Work Text:
Byakuya pecks at the keyboard of the borderline defective computer in front of him, imputing statistics on resource production and corporation alignments and a thousand other things he can not quite bring himself to care about beyond the objective level. Makoto and Kyoko are perusing and ordering stapled packets of legal documents on the careworn sofas in the corner, having an obnoxious conversation about nothing remotely important.
He has to stifle a scream as his programs crash for the sixth time in two hours, inhaling and exhaling a tense breath as he grinds his teeth and clasps his fists and resists the impulse to knock himself out against the closest adequate surface. He despises every minute of busywork the company he works for subjects him to—it’s demeaning and it’s humiliating and it’s undeserving of the labor of a man of his caliber.
Though, it’s not as though his caliber is anything to behold anymore.
“Kyoko, listen to me. It conveniently defies the fundamental laws of nature. It conveniently lives exclusively on a continent already known for weird animals. It conveniently remains completely unencountered by anyone I’ve asked.”
“Makoto, I am not going to debate the existence of a thoroughly documented species with you. There are perfectly reasonable scientific counterarguments for every point you’ve brought up. Besides, you can’t just not believe in platypi.”
Byakuya leans around the monitor to glare at the two, fighting to prevent his voice from spiking. “Would you two zip it?” Honestly, Makoto and Kyoko might merit his tentative respect at times, but sometimes grandeur recoils and his dignity flinches at the thought.
Makoto and Kyoko glance up to retort, but their pitiful defenses are cut short by the deafening clang of the front door being thrown in without a single regard for peace and quiet in the workplace. Aoi stumbles through the threshold, clouds in her breath and flakes on her clothes as she beams with a childish delight not entirely atypical of her. “Guys—” She pauses to heave a few sharp breaths. “Guys! It’s snowing!”
The words ricochet through the cramped space—Makoto springs upright in excitement, Kyoko shifts forwards in curiosity, Hiro pokes in from the warehouse with a box hoisted on his shoulder and Toko leans in from the cubicles with a pen clutched in her mouth.
Byakuya ponders the information for a moment before discarding it with a quiet noise and a vague shake. “I fail to understand how the local apocalyptic weather is of any interest to us at the moment.” His brain musters up a twitch of interest and curiosity as to the consequences of the natural phenomenon on the local climate and weather, but that’s about it for reactions.
Aoi gives a patronizing laugh at the inquiry. “You’ve always got to be the cynic, huh?” She beckons to the others with a confusing excitement about her. “Obviously, it means everyone’s got to go out and enjoy it!”
The others positively light up the proposal, scrambling to drop their papers and boxes and hastening to grab their gloves and scarves like schoolchildren released for a twelve minute break on the playground.
Hiro chuckles to himself as he snags his egregiously bright jacket out of the closet and hoists and swings it around his shoulders. “Awe, I haven’t got the chance to horse around in a snowstorm since I was a kid! We should put up snowmen and snowforts!”
Toko manages a smile as she grabs her thick scarf and heavy shawl and expertly wraps and binds the cloth around herself with practiced motions. “Heh… I remember always m-making sn-snowcastles and sn-snowangels whenever it sn-snowed…”
Makoto yanks a thick beanie over his overgrown tangle of a hairstyle. “Hey, haven’t we earned the right to a break from time to time?”
Kyoko fixes a pair of chunky mittens over her usual pair of flimsy gloves. “Hm, I imagine a moment of reprieve wouldn't be detrimental.”
Byakuya sighs at their antics, forcing himself to focus on the statistics in front of him instead of the uncomfortable whirl in his gut and the persistent spark in his chest. “It’s hard to believe you are the people I survived the tragedy alongside.” He glares at the clump of expectant glances thrown his way. “No, I am not going to frolic outside like a child. I am going to finish my duties like the responsible adult I am.”
Aoi groans at his statement. “Ugh, you’re never any fun!” Her stance tenders a moment later, and she wanders forwards a bit to catch his eyes and reach his ears. “Hey, how about you let yourself get a bit of fresh air for a few minutes at least?”
Byakuya stares at the documents on his computer, the minuscule script that makes his vision pulse and the standard print that makes his thoughts cloud and for a moment he wants to chuck it through the nearest window. He inhales and exhales a resigned breath, recognizing his own defeat as he wrings his fingers and cracks his knuckles and stands up to dredge his winter clothing out of the closet.
“Alright. I’m not going to be screwing around, though.”
The act of ditching their posts to dodge and sneak around is unexpectedly simple—their building is a relatively isolated section of the campus, a combination of standardized dormitories and sterilized cafeterias and quiet sprawling workplaces designed for a significantly higher number of survivors.
The foundation provides their basic resources and promotes their regular duties under the guise of searching for a superior permanent solution, but a startling majority of their waking hours are left to their own meager devices while the actual important decisions are completed above their heads.
Byakuya detests the blatant removal of power, he detests the piles of insignificant chores, he detests the hours of unimportant tasks, he detests the existence so far removed from the one he thrived in before.
He detests the sting in his chest at the memories of his former wonder.
The snowstorm in the pitiful excuse for a public courtyard is a light one, whirling through his clothes and whisking around his limbs in a blatant display of potential threat. The others instantly begin tumbling and trampling around the piled snowdrifts like a bunch of clumsy animals, wrestling and tackling and catching the floating snowflakes on their hands and tongues.
He leans against the trunk of a frozen maple at a distance great enough to plead plausible deniability, watching everyone crash around with a truly disgusting level of naive spirit—Aoi cackling as she crushes together giant lumps into crude spheres, Hiro snickering as he smashes together great heaps into sturdy blocks, Toko whistling under her breath as she gently crafts peaks and towers a few steps behind, Kyoko glancing around herself as she subtly traces designs in the fresh white ground with her footprints, Makoto smiling towards himself as he crowds and hunches around a stockpile of something in the distance.
Byakuya curses at the subtly crawling flame of tender emotion that sneaks around inside his chest as he watches the childish scene before him, like the first hints of plants growing in the cracks of a broken sidewalk, like the first traces of animals living in the corners of a decaying building, like the first sunbeams to reach through the cloud layer above the ruins of a civilization.
Like the promise of a future.
“Byakuya!”
An abrupt voice shakes him from his wandering thoughts.
Aoi takes a few steps towards him, a strange mixture of genuine curiosity and sneaking mischief covering her features. “Hey, are you going to honestly try enjoying yourself or are you going to imitate a sad wet cat in a crate the whole time?” She makes a beckoning gesture towards the group. “Seriously, do you think you could stand to not be a stick in the mud for ten minutes?”
The others glance up at the slight disruption of the peace, pausing their childish activities and watching the building confrontation in relative silence.
Byakuya grumbles quietly at the words, his shoulders hunching and his features twisting instinctively. “I believe I’ve already established my distaste towards the prospect of engaging in your idiotic games.” He registers the other implications of the sentence a moment after the words leave his mouth. “And I am perfectly capable of enjoying myself without doing so, for the record.”
Hiro springs out of what’s presumably meant to be the frame of a snowfort, the frost clinging to his features and weighing on his dreads and clothes. “Awe, that’s no fun! You should learn to let yourself go sometimes!”
Toko stands from what could be an angel shape if one had a particularly active imagination, glancing and mumbling at him every few seconds with a slight twinkle in her eye. “I guess it wouldn't b-be an awful t-turn of events…”
Byakuya makes a somewhat disdainful noise under his breath. “I promise you, a pig could sprout wings before you could convince me to join these antics of yours.”
“Ugh, you never let yourself have any fun!”
“Oh, I apologize for not wanting to spend my limited downtime behaving like a child.”
“Hey, you shouldn’t be knocking it before trying it. Who honestly cares about how childish or adultish something is, anyways?”
“I would argue experiencing m-multiple aspects of the w-world around you is important for m-maintaining a healthy lifestyle.”
“Perhaps I would be further convinced if any of you could make a decent point.”
“How’s this for a point!”
Smack
A large mound of crumbling ice smashes against his chest.
He swears his brain shortcircuits like a frozen computer program at the sensation. He stumbles backwards a few steps instinctively as it explodes on impact, white clumps sticking to black clothes and biting frost clinging to tender flesh.
He forces his senses to restart, his ears ringing and his eyes pulsing as he searches the bustling swarm of people thriving at the spectacle of his unexpected humiliation until he manages to pluck out the culprit.
Makoto waits a solid ten paces in front of him, his air one of a younger sibling caught throwing paint at the new wallpaper as he stifles a delighted laugh and a joyous smile with frosted hands. “Huh. I wonder—snrk—I wonder who could’ve—snrk—who could've done that.”
Kyoko hovers a few steps further back, her air one of an older sibling trying not to encourage bad habits by cracking up as she purses her lips and strains her neck to little avail. “Yes, it’s quite—hm—it's quite a dumbfounding mystery. I haven't the faintest suspicion.”
Byakuya brushes snow from the creases of his clothes and shakes hair from the wrinkles of his features and gives them the fiercest glare he can muster.
The group instantly explodes in smothered hysterics in response—Makoto and Kyoko crumble together in a fit of amusement, Aoi slams her palms against her snowman as strings of laughter wrack through her frame, Hiro claps his hands against his snowfort as bursts of laughter tumble through his mouth, Toko buries herself in her scarf and her gloves as she shakes almost indistinctly.
Byakuya fumes dangerously at the mortifying scene around him, fighting to maintain any semblance of composure as his ears flame and his eyes cloud with the wrath and the shame it wreaks inside him. The vigorous mixture of sensations crashes through his straining muscles, trembling in his bones and rumbling in his joints with a shifting emotion he’s unable to identify the exact shape of.
The unbridled audacity to ridicule his stature and disgrace his reputation for no purpose but cheap amusement. The absolute impudence to think anyone could enact a fault against him. The complete insolence to believe anyone could escape unpunished.
He doesn’t realize the way he’s lowering to the frozen ground. He doesn’t realize the way he’s reaching for the frigid drifts. He doesn’t realize he’s moving at all until his unguarded fingers spark in protest at the temperature.
He lurches backwards in a flash of movement, wrenching and flinging and upheaving a handful of snow in the motion. His breath hitches slightly in his throat. His heart thumps quietly in his chest. His thoughts whirl furiously in his brain.
He stamps out the whirlwind of flickering emotions the minute he notices them, ordering his breath and his heart to function as normal as he tenses his muscles.
He refuses to engage in their games.
He ignores the subtle twitch in his fingers.
He nudges upwards after a moment of gathering himself, screwing against his frame and shifting through his brain and searching for a mature way out of the situation.
He refuses to stoop to their level.
He ignores the gentle thrum in his knuckles.
He glances around the scene, studying the detached clumps of snow in piles on the ground before him and watching the swirling flakes of snow in drifts in the air around him and scrutinizing the cluster of people laughing obliviously in the distance.
He refuses to listen to the impulses sprouting in the traitorous corners of his brain.
He ignores the twisting and the wringing swirling in the desperate corners of his chest.
‘I’m merely upholding my reputation.’ His limbs begin moving against his control, his legs buckling at the joint and his arms reaching for the ground. ‘I’m not going to let people think anyone can trample on me without expecting retribution.’ His fingers blunder and tremble despite his wrangling, heaping and packing the frozen ice with blunt and crude motions until it resembles a vague sphere. ‘I’m not going to let people think I’m not going to defend myself.’ His entire frame thunders with the emotion he now scarcely recognizes as unbearable exhilaration, as though he’s about to disobey a vital invisible law.
The light storm whispers and bristles while it swirls around. The quiet sun murmurs and glistens where it reaches through. The perfect moment of tender warmth and gentle frost is going to vanish in the blink of an eye.
Byakuya sends the projectile flying.
Smack
The laughs and shouts are replaced by a unanimous noise of surprise, everyone but one jumping and ducking out of range a second before impact with the blunt reflexes of a horde of disoriented grazers.
Makoto stands unmoving for several moments after the metaphorical smoke clears—staring quietly at the spots of frost on his jacket, staring quietly at the lumps of frost on his shoes, staring quietly at the person who launched the ambush. The others begin to pluck their heads out of the snowdrifts one by one, squinting and blinking at the scene with a sense of unbridled disbelief.
Byakuya steams with unease and regret, his shoulders hunching and his balance shifting and his sensibility returning from its unfortunately timed break. The adrenaline sprinting through him moments before shrinks at the obvious stares of judgment and ridicule—a belated reminder that he’s meant to be responsible, he’s meant to be sophisticated, he’s meant to be above the unproductive games of the other children.
He heads for the building, his steps rickety and unsteady and his voice twisted and crumpled as he forces out an excuse that doesn’t quite register in his own brain. He ignores the distant shouts reaching for him, the frozen nerves in his fingers wrestling for control. He refuses to grant himself another chance at destroying his reputation, the shifting muscles in his features scrambling for restraint.
A snowball clips him on the shoulder.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
Byakuya tries to voice a response, but there’s something twisting and choking lodged in his throat. He forces himself to reach for the latches on the door, but his hands twitch and shake and his fingers are unable to get a decent grasp.
A snowball pelts him on the waist.
“You’re not going to ditch a fight that quickly, right?”
Byakuya tries to force a counter, but there’s a faltering thrum in the center of his chest and a swirling twinge in the corner of his brain and every blink of his eyelids jumbles his whole frame like an earthquake.
'Oh, forget it.'
He whips around, his hands lunging for the ground and his fingers grasping at the drifts.
The fragile suspense hovering around the group positively explodes at the action, fireworks of unbridled elation cracking in the sky like fireworks and leaving sparks of exultation and bursts of jubilation floating to the ground. A dozen crumbling handfuls of ice go flying in the blink of an eye, any words spoken drowned out by the cacophony of laughs and shouts right out of a family holiday movie.
Byakuya stands at the center of it, his brain trembling and his heart thundering and his skeleton threatening to crumble under the unknown turmoil.
He’s acting on instincts he’s never known or developed or explored—the twist of his lip is uncomfortable on his rigid mouth, the shake of his air is unbalanced in his empty throat, the twinge of his eye is disorienting on his stern features.
He’s outside his element of constant refined perfection—the hints of genuine emotion reaching through the cracks aren’t something he can enhance and improve until it’s worthy of being displayed to the world as his own creation.
He’s vulnerable in the midst of the battlefield, his scraps of laughter clouding before his mouth and his specks of emotion brushing around his features as the sunlight and the snowflakes create a haphazard spotlight around him.
Yet for a brief moment the snowflakes covering his frame catch and spark against the swirling winds and cause a shiver of adrenaline through his bones.
Yet for a brief moment a few gleaming sunbeams in the sky glint against a few whirling snowflakes in the air in a masterful dance of light.
Yet for a brief moment the laughs and shouts crashing in his senses cause a faint light in the pit of his chest, thick and solid and giving him a vague sense of warmth he doesn’t quite recognize.
And for a brief moment, he almost believes it’s alright to be enjoying it.
Byakuya couldn’t say for certain how long the fight stretches on for—it could be a few minutes, or it could be a few hours, or it could be the blink of an eye. The one thing he knows is after a while the storm dwindles and withers and flickers out, leaving nothing to block the sun from bursting through the atmosphere and reflecting against the wreckage as everyone slows to a halt.
Makoto gives a quiet laugh, the expanse of flesh visible above his scarf and below his cap flushed a bright shade of red at the exertion and the temperature. “Alright, we should—we should go inside before somebody becomes a human icicle.”
Kyoko makes a short noise, delicately brushing the frost out of the wrinkles in her clothes and the creases in her braids. “That’s probably smart. The temperatures probably aren’t low enough to be seriously dangerous, but it never hurts to be careful.”
The others begin to gather around, either grumbling and shifting and cracking their joints or chuckling and twinkling and wiping their brows.
Aoi glances backwards. “Hey, are you coming inside or what?”
Byakuya startles at the question, his brain shifting and rousing and emerging through a subtle trance. He scrambles for a grasp, composing his features and adjusting his posture and forcing himself not to run after the group.
It’s not until the hatch closes behind him that he realizes exactly how frozen he is, his extremities blistering with frostnip and his internals trembling with disorientation. He slumps backwards against the weathered cushions of a large couch in the lounge, absentmindedly breathing and kneading warmth into his flesh as he watches the others bustle around the space.
Makoto and Kyoko quietly sit around him, Makoto curling around the bolster and Kyoko leaning against the armrest. Aoi crumbles against a giant armchair in the corner while Toko slinks behind the furniture and Hiro swerves inside the kitchen.
Byakuya grumbles under his breath at the persisting uncomfortable sensation in his twitching and shivering fingertips, his strangled frustration building slightly until he gives a vigorous jostle trying to dispel it.
“Hey!”
Makoto makes a noise of surprise and knocks his frigid hands aside, a playful smile flashing along his features. Kyoko chuckles under her breath and nudges her elbow against his shoulder, a quiet smirk brushing through her features.
Byakuya quietly clears his throat and clasps his hands, a slight warmth crawling up his neck and rumbling in his face. “Hmph.”
Aoi sprawls luxuriously in the armchair, one leg thrown against the armrest and one arm flung around the headrest in a truly unrefined position. “Hey, aren’t you grateful I got you to ditch those boring papers?”
Byakuya gives her a scathing glare. “No. I regret entertaining your delusional fantasies.” He absently kneads the sprains out of his muscles and cracks the strains out of his joints. “The whole experience was uncomfortable and intolerable and absolutely ridiculous.” He pauses for a moment, his jaw clenched and his lip pursed before he mumbles under his breath. “… I imagine it was the slightest bit enjoyable, however."
Makoto makes noise almost resemblant of a mixture between a squeal and a laugh, tackling his side and rustling his hair and cackling wildly. “Awe, I always thought you had to be a total softie somewhere under there!”
Kyoko trembles under quiet bouts of stifled laughter, her features twisting and morphing with a brand of unusual smothered mirth. “Oh, I had it figured out right from the start. There was never any doubt in my brain.”
Byakuya swats their hands aside, scowling and glaring at their blatant disrespect. “Silence. I haven’t forgiven you two for forcing me to engage in your childish nonsense earlier.” He dredges up a strange impulse, flailing and reaching and shoving his frigid hands against the exposed parts of their faces and necks. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, honestly.”
Makoto and Kyoko erupt in simultaneous explosive laughter, their heaves and snorts and cackles disgusting and repulsive and somehow melodious together. Byakuya loathes the indistinct realization his own sound is twisting and sneaking into the edges of the chorus.
Hiro nudges through the threshold of the lounge, precariously balancing several mismatching flasks of cocoa in his hands. “Hey, what’s the sitch?” He hands out the flasks one by one, droplets of cocoa escaping the confines and staining the upholstery.
The others drift through vague and quiet scraps of a conversation, their words crumpled in the corners and scorched at the edges with a pleasant exhaustion as the sounds pulse and twirl around and around and around.
Byakuya floats in an unfiltered relaxation, the sound of his steady breath whistling gently in his throat and the sound of his stable heart thumping softly in his chest. His brain provides no profound contemplation, no poetic introspection, no meaningful thought besides the vague periodic notation of his environment—the pleasant texture of the weathered cushions at his fingers, the surprising taste of the fresh beverage on his tongue, the sound of laughter in his ears and the sights of shadows in his eyes and the tender delicate warmth unfurling in his soul.
And for a brief moment, he almost believes everything’s going to end up alright.