Part V.
V
Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck fuck fuck fuck.
The halls resonated with the dull thuds of weighted boots as Kirihara left the washroom, uniform freshly changed and hands and face still damp from the wash basin. It's been such a long time since his hands were clean, but no amount of washing could ever remove the stains. Kirihara strode away as fast as his legs could carry them without breaking into actual run, keeping his head down and fists clenched deep in his pants pockets until he was back in his quarters. He didn't have his own room, but of the three others he shared with, two were mercifully out and the third he hadn't seen for over two weeks now, desk still littered with ration wrappers and familiar memoirs holding the place against replacement. He collapsed headfirst onto his bed, but as exhausted as he was, he wouldn't be able to sleep. From now on, he wouldn't be allowed to either.
He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing his knees up to his chest and holding his forehead against his knees. Of all the stupid things he's ever done, that was it. That was the one that was going to get him killed in the end, even after the miracle that was the key to his cell and no one who shot him down when he stuck a foot out of the doorway before his body so that he could test for ambush. And then he had been called up. The Trial that he asked for, and Yukimura provided.
Here's the chance to prove your loyalty.
And he messed up. He was messed up. It was only Hyoutei. Hyoutei who he had sworn his life to defeat and wipe from the face of the planet, one who, just minutes ago, he had wanted nothing better but to break by his own hands, to suffer the pure hatred and vengeance for insulting the one who… The one…
The one who what?
The one who broke Hiyoshi's leg for trying to escape, but that was justified, wasn't it? Kirihara saw what happened to those guards, knew how much damage the Hyoutei captive could do, that even someone so out of his league shouldn't risk. But Yukimura was always so kind, so polite, never giving anybody a reason to hate him or dislike him. That was civility that he showed Hiyoshi, Kirihara told himself, but to use another's death in such a way… "It was justified," he mouthed into the sheets, burying deeper and tasting stale breath and salt. To choose between a Traitor he had just met and his captain that he had followed near his entire life, it was supposed to have been an easy decision. It was a simple decision. There really was only one choice to begin with, how could he have ever doubted? How could he have thought otherwise? …How could he have done what he did?
The sword was heavy in his hands, smelling of organic iron, faint trails of browning red streaked across the surface where it hadn't been wiped cleanly. The last person whose hands closed around the hilt, his image burnt in Kirihara's mind. The sword served its reminder well, as did the blood it spilt, flakes spilling onto his hands as he raised the blade before him, eyes cast down at the bowed head before him. Slowly it rose, and the weapon kept pace, drawn above his shoulder and slicing straight through the air, like a spear, stabbing twice into the gut before the body keeled and fell, unmoving. He had even been cautious in his demonstration. He only needed one-- on the battlefield, sometimes once was the only chance you got, and there was no need for another when he had all the vital points of the body committed to memory so well they alone were reflex, one blow and the entire system shut down, life bleeding out onto his shoes.
Two clean wounds. And no vital organs.
Yukimura would definitely realize-- No. He probably already knew. He had used up his second offence, maybe his third or his forth or however many times he had failed Yukimura, this was his last one. There was no way he would be allowed another.
Tearing his face away from his bed, Kirihara rolled over and swung his legs over the edge, shoving bare feet into his boots. If Yukimura knew, then his time here was up. He wouldn't be allowed to serve under the man so great he had looked up to for so many years; he was a liability. Dead feet shuffled to the door; he didn't look back, didn't have anything to take with him. Hiyoshi, for all the lies he was full of, had been true to his word in getting him out of the cell; it was up to Kirihara to take himself the rest of the way. His hands, stained red, closed upon the door handle for the last time. He sighed as the bolt engaged and clicked open, turned the handle, pulled.
A scrap of paper slipped from in between the frame, floating to the ground, innocent.
Ten long seconds Kirihara stared down at the floor. Eventually, he knelt and picked it up, but shoved it in his pocket without even looking at it. If he was being dismissed, he didn't need something so impersonal as a piece of paper telling him his service was no longer needed. He could show himself out.
The corridor was deserted when he walked through; it might have been late, but he had no idea what time it was, with no windows and artificial lighting bleaching every corner of the base no matter the time of day, keeping everyone alert and awake, ready to fight at a moment's notice. He almost missed confinement, of the peace and quiet and being able to sleep whenever and however long he wanted... but then there were the voices and the memories and he wouldn't be able to sleep anyways. And the quiet became too quiet. It was white here too, but not the unfriendly white of the prison. It was a clean white, like the snow up in the mountains he had trained several months in. Here and there, things were gilded gold, casting the building in almost a royal light, if Kirihara didn't know the only reason gold was used was because it had become dirt cheap, too soft to be of any use in more important things, like the weapons and machinery that the bulk of their metal went into.
"Gold, the color of Champions," he said to himself, fingers trailing across the wall as he walked. When did he become useless? The thought sat badly with him. He would have loved nothing but to prove his worth to Yukimura, but he had no way to do that, not anymore. He kicked at the floor, his shoes wet. Slowing to a halt before he slipped, Kirihara tried to collect himself the way Yanagi had showed him once. He pressed his hands over his eyes, brought them back dry, and looked up to where he had stopped. A trail of water crept out from underneath the door: the washroom. It was where he had just come from, the floor still damp and spots of red peppering the mirrors and walls where he hadn't bothered to wipe off. He walked inside. There was no privacy, even in the bathrooms, but here was where he could stand under a hot spray and wish the water could wash away more than just dirt and sweat. He was going to leave himself, but there was no hurry. He could enjoy one last soak in the tub, take as long as he wanted without worrying about alarms blaring and the squad pulling him away, and his face could be wet and everything would be all right.
Water filled the tub, murky grey to clear as it ran through, and then he plugged the drain and let the water rise. Clothes puddled the tile as he shed them, feeling lighter layer by layer, never realizing just how much weight the uniform held against his back, his heart. And then he stood bare, eyes up at the half mirror hanging over the sink. He had never thought himself as particularly handsome; even into his early twenties, he retained something of a baby face. But seeing himself now, he looked older than ever, for all the times he had teased Sanada of the same and worse. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, hair wild and unruly, as if protesting any association with the rest of his head. He forced a smile, wondering what that felt like, felt the muscles pull the sides of his mouth taut, and then drop, sighed.
The water lapped over his head, his entire body enveloped in scalding water save for his knees, which poked up just above the surface, bent inside the too-small tub. His breath bubbled up to the surface as he let it out, his chest free of the pressure, and then uncomfortably so. He sat up slightly, nose breaking the surface so that his lungs may fill, empty, fill.
He closed his eyes.
Slept.
Part VI.
Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck fuck fuck fuck.
The halls resonated with the dull thuds of weighted boots as Kirihara left the washroom, uniform freshly changed and hands and face still damp from the wash basin. It's been such a long time since his hands were clean, but no amount of washing could ever remove the stains. Kirihara strode away as fast as his legs could carry them without breaking into actual run, keeping his head down and fists clenched deep in his pants pockets until he was back in his quarters. He didn't have his own room, but of the three others he shared with, two were mercifully out and the third he hadn't seen for over two weeks now, desk still littered with ration wrappers and familiar memoirs holding the place against replacement. He collapsed headfirst onto his bed, but as exhausted as he was, he wouldn't be able to sleep. From now on, he wouldn't be allowed to either.
He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing his knees up to his chest and holding his forehead against his knees. Of all the stupid things he's ever done, that was it. That was the one that was going to get him killed in the end, even after the miracle that was the key to his cell and no one who shot him down when he stuck a foot out of the doorway before his body so that he could test for ambush. And then he had been called up. The Trial that he asked for, and Yukimura provided.
Here's the chance to prove your loyalty.
And he messed up. He was messed up. It was only Hyoutei. Hyoutei who he had sworn his life to defeat and wipe from the face of the planet, one who, just minutes ago, he had wanted nothing better but to break by his own hands, to suffer the pure hatred and vengeance for insulting the one who… The one…
The one who what?
The one who broke Hiyoshi's leg for trying to escape, but that was justified, wasn't it? Kirihara saw what happened to those guards, knew how much damage the Hyoutei captive could do, that even someone so out of his league shouldn't risk. But Yukimura was always so kind, so polite, never giving anybody a reason to hate him or dislike him. That was civility that he showed Hiyoshi, Kirihara told himself, but to use another's death in such a way… "It was justified," he mouthed into the sheets, burying deeper and tasting stale breath and salt. To choose between a Traitor he had just met and his captain that he had followed near his entire life, it was supposed to have been an easy decision. It was a simple decision. There really was only one choice to begin with, how could he have ever doubted? How could he have thought otherwise? …How could he have done what he did?
The sword was heavy in his hands, smelling of organic iron, faint trails of browning red streaked across the surface where it hadn't been wiped cleanly. The last person whose hands closed around the hilt, his image burnt in Kirihara's mind. The sword served its reminder well, as did the blood it spilt, flakes spilling onto his hands as he raised the blade before him, eyes cast down at the bowed head before him. Slowly it rose, and the weapon kept pace, drawn above his shoulder and slicing straight through the air, like a spear, stabbing twice into the gut before the body keeled and fell, unmoving. He had even been cautious in his demonstration. He only needed one-- on the battlefield, sometimes once was the only chance you got, and there was no need for another when he had all the vital points of the body committed to memory so well they alone were reflex, one blow and the entire system shut down, life bleeding out onto his shoes.
Two clean wounds. And no vital organs.
Yukimura would definitely realize-- No. He probably already knew. He had used up his second offence, maybe his third or his forth or however many times he had failed Yukimura, this was his last one. There was no way he would be allowed another.
Tearing his face away from his bed, Kirihara rolled over and swung his legs over the edge, shoving bare feet into his boots. If Yukimura knew, then his time here was up. He wouldn't be allowed to serve under the man so great he had looked up to for so many years; he was a liability. Dead feet shuffled to the door; he didn't look back, didn't have anything to take with him. Hiyoshi, for all the lies he was full of, had been true to his word in getting him out of the cell; it was up to Kirihara to take himself the rest of the way. His hands, stained red, closed upon the door handle for the last time. He sighed as the bolt engaged and clicked open, turned the handle, pulled.
A scrap of paper slipped from in between the frame, floating to the ground, innocent.
Ten long seconds Kirihara stared down at the floor. Eventually, he knelt and picked it up, but shoved it in his pocket without even looking at it. If he was being dismissed, he didn't need something so impersonal as a piece of paper telling him his service was no longer needed. He could show himself out.
The corridor was deserted when he walked through; it might have been late, but he had no idea what time it was, with no windows and artificial lighting bleaching every corner of the base no matter the time of day, keeping everyone alert and awake, ready to fight at a moment's notice. He almost missed confinement, of the peace and quiet and being able to sleep whenever and however long he wanted... but then there were the voices and the memories and he wouldn't be able to sleep anyways. And the quiet became too quiet. It was white here too, but not the unfriendly white of the prison. It was a clean white, like the snow up in the mountains he had trained several months in. Here and there, things were gilded gold, casting the building in almost a royal light, if Kirihara didn't know the only reason gold was used was because it had become dirt cheap, too soft to be of any use in more important things, like the weapons and machinery that the bulk of their metal went into.
"Gold, the color of Champions," he said to himself, fingers trailing across the wall as he walked. When did he become useless? The thought sat badly with him. He would have loved nothing but to prove his worth to Yukimura, but he had no way to do that, not anymore. He kicked at the floor, his shoes wet. Slowing to a halt before he slipped, Kirihara tried to collect himself the way Yanagi had showed him once. He pressed his hands over his eyes, brought them back dry, and looked up to where he had stopped. A trail of water crept out from underneath the door: the washroom. It was where he had just come from, the floor still damp and spots of red peppering the mirrors and walls where he hadn't bothered to wipe off. He walked inside. There was no privacy, even in the bathrooms, but here was where he could stand under a hot spray and wish the water could wash away more than just dirt and sweat. He was going to leave himself, but there was no hurry. He could enjoy one last soak in the tub, take as long as he wanted without worrying about alarms blaring and the squad pulling him away, and his face could be wet and everything would be all right.
Water filled the tub, murky grey to clear as it ran through, and then he plugged the drain and let the water rise. Clothes puddled the tile as he shed them, feeling lighter layer by layer, never realizing just how much weight the uniform held against his back, his heart. And then he stood bare, eyes up at the half mirror hanging over the sink. He had never thought himself as particularly handsome; even into his early twenties, he retained something of a baby face. But seeing himself now, he looked older than ever, for all the times he had teased Sanada of the same and worse. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, hair wild and unruly, as if protesting any association with the rest of his head. He forced a smile, wondering what that felt like, felt the muscles pull the sides of his mouth taut, and then drop, sighed.
The water lapped over his head, his entire body enveloped in scalding water save for his knees, which poked up just above the surface, bent inside the too-small tub. His breath bubbled up to the surface as he let it out, his chest free of the pressure, and then uncomfortably so. He sat up slightly, nose breaking the surface so that his lungs may fill, empty, fill.
He closed his eyes.
Slept.
Part VI.