[ Sometimes, he thinks life behind the Port Island Station was far less hectic than whatever the hell is going on in this manor. It hasn't even been a month, and they've already had multiple murder attempts, late-night gunshots, and a pact of Central zombies meandering about after returning from their recent mission. It's no wonder he can't sleep for shit these days....not that he was doing that well enough to begin with.
He knows better than to try and sleep before a decent hour these days, so as usual, he's up and shuffling off. A midnight snack sounds good right about now, and it's train of thought that leads him to his usual haunt. His usual haunt which is, at the moment, currently occupied.
That being said, he isn't exactly surprised to see Akira. It's not the first time they've crossed streams in here, especially at this hour. The silent stare in lieu of the usual joking tone is what catches his attention.
...That, and the familiarity, which makes him twitch as he strides in slowly. ]
Gettin' a little familiar, Kurusu. [ Which is a little off, because he was calling him Aragaki just a few days ago. That being said, he also doesn't look so hot. They're not super close or anything, so it's not like he's an expert, but... ] You look like shit. Was that mission as bad as everyone made it look, or what?
[It doesn't take long for Akira to get on a first name basis with most people he considers friends, but Shinjiro... he isn't the sort of person who wants to be known. Akira respected that, jovial and joking as always, but never crossing too far over that boundary to the point where he'd anger the guy. If they become friends, they become friends. If they don't, they don't. In either scenario, Akira had enough respect for Shinjiro to meet him at his level.
The fact that he's apparently slipped up and addressed him too familiarly doesn't seem to give Akira any pause. He simply turns around, one hand innocently rubbing at his neck, and drops an empty apology.]
My bad. Didn't think you'd get so touchy over it.
[The last time Akira looked in the mirror, he was pallid, sunken-eyed, dappled with sweat. He can't look much better now, but since Shinjiro mentioned it, he'll hold up the long, serrated kitchen knife in his other hand and study his reflection in it.
Tired, dark eyes. Pale and clammy skin. On the other side of the blade, Shinjiro studies him with suspicion. How funny.
Akira lowers the knife, turning his back on Shinjiro to resume chopping carrots.]
What'd you come here for, anyway? Curry's not done, so you're going to have to wait another hour or so.
[ Truth be told, it's not like he dislikes the guy. Sure, he's got a mouth on him, and a habit of gettin' a bit too close for comfort, but all in all not the worst person to put up with. He knows his way around a stove, and he's content carrying a conversation in comparison to Shinjiro himself, so he'd say he's one of the few he doesn't mind sharing the kitchen with....or the occasional bit outside of it, if need be.
It's this something of a small rapport they have that has Shinjiro's lips pursing tight at the lack of...well, anything in that apology. He'd expect a laugh, or a wave, or a joke of some kind; the simple turn of the back isn't it. ]
Not bein' touchy. It's weird for you, though.
[ And he wasn't exaggerating when he said that. Akira does look awful. Clammy, with eyes sunken that mirror that of himself after a particularly bad nightmare. He feels he can catch a glance in the shine of that knife, and something shifts uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.
Something here ain't right. ]
I ain't eating curry at midnight. [ The kitchen is largely silent, with the slicing of the knife against the cutting board echoing in the empty space. ] I'm just grabbing something quick.
[ He lumbers past, a few cupboards down, although his eyes are stuck to Akira's back, frown playing at his lips. ]
You outta go back to bed. Handlin' a knife looking like that, you're just gonna hurt yourself.
Really? Well, your loss. Don't come crying when it's gone within a day.
[Akira can't be the only person who will gladly eat curry at midnight. With Morgana no longer around to stop him, who would? At any rate, there will be plenty left for Shinjiro if he wants to come help himself to some breakfast curry or even lunch curry later. No promises on there being enough to last for dinner, but Shinjiro might not make it that far anyway.
Akira is silent, no wisecracks or retorts. Only the steady chop, chop, chop of vegetables being sliced.]
You're staring at me.
[Akira's back is still turned to Shinjiro. Maybe that was an educated guess.]
If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried about me. I'll be fine, Aragaki, I just—!
[—nicked his thumb on the edge of the knife. It's a nasty cut at that, blood spilling down Akira's wrist and splattering on the floor. Akira doesn't move, staring down at his freshly opened wound.]
I'll eat it for lunch. Not everybody's addicted to the stuff like you are.
[ Not that he finds anything wrong with curry, of course; it's a good meal. It feeds plenty. It's versatile. But it's definitely not the type of thing he'd choose to eat at midnight...or breakfast. Like Aki, with his protein.
The lack of wisecracks just makes the uncomfortable feeling settle deeper, even as he's reaching up to dig some of the jam out of the cupboard. He was going for something else, originally, but now that someone else is cooking, he's just gonna settle for no-cook. He's in the middle of pulling a butterknife out of the drawer when Akira speaks, gaze narrowing as it whips back to the younger boy himself.
...Is he growing eyes in the back of his goddamn head?
Akira's still speaking before he has a chance to talk, but Shinjiro's already abandoning the jar on the counter as he turns to address him with a proper unimpressed glare-
Only to start at the cut off, and then the cut. ]
Oi, you idiot-! [ Other thoughts go out the window as Shinjiro promptly crosses the distance in two long stomps, abruptly gripping Akira's arm as he scans the steadily bleeding wound with a grimace. ] This is what I was talking about! Dammit, give me a second...
[ He's gonna try and push Akira closer to the sink, all while he turns his body for a split second to open the drawers for where he knows there's a set of bandages for kitchen mishaps. Perhaps he should have told him to put the knife down, but it leaves his mind for a brief moment to focus on what he thinks is more important. ]
[That's it, come here. He couldn't have asked for a better target than Shinjiro. So kind beneath that gruff exterior, so unwilling to cause pain if that pain can be avoided. It's attitudes like that that fuck a man over, and in the case of Shinjiro, this won't be the first time he learns that lesson.
One hand tightly grips the knife. The other, soiled with blood, wraps like a snare around Shinjiro's arm, Akira's strength entirely inhuman. That's going to leave a lovely bruise.]
No need. I can't wait that long.
[That split second is all it takes for Akira to sharply pull on Shinjiro's arm and guide him directly onto the business end of his knife. As it sinks into his gut, merciless and cold, Akira's words slither across the shell of his ear in a low, guttural whisper.]
I'll rid this world of every vile wizard that populates it. Mihi manducare te totum.
[Akira's lips find Shinjiro's. He bites them until they bleed. He brusquely shoves Shinjiro away, knife still dangling from his gut, and laughs. Yell or scream or curse all you like, Shinjiro. You've been rendered mute.]
[ In hindsight, maybe it was stupid to let his guard down. His hand is halfway in the cupboard when the younger boy's arm rips from his grip to clench his instead, and his head snaps at- the grip. It's strong, too strong, not when Akira is smaller than he is, and so goddamn scrawny. ]
Wh-?
[ His eyes are so dark and cold.
Kind of like the blade.
The press of Mikaela's teeth had been warm and shallow in comparison. Somewhere in those brief few seconds, he remembers last year, when he'd been on the receiving end of some punk's switchblade after an argument. That had been smaller than this one, which sinks deep and stays there. Then there's the voice against his ear, in the moment he reaches to grip the arm holding the knife in his flesh that steadily becomes hot with his own blood. Something washes over him, like pinprick needles itching beneath his skin and settling across his throat, but it doesn't shock quite as much as the lips and the teeth.
This- whatever this is- is not Akira.
He's shoved away before he can do it first, handle jutting out of his gut, and something warm spills over his tongue at the sharp stabbing pain that laces through him. He opens his mouth, to hiss, to bark, and there's...nothing. His mouth opens, closes, and there's nothing but Akira's laughter and his own silence. No matter how much he tries, not a sound inches out of his throat.
Son of a bitch.
It takes a moment to register, hand running over the counter and leaving a streak of blood in it's wake. Then there's a wobble, right before Shinjiro lurches forward despite the pain. Fist clenching taut, it's thrown straight at Akira's face, aiming to throw him off balance, even if just for a second. And if it works, he'll be gripping his arm to try and throw him straight to the floor.
Fuck if he's going down easy, after everything else. The bullet had hurt worse. ]
[Oh, the look in his eyes is quite damning, isn't it? What a shame that his blade failed to strike his vitals, but no matter. This creature will die soon enough, and when he does, he'll serve as a warning to the others that their own deaths will soon follow.
Blood loss should do him in one way or the other, but... ah. Of course he's making an attempt to fight back, pointless as it is. Akira hadn't been expecting such a snappy reply, Shinjiro's fist colliding with his face and bloodying his nose. Ha. Ahaha. He's feeling pain again for the first time in ages. How grand.]
Filthy rat! You can do nothing but squirm and struggle. Lay down and accept your death—!
[Dragged to the floor, Akira tussles for control, straddling Shinjiro and socking him right in the jaw. Akira is quick, quicker than usual, and powerful. This is not a human's strength. This is something else entirely.]
[ It's a bit hard to move, he notes, when you've got a piece of metal jabbed in your gut. Unfortunately, regardless of the searing pain that settles deep under his skin with every movement, he doesn't have much the luxury to stay still.
If he could speak, an agonized grunt would slip the moment they hit the floor, but only his face twists in turn when his legs hit the tile. Especially when despite their difference, he finds himself back to the floor, Akira settled on his waist and a fist colliding right with his jaw. His head flies back, teeth sinking into his tongue from the impact, but the coppery taste of blood is enough of a wake up call to ramp up his struggling.
His bloody hands reach up, one to grip tight in Akira's shirt, the other to slam into the side of his face the same moment he tries to use his weight to throw him off. He's not as strong as he's usually be, every jostle of the blade a red-hot twinge of pain that rockets through him head to toe, but adrenaline is a hell of a drug. ]
[Shinjiro will be met with resistance every step of the way, Akira's lean frame surprisingly durable. It's the influence of whatever's taken him over, pushing this spindly body to its limits in order to beat this filthy wizard until he can no longer move, no longer struggle, so that he spends what remains of his miserable life bleeding out on the cold hard ground.
The hit connects, Shinjiro's fist colliding with the side of his face, and out shakes a noxious laugh.]
Pitiful. Is that the best you've got?
[Akira wrenches the knife from Shinjiro's gut and beats him over the head with the butt of the handle. These hands are strong, so much stronger than they should be, and if that isn't enough to addle Shinjiro, he'll throw in another whack as a bonus.]
Give it up. You weren't meant to be alive, little wizard. Death awaits you warmly.
[ For throwing all he has behind that punch, the fact it does nothing has his teeth grinding to the root. Akira feels more like a statue made of steel than a person, and that means something to a man used to throwing his weight around to win his fights. He can feel the impact, feel the blood from Akira's nose dripping and splattering on his cheeks and leaving warm trails in their wake, but his knuckles are the only ones splitting.
The wrench of the blade has his body seizing up despite his best efforts, a ragged cough drawing a coppery tang from the back of his throat to coat his teeth. He can feel the blood starting to pool beneath him from where it seeps from his stomach, nothing to hold it in anymore, but that's something that leaves his mind quick at the blow.
Shinjiro's vision swims from the slam of the handle into his head, grip slipping as his skull throbs painfully. And if that's not enough, then another comes, and that just about knocks him straight out. There's nothing but pain, now, and the adrenaline hardly matters when you can barely see straight.
Still, Shinjiro can hear him. The fact it hits uncomfortably close to home is what has him hesitating, fingers twitching, but in the end his hands still rise.
His arms, then fingers shake as they grip weakly in Akira's collar, but he hopes the fucker can see his lips move, understand his petty wordless response.
[The final words of this miserable thing mean little to him, but they irk him. They leave his jaw tense and his fists tight at his sides. Fighting desperately to live even when death is an inevitability is a flaw all men have, but it sickens him all the same.
When he died, did he fight just the same? Did he go down swinging, cursing, determined to leave his mark before his flame was abruptly snuffed out? If he hadn't pursued the path of magic, he might still be here now laughing and smiling and living a full life alongside the one he loves. If he had never abandoned him, maybe they both could have been happy.
Too bad life is seldom so generous.
Rising to his feet, Akira straightens out his shirt, flicking the blood from his knuckles. It splatters on Shinjiro's prone form like abstract art, an untitled masterpiece left abandoned on a filthy tile floor.]
Give my regards to Alec.
[Signed with a final kick to the ribs. Akira wanders off, leaving Shinjiro to die in a pool of his own blood. As he deserves.]
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no subject
He knows better than to try and sleep before a decent hour these days, so as usual, he's up and shuffling off. A midnight snack sounds good right about now, and it's train of thought that leads him to his usual haunt. His usual haunt which is, at the moment, currently occupied.
That being said, he isn't exactly surprised to see Akira. It's not the first time they've crossed streams in here, especially at this hour. The silent stare in lieu of the usual joking tone is what catches his attention.
...That, and the familiarity, which makes him twitch as he strides in slowly. ]
Gettin' a little familiar, Kurusu. [ Which is a little off, because he was calling him Aragaki just a few days ago. That being said, he also doesn't look so hot. They're not super close or anything, so it's not like he's an expert, but... ] You look like shit. Was that mission as bad as everyone made it look, or what?
no subject
The fact that he's apparently slipped up and addressed him too familiarly doesn't seem to give Akira any pause. He simply turns around, one hand innocently rubbing at his neck, and drops an empty apology.]
My bad. Didn't think you'd get so touchy over it.
[The last time Akira looked in the mirror, he was pallid, sunken-eyed, dappled with sweat. He can't look much better now, but since Shinjiro mentioned it, he'll hold up the long, serrated kitchen knife in his other hand and study his reflection in it.
Tired, dark eyes. Pale and clammy skin. On the other side of the blade, Shinjiro studies him with suspicion. How funny.
Akira lowers the knife, turning his back on Shinjiro to resume chopping carrots.]
What'd you come here for, anyway? Curry's not done, so you're going to have to wait another hour or so.
no subject
It's this something of a small rapport they have that has Shinjiro's lips pursing tight at the lack of...well, anything in that apology. He'd expect a laugh, or a wave, or a joke of some kind; the simple turn of the back isn't it. ]
Not bein' touchy. It's weird for you, though.
[ And he wasn't exaggerating when he said that. Akira does look awful. Clammy, with eyes sunken that mirror that of himself after a particularly bad nightmare. He feels he can catch a glance in the shine of that knife, and something shifts uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.
Something here ain't right. ]
I ain't eating curry at midnight. [ The kitchen is largely silent, with the slicing of the knife against the cutting board echoing in the empty space. ] I'm just grabbing something quick.
[ He lumbers past, a few cupboards down, although his eyes are stuck to Akira's back, frown playing at his lips. ]
You outta go back to bed. Handlin' a knife looking like that, you're just gonna hurt yourself.
no subject
[Akira can't be the only person who will gladly eat curry at midnight. With Morgana no longer around to stop him, who would? At any rate, there will be plenty left for Shinjiro if he wants to come help himself to some breakfast curry or even lunch curry later. No promises on there being enough to last for dinner, but Shinjiro might not make it that far anyway.
Akira is silent, no wisecracks or retorts. Only the steady chop, chop, chop of vegetables being sliced.]
You're staring at me.
[Akira's back is still turned to Shinjiro. Maybe that was an educated guess.]
If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried about me. I'll be fine, Aragaki, I just—!
[—nicked his thumb on the edge of the knife. It's a nasty cut at that, blood spilling down Akira's wrist and splattering on the floor. Akira doesn't move, staring down at his freshly opened wound.]
no subject
[ Not that he finds anything wrong with curry, of course; it's a good meal. It feeds plenty. It's versatile. But it's definitely not the type of thing he'd choose to eat at midnight...or breakfast. Like Aki, with his protein.
The lack of wisecracks just makes the uncomfortable feeling settle deeper, even as he's reaching up to dig some of the jam out of the cupboard. He was going for something else, originally, but now that someone else is cooking, he's just gonna settle for no-cook. He's in the middle of pulling a butterknife out of the drawer when Akira speaks, gaze narrowing as it whips back to the younger boy himself.
...Is he growing eyes in the back of his goddamn head?
Akira's still speaking before he has a chance to talk, but Shinjiro's already abandoning the jar on the counter as he turns to address him with a proper unimpressed glare-
Only to start at the cut off, and then the cut. ]
Oi, you idiot-! [ Other thoughts go out the window as Shinjiro promptly crosses the distance in two long stomps, abruptly gripping Akira's arm as he scans the steadily bleeding wound with a grimace. ] This is what I was talking about! Dammit, give me a second...
[ He's gonna try and push Akira closer to the sink, all while he turns his body for a split second to open the drawers for where he knows there's a set of bandages for kitchen mishaps. Perhaps he should have told him to put the knife down, but it leaves his mind for a brief moment to focus on what he thinks is more important. ]
no subject
One hand tightly grips the knife. The other, soiled with blood, wraps like a snare around Shinjiro's arm, Akira's strength entirely inhuman. That's going to leave a lovely bruise.]
No need. I can't wait that long.
[That split second is all it takes for Akira to sharply pull on Shinjiro's arm and guide him directly onto the business end of his knife. As it sinks into his gut, merciless and cold, Akira's words slither across the shell of his ear in a low, guttural whisper.]
I'll rid this world of every vile wizard that populates it. Mihi manducare te totum.
[Akira's lips find Shinjiro's. He bites them until they bleed. He brusquely shoves Shinjiro away, knife still dangling from his gut, and laughs. Yell or scream or curse all you like, Shinjiro. You've been rendered mute.]
no subject
Wh-?
[ His eyes are so dark and cold.
Kind of like the blade.
The press of Mikaela's teeth had been warm and shallow in comparison. Somewhere in those brief few seconds, he remembers last year, when he'd been on the receiving end of some punk's switchblade after an argument. That had been smaller than this one, which sinks deep and stays there. Then there's the voice against his ear, in the moment he reaches to grip the arm holding the knife in his flesh that steadily becomes hot with his own blood. Something washes over him, like pinprick needles itching beneath his skin and settling across his throat, but it doesn't shock quite as much as the lips and the teeth.
This- whatever this is- is not Akira.
He's shoved away before he can do it first, handle jutting out of his gut, and something warm spills over his tongue at the sharp stabbing pain that laces through him. He opens his mouth, to hiss, to bark, and there's...nothing. His mouth opens, closes, and there's nothing but Akira's laughter and his own silence. No matter how much he tries, not a sound inches out of his throat.
Son of a bitch.
It takes a moment to register, hand running over the counter and leaving a streak of blood in it's wake. Then there's a wobble, right before Shinjiro lurches forward despite the pain. Fist clenching taut, it's thrown straight at Akira's face, aiming to throw him off balance, even if just for a second. And if it works, he'll be gripping his arm to try and throw him straight to the floor.
Fuck if he's going down easy, after everything else. The bullet had hurt worse. ]
no subject
Blood loss should do him in one way or the other, but... ah. Of course he's making an attempt to fight back, pointless as it is. Akira hadn't been expecting such a snappy reply, Shinjiro's fist colliding with his face and bloodying his nose. Ha. Ahaha. He's feeling pain again for the first time in ages. How grand.]
Filthy rat! You can do nothing but squirm and struggle. Lay down and accept your death—!
[Dragged to the floor, Akira tussles for control, straddling Shinjiro and socking him right in the jaw. Akira is quick, quicker than usual, and powerful. This is not a human's strength. This is something else entirely.]
no subject
If he could speak, an agonized grunt would slip the moment they hit the floor, but only his face twists in turn when his legs hit the tile. Especially when despite their difference, he finds himself back to the floor, Akira settled on his waist and a fist colliding right with his jaw. His head flies back, teeth sinking into his tongue from the impact, but the coppery taste of blood is enough of a wake up call to ramp up his struggling.
His bloody hands reach up, one to grip tight in Akira's shirt, the other to slam into the side of his face the same moment he tries to use his weight to throw him off. He's not as strong as he's usually be, every jostle of the blade a red-hot twinge of pain that rockets through him head to toe, but adrenaline is a hell of a drug. ]
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The hit connects, Shinjiro's fist colliding with the side of his face, and out shakes a noxious laugh.]
Pitiful. Is that the best you've got?
[Akira wrenches the knife from Shinjiro's gut and beats him over the head with the butt of the handle. These hands are strong, so much stronger than they should be, and if that isn't enough to addle Shinjiro, he'll throw in another whack as a bonus.]
Give it up. You weren't meant to be alive, little wizard. Death awaits you warmly.
no subject
The wrench of the blade has his body seizing up despite his best efforts, a ragged cough drawing a coppery tang from the back of his throat to coat his teeth. He can feel the blood starting to pool beneath him from where it seeps from his stomach, nothing to hold it in anymore, but that's something that leaves his mind quick at the blow.
Shinjiro's vision swims from the slam of the handle into his head, grip slipping as his skull throbs painfully. And if that's not enough, then another comes, and that just about knocks him straight out. There's nothing but pain, now, and the adrenaline hardly matters when you can barely see straight.
Still, Shinjiro can hear him. The fact it hits uncomfortably close to home is what has him hesitating, fingers twitching, but in the end his hands still rise.
His arms, then fingers shake as they grip weakly in Akira's collar, but he hopes the fucker can see his lips move, understand his petty wordless response.
Fuck you. ]
no subject
When he died, did he fight just the same? Did he go down swinging, cursing, determined to leave his mark before his flame was abruptly snuffed out? If he hadn't pursued the path of magic, he might still be here now laughing and smiling and living a full life alongside the one he loves. If he had never abandoned him, maybe they both could have been happy.
Too bad life is seldom so generous.
Rising to his feet, Akira straightens out his shirt, flicking the blood from his knuckles. It splatters on Shinjiro's prone form like abstract art, an untitled masterpiece left abandoned on a filthy tile floor.]
Give my regards to Alec.
[Signed with a final kick to the ribs. Akira wanders off, leaving Shinjiro to die in a pool of his own blood. As he deserves.]