branches like she was aiming for them. How many times did I get knocked clear off? How many, Arlo?” Clover demanded.
“I don’t know,” Arlo said quietly. “I don’t remember.”
There was a lot he didn’t remember. There was more he would probably forget. After the fall, Clover dragged him free of most of it, but she couldn’t help the swelling on his brain. She couldn’t help the clot. She couldn’t bring back the parts of his mind that were dead, forever.
She couldn’t give him back that time.
“You weren’t even there,” Clover said, gentle. “Daisy was an angel for you. She was probably bucking me to run off to you anyway, that clopping little trollop.”
Arlo looked at her.
“I gave her my damn apples, Arlo,” she informed him. “My apples.”
“Horses aren’t generally inclined towards appreciating the sacrifices their masters make for them,” Arlo told her. “Mostly they want a gentle hand and a sweet now and then.”
He remembered the horses better than the people. He wasn’t sure what that said about him; he’d come back to the animals the soonest. People were hard at the beginning, when he was still putting himself back together. It was hard to meet people and wonder if they’d already met, or say something and wonder if he’d said it already. It was a good month before he could consistently determine what day it was. Slowly, oh so slowly, his senses returned. His precision for time-keeping sharpened dramatically. But days felt longer than they used to. Each day was a little bit longer than the last one, made more obvious by the spaces where other things used to be.
“They always liked you best,” Clover said, and Arlo knew she was telling him the truth. “Horses, dogs, cats-even the pigs liked you best.”
Arlo’s pipe was empty of all but ash. He tapped it out against the side of the porch. Clover stood when he did, and for a moment they looked each other in the eye.
“Goodnight, Clo.” Thanks.
“’Night,” she said. “Nip asked for eggs for breakfast, so work your magic on those hens. We need every egg we can get to feed that kid.”
Arlo nodded agreeably as Clover passed him, moving back down the hall to her room. Arlo watched her go.
He knew, no matter where he went, no matter how much time passed, no matter no matter no matter what, he would never forget that woman.
It was a good thing; she’d probably flick a hole in his forehead if his memory so much as fluttered. He went back to his room. The ghosts wouldn’t come back tonight. Tonight he’d dream of smoke around Clover’s throat, the ash on the porch, and the warm feeling of having the time to sit back and appreciate still being alive.
[Title] Blood
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Slight gore. Allusions to physical abuse.
[Notes] The 27th War of Heirs, Book 2
[Summary] Kazuya is used to blood.
Kazuya had always dreamed in blood.
When he was young, small and safe in his mother’s arms, blood wasn’t scary. It was strangely familiar and slightly unsettling, but he wasn’t afraid of it. Somehow the warmth of the blood in his veins reminded him of her. It was a gentle thumping in his ears, a heartbeat following a heartbeat.
Then she was gone, and he was a heartbeat alone.
The cuts on his skin bled freely, each slice and scar painting blood on his skin in a gruesome design. Each bruise was a dark collection of gore beneath his skin. That man tore him to pieces, night after night, day after day, year after year. Blood was all around him and the only respite came from the darkness when he closed his eyes. Even then, it flowed across his unconscious vision.
Sei saved him from all of that; blood had no place with Sei. Sei was soft bandages and gentle balms and warm hands around his. Sei was clean, safe, healed. But in the quiet of the night, the blood returned to him. It tinted his dreams a gory red and his nightmares haunted him with open wounds.
Sugata brought the blood with her. She opened his skin and pulled out his heart, bleeding him of power he didn’t know he had. She turned his weakness into magic, and he learned to manipulate each pounding of his heart into a whip, a blade, a shield.
Now, he lived in blood.
[Title] Home
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Allusions to physical abuse.
[Notes] After Kazuya's rescue, Book 1
[Summary] A small boy in a big house.
The house was so big, Sei was slightly worried that Kazuya would simply be swallowed by it. As he led the boy inside, his small hand clutching tightly to Sei’s, they moved slowly around the ground level. Sei did everything slowly with Kazuya; part of him still remembered the starving, beaten child chained to a pipe underground. Kazuya was looking much healthier now, but he was still too skinny, too weak, and too afraid. Sei had spent most of the past week at the hospital, coaxing the boy into eating, sleeping, and accepting treatment. Even the latter he’d only tolerated if Sable was doing it, and that was largely because Sei assured him Sable was his friend. They’d brought him home early because it was obvious that he’d heal much better somewhere where Sei could be with him longer.
Now, looking down the hallways at the many doors, Kazuya’s death-grip on Sei’s hand tightened. Sei squeezed back in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Taking full responsibility for a child hadn’t been something he’d ever imagined happening, but Kazuya needed him in a way Sei had never experienced before. He’d never been much use to anyone before now. Rescuing Kazuya had turned into a simple release from slavery and into a responsibility to a scared, fragile person.
“This is the parlor,” Sei explained, pointing with his freehand. He spoke Eastern; Kazuya had proved himself fluent in Western before, but the trauma of nearly dying had locked away his words somewhere in his heart. He responded better to Eastern. Sei was a bit rusty, but Kazuya didn’t seem to mind.
“That way is the kitchen and Clover’s room,” he continued, “and Arlo’s room is up the back stairway on the left.” Kazuya turned his head, looking up at Sei. His black eye was still purple and yellow, an ugly sign of what he’d been through in the last two weeks. His slow, almost tortured gait spoke to the broken ribs and gradually recovering dislocated knee. His expression beneath the injuries was inquisitive and alert, something Sei took as a good sign.
“The library is past the parlor; the offices are there too.” Kazuya limped a little, occasionally gritting his teeth. He was obviously in pain, but he’d refused to be carried. Sei wasn’t sure if it was pride or stubbornness, but either way he thought Kazuya had earned both those traits at this point. He had adjusted to the change from subservience to independence quite significantly in such a short time; Sable had suggested they encourage Kazuya to have his own emotions and decisions. It seemed important to make sure he had free agency, considering the horrors of the past.
“Up the stairs now,” Sei said. He put one arm behind Kazuya’s back to help him climb; Kazuya allowed the touch without complaint. He never fought Sei the way he did the doctors at the hospital and even Sable on occasion. It seemed as if he put Sei in an entirely separate category from the rest of the world. Sei was allowed to touch, always, without hesitation.
“Here’s Sable’s room, and that’s my room,” Sei said, pointing out each door. “And this one’s yours.” They opened the door to a cozy room with a fluffy bed and small desk and chair. “Your bathroom is through that door. Everyone has their own; it’s not very efficient, but it is convenient for us.”
Kazuya looked around the room. He appeared to be evaluating it quite critically; he tugged Sei towards the bed, seemingly unwilling to let go of his hand. Kazuya patted the fluffy blankets, pressing harder and harder with each pat. After it continued to puff back up, he dropped his free hand.
Sei reached into his pocket and pulled out two small keys. He held them out to Kazuya.
“This one is for this room-your room. You can lock it whenever you like. You don’t have to let anyone in if you don’t want to. This is space is just for you from now on.”
Kazuya looked at him, eyes wide in astonishment. Privacy was a new concept for him, apparently.
“And this one... this one is my room,” Sei said softly. “I don’t usually lock it, so you probably won’t need it. I just ask that if it is locked, you knock first. Sometimes people need to be alone; it’s not that I don’t want you around.”
Kazuya took the keys, feeling the weight of them in his open palm.
“I know you have those dreams,” Sei explained, “and that’s why I’m giving it to you. If you need me, you can come to me. If I’m not around for some reason, you can go to anyone here. We all want to help you, okay?”
Kazuya looked at his bed, then back at the keys. His face turned upwards.
“Sei,” he said softly. It was the only word he seemed to be able to say right now; it was the only word he’d used in the past two weeks. Even through that one word, Sei understood.
“Welcome home, Kazu,” he said warmly.
[Title] Dream
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Slight gore.
[Notes] The 27th War of Heirs, Book 2
[Summary] Sugata rests.
Sometimes exhaustion got the better of her. She slumped in the corner of the old boxcar, dumping her bag next to her in a careless heap. She hadn’t slept properly in at least three days; if she had a choice, she wouldn’t sleep tonight either. But Sugata knew better than to push herself that far. It never ended well.
She would have preferred something a bit more secure than this rusty box, but it wasn’t moving anytime soon judging by the saplings springing up from the tracks in front of it. The smell heavily implied it was a frequent stopping point for transients, most of who didn’t bathe. One corner almost certainly served as a toilet for most of them. She tried to sit as far away from it as she could.
Sugata’s head hit the wall behind her with a soft thunk. She could barely keep her eyes open anymore. It was getting cold; was winter coming again? So soon? She hadn’t gotten any closer to Him, or at least not enough for her to feel remotely optimistic. He was always ten steps ahead of her, and even after all these years, she hadn’t been able to catch up.
She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, but the dream set in immediately.
Running. The ground was hard and she was barefoot. The rocks bit into her soles, tearing her skin. But she couldn’t stop. He was ahead of her; she could feel it. He pulled on her soul, tugging harder and harder. The faster she ran, the stronger the pull became.
“Kazuya!” she shouted, reaching out ahead of her. He was there; He was right there! Her skin was crawling. Her feet were bleeding now, gory red streaks in her footprints. She realized with a sick roll of her stomach that someone was following her. She was leaving them an easy trail, that was sure.
“Kaz-Kazuya!” her voice was a desperate cry now, ripping out of her lungs. The unthinkable happened: she tripped. She fell hard, the skin on her knees and palms ripping open on the rough ground. She never fell, not once, not after so many years of training, but now she hadHim. She had to stop it. She pressed her palms together hard, hoping to stem the flow, but it wouldn’t stop.
And He wasn’t stopping either.
“Kazuya! Kazuya!” she shrieked as he disappeared from her senses. She couldn’t stand anymore; her legs didn’t work. She was dizzy from loss of blood. The thing chasing her was closing in, but she couldn’t get up.
She was dying, and He was gone.
She jerked forwards, awakened by her own scream. She ripped the gloves off her hands, spreading her palms open wide in the moonlight.
Calloused, but uninjured. Her heart was still pounding and every muscle in her body was screaming at her to run, flee-but there was nothing to run from. Not now, anyway. The dream faded into the dark walls of the boxcar.
Sugata had to find Him. Soon.
[Title] Number 12
[Author] honooko
[Rating] R
[Warnings] Slight gore, references to severe physical abuse, allusions to sexual abuse.
[Notes] Before the rescue, Book 1
[Summary] Kazuya is going to die here.
Kazuya was cold. He was also hungry, thirsty, and in pain. The pain wasn’t new, and if he was truly honest, hungry wasn’t either. If he was good, Master let him eat twice. Most days, he wasn’t good.
He wasn’t entirely sure what ‘good’ meant anymore. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever known.
The cold steel biting into his wrists had gone from painful to numb and back again. He’d struggled at first, hoping either the cuffs or the rusted pipe would give way, but that turned out to be a futile endeavor. All it did was tear the skin around his wrists hard enough to bleed sluggishly. But like all his bloody injuries, it clotted up and scabbed before the day was out. He wondered if it would scar like all the others, or if he’d die before that happened.
He’d been left here to die, after all.
Kazuya was curled up in a ball, trying to pretend that helped with the permanent, bone-aching cold that had settled in his body. He never had warm clothes, but anything was better than the bare skin exposed now. He closed his eyes, even though it was too dark to really see anyway. He tried to remember.
Sei… Sei had been kindness. Sei had promised him so much that Kazuya knew better than to believe.
“I’ll come back for you,” he’d said. “We’ll walk out of this place together.”
Such a beautiful, kind lie. The very next night, Master found out that Kazuya ‘hadn’t been generous’. Kazuya was no expert, but he knew better than to call what the Master demanded of him ‘generosity’. Generous implied a choice that Kazuya never had. It implied a certain level of willingness, concern for others, desire to please. He supposed the last point could be argued, but he never wanted to please for the sake of others; he wanted to please to avoid another beating.
He didn’t escape this one. Master had shouted worse than ever, knocking him down and kicking, over and over until his ribs cracked and his head ached. At least one knee was dislocated; worse than all of that was what he did at the end-what he always did, eventually. It hurt more than ever before, thanks to the additional injuries.
Sei had let him sleep in the bed. It was so soft and warm. Kazuya tried to pretend he was there now, covered in a fluffy down duvet and cradled by a mountain of pillows. It almost worked; he could almost feel it. He stopped shivering, but he had the brief thought that perhaps that wasn’t a good sign. Instead, he felt the shock of Sei sleeping on the sofa in the room, instead of with Kazuya in that massive bed. Kazuya didn’t know how many people had used him, but he knew that Sei was the first to refuse. Kazuya had thought all people were simply cruel; it occurred to him that night that maybe it was just everyone that knew his master was cruel. That seemed to make more sense, even if his personal evidence didn’t entirely support it.
It didn’t matter now though, because he was dying. Breathing was so hard, almost as hard as staying awake. He drifted in and out of consciousness. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, but he was thirsty enough to assume it had been two or three days. There was no light in the cellar, so he had no way to measure the passing of time. He’d heard once that dying of thirst happened quickly compared to dying of hunger; he didn’t really care how long it took, only that hopefully the faster one hurt less. He already hurt so much. It was hard to imagine he could hurt any more.
“I’ll come back for you,” Sei-in-his-memory said again, and Kazuya wanted to believe him. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He knew better. Too many years of this made him the ultimate fatalist. He’d known right from the start that someday, Master would get sick of him. Someday, it would be Kazuya under the flowerbeds in the garden. Jenna called him “number 12” because she knew it too. It didn’t matter what his name was. Someday, he’d get too old. Kazuya had outlived his predecessors by sheer genetic luck up until a few years before. He always looked younger than he was, but Kazuya never knew whether that was a blessing or a curse. It felt like a curse. Even lying on the dirt floor like this felt like something he’d almost been looking forward to. Dead boys didn’t hurt. Dead boys didn’t suffer. Dead boys got to rest, forever.
Wasn’t that better?
“I’ll come back for you,” Sei said with that look on his face. He was making promises he couldn’t keep, and Kazuya knew that. But for one short night, someone cared about him. Someone was sad he was the way he was. Someone gave a damn.
No one gave a damn. Kazuya already knew that. But at least for one night, he got to pretend.
It was getting harder and harder to stay awake. Sometimes he thought he saw his mother, in the corner of his eye. He’d jerk his head sideways, trying to catch her, but she wasn’t there. It was just darkness, the smell of soil and bags of vegetables. Jenna hadn’t come down for them; Master must have warned her to stock up. He hoped his corpse ruined them. Jenna had never beat him, but she’d never stopped Master from doing it. “Eat silently, number 12,” she’d said, pushing bowls of tasteless gruel at him. Sometimes he got the bones from Master’s steaks and roasts, but usually he had to fight the dogs for them. Most days he lost.
How long would Master wait before buying number 13? Not long, probably. He was bad at waiting for things-no, more like he hated waiting for things. Number 11 had only been dead a week when Master bought Kazuya, according to Jenna. Sometimes Kazuya would sneak outside and talk to them, number 1 through 11. He asked them if they felt better now, buried beneath the flowers? Were they happy now? Would they be happy when he joined them?
There was a clattering over his head. Jenna must have run out of vegetables. He knew she wouldn’t help him; she probably wouldn’t even look at him. Jenna was different from the numbers; Jenna was free. She could leave, if she really wanted to. Master was kind to Jenna, or at least as kind as he was capable of being. He still slapped her sometimes, but nothing worse. She was too old for him to want the other things.
The door to the cellar opened, but Kazuya didn’t open his eyes. They were too heavy. He was cold, but he’d stopped noticing how hungry and thirsty he was. He thought he heard voices; numbers 1 through 11? Were they coming for him at last?
Was it finally, finally all over?
“Shit,” one of the voices said. “He’s in here! Bring a blanket!”
Kazuya was so, so tired. A blanket sounded nice. He could feel it being wrapped around him; he heard a clink; the steel around his wrists released.
Stop, he thought desperately. I’m not dead yet. Let me die first.
“Kazuya?” a man’s voice said, and he sounded... like he cared. Opening his eyes was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he did it. He looked up, towards the voice. The light coming in from the open door left his face in shadow, and Kazuya squinted.
“Oh god,” the man said. “What the hell happened?”
There was something there. Something warm, worried. Something familiar.
“You came back for me?” Kazuya asked. Sei’s arms around him were gentle; he’d seen the bruises and newly-scabbed cuts.
“I said I would,” Sei told him. “I meant it.”
Kazuya wanted to thank him. He wanted to hug him, to shout, to be happy. But he was still so tired. All he could manage was turning over very, very slowly and burying his face in Sei’s collar.
And for the first time in years, he wept.
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Slight gore; brief descriptions of violence.
[Notes] The 27th War of Heirs, Book 2
[Summary] Clover Ellis has a job to do.
Clover didn’t like her. She was too quick, too small, too sure. Sugata always had a plan; it was usually centered around getting Kazuya out of a place before anyone had realized he was there. Clover supported this endeavor, but she couldn’t help but question most of Sugata’s methods.
“They’re up ahead,” Sugata said, steadying her horse with a hand on the mare’s neck. “Four of them.”
Kazu sank into his saddle. He was definitely not cut out for all of this, that was for sure. Clover had spent enough time with the boy (she still thought of him like that, even now when he was taller than Sei) to know that violence was not in his nature. It was a stark contrast with Sugata, who seemed to be primarily composed of violent solutions to daily problems. Sei clucked his horse forward far enough for him to meet Kazu’s eyes. Whatever passed between them was something only that pair could ever understand.
“Are they armed?” Arlo asked, looking up. He’d hopped off his mount to check the girth on his saddle. He was in charge of the animals on this little trip of theirs, as usual, and while he’d selected their mounts based on both speed and steadiness, once fights broke out he had his hands full keeping track of five horses.
Sugata dealt with hers. Clover suspected the animal was armed to the teeth as thoroughly as her rider.
“Yes, but not well,” Sugata answered Arlo. Sable was looking at a map spread out on the ground. He had pinned each corner down with a rock, but the fading light was making it harder and harder to follow. Sugata had told them lanterns were too dangerous to carry openly, and he’d had to satisfy his need for vision with one of Arlo’s lighters held aloft.
“There’s a ravine about twenty yards up,” he announced, pointing at the dip. Sugata dismounted to look. She and Sable had a strange agreement not to really discuss anything unpleasant. Sugata was not generally inclined towards discussion to begin with, but Sable couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut if he had questions. After the first few were answered frankly, he decided this was one area of learning he preferred to remain ignorant in.
“We’ll box them in,” Sugata announced. Clover looked up at the hilltop in front of their proposed ambush point. It was clear enough; even as the sun continued to dip below the horizon, visibility wouldn’t be too much of an issue.
“All four, then?” Clover asked matter-of-factly. Sugata met her eyes dead on.
“We can’t risk a messenger,” she said. “Will you handle it?”
Clover had to give the girl credit where credit was due: she was very careful with her word choices, and she never asked ‘can’. She knew what Clover was capable of, almost as much as Arlo did. Her skills had been required far more recently than she’d hoped her future would present, but it couldn’t be helped at this point. There weren’t any better options, and calling any of this a ‘choice’ was a joke. A sick, twisted joke.
“Arlo,” Clover said, dismounting. “The horse.” Arlo took the reins, putting a rough hand on her shoulder. His face, despite the light laugh lines set in around his eyes, was serious.
“Clo?” he asked. He didn’t need more words than that. His tone was soft, but familiar enough to the others that Sable and Sei turned around.
“I’ll take the rifle,” she said, removing the case from her packs. “The hilltop, over there.” Arlo removed his hand, satisfied with the expression on her face. Sable and Sei took his cue and returned to what they were doing. Kazu was still looking sick, but Sugata had turned on him. Clover looked away. She didn’t like watching the Awakening; there were some things she had been better off never seeing. Lord knows she’d seen enough blood.
The hill wasn’t steep, and she climbed it in the dark with a quiet, lithe grace. Setting up the rifle took no time; it was instinct now. She didn’t need to think about it. She’d spent years-more years than she ever wanted to number-alone on hilltops just like this, waiting.
The fight broke out not long after the Awakening finished. Clover could see everything play out in the ravine below. Arlo had pulled the horses out of the fray; Sable and Sei stood close to Kazu, each on high alert. Kazu was... not something she wanted to look at. It still upset her on some gut level to see him like that.
Sugata was slaughtering. She’d killed one man’s mount and slit his throat when he got free of the dying animal. The second man was done in with a knife through his eye. The third held up a good fight for a few minutes, ducking some of her blows and slashing out wildly with a curved saber of some kind, but Sugata had valuted off her horse, dragged him to the ground and smashed his skull against a rock.
The fourth man had fled, kicking his poor animal so hard it lurched forward, foaming at the mouth as he dragged on the reins in his panic. He looked back at the fight and seemed, for a moment, to think he was getting away.
Clover’s shot through his forehead ended that delusion. She only ever needed the one.
As Kazu withdrew his magic from Sugata, Clover repacked the rifle. She checked it over as she did, careful of the parts that would still be hot to the touch. Satisfied it was properly stowed, she climbed back down the hill. Arlo had brought their animals around, smiling peaceably at everyone. He always did his best to lighten the mood when he could. Sable looked like he always did after these skirmishes: slightly sickened.
Kazu was pale, but seemed pleased the fight was over. Sei was silent at his side, a warm and steadying hand between the boy’s shoulders. Sugata was covered in blood, again. Sometimes it seemed like she bathed in it.
“Sable,” Clover said. “Tell her where the river is.”
Sugata’s face softened; somewhere, deep in there, Clover knew a human girl existed. And even if no one else saw it, it was still there. It was still enough to remind her of another time, another place, another girl, when the same rules of kill-live-kill applied.
Clover smelled of flint and gunpowder; Sugata smelled of sweat and blood. They both had dirty hands.
“Thank you,” Sugata said. Clover didn’t answer; she merely nodded her head.
Clover didn’t like her. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t help her survive.
[Title] Remember
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Slight gore; brief descriptions of violence; reference to TBI
[Notes] After the Western Quiet War, Book 1
[Summary] Arlo remembers some things better than others.
Arlo lost count, after a while. He’d tried to remember them all, faces with names, names with faces, round and round as face after face and name after name disappeared. The first ones hurt the most; Kendall, Charlie, Hannah. Then Matthew-or was it Michael? Maria, or Mary, or Marta…
Losing track was the hardest. He realized that as many people as he knew, and more, were never coming back. They were gone, and would stay gone, and someday their faces would fade as thoroughly as their names had.
“Sergeant Courtney,” Peter-Paul? said, reaching out with a bloody hand. “Courtney, please.”
This part wasn’t real. He knew it wasn’t; dreams always felt different from the real thing. He wasn’t afraid in the dreams. He was many things, but never fear. He knew what happened next. He knew that his hand wouldn’t reach Paul-Patrick? He knew he would be forced to leave, to keep walking, to let that man die because there wasn’t time to stop.
Arlo Courtney had a great appreciation for time, these days. When he woke up in the dark, in the middle of the night, he didn’t look at his watch. He never needed to. He could feel the hour like a sixth sense with astonishing accuracy. He would sit up at four, kick off the blanket at four-twelve, pad downstairs at four-sixteen.
And at four-twenty, he sat down on the back porch, looking out over the garden and smoke. On the field, it had been cigarettes, as many as a man could smoke without immediately dying from it. But he’d never liked the tar, or the paper burning away. It felt brief, and when his entire existence had a distinct ‘brief’ quality to it, he had to just deal with it. Now, he had the time to tap out the tobacco and put it in the pipe. It was a nice one, more than he could probably afford at the time he received it, and his fingers had worn a miniscule groove around the bowl.
At four-thrity, give or take five minutes, Clover joined him. She wasn’t quite as punctual, but she hadn’t needed to be. Precision took an entirely new meaning for her.
“It’s going to kill you,” she always said when she sat down.
“Hasn’t yet,” he responded. She sighed, tucking her feet up under her. She was wearing a shawl; it wasn’t that cold, halfway through May, but Clover seemed perpetually chilled. In the winter, she’d come down with an entire down duvet wrapped around her. They sat in silence for a while, Arlo smoking and Clover waking up, until eventually one of them began.
“Henry Washer,” Clover started. “Short. Really short, maybe this high in boots.” She gestured out in front of her; it was indeed a low stature. “He was a decent shot, but he wasn’t good at a quick reload.” She paused, picking her words. Clover was careful with words, especially with Arlo. “That’s when he got hit, of course. He dropped his powder. They tapped him right here, smack in the middle.” She tapped her forehead with one finger before letting her hand fall to her lap.
“Carol Remmington,” Arlo said. “She was noisy, always shouting about something. Everything made her mad; dirt, cold, hot, loud, quiet, dry, wet-it never mattered. She always had an opinion that she made sure everyone within spitting distance knew. Her horse bucked her into a river on a jump and she smashed her head on the rocks. Drowned before we even caught the horse.”
Clover snorted. Sometimes laughter was the only response they could muster. Crying hadn’t ever helped, that was for sure.
“Do you remember-what was her name? She had the two eyes, one green and one blue,” Clover asked, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. Arlo watched the pale line of her throat, his smoke curling around her delicately.
“Sienna?” he suggested. “Sienna-“
“Marshall,” Clover finished for him. “That woman. That woman.”
“The horses liked her well enough,” Arlo said diplomatically. Clover growled.
“Horses like anyone with a sugar cube,” she said. “They’re no judge of character.”
“They like you,” Arlo chuckled.”
“Except Daisy,” Clover reminded him. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
“For what?” he asked innocently. She reached out and flicked his forehead between the eyes. She did that a lot; usually he deserved it. For Daisy, he definitely deserved it.
“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “Daisy and Clover. It was perfect.”
“Cute,” Clover said blandly. “Real cute. Of course, it didn’t matter she had the sourest temperament known to man and beast.”
“Aw, that’s not fair,” Arlo said. He tapped his pipe, shaking the leaves around. “She had her moments.”
“That horse ran me into tree branches like she was aiming for them. How many times did I get knocked clear off? How many, Arlo?” Clover demanded.
“I don’t know,” Arlo said quietly. “I don’t remember.”
There was a lot he didn’t remember. There was more he would probably forget. After the fall, Clover dragged him free of most of it, but she couldn’t help the swelling on his brain. She couldn’t help the clot. She couldn’t bring back the parts of his mind that were dead, forever.
She couldn’t give him back that time.
“You weren’t even there,” Clover said, gentle. “Daisy was an angel for you. She was probably bucking me to run off to you anyway, that clopping little trollop.”
Arlo looked at her.
“I gave her my damn apples, Arlo,” she informed him. “My apples.”
“Horses aren’t generally inclined towards appreciating the sacrifices their masters make for them,” Arlo told her. “Mostly they want a gentle hand and a sweet now and then.”
He remembered the horses better than the people. He wasn’t sure what that said about him; he’d come back to the animals the soonest. People were hard at the beginning, when he was still putting himself back together. It was hard to meet people and wonder if they’d already met, or say something and wonder if he’d said it already. It was a good month before he could consistently determine what day it was. Slowly, oh so slowly, his senses returned. His precision for time-keeping sharpened dramatically. But days felt longer than they used to. Each day was a little bit longer than the last one, made more obvious by the spaces where other things used to be.
“They always liked you best,” Clover said, and Arlo knew she was telling him the truth. “Horses, dogs, cats-even the pigs liked you best.”
Arlo’s pipe was empty of all but ash. He tapped it out against the side of the porch. Clover stood when he did, and for a moment they looked each other in the eye.
“Goodnight, Clo.” Thanks.
“’Night,” she said. “Nip asked for eggs for breakfast, so work your magic on those hens. We need every egg we can get to feed that kid.”
Arlo nodded agreeably as Clover passed him, moving back down the hall to her room. Arlo watched her go.
He knew, no matter where he went, no matter how much time passed, no matter no matter no matter what, he would never forget that woman.
It was a good thing; she’d probably flick a hole in his forehead if his memory so much as fluttered. He went back to his room. The ghosts wouldn’t come back tonight. Tonight he’d dream of smoke around Clover’s throat, the ash on the porch, and the warm feeling of having the time to sit back and appreciate still being alive.
[Title] Blood
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Slight gore. Allusions to physical abuse.
[Notes] The 27th War of Heirs, Book 2
[Summary] Kazuya is used to blood.
Kazuya had always dreamed in blood.
When he was young, small and safe in his mother’s arms, blood wasn’t scary. It was strangely familiar and slightly unsettling, but he wasn’t afraid of it. Somehow the warmth of the blood in his veins reminded him of her. It was a gentle thumping in his ears, a heartbeat following a heartbeat.
Then she was gone, and he was a heartbeat alone.
The cuts on his skin bled freely, each slice and scar painting blood on his skin in a gruesome design. Each bruise was a dark collection of gore beneath his skin. That man tore him to pieces, night after night, day after day, year after year. Blood was all around him and the only respite came from the darkness when he closed his eyes. Even then, it flowed across his unconscious vision.
Sei saved him from all of that; blood had no place with Sei. Sei was soft bandages and gentle balms and warm hands around his. Sei was clean, safe, healed. But in the quiet of the night, the blood returned to him. It tinted his dreams a gory red and his nightmares haunted him with open wounds.
Sugata brought the blood with her. She opened his skin and pulled out his heart, bleeding him of power he didn’t know he had. She turned his weakness into magic, and he learned to manipulate each pounding of his heart into a whip, a blade, a shield.
Now, he lived in blood.
[Title] Home
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Allusions to physical abuse.
[Notes] After Kazuya's rescue, Book 1
[Summary] A small boy in a big house.
The house was so big, Sei was slightly worried that Kazuya would simply be swallowed by it. As he led the boy inside, his small hand clutching tightly to Sei’s, they moved slowly around the ground level. Sei did everything slowly with Kazuya; part of him still remembered the starving, beaten child chained to a pipe underground. Kazuya was looking much healthier now, but he was still too skinny, too weak, and too afraid. Sei had spent most of the past week at the hospital, coaxing the boy into eating, sleeping, and accepting treatment. Even the latter he’d only tolerated if Sable was doing it, and that was largely because Sei assured him Sable was his friend. They’d brought him home early because it was obvious that he’d heal much better somewhere where Sei could be with him longer.
Now, looking down the hallways at the many doors, Kazuya’s death-grip on Sei’s hand tightened. Sei squeezed back in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Taking full responsibility for a child hadn’t been something he’d ever imagined happening, but Kazuya needed him in a way Sei had never experienced before. He’d never been much use to anyone before now. Rescuing Kazuya had turned into a simple release from slavery and into a responsibility to a scared, fragile person.
“This is the parlor,” Sei explained, pointing with his freehand. He spoke Eastern; Kazuya had proved himself fluent in Western before, but the trauma of nearly dying had locked away his words somewhere in his heart. He responded better to Eastern. Sei was a bit rusty, but Kazuya didn’t seem to mind.
“That way is the kitchen and Clover’s room,” he continued, “and Arlo’s room is up the back stairway on the left.” Kazuya turned his head, looking up at Sei. His black eye was still purple and yellow, an ugly sign of what he’d been through in the last two weeks. His slow, almost tortured gait spoke to the broken ribs and gradually recovering dislocated knee. His expression beneath the injuries was inquisitive and alert, something Sei took as a good sign.
“The library is past the parlor; the offices are there too.” Kazuya limped a little, occasionally gritting his teeth. He was obviously in pain, but he’d refused to be carried. Sei wasn’t sure if it was pride or stubbornness, but either way he thought Kazuya had earned both those traits at this point. He had adjusted to the change from subservience to independence quite significantly in such a short time; Sable had suggested they encourage Kazuya to have his own emotions and decisions. It seemed important to make sure he had free agency, considering the horrors of the past.
“Up the stairs now,” Sei said. He put one arm behind Kazuya’s back to help him climb; Kazuya allowed the touch without complaint. He never fought Sei the way he did the doctors at the hospital and even Sable on occasion. It seemed as if he put Sei in an entirely separate category from the rest of the world. Sei was allowed to touch, always, without hesitation.
“Here’s Sable’s room, and that’s my room,” Sei said, pointing out each door. “And this one’s yours.” They opened the door to a cozy room with a fluffy bed and small desk and chair. “Your bathroom is through that door. Everyone has their own; it’s not very efficient, but it is convenient for us.”
Kazuya looked around the room. He appeared to be evaluating it quite critically; he tugged Sei towards the bed, seemingly unwilling to let go of his hand. Kazuya patted the fluffy blankets, pressing harder and harder with each pat. After it continued to puff back up, he dropped his free hand.
Sei reached into his pocket and pulled out two small keys. He held them out to Kazuya.
“This one is for this room-your room. You can lock it whenever you like. You don’t have to let anyone in if you don’t want to. This is space is just for you from now on.”
Kazuya looked at him, eyes wide in astonishment. Privacy was a new concept for him, apparently.
“And this one... this one is my room,” Sei said softly. “I don’t usually lock it, so you probably won’t need it. I just ask that if it is locked, you knock first. Sometimes people need to be alone; it’s not that I don’t want you around.”
Kazuya took the keys, feeling the weight of them in his open palm.
“I know you have those dreams,” Sei explained, “and that’s why I’m giving it to you. If you need me, you can come to me. If I’m not around for some reason, you can go to anyone here. We all want to help you, okay?”
Kazuya looked at his bed, then back at the keys. His face turned upwards.
“Sei,” he said softly. It was the only word he seemed to be able to say right now; it was the only word he’d used in the past two weeks. Even through that one word, Sei understood.
“Welcome home, Kazu,” he said warmly.
[Title] Dream
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG-13
[Warnings] Slight gore.
[Notes] The 27th War of Heirs, Book 2
[Summary] Sugata rests.
Sometimes exhaustion got the better of her. She slumped in the corner of the old boxcar, dumping her bag next to her in a careless heap. She hadn’t slept properly in at least three days; if she had a choice, she wouldn’t sleep tonight either. But Sugata knew better than to push herself that far. It never ended well.
She would have preferred something a bit more secure than this rusty box, but it wasn’t moving anytime soon judging by the saplings springing up from the tracks in front of it. The smell heavily implied it was a frequent stopping point for transients, most of who didn’t bathe. One corner almost certainly served as a toilet for most of them. She tried to sit as far away from it as she could.
Sugata’s head hit the wall behind her with a soft thunk. She could barely keep her eyes open anymore. It was getting cold; was winter coming again? So soon? She hadn’t gotten any closer to Him, or at least not enough for her to feel remotely optimistic. He was always ten steps ahead of her, and even after all these years, she hadn’t been able to catch up.
She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, but the dream set in immediately.
Running. The ground was hard and she was barefoot. The rocks bit into her soles, tearing her skin. But she couldn’t stop. He was ahead of her; she could feel it. He pulled on her soul, tugging harder and harder. The faster she ran, the stronger the pull became.
“Kazuya!” she shouted, reaching out ahead of her. He was there; He was right there! Her skin was crawling. Her feet were bleeding now, gory red streaks in her footprints. She realized with a sick roll of her stomach that someone was following her. She was leaving them an easy trail, that was sure.
“Kaz-Kazuya!” her voice was a desperate cry now, ripping out of her lungs. The unthinkable happened: she tripped. She fell hard, the skin on her knees and palms ripping open on the rough ground. She never fell, not once, not after so many years of training, but now she hadHim. She had to stop it. She pressed her palms together hard, hoping to stem the flow, but it wouldn’t stop.
And He wasn’t stopping either.
“Kazuya! Kazuya!” she shrieked as he disappeared from her senses. She couldn’t stand anymore; her legs didn’t work. She was dizzy from loss of blood. The thing chasing her was closing in, but she couldn’t get up.
She was dying, and He was gone.
She jerked forwards, awakened by her own scream. She ripped the gloves off her hands, spreading her palms open wide in the moonlight.
Calloused, but uninjured. Her heart was still pounding and every muscle in her body was screaming at her to run, flee-but there was nothing to run from. Not now, anyway. The dream faded into the dark walls of the boxcar.
Sugata had to find Him. Soon.
[Title] Number 12
[Author] honooko
[Rating] R
[Warnings] Slight gore, references to severe physical abuse, allusions to sexual abuse.
[Notes] Before the rescue, Book 1
[Summary] Kazuya is going to die here.
Kazuya was cold. He was also hungry, thirsty, and in pain. The pain wasn’t new, and if he was truly honest, hungry wasn’t either. If he was good, Master let him eat twice. Most days, he wasn’t good.
He wasn’t entirely sure what ‘good’ meant anymore. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever known.
The cold steel biting into his wrists had gone from painful to numb and back again. He’d struggled at first, hoping either the cuffs or the rusted pipe would give way, but that turned out to be a futile endeavor. All it did was tear the skin around his wrists hard enough to bleed sluggishly. But like all his bloody injuries, it clotted up and scabbed before the day was out. He wondered if it would scar like all the others, or if he’d die before that happened.
He’d been left here to die, after all.
Kazuya was curled up in a ball, trying to pretend that helped with the permanent, bone-aching cold that had settled in his body. He never had warm clothes, but anything was better than the bare skin exposed now. He closed his eyes, even though it was too dark to really see anyway. He tried to remember.
Sei… Sei had been kindness. Sei had promised him so much that Kazuya knew better than to believe.
“I’ll come back for you,” he’d said. “We’ll walk out of this place together.”
Such a beautiful, kind lie. The very next night, Master found out that Kazuya ‘hadn’t been generous’. Kazuya was no expert, but he knew better than to call what the Master demanded of him ‘generosity’. Generous implied a choice that Kazuya never had. It implied a certain level of willingness, concern for others, desire to please. He supposed the last point could be argued, but he never wanted to please for the sake of others; he wanted to please to avoid another beating.
He didn’t escape this one. Master had shouted worse than ever, knocking him down and kicking, over and over until his ribs cracked and his head ached. At least one knee was dislocated; worse than all of that was what he did at the end-what he always did, eventually. It hurt more than ever before, thanks to the additional injuries.
Sei had let him sleep in the bed. It was so soft and warm. Kazuya tried to pretend he was there now, covered in a fluffy down duvet and cradled by a mountain of pillows. It almost worked; he could almost feel it. He stopped shivering, but he had the brief thought that perhaps that wasn’t a good sign. Instead, he felt the shock of Sei sleeping on the sofa in the room, instead of with Kazuya in that massive bed. Kazuya didn’t know how many people had used him, but he knew that Sei was the first to refuse. Kazuya had thought all people were simply cruel; it occurred to him that night that maybe it was just everyone that knew his master was cruel. That seemed to make more sense, even if his personal evidence didn’t entirely support it.
It didn’t matter now though, because he was dying. Breathing was so hard, almost as hard as staying awake. He drifted in and out of consciousness. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, but he was thirsty enough to assume it had been two or three days. There was no light in the cellar, so he had no way to measure the passing of time. He’d heard once that dying of thirst happened quickly compared to dying of hunger; he didn’t really care how long it took, only that hopefully the faster one hurt less. He already hurt so much. It was hard to imagine he could hurt any more.
“I’ll come back for you,” Sei-in-his-memory said again, and Kazuya wanted to believe him. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He knew better. Too many years of this made him the ultimate fatalist. He’d known right from the start that someday, Master would get sick of him. Someday, it would be Kazuya under the flowerbeds in the garden. Jenna called him “number 12” because she knew it too. It didn’t matter what his name was. Someday, he’d get too old. Kazuya had outlived his predecessors by sheer genetic luck up until a few years before. He always looked younger than he was, but Kazuya never knew whether that was a blessing or a curse. It felt like a curse. Even lying on the dirt floor like this felt like something he’d almost been looking forward to. Dead boys didn’t hurt. Dead boys didn’t suffer. Dead boys got to rest, forever.
Wasn’t that better?
“I’ll come back for you,” Sei said with that look on his face. He was making promises he couldn’t keep, and Kazuya knew that. But for one short night, someone cared about him. Someone was sad he was the way he was. Someone gave a damn.
No one gave a damn. Kazuya already knew that. But at least for one night, he got to pretend.
It was getting harder and harder to stay awake. Sometimes he thought he saw his mother, in the corner of his eye. He’d jerk his head sideways, trying to catch her, but she wasn’t there. It was just darkness, the smell of soil and bags of vegetables. Jenna hadn’t come down for them; Master must have warned her to stock up. He hoped his corpse ruined them. Jenna had never beat him, but she’d never stopped Master from doing it. “Eat silently, number 12,” she’d said, pushing bowls of tasteless gruel at him. Sometimes he got the bones from Master’s steaks and roasts, but usually he had to fight the dogs for them. Most days he lost.
How long would Master wait before buying number 13? Not long, probably. He was bad at waiting for things-no, more like he hated waiting for things. Number 11 had only been dead a week when Master bought Kazuya, according to Jenna. Sometimes Kazuya would sneak outside and talk to them, number 1 through 11. He asked them if they felt better now, buried beneath the flowers? Were they happy now? Would they be happy when he joined them?
There was a clattering over his head. Jenna must have run out of vegetables. He knew she wouldn’t help him; she probably wouldn’t even look at him. Jenna was different from the numbers; Jenna was free. She could leave, if she really wanted to. Master was kind to Jenna, or at least as kind as he was capable of being. He still slapped her sometimes, but nothing worse. She was too old for him to want the other things.
The door to the cellar opened, but Kazuya didn’t open his eyes. They were too heavy. He was cold, but he’d stopped noticing how hungry and thirsty he was. He thought he heard voices; numbers 1 through 11? Were they coming for him at last?
Was it finally, finally all over?
“Shit,” one of the voices said. “He’s in here! Bring a blanket!”
Kazuya was so, so tired. A blanket sounded nice. He could feel it being wrapped around him; he heard a clink; the steel around his wrists released.
Stop, he thought desperately. I’m not dead yet. Let me die first.
“Kazuya?” a man’s voice said, and he sounded... like he cared. Opening his eyes was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he did it. He looked up, towards the voice. The light coming in from the open door left his face in shadow, and Kazuya squinted.
“Oh god,” the man said. “What the hell happened?”
There was something there. Something warm, worried. Something familiar.
“You came back for me?” Kazuya asked. Sei’s arms around him were gentle; he’d seen the bruises and newly-scabbed cuts.
“I said I would,” Sei told him. “I meant it.”
Kazuya wanted to thank him. He wanted to hug him, to shout, to be happy. But he was still so tired. All he could manage was turning over very, very slowly and burying his face in Sei’s collar.
And for the first time in years, he wept.