the road to nameless liberty: prologue
a/n: hi. i guess i'm back?? if you're willing to take me /shot. so here's my attempt at not being a completely horrible, irresponsible writer. the usuals: a large helping of uruha/reita with a dash of extravagant ruki and a sidedish of kai/aoi.
the road to nameless liberty
prologue: old cassettes, cigarette butts
The rain is a tinny chorus of pitter-patters on the worn asphalt, which sinks into the occasional pothole every five meters or so, and the city is cloaked in heavy smog. The foggy spirit of Kouyou’s breath escapes the captivity of chapped lips and a chipped front tooth to mingle with the seasonal decoration that clouds uptown Tokyo, and cars speed past, their wheels a low hum as they burn into the well-worn road, regardless of grey skies and lost boys inhaling distilled nicotine. The passive traffic, much less busy on a Sunday at 5 AM than a Saturday at 11 PM, acts as the bass line to the crowded urban soundtrack, a mix of industrial noises and seagull cries, and he thinks the latter is his imagination because they’re not close enough to the sea for those. The muffled ruckus coming from the party inside, still raunchy and vivacious, suddenly triples in volume and Takanori’s ribcage-wracking scream pounds Kouyou’s eardrums like a mallet to the skull.
The weighty metal door clinches close behind Akira as his battered Converses hit the cement and he joins Kouyou in his early-bird people watching, although pedestrians are scarce at this hour, and with the shitty weather, it feels closer to stalking a graveyard for stranded ghosts. He huddles an inch away from Kouyou, their arms almost brushing, as if he was uncertain what body language to communicate to signal he’s cold, and Kouyou bites back the urge to shrug off his jacket and pull it over Akira’s scrawny shoulders. The guy needs to eat more, he thinks, and makes note to pile the meat on Akira’s side the next time they go for yakiniku (which is never, because he’s got a notice for three months of overdue rent hidden under his doormat and he doesn’t want Sana to freak when she finds out).
“It’s cold right now,” Kouyou grunts instead, instinctively averting his eyes when he catches Akira’s flinch, since when do these telltale movements, so easily belittled, hurt him? “Go get something to wear.”
“I’m alright,” the stubborn bastard insists, even as the fingers around his forearm clench tighter and he’s nearly visibly shaking, goosebumps surging on his imperfect skin.
Kouyou sighs and, because he isn’t a man of reason (unlike Yutaka) and gives up on reasoning after the first try, slides the leather jacket off himself to chuck it, in the most impersonal manner he can manage, at Akira’s head. Considering his tendency to morph into a sentimental sap whenever his childhood friend is concerned, the action looks borderline affectionate.
They stay this way for the next quarter-hour, until Yuu bursts out of the noisy club and loudly proclaims they’re about to bust open the champagne-which is pretty late, the tradition being to pop the bottles before the christening after-party begins-his eager invitation accompanied by wide arcs of arm movement. His over-gelled hair and cheeks are dusted in glitter, his eyeliner is smudged, and his shirt is soaked in what Kouyou deduces by the abominable smell is glow stick fluid. Akira can’t help the giggle-snort-fit that overtakes him and Kouyou rolls his eyes; the sight is a little endearing, he’ll admit. It’s not often they see Yuu fling the steering wheel out the window and unbuckle his barriers and strongholds. He’s goofy, but only with them. Kouyou isn’t sure if he’ll miss the exclusivity, if he’ll regret not cherishing it, or if he’s glad Yuu is opening up.
“Taka will have your heads if you aren’t in here for his speech,” says the older boy-and they’re still boys, he thinks, breathes, wishes, for a bit longer please-and the door falls shut once again when Yuu ducks into the club, all the while giving them his disturbing eyebrow waggle as a final warning.
“We should get inside, then,” Akira says, unable to wipe off the smile on his face as he turns to look Kouyou in the eye, something he hasn’t done in a long time, and Kouyou feels as though he’s let out the lungful poison he’s been holding inside his chest cavity for weeks.
“Akira,” he calls, and his friend pauses in his steps, hand outstretched towards the slightly rusted handle. “We need to end this.”
Akira turns around, slowly, spins like a dysfunctional ballerina mounted atop a tone-deaf music box, but with more confidence than Kouyou could ever inspire in him, and when had they moved from clumsy goalie and team captain to popular cool guy and invisible softie? Akira had always been the one standing on his own two feet, sometimes pulling Kouyou upright when his went under, and Kouyou had always been the starry-eyed admirer, thirsting for the slimmest morsel of attention.
When had that changed?
When had they changed?
“What are you talking about?” replies Akira, rescuing Kouyou from his dark waters and the twisted, cruel semantics of his conscience. “Did I do something wrong?”
The panic that inscribes itself in Akira’s eyes, dilates his pupils and takes residence in his sad, arched brows, feels like a knife through his heart, bleeds through his black, polluted veins, and a startling thought sends lightning-white shockwaves through each nerve in Kouyou’s brain-
You’re the one that changed. You’re the one that changed him. You’re the dirty one.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he murmurs, self-hatred biting at his flesh like rabid dogs. Their venom should seep into his cells and burn him away like garbage, like discarded marionettes, he’s a horrible person and he doesn’t deserve Akira’s sunlight.
“I’m sorry, Akira, but I can’t date someone I don’t love. I can’t kiss, fuck or cuddle with someone I don’t love.”
Akira’s shell-shocked expression is the last guilty pleasure he’ll indulge in, Kouyou swears, because he’s a sadistic fuck and he relishes whatever sliver of sentiment he can direct his way, be it fear or resentment or heart-shattering pain.
And then Akira stammers a quick, “Taka must be wondering where I went,” and every single armored wall, every single marble pillar, every fiber of resolve inside Kouyou crumbles.
The rain is a tinny chorus of pitter-patters on the worn asphalt and a hasty taxi driver swerves right to avoid a pothole, not knowing he’ll have to swerve left for the next one five meters down. Imaginary seagulls chant their early morning song while sirens drift asleep, and Shonan’s beach is at its shimmering diamond best during the summer solstice, but autumn’s sweeping in already, and it’s too late to grab a butterfly net and go catch fireflies, isn’t it?
Kouyou wonders how he got here.
His hands tremble as he attempts to dial Sana’s number, only to remember he has her on speed dial, and as the intermittent tone in the receiver drowns away the grayscale colors of this strange world he ended up in, he prays that Akira will find somebody better than him.
(There are so, so many people better than Kouyou out there. It doesn’t mean they’ll all be good enough for Akira.)
prologue end.