Leave a Trace

by Saturniidae

Summary:

When time starts to run out, something new begins.

Notes:

It's the year 2020 and nostalgia kicked me in the face. This is very much a love letter to a series that's been with me for sixteen years and the ship I've loved for just as long. This diverges from canon right before the arc that's running now. So it doesn't quite cut off at the end of the nightmare labyrinth, but thereabouts.

Title/opening lyrics from Chvrches. I got wip happy and made a playlist, as one does.

Chapter 1: Ambush

I will wipe the salt off of my skin
And I'll admit that I got it wrong
And there is grey between the lines

There’s the door, with the wrought iron cross and the filigree wings; there’s the darkness and the vaulted arches; the sound of canvas being ripped; boots grinding into the edges of sharp shale roof tiles, giving him texture and grip to tense, to jump, to fly—and then: turpentine and oil.

An open window, candles flickering, unlocked doors, easy easy easy… Feathers like snow, or snow like feathers bright in the pool of light cast around the canvas. Long hair tied back with cord, streaming around white canvas coats, silken even under the touch of leather gloves, and there’s something that belongs to him, that he needs, always, that he has to steal.

A heart that belongs to only him, a work of art a lifetime in the making. Light, light, light that casts shadows so dark they seem velvet. Light so bright it burns, burns away all but the deepest of shadows, a light that begs to be stolen away, kept from prying eyes, polished and protected. It’s his and his alone, no other eyes can see it, no other hearts can touch its depths; it’s his alone, and only he can appreciate it the way it begs to be appreciated.

But if it’s his already, how can it be stolen? He breathes in, the ash-soot smell of candles and the tang of stale water, the electric static of magic, the mix of clay and slip and cold iron. He reaches out, fingers dark and confident, light strands slipping through his fingers like water. It changes, morphs, turns from silvery moonlight to cool crystalline blue beneath his fingers, cropped close, and he reaches, turning that face away from the canvas and—

Daisuke wakes with a start and a shout, jolting upright out of his dream and straight into a soft snout. He groans and shoves Baku from his chest, pushing the tapir-shaped artwork away from his racing heartbeat.

He’s been having the same dream, over and over, each night bringing one more detail into focus and he’s had enough.

“Can you stop with the weird dreams?” he complains, picking Baku up to stare him in the eye.

Baku slips from his grasp and crawls to perch on his shoulder. “I was made to do this,” he replies sagely. “I only amplify my master’s dreams now, anyway. I can’t cause them.”

Daisuke makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. “I wish you’d stop creeping up on me in the night.”

“Why?”

Daisuke yelps, sliding off the side of the bed in a heap of blankets and limbs as Argentine-the-gecko stares at him, eye to eye, now fully emerged from underneath his bed.

“Because it’s weird!”

“Is it?” Argentine asks. “I vaguely remember being told that, yes. But my Creator ...”

Daisuke frowns. “You mean the Hikari? Or Satoshi?”

“It’s nothing of consequence.”

Argentine skitters off into the corners of Daisuke’s room, and he sits for a moment, frowning after him.

As if his life wasn’t already weird enough without being subjected to Argentine’s eternally deadpan cryptic nature.

He sighs and hauls himself off of the floor. He makes his bed and gets dressed with the sort of absent minded stupor that won’t be dispelled until he’s sat down with his easel, translating his jumbled thoughts into even more jumbled strokes of acrylics and tempera paint.

Or… he thinks absently, maybe graphite and charcoal. There’s enough give to it that the fuzzy edged wonder can smear across the page from his dream. Even now the details of it trickle away, like water between his fingers.

He casts a look over his shoulder towards the strange pile of magical animals on his floor, Wiz now chattering away happily as Baku and Argentine mutter between themselves. He catches the word creator again, but then Baku catches Daisuke watching, cackles, and rolls himself up into a black and white ball.

He sighs and grabs his sketchbook and a tin of charcoal sticks and crawls out the window.

The sun has long burned away the morning dew, and a light breeze rumples the paper in his sketchbook. Beneath his palms, the tile of the roof is a familiar bite of heat and corners, each edge of curved clay intimately familiar to him after years of perching on, running across, and scaling each eave and gable of the house.

It makes him think of his dreams, of the embossed door and the room with an ornate mosaic on the floor. In the room is… is…

He closes his eyes, but it’s fuzzy, like looking at someone through old, wave-distorted glass. He sighs, opens his eyes, and puts charcoal to paper, and lets his hand move without thought, drawing whatever comes to him, little sketches and figures like flashes. He fills in details as they come to him, and yes, there’s the skyline from his window. The door from the Dream Maze. Baku’s face, the white doorway from the business with Insomnia.

A figure from the back, long hair tied back in a way that makes familiarity rise up in his throat. He’s never seen this person he’s dreamed up. Maybe it’s someone his subconscious has melded together, taking parts and pieces from his friends and family and stitching it into someone to fill his dreams.

Or maybe it's someone he doesn’t know at all—maybe it’s someone Dark knows. Maybe it’s a remnant of his brush with the world Baku made inside his dream, part labyrinth and all nightmares. But if he…

He squints, turns the page this way and that, and there—if he closes one eye and holds his thumb just so, blocking out the long hair, it almost looks like…

“I wonder what that means,” he says in startled wonder.

Dark remains staunchly silent, retreating back into that quiet space he goes when he’s uninterested, asleep, or when he wants them to keep their own secrets.

Daisuke touches the charcoal gently, blending a harsh line to a softer shadow, teeth worrying the inside of his lip.

Maybe he should ask Satoshi—if it’s a side effect of the trip through The Dream Maze with Baku and Manisumea, then surely Satoshi would be having the same sort of odd dreams. Or at least, he should know about it, if it’s part of a lingering magic.

Satoshi’s good with stuff like this, he decides, so the best thing to do would be to ask him. It wouldn’t be the first time, or even the last time, he’s had to ask Satoshi for information—it isn’t as if the other boy doesn’t just give away little helpful tidbits like some supernatural tutor.

He’ll just ask at school.

He nods to himself, satisfied as the sun begins to rise over the rooftops. He watches as the shadows of the night slip away, arms crossed over his knees as the last bit of unease eases itself out of his shoulders.

---

Of course, just because he’s resolved himself to ask Satoshi doesn’t mean he necessarily has the ability to.

Satoshi’s absences from school aren’t exactly infrequent—in fact, most people don’t even question it anymore. Even Takeshi’s lost interest in it. It’s one of the constant weirdnesses of their class—Takeshi pesters, Daisuke drops things, and Satoshi is absent.

Like always, Daisuke dutifully cleans up his notes and makes sure he doesn’t drift off mid-lecture to draw in the margins of his worksheets. After classes finish for the day, he breaks away from Takeshi and waves Riku goodbye and heads for the front of the desk.

“Oh, Niwa-san,” the teacher says. “Hiwatari-san’s father called, you don’t need to worry about collecting notes for him.”

Daisuke blinks in surprise. “Really? Is he okay?”

She frowns and looks around furtively. “I’m sure with you two being such good friends,” she says slowly, “that you must know his health is…”

“Oh,” Daisuke says, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

“His father said they’re going for treatment in another city, so we’re faxing work over,” the teacher says with a small nod. “I know you two are very friendly, Niwa-san, so if you need to speak with anyone at all, you just let me know.”

Something bitter rises up in Daisuke, that same dark dread that rears itself every time he and Satoshi can’t skirt around the fact that this life is killing Satoshi. That the more that Daisuke acts as Dark, the more that Satoshi must act as Krad, and no doctors can help at all.

How much time do they have left?

“Okay,” Daisuke says, mouth dry. “Okay. Thank you.”

The way she talks sounds like…

Dark doesn’t comment. But his silence is uneasy as Daisuke trudges home, thoughts spinning out of control.

“Hey… Dark,” Daisuke says hesitantly as he rounds the corner to his home. “This morning… you know, don’t you? What I dreamed about.”

That’s not what he wants to ask, and both he and Dark know it. But he can’t bring himself to ask the question that he really wants the answer to: Have they run out of time without even realizing it?

He can’t ask that; he can’t ask that at all.

I don’t know, Dark answers.

Daisuke isn’t sure if he’s truthfully answering his unspoken question, or if he’s dodging the one he did ask. There’s no time to press for more information as the ground quite literally opens up beneath him, setting him on the nightly gauntlet into his home.

And then… they don’t talk about it. Daisuke doesn’t press the issue, can’t bear to press it, not between his ongoing nightly research into the Niwa line, trying to keep his relationship with Riku from falling to pieces, keeping up appearances for his family, and the continuing dreams of that room filled with art and magic.

A week passes, but Satoshi doesn’t show up at school.

The teachers don’t even know where he is, or when he’ll be back. All they know is that they’re faxing him schoolwork to turn in upon his return.

It’s not like before, where he’d just put in a transfer notice; Daisuke knows Satoshi well enough by now that if he had to go off and do… whatever it is that he does when he skips school, that he’d receive some sort of notice. Even when he’d left for weeks, he’d said goodbye. This is different.

But there’s a hope, buried deep and tasting bitter on his tongue the Friday after Satoshi had first been absent from school:

The warning is out, and Dark is coming.

Surely, Daisuke reasons as the change passes over him, that means Satoshi will show up. There’ve been plenty of times where he skips school only to show up at the museum. Once, he’d skipped three days of school, only to chase Dark halfway across the town’s canals, Dark swearing up a storm.

“There are plenty of times he doesn’t show up,” Dark warns.

Yeah, but, Daisuke murmurs, watching as the city flits by beneath them. The whole town sparkles in its midnight glory, a patchwork of homes tucked into their beds behind locks they think keep them safe.

“Why is this bothering you so much?”

I don’t know, Daisuke muses. I just feel… like if we don’t find him, it’s too late. That dream I had the other day… it feels important.

Dark makes a noise in the back of his throat, effectively cutting off the conversation as he drops from the sky behind a patrol officer. He knocks the officer out with a swift hook, ties him up, and with a snap of his fingers, transfers the image over himself.

Dark tucks the hat low over his brow, hands clasped behind his back as he steps back into rotation around the museum until they reach the blind-spot they’d nudged into being earlier that week.

It’s just a dream, Dark chastises. I think you’re wasting time worrying about that jerk.

His footsteps make no noise on the tiled marble, tread light despite the thick-soled boots he wears.

We’re friends, Daisuke says with a sigh.

Dark rolls his eyes, slipping through a maintenance corridor. Emergency lights embedded in the floor light the way as Dark strolls through, counting doors as he goes.

“Ew,” he says.

He’s helped us both out too many times for that, Daisuke scolds.

I never need help. That’s you who always goes ‘Dark! Dark!’ or ‘Satoshi!’, it’s embarrassing.

There’s a difference between your help and his. You help to show off, Daisuke snaps. Satoshi helps because, well… He has ulterior motives.

“See?” Dark laughs, sliding back a utility panel. “Even you know it. Let it go.”

Dark steps into the hollow space between the walls, gently nudging aside wires as he pulls the panel back into place. They won’t need it on the way out. He turns and kneels, peering through the opposite wall’s ventilation shaft to make sure the room is empty.

I can’t, you know that, Daisuke insists. He’s never had to help us, you know.

I wish he wouldn’t, it’s bad for my public appearances.

He just likes to tease us, it doesn’t mean much.

“About that,” Dark mutters, prying off the ventilation shaft. He shifts onto his knees, crawling out with a lot more grace than Daisuke himself would ever manage. Not his best entrance, especially if a particular Special Commander was there to witness it, but it’s the most expedient. “You ever heard about little boys and pigtails?”

What?

Dark pauses, feeling something prickly against the back of his neck. Magic, the barest brush of it.

“Shhh.”

He stands, surveying the room. He sees no overt signs of a trap, and the feeling doesn’t come again. Satoshi probably set some sort of trigger during a previous heist.

Dark nudges the vent back on, then breezes through the room towards the case where their mark for the evening is displayed. With a movement so quick and easy that even Daisuke has problems tracking what Dark just did with his fingers, a lockpick, and shatterproof glass, the original piece—a necklace—is in his pocket and a fake is back in its display.

Dark, what did you mean?

Dark slips from the display room to the hallway, adopting the same stance as the other guards: tense shoulders, set jaw, searching eyes. They’re virtually indistinguishable from anyone else on patrol in the museum.

Little boys pull on the pigtails of the little girls they like.

Daisuke’s confused silence is almost amusing, if not for the sound of footsteps.

Company.

Daisuke gulps audibly in the back of Dark’s mind as Dark continues his onward patrol. He can hear voices, and strains to pick them up.

“This is highly unusual, but an honor. I didn’t know they let you out and about for fieldwork.”

Dark! That’s—

I know.

“Paperwork gets boring,” says another voice, light and almost jovial. “I used to be an officer before landing the position as commissioner. Sometimes you miss it.”

Dark pauses, weighs the benefit of fleeing now.

Dark!

Dark grits his teeth and rounds the corner. “Sirs,” he says with a salute.

Inspector Saehara blinks. The man beside him tips his head and smiles.

“Why hello,” the man says, unperturbed in the slightest. “I thought we pulled patrols in this area.”

Dark smiles sheepishly, playing along. “I’m sorry, sir, but I got a little turned around.”

“New, huh?” Saehara grunts. “Well, get back to it.”

Dark salutes again, relief starting to seep into his bones. “Yes sir!”

“Wait,” the other man says. He smiles and Dark almost takes a step back in surprise. There’s something off about the man, something that sets his teeth on edge. It’s almost like magic, but…

“Commissioner?”

“I’ll have him escort me to the target,” the commissioner says. “That way you can get back to the security room.”

“I’m not sure,” Saehara mutters, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Something’s not right, it’s past time for Dark to show up.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to handle sounding the alarm,” the commissioner laughs, clapping Saehara genially on the shoulder. “I may not be my son, but I am quick on my feet.”

“Ah, that kid…” Saehara grumbles, waving his hand. “Give ‘im a break, Takeshi’s probably driven him nutty at school. You go on, let me know if anything goes south, Hiwatari-san.”

Hiwatari? That’s—no way, no way, no way! Dark!

I know, shut up!

Dark bristles but bites it back as the Commissioner starts down the hallway. Hiwatari tucks his hands into his pockets, studying the hall as they walk towards the display room.

“Security is so lax these days,” he sighs. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ah,” Dark says, “Well.”

“After you,” Hiwatari says, gesturing towards the display room. “I’m sorry, I think I’ve forgotten your name?”

“I never gave it,” Dark says, eyes darting around the room. The maintenance hall is out as an escape route; Hiwatari is blocking the door, though he could simply go around the other man via the tops of the displays. The windows are the best option.

“I see,” Hiwatari says, giving the same off-putting grin as before. Dark steps into a guard position by the display, hands clasped behind his back.

Wiz is on the roof, waiting to be called—but that would take precious seconds they don’t have if they need to escape. He’ll have to jump and roll.

“I think I know you, though,” Commissioner Hiwatari says easily. “I’m terrible with faces and names, have we met before?”

“No sir.”

Dark, I think he knows…

No shit.

Hiwatari circles the room slowly, mirroring Dark’s posture. He’s a good-looking man, with dark hair and dark eyes hidden by glasses; Dark can see how his affable front would lend him popularity and promotions. As far as he knows, the police force isn’t a shadow front for the Hikari family, and he’s never come across any branch families in the area.

But that doesn’t mean a damn thing. The man still gave his name to the last Hikari, and that means everything.

“Perhaps at an academy event? A gala?”

“No sir, I don’t think so,” Dark says evenly. He tenses as Hiwatari edges closer.

“I know!” he says, and Dark holds his breath, muscles tending to run.

“This museum,” Hiwatari murmurs, now right up against Dark. Magic flares up in the room, thick and cloying, and Dark lunges away just as something presses up against the base of his neck.

Hikari magic?! But—

His fingers hook into the strip of can lights above the display cases as the gun goes off. He hauls himself up in a graceful arc and uses the momentum to launch himself towards the arched support beams in the ceiling.

He tosses his disguise away with a deft motion, tossing it into Hiwatari’s line of vision. He catches the tell-tale flash of black and white in the man’s hand and swears loudly.

“You’ve gotten a little sloppy, Dark! My son’s been too generous with you!”

Satoshi!

Please worry about something else right now—

Dark leaps to the next support beam, dropping as the gun goes off again, this time shattering the window in front of him. Dark laughs, gleeful, as he sprints towards the shattered glass, angling his shoulder just so.

He hits the shattered glass at full speed, shouting as he breaks through. He tucks his chin and bends his knees as he falls, rolling once he’s landed in the grass. He breaks into a run, and then, with a jolt, is lifted up into the air as Wiz takes his place as his wings.

He turns as he flies, looking back at the shattered window and the dark silhouette of the police commissioner.

“So that’s the four-eyed jerk’s dad, huh?”

I guess, Daisuke says in shock. He’s never… talked about him.

“I can see why,” Dark mutters. “Wiz, let’s take the long way, just in case.”

Dark, we have to go to Satoshi’s apartment.

“What? No! I got shot at. Again. No! It’s dangerous!”

That’s why we have to go, Dark, Satoshi wouldn’t give that away!

“No! That’s a shitty idea. Who knows what Emiko would say.”

I’ll sneak out and go on my own if I have to. I’ll wait until you’re asleep.

Dark groans, touching down on a nearby roof. “You’re an idiot. If we get caught because of your obsession over that brat got out of hand, I refuse to help you,” he hisses.

Thank you!

Dark grumbles and closes his eyes.

I want it on the record that this is a bad idea, this is the worst idea. The fountain of stupidity will never run dry.

“I get it, I get it, you think this is a bad idea,” Daisuke murmurs. He carefully toes up to the edge of the roof, then leaps, grabbing a branch of a nearby tree. He swings, then lands on the street below with only a small noise. “But I can’t leave this alone.”

I’m sure you can’t, Dark says dryly. Might want to think about why that is.

“I keep telling you, Satoshi is my friend,” Daisuke sighs, scratching his head as he gets his bearings. Once he realizes where he is, he takes off down the street, racing down back alleys and through the darkened canals towards the apartment building where Satoshi lives.

It’s an easy journey; most everyone is asleep, but caution doesn’t hurt anything, especially when he kneels in front of Satoshi’s door, lockpick in hand. Wiz stands behind him as look-out. He remembers the locks from the time he’d visited before, remembers the way Satoshi had laughed at the way he’d flinched when it engaged. The smirk that had spread across his lips had been wry and amused, the look of someone who had gotten the response they’d wanted.

Dark said that Satoshi wasn’t teasing because he liked doing so, but because…

“Wait,” Daisuke says, everything finally sliding into place. His lock picks slide from his fingers in shock. “You’re not serious.”

Ding.

“Satoshi isn’t—he’s, no,” Daisuke stammers, feeling his face flush hot as he tries not to think too hard about what Dark’s insinuating. “No way.”

Dark’s laughter is loud in his head as Daisuke fumbles with the picks over and over. He feels like he’s overheating.

Wait, what, you’re—get a grip, Daisuke!

Daisuke swallows hard against the tightness in his chest, the one that burns hot and signals danger. “Uh,” he manages. “It’s just, wow, uh. What a joke, Dark.”

I’d say I was joking, but your reaction is weirding me out here, Dark says.

“Anyway,” Daisuke says, testing the lock and finding it open. “I’m fun to tease, that’s all, we’re just…”

He trails off as the door swings open under his touch, revealing a pristine, empty apartment.

Chapter 2: Revelation

Notes:

I saw a theory on tumblr that I'm trying to track down that postulates that the Niwas have a vague form of precognition. I'm taking it and I'm running with it, because yeah, that tracks.

The first thing he does in that dark room is ask for candles. It’s inconspicuous enough, but it’s easy to learn to tell time from the way the wax melts down.

The second thing he does is wait. He knows it won’t be long until he has a chance to leave; if he hides his time, it will be easier to make the long trip out and away.

So he waits. He waits. Focuses on nothing except the rhythm of his breath and the sound of coarse horsehair on canvas and the tacky-wet feeling on his arms.

He has practice with waiting out storms; if he focuses, shelters in place, and waits, there will be enough of a lull that he can run.

He knows how he got here. There’s no point in arguing if it was the right thing, if it was the best thing. It had been the only thing, the only way he could make himself break free. He had to know. What was it, truly, that led so many of his predecessors astray? What would it be like, really, to fall prey to it?

The answer has him scraping nails against rock bottom, drawing every ounce of strength he has left, every ounce of cunning he has in his bones. He pretends he’s lost. That he’s fallen in, put his blood and marrow to the page, over and over.

He pretends, he waits, and in the silence, he plans.

---

“Dai-chan, sweetie! Are you okay?!”

Emiko is on him in seconds, smothering Daisuke up against her shoulder as Towa and Argentine crowd around them. She sinks to her knees, dragging Daisuke with her.

“I—”

Emiko starts patting him down, then grabs his shoulders when she finds no overt injuries. “Do you know how worried we were when Towa-chan said she sensed magic?! And you didn’t come straight home! We thought this was going to be a routine theft!”

Tell her.

Daisuke leans back, gently extricating himself from his mother’s fussing. He looks over her shoulder at Kosuke and Daiki, chewing on his lip.

“Um. Well,” he says. “We sort of got cornered?”

“By that boy, no doubt,” Emiko huffs, “I know you refuse to believe us, but you really can’t let your guard down around him! Dark, I thought you knew better!”

I do! You tell her of course I know better! What am I, some swooning nitwit?!

“I am not,” Daisuke snaps, “And it wasn’t Satoshi, mom. It was his dad.”

“He’s the only Hikari left,” Daiki says, shaking his head. “That can’t be right.”

Kosuke raises a hand, brows furrowed. “Are you sure about that, Daisuke? Your friend, we don’t know who his father is. I’ve looked into the Hikari family extensively, and that’s just something we don’t know.”

“I’m sure!”

Daisuke swallows and runs a hand through his hair. “He’s adopted,” he says, “No one talks about it, but it was let slip once. I never told anyone, because it’s not my business!”

“Of course it is,” Emiko mutters; “It’s family business!”

“Emiko,” Kosuke soothes, hand on her shoulder. “C’mon, let's get out of the entryway. Daisuke can change, Towa-chan and Argentine can put away the art, and then we can have some tea and talk about this.”

Emiko sighs and grumbles under her breath as Kosuke smiles. Daisuke stands, shooting his father a thankful glance. Daiki snorts and follows Emiko towards the kitchen as Daisuke hands Argentine the necklace they’d stolen as Towa starts pushing at Daisuke, herding him out of the hallway.

Daisuke showers and changes, lost in thought. For once, Dark doesn’t interject his own opinions, sensing the magnitude of the issues Daisuke’s trying to process.

He trots downstairs, careful not to trigger any traps that might still linger about the house. He finds Kosuke in the living area, cross-referencing a map with a crumbling book.

“Dad,” Daisuke starts, looking over towards the kitchen to make sure his mother isn’t eavesdropping. “Um.”

He sits across from his father, hands clasped tight in his lap. “Can we talk about something?”

“Are you about to tell me why you’re late coming home?” Kosuke asks, a knowing smile spreading across his face.

“Sort of,” Daisuke mumbles. “Um. You said you’ve researched Satoshi’s family. Why?”

Kosuke looks towards the ceiling, hand coming up to the back of his neck. “Well. That’s complicated and simple at the same time,” he says, setting aside his book. “I did it because no one else was. Rio Hikari disappeared and no one cared outside of the Niwas.”

“Disappeared?” Daisuke asks, stomach lurching. He can feel the blood drain from his face as he thinks of Satoshi’s empty apartment.

He’d stood in shock for about a second before he started pacing around the small flat with a thief’s eye—misplaced items, locks undone, where dust settled. In the end, there hadn’t been a single thing that even hinted at the apartment’s previous resident. Even the lines left by the weight of furniture were gone, vacuumed and polished away.

Like Satoshi had never even existed.

“The Hikari family has a tendency of falling off the radar and never showing back up,” Kosuke sighs. “There’s always an heir, but unlike the Niwas, the heirs don’t talk about where their predecessors go.”

Daisuke swallows hard against panicked nausea, thinking back to that moonlit tower and Satoshi’s pale face inside the dream labyrinth. Krad takes away my precious things.

“They die,” Daisuke says softly. “Satoshi told me. You don’t have to...“

Kosuke looks deeply uncomfortable.

“We didn’t know that at first,” he says quietly. “I went looking for Rio Hikari, where her ancestors went, and where they may have hidden things that shouldn’t be hidden. It wasn’t until you came back from finding Argentine that we knew for certain that they died. There was always a cost to using magic, and the Niwas simply thought that the Hikari gave themselves to Krad, and it cost them everything. We thought they paid willingly.”

Some of them do, Dark murmurs ominously in the back of Daisuke’s mind.

“We thought, maybe, they go to ground when it’s time for their heirs to pick up where they left off. That they went somewhere where it’s safe to train their sons and daughters, and stayed there, unwilling to return without magic,” Kosuke muses. “Up until a few generations ago, it was very rare to have Krad and Dark manifest at the same time for a prolonged amount of time—it’s only really become frequent in the last few generations. It was like our magic was out of synch, that just as Dark was waning for the Niwas, it would rise in the Hikaris—or vice versa. Maybe it’s so the families don’t outright kill each other, maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

“...But that’s not what you wanted to ask, was it?”

Daisuke shakes his head. “He’s disappeared,” he says, his voice cracking. “Satoshi. After the museum, I went to his apartment. It’s like he was never there.”

Kosuke nods, hands folding as he braces his elbows against his knees. “I see,” he says gently. “And you’re worried the worst has happened.”

“I said I would, that I would help him,” Daisuke says, feeling the first hot pricks of tears gathering behind his eyes. “I swore to him, that we wouldn’t break, that I’d look for a way to keep him from… but instead, I just got caught up in myself,” he spits out, rubbing the back of his wrist against his eyes.

He’d seen it, the night of the dance. He saw Satoshi give up, and he’s still not done a thing for his friend. Instead, he’d gotten caught researching the Niwas, searching for something that has yet to yield a concrete answer.

“Now, it’s like he vanished,” Daisuke says, frustration threatening to choke his voice off. It’s like Risa, all over again. “I can’t even keep promises.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Kosuke says gently. “You’re worrying, and that’s plenty more than ever happened with any of the previous Hikaris.”

“I’m just,” Daisuke falters, casting around for the right words to describe the absolute wrongness that radiated from his encounter with Satoshi’s father. “We didn’t even sense the magic until it was too late.”

“That’s odd,” Daiki says, circling around to sit beside Kosuke. “What did Dark think of it?”

“Well,” Daisuke says, frowning. “It felt like old magic. When we got into the room, there was a little bit of it, and then it was gone.”

“You’re both sure?”

Has he forgotten who I am or something? Dark complains.

“Yes,” Daisuke says, nodding furiously. “Everything was normal, and then Dark ran into Saehara-san and Satoshi’s dad. He already knew who Dark was, even though we were disguised.”

“That matches with what Towa-chan said when she felt the trap spring,” Emiko sighs as she leans over to set the tea set down. Behind her Towa has a tray of sandwiches, something that Daisuke’s happy to see despite the late hour. He takes one, murmuring a thank you to Towa. “Suddenly, there was magic where there shouldn’t be—the piece Dark stole tonight is sealed. We were worried this was another Toki no Byoushin,” she tuts.

“So, Satoshi’s father was at the museum?” Kosuke leads.

“Why on earth would they let a civilian into the museum during a heist?” Daiki mutters. “Security these days. Too reliant on gadgets.”

“He’s not a civilian, though,” Daisuke says, mouth full of sandwich. “His father’s the police commissioner.”

There’s a crash as Emiko promptly drops the cup of tea she has in her hands, followed by Towa’s loud screech of Madam!

Which brings Argentine, who brings Baku, and as everyone’s scrambling and shouting, Daisuke takes the chance to slip away. He loves his family, but they’re loud, and he wants to think. Alone.

The noise follows him up the stairs and he sighs, knowing the revelation will only backfire, making sure his mother will push back at any attempts to find Satoshi.

Hey, Dark murmurs.

“What?”

I’d know if he died, Dark says after a stretch of grudging silence. He sounds reluctant to part with this information, like it’s a secret he never wanted to share. I more or less can feel Krad’s… existence. I don’t know what happens to us if the Hikari dies out, but… I know that bastard’s still out there, and he has to have your jerk to do that.

Daisuke opens the door to his room, eyes drawn to the moonlight spilling through his uncovered window.

It makes sense. Satoshi said that Dark was paired, that he and Krad were inexorably tied together, tangled together through time and failed magic. Just like their families.

“Thanks,” Daisuke says. He closes the door behind him and settles on his bed, looking up at the blue-washed ceiling.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Daisuke whispers.

And I’m supposed to? Dark grumbles, but it’s half-hearted. I’m going to sleep. Brood all night if you want to. Don’t keep me awake.

Daisuke rolls onto his side. “I don’t know if I can sleep,” he mutters.

But despite that, sleep comes easily.

---

The hall is wide and dark. No candles burn, no lamps flicker. The only light is the distant moon, washing everything with a clear blue light.

The cloying scent of paint overwhelms the room, seeping into the stagnant air and pressing down on the occupants of that high-arched room.

Underneath the oily scent of pigment and varnish cuts the iron-sharp tang of blood and the sick-sweet smell of sweat.

No air circulates here, in this closed-off hall. Thick glass serves as a barrier between the sky and the marble and concrete room, and all the doors are sealed. No breeze lifts the oppressive humidity of smells or shuffles the torn and scattered canvas throughout the littered floor.

The moonlight washes out the puddling liquid on the floor, turning it black against the gleaming floor. Glass shards from the broken chandelier cast pin-prick prisms onto the wreckage.

The only movement is this: A crumbled figure in the center of the spreading pool of dark, ragged and stained fingers scrabbling at their shoulders as they curl into themselves.

There is no sound, but the tension in their spine relays an anguished scream; they fling a hand out into the wreckage, desperately searching for something, anything—

He steps forward, unable to hold himself back. He drops to his knees, the viscous darkness wet on his knees as he gathers that frail figure into his arms, hands tucking through long hair to press a thin face to his neck.

He looks up, surveying the torn and stained canvas, heart aching for the cost of its loss.

He hears a voice, from far away, and he turns his head, finding himself in the same dark room. The pressing miasma is stronger, more sickening, and it raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Above him, chains rattle above the high whine starting in his ears.

He closes his eyes, knowing if he looks, he’ll be lost. That something in him will break and will never recover. He holds the man in his arms tighter, shielding them both while knowing that it makes no difference—the world explodes around them, white light and searing heat.

He can’t see anything, just the white flare of an afterimage, the taste of copper sour in his mouth. His body thrums, panic and pain electric against his flesh, throwing him back, back, until he feels himself hit solid wall, pain so sharp it’s nauseating.

He blinks, and slowly, the vaulted ceilings come into focus, thrown into sharp relief by that pure white fire. He knows this room, he knows this, he knows this, but where, how? Why?

The taste of magic burns in his mouth as it mingles with blood, and something beats at his chest like an animal in a cage.

Let me out, let me, give me your hands, give me your feet, you, give me you—

He knows that voice… whose voice is that?

Who…? Whose voice? Is it his voice? 

No. But what does he sound like? Who is he? 

I am—

---

Towa sighs, grabbing hold of the mop and bucket, scowling as Argentine simply blinks at it. He hasn’t even bothered to pick up his own set. 

It’s been months since Argentine’s arrival, and he’s still a slacker.

Not to talk badly about their creator, but she’s starting to wonder if maybe the new one didn’t put Argentine together right. Maybe it was on purpose, simply to vex the Niwa family. Or maybe it’s a ruse, to sneak away Emiko-san’s treasures under the thin veil of unrestrained laziness.

She points her mop towards Argentine. “Hello! You need to clean too! It’s almost time for the madam to set up traps for the morning! You know that!”

“Don’t you feel it?”

“Annoyance? Yes,” Towa snaps. “Always.”

“Something’s here,” Argentine says, cocking his head to the side. “Something new.”

“We literally just put away a new piece,” Towa huffs, face scrunched up in frustration. They haven’t even had a chance to really rest since Dark had returned with the stolen necklace—once Daisuke snuck off to bed, Emiko had set them looking for a book for Kosuke, which then led to a minor disturbance of a guardian art piece, which then led to a mess, which led them to this moment, and they’re very much behind on their chores.

Argentine simply stares at her for a moment, as if he were contemplating something.

“Okay, then,” he says, then strides towards the doors that open up into the underground gallery.

He presses his hands to the seal and it opens with minimal magic. Something familiar buzzes in the air, and Towa grips her mop tight, mouth pinched up in concentration as Argentine pushes through the doors.

There is something… something moving… Someone—

“Towa-chan, why are you just standing there?” Emiko chides as she rounds the corner.

Towa yelps, the mop slipping from her fingers in surprise. “Ma’am!” she squawks. “I—”

Emiko adjusts the length of cabling that loops around her elbow. She shifts to the side, peering behind Towa’s shoulder. “Why is the treasure room open? You didn’t leave it open, did you?”

“Ma’am,” Towa starts, gesturing to the open door. “I think somebody,” she starts, but Emiko brushes past her, reaching for the doors.

Towa races after her, heels clattering against the floor as Emiko sucks in a shocked breath.

“Towa, get Dark. Now.”

Chapter 3: Intruder

Notes:

I had to cut some of what I wanted to cover because this was so densely packed with exposition. OOPS

Moonlight pours through the wide windows, disturbed only by the shadows cast by leaves in the wind. The breeze curls around the room, picking up the scent of paint and scalding wax and carrying it elsewhere. He’s sat for hours now, just watching, silent and unacknowledged.

It’s lonely, it’s so lonely here—gone is the cacophony of otherwise silent voices, the chatter of students unaware that they were being watched, being cased. Gone is the automatic realization that someone is there that doesn’t belong.

The things he wanted, the things he desired—they’re all so close, but they’re so damn far away.

He sits up and stretches with a dramatic yawn, deliberately calling attention to his presence. 

He knows that his silent companion knows he’s there; that he must know that he’s watched as the layers build on the canvas to form a picture, just as he watched as the maker’s sanity slowly peels away, leaving the barest trace of a man.

He must know. He must.

He’s such a precious existence, such a bright light in the dark, that surely he must know that he’s missed, right? For what other reason have they endured this game, if he doesn’t know? 

“Say,” he says, shattering the silence as he kicks his feet in the air. “It’s been ages, when will it be done? I want to play again.”

The man below him grunts, a sound that’s both an answer and a complaint all in one.

He shifts, lying belly-down against the crossbeam. He gathers up the hem of his cloak in his fist and dangles it across the back of the other man’s neck. He’s rewarded with a quick hand darting up, paint-smudged fingers curling tight into dark fabric.

“I’ll pull you down,” the other man warns. “Don’t think I won't, kaitou.”

“Ah, but then you put your precious artwork at risk,” he drawls, reaching down to snag his cloak back. “Me on the floor of your workshop of wonders.”

“What art?”

The question is sharp, pointed, and venomous. For the first time, the thief takes a good look around the gallery.

He looks and he sees. Sees the shine of broken glass, the bent edges of pallet knives stuck deep into canvas splattered with black ink, the empty shelves and the pieces covered with heavy canvas. His heart aches at the loss of them all. All those tiny lights, shattered, dispersed without anyone to hear their quiet voices. 

“Ah. That’s a shame.”

“Don’t be silly,” the man chides, the rasp of knife loud against the canvas. “They were defective. All of them.”

“You could’ve fixed them,” he says. “Made them better.”

He slips from the crossbeams, wincing as he lands with a crunch. Twisted metal and scratched jewels litter the floor at his feet. “This is too much,” he protests. “Even I could do better by them than this!”

The man turns around, arms outstretched and eyes wild. “Then do it! Then prove me wrong! Finish this, then! If you’re so much better than me, you try! You make this work, then, if you’re so much better than me, so much higher than me—”

“You know that’s not—”

“That’s right, you’re a thief! You couldn’t make anything, even to save your own pathetic excuse for a life! You’re a wretched thing; all you do is steal, so what worth do you even have here? In this space, where life is made? Leave me alone! Leave me! Stop coming here, stop, nothing here is worth your time, it’s all gone, it’s all worthless! You took everything worth stealing from me, so go away! Go away! All you bring is trouble!”

It hurts; the sound of the man’s voice rings in his ears, distorted with rage and magic, and it hurts. Deep in his chest, it aches, a feeling clawing deep within him. Rejection and disappointment weigh down his lungs and burn his throat.

This is not what he wanted, this was not what he meant, this was not the light he meant to steal, this is a wrong he can never undo, an indelible mark upon his soul darker than the pitch of night, the darkest shadow cast over the sun—this was not what he wanted, this isn’t what either of them wanted—

Go away! All you bring is trouble, all you bring is—

---

“Trouble! Trouble, there’s trouble! You have to wake up!”

Daisuke wakes with a yelp, getting a mouthful of feathers.

“Towa!!” Daisuke shouts, shoving Towa away from his face with one hand while trying to catch Baku with his other. The dream-eater had taken up residence in his hair for the night, and despite not being a real tapir, Baku’s claws hurt. “Geesh!”

“Wake up! Get Dark-san up, too!” Towa shouts, flying in circles above Daisuke’s bed. “Wake up!”

What the hell?

“Towa, what’s happening?”

“Trouble!”

Daisuke swings himself out of bed, both Wiz and Towa clinging to his shoulders as he shrugs a hoodie on over his tee-shirt. Baku makes himself a nuisance by running around Daisuke’s feet, laughing away. 

“Where? What’s going on?”

Oi, Daisuke, Dark interrupts. Your... friend… is here.

“In the vaults! That-that boy broke in!”

Daisuke claps his hands over his ears as Dark and Towa both start talking at the same time, trying to make sense of what they’re saying. His friend? Takeshi wouldn’t break in—maybe Saga if they stretch the word friend, but Dark’s never cared about him one way or the other.

“Which one?” Daisuke asks, leaping over the pit that opens up outside his bedroom door.

“The Hikari boy!” Towa shrieks. “The others are already going down, you’re the last to wake up!”

Daisuke looks down into the pit, counting the shafts that break the tunneling, each heading off to the heating elements for each floor. “The vaults are…” he muses. “Hang on, Wiz, Towa.”

He leaps, dropping from floor to floor, counting with each push of his hands and toes until he drops with a thud in front of the open door to the underground chambers, metal grate rattling loudly. Kousuke gives a startled yelp.

Daisuke stands and dusts his hands off, lips pursed. Daiki claps his back. “Good, but I think your mother would deduct points for the noise.”

“Ehehh.” Daisuke scrubs the back of his neck, face burning. “Well.”

Towa curls her talons into Daisuke’s shirt, tugging as her wings flap. “C’mon, c’mon!”

He steps forward, up to the balustrade, looking down at where his mother is glaring, and grins. His mother faces a familiar figure, who looks unruffled by the blustering of one Emiko Niwa, the shrieking of Towa, and Argentine tugging at his sleeve like a child trying to get a parent’s attention. 

“Hiwatari-kun!” he calls, waving. “You’re okay!”

“He is not okay!” Emiko shouts. “He’s here to steal! He won’t even talk!”

“I just didn’t say how I got here,” Satoshi says, calm despite Emiko’s bristling tone. “You didn’t ask anything else, ma’am.”

Daisuke rushes down the stairs two at a time; Towa flits away, girl-shaped by the time she reaches Emiko’s side. She glares over at Argentine and sticks her tongue out. Argentine blinks and shrugs, unaffected. 

Daisuke skids up to Satoshi, grabbing his wrists in his excitement. “You’re here! Wait. Why are you here?!”

“To steal!” Emiko interjects. “And come after you, no doubt! Everything we’re trying to protect—he’s after!”

“Hiwatari-kun wouldn’t,” Daisuke says sternly.

“It’s not him I’m worried about,” she shoots back. “After the last few weeks—after last night, I doubt this means anything good.”

Beneath his touch, Satoshi gives a minute jerk. Daisuke sets his mouth and looks up at his friend. “You wouldn’t,” he says firmly. “He wouldn’t steal, mom.”

“No,” Satoshi agrees. He looks behind him, and gives a small shrug, mouth curled just so into the hint of a smile. “Besides, your family has… you’ve taken good care of them. More than I. I’ve started to learn there’s more than just destroying,” he says. “They’re loved here.”

Satoshi looks at Emiko and nods to her. “Argentine told me how much work you put into caring and restoring the pieces, Niwa-san. So that they don’t break or feel lonely." He pauses and looks at Argentine, who gives Satoshi a rare smile. “He says he has fun here. I can’t give them that; my family never would, either. Thank you.”

Emiko blinks, her face turning pink. “Oh, well, I… it’s… that’s why we…” she stammers.

Dark snorts. Slick, isn’t he?

Mom does take care of it all, it’s true.

He’s a shameless brat. Don’t believe a second of it, and tell Emiko she knows better to fall for some flattery, Dark says with disgust. He makes a noise and adds: How long are you going to hold his hand?

“Oh!”

Daisuke drops Satoshi’s wrists suddenly and steps back. Satoshi raises an eyebrow, smirking at him as if his sudden realization is amusing.

Daisuke feels his face flush hot, the embarrassment and fading adrenaline making him feel shaky in a way that makes him feel like his very being is in danger of being blown away.

You’re starting to really freak me out here, Dark mutters. It’s too early for this.

Daisuke staunchly ignores Dark.

“Hiwatari-kun, what are you doing here?” Daisuke asks. “You’ve been absent at school, and your apartment was empty!”

Satoshi’s face falls, strangely blank. He reaches up and grabs onto his elbow, hugging his arm to his side as he looks over Daisuke’s shoulder at Emiko and Daiki, then to Kosuke. “I… I,” he starts, voice cracking. He clears his throat and shakes his head.

“I ran away,” he says, his voice only slightly stronger than before. “I need your help. I need your family’s resources—I want to stop him, even if it means… that is...”

He turns, locks eyes with Daisuke, face caught between an earnest plea and absolute despair. “Dark. I want you to steal The Black Wings from the Hikari. From me.”

Emiko gasps sharply. Even Dark makes a noise, loud and harsh in the back of Daisuke’s skull, leaving his ears ringing.

“Finish what you started, Dark,” Satoshi says, voice a hoarse whisper. He holds out his left hand, an invitation, a mimicry of that handshake that led them to Argentine, that planted that dark seed blooming in the pit of Daisuke’s stomach, that started them on this path to the end. 

Daisuke feels something shift within him, larger and more sinister than Dark, a deep resentful longing ringing out like a bell from within him. It rises up around him, the sound of wings and electricity, and a whisper of a long forgotten warning.

Of the two of them, Daisuke isn’t sure who shakes Satoshi’s hand:

Daisuke Niwa or Dark?

---

Daisuke sits across from Satoshi in the library, a hastily made tray of coffee and tea set between them, the previous night’s research gently nudged aside. Now that the shock of seeing him has worn off, Daisuke can really look at Satoshi, and is shocked at how haggard his friend seems. 

Not that Satoshi ever looks particularly lively, it’s just that, usually, he always has a distinct air of someone who simply chooses to be laconic and disheveled.

One look, and it’s obvious that this isn’t a persona drawn around him to make him unobtrusive.

Shadows ring his eyes, dark smudges set off by how pale his skin is. Satoshi’s cast is almost ghostly, reminiscent of the way he looks faintly ill every time he turns back from Krad.

His clothes are rumpled and slightly dirty, but over the dark turtleneck and slacks, he wears a canvas overcoat stained with paint, and in places, something that has the rusty-brown shade of dried blood.

As Daisuke passes Satoshi a cup of tea, he sees something dark on the inside of his friend’s wrist, something that starts on the inside of his palm and twists. It shimmers faintly in the light; it makes Daisuke think of black, squirming things—snakes and oil, twisting thorns, roiling floors of seething insects.

Dark makes a noise of disgust, his entire consciousness twitching in the back of Daisuke’s body, urging him to get back, to get away, to flee from that strange pattern.

Satoshi snatches his hand back, realizing Daisuke’s eyes have lingered overlong. Daisuke freezes for a moment, teacup still held out, mouth open in a silent question.

He swallows and sets the cup down, nudging it towards the other boy.

“What…? Hiwatari-kun, what is that?”

Satoshi shakes his head, jaw tight as he closes his fingers over his palm and holds his hand against his stomach. “Nothing worth noting,” he says.

“I—okay, but,” Daisuke stammers.“You—it…”

Satoshi tips his head and then sighs, a brief noise of acquiescence followed by a slight upwards tip of his lips.

“It’s not hurting me,” he says, reaching for his teacup. “Well, inasmuch as anything can hurt me.”

“What?”

Satoshi pauses, turning the teacup slowly on its saucer, eyes cast down to the churning surface of it.

“Surely you know what I’ve asked is… you know this is the last possible choice I’m able make, right?” Satoshi asks, his tone almost gentle as he looks back up at Daisuke.

There’s a muffled noise from the other side of the study’s door, followed by a very loud chorus of voices going shush!

Satoshi cocks his head and gives a half-laugh as Daisuke groans.

“I can’t believe they’re still eavesdropping.”

“It concerns the whole family,” Satoshi says. “They can come in. I’m surprised they're not already.”

Daisuke sighs and stands. “Yeah, but, I wanted to talk to you without them,” he mutters.

He opens the door, scuttling aside as Emiko, Towa, and Daiki all tumble through the crack in the door, followed by a very put-upon Argentine (carrying Baku) and Kosuke. “I can’t believe you’re acting like you don’t have cameras everywhere,” he complains.

“We wanted to be nearby, sweetie—just in case this is a trap!” Emiko protests, like she hadn’t just fallen face-first into the carpet.

“Mom! How many times do I have to tell you that Hiwatari-kun won’t hurt us!”

“She’s right to be concerned. It’s... difficult to maintain myself,” Satoshi says over the racket, voice tight. “Here, especially.”

Daisuke turns, a protest rising to his lips—Satoshi’s never once meant to hurt him, even the time with the Sage of Sleep had been a byproduct of their strange families and not a real choice. The words die on his tongue with one look at Satoshi.

He seems so small there, sitting alone. Daisuke knows the strength that Satoshi must have in order to endure what Krad puts him through; he knows that his friend’s heart is delicate, to be so afraid of caring about anything, to have already lost so many countless things. 

Despite this, he’s never once thought of Satoshi as weak or someone who could be broken. But now, watching the way Satoshi curls into himself, thin shoulders sloped inward as he holds his right hand to his center, fist clenched right, it strikes him like a bolt of lightning.

Satoshi is so, so fragile, and he is so, so close to being broken.

Satoshi turns his palm outward, the strange marking visible on his hand. His hand trembles in the air as he splays his fingers out. “I’ve taken precautions,” he says. “They’re sloppy at best, but it’s all I can manage.”

Oh, Dark murmurs, I see.

What? What is that?

Bastard sealed himself, Dark says, awe and revulsion heavy in his words. That’s not safe, stay away from him—that sort of binding is… fragile and poisonous.

“It’s ending, isn’t it?”

Kosuke’s voice breaks through the heavy silence in the room. Daisuke pulls himself away from the heavy sickness Dark is projecting onto his body, looking up at his father. Kosuke’s face is something resigned, something sad… As if he’s pitying Satoshi—

Daisuke turns, eyes wide as Satoshi clenches his fist as he nods once, mouth set into a firm line. “I’m afraid so.”

“What? No! You don’t mean that!”

Kosuke reaches out and curls a hand against Daisuke’s elbow, holding him back. “Let him say what he needs to.”

“You can’t be serious, Hiwatari-kun! We haven’t even done anything, it’s too soon!”

Satoshi turns his head away from Daisuke, hands folding tightly in his lap. He licks his lips, pulling them inward to bite down on his bottom lip, eyes slowly closing.

Dark! he shouts, clawing for a solid answer in his panic, Is he serious?

Dark does the mental equivalent of a shrug. His attention to Satoshi is keen, more clinically interested than it should be, like when they’ve discovered a forgery on the way to their mark. His distaste is bitter in the back of Daisuke’s mouth, a surge of emotions battling his own, causing his heart to pound and his stomach to churn.

You know the answer; you just won’t accept it, Dark says slowly. I think you need to accept the idea that rather than copping out and dying, Hiwatari has come to ask for help so whatever is left of his life isn’t worthless. I would respect that, if I were you.

But! 

Get it together, Daisuke. What he’s asked is dangerous; like this you’ll get us all killed. Your emotions are too unstable to do anything right now.

Daisuke twists his fingers into his pants and quietly lowers his head as he takes a deep breath. He gently steps away from his father, and sits back down across from Satoshi. It’s embarrassing to be scolded so seriously by Dark and it's terrifying to face the hard reality of the situation.

He presses his palms to his knees and swallows hard. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Satoshi tips his head in recognition of the end of Daisuke’s outburst—and if he wasn’t sure that somehow, Satoshi was stronger than him, he’d want to reach out and shake his friend, pin him up on the nearest wall and shout, see how Satoshi liked their roles being flipped—

What the hell did I just say? Stop that! Dark complains, shoving Daisuke’s anger to the side of their shared consciousness.

Just as well, because Satoshi’s giving him his usual look that means he’s waiting for Daisuke so he can continue. Daisuke’s so used to that look by now that he makes a face back out of habit alone. Emiko bops him gently in the back of the head, earning a soft titter from Towa; Satoshi lifts a brow and folds his hands between his knees.

“I’m here because my… father,” he says, mouth twisting over the word. “Has spread the boundaries too thin, and… they’re breaking. Seals are breaking.”

“It’s natural,” Satoshi continues, looking at Towa thoughtfully. “For things to stir when Dark arrives with the new generation, or when the Hikari curse wakes. The magic creates a ripple in the water. Generally, it’s not enough to wake the bigger, dangerous things; it just touches the pieces close to the surface, whose time and bindings are nearly gone. Even though it’s been a while since both Krad and Dark have been this active at the same time, that alone shouldn’t break all the seals at once. I struggled for a while, trying to understand what was happening. It shouldn’t have been possible, but it was. All along, the answer was simple.”

He looks at Argentine next, mouth pinched in a line. “My father has been throwing stones in stagnant water and waking things that should not have woken on their own. He doesn’t want ripples, he wants a tsunami, and we can’t… That can’t happen.”

“We already know this,” Emiko says, her hands tight on Daisuke’s shoulders. “Argentine, who’s absolutely darling now, by the way! Insomnia, even Baku. That gun, the tunnels, all of it is dangerous. That’s why we steal Hikari pieces.”

Satoshi studies her. “Is it? Is that the whole truth?”

“We keep them safe,” she says angrily, cheeks turning pink. “So you can’t hurt anyone with them.”

“If you’re sure, ma’am, then there’s no argument against my proposal,” Satoshi says carefully, almost thoughtfully, without the tone of argument in his voice that Daisuke is used to in this situation. “I think… No, I know there are more pieces like Argentine than either the Niwa or the Hikari knew about. I think things have been… deliberately concealed. For a long time.”

“You’re saying that there’s something waking up that shouldn’t be,” Kosuke says, brows drawn. He leans forward in interest, fingers laced under his chin as he braces his elbows on his knees. “That your father, Commissioner Hiwatari, is pulling something sealed to the surface that you don’t know about?”

“I’m more afraid of what we do know about, and how those things affect it,” Satoshi answers.

He lifts his hands; they tremble as he holds them outstretched. Without the shock of seeing the binding in full, Daisuke can now see the silvery scars that marr the surface of his skin. They stretch across his knuckles, curl around his wrists, against thin fingers, far more than when Daisuke had shoved his sleeve up in the Maze.

“He’s… trying to finish Black Wings,” Satoshi croaks out. “Now do you see why I—?”

Whatever Satoshi is about to admit to is lost in the cacophony of shrieking from two pieces of art, Dark, Daiki, and Emiko at once. Daisuke claps his hands to his ears (as if that could stop the shocked strangled demands Dark has begun to make in increasing volume).

Satoshi looks vaguely rattled, glasses sliding down his nose.

Both Daiki and Emiko lurch forward towards Satoshi, hands outstretched like they want to grab and shake him.

Daisuke flings an arm out, grabbing his mother’s sleeve as he watches the other boy flinch with a violence he’d never seen before, not even just moments before when Daisuke had yelled at him. “Mom! Grandpa! No!”

“Don’t!” Kosuke says loudly, holding up a hand. “I, Hiwatari-san, could you elaborate? This is… obviously a shock.”

Satoshi presses himself back against the sofa, eyes wide. Daisuke’s stomach lurches at the look on the other boy’s face—he looks young, he looks scared. It hurts. His family is harmless.

Eccentric and criminal, but harmless; no matter how much they bluster, they would never hurt Satoshi, and Satoshi should know that.

But something’s happened since Satoshi disappeared—something taught him to flinch back from loud noises and quick movements, and it makes him sick to his stomach.

Satoshi’s eyes fluttered across the room like he’s calculating an exit route. When no one moves, he shifts uncomfortably, lips pressed into a thin line as he lowers his gaze to his knees.

“He said once, when I was younger, that he had a cure. That he could save me,” Satoshi says absently, shifting to grasp his elbows, fingers curling against his arms tightly. “Maybe he didn’t, maybe I dreamed it. I… He said there’s a way to keep me from dying from the curse, and I foolishly let him lead me along.”

“You were a child,” Kosuke says softly. “You’re still a child, a child who had to grow up too fast. Don’t blame yourself for being scared and wanting to hope.”

“It was foolish,” Satoshi repeats firmly. “Because I knew all along that he intended to try to complete and restore the Black Wings. I was just too young to realize… I didn’t remember… Not until that… Tapir-thing dredged it up,” he says dryly, pointing at Baku over Daisuke’s shoulder.

“Oh! I’m an animal now! Hurray for me!”

“Hush,” Towa snaps, clapping a hand over Baku’s mouth.

“I knew that he intended me to capture Dark to use for his own means, whatever they may be. I always knew,” Satoshi says softly. “I knew, because I watched my mother waste away for that thing, and I watched him watch. I knew. I just never thought he was capable of what he’s done.”

Emiko shakes her head, fingers closing against Daisuke’s shoulders once again. “Black Wings is complete. Besides, we don’t…”

“I would assume your family had it sealed, then, boy?” Daiki asks, rounding the sofa to sit beside Kosuke, previous shock settling into something thoughtful. “Where we couldn’t find it? Outside the Maze?”

“Even in the state it is now, it’s more dangerous than anyone but a Hikari could even know,” Satoshi says. “I wish I didn’t know where it was. I wouldn’t wish it on your family, even with the curse between us. It… resonates… Like a bell, and it gets louder and louder the more pieces awaken. Why do you think everything was destroyed? Why do you think the Hikari clan let it all die? Why we tried to seal Dark in Manisumea’s grasp? It all had to burn. Every single last thing, all of it, because otherwise, that piece, that thing would be too strong to contain.”

“The Cultural Reformation couldn’t possibly contain everything,” Kosuke muses; “But, yes, I suppose that makes sense. As a culmination of their creator’s art, it would follow that they feel it stirring. And if it had truly been completed, then our families wouldn’t be the way they are, wouldn’t they?”

“Mine, perhaps,” Satoshi murmurs.

Kosuke gives a soft chuckle, more from nerves than humor. “Who can say?”

“That’s a kinder outlook than I’ve ever had,” Satoshi mutters. “But, in any case, my father has started putting things into motion that, once started, cannot be undone. I had no choice but to… but to… The Black Wings, it calls to the Hikari…As long as we exist, we cannot be unaware of it. And once we’re aware, we can’t resist the call. There’s no way to escape it, there’s no way out of that place once you enter…You have to smother everything just to survive. I tried so hard to, but my father…”

He trails off, face oddly blank as he looks at his hands, lips parted like he’d been cut off mid-word. It’s like even now, in relative safety, something is making Satoshi withdraw, curl into himself, and refuse to think about what’s happening to him. Daisuke remembers drawing himself back into the deepest corners of his own self, walled away from everything. How much he’d had to hurt to flee to that space, where all there was was silence.

“It’s hurting you. The artwork, it’s hurting you,” Daisuke says with dawning horror, staring straight at Satoshi. “No, not just that, but your father, your father is hurting you. He’s hurt you—”

Daisuke, Dark warns. Easy. That binding isn’t permanent! Don’t wake what’s sleeping—

“He made you, didn’t he?! I know you, I know you wouldn’t! He’s making you use your powers,” he barrels on, heedless of the way Baku and Argentine seem to tremble, of the tightening of Kosuke’s fingers and the way Daiki’s face folds into a scowl. “ You’re restoring Black Wings like how Dark said you restored my painting that time, like what you did with Manisumea and Baku! And how you helped Argentine! He knows it’s hurting you! Why, Hiwatari-kun?! Why? Why would you stay?!”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Satoshi shouts. 

He inhales sharply, eyes wild, cheeks turning splotchy with exertion and anger. “I don’t have a choice. He keeps such close tabs on me, he knows where I am. I’ve left my apartment, I’ve left school, and all he… He knew my mother,” he says, voice almost a sob. “When I was alone, he was there, Niwa, I’m not like you…He was there, but now, now he and Krad, they’re—together, they’re working—”

His voice cracks and he hunches forward, fingers clawing at his shoulders as he heaves and retches. The marking on his hand twists and writhes underneath the hem of his sweater, an eye opening up in the pale skin of Satoshi’s hand; the ink of it bleeds out, a spread of black tendrils that trace the lines of his veins, a lightning strike that sparks magic up into the air. 

“He’s not what he told me,” he chokes out between coughs; “I had to tell you, be careful of him, please… they’re hiding things, trying to, I can’t allow it, but I’m, I can’t—leave!”

“Daisuke,” Emiko says sharply, and with a lurch, she’s hauling him from the sofa, Daiki pushing them both forward, away from Satoshi’s trembling form. Kosuke follows them out, leaving Satoshi with Baku and Argentine as Towa closes the door behind them.

“I’ll keep watch, ma’am,” Towa promises, back pressed against the doorway. “And I’ll keep an eye on the house warding. I’ll send Argentine on if anything seems too weak.”

“He’s not dangerous,” Daisuke protests as Emiko and Daiki try to scoot him further down the hallway. “He won’t hurt us!”

Kosuke presses his hands to Daisuke’s shoulders as Daisuke slips free of Emiko. “Daisuke, it’s not you your mother’s worried about getting hurt,” he says. “Or at least, I don’t think?”

Emiko sighs, laying a hand on her cheek. “I’ll have to go shopping for easy to eat foods, and oh, I’m not sure too many of Daisuke’s things will fit the boy, he’s so tall… Papa, what do you think?”

She and Daiki exchange looks.

Daiki waves a hand and laughs. “It seems so, doesn't it? I’ll go find the spare linens.”

“I’ll air out the spare bedroom, I guess for today he’ll stay in Daisuke’s room while Dai-chan’s at school, goodness, I don’t think he’s slept for days,” Emiko muses.

Daisuke blinks, uncomprehending for a moment, then shouts. He throws his arms around Emiko in a tight hug. “Thank you,” he whispers.

She holds him close, squeezing him as she laughs. “Think of it this way, we’ll be the first generation of Niwas to steal an actual Hikari!”

“Mom, really?!”

Not the first, Dark mutters.

Emiko laughs and steers Daisuke down the hallway, “Now, now, Dai-chan! How about you dismantle all these traps on your way to get ready for school so your friend doesn’t get hurt, huh!”

“Mom! When did you manage to set up all of that?!”

“Oh, you know,” Emiko laughs, taking a swift step sideways as Daisuke’s foot lands on a pressure pad, setting off a series of swinging axes down the hallway.

“MOM!”

Chapter 4: Information

Notes:

Took a little longer to produce something I was happy with this time. I had a harder time than expected working with the school scenarios even though I could see it so clearly in my mind! Oh, well!

There are times where Kosuke questions if he’s really chosen the right path for himself, for his family. There are times where he’s absolutely certain that he has. As they often do, these moments bleed into each other into a befuddled wash of disbelief, like when he watches his wife laugh like a child as his son performs complex acrobatics across a hallway of complex and exceedingly dangerous traps.

There’s a strange sense of pride as he watches, but it wars with the ever-present horror that his wife and father-in-law lack. He never could protect Daisuke from all this, and these moments where he watches and realizes make him question his place in all of this. He’s just a human, a normal man; he has no magic, no family curse or history aside from the traditions that led him on the path to being a historian in the first place. He’s just a man, one who still struggles with choosing between tea and coffee in the mornings. 

What is he doing? Why is he here? Why, despite everything, was he chosen and allowed to be a part of this? Why him, why his son, why his wife? There are times where he wants to run screaming. Nothing, no power on earth, could have prepared him for the horrors of this magic world Emiko opened him up to; he’d read the books, done the research, and yet nothing could prepare him for the world behind the words. For the open, gaping, rotting wound the Cultural Reformation covered up, manifest in the eyes of his own son. How is he worthy enough to witness this? 

How is he weak enough to let it continue? 

But then, if he weren’t here, who could help them? Who could help Daisuke be human, make him a boy who had the abilities to choose between his family’s fate and making his own?

And who, then, if Daisuke hadn’t stood his ground and been brave, who in this family would chance extending a hand across enemy lines and help the Hikaris?

No Niwa before Daisuke had worked so extensively with their mirror, opening the pathway to the end. Kosuke cannot pretend he isn’t proud of Daisuke for that, cannot pretend that he had a hand in shaping a child so kind. If he wasn’t here, who else could have helped author such hope? Who would have put the brush to Daisuke's fingers and encouraged him to use it? Emiko and Daiki aren’t cruel, but the Niwa family is insulated, set in their ways; they have an idea of how the world should be, passed down throughout the ages, and sometimes tradition is enough of a chain that it hurts when it binds. 

“Sir?”

Towa’s tentative question breaks him from his thoughts. He turns towards her, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I spaced out there for a second.”

“It’s been a long night,” Towa says with a sage nod. She pauses, then fidgets with the hem of her apron. “There’s been a lot of excitement.”

“Say, Towa-chan,” Kosuke starts, voice thoughtful. “Have you found anything weird lately? Any anomalies like last night—magic that shouldn’t be there? That sort of thing?”

Towa shakes her head. “No, not really,” she answers. “But I haven’t been looking. Just when Dark-sama is out.”

“No! It’s okay,” Kosuke says. “Can you try now, please?”

Towa nods and leans up against the wall, eyes closed and fingers clasped against her stomach, the ends of her ribbons fluttering around her.

“There’s…” she murmurs. “I’m sorry, I… I can’t tell, the, the pieces underground are… They’ve been restless lately, but tonight…They’re so loud! I can’t hear anything but them!”

“That is because the Creator is here,” Argentine says, sticking his head through the cracked door. He looks at Kosuke. “He has more to say. He’s asking for you, sir, and for you, Guide.”

“To-to! Or at least Towa, you—!!” she squawks.

Kosuke expertly dodges the squabbling pair to step back into the library. Baku looks up and grins over his shoulder, mischief exuding from every gesture.

He turns back and tips his hat to Satoshi, who grimaces. “We’ll continue this later, then,” he says with a flourishing bow. Light blooms around him, coalescing into his usual tapir-shape; he curls himself into a ball and lets himself bounce away, ignoring the laws of physics for his own sense of whimsy.

Kosuke doesn’t remark on the exchange; he merely settles himself across from Satoshi.

Argentine, now in his own animal form, skitters up the side of the couch, then across to settle beside Satoshi’s shoulder. Towa tuts and nests herself up on a nearby shelf.

He studies Satoshi and tries not to let his heart break for the child in front of him. It’s hard, tempering his paternal instincts with the desire to crack open everything this boy knows and study it, like his life is a story printed with blood. Neither will help, so he walks the fine line between them.

Satoshi looks defiant, chin tipped just so, arms crossed across his chest in an attempt to look insouciant. He just looks tired.

“Are you alright?” Kosuke finally asks. “We don’t have to talk now.”

“I’m fine,” Satoshi says immediately. “I didn’t mean to trouble everyone.”

“It’s no trouble. I’ve never seen Daisuke so worked up about something, honestly, so it was a shock to me as well,” Kosuke says.

Satoshi’s face pinches in on a scowl; it lingers for a moment, then smoothes out to something more even-tempered. “In any case, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize at all, you’ve done something hard. It’s not easy to admit that you’re…”

“Dying?” Satoshi asks.

“Being abused,” Kosukie says. Satoshi flinches back, face flushed with anger. Kosuke holds a hand up. “It’s a hard subject, that if you don’t want to talk about, I won’t ask. But, I’ll say this: Daisuke thinks highly of you, and that won’t change easily. If you want to talk to him, I’m sure he’ll listen.”

“I’m not… there’s nothing to say,” Satoshi mumbles, looking towards the wall.

“Alright,” Kosuke agrees easily. “That’s okay too.”

Satoshi grips his elbow tightly, shoulders curving in. “I’m not,” he repeats. “It’s different, because I’m…”

“A Hikari? That’s a lot to hold onto for someone your age.”

Too much, Kosuke thinks. Too much has been placed on the shoulders of children, for so long. It’s foolish to turn a blind eye to it, simply because the Niwas have turned it into a treat, a companion during the prickly years of youth. Too long, he thinks, have they ignored the unsavory side of their family’s history, the rotting mirror of their souls.

They all have the capacity for great tragedy within them, and Satoshi Hiwatari is far too young to have faced it already.

“You don’t—you can’t understand,” Satoshi says hoarsely.

“No, I can’t. I want to, but even research has its limits. I may never be able to grasp the magic that runs in you, or in my son. I imagine,” he continues after a pause, “That it feels a bit like that to you and Daisuke, when you try to imagine a life without your powers. It’s a bit lonely for me, when they all start talking about this and that.”

Kosuke sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He gives a quiet laugh and leans forward. “You know, that’s why I wanted Daisuke to be raised like a normal child. So he could know both lives.”

“He… really didn’t know?” Satoshi asks. “He never knew? Really?”

“I insisted,” Kosuke says. “Maybe it was the wrong choice; maybe it hurt him more than it would have hurt him to be raised as Emiko and father were, with the knowledge of what was to come. With all the prejudices that came with it. I wanted him to be free to choose between this life and one without all of this, when the time comes. I wanted him to be able to trust and rely on others.”

“I think that was… very kind of you,” Satoshi mumbles. “To give him that. I never had that option. I can’t need anyone. Not like that. I’ve never been able to. And it’s…”

He trails off, shaking his head.

Kosuke nods. They sit in silence for a moment.

Satoshi folds his hands in his lap and sighs. “I came because… I want... to help Niwa, but I don’t have enough information. I thought that you might, sir.”

“I can certainly try to help,” Kosuke promises. “Anything I have that can be of use is open to you.”

Satoshi nods and pushes his glasses up. “It’s come to light that my father is… Not particularly who he’s said he is. Krad knows, but. It isn’t in his interest to tell me.”

He makes a face and runs a hand through his hair. “He knows more than he should, even having known my mother.”

“Rio Hikari, yes. I’ve been researching her disappearance… so Commissioner Hiwatari knew her?”

“She didn’t disappear,” Satoshi snaps, voice cracking. “She… anyway. He’s been able to access art that should have been sealed. Argentine, Qualia… he’s been fusing fragments, been breaking seals and bypassing Hikari traps.”

He pauses, blue eyes dark with frustration. “He shouldn’t have been able to wake Argentine at all. He shouldn’t have been able to reach him and Qualia. I never really thought about it, not the way I should have. There were things I knew, but that I didn’t grasp the full measure of until recently. Argentine, tell Niwa-san who woke you and sent you to Azumano Joyland.”

Argentine stirs from Satoshi’s shoulder, his eyes unblinking. “Someone who felt like my original Creator,” he says. “They were veiled, as custom.”

Satoshi nods, as if it settles an argument Kosuke didn’t know they were having. “Thank you.”

He turns his gaze back to Kosuke, fingers laced together tightly between his knees.

“My father sent Argentine and destroyed the tower that housed him and Qualia. I knew this, but I hadn’t thought to ask about how. Sometimes it’s easy to rouse art, but these two should have been so deeply sealed that without power, they shouldn’t have woken. I knew that, but I didn’t realize how wrong it was. All this time, there’s been a line of art that should have been sealed, should have broken under the weight of time. Even as far back as the Toki no Byoushin; I thought, perhaps, Niwa had roused it with his own art. And that may be true that he woke it, but it still should have been sealed.”

“I think even then, my father was unsealing art to capture Dark. He shouldn’t be able to do this if he were only involved because of my mother.”

“Then…You think your father, the Commissioner, is connected to the curse?”

Satoshi’s hands shake, his knuckles white as he nods.

“I need to know what you know about the Hikari branch families and their pupils and what they created under my ancestors’ watch.”

---

“Is everything okay, Niwa-kun?”

Daisuke starts, looking up at Riku with wide eyes. “Y-yeah, everything’s just—everything’s fine!”

“It’s just, I was calling you and you weren’t answering,” Riku says, waving a hand in front of Daisuke’s face with a small laugh. “Did you stay up late or something?”

Daisuke laughs and scoots his chair back a little so he can look at Riku without craning his neck. “Ah, yeah, a little.”

Riku pulls up a chair and nods. “Risa dragged me out, again, to see Dark,” she says pointedly. “We were there forever.”

Daisuke gulps as Riku studies his face, leaning in close. “R-really? I was painting! I couldn’t sleep, you see, and—”

“What were you painting?”

“Uh, I—”

“Riku! Give Niwa-san a break!” Risa scolds.

Riku flushes. “I’m sorry, I just—I really do like your paintings, Niwa-kun,” she says earnestly. “But it’s no good that you can’t sleep, you know!”

“He’s probably really worried!” Risa says, gently bopping Riku on the back of her head with the flat of her hand. “Niwa-san, has the teacher said anything else?”

“Ah, I, um,” Daisuke stammers, shaking his head. He feels panic start to set in as both Riku and Risa stare at him; Riku’s face purses in thought.

“Niwa-kun,” she starts, “You can tell us even if it’s something bad. We’re worried too, you know?”

“I wasn’t aware that you two were that close with Hiwatari,” Takeshi cuts in over Daisuke’s shoulder.

Daisuke yelps, turning to face his friend. “Takeshi! Don’t do that! Get your elbow out of my back!”

“I was here the whole time, jeesh,” Takeshi laughs, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyway, this is the one time that no news is good news.”

“So you don’t know anything either,” Risa says pointedly. “Useless.”

“Hey!”

“I said what I said,” she says before flouncing off to her other friends.

Riku snorts and leans her chin against her hand. “She’s upset because she didn’t get to see Dark last night,” she explains, rolling her eyes. “I still don’t see why she’s started dragging me along.”

“It’s safer if you go together,” Daisuke says.

“Eh. There are all sorts of policemen around.”

Daisuke purses his lips. “That doesn’t automatically mean it’s safe,” he protests. “Right, Takeshi?”

“Other than that white-winged weirdo that kidnapped Risa, I dunno, the town is pretty safe,” Takeshi says, looking thoughtful. “Compared to the city, I wouldn’t say there’s a lot of crime.”

“Other than the resident perverted art thief?” Riku mutters.

Daisuke winces, glad Dark has chosen to go silent and sleep for the time being.

“Now that I think about it, the town’s always been quiet,” Takeshi continues, rounding from behind Daisuke to grab a chair. He straddles it backwards, leaning over the back of it. “Dad doesn’t do much by way of crime, just petty private eye sort of stuff. Azumano’s just too quiet on its own.”

“You say that like it’s bad,” Riku says, frowning.

“‘Course it is! I wanna be a world class reporter, don’t I?! Once I break the big scoop on Dark, what else will I have to do?”

“You could go to a bigger city,” Riku points out. “People do that for careers all the time.”

“Yeah, I mean, sure,” Takeshi says. “Once I catch the elusive phantom thief Dark, everyone will be begging for a reporter of my caliber!”

Daisuke gives a nervous laugh. “But no one’s caught him for centuries,” he says weakly.

“So?”

“I just, it’s just,” Daisuke stammers. “I just mean that—”

“Get a day job, right?” Riku says, a mischievous grin on her face as she points across the desk. “Anyone who still gets their recorders confiscated by the teacher still has a lot to learn!”

“You couldn’t even get the side of the building right! I told you two yesterday the north end of the museum! How did you even mess up that?”

“Okay, okay!” Daisuke urges, holding up his hands.

Geesh, what did I start?!

A racket. Some of us are trying to sleep!

Sorry!

“Harada-san! Hey! The coach is calling for us!”

Riku looks up, eyes wide. “Oh! I gotta go!” she says. “Sorry, Niwa-kun! We’re supposed to find out if we can go to sleep-away camp this weekend!”

“Oh, good luck! I know your club’s been working hard,” Daisuke says. He waves as she dashes off, staring out into the hallway even after she’s long gone.

“Hey,” Takeshi says, knocking his knuckles against the desk. “Earth to space cadet. Stop mooning. Do you have anything after school today? Art club’s on break since the teacher’s out sick, yeah?”

“Mm? Uh,” Daisuke stammers. “Well, I, uh.”

“I overheard the teachers talking about release forms for the lacrosse club, so you’re not going home with her, just so you know,” Takeshi says, studying Daisuke’s face.

I can’t say anything! Crap! I can’t just say I have to go home and talk to Satoshi! Crap!

Too. Loud. 

“I, well, no, I—”

“Cool!” Takeshi leans back in his chair, using his feet on Daisuke’s desk to balance himself as he stretches his arms out behind his head. “I have to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?”

Takeshi looks up at the ceiling, then sighs. He scratches the side of his face, then lets the legs of his chair settle back onto the floor. “Well, about Hiwatari and all that,” he says quietly. “I am a journalist, after all.”

Chapter 5: Circles

Notes:

That..... took longer than I wanted. Who would have thought having no structure would make it hard to write /s

Thank you to everyone who's read and commented! I wasn't expecting any feedback at all, so I'm always very happy to see your comments/kudos! Come shout at me on my personal tumblr, bluecoloreddreams, if you'd like!

“Family meeting!” Emiko declares, striding into the library like a teacher calling for attention. Towa and a very-put upon looking Argentine follow her in.

Kosuke and Daiki look up from the spread of newspapers between them, a half-finished crossword puzzle hastily shoved beneath the front page story.

“Dear,” Kosuke starts, frowning as the doors click shut, a flare of magic sealing them from outside interference with a single touch of Towa’s finger.

“Dai-chan is at school, and the Hikari boy is asleep—poor thing didn’t even make it into the bath. I’ve left the defective piece with him,” Emiko says, lips pursed as she casts her eyes to the ceiling. She sits on the arm of the sofa next to Kosuke, arms crossed tightly. “Hopefully, a little sleep will do him well. We’ll sort out the rest later.”

She huffs, foot tapping a quiet rhythm in the air. “I don’t know what to make of this. Papa?”

Daiki leans forward, eyes on the headlines. “I would take it at face value,” he says. “Between what Dark and Daisuke said, and what the Hikari child did… Well. We knew, eventually, all art reaches its limits if it synthesizes too much information.”

“But for Black Wings,” Emiko says, voice wavering. “What does that mean for Daisuke?! For our whole family? For Dark?!”

“Can it truly not be restored?” Towa asks, brows pinched. “There’s older art here, and it’s still…”

“Those aren’t awake like we are,” Argentine says. “My new creator said he’s been restoring it, that the family has, all this time, and it still is reaching its limit. Black Wings was never supposed to be like this. That is a fact.”

“But Dark-san… he,” Towa murmurs. “And Daisuke…”

“Ah-chan, you can restore art yourself, can’t you?” Emiko asks. Kosuke puts a hand on her knee. “If the Hikari boy took you to the Black Wings, could you…?”

Argentine laughs. “My original purpose wasn’t actually to restore. It is something I taught myself to make myself useful,” he says, holding his hand out. “And then, when I was remade, Satoshi-sama kept that knowledge intact as he crafted me from the pieces I had left behind, from the pieces of Qualia. Neither I nor that girl were things that could… help people. I can help my creator if he asks, yes, of course. Here, I can fix the pieces that fall apart, but… I cannot finish that piece that was broken before it was even whole.”

Silence echoes through the room.

“If that boy wants to steal it,” Daiki says, “then we hear him out. Perhaps trying to wake the Dark Wings is what is bringing it to its limit. If we have it, then perhaps we can figure out how to keep it in stasis.”

“There’s more here than just the art,” Kosuke says, tapping the newspaper’s headline with his finger. “Hiwatari-kun seems to think that the police commissioner is involved with the curse. After what Daisuke said last night, and with the way our families have warped information over time, I don’t think it’s as cut-and-dry as a simple heist.”

“Obviously,” Emiko huffs. “A police officer wouldn’t just happen to adopt the last Hikari.”

“True,” Daiki murmurs. “But, I’m not sure how this slipped through our information net. Even the branch families missed this—with Funabashi working so closely with that Saga kid, you would think that something like that would trickle through the rumor mills. But this came out of nowhere.”

“Their loyalties still lie with the Hikari branches, Funabashi-kun has at least kept us informed about that. But I would assume secrecy has been drilled into the Saga family for generations,” Emiko muses. “The boy said his father’s been planting artwork. I doubt it was a coincidence that kid ended up with Manisumea. We know he’s been in the police’s pocket from day one, that’s why we planted branch members there. He might know something more about the Saga family’s connection to Commissioner Hiwatari.”

Kosuke makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. He looks to Towa and Argentine. “Do either of you two remember much about who you came into contact with when you were made? Would you be able to identify them or their descendants?”

Towa shakes her head. “I was made, and my creator told me I was to find and guide people. I was sold by the Black Broker, and then I was placed upon the lighthouse because that’s where the lost people were. And then Daisuke and Dark came.”

Argentine shrugs. “I was born in the Hikari workshop. There, I saw only my creator and his veiled students, but he forbid me from speaking to humans. He said that since I was not art, I was not worthy of their company. After a time, I was broken. It was dark for a long, long time. I was given freedom by a veiled student, and released from my tower to find the world emptied of my creator and the things I should have protected. You know the rest.”

“Then all we can safely assume is that the person who freed Argentine is from a branch family that is unknown to us,” Kosuke says, running a hand through his hair. 

“The only person who would know if branches exist that we’re unaware of is a Hikari, then,” Daiki concludes. “But that boy was kept isolated, wasn’t he?”

“While I imagine he knows a lot of things that we don’t,” Kosuke says, “he’s asked to use our research on the branch families. He seems to be thinking the same thing we are.”

“With the same amount of information, it seems. It just keeps going in circles,” Daiki huffs.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Kosuke says. He musses his hair further. “I think there may be things that he knows that he assumes are common knowledge, I don’t think that it’s a coincidence that he seemingly exists in a vacuum. I think he’s been deliberately misled and misinformed, and that tells us a lot. He suspects his father is involved.”

“Well, he’s in no position to have discussions about it now,” Daiki says, waving a hand in dismissal. “He’ll speak when he’s well rested and adjusted. For now, we should focus on helping him keep that beast of his tamed. That seal gives me the creeps; I saw Dark in Daisuke’s face when he saw it, so it can’t be good.”

“Right,” Kosuke agrees. “Of course, we’ll have to talk to Hiwatari-kun a bit, but I was thinking…”

---

He and Takeshi have walked this path more times than Daisuke can count. Through the courtyard of the school, down the tree-lined sidewalks.

There’s the detour through to the convenience store; and here are the snacks in hand as they cut across the street to the park they’ve played in since they were kids. It’s all the same, every last detail. It’s familiar, well-memorized, safe. Daisuke could close his eyes and walk this path, backwards and forwards; he could put it to paper, put it to ink and canvas and chalk, down to the worn and cracked streets.

Even so, Daisuke feels a strange calmness wash over him as panic leaves him. It’s the same calculated stillness that comes with Dark, that took his mind when he tamed Baku, that seeped into his bones when he saw Argentine mourn Qualia, that transforms himself into the phantom thief he’s been raised to be.

He’s wondered about what would happen if Takeshi poked around just a little bit more, looked a little harder, stepped just a little bit too far into the dark. It’s not like Takeshi is stupid—far from it. He’s sly, but brash; the loud and thoughtless act of his keeps the teachers, and his father, off of his back. There’s been loads of times that they’ve spotted Takeshi in places he shouldn’t be when Dark’s off stealing.

If he has something to say, something that had to wait until after school…

This could be bad, Daisuke thinks, turning his water bottle between his hands. He showed up right as Riku-san saw us, Dark, what if he…

Would it be so bad, then? If he knew? Dark asks, peering out at Takeshi with deep speculation. He shifts in the back of Daisuke’s mind, his entire consciousness thrumming with curiosity.

“Of course it’s bad!” Daisuke blurts out.

“Uh, well, I guess,” Takeshi says, frowning. “You okay there?”

Daisuke flushes, picking at the label of his water with his thumbnails. “Uh, sorry, I…”

“You were a million miles away,” Takeshi sighs. He leans up against the railing, back to the canal. “You’ve always been a space cadet, but lately, it’s been bad.”

Well, I’m carrying at least two conversations at any given time, so there’s that.

Dark snorts.

Daisuke sits down on a nearby bench, scuffing his shoes against the cobblestone path. A little ways over, a group of children shriek as they take turns jumping from the top of a slide.

“It’s been sort of a rough year,” he says, finally.

“You could say that,” Takeshi agrees. “Ever since your birthday, man, your life has been a disaster.”

“What do you mean?”

“First the younger Harada sister turns you down, you get together with the older one, your dad comes home for the first time in what, years? Then the Haradas get involved with a kidnapping, and then you find out your friend is basically dying, right?”

“Well, when you put it that way. Wait, what?!”

Takeshi circles around Daisuke to sit beside him, pushing his thumbs into the sides of his energy drink. He looks at Daisuke, a strange expression on his face. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. Hiwatari.”

“How did you… Takeshi, what?”

“You know you can tell me anything, right? We’re friends, Daisuke,” Takeshi says.

“That’s touching, but how many recorders do you have on you right now?”

“Three… and a half,” Takeshi says. “But that doesn’t mean anything! I won’t tell!”

“Sure,” Daisuke says with a laugh. Condensation from his drink beads between his fingers, soaking into the fabric of his pants where he rests it between his knees.

“Of course, I’m honor bound to report about Dark or any juicy public gossip,” Takeshi says, holding up a finger. “But personal stuff? No.”

Daisuke snorts. “Sure, sure, okay,” he laughs.

“Listen, I’m only talking about this now because, I… if you didn’t know it already, it didn’t feel right not to tell you,” Takeshi says.

Daisuke looks at Takeshi, studying the earnest lines of his friend’s face.

“I believe you,” he says, reaching out to fake-punch Takeshi on his shoulder. “Thanks. So, what do you know? All I know is that Hiwatari-kun is sick and out of town, and that it’s…”

“Bad,” Takeshi supplies.

Daisuke shrugs, looking off into the distance. There’s a line here that he has to tread, and he has to tread it lightly. There’s no name for whatever illness Satoshi’s father has fed their teachers, because it’s no mortal disease. It’s magic, pure and simple, welling in his bones like toxic waste. To put human terms to it is simply a line Daisuke does not want to cross just yet.

“So, what do you know about Hiwatari?” Takeshi asks. “You’re probably the person who’s closest to him in all of this.”

“Not a lot. Remember his apartment? It doesn’t look like he’s particularly close with his dad,” Daisuke murmurs. “I know some stuff, like how he’s moved around for his father’s work a lot.”

Takeshi lets the sides of his can pop out beneath his thumbs before pushing them back in again. “I went digging on that, y’know, when he showed back up after Risa showed back up. It was a little too odd that he just happened to be around, right?”

“I was there,” Daisuke says defensively.

“You’re always in weird places, Daisuke, that’s just another Tuesday for you.”

“Thanks, I guess?”

“Anyway, it was weird, so I asked around. I found out that his father isn’t actually, like, his father,” Takeshi says, fingers tightening around the can. “He was adopted in-family, his cousin, right before we started middle-school.”

This is interesting. Kid can keep a secret after all. Huh.

Hush!

“How did you find all this out, Takeshi? That’s a little… Even for you, that’s…” Daisuke struggles for a second, chewing on his lip. “That’s really personal stuff.”

“My dad told me,” Takeshi says. “I asked him. Told him that we’d had a classmate leave, then come back around the time of the Harada case, and asked if he’d heard anything.”

“And your dad just told you?” Daisuke asks. “Isn’t that private information?”

Takeshi shakes his head.

“Not in this case. His cousin’s actually dad’s boss,” he says, a small frown crossing his face. “The police commissioner is the cousin that adopted him. Everyone on the police force knows about it, it’s just us who didn’t know. ‘Cause even if I hadn’t asked dad, it’s easy to find. It was in the papers and everything when the position changed hands. You just have to know where and how to look.”

“I wonder why Hiwatari-kun never said anything,” Daisuke says after a moment, struggling to fill the silence with an appropriate reaction. He’s supposed to be shocked, he thinks. He is, it’s just not the way he’s supposed to be.

Takeshi scowls and tosses back his drink. He stands and crushes his can in his fist, shouting as he tosses it towards the nearest recycling bin. “It’s too weird! It’s too convenient! Something’s fishy, and I don’t like it!”

“Woah!”

Takeshi rounds and shoves his foot up against the bench, pointing towards Daisuke. “You’re his best friend, and you don’t even know! There’s something weird going on and we’re going to get to the bottom of it!”

“How about he just values his privacy, Takeshi—”

“There’s something strange about it all! He’s always around when Dark is, and now he’s gone off and disappeared? The police have never caught Dark, and his father’s on the—”

“Takeshi!”

Like lightning, Daisuke’s hand shoots out and grabs Takeshi’s wrist before he can even think about the consequences.

“I think you’re taking this too far,” he says quietly. He holds tight to Takeshi’s wrist, allowing just a bit of his strength to shine through in the grasp. “Hiwatari-kun isn’t Dark. Just because someone is secretive, it doesn’t mean it’s right to make assumptions.”

Their eyes meet. Takeshi’s gaze is steadfast, a look that betrays that his friend knows something that Daisuke never wanted to admit to. Small pieces fall into place, and the catch on the lock is finally open. He never really did stand a chance, did he?

He and Takeshi have always gotten along, ever since the day Emiko had first nudged Daisuke towards Takeshi on the playground. Part of it is their opposing temperaments, balanced between hot-headed and meek. The rest is genuine respect—they’re both well aware they’re evenly matched in strength and intelligence. Out of everyone, Takeshi is the one who’s most aware that Daisuke isn’t as much of an airheaded pushover as he seems, just like Daisuke knows that Takeshi plays at being loud and obnoxious.

They’re both frighteningly astute, and Daisuke’s given the game away. All those years ago, when Emiko gently told Daisuke that he should make friends with the detective’s son, had she known? Was she aware that Takeshi Saehara would grow into a boy that seemingly spread truth like seeds, but kept his secrets close to his chest, lending an alibi to her son? Or did she just think it best to keep potential enemies close to home?

Dark is silent, watching, waiting. Daisuke knows, in the way that he’s always known how to breathe and his heart has always known to beat, that Dark defers to his tamer when it comes to this. Whatever Daisuke decides in this moment, Dark will abide by.

Daisuke stares back, heart hammering. He stays silent, waiting for Takeshi to speak.

“Where else am I supposed to take it?” Takeshi asks.

“Wherever it has to go,” Daisuke says quietly, careful of his words and tone. “But not there.”

“I don’t understand,” Takeshi says. His eyes search Daisuke’s face, brows furrowing. “Why?”

“Because Satoshi doesn’t deserve that,” Daisuke says. “It’s not safe.”

“Will it ever be?”

Daisuke lets Takeshi’s wrist fall from his fingers. “One day, maybe.”

“That’s a shitty headline,” Takeshi grouses. He slings an arm around Daisuke’s shoulder, tugging him down into a headlock. “But I’ll hold you to it! One day, you and me, we’re going to have a serious conversation, you jerk!”

Daisuke laughs even as Takeshi’s knuckles dig into his hair. “Okay, okay, ow! You win! I promise!”

---

In that space between, it’s dark. It always has been.

There’s the moment of being in control, and then it’s gone, a slip of time between heartbeats where everything is wrenched away. At first, like a child, he simply curled up with his hands over his ears and his eyes screwed shut. He doesn’t need to see, he doesn’t need to hear.

It’s all dark, and it will be, forever. That monochrome world around him has no meaning, no bearing, and it is out of his control. When he’s there, nothing can happen; he can’t feel, can’t be aware.

The older he gets, this place of slipping time starts to fall away. Not because it stops happening, but because he becomes aware of what happens to him when it happens.

When did it start? When did it get that bad? And in that time, what happened that he just cannot remember?

It becomes apparent in the Labyrinth, the gaps in his memory, the things worn over by magic and time, the faces he can barely remember, the words that once rang clear as a bell now muted, distorted until all that remains is that one, singular choice that changed him completely.

He kept himself distant, so that he had nothing more to lose until all that was left was himself.

Hands on his arms, on his shoulders, his back. Hands that push, tug him up, a facsimile of love. If he thinks, he can still feel the sharp bite of wood against his stomach, arm turned upward. Cold metal, the touch of art. Magic on his skin.

That ghostly touch against his neck, on his chin, over his eyes, his ears, his mouth.

The tear of skin and fabric, an unholy force pulling bone and sinew from his body to knit with that cloying magic, his body a toy.

Heavy iron. Paint. A lonely room with chalk on the floor. Silvery hair. A home away from time.

That dark place behind his eyes when he is no longer in control, when the pain becomes power he cannot manifest, when he decides that he would rather break his own fingers than pick up that paintbrush. A voice that calls him by name, that marks him as a sinner, as one bound for a great and terrible destiny.

Is this what he’s forgotten? Is this what he’s made himself lose?

He opens his eyes in that dark place, reaching out through the chains. He is too close to the end to turn his back now like a small child, crying in fear. He bears no hatred towards the parts of himself that curl away from this.

It’s not easy to admit that you’re being abused.

Is that what he’s lost? The ability to turn away from what happened to him? That he grew older, more aware of shoulds and shouldn’ts, and lost the ability to care about what happened to him?

No. That’s not true.

He cares, just a little. He cares enough to dig his nails in, to haul himself one inch at a time towards an ending he can be satisfied with.

“You’re not fit for this sort of filthy scrambling about, Satoshi-sama.”

It’s dark. It’s so dark. He grits his teeth and pushes through that dark curtain that separates him from that arched ceiling room where the world is black and white.

“I beg to differ,” he hisses.

Sound splinters in the airless space, discordant and sharp. Metal on metal, the thump of displaced air through feathers.

“You dishonor your proud ancestors, crawling about with this sordid desire of yours.”

“I don’t care.”

He pushes through the veil, reaching with blood-stained fingertips towards the uneven canvas. Pain lances through his arm, his skin peeling back as white flames erupt from his very bones. He curls, the pain spreading up his arm, through his veins, settling deep in his chest.

His heart thuds as he gasps, his head wrenched back by thin fingers.

Krad tugs him back until he’s bowed back, spine cracking in protest. The flames spread with the pain, until he’s bright with magic, a kneeling spout of fire before his other self. Krad’s face twists and he shoves Satoshi away, leaving him gasping on his hands and knees as the fire sputters, guttering out into the darkness.

“You care very much,” Krad whispers, circling until his back is to the ruined canvas of the Black Wings. “It has blinded you to your heritage. A Hikari who does not create? Who runs to their enemy, begging for a scrap of safety? No. It will not do.”

He kneels, cupping Satoshi’s face between his palms, nails sharp against his tamer’s skin. “I will burn that brand from you, Satoshi-sama, for all it can do is delude and hurt you. When that time comes, you will realize you have no safe haven with the Niwa. You are a Hikari, and you will do well to remember that.”

“I remember all too well,” Satoshi replies, eyes defiant. He brings his hand up, now dark with blood, a pulsing pattern of darkness traced over his palm. “But I will not give it power over me. I will not give you power over me—”

He shoves, body throbbing in time to the beat of his heart. This place only has the power he gives it, can only exist through his own refusal to acknowledge what has been done to him and his heart.

He will always be afraid of it, but he can no longer turn a blind eye to the things he is afraid of. He is afraid, and it overwhelms him until he can barely keep his head above the surface of his fear. And what is that fear?

Being alone. Becoming that thing he fears most. A room that is full of monsters, a tomb of his own making, that indulgent, scheming smile. Being trapped in this space between worlds, one foot in the labyrinth, one foot in death.

He fears the man he could become, paint-splattered and parched, head clouded with desires and empty promises. He fears the version of himself that turns his back on the path his family has carved into his bones, free and untethered, allowed to want and dream a world where his existence does not spell death.

The seal flashes, filling the dream space with white, burning away the sneering mirror of his heart.

The light fades slowly, and then, the expanse of the dream is empty save for himself, the echo of a name, and a voice that calls—who calls out to him, who calls the name he answers to?

Which name? Which version of himself does he answer, which person will he become?

Hikari—

“...ari—Hiwatari-kun?”

He opens his eyes and the world bursts into brilliant color.

Chapter 6: Bond

Notes:

*holds up Baku* I just think he's neat.
Sooooo, guys, the series proper is ending, but we're just going to ignore all that! I'll be shamelessly sniping bits of canon that serves me best, though.
This chapter is all self-indulgent banter (I say as if the whole fic isn't self-indulgent).

The town is sleeping.

All places sleep, of course. Therefore they dream, of course, for they are all transient things to be used, traveled through, and absorb the whispers of the hands that shape them. Things are made with purpose, used with intent, and when the emptiness comes, they dream of being filled.

The town should be waking—no, fully awake. It is past the golden hours of sloughing off the sleepy desire of streets to be filled with feet and cars and purpose; it is past the wistfulness of parks waiting for school to end. The world is moving, a few hours away from the next rest, yet the town is sleeping.

The town is always asleep. Perhaps he was always aware of this, somewhere deep within, too preoccupied with his labyrinth and his circus to notice. Perhaps it’s only sleeping to gather power for the next time it wakes.

No, says the quiet voice, a slow waterfall of falling crystals, the shadow of the bell-chime song that filled his circus. Look again.

The city is a dream. It waits, golden threads of light wrapped around it like a cage. Those threads slowly twine and undulate, binding those places where the dreams are close to waking. If he was so ordered, he could pluck each winding thread and pull each dreaming piece awake; he could open the doors to the city, release the dreams that are waiting in those sharp threads of light.

He’s not quite strong enough yet, but if his tamer told him so, he would be bound to do it regardless of the toll it would take. But his tamer is young, and ignorant of the power he wields.

That suits him just fine; it suits the Dark Winged one well too. That dream is old, dangerous, and still-rousing. When it wakes fully, he is uncertain if it can be made to dream again.

He must, the Lady of the Labyrinth says.

It’s all a bother, all these twisted up dreams. They form a labyrinth outside of his control, one of times and lies and blood. That first dream of the Hikari, it begets so many nightmares and now they’re choking the town in its sleep.

His tamer is unaware of the cache of dreams in his own house, in his own room.

Even now, as the Hikari child sleeps, the threads of a nightmare like thorns winding about his body, his tamer works quietly, pallet and pen and contradictions.

The city sleeps, dreaming of the day that it will wake. The streets form a twisted, treacherous path, winding through the liminal dawns and nightmarish caches. There are dreams like himself, like the ones in this house littering that darkened path stars strewn into the sky, a tangled mesh of constellations drawn over the centuries. There are places where the netting of the aether is weak, where doors can be opened into the dreamspace.

There, one opens. The Hikari boy twists, the thorns of his dream curling into soft flesh and weakened magics, a pulsing thud of sickening power. It makes his own magic-flesh crawl, remembering the bite of his own weapon into his chest, ice-blue eyes boring down into his own like an executioner.

Hikari magic, the acerbic electric tang of that twisted wing, blood and ink, and something ancient and sluggish.

He shifts his snout, tasting the dream. Fear and sweat and blood color the air, throbbing with the quickening thud of the Hikari boy’s heartbeat. His tamer has yet to notice and the Silver one is too far away to notice his own master’s suffering.

Truthfully, he doesn’t care what happens to the Hikari boy, but the Lady implores him in that quiet, half-formed voice of hers. He takes a delicate claw and sinks it against the Hikari boy’s side, causing him to cry out in his sleep.

His tamer shifts, then yelps.

He closes his eyes and feigns sleep.

---

Satoshi’s never been an easy person to wake, but there’s something about being roused from a nightmare with someone hovering over him that jolts him into consciousness like nothing else.

He yelps, jolting upright. His forehead collides with Daisuke’s chin so hard that he can hear the other boy’s teeth clack. He’d feel bad about it if he had the presence of mind to, but his heart pounds so hard in his chest that he thinks he may be sick. He clutches his chest, gasping as the queasy feeling of sudden shock and the afterimages of his nightmare start to come flooding back.

He hunches over his knees, upsetting the spot where Baku had curled up in the sheets. He shoots the art a nasty look before screwing his eyes shut.

“Are you okay?”

He can still feel Krad’s hands on him, the base of his skull tingling like there was still a hand curled into his hair. It pounds, filling the tips of his fingers with the static numbness of magic, spiraling up into a pain that puts hooks into his lungs with each breath. It’s bad, it’s bad, it isn’t normally this bad, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s violently rocketing towards his own end or if it’s because of the seal rebelling against the strength of his inherent magic.

“Hiwatari-kun? You sounded like you were having a nightmare. Are you okay?”

He’s not alone; he needs to get it together. He needs to…

The bed shifts, and a hand presses against the space between his shoulders. It’s not large enough to be his father’s, or strong enough to be Krad’s, but touch is so very rarely a good thing that he reacts without thinking.

Daisuke catches his wrist inches from his face. He stares, wide-eyed at Satoshi, mouth parted in a silent gasp of shock.

“I, please don’t touch me,” Satoshi manages. “Let me go.”

“Sorry! I—!” Daisuke yelps. His fingers loosen only to tighten once more. “Ah! You’re bleeding! Hiwatari-kun, you’re—Let me, I’ll go—”

Daisuke drops his hand, palms outstretched in panic, skin smeared red with blood. The sight of it would almost be comical—there the other boy goes, backing up as he stammers loudly—but it turns Satoshi’s stomach to watch him flee.

“You scared him,” Baku drawls lazily once the bedroom door slams shut.

“Be quiet,” Satoshi snaps, tucking his head between his knees once again.

The weight on the bed changes. Cool fingers tuck themselves underneath his chin, lifting his face. Satoshi wants nothing more to throttle Baku, because surely that no-named art knows how the gesture makes his skin crawl.

“I fail to see what is special about you,” Baku muses, turning Satoshi’s face slightly. “But your nightmares are most delightful.”

“Get lost,” Satoshi snaps. “Before I make you.”

“Ha! You culled your own magic,” Baku laughs, sitting back on his haunches. He studies Satoshi’s face with a lazy grin. “You can barely even seal the thing inside of you, what hope do you have of doing anything?”

“I don’t need to hear that from you.”

“You see, we’re the same now,” Baku says. He points at Satoshi, rising to his feet on the bed. He leaps, hovering above the floor like an acrobat on a wire, arms spread wide.

“We were made host to broken, terrible things; desperately grasping for a glimpse of one good dream. Like a caged bird, wings beating even as they break. Tell me, Hikari-sama, do you feel shame in being tamed by my master?”

Satoshi grits his teeth, swallowing back the retort rising against the roof of his mouth. He inhales sharply, tamping his temper down. It would make him a poor guest to start attacking the artwork, and he’s pretty sure any quick movements would make him black out. A pity.

“You wonder why I dislike you,” he huffs.

“Is that any way to treat someone you’ve asked a favor of?”

“Again, let me remind you: I can make you.”

Baku tips his head as he leers. His knees buckle as his body tips back, back, until he’s hanging upside-down, hooked upon that same, invisible tight-rope wire. “You have no power over the art that has been tamed, you know? Even she belongs to the Niwa now, and you cannot force either of us to make a new dream.”

Satoshi sits back, crossing his arms over his knees as he studies Baku’s face. “Perhaps,” he concedes. “But, unlike my ancestors, I can simply ask the Niwa.”

Baku makes a face. “I’m bored,” he declares.

He drops to the floor, bounces once on the balls of his feet, then coalesces into a ball of light. It contracts into the form of a tapir, trunk waving merrily.

“You little—”

But Baku bounds away, rolling himself up into a black and white ball as he streaks through the bedroom door, Daisuke’s yelp of surprise the only warning Satoshi gets of the other boy’s arrival.

“Hey! Don’t run under people’s feet!” Daisuke scolds, leaping out of the way as Baku barrels through his legs. “Geeze! That guy! I hope he wasn’t bothering you, Hiwatari-kun. He just does what he wants, honestly.”

“Ah. No,” Satoshi murmurs. He looks down at his hands as Daisuke perches at the edge of the bed. Blood pools bright in the creases of his palm, a sickening red that slides between his fingers onto the sheets. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Daiskue says firmly. “Will you let me help?”

Satoshi shakes his head, squeezing his damp palm shut. “I don’t, I don’t like being touched,” he says flatly. “Sorry.”

If it seems at odds with all the times he’s picked up, grabbed at, tugged, and caged in the other boy, Daisuke doesn’t comment. He simply passes the soft-canvas pouch of medical supplies across the bed.

“I guess I startled you, then?” Daisuke says, pulling one knee up to rest his foot against the edge of the bed. He puts his chin on it, looking across the room instead of Satoshi. “You looked… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!”

For that, Satoshi is grateful. He’s not sure how he should feel at this moment, but he dislikes the queasy, off-balance feeling he does have.

“A bit, yes,” he admits quietly. He wipes the blood from his hand, then from the wounds on his arm, a lattice of cuts that follow the lines of the ink-black seal on his skin.

It’s larger than before. He grits his teeth against the sting of it.

“I… thank you for waking me,” Satoshi says after a long moment. “You were right, it was a nightmare.”

Daisuke looks at him then— he wishes he wouldn’t. Daisuke is perceptive, with an eye trained for theft, for finding the weakened places of the world, where he can slip his fingers in and break through. He sees more than he lets on, far more than he gives himself credit for. Sometimes, Satoshi wonders just what Daisuke sees when he looks at him, but he’s too afraid to ask.

“It’s, no problem,” Daisuke says. “You sounded like you were hurt. Well, you were, but, I—what I mean, it sounded like a really bad nightmare.”

Satoshi slowly unwinds a length of gauze, pressing it to his inner arm where the damage from Krad’s wild magic and the seal’s reaction to it is the worst.

“...Um, that… mark,” Daisuke murmurs, nodding towards Satoshi’s arm.

“It’s a sigil,” Satoshi sighs. “I’m sure Dark’s already had something to say about it.”

“He says it’s dangerous.”

Satoshi sighs, shifting his legs until he’s sitting cross-legged in the bed. The way Daisuke watches him makes him feel exposed, even as swamped in Kosuke’s oversized clothing as he is.

“That’s mild, for him,” he says dryly.

“Well, I’m paraphrasing,” Daisuke says hastily. “I’m not going to repeat what he’s been saying.”

Satoshi feels his lips twitch, amusement cutting through his throbbing head and the cloying awkwardness that pervades the room. Daisuke seems to relax at this, grinning easily at Satoshi.

“I suppose it is dangerous,” Satoshi offers. “But, in the situation, it was the only option. It’s made to seal an art using its own energy.”

Daisuke’s face twitches, his eyes flitting up to the side. Satoshi wonders if he’s the only one that ever notices it, the way Daisuke’s gaze bounces away like he’s seeing something that isn’t there. Surely, he’s the only one outside of the Niwas to know that it’s no nervous tick borne from airheadedness or anxiety, but a signal that Dark is speaking. Loudly, it seems, by the way Daisuke flinches back after a moment, a grimace on his mouth.

“I’m touched that Dark seems so concerned for my well-being,” Satoshi says, gingerly lifting the gauze from his skin. Blood wells, dark and sluggish; he presses back down.

Daisuke gives a nervous laugh, touching his ear in an absent movement. “I wouldn’t say that he’s exactly… uh… concerned.”

Satoshi closes his eyes, remembering the multitudes of times Dark has snapped at him; if he pretends, he thinks he can hear the angry bite of his voice, haughty and impertinent. He was never supposed to miss it, but there was always a thrill in their banter, in the chase that made his stagnant time move again.

“He says it’s basically suicide,” Daisuke whispers, his voice tight with worry. “He doesn’t like being close to it; that it’s dangerous.”

“If it spreads, I suppose it would be,” Satoshi says thoughtfully. “I’ve already spoken to your father about it. We’re going to try and suppress Krad some other way.”

He pauses, studying the worried furrow of Daisuke’s brow, the way his lips pinch, how his fingers curl into the fabric of the sheets. He wishes that it didn’t weigh so heavily on him when Daisuke worries. He wishes he didn’t know the sort of words that Daisuke is holding back, the way it makes his stomach churn to be held in such high regard.

“Don’t worry,” he says finally. “You promised we wouldn’t break, remember? I have no intentions of making you a liar. It’s not going to get to that point. Dark’s just being dramatic for the sake of it.”

Daisuke’s face flushes with color and the brand beneath Satoshi’s fingers throbs. He presses his fingers hard against his arm, until the sting of his wounds undercuts the burning of magic on his flesh.

“If… if it’s no trouble, do you think I could take a shower?” he asks, steering away from the dangerous undercurrents of their conversation.

“Oh! Yeah! Mom said she’s bought you some clothes, and once you’ve gotten cleaned up, we can go downstairs, I just need to—I think I dismantled everything in the hallway, but,” Daisuke says, hopping up from the bed. “Well, you’ve seen what it’s like here.”

“Indeed.”

“You know what, I—I can walk you,” Daisuke offers, stopping in the middle of the doorway, teeth worrying his bottom lip as he scans the hall. “I’m not really sure if it’s safe. Mom said she made it easy today, but…”

Satoshi steps around Daisuke, peering down the hall. The windows outside are dark, street lamps casting orange light into the places where the overhead lighting is dim.

“It seems clear enough,” he says. “If I just dodge the left-hand side of the hall’s pressure plate, then duck under the sconce near the corner, I’ll be fine.”

“Wait—”

Satoshi steps carefully atop the dark pattern on the runner in the hall, noting the slight depressions in the carpet’s piling that shows him the safest way through.

He almost swears he can hear Dark’s tsk echo through the air as Daisuke laughs, clear and bright at his back.

---

Despite Daisuke’s obvious worries that he’d fall prey to the house’s myriad of traps, Satoshi manages to bathe and return to the other boy’s room without incident.

He pauses at the door, struck with a sudden surge of anxiety. It’s ajar; light spills into the hallway in a bright stripe, coloring the dim hall; he can hear Daisuke rustling about, talking quietly to that familiar of Dark’s.

It feels wrong to just walk in, like the door is the last barrier between them. He knew that coming here would change everything, that it would mean that he wouldn’t be able to deny how important Daisuke Niwa had become to him.

Satoshi crosses an arm over his middle, fingers tight at his elbow.

It’s different—before, Daisuke had carried him in, accompanied him in and out and around the house; he hadn’t been given free reign then. And just that morning, Emiko and Argentine (and the Baku-like-thing, but he’s ignoring him) had escorted him to Daisuke’s room.

He’d been so tired that he barely even remembers changing clothes, or even worrying about the implications of just collapsing face-first into Daisuke’s bed.

It’s just that—it’s just that he can’t enter because he doesn’t know how to. Now that he’s calmed and rested and in relative safety, he realizes that he’s done more than just taken the curse into his own hands. He’s seized his own fate, yes, but he’s also put his life squarely in Daisuke’s hands and trusted that the Niwa family would take him.

He doesn’t know how to acknowledge how important that is to him, how thankful he is. That somehow, there are people in this world that would take his hand when he reached out. It’s terrifying; it’s incomprehensible.

His arm begins to prickle around the seal; he grits his teeth. He can’t overthink things, he can’t afford to. He’s here now and it’s too late to worry about his own insecurities and the boundaries he’s erected around his heart.

He swallows hard and takes a deep breath, gently nudging the door open as quietly as he can.

Daisuke’s back is to him as he faces his bed, folding a sheet. The bed looks like it’s been freshly remade, a hamper of linens at his feet.

Daisuke’s pet-slash-familiar notices him first, ears twitching. It switches shoulders quickly, then buries itself into Daisuke’s hood. Satoshi doesn’t quite blame it for its skittishness—that thing has been around since, well, forever, and he doesn’t quite think any Hikari has ever made a good impression on it. Between the whole pool incident, the mask, and then Krad, Satoshi’s actually astonished that it’s out and about while he’s around.

“Wiz, what’s the matter? It’s Hiwatari-kun, you’ve met him before.”

“It doesn’t like me, I don’t think,” Satoshi says dryly.

“Wiz is just shy,” Daisuke says, peering over his shoulder towards his hood. “Wiz, c’mon.”

Satoshi raises his hand in dismissal. “That’s okay, somehow I’ll manage to survive if Dark’s familiar doesn’t like me.”

“Well, I guess,” Daisuke muses. He turns towards Satoshi, worrying at the sheet between his fingers. “You’re okay?”

“I didn’t die in the bath, no,” Satoshi says, wishing the pants that had been laid out in the bathroom for him had pockets, or maybe a sweater or something—anything to feel a little less exposed.

Daisuke’s brows shoot up in skepticism, lips pursed as he studies Satoshi with obvious concern. “If you say so,” he says finally.

Satoshi sighs.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I stopped bleeding, yeah?”

Daisuke grins at this. He shakes the sheet out of the mangled half-folded mess he’d been working on. “Help me with this?” he prompts.

Satoshi shrugs and steps forward, leaning down to grab the edges.

“So! Dad says we’re both on library duty, huh?” Daisuke asks, shaking out the sheet.

“I suppose so,” Satoshi answers, mirroring Daisuke’s arms at the first fold.

“You’ll like it, Dad has all these neat old books and artifacts. Some of them give Dark the creeps, so he stays quiet down there.”

Another fold. Daisuke steps forward at the same time Satoshi does, bringing their edges together.

“What are you down there for?” Satoshi asks, handing off his side of the sheet to Daisuke.

“I… well,” Daisuke murmurs, looking down at his hands. “I’m not sure you’d really understand it?”

Satoshi tips his head. “You could try to explain anyway.”

Daisuke’s eyes flit up for a second before they focus somewhere on the floor between them.

“Well… between you and me,” Daisuke says quietly, “I was never prepared for all of this. Maybe I should have realized something was different. You know, with the way I was raised? ‘Cause traps and locks and doors I wasn’t allowed in, that’s not usual… but I’m not all that smart.”

Satoshi opens his mouth, but the retort doesn’t make it past his ribs. Who is he to say anything? Would Daisuke even want him to say anything? But he wants to, because he’s watched Daisuke make split second decisions of weight and inertia, angles and lock picks and has heard him modulate his voice into a thousand people’s.

“So, I. I never asked. And then Dark happened. I wasn’t even properly Dark that night, and you caught me,” Daisuke sighs. He turns and sets the sheet atop the pile of already folded linens.

“I remember that,” Satoshi says absently. It feels like another life, one where everything was dull, muffled by anger and pain.

How could he forget?

He hated Dark then. It’s a bit more complicated now, because how could it not be? Not when he and Daisuke are so intertwined, their families’ fates causing them to circle each other endlessly.

He knows Dark now. Dark is familiar: A lilting, beautiful nightmare has seen Satoshi and understood him. Dark respects his intellect enough to make an effort on his heists, has fought him as an equal, and above all, has provided aid despite their curse. It doesn’t mean he likes Dark, or is even on friendly terms with him—absolutely not—but, it’s certainly more complicated than simply hating him. He’s an existence that Satoshi can depend on: the sun rises, the sky is blue, and Dark exists to make his life difficult.

As long as Dark exists alongside Daisuke, there’s still a chance for them all.

“I was terrified,” Daisuke continues. He grabs a pillow off of his bed and shakes it out of its cover. “I had no idea about Dark, and then, there you were! I thought I was going to die.”

“I would say I was sorry, but…”

“No hard feelings,” Daisuke laughs. He changes the pillowcase and sets it on the pile. “I don’t hold it against you.”

Satoshi frowns and presses his lips together in thought. He’s done a fair amount of questionable things to Daisuke, things that most people would hate him for. “Why?”

“Well, you’re my friend,” Daisuke says with a shrug. “It drives Dark up the wall that you are, but it’s not as if you’re a bad person.”

“A small victory for the Hikari, annoying Dark.”

Daisuke snorts and pats the pile with a grin. “These are for you! Anyway, you were always nice to me even though you were chasing Dark down. Even before, when we didn’t talk much! Remember the handkerchief?”

“That was nothing, I was just…”

Stalking you, he doesn’t want to say. Because it wasn’t quite stalking, per se…

He was always aware of just who Daisuke Niwa was. Even before Dark made his entrance, he knew the face of his so-called enemy, went to school with him, and followed him down the hallway that fateful day.

If pressed, Satoshi will admit he was slightly baffled to find the fated tamer of the Phantom Thief Dark, the other half of The Black Wings, and his enemy from birth crying over a rejected love letter and a forgotten key card. Maybe that was why he handed over his handkerchief that day— or maybe he just felt bad, because in that instant, Daisuke Niwa was just a normal kid.

There’s no sense in trying to explain what he doesn’t understand, but Daisuke has it wrong, he has it all wrong.

“You’re kind, Hiwatari-kun,” Daisuke says pointedly. “You may have your own reasons for things, but you never had to help me as much as you have. You could have just let me mess up stuff.”

Satoshi tips his head, his throat and chest tight. He swallows hard and turns away. He grasps his arm tightly, hugging it against his side as he tries to find something to say that won’t hurt them both. He can’t bear to break the image that Daisuke has of him—it’s something fragile and crystalline, something that could shatter in the merest breeze.

How can he even begin to explain to Daisuke just why he’s done the things he has?

He helped because he was selfish; because, if it must end, Satoshi wants it to be on his terms. He wants to be able to make his own choices, to fight in ways only he is able to. Frankly, it’s the furthest thing from kind that he can fathom, because if he manages to break the curse between their families, he’ll be taking away something precious from Daisuke.

“And what, what are you looking for in the library?” he manages.

“I have all sorts of stuff out right now about the Niwa ancestors,” Daisuke says, blithely barreling through the change in subject. “I thought that y’know, it would help understand a bit more about Dark, and all the art he steals. If I can get to the very beginning, I thought that maybe, it could help us both.”

“Can I see?” Satoshi asks.

Daisuke shakes his head. “Not tonight. Mom said I can’t go in,” he says. “I think it’s mostly because they tore it apart last night looking for something. I heard Towa complaining about it. Oh! Speaking of, c’mon!”

Daisuke slips around Satoshi, gently snagging the elbow of Satoshi’s shirt to tug it once. 

“Mom came up when you were in the shower,” he explains. “She’s got food set aside for you since we didn’t want to wake you when we ate dinner. If you’re up to it, that is?”

“That sounds fine,” Satoshi murmurs. He presses his palm to his elbow. “I quite like her food, actually.”

Daisuke laughs, beckoning Satoshi out into the hallway. “After I had to force my lunch on you, geesh! Just bread, I still don’t understand how you’re taller than me.”

“You’re getting there,” Satoshi says. “Besides, it’s a pain to cook.”

Daisuke rounds the corner, the hallway opening up into the front landing. “It’s a pain to starve to death,” he says sagely.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Daisuke looks over his shoulder as he starts down the stairs, about to retort when Emiko sticks her head out of the kitchen, peering up at them.

“Well, aren’t you two rowdy! Dai-chan, go get your father while Hiwatari-kun eats! We’ve scouted out Dark’s next target!”

Daisuke makes a face. “Really!? Dark just stole something yesterday!”

“A thief’s work is never done! I already have the note ready!”

“Mom! Hiwatari-kun is right here! Maybe chill a little on the whole stealing thing?”

“Aw, don’t be like that Dai-chan! We can’t leave him out now, can we?”

Satoshi snorts, leaning forward to murmur in Daisuke’s ear: “Is it… normally like this?”

Daisuke sighs and nods. “Welcome to the family, I guess.”

Chapter 7: Threads

Notes:

A huuuuuuuuuuge thank you to Luanna255 who beta'd this chapter and is a very lovely person all around!!!

Also, y'all ready?? Two chapters left of the series...! I'm really earning that canon divergent tag!

Daisuke has never really been under any illusions that he lives a normal life, not with all the traps and lockpicking, his father’s travels, and most recently, Dark.

There’s a certain grace in the way the Niwa family handles their upcoming heists; it’s a game and a dance all rolled up into one chaotic evening, but it’s one that Daisuke knows the rules to now:

Emiko scouts, picks a target, and sends the warning letter. If Daisuke is lucky, he gets a day’s notice. She increases the traps about the house and handles any issues with security around the target location—sometimes Daiki helps, and sometimes Daisuke does it himself. If they consider it a particularly troublesome acquisition, Kosuke will sit them down and give any pertinent information about the piece.

A lot of it happens without Daisuke even being present, especially with his last year at junior high winding up. So it’s decidedly odd to be at the center of the whirlwind as Emiko starts to pile blueprints onto the kitchen table, ordering Towa and Argentine about.

That’s one word for it, Dark mutters. He’s been sulking all night, throwing acidic comments here and there, needling at Daisuke ever since he’d woken Satoshi up from his nightmare.

We’re just going to have to get used to it! This is just… how it is now.

Absolutely not, Dark says, a scowl evident in his voice and in the headache starting to pound between Daisuke’s eyes. I said what I said, I’m never working with that jerk again.

Aren’t you the one who told me to respect Satoshi’s decision to come here?

That’s…! That’s different.

Daisuke huffs in irritation, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Didn’t I ask you to go get your father five minutes ago, Dai-chan?” Emiko calls, a tea tray balanced on one arm while the other holds a rather hefty-looking box of papers.

Towa flits behind her and grabs the tea tray before it can fall. Daiki looks up from his newspaper with a snort.

Daisuke looks from his mother to Satoshi then back at his mother. So far, the other boy has been taking the commotion in quiet stride, his initial wide-eyed wonder swapped for a look of amusement as he eats his dinner.

“Uh, I, well,” Daisuke stammers, “Yes, but, I… Hiwatari-kun doesn’t know where… the uh, kitchen... is?”

Satoshi shoots a look at Daisuke that makes it very clear how poorly his lie just went over. Even Emiko tuts quietly as Dark starts to cackle.

“We won’t eat your friend, Daisuke,” Daiki says, shuffling his paper without looking up.

“It’s fine,” Satoshi says, taking a cup of tea from Towa with a quiet thanks. “It’s actually quite enlightening.”

Satoshi then smirks over the rim of his cup at Daisuke, the look making the back of his neck flush. He’s been on the receiving end of that smirk far too many times—it means Satoshi is about to start teasing him about something.

“I’m sure you’ll be enlightening us in no time at all, Hiwatari-kun,” Emiko laughs, setting the box of files down on the table with a loud thunk.

If Emiko notices the way Satoshi freezes briefly at the sound of the box hitting the table beside him, she says nothing. Satoshi’s face twists as he realizes Daisuke’s eyes are fixed on him, pale cheeks turning pink. He looks away, lips pinched in a small frown.

Daisuke swallows hard around the lump forming in his throat. Seeing Satoshi flinch is wrong: It’s one thing for him to lash out when he’s been surprised, Daisuke’s used to Satoshi being like that. He’s used to Satoshi being wry, used to the way he’ll suddenly fly into action without prompting; he’s used to the way Satoshi’s gaze is ever-present and piercing, always aware and observant.

Can you not?

What?

Go into hysterics every time he’s upset.

Daisuke frowns, trying to muster up a biting retort and fails. It’s just, what happened that made him like that?

I can think of two reasons, at the least, Dark mutters.

“Dai-chan!” Emiko scolds, wagging a finger. “Don’t make your father wait! Or else I’ll have to show your friend here the family photos!”

Daisuke jolts up out of his seat, “Um! I’ll be right back!”

“Photos?” Satoshi repeats, looking from Daisuke to Emiko.

Emiko laughs and plunges a hand into the box of files. “I happen to have some right here, just in case!”

“Mom, don’t you dare! I’ll be right back, Hiwatari-kun, but please, don’t look at anything she shows you!”

“That would be rude of me,” Satoshi says mildly.

Daisuke knows enough to hear the mischief in his voice; he wrinkles his nose in Satoshi’s direction before turning and bolting off towards the library.

He finds Kosuke perched precariously atop one of the rolling ladders, a stack of books piled on his knees. He has a book in one hand, eyes turned towards it as he scrawls notes across a notebook set atop his pile.

“Mom sent me to help you,” Daisuke calls up, holding his hands out to catch the inevitable avalanche as Kosuke starts.

“Oh! Is it that time already? I’ll just, oh, woops, sorry—”

Daisuke snatches the notebook from midair, keeping the myriad of loose papers within from spilling out. “What’s all this, dad? Mom has a huge box of stuff too.”

Kosuke eases himself down the ladder, his books tucked under his arm. “Well, there’s a bit of debate on this piece,” he says. He hands Daisuke a tattered, thin-bound picture book. “It’s older than most, I think—though, Dark would know for sure. Or perhaps Argentine would know? Towa is too young,” he muses, trailing off in thought as they make their way from the library.

Any ideas? Daisuke asks Dark, glancing over at Kosuke.

If it’s balls old, I don’t want it. It’s sure to be another pain in my ass. We have plenty of those already.

Daisuke sighs, rolling his eyes. They round the corner towards the kitchen and Daisuke braces himself for what’s sure to be an awkward atmosphere. It isn’t that he expects his family to immediately drop the friendliness once he’s no longer in the room—it’s just that he worries that they won’t know what to do with Satoshi when they’re alone with him.

Dark grumbles in the back of his mind, a wordless warning to stop worrying.

“Here we are,” he announces as he enters the kitchen, scanning the room for anything that would give him a clue to what happened while he was gone.

“Muse of history, four letters? I think the answer is Clio,” Satoshi murmurs to Daiki, who nods in thought as he pencils in a line of his crossword.

“Is that everything?” Emiko asks, looking up from her own pile of papers.

“Uh, yeah,” Daisuke stammers. He drops back into his seat next to Satoshi, a bit taken aback.

They’re getting along really well.

He’s the newest pet, Dark says dismissively, the image of him flicking his fingers like he’s shooing an animal filling Daisuke’s mind. They’re not monsters, they’re your family.

I know that, I just… they were so… why is it different now?

Dark sighs. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, Daisuke. I know it’s not something you want to hear, but… Even if we steal the Black Wings, there’s no guarantee that we can come to an agreement on what to do with it.

Stealing it won’t save him. He threw his lot in with us because when the cycle ends, he wants it to be in the hands of someone who understands what it is. Emiko and Daiki know this. Why would they make a dying man’s last days miserable for something he’s trying to fix? He’s more dangerous to himself than us as he is now.

Daisuke curls his fingers into his pants, head bowed. Heat fills his eyes as he bites down on the inside of his cheek.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair!

No. It isn’t.

“Niwa,” Satoshi says quietly. His fingers are cold against the back of Daisuke’s hand, and when Daisuke looks up, the look on his face is hard to decipher. “There were no pictures.”

“That’s not what I—!” Daisuke protests, cheeks warming as Satoshi tips his head with a wry smirk. “That’s, I, I knew it was a joke, I—”

Satoshi lifts his hand and taps his index finger to his lips. “Then don’t worry about me,” he says.

Daisuke gapes at his friend; Satoshi’s already turned his attention away from Daisuke, eyes fixed on Emiko and Kosuke where they stand side by side at the head of the table.

“We’ve already confirmed that the Azumano Police have received the warning letter,” Emiko leads. “At nine o’clock Thursday evening, Dark will steal from the University’s west wing’s archival rooms.”

“Ugh,” Daisuke mutters. An afternoon of rewiring locks looms in his future. “Couldn’t it have waited until whatever it is gets put on display?”

“No,” Emiko says, shaking her head emphatically. “Because of the nature of this piece, we can’t let it linger in a place where it can be examined thoroughly. Assuming the Police Commissioner is, at worst, a highly trained branch member of the Hikari family, it would be especially bad if it were to fall into his hands.”

She spreads a tightly rolled sheaf of paper out atop the map, weighing it down at the corners with books. “You see, the Lodestone Jewel is set to appear for the first time in centuries after an anonymous donation.”

“That piece doesn’t exist,” Satoshi says, his tone sharp in a way Daisuke hasn’t heard in a while. “The only proof there was ever a Lodestone Jewel to begin with is a children’s story based on, on whimsy and, and maybe someone seeing what Hikari art was capable of.”

Emiko taps the paper with her nail, tracing down the spidery lines of writing beneath her fingertip. “Well, yes… The history of the piece is murky at best; many people question its very existence. Our records don’t actually assign it to the Hikari. However, the chain of provenance suggests that it resided in their workshops at one point of time. It’s a risky gamble, but we’re going to take it.”

“Whose provenance?” Satoshi asks. “After the Reformation, the records aren’t reliable. People lie.”

“Well,” Daiki says, chuckling. “It’s ours.”

“What?” Daisuke asks. “...You’re… planting art… for Dark to steal?”

“Yes and no,” Kosuke answers, eyes focused on the paper. He taps a place where the ink is the lightest, light-weathered and aged. “At one point in time Dark, or, well—the ancestor who would go on to inherit Dark, stole it. From there, it passed hands from family member to family member, until it came to reside with a branch family. The direct line didn’t have it for very long. I doubt the Hikari family ever bothered to check up on it, since the markings on our records never specified who exactly it was stolen from.”

Dark?

I don’t know, sounds like a shitty piece if I didn’t hold on to it, Dark mutters.

“Why would you purposefully waste your time?” Satoshi asks, gesturing broadly across the table. “What you have is a no-name piece, something defective without the benefit of it synthesizing something truly worthwhile. If it wasn’t signed, wasn’t missed, there are better, more powerful artifacts out there that can actually help—the Niwa family already possesses the Towa no Shirube.”

This brat, Dark growls. Let me hit him. Just for  whose sake do I have to go out for something troublesome?!

“Hiwatari-kun, that’s a little… harsh, don’t you think?” Daisuke starts, as Towa scowls at Satoshi from behind Emiko.

“Boy,” Daiki cuts in, holding up a hand. “I think, perhaps, you’ve misunderstood what we’re doing here. What is it that you think we’re after?”

Satoshi frowns, lips parting in thought. “An old, unknown artifact. Something that would presumably lend the Niwa family its power, so that my family can’t utilize it against yours.”

“In the long run, that may be true,” Daiki says thoughtfully. “Each generation operates differently. For some of us, it’s about the history behind the art; for others, it’s just what the family does. Because of Kosuke and Daisuke, our family has begun to shift—it’s not just what we do, and the art is more than something to steal for the sake of power. In the end though, this is how we do it: If there’s something we want, then we’ll steal it. So… what do you think we want right now? Why do you think we’re targeting The Lodestone Jewel?”

“I… I don’t know,” Satoshi admits.

“Sometimes,” Emiko says quietly, “We steal because there are things we decide to protect, Hiwatari-kun.”

“I know it’s difficult,” Kosuke murmurs, “To shake off the bonds of tradition. I can’t begin to understand how heavy the weight can be—my family was an ordinary one, that only worried about the next paper to publish and the minutiae of history. I can’t promise that everything will work out perfectly, but… I think this is the time for all of us to shed the weight of expectations. What we think we know, how we feel, the feud between us—it’s time to cast it off.”

“I don’t want to be like my ancestors,” Satoshi says, his words harsh and clipped. Color raises higher on his cheeks, bright splotches of red against pale skin as he clenches his fists against the table. “I want to change, but…”

The silvery scars on his arm shine bright under the table light, cutting over the dark ink of the seal. Daisuke reaches out and mimics Satoshi’s touch from earlier. There’s a numbness that comes from touching the edge of the seal, a static sparking that slides over Daisuke’s fingers, but he doesn’t recoil.

Daisuke understands the words left unspoken in the air. There are lines that the other boy has drawn for himself, ones that keep him distant from the world around him in order to protect the last few shining shards of his heart. Satoshi will never cross them on his own, too afraid of letting the few threads that hold him together fray; to him, those sandy lines are built with concrete and steel and bitterness. The closer he stays to his family’s traditions, the safer he is.

But Daisuke knows, and has seen beyond the walls Satoshi has marked out like they’re made of the clearest glass. Deep inside, Satoshi is willful, stubborn, and proud. He wants a life separate from his blood—why else would he hold out his hand, whisper the secrets of his clan, brand pain upon his skin to forge a future that could be free of it all?

He’ll never step too far out of bounds on his own, so Daisuke has to go inside and coax him out, one small step at a time. He curls his fingers around the back of Satoshi’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

“Well,” Daisuke says, smiling; “You’re in the best place to learn! I don’t get it either, so we’ll do it together.”

Dark makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a fake gag. Gross.

Satoshi’s lips part in a bitten off retort. His flush crawls to his ears and he gently tugs his arm away from Daisuke’s touch, crossing it over his chest in a protective gesture.

“Yes,” he says finally.

“Again, you could be completely correct, Hiwatari-kun,” Kosuke repeats. “There’s no way of knowing if the Lodestone was even completed when it was stolen, or who really made it. Without these records, there’s no real evidence that what was donated is truly the artwork it claims to be, so there’s sure to be a frenzy around Dark’s theft. That is what we’re truly after. We need a full-scale media distraction paired with the full force of the police department to reach our true target.”

Kosuke runs a hand through his hair. “We’re betting that the mystery behind the Lodestone is enough to draw the attention of your father, you see. It’s… well. Most people aren’t even aware of the story of The Lodestone Jewel, much less that there’s an art piece associated with the children’s story. Even I had some problems tracking down information about it, and that was with the help of the family records. There’s only one scholar in the area who can be said to be truly familiar with the history of it.”

He picks up a thin bound book, gently opening it.

“The only real record of it is a children’s story that survived the Cultural Reformation relatively unscathed. It’s a story about a journeyman who aims to train under the most prestigious blacksmith, whose work was exalted above all others. The smith was capricious at best, and prone to fits of extreme lethargy. When approached, the smith told the journeyman that he would only train him if he could find a ‘key to many doors’.”

He turns the page and begins to read aloud.

“When the journeyman argued that the task was impossible, the smith laughed and said ‘I have a lock that no key can open, and behind it is my heart’s desire; find me a key, and my knowledge will be yours, and your name will be spoken above mine forevermore’, and then he threw the journeyman out. The journeyman searched and toiled for many, many years, until he found a jewel embedded in raw ore. He found that when he held the shining jewel, it led him to things that he wanted.

“If he desired food and drink, but was amidst a barren track, it could guide him to a river to drink and fish from, or to a farm where the inhabitants would take work to pay for his meal and lodging. If he sought materials, he could find the best he needed amongst the scraps. When he was lonely, it led him to taverns and friends and to the people he loved.

“For many years following,” Kosuke continues, “He tested the limits of this jewel, until he crafted a key of the finest silver, and set the jewel at its base, and thus, he returned to the blacksmith. He presented the key to the smith, now of much age, and said, ‘This key may not open many doors, but it will find you a path around them, and therefore, to your heart's desire’, but the blacksmith shook his weary head, ‘There is no path to what I desire the most,’ he said. ‘It is long gone.’ But the journeyman was undeterred.”

Kosuke pauses, slowly turning to the last page of the book. “He insisted and insisted. ‘I desired to be the best smith in the land, and it led me back to you,’ he said. Finally, the smith took up the jeweled key. He held it in his palms, quiet. He stepped forward, then collapsed on the spot and died.”

Daisuke inhales sharply, flinching backwards. “What?”

“The moral of this story is subject to speculation in historical circles,” Kosuke says, closing the book gently. “Some theorize that the book was written after the Cultural Reformation as a warning against utilizing the special powers of certain artworks. Others read it as a story written by an artist lamenting their lack of training or lack of potential. Some think that it’s a plea to the Hikari for a commission, one that they refused.”

He sets the book on the table, gesturing outward to the maps laid out on the table.

“We believe that, once faced with the existence of the Jewel, Hiwatari-kun’s father will surmise that Dark is now targeting art thought to be cast off by the Hikari or made by their followers. We assume that you alerted him of our possession of Manisumea: As it is now, it’s unsure if Dark can safely navigate the maze to the place where the Black Wings resides.”

“Dark will steal the Lodestone and draw the police’s attention. Sources say that Commissioner Hiwatari has taken up the position of Special Commander while his son is on medical leave, and will be assisting the local forces when he deems it necessary,” Emiko says, laying out another map. “We think this will be necessary for him—don’t you think, Hiwatari-kun?”

Dark whistles loudly, his interest and excitement sending a shiver down Daisuke’s spine as they look at the map Emiko has spread out before them.

Now this, this I can get behind.

“This is—” Satoshi breathes, wide-eyed. “He’s your real target?”

“While Dark is distracting your father, we’re going to break into the police headquarters,” Emiko says. “You’ll be leading, Hiwatari-kun.”

---

Daisuke yawns, stretching his arms up behind his head. His shoulders pop as he laces his fingers and twists from side to side. “It’s so late,” he complains. “Ugh, I’m sorry, Hiwatari-kun. You’re still recuperating, too. And dad gave you all those records to read through! Geesh, you’re a guest, not a workhorse!”

“Ah? Oh, I’m fine,” Satoshi says absently.

Daisuke drops his arms, nudging his bedroom door open. Wiz bounces off his shoulder and heads towards the bed as Daisuke makes his way to his dresser.

“Where you want to sleep is really up to you, Hiwatari-kun. You can stay in here with me for the night, or down the hall to the guest room. I’ll let mom know in the morning, so she doesn’t, you know, accidentally kill you when you wake up,” he says, rummaging for a set of clean pajamas.

When he’s answered with silence, Daisuke turns his attention to Satoshi.

Satoshi stands in his doorway, eyes trained on Daisuke. Something in his gaze is dark, intense in its focus—he’s not really used to being so thoroughly examined in his own home.

“Hiwatari-kun?” he asks.

“...your family is…” Satoshi says, voice cracking before trailing off. He holds the thick notebook close to his chest. “They’re very…”

“Intense, yeah,” Daisuke answers. He leans against the dresser, inching onto his toes to sit on the edge of it. “I thought they’d give you more of a break. Asking you to break into your father’s office, geesh. You can say no, you know!”

“I don’t deserve a break,” Satoshi spits out. “I… I’m not someone who… I keep thinking about it, but…”

He looks up at Daisuke, almost bewildered. His face pinches as he shakes his head. “I’ve wondered, for a long time, how you are the way you are. You say that I’m kind, but…”

Daisuke slides off of his perch on the dresser, crossing the room without a noise; it feels like anything will break the words building up in Satoshi’s mind. They feel fragile and sharp, like the edges of a paper crane, wistfulness infolded into each small crevasse between them.

He reaches without thinking, without waiting.

“You, this is more than someone like me deserves. My family… Krad… I’ve hurt you, their, you’re their…. Niwa, they love you so much,” Satoshi says as he shakes his head like the very fact is something intensely unfathomable. “They’d be right to suspect me, to be wary—we all know I’m dangerous! So why is it… how are they so quick to…How is it that we’re treated with equal weight? Why did it feel like, why did it feel like I was being scolded as their child?”

He sounds wretched—weak and wanting and it’s far more than Daisuke can bear.

Before, Satoshi had cried, had bitten out the words between Krad’s honeyed pleas and trickery. He’d rebuked Daisuke and pled with him in the same breath.

You don’t understand me at all, he’d said. It was a statement and a challenge and a warning, all wrapped up into one: Don’t know me, don’t even try, because this is what happens if you get too close, don’t let me hurt you.

Daisuke doesn’t understand. Maybe he never will, and that’s part of the frailty between them. They’re human, no: They’re just kids. And there’s no way Daisuke can understand the depths of what Satoshi has suffered through until this point.

He has never once been alone in his entire life—he has never once called out for someone and gone unanswered. He’s had his own problems, sure, but… even when he’s questioned himself the most, when he’s been so lonely and insecure he could choke on it, he’s had something to give him foothold to crawl up out of it. Dark, his family, Takeshi, Wiz—even painting.

But has Satoshi ever had anything other than a brittle promise and a cutoff future? Has it always been books and an empty room, with only Krad and the Commissioner in his future?

No, he realizes. There hasn’t been. There was never anything at all, because they all were taken from him—Satoshi told him as much, and he’d missed just how deep the fear of it went.

That won’t do; that can’t do. He can’t bear it, can’t even begin to describe how much his entire heart rebels against it. There has to be something, anything, some small thing that he can do—all he can be is himself, and so far, it’s been enough.

“I’ll say it as many times as I need to,” Daisuke says, cupping his hands against Satoshi’s elbows. He leans forward when Satoshi makes no move to flinch back from him, pressing his forehead to the other boy’s.

Satoshi’s inhale is sharp enough to cut to the bone; between them, the borrowed notes and journals scatter to the floor, a silent warning to them both.

“You are yourself, Hiwatari-kun,” Daisuke says, closing his eyes. “I can’t tell you if… if there’s anyone who can really decide what we deserve, but… to me, you are Hiwatari-kun, my friend, who has continued to fight. Do you hear me? That’s enough. Only you can be Hiwatari-kun, and that’s all you have to be to deserve kindness.”

Within his chest, there is a storm rumbling its first warning. A maelstrom that no one can control, and it’s the way he can feel his heartbeat in his forehead as Satoshi nods ever so slightly. He can heed the warning and turn back, or he can weather the storm and see what emerges.

“I mean it, I really do,” he whispers. “You will not break me, I won’t let you, because I don’t want to hurt you. So don’t be afraid of the idea of kindness, Hiwatari-kun. Let us help you, let us care about you! Mom is excited to buy you clothes, Dad loves sharing his research; Grandpa never really finishes those crosswords. Argentine is so glad you’re here that he helped out way more today than he ever does. You are welcome here because you are you.”

“And you?”

Satoshi’s voice is quiet, almost a breath. There’s something in the question that Daisuke is afraid to take into his hands. Gossamer thin, in shining thread, and more beautiful than any piece of art he’s ever seen—is hope. Hope for… hope for what?

What does Satoshi hope for, more than anything?

This is… it’s dangerous, dangerous… it’s—

Daisuke’s throat tightens as he inhales in shock, a small, unconscious mimicry of Satoshi’s earlier surprise. There’s a feeling that threatens to swallow him whole, bigger than what he wants to understand; here is something in his grasp, something that he has struggled to understand, and it is—

It is—

He would steal this moment and enshrine it in gold, he would possess it and hoard it, keep it away from those who would look upon it and tarnish it. Light lashes and pale skin, the yellow-purple bruises, the brush of silvery hair—put it on canvas, put it to marble, and grasp it in his hands. Like the finest thread of silk, it stretches between them, so thin that the barest breath will break it.

What is the answer? What is this string that ties the words to meanings to an answer that encompasses this feeling that shakes in his bones with enough force to force him from his body?

“I,” Daisuke starts, but Satoshi pushes him back with force.

“I have, I need to leave,” Satoshi says, hands pushed out mid-air, eyes wild. “I, I can’t stay here—”

“Wait, no! Don’t!” Daisuke shouts, but it’s too late.

Satoshi bolts from his room, his feet loud against the carpet as he races down the hall.

Daisuke stands in shock, mouth parted. His bedroom door swings shut and he sinks to his knees, staring blankly at it.

Just like that, that delicate thread is gone.

Chapter 8: Resonance

Notes:

I can say, honestly and truly, it's my city now and buckle up folks, I've added the 'fix-it' tag.
Thank you Luanna255 for the beta, I really cannot stress how much it means to have a second set of eyes on this and just someone to talk about the series with!
(Edit 4/18/21: I've inserted an illustration into the chapter! As a treat! Lol)

“Don’t you think it’s almost... cruel to make the boy break into his father’s offices?”

The master’s voice is hushed, worry threaded through the rasp of age in his voice. The mistress makes a quiet noise, and papers shuffle as the answer forms like a gathering mist.

He knows cruelty, knows it like he knows the components that make up each and every part of the house. He knows it as the echoes of screams, as the bite of a knife into magic-made skin, as he knows pain. Yet… he does not know if this is cruel.

“I think it’s something that must be done,” says the human master. “We just have to trust that he’ll tell us if it’s too much.”

Argentine tips his head, lips pursed as he tries to make out the words from the other room as they grow quieter, like they’re aware that he’s listening. Maybe they are—the mistress doesn’t seem phased at all when any of them come when she calls, even if they were miles away in the underground tunnels. The way they think is often beyond him, even as he grows more and more accustomed to the budding humanity in his chest. Humans pretend, though he doesn’t understand why they do.

They’re talking about his creator and the twisting path he’s chosen to walk along. He doesn’t think they know how close he is to breaking—they’re not aware of those things like he is.

Both of them, actually, are very close to breaking. In the days since he’s arrived at his creator’s bidding, something within the human shell of Kokuyoku has changed. It’s more… it’s more…

He’s not sure, but it feels as fragile as the eggshells the Towa no Shirube has taught him to crumble into the planters each week.

Speaking of…

He closes his eyes, ignoring the way she squawks at the no-name piece. There’s a mirror on the second shelf to the left, delicately filigreed and inscribed with a name, and if he reaches just so, like stretching a limb that’s gone numb, he can… There.

He nudges alongside its gentle consciousness, promising to wipe away its slight tarnish and refix a weakening joint in the metalwork for its generosity in sharing its sight.

“But to trust him this far,” Daiki mutters. “I’m not sure it’s entirely wise.”

Emiko taps lacquered nails to the table, face pursed in deep thought. “It’s the only way,” she says. “I keep thinking it over, and it’s the only thing I can come up with.”

“And if it backfires?”

“We deal with the consequences then, but we’ve been waiting for an opportunity to—”

“Then are we just taking advantage of him?”

“Darling! You said you agreed it was the best option!”

Kosuke folds his hands together, face creased in thought.

Argentine watches curiously—Kosuke is human, with no shreds of power clinging to him yet the house goes silent when he speaks. His original creator and the servant that woke him spoke poorly of humans without magic, called them ignorant and blind.

It is still strange to find himself disagreeing with his original creator.

“I still do,” Kosuke murmurs. “But was it the only option? We’re adults. We’re supposed to protect children. These circumstances are strange, and some are out of our control, but for us to have failed to put waiting on the table… I don’t know.”

“I’m going with him,” Emiko says. “It’s not as if we plan for him to go alone, it’s just…”

Her voice wavers for a moment and she falls silent. No one looks at each other, their eyes cast solemnly down at the table before them.

“Hiwatari-kun is a very sweet boy,” she says after a moment. “I can see that now. But we can’t allow—”

Whatever the mistress cannot allow is lost to him as he’s forced from the mirror’s shadow, blown back like a bird in a heavy storm. A sharp cry of wordless alarm echoes through his ears, even as he clasps his palms to them against the ringing pain of something screaming. Glass shatters around his feet as the Towa no Shirube drops her tray, tea and cream puddling around their knees.

It pounds against his skull, a maelstrom of heavy magic that rings in his ears, discordant and screeching. Electricity surges around them both, bowed over the shattered tea service—Towa claws at the wooden floor, lips parted as she gasps out her master’s name, her human clothes forced back into winding ribbons and bell-sleeved fabric.

Her master and his creator—are they breaking? This is the pain of something breaking, the intense pulse of magic let out as they implode—he’s heard so many broken things, he’s heard so many of them die in agony.

Tears boil off of his face as he looks up at the ceiling with sightless eyes, fighting against the power that threatens to crush his very being. It searches, sinking its hooks into the places where he was hewn together, searching for the parts and powers that make him Argentine.

He lets it find those places, and sets his magic alight, casting shadows that stretch far beyond the library’s walls, connecting his magic to his creator’s. He allows the connection to pull him to its source, traveling through the shadows of the house with his borrowed power.

“Satoshi,” he says, kneeling in his creator’s shadow.

As he has before, as he always will, for the precious existence that gave him life, he is there. Before, it was something forced—he was made a weapon, but he was born with too much power.

He does not know what his first creator wanted to destroy so badly that he forged him and Qualia, two imperfect creatures with such immense power their mere thoughts were dangerous. He followed the man blindly, in fear and deference and thanks.

He often could be found just like this: magic boiling off his skin, arms slick with sweat and blood, wings spread taut like a taxidermy butterfly, feathers mottling the floor around his hands and knees.

Argentine would do the things his creator said humans liked, wipe away the blood, and clean up the remains of whomever displeased their creator.

His last memory of the man is just like that, magic running wild as his eyes flashed gold, smothering him. And he took it.

That was his place as a creation.

That’s all he ever was, a tool, a thing made to sow destruction, a thing that brought nothing but pain and sorrow, a thing made to withstand the blows and to mop up the mess left behind. And he took that role, he lived it to his very last, until he opened his eyes to a new light in the shape of a shadow of a girl, a soft voice and dark hair, and thin fingers.

Now he learns to be something more, something that learns with clumsy hands and loud surroundings, with soft clothing and a house full of sounds other than screaming. He’d never thought once that he was sent away, that this creator didn’t want him. He was made to be a companion, to fix the broken things before they become something dangerous, to grow and learn that flickering feeling he’d barely understood before.

He was not sent away because he was something broken, he was sent because he was a trusted existence, so he feels no dread at coming to his creator’s side.

This is his place as Argentine, made anew.

He places his hands on his new creator’s shuddering back, easing his magic from his palms.

“No,” the boy gasps, staring up at Argentine from where he kneels, hunched over in pain. Snot and tears and pinkish spit streak his face. “No,” he hisses again. “Don’t—”

“You are breaking,” Argentine says, hands hovering a hair's breadth from Satoshi’s shoulders. “You cannot handle this amount of magic.”

“I’m fine,” Satoshi manages through gritted teeth. Krad’s wings tremble in the air, feathers shifting with bright pricks of magic, static shocks that pulse through the air. “If you touch me—the seal—”

Argentine shifts on his heels, reaching out to roll up Satoshi’s sleeve. Underneath the blood-soaked fabric, black vines twist and coil, spreading up like the trees of a long-rotted tree. The tips of his gloves grow hot, then catch fire in a burning white blaze.

Argentine yanks his hand back as his glove disintegrates into ash.

“You will die,” Argentine warns, looking at Satoshi’s blackened fingertips. “Do you wish to not exist anymore?”

Satoshi’s eyes flash gold, a twisting sneer carving across his face. The high-pitched whine of something breaking thuds in Argentine’s ears as Satoshi whips his head away, breath heaving.

“Did you know that you can use eggshells to feed plants?” Argentine says after a long moment. “And coffee grounds. It is very interesting.”

Satoshi’s body shudders, and very slowly, Argentine reaches out and lays his hand on the boy’s head. Magic sparks against his skin, little static shocks that pop against his flesh. He does not move his hand.

“The mistress taught the Towa no Shirube, who taught me. Even things that seem useless are important, it’s very fascinating. It’s called composting.”

Krad’s wings shift, the ragged breathing of his creator growing slowly quieter. Argentine keeps talking.

“I was given my own plants to take care of, too. At first it was hard to learn how to care for them, because they are living things. I watered some too much, and the Towa no Shirube scolded me. She always does,” he says thoughtfully. “But it is not unpleasant. She showed me how to touch the soil to see if it is dry. Then showed me her own little plants. The other day, the mistress showed us how to make more plants off of ones we already have.”

He talks and talks, of anything and everything. How they make tea in the house, how many pieces of art they fix in a day, how often they have to save the human master from the mistress’ traps. More and more until his creator is merely a hunched over form, thin-boned and weak.

“You should sleep,” Argentine says.

Satoshi reaches out and grabs Argentine’s hand, red-rimmed and swollen eyes surveying the blistered palm. “Why did you let yourself get hurt?” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Because you called me,” Argentine answers.

“Why is that enough?”

Argentine watches as Satoshi’s arms wrap around himself, trembling like he’s cold. His face is damp, and his lip is swollen from where Argentine assumes he bit it. The magic has left his face with a ashen cast and a general air of malaise.

He stands from his crouch, blinking around at their surroundings. For whatever reason, they’re in the guest bathroom—no matter, it makes cleaning the mess easier. He grabs a rag and hands it to Satoshi, who wipes the blood away from his arm. It does nothing to remove the black stain on his fingers.

That will not fade as easily, if at all; he finds the idea truly upsetting.

“Is it not obvious?” Argentine asks, holding his hand out to Satoshi.

Satoshi shakes his head.

Argentine cannot form an answer that satisfies himself, so he does not answer immediately.

He knows that there are things that are clear to him, things that he understands without prompting, that others do not. He was not always this way: it comes from the magic gifted to him from Qualia. He is no stranger to things cast in shadow now, so he takes his time to cast light on them.

“Come, I’ll show you to your room,” Argentine says.

He guides his creator towards the guest room, standing in the doorway as he watches Satoshi stumble towards the bed.

“There are fresh clothes in the dresser,” Argentine says finally, studying his creator’s shadowed form. “I will keep watch on you until you sleep. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“...Thank you,” Satoshi murmurs.

Argentine tips his head, mouthing the words in silent wonder. Has he ever been thanked before by a creator? The mistress certainly has, as has Niwa Daisuke. Towa does not, merely because she is contrary, but she still shows him the shining trinkets she collects and the secret ways of the house, and that is the same thing.

But to be thanked by a Hikari?

He smiles, chest warm like he’s holding a fire inside of him. “I am glad it was you who created me this time, Hiwatari Satoshi,” he whispers. “That is why I came when you called out to me.”

---

Where did he mess up? What was he even supposed to do? What was he supposed to say in a situation like that?

How many times is he going to end up like this, watching people leave because he can’t find the words to tell the truth?

The truth… What is the truth here? What were the words that he should have said instead of hesitating? It should have been so much easier, because of course he’s glad Satoshi is here. Of course he wants Satoshi here, here where he’ll be safe, well-fed and cared for; somewhere where he can be…

Where he can be… where he… can be…

There’s a word, and it’s dangerous. It's a warning and a promise and a debt, all in one. He knows the word, knows it like the back of his own hand, like the routes he knows will take him home. He knows it like he knows the scent of his home, like he knows the taste of his favorite food, like he knows the way the mechanisms of a lock will slowly fall home, one by one, until it falls open in his waiting palm.

The truth is—the truth is, it’s—

Daisuke paces the floor, sits, then leaps back up to circle the perimeter of his room again. Like a caged animal, he’s trapped in the confines of this room, his door an electric fence he just can't scale.

What should he do? What should he say? He knows he’s messed up, he knows he’s managed to hurt Satoshi. And isn’t that ironic? That in the same breath he’s promised not to hurt Satoshi, he turns around and slips into the cracks and does just that.

That small shining thread was hope and he didn’t know what to do with it, so he let it fall. He let that quiet light shatter at his feet, even though he realized that it was small and so very fragile.

It was, it was—for him, above all, he is, to him, Satoshi is—

Satoshi, he—

If he stops and thinks, just for a moment, if he lets himself be still and if he ignores the pounding rush in his ears and the fever-hot flush on his face, it makes sense.

He kneels, furiously gathering up the scattered notes Satoshi had dropped, trying hard not to think about the revelation bearing down on him like a physical weight.

He feels too large for his body, skin itching and nerves jangling. He knows this feeling, he knows what it means, and it’s too much to bear. He can’t, there’s too much at stake, there’s too much to untangle.

It’s, he, for him, Satoshi—and in return, he… He what? He… in return he, he feels, there is—he, he—

“Really?” Daisuke whispers into the still air, looking at his bedroom door. “Does he really?”

I can’t answer that, Dark says. That’s a question you can’t ask me.

“But you said,” Daisuke starts, throat tight. “You said it, so you must know! Dark!”

Leave it alone, Daisuke, Dark snaps.

“You know I,” Daisuke starts, voice trailing off. “I… I like Riku,” he murmurs. “He knows that.”

Dark sighs. I’m not your relationship counselor.

Daisuke grips the edges of his father’s notebook in his hands, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I didn’t know,” he says. It’s a lie, and he knows it. Maybe he wasn’t fully cognizant, but the signs were there, there was enough shared between them that if he’d bothered to think more about it, he’d realize.

“I’m so dumb,” he whispers.

Leave it, Dark says.

His tone is strident, a command with the full weight of his power behind it. Daisuke flinches back, startled by the force Dark exerts over him.

“What? I— Dark!”

He finds himself frozen in his own body, hand outstretched and trembling midair.

He can’t move; his muscles are locked in place, frozen by magic and a will that isn’t his. It’s been so long since Dark has taken his body by force that the feeling is alien—and terrifying.

Sometime in the past few months, Dark drew a line between them. Daisuke’s body was his body—he’d stopped trying to grab control when Daisuke was weak, when he was startled or upset, and he let their edges bleed together. Their existence ebbed and flowed between the other’s like a tide—Dark took over when Daisuke’s heart overflowed with love, and used the excess emotion to ease the way.

Daisuke forgot what it was like to be afraid of it, of Dark taking away his choices when they mattered the most. His first kiss, his easy life, his safety and his friends—the ability to dream of a future without guilt—the safety of the ones he loves—the certainty that he is loved and cared for and wanted.

He’d long since traded those fears away, deciding to instead build a relationship of trust between him and Dark. One that hasn’t been broken since Dark realized his limitations when Risa was kidnapped.

“No!”

He’d given up so much for this easy peace, a sacrifice he refuses to acknowledge, one that rarely even matters; his friendship with Satoshi is a point of contention, a sticking point in their trade. He knows that if he gave it up and kept to the neat little lines their family history drew between them, life would be easier.

But it would be so much lonelier—who else can he complain with, who else can even begin to understand? Who else could help him without question, caution, or restraint? There’s been so much that he’s been able to do only because Satoshi is his friend, because Satoshi laid himself bare in that coastal wood and Daisuke had chosen to believe that small kernel of truth between them.

He’s always known, always, always, from that day forward: he was responsible for the pain Satoshi felt that day. His existence triggered Krad that night on the lighthouse and he will always bear that guilt.

Satoshi doesn’t blame him, just like he’s never once blamed Risa or Riku for what happens with Dark, but… Satoshi laid it out in plain terms, and he… took pity on him.

“What purpose do you think this will serve! Who are you upset for? Him, or yourself? Don’t be indecisive,” Dark snarls.

Daisuke cringes back against the feeling of his mouth moving without his consent. He sways, muscles locking as he tries to cover his mouth.

“Stop! Stop it!”

In this sort of state, what do you think you can accomplish?! The best thing is to leave it alone! Right now if you act on this, it could be catastrophic for him— and for us! Dark hisses, his voice thick with emotion. Blood has been shed between us for far less things! Would you bring out that thing here, where your family is? For what purpose; for what end? Can you not feel it, what would happen if that seal was to break? What it would do to him?

“Listen to me!” he cries, but it’s not just his voice, it’s Dark’s, resonating over his own. This isn’t like that time at the dance, where they shared the same space as easily as breathing—it tears at his chest, at his throat, hot tears pouring down his face. “Listen to me for once!”

His body burns, muscles straining, his veins a tight-knit network of heat that claws him open. He thinks of Satoshi, of the fury that called Dark’s wings to him once before, of the pain that slices down to his bones. He curls it tight in his gut, gritting his teeth against the urge to shout in a voice that isn’t his own.

“He was crying!” Daisuke manages. “What sort of friend would I be if I let him cry alone? If it was my fault?!”

Dark flexes his nonexistent wings in an angry show of exasperation, but his control lessens enough that Daisuke collapses onto his hands, gasping.

Wiz darts out from under the bed, running around Daisuke’s hands, keening with worry.

Do you not feel it? Dark asks, voice quiet. Do you not understand how being around him affects us both? Affects him?

“I don’t know what you mean,” Daisuke pants, curling his fists against the wood. “But I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Listen, I—

“I said no,” Daisuke snaps, bringing his fist up to wipe his eyes, tasting bile. “I don’t care. I chose what I chose.”

You are the most irritating tamer I have ever had, Dark sighs. ...I don’t hate it. Sorry.

Dark so very rarely apologizes that Daisuke pauses, inhaling sharply. The instinct to brush the whole thing off rises in his throat, but he grits his teeth and swallows back his habitual it’s okay.

It’s not. None of this is okay, not remotely. He feels like his entire world has been upended all at once, tugged along by some invisible string. He feels too big for his body, yet too small for the swell of emotions that burst and crack open his bones.

He runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the ends as he tries to control his breathing. His life has been nothing but chaos since he turned fourteen, but he’s always felt like he and Dark are on the same page after that time with Riku on White’s Day. It’s like the early days, all over again, where he feels like control has been snatched from his hands. Who really controls his hands, his mouth, his fate?

His hands shake, adrenaline making him tremble. Exhaustion tugs at the edges of his body like he’s run a marathon, but he can’t sleep now.

There’s a quiet knock at his door, then Emiko leans into his room as she slowly opens the room. Towa shoots off of her shoulder, barreling full-tilt into Daisuke’s face, filling his mouth with feathers.

“Wha—”

“Dai-chan? Is everything okay?”

Daisuke gently nudges Towa onto his shoulder, frowning up at his mother. She looks apprehensive, brows creased with worry. “I’m okay?”

“Daisuke! It felt like the house exploded!” Towa cries, batting his face with her wings. “There was so much magic! It sounded like screaming, it was bad!”

“Hey! Hey! Stop that Towa-chan!” Daisuke complains. “Dark and I just…”

Emiko steps forward and kneels in front of Daisuke, mouth trembling once before she hugs him to her chest. “Toto and Ah-chan just collapsed out of nowhere,” she whispers, voice shaking. “We, I’ve never seen anything like it—”

She squeezes him tighter, tucking her chin atop his head. Daisuke can’t remember the last time Emiko’s hugged him like this, like the world was ending—she’s always been affectionate, doling out hugs and kisses and ruffling his hair like sweets, but this is something different, this is…

He remembers this—this is how she hugged him as a child when a trap was too difficult, where a jump was too high, or a gap was too large. How many times did she hold him like this in the doctor’s office, listening as a nurse tutted about how rough and tumble boys could be?

His life has never once been in his control, not really. Dark didn’t change that, but he can. He will. Starting with Satoshi, he can slowly rebuild a life where he can make choices again. For both of them.

“I was afraid you were in trouble,” she says, “That we were wrong, and the seal didn’t hold on Hiwatari-kun—that, that—”

“Oh, mom, no,” Daisuke soothes, reaching up to hug Emiko back. “No, nothing like that. I’m okay, see?”

Emiko smooths his hair back, leaning back with damp eyes to survey his face. She shakes her head. “Ah-chan went to Hiwatari-kun—he won’t let us near him. Are you sure that nothing happened?”

Daisuke chews his lip, shrugging. He debates whether or not to even go into detail about what happened—in the end, it’s not worth it. He knows what his mother will say: She’ll side with Dark, like she always does. It doesn’t matter what he wants, not really.

He doesn’t blame her, because what he wants is dangerous and just a little bit selfish. It always has been, because Satoshi’s made it clear that he’s made his peace with the idea of death, but… But Daisuke wants it all the same, and now there’s another layer, one more reason to steal Black Wings and figure out the curse, just to understand his place in the other boy’s heart, to understand why all that hope was placed in his hands.

It’s selfish and it’s dangerous and it hurts, but he refuses to give it up.

“Nothing happened,” Daisuke assures Emiko. “It must have been some weird magic feedback with the art and Satoshi.”

Emiko doesn’t seem to be overly enthusiastic about his answer, her lips pursed into a steady frown. “What does Dark think about it, sweetie?” she asks tentatively.

Daisuke feels his face twitch, but he quickly plasters back on a benign smile. He’s never lied to Emiko like this before, never ignored Dark’s warning murmur, and he almost feels bad about the pause he takes like he’s listening to Dark, almost feels bad about shaking his head and the soft laugh he gives as he says: “He says it’s fine, mom.”

Almost.

But not enough to take it back.

He’s made his stance on the matter clear enough to Dark, to himself. He doesn’t know what it’ll bring in the end, but it’s something that belongs only to him.

He soothes his mother with more empty reassurances, quiet laughter, and enough lies to coat his tongue and leave his mouth dry. He doesn’t want Satoshi to suffer for something he set off, doesn’t want his mother to argue about safety and magic and keep them apart: he knows that whatever it is between them, they have to work together through it in order to come out on the other side alive and whole.

He ushers her out of his room and into the hallway, citing the late hour and the work he has to do to prepare for the upcoming heist, repeating that he’s fine, he’s okay, Dark’s fine, Dark’s okay, it was all a fluke, it’s fine.

He doesn’t feel fine—he feels raw and ugly, like everything inside of him has been scooped out and dumped to the ground from a great height. Sweat makes him clammy and his legs beg to give out from underneath him. He keeps himself standing, holding Wiz in his arms as Baku winds around his ankles.

“Good night,” he tells Emiko, tipping his head up as she presses a kiss to his forehead one last time.

“I just would feel so much better if Toto stayed with you,” Emiko murmurs for what has to be the thousandth time in the past five minutes.

“Mom, you know I can’t sleep with all of them fussing over me,” Daisuke sighs. “I’ll be fine, I swear. Besides, Wiz is with me.”

Emiko opens her mouth to say something more, but is interrupted by Argentine’s quiet voice, his presence so sudden it was as if he’d simply teleported from the end of the hallway.

“Mistress? You wish to talk?”

“Oh—well, let’s go downstairs where we won’t bother the boys,” Emiko murmurs. “Send Wiz along if anything is wrong at all, Dai-chan!”

Daisuke sighs. “Yes mom,” he agrees as she turns away from him. He allows himself a moment to sag against the door, eyes falling shut in a brief moment of pure exhaustion, and when he opens them again, Argentine is still there, staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

He feels like he’s being appraised, like Argentine is waiting for some sort of sign from him.

Emiko disappears around the corner, and the feeling grows.

Something within Daisuke tugs, a faint echo of a feeling he can’t place, one that reminds him of the way the air shifts as wings spread and beat in the night air, of the solid feeling of a pocket watch in his palm, and the scent of fresh snow. It’s almost as if…

He raises a finger to his lips, a deliberate and slow gesture that suits Dark more than it suits him. Argentine tips his head downward in a small nod of recognition, following Emiko without a single word spoken between them.

Daisuke turns and slowly closes his door, exhaustion taking over as he hits his lightswitch with his palm, stumbling around the pile of notes to collapse face-first onto his bed.

He sleeps, and therefore he dreams.

---

The room is a wide, winding spiral that seems to lift itself to the very heavens. Arched doorways spill light and people out into that slow curl, drifting back and forth like tall grass in a breeze. Their faces are blank, fuzzy—just pale skin and smudges for eyes and mouths.

The feeling of emptiness lays heavy on him like a blanket as he stands in the middle of that faceless sea, eyes cast up to the star-like lights sparkling against the glass ceiling. The floor tips, tossing him head-over-heels until he looks down at that nautilus chamber of a hall.

Wind roars in his ears and it doesn’t stop even as the glass ceiling shatters beneath his feet, but he does not fall.

He walks on the falling glass, step by step, down and around and down and around. The people part around him, cascading into a darkness that follows him like a cloak. The walls blur like he’s sprinting as he walks, each measured step taking him further and further down.

There’s a dark doorway, an ornate arch, and he steps through. The darkness whips around him violently, reforming into hands and faces and bodies, crushing him with a sudden explosion of a noisy crowd, underlaid with strings and the sound of heels upon polished marble.

His vision doubles, tripples, quadruples—he’s above, he’s below, he’s beside. He blinks, and then it’s like watching from outside of himself.

Three men stand before a canvas of ever-shifting black. One stands aside, eyes and hair dark as pitch and a face so blank it’s almost menacing. Another holds his hand out, eyes unblinking as he murmurs, “This is my piece.”

The third man, clad in black with a shock of red hair bows his head low as he takes the hand offered to him. He looks up, lips curled into a grin, “It’s a pleasure. My name is—”

“Niwa—”

He turns, meets eyes as wide as his, reaching out as he realizes he’s not alone in this dream—is it even a dream if he’s also here?

---

Satoshi wakes with his hand stretched to the ceiling, the soft shape of a name wrapped around his tongue. He sits up with a groan, hands covering his face as his head throbs.

He was dreaming of something strange—a room shaped like a spiral and a black-gloved hand in his. And then, Daisuke…

He opens his eyes and squints at the side of his bed. Baku waves his trunk at him.

He makes a rude gesture back before dropping his head back into his hands, letting his icy fingers press against the bone above his eyes. He ignores the hearty laughter his gesture inspires, listening to the sound of nails clicking against wooden floors.

What an awful pet that thing makes, he thinks. Footsteps replace the sound of nails, a presence hovering nearby.

Satoshi looks over at Argentine, trying to discern what he sees on the artwork’s face. It’s as impassive as ever, but he can feel the worry roiling off of the boy’s form in waves. He remembers, vividly, being cradled against his own creation as he cried and clawed and fought his way back from the very brink of something unspeakable.

Satoshi holds his hand out. “Let me see,” he says.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Argentine says.

“Your hand. I broke part of you last night,” Satoshi says, feeling the way the words taste in his mouth.

He doesn’t like it.

It makes him think about that ugly feeling that rose in him in the halls of Manisumea, of the anger and mania that drove him when his blood was forced into the chambers of Qualia.

Argentine removes his glove, holding out his hand to Satoshi. Satoshi bites down on his lip, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He turns Argentine’s hand in his own, surveying the damage.

It looks like it’s made of stone, cracked and crumbling, with a scorched pattern burned into its surface, mimicking the strange curling patterns of his seal.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m no better than the rest of my family.”

“You didn’t mean to.”

Satoshi sighs slowly, ignoring the throb in his head and the ache that spreads up his arm from the seal. The meaning behind Argentine’s words are evident—that it makes it okay, that it makes him different, to break Argentine without intent. It makes him feel vaguely sick to think about.

He’d said before that being a Hikari means he can break and fix whatever piece of art that he wants to, but… he wants to be completely different. He doesn’t like who he is when he acts on the impulses his family history has drilled into him. He thinks about how Daisuke treats the art, how Kosuke talks about the tensions between the Hikari and the Niwa.

He’s always wanted to solve things on his own terms: not his father’s and not Krad’s. And right now… he doesn’t think that he should be so absolved of his own sins.

“It doesn’t make it right,” he says at last. “Maybe before I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But…”

“You think of Niwa Daisuke and you want to change,” Argentine says.

“...You… You’re very perceptive,” Satoshi says, looking up at Argentine’s unwavering stare.

“I thought that Kokuyoku had changed because of his sacred maiden,” Argentine says. “But then you sent me here. Kokuyoku has changed in many ways, and Niwa Daisuke is a reason. I also have changed because he is here. There is no reason to be ashamed.”

Satoshi laughs bitterly. He holds Argentine’s hand with his injured one, digging his thumb into a new wound on the inside of his forearm. Blood wells up underneath his nail as pain blossoms bright along his nerves.

“Ashamed isn’t what I am,” he says, swiping his bloody thumb against Argentine’s charred and cracked hand. His blood seeps into the porous stone, leaving behind new skin in its wake. “Not of that, at least,” he amends.

“I see,” Argentine says slowly. He flexes his hand slowly, lips curving faintly into a smile. “Thank you.”

“I don’t think I need to be thanked for that,” Satoshi says. “It was my mistake that hurt you.”

Argentine tips his head. “But do humans not thank someone when they are grateful? Did you not just thank me last night?”

“They do— I did,” Satoshi says, lacing his fingers together against his knees. “I just… I’m not sure this is the right situation.”

“I will ask Niwa Daisuke,” Argentine says with a nod. He turns on his heel. “He should still be eating breakfast.”

Satoshi grabs Argentine’s coat without thinking, heart thudding in his chest. He doesn’t want Daisuke to know—he doesn’t want Daisuke to see this petty part of himself, the bit that squirms away from praise and thanks, that has to make up for his mistakes, that needs to be the model son and heir. He doesn’t want Daisuke to know how much he was hurting last night, how close he’d come to being overwhelmed by a transformation he couldn’t control. “I— don’t, don’t go—!”

“...I see, you want to come with me. Well, follow me,” Argentine says. “I’ll show you the safe way downstairs.”

Satoshi blinks up at him.

Argentine tips his head, eyes unblinking. “Is there a problem, creator?”

Satoshi shakes his head, rising to his feet. Dully, he notices that he’s in different clothes than he’d been wearing the night before—Argentine must have cleaned him up and changed his bandages, too.

For such a practical piece, Argentine is… almost child-like. Satoshi frowns, worrying at the edge of the gauze on his forearm. He doesn’t remember much about remaking him, only the instinct that drove him: This practical bluntness must be a result of how isolated it was in the tower.

Still, though, he doesn’t really want Argentine to tell Daisuke about any of this. He still feels weak and a little ill, and he knows that Daisuke is able to tell, with an almost frightening accuracy, when he’s pushing his body beyond its physical limits. All it will do is hurt the other boy, and Satoshi can’t bear the expression Daisuke makes when he finds out he’s suffering.

Satoshi follows Argentine down the hall, noting the way the piece sidesteps certain tiles without a second thought. Argentine stops at a T-junction in the hall, looks both ways, then steps to the empty wall.

“This way,” he says. He presses his thumb to a tile on the wall, exactly in the center of a raised carving of a five-petaled flower. “The servants' ways are dangerous themselves, but they’re safer than the Mistress’ traps,” he explains.

“Should you even be showing me this?” Satoshi asks.

Argentine shrugs. He twists his thumb clockwise to the third petal. There’s a spark in the air that smells like fresh rain, and the seams between the tiles split into a narrow doorway.

“The mistress showed me herself, so I am allowed,” Argentine says.

“I doubt you needed to be shown,” Satoshi mutters. He tucks his hands into his pockets, walking a few paces behind Argentine.

The hallway is barely large enough for two people to pass side by side, made of dark wood and magic. The house was built around these passages, just like the town was built around the labyrinthine ruins of the Hikari compounds.

“That’s correct,” Argentine confirms. “It’s quite similar to how you told me to come to the house. I could feel it without being told where it was.”

Satoshi is quiet for a moment as they descend down a tight spiral staircase. “Are you sure this won’t get you into trouble? I can handle the traps and things that get set out.”

“At most, the Towa no Shirube will shout,” Argentine says with a shrug. “She always shouts though. Why?”

“I just… don’t want you to get in trouble on my account,” Satoshi mutters.

“The mistress was quite emphatic that we were to make you feel at home here,” Argentine says as the staircase bottoms out into another narrow hallway. “You are not a phantom thief, you are my creator. If you wish to train in thievery, I cannot stop you, but I can warn you that it would be unwise today. You still look unwell.”

Satoshi laughs softly. “I get it. Thank you,” he says.

Argentine looks at him from over his shoulder as he presses his hand to the wall.

“So you do understand when to say thank you,” he says solemnly as the door opens up in front of them.

Someone screams.

“Ah! Geesh, it’s just you two! I thought for sure there would be more alligators.”

Satoshi looks up at the sound of Daisuke’s voice, blinking as he finds his friend currently crouching on a chandelier a good seven feet above their heads.

Daisuke waves.

“I…do I want to know?” Satoshi asks.

Daisuke leaps down, landing beside Satoshi with a soft noise and a small displacement of air. He slips as he tries to stand in his socks, and Satoshi grabs him without even thinking.

“Uh, alligators, there, uh, were? Some?” Daisuke squeaks, his face turning pink.

Any awkwardness that could have lingered between them is absolutely destroyed by the absurdity of the situation. In fact, Satoshi completely forgets why he was hesitant to see Daisuke at all.

“You don’t sound convinced,” Satoshi says, stepping back so he can peer around Daisuke’s shoulder down the entryway. “I think that’s something you should be sure of.”

Daisuke laughs, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “Mom turns into a maniac before Dark has a job,” he explains. “There was a trap door with water and… something in it. She’s said they’re alligators. And then you two burst out of the wall, and I just sort of… leapt up!”

“...This explains so many things,” Satoshi mutters. “Yet it’s not the explanation I expected.”

“What?”

Satoshi shakes his head, holding a hand up. “I… this is a lot, I think I need coffee before I even try to understand.”

“Oh! Okay, yeah, mom’s made plenty of breakfast—I’ve actually already eaten, I have to head out to school early for club since I have to do prep for the job tonight,” he explains.

Daisuke shifts, brows knitting together as he worries his lip with his teeth. “Are… you okay, Hiwatari-kun?” he asks quietly. “I’m really sorry, I think I upset you last night—I, you’re important to me, but I think I pushed my feelings onto you.”

Satoshi swallows hard, feeling his neck begin to prickle with heat. He twists his fingers together at his waist, lips parted as he tries to figure out something to say. Within him, the monster pokes and prods at the spaces where he’s the most tender, the places where he’s stretched too tight, trying to find the easiest way to break free.

It means everything to him that he’s been so readily accepted here, that Daisuke’s claimed him as a friend, as someone trustworthy and kind and someone who has worth. But he’s selfish and he wants more, and that’s the one thing that he can never let himself want. But he wants… and he hopes and that hope, that large, sprawling horizon of hope… will be his end. He wants it too badly to give it up, even if it means he’ll die just a little bit faster than before.

“No, it’s… I… I’m not used to this sort of thing,” he says around the knot forming in his throat. “It’s overwhelming, and… That sort of thing is dangerous for me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Daisuke breathes.

Satoshi shakes his head, hugging his arm tight to himself. He wants to reach out and touch, to hold his palms against Daisuke’s, grip his shoulders between his fingers, to just… exist in the same space as him, to ground himself with the touch of another person, one who hurts for him, who wants for him, who has welcomed him into his life as someone with worth.

“It just comes with the territory,” he says. “Krad doesn’t care what emotion it is, if it’s strong enough… he’ll use it. There’s nothing we can do about it except what we’re trying to do now.”

“But it hurts you,” Daisuke says angrily, his fists balling at his sides. “I’m… I don’t want to be the reason why you get hurt anymore!”

Something pops in Satoshi’s chest, something small and quiet, like his body is whispering oh! as a small tremor works its way down his spine. His ears and cheeks are warm as he watches Daisuke’s eyes grow shiny with tears.

He reaches out, touching Daisuke’s chest with his index and forefinger, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse of Daisuke’s heart beneath the cool cotton of his uniform.

“You didn’t mean to,” he says softly, shaking his head gently. He looks over to Argentine, then back to Daisuke, a small, secretive smile curling on his lips. “We hurt people because we’re alive, Niwa. But we also save people because we’re alive.”

He wants to lean forward, press his palm flat to Daisuke’s chest and thank him over and over for saving him; for teaching him how to hold this feeling in his heart, cradled close and keeping him safe. To tell him how the ripples of his kindness stretch out and out, helping him even when Daisuke’s not there. He wants to step in close and thank him for existing with each breath and beat of his heart that he has left—because they are alive at the same time, because they’re here and real and together, he hurts and he’s healed and he can change.

Something spills out of that small whispering place, a feeling he can’t name, only that it’s desperate and new and so very big that it makes his throat ache. He wants and he wants and he wants, but what exactly it is that he yearns for is lost to the panic-quick trip of his heart and a pain at his wrist.

He withdraws his hand.

“So, thank you,” he says instead. He tucks his hands into his back pockets, smirking as Daisuke turns red and splutters. “I wanted to ask you something, if you have a moment before you leave for school.”

“Uh, oh, uh, yeah okay, uh!” Daisuke stammers, smoothing out the front of his uniform, face and ears showing no signs of fading.

“I had a strange dream last night, and…”

“Was I there?” Daisuke asks, pointing between themselves. “Because, yes! I did! I’ve been having weird dreams ever since Baku showed up, and I really meant to ask you about it—”

Satoshi frowns, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “That… it shouldn’t be possible that we had the same dream at the same time, unless we were in Manisumea.”

Daisuke shifts. “Listen, something weird happened last night when you left. Mom said Towa-chan and Argentine went funny at the same time, and then when she checked the security camera, something had fried the tapes.”

Satoshi feels his mouth go dry and his stomach drop. “I don’t know… was it me? I… Krad was trying to get out, but I—”

Daisuke shakes his head, looking deeply uncomfortable. “No, I… at the same time… well, it’s… Dark and I,” he mumbles.

He shakes his head again, like he’s trying to free himself from his thoughts. “Nevermind, I don’t think it was your fault, Hiwatari-kun!” he says, fixing a grin on his face. “I think it’s just an adjustment period. Anyway! I’ll see you after school! Mom says she has clothes for you, but be careful, okay? Don’t let her push you around too much, or she’ll put you in really weird stuff,” he says, carefully stepping around Satoshi. “She likes dressing people up.”

“...I’m not wearing bondage like Dark does. I’d rather go out naked,” he says warily, watching as Daisuke visibly flinches and turns bright red at the suggestion.

Something is…off. Daisuke’s too stiff, and his voice is an octave too high, his words rushed. It feels a bit like it did before they really got to talking, back when all they had was a bet between them to keep Daisuke safe. Satoshi frowns, trying to figure out where their conversation went awry.

It has something to do with their conversation the night before and Dark, but what? Was it because of Krad trying to break the seal, or was it something else?

“Well, have a good day,” Satoshi says, lifting a hand in goodbye.

Daisuke nods and rushes off towards the doorway for his shoes.

Satoshi tries not to wince as Daisuke falls face-first into the door after being tripped by a thin, shining wire at ankle-level.

They’re definitely going to have to talk about this later.

Chapter 9: Setsubun

Notes:

Oops, it's been a while! No worries, here we are with a double feature--the next chapter will ready for posting soon!
As always, thank you to Luanna255, who convinced me knuckle under and commit to some sort of historical accuracy--inasmuch as it can be historically accurate and still keep canon in mind, of course.

The room is considerably large, its ceilings glittering with candles in little paper lanterns hung from high set burnished beams of wood, their flickering lights making the room swim in a warm glow. Candles and large braziers burn from their skillfully placed corners, flooding areas with light to draw the eyes to the lavish displays of art and statuary.

Somewhere there’s a band, turning the shifting sea of people into a slow, undulating dance, their polished inside shoes on burnished stone floors muffled by voices and the sound of strings.

Flowing robes and elegant silk, diligent servants that melt in and out of the intricate columns, voices that sing praises and mutter critiques: The party is everything fairytales extol, ephemeral and spirited. It’s the territory’s newest crowning jewel—a school and temple paid for by the local lord, built in the strange foreign style that has popped up around the capitol city, sending traditionalists into a frenzy.

It’s a gaudy show of wealth, one that could have interesting repercussions from the capitol—though no one has dared to tell the lord to his face, for none have bothered to come down from the capitol for many years, because truthfully, this particular territory brings nothing of merit. The higher lords have abandoned the region for the year-long luxuries behind the walled cities, languid and satisfied at the capitol.

He would not be here otherwise.

He looks down over the balcony’s railing at the swirling patterns of people, running a gloved hand through his soot and ink-darkened hair. From this height, he can see the whole of the floor, the outer edges’ pathway curving around the round room like the shell of a nautilus, the three wide loops leading those who walk the rising path to each new room until it leads to the garden he occupies now.

He adjusts the ties on his robes and shifts his shoulders under the weight of so many gilded layers. His invitation rests in a pocket sewed at his breast, but such things are a formality for him. All he needed was this simple, open-air garden at the top of the cliff the temple was built into. No one would dare question his presence.

He huffs quietly, wandering down to the floor; he spares glimpses of the displays, but nothing catches his interest. Somewhere, he hears the sound of a play, but he drifts past the room without peeking in to see.

For something so eagerly anticipated, so overly advertised as exclusive and exciting he feels… Nothing. There’s not even anything that piques a passing interest here.

It’s boring.

There’s alcohol though. He accepts a glass of ginger sake from a servant, joining the throng of people milling and dancing on the main floor.

It’s not just this party or the art or the people here that’s boring:

Everything is boring.

How many times had he thought that? How many times had he woken up to a new day, the bright trails of dawn lightening the sky, and sighed?

How long will he live this endless life? From the time he was first aware of it, there was nothing in this endless, fruitless life that stirred his bone-dry heart.

For what purpose does someone like him even live? Ceaselessly, yearningly, carelessly—what point does living a life like that even serve?

It’s so boring.

He made a game out of living, to shake the ennui that drenches his very soul. The things that people want, well, he’ll just go out and take them. He’ll make them his own, shape them with his dirty, sin-stained hands, and form them into something that’s his alone.

Someone like him should never have lived past childhood—dirty, searching, and stealing just to wake up to another day of endless nothing. So he took their pity, he took their disgust, he took their spite and ink pressed into unwilling skin. wrapped them up like the finest silks, and he made them look at him.

Money, food, clothes—these are the things that make a man, and he dresses himself accordingly. Deft fingers and a sly mouth; keen eyes and light feet. He steals himself a place in their world. He makes them think that he is more than just a child on the rafters, and he wins their disgusting game.

Victory is hollow, but it’s too late to stop playing.

Bored, bored, bored—he is so goddamn bored!

Is there nothing in this life that can satisfy him? That can fill the pit in his soul and smooth it into something worth existing?

Is there no grand creator who can take the mess that is his heart and shape it like marble into an existence worth noticing? To melt his bones down and pour him into a shape that fits the ragged edges of this world?

Nothing, there’s nothing. He will die as he lived: dissatisfied and restless, living in a skin he stole.

He tips the cup of sake to his lips, swallowing its contents whole. It’s not sightly for someone of his so-called stature to knock back sake like it’s the dregs they skim off the bottom of the brewing barrel. No one dares comment, but he’s aware of the way eyes slide past him as he swallows.

“Aren’t you as lively as ever?”

He laughs even as his throat burns, the curator’s hand heavy on his back.

“I was overwhelmed by the festivities of it all,” he laughs, falling into his role as easily as breathing. “I’m quite amazed to see something as…. Expansive and modern so far from the capitol.”

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it? And for us to be so lucky that it opened while you were here for the omiai! On the new year as well, most auspicious for both the temple and your marriage.”

He smiles, a brittle thing that does not meet his eyes—not that anyone would notice or dare say a thing about it. “My timing was most fortunate indeed,” he says, “For me to be able to return to the emperor with such tales of beauty and a dutiful wife by my side.”

The curator beams at him, preening at the dual compliments dealt to him. He’s a relative of the girl being married off, and he’s been quick to offer anything in his abilities to make the match work. Money, art, silks, horses, bushels of rice and barley.

Boring!

It’s all so boring! It’s a waste of time, it’s a waste of space—why is he alive? Why was he put onto this earth?

Surely this is not his purpose, to mask himself as genial, tuck himself into fancy robes and pretend. Surely not, because he cannot bear this game he has set for himself.

He’s proven he can steal a heart and a life just as well as he can steal bread. Why is he here? The plan was to acquire an engagement, rob them blind, and leave.

He’s stuck. He’s stuck here, because the family has cold feet because of the rumors from the capitol that the so-called fads from the west are to be banned, because they’ve sunk money into courting tradesmen and building these schools and temples and inviting merchants into town. Because they think they can manage a better omiai partner, but he can’t leave. He can’t leave without achieving something, without proving…

Prove what? And to whom? If he stays overlong… Well, he values his life more than any conquest, more than anything he could steal. Life may be boring, but he’d prefer not to be strung up for all to see.

He swaps out his cup as they pass another servant. He sips it slowly, allowing the warmth of it to suffuse his body as he listens to the curator chattering about the building and letting the emptiness take hold of him.

There is nothing in this world that he wants more than his own pride.

Endlessly, the days cycle on, over and over and over and over—every day is the same. He can charm even the harshest skeptic, but even that leaves him wanting.

Wanting for… just for someone… for someone who can pierce through the darkness of his heart. But that sort of thing, for him, it’s impossible isn’t it? Does someone like him have a heart? Or is it a shroud of darkness, unable to let even the smallest bit of light through?

The crush of people grows and he drains his drink in the time it takes for the crowd to part around them like the sea before a tidal wave.

And oh.

Oh that’s… That is…

A canvas, done in a style he has never once seen before and dark as night—so dark it seems to suck the light from the room, and cut through it is the shape of a hand worked in layers upon layers, catching the light just so that it seems to leap from the wall, reaching in veins of gold and white, and it speaks to him—

In a voice only he can hear, a clarion bell, a rush of the sea, and the sound of the wind in his ears as he races above the town, and it sings his name, for the very first time in his life, it calls to him, and the pit opens up—

His cup shatters on the floor, crunching under his heels. He moves like a marionette tugged on spider-thin threads. Someone calls out to him with a name that is not his, and he can’t bring himself to salvage himself from the wreckage.

Want, want, want, want, want—it sings to him, an endless maw of pitch-black desire. He’s reaching, hand outstretched—

If he laces his fingers with that hand, he will never be alone again. If he grasps it with all his might, takes it into his soul, he will never again wonder if he’s broken. In the darkest recesses of his echoing heart, he hears the call, and his darkest desires are known.

He wants it, he wants everything, he wants to preside over a kingdom of ruin like a broken king, a series of stolen, ruined things that belong to him alone. His birth said he was to have nothing, so he will own it all—if he possesses it all, he will never be empty, he will have the whole world in the palm of his hand.

If he digs his nails into that choppy paint, will he own that voice? Will it become one with his desolate heart, to hold and guide him forevermore?

It sings, it screams, a siren above all others, and he knows the words to the song like he knows his own tar-black soul.

“Please do not touch the art,” a man says, pushing his hand down. The pressure is light, but it feels like he’s been struck by lightning.

He starts violently before looking up at the dark-haired, dark-eyed man, who merely smiles at him. There’s nothing behind that smile, and it sends a chill down his back. He’s dressed in a simple high-necked black robe in some other country’s style, looking as foreign as his placid face feels.

“You heard it, didn’t you?”

Beside him, a quiet voice, identical to that siren-song, quiet and hoarse and real. A young man, clad in white, stares at him with sea-glass eyes and parted lips.

“You… I, excuse me,” he says, trying to save himself from further tarnishing his image. No lord would act this way, no matter how far down the line of succession he was. “I must have had too much to drink, please forgive me.”

“I’m glad to see such a violent reaction to my piece.”

Then the man with the clear blue eyes smiles and holds out his hand, delicate and pale and cool.

It’s like holding the wings of a bird. As he brushes his lips against the man’s knuckles, he can smell the turpentine-oil scent that clings to his cuffs, feel the pulse of something magical suffusing his very skin, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that this man’s desire is what is painted deep into each crevasse of his works.

In that moment, he decides that everything that this man touches must be his and his alone—his art, his voice, his smile. He’ll take it all, because he’s found someone who yearns in the same colors he does.

“It’s a pleasure. My name is—”

Chapter 10: Scout

Notes:

In this house, we love the drama~~~

He looks down at the widely swirling staircases, studying the way the architecture forms a whirlpool of movement below him.

Not much has changed since the chambered hall was first built some centuries ago—well, design-wise, at least.

The hall changed hands and changed names since this crowning jewel of a library-cum-museum was first built, and with those changes came electricity and water and more rooms. The foundations have been strengthened, the marble carefully sealed and carpeted over in areas. Crumbling entryways have been carefully reconstructed and reinforced with rebar and concrete. An entire wall was knocked away, replaced by a wall of windows and an open passageway to the rest of the university’s library. Seats have been installed and the art has long since been burned away by the fires of the Reformation.

The coffee shop had certainly not been there the day of the hall’s grand opening, that’s for certain. It wasn’t even there the last time he’d visited this place, some sixteen-odd years ago, a delicate hand placed against the curve of his elbow, and even then, this place had been a mockery of all the things they’d prayed for.

Time has never been fond of him and his carefully preserved memories. Not since that first time, that first night, that first shadowy meeting.

Time paints layers on all things—restoration and obfuscation are two sides of the same coin. When they teach the history of this place, do they speak of it as a catalyst or is it just another footnote in their country’s strange history?

They don’t know of the dusty track that once carved its way across the countryside, one line stretched from coast to coast, points of contact so old that even he knows not of who first touched the simmering power first.

They don’t know of the magic that seeped into the bedrock of this place, or the way the half-light of dawn would peek through the arched hallways, casting rainbow colored beams across the crumbled detritus of man and art alike. They could never know, because that place was lost to time, willingly cast aside, and traded away for a nasty little man with no name and no grace—

“Commissioner? We need you at the barricade.”

He unclips his radio from his hip, thumb on the receiver. “Copy. What’s the situation?”

“We have a civilian trying to enter without credentials. He might need an escort.”

“On my way,” he answers. He nods to the officers on the balcony, taking note of the swift shadow that flashes in the corner of his eye, right where the patrol’s blind spot would have been.

“Double the people patrolling the roof,” he instructs with a benign smile. “We’d like to keep the glass intact this time. The installation is a piece of art itself, and at least a century old, if I remember correctly.”

The officers chuckle and nod, saluting as he turns his back to them. He tucks a hand into his pocket, striding down the spiral ramp with purpose, waving and calling to the various officers and detectives working to secure the university’s archives.

He very much doubts they’ll be successful. For over four hundred years, Dark has stolen art from places far less—and far more—prestigious than this. Very rarely has he been hassled by the petty meddling of humans and their so-called security.

No, the only people who are truly capable of hindering Dark are those of the Hikari, and Dark’s own tamer. But Satoshi is running out of time—No, they are all running out of time, and he refuses to let that last grain of sand slip away from them.

This is their last chance, this is the only chance he’ll ever have again, and he refuses to fail.

Why did that nasty little rat have to—

“Commissioner! Over here!”

He shakes himself from his ever-branching thoughts, focusing on the cluster of officers at the main entrance into the lobby, which is blocked off with white plastic barricades and moveable metal fences, creating a small checkpoint around a trio of metal detectors.

Given the size of the building, the local forces have paired off with the university’s own security force, whose main charge is to keep students out of the building. Staff and faculty are still allowed through, along with the steady trickle of graduate students, but there’s always the chance that someone sneaks through; all ticket holders to the library’s small art gallery have been alerted and given refunds.

The press won’t show up until the day of the heist, which makes this intrusion the most exciting thing that’s happened all day.

Humans do so like to gather in little clumps to stare at things out of the ordinary, he muses.

“What’s going on here?”

“Saehara-san’s still in a briefing with the head archivist, so we need a second opinion on this guy. He says he was invited in by one of the professors, but has no credentials marking him as staff or student. Just an email that he can’t pull up.”

“Ah, that would be our doing,” he murmurs, nodding. “We managed to convince the university that disabling the wifi in the area would be prudent.”

He studies the man sequestered by the doors.

The man looks sheepish, his tousled hair and casual clothes doing nothing to lend itself to his claims. He looks familiar, and for a moment, he struggles to place him. But he recognizes the interloper all the same, and he affixes a genial smile to his face, clapping the officer on the shoulder.

“I’ll have a chat with him,” he says. “It’s probably just unfortunate timing on his part.”

He strides over, holding his hand out for the man to shake. “Hello, I’m Hiwatari Kei, the Commissioner. As you can see, we’re in the process of securing this area in preparation for the Phantom Thief Dark—can you state your name and purpose for me?”

“Oh! Hello!” the man fumbles with his phone for a moment, tucking it into a jacket pocket before shaking Hiwatari’s hand. “Niwa Kosuke, I’m here with the invitation of Shinohara Ino-sensei, the uh, head of the Art History department. I have an email, but, ah. Well.”

---

It’s a risk, but one Kosuke takes with stride. He’s kept away from the University for long enough that the ire has faded and he’s become something of a mythical figure—the graduate student who nearly got booted from the program for having too keen of an eye and who ran afoul of the topmost experts of the Reformation in the nation, only to leave once he got the greenlight he’d fought so hard to get.

So when he sends a message to his old professor expressing interest in the University’s newest acquisition, he gets an invitation in moments.

It’s rare that he needs to go out and scout for Daisuke—Emiko normally handles it all when no one’s even looking—but he has history with the place and a genuine reason for lurking about if the place is crawling with officers.

Which it is. Because of course it is. That’s what they’d hoped for, and that’s exactly what they’re getting.

Coming face-to-face with Satoshi’s father is something of a surprise, but he’s not been a Niwa for all these years for nothing. He smiles as he shakes the other man’s hand, swallowing back the foreboding rising in his throat.

“Niwa? Where have I…? Oh! Do you happen to have a son at the middle school? Third year?” Hiwatari asks as they shake hands, his eyes flashing bright behind his glasses.

“Yes, I do,” Kosuke says warily. “His name is Daisuke. Why?”

“I thought so! Our sons are classmates.”

An officer laughs. “Oh here we go, idiot parent activated.”

“Oh, now,” Hiwatari laughs. “He’s a great kid, you know! Just a little prickly, you know how teenagers can be,” he adds as an aside to Kosuke.

Kosuke’s sense of unease grows, prickling at his skin like an electric current. To anyone else, from anyone else, it would seem like an innocent jibe.

But he knows what this man is capable of—he’s seen it first hand, seen the way it weighs on both boys, like invisible weights around their necks. It pains him in ways he cannot even begin to describe.

No, I don’t, presses up against his throat. Daisuke certainly isn’t, even when he’s upset, and Satoshi is nothing but a polite, if a little oddly intense, young man. They’re good kids, kids who shouldn’t be fighting for their lives. Kids who shouldn’t have to grapple with the fallout of the neglect and abuse the man in front of him has raised his son with.

“Um... Hiwatari was it? I do think Daisuke’s mentioned your son before,” Kosuke says, scratching the back of his neck. “Hiwatari Satoshi-kun, yes? I think they’re good friends, actually.”

“That’s right! That means you’re well acquainted with Saehara-san, then? I’m sorry he can’t come out to greet you, we could have had a nice chat about our sons. I think the three of them have a bit of an aptitude for being where they’re not supposed to.”

Kosuke feels the hairs rise up along the base of his skull—Hiwatari sounds genial, looks the part, but his eyes. His smile doesn’t reach them, even as they crease at the corners, forming a picture of a young man at the cusp of forming laughter lines. He represses the urge to shudder,

“Oh, no, that’s alright, I can call him up later to say hello… Sensei is expecting me, after all—if I could…? I can’t seem to bring up my email, but I’m sure he’ll confirm the appointment if needed.”

“Of course, of course, come on through,” Hiwatari says, gesturing at an officer to move the plastic barricade at the door. “If you could place your phone, wallet, or any miscellaneous articles in the basket offered to you—any jewelry or the like?”

“Just my wedding band,” Kosuke says, dropping his billfold and phone into a plastic bin, his thumb worrying the base of the ring. He frowns, watching as an officer opens up his wallet and riffles through it. “My belt, too.”

“If you could remove the ring, we’ll take note of the belt,” the officer says, closing the wallet back up. “We need you to unlock, then power off, your phone as well.”

“Excuse me?”

“Recording devices,” Hiwatari answers, tucking his hands into his pockets. “We have a wifi-block in place, but it doesn’t prevent the phones themselves from gathering data that can be used to make an electronic map of the area.”

“Aren’t the floor plans public record? Since it’s a university?” Kosuke asks, swiping his passcode in. He closes out the ongoing conversation he’d had up with Daisuke, noting the single thumbs up emoji from his son.

He’d managed to get in and out without incident. He should be halfway back to school by now; relief floods his body, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders.

“We have to cover all of our bases,” the officer says with a laugh, holding out his palm for the phone as Kosuke lets it power off.

“I’m sure, it just must make it difficult. The students must not want to part with them for long, huh?”

“We do our best,” the man says, setting it into the plastic tray to slide past through the metal detector. “It’s only temporary, after all. We’re more concerned about tomorrow’s media circus.”

“Your ring, Niwa-san,” Hiwatari calls over the officer, voice ringing with authority. There’s nothing outright threatening about the reminder or the way the man stands, but Kosuke still feels himself wanting to flinch like a scolded child.

“Oh, oops,” he murmurs, “Got distracted.”

“It happens,” Hiwatari says with a flash of a grin.

It makes Kosuke think of cold waters, of the white-bright flash of teeth in the murky brine, a dark-eyed shark come to nip at unwary swimmers.

How much is imagined hostility and how much is truth? How much distaste has he projected onto this man, and how much is Hiwatari reflecting back? What is magic versus what is guilt?

They hold eye contact for a brief moment as Kosuke slips the silver band off of his finger, stone turned away, and it’s all the confirmation that Kosuke really needs.

Without the ring his ability to sense magic dulls, but the memory of it still sits in the air like a heavy fog. He’s no natural at sensing magic—he wasn’t born into it like the Niwa or the Hikari. It’s only the prolonged exposure to it that has given him any sense of when magic flows around him.

Most of the time, it feels like a current around him, or like a breeze on a spring day. This place, especially, has always carried a particular history and a fondness for a particular family of artists, and it manifests in the magic: Ever since he’s learned what it feels like, the university—and many of the sites he’s visited—feels a bit like the tide coming in around your feet. Warm, but with the realization that the sand beneath your toes is being washed away. Stay too long, and you’ll find yourself mired in place.  

He’s always wondered if it feels like that to him because he’s needed—if the magic is telling him to root himself where he stood, to await the coming waves. If he’s been put in place for a specific purpose.

(“Preposterous,” he’d been told once, in a quiet voice dripping with haughty disdain. “Laughable. Dangerous.” )

(“Fascinating,” said another, boisterous and clear. “But dangerous.”)

Ever since Hiwatari extended his hand, the magic of this place has changed. Like humid air before a storm, it felt weighty and lethargic and ominous. Green skies in the afternoon, a rolling front of darkness when it was once bright.

With the amount of magic that centers around the man, so potent that even without his ring, he can pinpoint its location and purpose, Kosuke is certain of several things:

First of all, he’s now sure that Hiwatari knows that he can sense magic—perhaps not innately, but through magical means, and his insistence upon the removal of Kosuke’s ring had been a test.

Secondly: Satoshi is very much correct. This man is no civilian stumbling upon the history their families carry. He’s involved more deeply than the Niwa could have fathomed without Satoshi’s warning. By the time anyone in the family would have noticed, it would be far too late to stop whatever scheme he’s planning.

Third—and it’s no surprise to Kosuke given the other two things— is that Hiwatari knows exactly who he is and why he’s here. They’ve already been working off of Satoshi’s assumption that Dark’s true identity is known to Hiwatari, but the confirmation is one that chills him to the bone.

And last, though certainly high upon his list of worries, Kosuke has the strangest impression that he’s met this man before. Surely not, because such an aura would be memorable to him—besides, he keeps up with the local news, normally would be enough to explain the odd sense of deja vu the man’s face brings, but life as a Niwa is anything but ordinary.

Kosuke steps forward through the metal detector, spreading his arms out as an officer double checks him with a wand, gaze still steadily locked on the other man.

“He’s clear,” the officer says.

Hiwatari grins and claps his hands together. “Wonderful. Now, of course, you’ll need an escort to Shinohara-sensei’s office. If it’s not a bother to you? Third floor, correct?”

He directs the question to one of the university’s officers, who nods as he hands back the basket of Kosuke’s things.

“It’s no trouble. Truth be told, I’d probably get lost anyway.” Kosuke gives a quiet laugh, looking up at the spiral ramp as he pockets his phone and billfold. He fits the ring on last, keeping his face carefully blank as its powers open his senses back up to the overwhelming amount of magical energy in the building. “They’ve done some fairly extensive renovations since I was a student here.”

“Oh?”

Kosuke nods, lips pursed in thought as they make their way towards the ramp. “That coffee shop is most certainly new. I would have appreciated it when I was pulling all-nighters.”

“What did you study?”

“Art and folklore, though I’m something like a hobbyist now,” Kosuke answers. “I never actually finished my graduate thesis. I got married, started a family instead.”

“What was your thesis on, if I may? I have a passing interest in the arts myself.”

Kosuke clears his throat, giving a small shrug. “Ah, it’s a bit esoteric…”

Hiwatari nods, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

Kosuke clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, choosing his words carefully. “I studied outsider art, especially where it fringes on folklore, and how it impacted mainstream art movements. It was a difficult project to begin with, given… well. You know.”

He gestures a bit helplessly. “I was a student, and it’s quite hard to access the archives when researching certain subjects due to the age and nature of the works, and without access to primary sources, it’s… well.”

Hiwatari’s eyes are dark, and his smile doesn’t reach them. There’s something about it that sets Kosuke on edge, that reminds him of standing in the wooded cove on the island, watching Dark and Krad come to blows.

He’s never met another human with such a strong aura of magic. Not once. He remembers Satoshi’s accounts of his father’s violence, and Daisuke’s worried account of the other night when Qualia was used once again—would that be what is causing such a strong reaction? Could he be carrying it, even now, before Dark even is scheduled to show himself?

“So you mean to say you were studying the Reformation,” the man says, nodding. “Yes. I see how that could be difficult.”

“Most people wouldn’t recognize that,” Kosuke says pointedly.

“As I said, I have an interest in the arts. Was it fruitful? Your research?”

Kosuke shrugs. “Like I said, I dropped the program,” he says blandly.

“Because of your marriage.”

“No,” he says, surprising himself with the sharpness of his tone. “No, it wasn’t like that. I wanted something else for myself, that was all.”

“It seems I hit a sore spot,” Hiwatari says, raising a hand placatingly. “My mistake!”

“Ah, no, I’m just a bit sensitive about it,” Kosuke says, affecting the air of someone genuinely embarrassed. “I got a fair bit of pushback when I submitted my withdrawal. I caused a lot of problems for the faculty here when I was doing my thesis, well… I was sort of a wildcard to begin with, and they’d put a lot of resources into making sure I could move forward. And then I left, so...”

“You must have had to submit a proposal to the Cultural Committee, then. Are they really as… restrictive as the rumors say?”

“Oh, I mean, that’s a bit of a myth,” Kosuke laughs uneasily. He’s lying, of course, and he has the distinct impression that Hiwatari knows he’s lying. “They were just concerned about the lack of certifications I had when I requested access to the archives. Their primary concerns these days are preservation and retention of historical documents and artworks—I’m sure you’ve met a few of the members, what with Azumano being wrapped up in the whole Phantom Thief Dark thing.”

“Preservation can be a tricky business,” Hiwatari says with a shrug. “Our forces have seen a fair share of their ire, no matter how pleasant they can be outside of their seats. It’s a taxing business, I suppose. But I wonder, do we really need such an antiquated system? How do they decide what’s worth their time? Shouldn’t those of us who enjoy the art be able to see it—surely it’s not that dangerous. They act like we should lock it up, safely away not just from Dark, but from all eyes and ears! What danger does an old canvas truly hold to our society, if we are learned and ready for what it holds?”

Kosuke remains quiet for a moment, trying to decipher what the other man means. It’s either Hiwatari’s true, unguarded opinion, bait… or both.

Kosuke can’t decide which is more dangerous.

“I think,” Kosuke says after a long moment, “that the philosophy of the Committee is beyond what most people can fathom.”

“But for people like ourselves, Niwa-san? For people who truly appreciate the art for what it is?”

Kosuke curls his hand inside of his pocket, the stone on his ring blazing against his palm. They stop upon the sloped pathway, Hiwatari looking down at him from a few feet away.

“I would say that depends on whether or not you believe the stories are true.”

“And if they are? What then? Are we truly being protected by those who call themselves immortal and immutable, or are they simply holding power and wonder away from us? Should we remain ignorant of our pasts, or should we embrace our own folly?”

Kosuke swallows hard as he looks into those glittering black eyes and sees nothing but avarice behind them.

“If the stories are true, then I would be very afraid of their implications, Commissioner.”

---

Daisuke takes one last glance at the art room, checking that everything is put away, cleaned, and organized for the day. Satisfied with the state of the room, he closes the door, keying in the lock code when he hears the tell-tale sound of someone running full-tilt down the hallway.

He braces himself for Takeshi, only to be pleasantly surprised when it’s Riku who calls out to him:

“Niwa-kun!”

Daisuke turns, waving as Riku runs down the hallway at him, her lacrosse bag clattering loudly as she skids to a stop. “Woah, careful!”

“Sorry, sorry, I just, I really wanted to catch you,” Riku says.

Daisuke grins, “Consider me caught. You didn’t leave practice, did you?”

“No! No, Coach let us out early because of the sleepaway camp. I saw you out of the corner of my eye—you’re normally gone before we’re done!”

Daisuke leans back on his heels, smiling at the way Riku is still a bit out of breath. “Oh, yeah, we don’t tend to run that late! You’re always at practice when we’re finishing up—the track’s really visible from the room… So what’s up?”

“Um! I, we haven’t really, that is, since we went to the park, stuff got a little crazy and—we haven’t really—that is, um! I went looking for you at lunch but you were gone on an errand, so, here we are! But, I uh… Well.”

Oi, Casanova, she’s asking you out.

Dark’s voice is almost pointedly sarcastic, like he’s pretending that they haven’t spoken even once since the night before. Daisuke brushes it off, feeling a bit of irritation spark at the timing of Dark’s comment: he could have used his help during lunch when he’d had to dodge security officer after security officer at the university’s museum.

“Oh! Oh! Uh, yeah, I,” Daisuke stammers, “We, yeah, it did, um! Do you, uh—”

“I, sure,” Riku says, absently tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. She grins, only a little anxiously. “I was going to ask if you wanted to go shopping with me? I need to pick up some snacks for the trip, and, uh, it could be fun to… to go together.”

“T-today?” Daisuke manages, flushing as his voice cracks an octave. “I… I would love to but, uh—“

He grits his teeth as he watches her face fall; he hates doing this. It’s all he ever does—how does she even like him with all of the sideways dodging, running away, and unease that rests between them? Not to mention… if she were to ever find out about Dark…

“I have stuff to do at home,” he finishes lamely. He fidgets with his hands, looking up at the ceiling. “We’re planning a party for my grandpa,” he lies.

It comes so easily now. He hates it. It’s cruel. What he’s doing is cruel and unfair.

“Oh, that’s… That sounds fun,” Riku says, her smile faltering slightly.

“I can walk you to the station,” Daisuke offers.

“No, it’s okay! If you have stuff to do!”

Daisuke rubs the back of his neck, giving a small shrug. “I can tell my mom that art club ran over,” he says. “And that I lost track of time. You know how much of a space-case I can be, she’ll buy it!”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Riku says quietly, grasping her bag tight. “We can always do something else later on.”

Daisuke swallows back the lump in his throat. He should come clean, tell her now. He should have told her the night of the dance, laid everything out into the open, and let her choose. But he’s been selfish, frozen in fear of losing her, in fear of hurting her. But watching her shoulders slump and her brows furrow, he has to wonder if he’s already hurt her more than his secret would have.

“You’re right,” he says with a soft smile. “We haven’t done anything together in a while. Let me walk with you to the station—we can get something on the way, for good luck, okay?”

He holds out his hand, grinning as Riku turns pink. The way she reaches out is hesitant, her fingers curling up into a loose fist halfway between them—too used to the way that he jerks back and flinches, she treats the gesture like it’s something to be wary of. But ever-stubborn, her face solidifies into something much more like herself, an easy smile curling across her face as she slips her hand in his, laughing softly.

“Sure, but don’t blame me if your mom gets mad,” she teases.

“I wouldn’t blame you for anything,” Daisuke says earnestly.

With Dark doing his best to ignore him, sulking quietly in the back of his mind, he feels a little braver, like he can be the person Riku wants him to be, if only for a moment.

For a moment, he can just be. For fifteen minutes, he can pretend he’s a normal teenager:

Awkward, with sweaty hands, who insists on buying their drinks at the cafe, laughing at the way Riku’s nose scrunches up at the taste of his overly sweet drink. He’s normal, with no real secrets.

It’s a lie, but it’s one he has to tell to make everyone happy.

Only… he’s started to wonder if that’s strictly true. It doesn’t feel right to keep misleading Riku the way he has, not when it’s hurting her. Not when she knows, deep down, that there’s something connecting him and Dark. Not with Risa loving Dark the way she does, with Dark slowly reciprocating her feelings. It’s too cruel to Riku—to Riku and Risa both!—but he doesn’t know what else to do.

His family is no help, and it’s not like there’s a dearth of people he can ask. He refuses to hash it out with Dark—it feels too much like he’s saying he wants Dark gone.

The only person he could ask is… Well, he could always ask Satoshi. But that’s a little… Embarrassing.

Mortifying. Unbearably awkward. The mere idea of it makes him want to crawl under a rock.

It makes him feel… guilty. And that’s something he doesn’t understand at all—he’s never felt bad about asking for advice before, but to ask about Riku… it feels a bit like he’s taking advantage.

Why? Why does that bother him so much? It feels… It feels like it does whenever Risa mistakes him for Dark, like he’s doing something that he knows will hurt Riku in the long run.

“You seem like you’re thinking pretty hard about something,” Riku says, her tone light.

“Oh! Sorry, I just—I’m sorry, did, I didn’t ignore you did I?”

She rolls her coffee cup between her palms as she shakes her head. “I wasn’t saying anything important.”

Daisuke flushes hard, guilt jolting in his throat. “I’m so sorry, Riku-san, I… I’m really sorry!”

“No! It’s okay! It’s, I was just watching, actually. You’re so rarely serious, I…” she trails off, cheeks flushing pink. She scuffs her foot against the concrete, setting her drink aside on the brick ledge they’re sitting on. “I was thinking too, actually.”

She fiddles with her fingers, looking down at her hands. “Normally you’re a lot more… I wouldn’t say goofy, ‘cause it sounds mean,” she murmurs.

“It’s okay,” Daisuke chuckles. “I know, I’m a bit of a flake—I try my best, though, I…”

“I don’t think you’re a flake, Niwa-kun,” Riku says seriously, looking up at him with a fierceness in her eyes. “You’re really nice! And you try really hard. You’re always helping people out, but… I worry about it, because it’s… Sometimes it seems like you can’t say no to people.”

Daisuke grips his cup tight, looking away from Riku with a rush of shame. He swallows hard, watching the way the ice bobs inside of his drink, neck burning.

“I, I mean, you try telling Takeshi no,” he says, giving a weak laugh.

“I have,” Riku says flatly. “I just ignore him. It’s not, well, for me it’s not difficult. But for you… You did this with Risa, too, I… You take too much onto yourself, Niwa-kun,” she says earnestly. “It’s not bad, but, I… sometimes, I worry.”

Daisuke turns, waving a hand between them. “I don’t want you to worry about me, I’m fine! I like helping out and stuff, and like, Harada-san asked me—and how was I supposed to say no? It was dangerous, and… I… that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?” he asks quietly, studying the harsh line of Riku’s brow and the tears shining in her eyes.

“You’re keeping secrets,” she whispers. She balls up the hem of her skirt as her mouth trembles. “I know you are. And if, if it was just me, I… I could, I guess I could forgive you.”

“Riku-san, I swear, I’m…”

Riku reaches out and grabs his wrist, fingers curling into the material of his shirt, tugging gently. “If someone was in serious danger, you’d tell us, right? If you were hurting because of a secret, you’d tell your friends, right?”

“I… I mean, I… Riku-san, if… if it’s not my secret to tell… I,” he says helplessly. His heart rattles in his throat, pounding so loud he can barely hear his own voice.

All he can think is not here, not now, not now, please not like this—as if there was a choice, as if he didn’t already owe Riku far more than just a simple secret.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Riku murmurs.

“Riku-san?”

“Niwa-kun, do you know where Hiwatari-kun is?”

Daisuke starts, eyes wide even as Riku tugs at his arm. It’s not the question he was expecting, and it’s not one he’d ever fathom she’d ask of him.

“Th… the teachers say he’s…. in the hospital, they don’t know which one, but I—” he manages. “I, I don’t understand… what are you asking me?”

“I… what I mean is, Niwa-kun, do you know why he’s in the hospital?” she asks, looking up at him with a fierceness he only recognizes because he’s seen it through Dark’s eyes.

She’s strong, he realizes—he’s always known she was strong, but it hits him like she’s slapped him across the face. It’s not just her heart or her mind or her words, but all of her. And yet, he’s still so 

afraid of breaking her, of breaking them, this fragile back-and-forth they have between them, that one day the truth will come out and she’ll break.

He’s ashamed of it, to be so afraid when Riku barrels forward without question. But there are already cracks between them, large enough for the light to shine through, illuminating his secrets.

But this one, it’s not his. It’s not his secret to tell—the Hikari curse, the magic, Satoshi, what his father had done to him: It’s not his place, it’s not his story.

He’s only involved because… because he involved himself, because he ignored Satoshi’s warning all those months ago, because somehow, he’d managed to carve out a small space for himself in Satoshi’s life, and he’s not inclined to do anything to jeopardize that.

“I, I guess he’s sick? The teachers won’t say…”

“You’re his best friend, surely you know something,” she insists.

“I really don’t,” Daisuke insists, shaking his head frantically. “I, what’s brought this on?”

Riku inhales like she’s steeling herself for something, her shoulders set and her fingers tightening against the hem of Daisuke’s shirt.

“It’s just… Niwa-kun, I just worry that if...That if Hiwatari-kun asked you to keep something a secret, that it could be dangerous for him,” she says, voice wavering. “Ever since the dance, I… it… everything seemed okay, but I… I saw… He was bleeding that night, and he… he hurt you.”

Daisuke feels his fingers grow cold against his cup, suddenly aware of the ice and the condensation on the plastic. There’s a high whine in his ears drowning out all other sound but Riku’s voice.

He’d thought she’d forgotten, he thought that, that… He doesn’t know what he thought—that like before, everything would be smoothed away, that somehow, magic still slipped through the edges of Riku’s vision, that she’d forget, just like she always has? That she would stay quiet?

“I don’t, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, knowing the damage it will do, just like he knows that each time he lies about Dark, it chips away at the foundations of their relationship.

Has he been on the path of no return from the start? Or was it when he decided that his relationship with Dark was more important? Or was it when he’d rather lie than be rejected again?

“I know you do!” Riku urges, face flushing with anger. “I know what I saw, Niwa-kun! I may have gotten confused about you and Dark, but I saw Hiwatari-kun, and I saw what he did, and, I… Daisuke-kun, please,” she begs, reaching out for him. “Is the reason he’s gone because he tried to kill himself?”

Daisuke feels himself jerk back the same moment he sees the way Riku’s face changes, her eyes going wide as her mouth opens into the most perfect shocked ‘oh’ he’d ever seen—if he was to draw someone horrified, it would be her expression, or maybe it’s his, he doesn’t know. He can’t feel his face, can’t feel his hands, can’t feel the way his cup slips from his fingers, splashing across the sidewalk.

“What?”

He can see that Riku’s mouth moves but he can’t hear what she’s saying. She reaches for him, but he steps back, shaking his head.

“Niwa-kun?” she whispers, “You’ve gone really pale—I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was true, I’m so sorry. I, I just, I wanted you to know that, you can talk to me—but I, I’m sorry!”

“No! It’s not, that’s not!” Daisuke manages, his voice hoarse. He claps his hands over his mouth, a dread-laced nausea rising in his throat. “No, I don’t know, I don’t know—”

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, “I got too nosy, I know he’s one of your best friends—”

“I! I have to go—”

“Daisuke-kun! Wait—!”

But he’s already running.

Chapter 11: Favor

Notes:

Again, with a double feature, and double the angst!
Once again, a big thank you to Luanna255 who beta'd this chapter and the next!

As an aside, if you don't follow my writing blog on tumblr, there was an incident where one of my fics got well, plagiarized. I've since added a policy about remixes/translations/ect to my profile here, if you would be so kind as to give it a read.

“Is the reason he’s gone because he tried to kill himself?”

It makes him sick to even think about. The worry thick in Riku’s voice is bad enough, but the idea of—the thought of—

He’s never given it thought.

He never lingered on what it looked like that night, never asked why Satoshi had done that, never asked… he had so calmly stated the conclusion of his curse, but they’re kids, and he’s been—Satoshi has been suffering this whole time. He’s been in pain this whole time, hasn’t he?

You don’t understand anything about me.

He had said that, hadn’t he? He’d said it, and he meant it, and he’d cried so why, why, why did Daisuke ignore it?

And Dark had said, Dark said—was he right? Is Dark right and Daisuke wrong, just like always?

How does Dark understand Satoshi, when they’re not even close? Is he just stupid? Is he just that selfish that he refuses to even think about the truth laid out in front of him?

It will be okay because it’s us, he said, because it’s us—to Dark, to Satoshi, about Riku, but who is he to make that promise?

He sprints home, gut churning with the sick feeling of horror and dread. He has to see him, he needs to see him, he needs, he has to—he has to see him safe. He has to see him, it burns up against his throat, pushing against his tongue, burning his eyes.

He needs to be home, he needs to be anywhere but on the open street where anyone can see him—his heart pounds heavy in his ears, in his fingertips, against the soles of his feet as his muscles strain as he launches himself up the walls of an alleyway, because the quickest way home is over the rooftops—

No, the quickest way home is to fly, but he doesn’t have wings, all he has are his hands and his hope and his feet.

He could be Dark, if he let himself—

He wants to see him, he wants to see Satoshi, safe in the warm light of his home, a cup of tea in his hands and a book in the other. He needs to see it in such a visceral way that it doesn’t surprise him at all when he realizes his body is no longer his own.

“A favor,” Dark says quietly in his voice, something threatening and dark in his tone.

Please—please—

So he lets Dark take over, turns himself away from the sight of his own hands vaulting him over fences and onto the rooftops, closing himself off from what this means.

“You can’t stay blind,” Dark says to him in that echoing space that is their shared consciousness. “You’re going to hurt more than just yourself, you know. Riku, Hiwatari, even Risa—they’re just going to suffer if you refuse to think about this. About what it means. You know what it means! You’ve known for a while that you—”

No! No! I already said I don’t want to hear you, I don’t want to listen, I don’t want—

He curls in tight against himself, hands covering his ears.

He’s willing to wrap himself up in this space again, cocoon himself against the realization that there’s something wrong with him, that he’s let everything come to a head because he refuses to face the truth head on.

So much could be fixed if he would just… look at himself, but there’s so much about himself that he already despises, so what happens when he looks in the mirror, and there’s not a single redeeming thing about him?

Everything would be so much easier if he wasn’t around, if it was just Dark, if they really and truly shared the same existence instead of this simulacrum of coexistence. He was born just for Dark to exist. He’s made both Riku and Risa cry more times than he wants to think about, and his entire life has turned into one elaborate lie, one that’s swept his friends up into kidnappings and magical worlds, that, if he’d been without help, they would have died inside.

He couldn’t even save one girl with his own power—Freedert had died, despite having so much faith in him—so how was he even supposed to save Satoshi?

Satoshi, who looked him in the eye and said he’d already been saved. Who told him his art was good, and that he could build a future with it. Who set aside centuries of blood between their families because he trusted Daisuke. He trusted Daisuke to finish it, to end the curse and set their families to rights after he… After he…

After…

He wishes he could have wings to wrap himself up in, to hide away in the shame of it. He’s pushed his feelings onto so many, been presumptuous and unthinking and… How much has he hurt them all? How much pain has he willingly inflicted on Riku? On Satoshi?

How can he even begin to deserve the kindness given to him? Riku’s patience and Satoshi’s trust—even after all he’s done, how can he still take from them? How can he look Risa in the eye when he knows he’s keeping the person she loves most from her? That he’s trying to get rid of him?

He’s not worth it, he’s not worth it, not a single bit, not when he’s been willingly ignoring how much he’s hurt them, over and over and—

You don’t understand me, not one bit—

He doesn’t. He doesn’t understand anything at all. It’s easier not to at all.

Chapter 12: Paradigm Shift

Riku plods up the stairs, exhaustion weighing down on her shoulders like a physical burden. Somehow, she’d managed to get herself back home and shoo off her parents with a yawn and an excuse about an over-long practice, and could they pretty please buy her some snacks on their way home tomorrow?

Despite the fact that her parents have suddenly decided to pick up the slack they’d given them in the aftermath of Risa’s kidnapping incident, they’re not that great at determining when something is actually wrong. If Risa had been lounging in the living room, well…

They have a silent agreement not to go to their parents about stuff like this, but it definitely doesn’t stop them from needling each other about them—because who else is going to look after them? When all is said and done, the only thing that’s certain at the end of the day is that they’re sisters, and no matter how much they may be jealous of the other or tired of each other, that won’t change. Parents can get tired of their own children; friendships can come and go; relationships can falter in a heartbeat. But they’re sisters, they’re twins, they’d looked at each other a long time ago, realized that everything was uncertain but themselves, and that’s just how it’s been since.

That’s why she’s so afraid of Risa’s infatuation with Dark: Sure, he’s an unrepentant pervert, but moreover… he’s something unknown, something other. He has the power to take Risa away, and Riku can’t do a damn thing about it. Just like she couldn’t do a damn thing about their parents deciding two kids were too many to take abroad, and just like she can’t do a damn thing about whatever’s going on with Daisuke.

Riku knocks her palm to her head, feeling the way the furrows of her brow press against her skin. “Dummy,” she whispers to herself, feeling the white-hot pressure of tears building behind her eyes. She refuses to cry, not now, not out in the open. Crying means thinking about what happened, and what it means, and she just… she can’t, not without making sure she’s alone.

She turns towards her bedroom, flinging her school bag towards her bed with little care as to whether or not it actually lands among her pillows or not.

She needs a bath; she needs to sit, and think and… And figure out what’s happening, because she feels like everything has been spiraling out of control for a very long time, but she’s only just realized.

“Oh! Riku, you’re back early!”

Riku grimaces as she closes the door to their shared bathroom behind her, knowing it would do her no good to try to sneak back out now that Risa’s spotted her. Silently, she curses her bad luck, big mouth, and the mere idea that Risa wouldn’t be in the middle of some long, drawn out beauty routine.

“Yeah…”

Risa turns, setting down her hairbrush as Riku tosses her uniform jacket into the corner. “I thought you were going shopping?”

“Yeah, I just…” Riku mumbles. “I… went out with Niwa-kun and…”

She scowls and tugs her shirt out from the waistband of her skirt, pulling it over her head without undoing the buttons. She groans and stomps her foot when it gets stuck around her head.

“Not again,” Risa groans, reaching out to free her sister from her shirt. “Riku, please. I’m begging you, stop needling him about Dark-san.”

“It wasn’t that! Or, well. Sort of. It was…something else.”

Riku refuses to look Risa in the eye, instead focusing on the star-shaped glitter mixed into her bright pink face mask. She watches it shift as Risa frowns, her lips pursed in their familiar way.

“Something else, huh?” Risa asks lightly. She steps back and lifts herself to sit on the bathroom counter. She kicks her feet idly, watching Riku scowl and ball up her shirt. “Well. Come here and I’ll do a mask for you.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you ever just want to feel fancy or like, just play around with girly stuff?” Risa asks. “Just to feel like you’ve done something nice to yourself? You liked it when I did your hair, after all.”

She turns toward the mirror and leans forward, her nose nearly pressed to it as she wiggles a fingernail underneath her facemask. “I get that it’s not your thing, but every now and again, don’t you want to do stuff that’s a little bit different than your normal tomboy stuff? Do something new and let Niwa-kun notice? Make him look at you?”

“I don’t, that’s not—He’s not going to notice I did a facemask, Risa,” Riku mutters, face flushing hot. She leans forward and starts tugging her socks off. When she straightens, Risa’s regarding her intently, almost pityingly. “What?!”

Risa shrugs and with one deft tug, peels the mask off of her face. “Niwa-kun is a really sweet boy, and you’ve been acting like a major weirdo ever since the dance,” she says. “He probably thinks you don’t like him anymore. You should do something to shake things up a little, be braver about what you want. And the first step to being brave is treating yourself well.”

Riku groans into her palms. “I’m not like you, Risa,” she complains. “The weirdness won’t go away if I doll myself up like you, it’ll make it worse.”

Risa leans forward and inspects her face, scratching off a residual piece of glitter. She scrunches her nose up as she watches Riku toss her skirt the same way as her shirt and jacket, her face flushed with frustration and genuine upset.

“He doesn’t like me anymore,” Risa says gently. “You don’t have to keep acting tough just to make the two of us different. I know it’s awkward that there’s…”

Riku feels her lip start to tremble. She bites down on it, looking away from Risa. “I am not having this conversation in my underwear,” she says firmly.

“Why not?” Risa snorts, flicking a ball of dried mask towards Riku. “Bare your—“

“No!” Riku half-yells, throwing a towel at Risa even as laughter breaks her voice. “Gross! You’re awful! I’m taking a bath, so go!”

Risa laughs and snatches a bottle of lotion, then shoves it at Riku. “At least moisturize after, then!”

“What? Why?” Riku complains. “This stuff smells gross.”

“It smells like roses!”

“Ugh, it smells like grandma,” Riku complains, but uncaps it anyway, studying the bottle suspiciously as she gives it a sniff.

“I’ll do it, then,” Risa interrupts, snatching the bottle back. “You won’t do it right.”

“It’s lotion, how can you not do it right?”

“You have to use just a little, and then massage it upwards around your eyes. Mom says it helps with wrinkles.”

“We’re fourteen, Risa.”

“It’s the ritual of it,” Risa tuts. “You work hard, pay attention, do things even though they may hurt, just to see the person you like smile at you. It’s like a well-done on a test you studied hard for, or a goal in lacrosse you ran extra hard to make. It’s just… doesn't that feel good? When you’ve worked hard at something, and it pays off?”

Riku shifts from foot to foot, unwilling to meet Risa’s eye. “Um. I guess, yeah, but…”

Risa gently tugs at Riku’s hair, then tucks it behind her ear. “But?”

“I don’t understand why you keep up with this. Is it just to impress Dark? That’s what you mean, right? That… I should look pretty so Daisuke-kun will… I don’t know, like me more?”

Risa raises her eyebrows. “First of all, I like doing this stuff, it makes me feel good. Sure, I’m expected to because I’m pretty and all,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “But I just like it. It makes me happy.”

Risa sighs and turns towards the bath, cranking on the water. She knows the right temperature by heart, and the right amount of bubble bath to put in—it’s natural, because they’re sisters. Maybe some sisters wouldn’t, but they’re different. For a long time, all they had was each other. And then they didn’t even have that, so they clung to the things that remind them that yes, they’re the same, still, despite everything.

She flicks her damp fingers at Riku, then points into the bath. “Get in, stupid. And I’ll tell you a thing or two.”

“Close your eyes! Geesh! We’re too old for this!”

“I already know your boobs are bigger,” Risa sighs, but dutifully closes her eyes. “Which is not fair, by the way. I still kind of hate you for that.”

Riku snorts. “It isn’t the end of the world,” she says.

There’s a quiet splash as Riku slips into the tub. Risa looks up at the ceiling in thought.

“It was to me, when third year started. I just got back from being separated from you, and I don’t know. I was jealous. You had all sorts of friends and hobbies. It was like we didn’t know each other at all anymore.”

“...did you really feel like that?”

“I mean, yeah. I didn’t know anyone but you and you didn’t want to hang out anymore, so I got mad at you.”

“All the guys were fawning over you since the moment you transferred back, I just thought… you’d turned into some vain little attention seeker.”

“I mean, I might be a little vain,” Risa laughs. Riku makes an undignified sound of amusement, earning herself a splash to the face as Risa settles by the tub.

She leans her elbows against the rim, scratching at a piece of leftover mask. “I like myself and I know what I like. I don’t think it makes me vain or stupid, but that’s just how people think of girls sometimes—I thought maybe you would understand, because it was us. But you didn’t and I was mad.”

“I’m sorry,” Riku mumbles.

Risa shakes her head. “We got over it,” she says.

“All we had to do was get confessed to by the same guy,” Riku snorts, running her hand across a layer of frothy bubbles.

“About that,” Risa says pointedly. “What is going on with you and Niwa-kun? You’re so down in the dumps recently, and I don’t like it. I’ll beat him up, just say when.”

Riku laughs, flicking water at Risa. “Don’t! Geesh! That’s my thing, you know?”

Risa grins, then leans forward, her face slowly morphing into something serious as she studies Riku. “I think it’s time you tell me what’s going on with you two,” she says gently. “I know you don’t… you’re not… about Niwa-kun, Riku, I… I never want you to feel like, like we’re competing.”

Riku looks down at her knees. “Sometimes,” she says after a long pause. “I…”

She closes her eyes tightly, then immediately regrets it, remembering the winged shadow hovering over her, Daisuke’s face half-illuminated by the moonlight, eyes shining like polished garnet even as he scrambled away.

Daisuke, surrounded by feathers, bleeding and in tears outside of the museum; Dark, where Daisuke should be. A dream of a world of snow and scraped-raw palms.

Hiwatari, at the dance, ivory gun in hand, tears pouring down his face, and Daisuke, Daisuke was Dark, then, she knows it.

If this is true, then Risa needs to know. If it’s true, if it’s true…

“What if,” Riku says slowly, taking her time to form the right words, the right questions. “What if that weren’t true? If we did—if we liked the same person?”

Risa is quiet. Riku can’t bear to look at her in the silence. She hugs her knees to her chest as the water slowly goes tepid around her.

“What if Daisuke is… what if he’s… What if he’s involved with Dark, if they’re the same?”

Risa reaches out and gently turns Riku’s face to hers. “Then I would ask you to forgive him,” she says. Tears well up in her eyes and spill down in slow, quiet tracks. “I would ask you to try, because I love Dark, and I love you.”

She grabs Riku’s hands, squeezing them tight. “I know Dark—maybe I’m the only one who knows outside of whoever he keeps his secrets with, I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know, but I know this: he’s not human and he’s lonely, but despite that, he tried to return my heart to me, to spare me the pain. If he and Niwa-kun are connected, then… then I can step aside, I can make it on my own.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive him,” Riku whispers, her voice shaking. “I’m scared. I’m so scared. He’s lying about so much. Himself, Dark, Hiwatari-kun… I don’t know. I’m scared.”

Risa leans into the tub, wrapping her arms tight around Risa. “I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “It scares me too. We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

---

Overall, Satoshi was prepared for an awkward day once Daisuke left for school. It’s not like he’s the most… desirable houseguest, and his interactions with the rest of the Niwa family are a mixed bag at best.

He gets along with them just fine, but he knows that his first impression on them will always be that of a Hikari—of Krad. It’s not an unfair assessment, either: He’s done some truly awful things, both under Krad’s influence and on his own. But somehow, the kindness they’d offered him the night before continues on.

Emiko hovers around him as he eats, takes his measurements, then disappears on a ‘shopping trip’ with Towa, both decked out in full disguises and completely unrecognizable.

Kosuke and Daiki putter around the kitchen, filling the room with the scent of coffee and the quiet murmuring of two men who won’t admit to being competitive about the newspaper’s daily crosswords and sudoku puzzles.

It’s… nice. He lets himself nurse a mug of coffee long after he would normally discard it, pouring over the notes Kosuke had given him the night before, swept up in the lazy, relaxed atmosphere. It’s so starkly different from the tense, frenetic energy from the night before, but somehow, it’s just what he needs to be able to fully focus without becoming blinded by fear or hopelessness.

He’s hard pressed to think of a time where he was free to work at his own pace, without his father or Krad looming over him. He’s paid the price for it, and dearly too—when he touches his mug, he can’t feel the heat from it, and his fingers feel clumsy against the edges of the notebook. It almost feels like his hand has merely fallen asleep from being leaned on too long, but he knows the difference.

He flexes his fingers tentatively, watching the interplay of muscles and skin move the curling thorn-like markings of the brand where it’s spread to the back of his knuckles. He’s not sure how long he has before the tentative equilibrium it created with his own magic and Krad’s is overcome—it’s not as if his ancestors had ever attempted to seal Krad, or another magical human away. All he knows is that the more energy Krad expends trying to break it, the weaker he becomes.

No more outbursts like the night before, he can’t afford it. He isn’t sure when it actually started, but somewhere along the line, he realized he desperately wants to live. Maybe it was in the tower, when Daisuke grabbed hold of him and cried out; maybe it was that moment in Manisumea when he dreamed of Daisuke. Maybe he didn’t want to live until the moment he realized that he truly, ultimately, and wholly belongs now to the Niwa family. He wants to live the same way he wanted it all those years ago when his father slid open the door to his mother’s deathbed and promised him a cure.

But for him, wanting is a weapon: his own flesh used against him. So he’d swallowed it down deep, deeper than muscle and bone and marrow. He knit it deep into the darkness of his soul, kept away from the light that would show the way through to his weakest walls until he’d broken down enough that the cracks became gaping skylights, stringing it out across the night like hand-strewn stars.

Staying alive is in Krad’s best interests; for a long time, he didn’t care if he lived or died, simply because Krad wanted his body to live.

It’s complicated, he thinks. But it’s also very simple.

These people would be upset if he died. Daisuke would be upset if he died.

Therefore, he doesn’t want to. He won’t. He’s stubborn that way, he thinks; why not do it his way, the whole way through? If he’s going to take on the curse on his own terms, then why not rewrite the whole thing, paint over the whole thing and turn foreground to background, and just live for the spite of it?

It would be tremendously satisfying.

Around lunchtime, Kosuke leaves to scout out the university, and he and Daiki migrate to the living room, where the sounds of daytime television turn into a sea of white noise as Satoshi settles into annotating out a very long, detailed account of the Niwa family’s past heists, searching for any piece of art that could be helpful.

Occasionally, he’ll answer a question from Daiki, or stop to watch a bit of whatever daytime drama is on because it sounded so ridiculous that it caught his attention. From time to time, Argentine will check up on him.

Time speeds up after Emiko returns home with Towa, both of them toting bags full of groceries (and, Satoshi realizes with dawning horror, clothes). She makes him try on this and that, and then fits him into a wig and contacts, tutting over small details.

He feels very much like a child, especially when the defective piece wanders in and starts giving its two cents. The energy grows more and more chaotic once Kosuke returns home and Emiko leaves Satoshi entirely at the mercy of Towa in order to set up the evening traps.

He’d been of the opinion that the whole ordeal with the school play was nightmarish, but this is even worse. No potential warning from Daisuke could have been enough for this, because Daisuke didn’t warn him about magical artworks armed with sewing kits who can and would purposefully jab him in the ribs when he tries to protest that, no thanks, he likes the oversized sweatshirt look, really, oh, okay— and the fact that Emiko has this look when he protests, one that he finds himself too polite to argue with.

(It’s not that he’s scared of her, really, but any attention focused on him for too long by any of the adults in the room makes him feel a bit skittish. It’s easier to let Towa hem whatever it was he was protesting than find out if Emiko will use her wooden spoon for anything other than pointing at him.)

“That’s odd,” Emiko murmurs as Daiki and Kosuke wander into the kitchen, coaxed out of the study by the smell of dinner and the late hour. “Dai-chan isn’t home yet.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Satoshi says, trying not to move as Towa hems the bottom of the sweater he’s currently in. When he’s met with empty stares, he flushes and clears his throat. “Art club has formal meetings on Wednesdays.”

“He said he’d be home early, though,” Emiko muses, slowly stirring the pot of soup she’s tending to. “He’s normally pretty good about that. Especially before a job. He knows we had important things to discuss tonight.”

“Now, now,” Daiki chuckles. “As long as he’s not distracted the night of, he can do what he likes before.”

Satoshi keeps his face carefully blank, cutting his eyes over to Kosuke. Kosuke’s face is neutral, but he gives a slight shake of his head.

He gets the distinct impression that this is a conversation that has been had several times. How many have featured Daisuke himself? How many times has his own family brushed aside the things that he shows interest in?

No wonder, he thinks. No wonder Daisuke is so hesitant to talk about wanting to paint—it’s not just his nature as Dark that holds him back. How much more of Daisuke’s hesitance comes from his family?

He’d never tried to save himself when he fell at school; the hairs on the back of his neck rise, a surge of protectiveness flowing through his veins. Did they teach him that too? Is this what Daisuke feels when he talks about how he grew up? And who is he to even want to flash his teeth in righteous anger?

But it’s a damn club, and Daisuke loves art so much, the least they could do is treat it like the precious hobby it is. He’s good, he wants to say—he could be great, one day. He could be more than just a Niwa son, and that’s why it’s an issue.

Kosuke shakes his head again, leaning his chin to his hand, one finger coming up to rest over his lips.

But Satoshi’s stubborn, and he’s never been one to just leave anger aside; that’s how he’s ended up in this mess after all.

“There was a contest coming up,” he starts. He never gets to finish, because the kitchen door flies open, revealing one very disheveled, distressed, and out of breath Daisuke.

“Dai-chan! But—the traps—!”

Satoshi inhales sharply as he locks eyes with Daisuke for a brief second. It’s something wild and nearly feral, and it lasts no longer than a mere half second before Daisuke leans onto his knees, panting harshly.

His entire body goes tense because he can see what the others don’t—beneath Daisuke’s sweaty collar are feathers, but if Satoshi looks to the side, Dark’s familiar is in the same place it’s been all afternoon.

“Just, just late,” Daisuke gasps, clapping his hands over the back of his neck as he tries to catch his breath. When he stands upright, there’s a movement of his hands almost too quick to catch. “I, I got caught up, talking—sorry!”

“Well, don’t let it happen again,” Emiko scolds. “Dinner is nearly ready! We were worried! And you missed the fun dressing your friend up.”

Daisuke coughs out a brittle laugh, studying Satoshi critically. “I don’t know,” he says, still out of breath. His face is white beneath the bright spots of color on his cheeks, sweat shining on his brow and neck. “I don’t think that brown is the right color. Maybe something darker? And a bit longer?”

“Oh, very funny,” Satoshi mutters without thinking. He reaches up to snatch the wig off, glaring in the direction of the other boy.

Daisuke laughs, holding his hands up. “What? The wig from the play was very nice! Anyway, I’ll change and clean up before dinner,” he says, wiping his jaw with the back of his hand.

Satoshi frowns, studying the tip of Daisuke’s jaw and the unsettlingly quick way his breathing evens out. He knew it the second he started speaking, but no one else… How has no one else noticed?

Or is this normal?

“I’ll change too,” Satoshi says. “That way it’s safe for me to go upstairs. I want to get some notes I left, too.”

He gently taps Towa’s shoulder in a silent thanks, then pads off after Daisuke.

“Well, that’s teenagers for you, Emiko,” Daiki laughs as Satoshi rushes from the room. “A schedule all of their own.”

Satoshi bites down on the inside of his cheek, fists balling up at his sides.

“Niwa,” he says, jogging after Daisuke. “Niwa, what happened?”

“Nothing, I was just caught up at school, you know,” Daisuke says, barely even turning.

“I don’t.”

But he does know Daisuke’s habits better than he knows his own, knows how Daisuke’s voice tips up when he’s defensive, how he chews his lip when he’s nervous, how his eyes dart about as he’s lying.

He also knows when Daisuke isn’t himself, when his words are a bit sharper than usual, when his jokes are just a little too harsh. He knows what it looks like when Daisuke is panicked, and what it looks like when he’s fled from his body. It’s so obvious, so how has no one noticed? Why has no one said anything?

How much do they trust him? How much do they believe? How much do they just ignore? How many times has this happened if they just turn a blind eye to the times their son is obviously in pain?

And how much of it does Daisuke just take?

How much does Daisuke hide when he laughs? He’s always, always thought of the other boy as free, without the shackles of hurt and grief—but there was never any universe where that’s true, not for Daisuke, not for anyone. That’s just how it is.

A flash of anger sparks through his chest. He reaches out and grabs Daisuke by the shoulder, tugging him so they’re face to face. He steps forward, crowding up against the other boy until he has Daisuke backed up against a closet door, palm flat against his shoulder.

“Hiwatari-kun?”

There’s something there, something wrong, just slightly unsettling, and… oh.

“Something happened—tell me. Why is it you?”

The surprised look on Daisuke’s face fades to something vaguely amused.

“I brought him home,” Dark says. “That’s all. I did him a favor. Why are you acting like it’s some big deal?”

“Because,” Satoshi splutters, “Because, that’s not how you work.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Dark says, lifting his hands to curl into Satoshi’s collar. He leans in close, until they’re nose to nose. “You decided you’d rather die than deal with the fallout of what your family did, and dragged yourself here for us to clean up the mess. Did you ever spare a thought to what it would do to my tamer? How dangerous breaking him might be for us all? Or did you just think about yourself, just like your monster does?”

Anger is a white-hot spark in his gut, flickering higher and higher until he’s alight from it.

“That is not true,” he hisses. “I want to fix this mess, and I want to see the other side of it. You’re angry because it means you won’t have a tamer to hide behind, so stop being a coward and use your own face to take it out on me.”

“Who started this whole thing? Because it wasn’t me who started using other people’s faces to get what they want,” Dark snaps. “Even when it’s just you, whose face are you using? How much of the truth are you telling? Putting on a placid mask doesn’t make you any less dangerous, Hiwatari-kun. Don’t pretend like you’re welcome here and act high and mighty. They don’t trust you. They don’t want you. No one does.”

Satoshi pushes Dark back, face twisting in anger. “Stop using his voice! Why are you so—”

Satoshi will never admit how ashamed he is that his voice breaks, how much Dark just got under his skin with that one phrase. How much the truth of it hurts. He clears his throat, continuing on like he hasn’t just choked on his own heart.

“Why are you here?”

Dark scoffs and tips his chin up, the haughty derision on his face so wildly out of place on Daisuke’s features that Satoshi has the urge to reach out and shake him.

“Because he didn’t want to be,” he says. “I told him the line he was toeing was one that shouldn’t be crossed, but he did it anyway, so now he’s paying for it.”

Satoshi grits his teeth, balling his fists tight at his sides. He hasn’t been this furious with Dark in ages, he realizes. He really can’t even remember the last time he thought of Dark as an active threat—maybe during the incident with the Toki no Byuushin, perhaps.

Somewhere along the line, he’d stopped thinking about Dark as a danger to his host: He started thinking that the thief was merely a pest, a roadblock to his ultimate goal, but a useful sometimes-ally. And maybe Dark isn’t an active threat to Daisuke, not like Krad is to him, but…

He remembers Daisuke’s face and the immense sadness behind his eyes each time he talks about himself, each time he compares himself to his other half, the way that Harada Risa wrapped her arms around Dark on White’s Day, and he wonders if he’s done Daisuke a disservice by dismissing the amount of harm Dark could do to him.

There are other kinds of hurt, ones that feel just as bad as physical wounds, ones that don’t heal.

Satoshi doesn’t like the implications of Dark’s answer. He doesn’t like the way discomfort crawls over him, burrows under his skin, and makes his stomach churn. The strange protectiveness he felt in the kitchen grows stronger, and a thought passes through his mind:

If it were me, what would Daisuke do?

It’s one that often floats through his mind, curbing his curtness and opening him up to the world around him with tentative, quiet steps. He knows exactly what Daisuke would do, because Daisuke has helped him so many times that it’s almost laughable.

“Niwa, I don’t know what’s happened, but you know… You’re strong enough to handle it on your own,” he says quietly, stepping forward with his hands turned up.

Dark takes a step back, a disgusted sneer marring his friend’s features.

“You’re walking a really dangerous line here, Hiwatari. I’m telling you, he’s better off if you leave it alone. Leave him alone.”

“I think that’s a decision that only Niwa can make,” Satoshi says evenly, despite the anger that simmers inside of him. “If I am me, then you are you, Niwa. You’re two different people. And I believe in you, and I believe that whatever it is that happened, it will work out. Because it’s you.”

A disgruntled noise leaves Dark’s throat, sounding entirely out of place in Daisuke’s voice. He turns his head, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Neither of you knuckleheads wanna listen, huh? Fine.”

Dark tosses his hands up in the air as he speaks, and on some unknown instinct, Satoshi reaches for them, catching Daisuke’s familiar deft fingers in his own. It’s strange.

He’s watched those hands move over locks and over roofs in streetlamp circled light, hold ropes and pens and paintbrushes. He’s circled his fingers around the thin—delicate, light, warm—circle of his wrist many times before. Daisuke’s grabbed hold of him before—and he of him—so many times, and they’ve shook hands as well, yet this… it’s strange.

It’s not bad, not really, but it’s not ideal, either, because it’s not really Daisuke.

That thought brings him pause, because… does he want this with Daisuke? To reach out and take hold of the hand that always seems to be held outstretched for him? To reach back in the darkness and offer his own?

Yes. Yes. Yes. He wants to be someone who can become dependable in more ways than just knowledge. He wants to become someone’s— Daisuke’s— source of strength and hope, just as Daisuke became his. He wants to give back, he wants to offer more, he wants to survive this and circumvent the hurt and grief and help build something more than the ruined offerings of their families’ past.

Daisuke makes him want to create in the worst sort of way—not paintings or sculptures or pretty little baubles, no. It makes him want to build a foundation, a fortress, a road to walk along with no pitfalls, something shining and bright that can rise above and survive the thorns. It stretches and yawns in him like a cat in the sun, stirring the beast and the brand, but he can withstand it: He’s withstood it every day thus far, afterall.

He holds tight, palm curling against the hand Dark holds stiff in the air, his fingers laced through the other’s.

He can withstand it all; he can set aside the fear and the guilt and the anger and pain just to reach out into the darkness. He is more than capable.

“Whatever’s wrong, whatever happened, you can tell me,” Satoshi says, letting that burning feeling forge the steel in his voice. “I may not be able to help you, or even understand, but… it’s the least I can do, for all you’ve done for me. And… we are… You’re my friend, Daisuke.”

He can pinpoint the very second that Dark leaves; he can see the way Daisuke’s posture changes, feel how his fingers go lax, note all the minute changes that he wonders if only he can see.

He watches as Daisuke’s eyes go saucer-wide, and instantly feels a wash of guilt at the panicked expression on his friend’s face. He knows he’s pushed too far and far too hard. He feels like he always does this, pushes when he shouldn’t and pulls when he should hang back, and all it ever does is hurt them both in the end.

Why does he keep trying to pry them both open at the seams when it’s been proven over and over that Daisuke will eventually open up, let the words take shape, and confide in him? He feels greedy; like the beast within him, he’s hungry and ready to tear into the soft parts of the world to get what he wants. He hates it. Hates how quick he is to assume he’s the one who’s right, hates that one day, he’ll take a step too far and finally push Daisuke away like he’d tried to all those months ago.

He jerks back, holding his hands out in front of him, deliberately taking a measured step back. “Sorry, I, that was a little too, I was—”

Daisuke’s open mouth snaps shut, his brows folding in as his expression solidifies from shocked to determined. He snaps his head back and forth before grabbing ahold of Satoshi’s wrist, fingers locked tight, and tugs at the same time he reaches behind him.

The door opens, and Satoshi finds himself unceremoniously shoved inside.

“What—”

“Shhh!”

Daisuke closes the door behind himself, his body pushing Satoshi further back into a shelf. His elbows dig up against a stack of linens, Daisuke’s arms a cage around his shoulders, one wrist still held above his head.

“Niwa what the—” he hisses, only to be shushed again.

“Quiet,” Daisuke whispers.

Satoshi feels his entire body go hot, muscles locking at the feeling of Daisuke’s breath against his neck. It’s warm, almost humid, and it makes his heartbeat slam up into his ears, almost drowning out the sound of heels on wooden floors.

Shhh, Daisuke breathes, mouth curving around the quiet sound, nearly brushing against Satoshi’s skin.

His wrist burns, a white-hot twist of pain that bleeds out from underneath Daisuke’s fingers and spreads, bright and sharp and branching out with the path of his veins. His shoulders dig up against the shelving, overly aware of how they’re pressed chest-to-chest, feet tangled.

The footsteps grow louder, accompanied by the light sound of someone humming something off-tune.

“Towa,” Daisuke mouths, his fingers briefly tightening against Satoshi’s wrist.

Satoshi doesn’t dare move. He feels like if he moves, something will shatter. But despite that, he… wants to.

Just that morning, he’d wanted to crowd in close to Daisuke—and he still does. Something in him cries out for more, to let everything break and go to hell, just for a moment, so he can curl in close, and just feel another person’s warmth. Just to press their hands together, palm to palm, once more.

Not just any person, but Daisuke, it’s only ever been Daisuke.

They can so casually brush up against each other, grab hold of hands and arms and shoulders, but they have never spoken about it. Daisuke shoves and grabs and tussles with the other boys in their class, but it’s different between them, like a different language, a whispered word instead of a shout.

He’s not as righteous as he seems. It’s not as pure and innocent as he once made himself think. He wants to help, he wants to build a future that they can both live in, free of the curse and the burdens of their families, wants to undo all the wrongs his family has done to this world.

But he’s just him. He’s just human, with the startling revelation that he has human wants besides food and shelter—that he has a human heart and it wants. That he can’t ignore it anymore, that he desperately wants the comfort of another person, another warm heartbeat to pulse against his fingers. He wants understanding and kindness and… love.

He desperately needs to understand, to be understood, and to be cared for without repercussions or conditions. And he wants it from Daisuke.

He wants to talk about it. He wants to sling his arms around Daisuke’s shoulders and rest his face in his hair, to return the hug that was given to him all those weeks ago when he was ruined by magic and rage and pain.

Because Daisuke’s ruined too.

They’re both just little matchstick houses of men, built with shaking hands and tenuous foundations. He wants. He wants. He wants—

Daisuke’s cheek against his jaw and his breath on his skin. The way his shoulder cramps and the uncomfortable press of shelves to his spine. The burning pain on his wrist and the sleepy horror scratching at his consciousness.

There’s a realization blooming, and it is too large, too scary, too foreign for him to even begin to comprehend. So he doesn’t think, he doesn’t move; he barely even breathes.

The footsteps fade away and Daisuke sags against him, shoulders slumping into a rounded shadow.

“...Care to explain why we’re hiding from the artwork?” Satoshi manages, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Daisuke’s gulp is audible; it would be almost comical if it weren’t for the close quarters and the strange, growing feeling pressing up at the back of his throat. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s also genuinely—frighteningly—worried about the other boy.

“Ah, it’s, I,” Daisuke stammers. “It’s stupid, I’m sorry—”

“Considering the fact that there are apparently literal alligators in your house—which I asked your mother about and she laughed, Niwa. That’s concerning even for me,” Satoshi says, proud of the fact that his voice comes out dry and blunt despite the pounding of his heart. He’s doubly proud of the fact that Daisuke gives a wavering chuckle at his tone. “I very much doubt that your reasoning is stupid.”

It comes out softer than he intended, a quiet whisper of the words that his entire soul seems to be screaming at him.

“There are cameras, everywhere,” Daisuke mutters. “I don’t. I don’t want anyone to overhear anything else, I… Panicked, I guess.”

“Okay,” Satoshi says.

“Okay?” Daisuke repeats, as if he can’t believe the simplicity of the reply.

“Yeah,” Satoshi says. He shrugs, turning his head to the side. “I know there are cameras and recording devices in the house. It makes sense.”

“I just slammed you into a closet, and all you have to say is okay?” Daisuke asks, voice pitching up in concern.

“It’s not as if I haven’t done similar things,” Satoshi retorts, feeling his face flush hot as he vividly recalls each and every time he’d casually manhandled the other boy.

Daisuke’s fingers loosen from his wrist as the other boy huffs quietly, a half-laughing thing. “I guess?”

Satoshi gently tugs his hand away and turns in the cramped space until he’s perpendicular to the shelves he’d been pressed up against. Like it’s some strange dance, Daisuke follows him until they’re face-to-face again.

“I think there’s enough room for us to sit down,” Daisuke says quietly, his hand reaching behind himself to feel for the wall behind him. He leans back, slouching against the wall. His knees press into Satoshi’s as he starts to slide down into a crouch like a marionette whose strings are being slowly cut. “If you don’t want, um if you, you can just… leave me in here. I’m… I need to…”

“I’m here,” Satoshi says. He reaches out, fingertips brushing the crown of Daisuke’s head, right where Satoshi knows his hair whorls out into the perpetual cow-licked mess he tries to hide with spiked and tousled hair.

He’s seen the spot so many times, watching Daisuke from afar, from behind, from above. He now knows he can find it in the dark, and the implications of it makes his entire body shiver.

He was never supposed to feel anything at all, never supposed to have anything: no friends or family or sense of belonging. He was never supposed to want; he was never supposed to hold anyone dear, but here he is, hiding in a closet with the boy who was supposed to be his greatest rival, his biggest enemy, and he’s drowning in all the things he holds in his hands.

He is so dear to him, so precious, and it hurts him like a sword to the chest. He wants to curl over and around the pain, clutch at the shard of emotion that has pierced his heart, rip it out, and bleed out into his cupped palms. Something like this is nothing good, and better to hurt now than to hurt later, and being precious to a Hikari is a death sentence, but—!

He wants: He wants friends; he wants a place to belong; he wants to become someone who can be worth it, worth all the time and care and friendship Daisuke has given him. He wants to be worth the feeling blooming in his chest, a dark-petaled flower that will never see the sun. If he can save Daisuke, even a little bit… then the pain will be worth it.

“I meant it, you know, what I said when it was Dark,” Satoshi says, kneeling in front of Daisuke. “You can, if you want to… You can tell me whatever you want to.”

Daisuke is quiet for a long moment, head tipped down as if he’s wilted in defeat, some flower picked too early in the season and left without water. “...did you come here intending to… Hiwatari-kun, I… do you...”

His voice shakes, then falters. He sighs, a hand coming up to thread through his hair, chin turning into his shoulder. “At the dance, Riku-san saw everything, saw us—saw you. And she… she remembers it. All of it.”