Chapter Text
"How about these? They look exactly your size."
When Phoenix turned to him with that near-uncharacteristic deadpan expression, Yoru could not help but chuckle.
"Fuck off, mate," Phoenix groaned. He slapped away the tiny toddler's pair of sneakers which Yoru had been dangling by the laces and returned to his task of trying on a 'pretty large-sized pair, thank you very much '.
"What? I think they're cute!" Yoru cackled back. "And honest, you know. So the ladies won't get the wrong idea—ugh!"
He dodged as Phoenix swung half-heartedly in his general direction.
"Rude!" Yoru exclaimed with a hand to his chest.
"Prat."
"Dumbass."
Phoenix gasped. "Heartless!"
"Me? Heartless? After I so lovingly picked out your perfect size?" Once again, Yoru dangled the undersized pair of orange sneakers over Phoenix's head, who was now effectively fuming. But this was fun, because he got to do this to him without his friend getting actually, seriously upset. Because, yes, they were friends now, Yoru figured.
Yeah. Now, they could go whole conversations without breaking into a fistfight. Very much unlike when Yoru first joined. Sure, sometimes things still turned into a competition of sorts—like an impromptu arm-wrestling contest to decide who deserved the last of the glazed donuts—but nowadays they were friendlier competitions. More or less.
After a petty argument, Phoenix would still talk to him and wouldn't ignore him for days on end, and Yoru found that he liked it when Phoenix would talk to him. Or hang out with him unprompted. Or listen to him go on about some completely asinine interest that Yoru would never be caught dead rambling to someone else about, but somehow , enthusiastically, he found himself telling Phoenix. Because Phoenix listened, and gave a shit, and didn't roll his eyes and leave. Well, he did roll his eyes sometimes, but likely only because Yoru rolled his own eyes when Phoenix was a little too excited about his own interests. Yoru didn't leave though, and neither did Phoenix.
He was tolerable and his company was, sometimes, even enjoyable. So yes, even just to himself, Yoru would call Phoenix a friend.
And if said friend currently pouting up at him (in a somewhat adorable manner) made something funny flip around in Yoru's chest, well, then that was Yoru's to set aside and process for later.
"And here I was giving you something actually decent," Phoenix said, sniffing a little. He produced another labelless box from the side and plopped it next to where Yoru's elbows rested on a low wooden wall.
Curious, Yoru took a peak, and inside was a pair of impressive looking electric-blue shoes, a subtle chrome sheen to them that worked well with the bit of silver detailing they had. Yoru wasn't as much of a sneakerhead as Phoenix was, but he did appreciate good fashion. And the shoes would work well with the orange laces he favored.
"Well, shit," was all he could say, because they were actually good shoes. Yoru hopped on the wooden divider to slip them on immediately. Perfect fit. They were made for running, so he could wear them on missions if he so pleased—not that he would, as he'd be damned if he got blood on them—but they weren't just a fashion statement. Beauty and utility going hand-in-hand was a principle that Yoru liked to abide by, and by the way Phoenix was smirking next to him, he knew his friend knew that too.
"How much are these?"
"Don't worry 'bout it, mate. Already paid for 'em."
Yoru gaped. " Seriously?"
Phoenix only turned back to the orange pair he was trying out with a small smile. " See , unlike some people, I can actually tell what fits. And by the way, you're totally a size smaller than me."
The same sort of fluttering from earlier came back to Yoru's chest. "Great," he mumbled. "Now I've gotta one-up you, or you'll never let me live this down."
"Then buy me lunch later? That café we saw down the street's got some good looking pasta on the menu. We don't have to bring those two along. Would be fun to have your wallet all to myself." Phoenix chuckled and nodded over to where Neon and Killjoy were still rifling through a lady's pile of beanies several market stalls away.
Lunch alone with Phoenix at a Salvadorian cafe with, if Yoru recalled correctly, rather romantic fairy lights and garden decor, didn't sound as awful as he might have thought it would be.
"Hmph. Deal," He said, fighting through a sudden itch in his chest. He coughed, once, then cleared his throat. "But if I find out these thing are cheap as hell—"
He flipped over the box and predictably found the price tag. He didn't look at Phoenix, who he knew was grinning ear to ear.
"—I'm ordering for you though. No objections."
But of course there were objections. Phoenix whined about Yoru's crappy taste in milkshakes and Yoru clapped back without hesitation, and things were like they always were—rather nice. Normal. Except for the slight itch at the back of Yoru's throat, and the ignorable fluttering in his heart, but that was alright. Just something stupid he'd get over in a matter of days. Maybe it was just the calm of an overseas vacation getting to him, or the high of getting cool new shoes as a gift.
Either way, things were good. He'd enjoy this while he could, before they were both back to their life-or-death careers of protecting the earth.
_—-----------------
Phoenix looked tired.
And it wasn't the typical i-want-to-skip-the-debrief-and-just-go-to-sleep tired that he was after missions. Phoenix was, well, emotionally tired, for lack of a better word. Yoru saw it in the lines under his eyes, half-lidded; how his cheek leaned heavily against one hand, how his head slumped level with his shoulders. He hadn't even touched his beer.
He was only gazing sleepily at the passed-out mop of blue hair that was Neon across him at a table.
Yoru scoffed. Fucking Neon.
Alright, so maybe it wasn't her fault. Yoru had agreed to go to this little rave party because he wanted to let loose and drink and, maybe, possibly, see how Phoenix looked when he let loose. Getting drunk out of his mind and partying—Yoru liked it, Raze liked it, and Phoenix definitely seemed like the type of guy to like it.
But instead, about three cocktails in, Yoru noticed that Raze and Killjoy had slipped away from the stagefront where they'd all been dancing together, and Neon was far too out of it and hanging on Phoenix's arm like she'd collapse any second. But Phoenix himself had barely had a lick of alcohol.
"Oi, I'll take Neon back over to the tables, alright? Girl seems out of it." Phoenix told him. In response, Neon's head shot up with a barely coherent whine of protest.
Now, Yoru wasn't actually a monster. Of course he was concerned for Neon, who apparently discovered too late just how strong gin could hit. And he'd probably have helped Phoenix shuffle the girl away from the rave-going mob if it weren't for the fact that Phoenix had seemed completely uninterested in partying with him. All. Night.
He’d ordered a single can of beer and had been nursing it since they got to the venue. Adding insult to injury, Phoenix also seemed like he’d been looking for an excuse to leave the crowd the entire time. If Yoru didn't know any better, he'd figure the guy just hated parties, but no, he'd seen Phoenix at parties. He saw the photos Raze took when they went to concerts. He was just as much of a party animal as their loud, paint-splattered duelist, but now, the first time Yoru had the guts to come and see it for himself, Phoenix just looked like he wanted to be anywhere but next to Yoru.
Something solid tickled his throat when he swallowed—probably garnish from his drink—and he downed the remainder of the cocktail in one go before speaking.
"What, is the Firebird all burnt out already?" Yoru tried teasing. Phoenix simply looked away.
"I'm not in the mood for this, Yoru."
"What, hanging out? Even though you've been whining about wanting to hang out all the time before this trip?"
Phoenix frowned. "We did hang out. Today. A lot. I'm just tired now, fam, and we can't just leave Neon alone."
"Right, whatever. Go fuck off with Neon."
"Yoru—"
But Yoru had already shuffled away before Phoenix could get another word in.
Maybe he'd already gotten a little too drunk, and his rational decision making skills had long gone out the window. But Yoru was a little pissed. Sure, it's not like Phoenix promised to party with him, but, maybe, when they'd been demolishing each other on Raze's video game console earlier, and Phoenix had told him he loved hanging out with Yoru and wanted to spend more time with him, then maybe Yoru was right in hoping that included this party too. Maybe when Phoenix told him about the 'absolutely banger concert' in Germany he'd gone to with Raze and the others, it was an invitation to have fun at a concert. With him. And now he was acting like Yoru's presence was the most uncomfortable thing in the world and—
Ugh. No, he was totally overthinking. Alcohol did have its downsides. But Yoru didn't like unpacking his irrational thoughts when he was like this, nor did he want to confront the feelings rising in his chest. He especially didn't want to deal with the annoying itch in his throat—seriously, what the fuck was that?!
He'd have to check with Sage for allergies to the Salvador air, or bullshit annoying flame-radiants with disgustingly pretty smiles.
"One—" Yoru coughed, cleared his throat. "One Long Island."
The bartender nodded and went to mix his drink.
Then, a curtain of unfamiliar orange hair accompanied by a slew of blurry colors filled Yoru's vision. A stranger, a tourist, mumbling about some request to dance together. Well, whatever.
"Looking for a good time?" They'd asked.
"God knows I won't find it here," Yoru sighed back. He took his freshly mixed drink and turned to the party, the stranger on his arm, as he just so happened to glance to the left.
And Phoenix was watching him.
Brows furrowed, jaw set, and blazing amber eyes, nearly glowing in the cool light, looking right into his own.
Yoru choked on his drink. Then he coughed. He hacked into his palm trying to dislodge—something—and, there, found a single yellow petal. The fuck? He hadn't noticed any garnishes on his drink this time but that was a two-for-one tonight, if so.
Shaking the petal off his sticky, wet palm, he glanced back up to find Phoenix had turned away. He was still glaring though, at some unknown point in the distance.
Well, whatever. Phoenix didn't feel like partying and Yoru didn't feel like unpacking how that made him feel. So he trudged onwards with his new party-going-acquaintance and set about actually having a good time.
—------_—--_—----
And Yoru did have a good time. Mostly. Probably. He couldn't really remember.
Certainly a better time than whatever was happening to him now.
Things turned a little blurry around the time he switched to taking tequila shots. He vaguely recalled emptying his guts out into a trash can while someone held him steady by the shoulders, most likely scolding his ear off. Most likely Phoenix, because how else did he end up back at their shared hotel room? In the vague recesses of his choppy memory, Yoru remembered catching sight of Raze and Killjoy making out in the middle of a very wasted crowd before something forced its way up his throat, which turned into a coughing fit, then a vomit fest (as soon as he found a trash can, of course).
Then the hands on his shoulders. Then, possibly, a miserable cab ride. Then absolutely nothing afterwards.
When Yoru woke, he was groggy, drenched in sweat and smelled like death, even to himself. But his jacket and shoes were off; no way could he have taken them off himself, having always woken up fully clothed after a hangover—well, depending on the situation, fully un clothed.
But that was not this situation. So the only logical explanation was someone dragged his wasted ass back to the hotel room and got him cleaned up and settled in bed.
And said someone had greeted him good morning with a moist hot towel to the face and a breakfast tray brought in by room service.
"What the hell was that for!?" Yoru had screeched, startled, of course, by the offending fabric in his face.
" Sanks, by the way, for dragging my sorry ass off the street, Phoenix ," Phoenix had mocked in his accent. Horrible on purpose, obviously, but still, something heavy settled in Yoru's gut as he recalled how irrationally upset he'd been with Phoenix the night before.
So he said nothing, and Phoenix sighed. "I don't actually like drinking, you know," he seemed to admit. "I don't—quite get the chemistry of it, but my body, sort of, burns up the alcohol. Makes me feel weird. Gets worse when I'm tired, makes me, sort of, lose control of my powers the more I drink."
Phoenix breathed, then sat on the edge of Yoru's bed. "Listen, mate, I'm sorry if it felt like I ditched you yesterday or somethin'. It's just that, well, I was a bit more tired than I thought I'd be, and I don't like losing control of my powers. Neon and I've got that in common."
And that made sense. Yoru could understand that. But he'd be damned if he actually apologized for anything, so instead, he picked at the blanket in his lap.
"Thanks," he mumbled at length. "For dragging my sorry ass off the street. Phoenix."
But that was one of the great things about Phoenix; he could hear an apology where, to many, it didn't sound like there was one. Yoru was anything but direct when it came to sincerity, and strangely enough, Phoenix was usually alright with that. Given how he grinned ear-to-ear at Yoru's shitty response.
He leaned against Yoru's shoulder for a precious few seconds, and it was warm, comforting.
"Alright, alright, go eat your pancakes, Riftboy," he said, getting up, but Yoru still felt warm. Then he coughed.
Just a little, as he bit into his room service pancakes.
"You alright?"
"I- Yeah. I'm fine." Yoru stared at a pale pink petal on his plate, a little chewed up, but there nonetheless. "Salvador dishes have some weird garnish."
—----_—_—_—-----
So. A problem, Yoru realized—weird garnishes can only explain so much.
Their last day in Salvador had been largely uneventful. The five of them had lunch out together, Killjoy and Raze celebrated their— finally— newly found relationship, and Neon had been nothing but enthusiastic about the whole ordeal.
At a café, their newly coupled friends decided to share a milkshake, and Yoru had himself one of the best cakes he'd ever eaten in his life, noting that it did not have any flower petals on it, but coughed some up anyway after Phoenix sent him a sly private look, like ' get a load of those two ', as he rolled his eyes with a smile.
Which was, well, almost a blessing, as for some reason Yoru had felt heat rising to his face just before the small coughing fit allowed him to turn to the crook of his arm. Three petals dripping with saliva, bright orange.
Weird, gross, and frankly, a little concerning.
He flicked them to the floor and returned to the conversation despite Phoenix's concerned glance, and would have forgotten about them if it hadn't happened again.
One petal into his palm, when Phoenix held his hand on their way back to the hotel. He was mocking their 'disaster lesbian' friends who walked ahead of them, obviously, much to Neon's delight, and Yoru had also been laughing along heartily enough that he spat out the offending petal without notice. Peach. Sort of pale pink. Thrown to the sidewalk.
But more concern rose when Yoru realized it wasn't something in the Salvadoran air. It happened again, after he'd gotten on the helicarrier and left his concern behind, only to wake up a few hours later to a weight on his shoulder and dreadlocks in his face. Phoenix was asleep, leaning into him and likely drooling on his jacket, but Yoru found that he didn't mind. It was… cute, actually. Shame he had to ruin it by coughing up a storm—orange, orange, and a deep, deep red. Yoru might've thought it was blood.
—--------_-_—-_—--_—----_—--
Due to obvious circumstances, Yoru was. Troubled. Was he sick? Was he allergic? What sort of allergies put the flowers inside you?!
Because, at this point, Yoru was fairly certain that the flowers were coming from inside him. He could feel a mild rattling in his lungs when he breathed in deep—not unlike when he had something near pneumonia as a kid. He felt the slide of them in his throat when he coughed them up in the helicarrier, all soft and solid and slimy and ticklish to the roof of his mouth. A bit unsettling, mostly concerning.
And now there was most definitely blood.
He excused himself when he had to cough in the mess hall during meals, as too many eyes were watching. When he spat out a mixture of plant matter, saliva, and blood in the bathroom sink his first dinner back at the base, his heart dropped, feeling like it had been gripped by the cold claws of the rift. This wasn't something he could shrug off anymore.
So, immediately the next day—because he'd be damned if he blew off movie night with Phoenix, especially when no one else would be present meaning less people to simply tolerate—Yoru made for the library. Which was just a convenient way of referring to their research laboratory. It was a room with about three shelves for documents, ancient tomes, old scriptures, and the odd paperback, and a giant central cluster of tables with consoles that offered every bit of knowledge on the internet and within Valorant's database. Most of it, at least.
Perhaps calling the place a digital library would have been more apt.
Yoru didn't spend a lot of time there nowadays, for obvious reasons. If he wanted to watch old classic movies, he had his own room with a television screen and a Netflix account. Typically, Killjoy and Astra spent time there researching. Sometimes Neon liked to read her manga there, because "the screen's bigger".
But now it was empty, as far as Yoru could see through the window. Fleetingly, he thought of how he could have invited Phoenix to keep him company, until he remembered how he so royally screwed that up earlier. Another thing to apologize for.
"Wanna head up to the range, mate?" Phoenix had offered, falling into step with Yoru in his poorly disguised rush to the library. "Might help your mood."
But Yoru had been feeling rather antsy already, intensified by the sudden itching in his throat.
"No." He'd told him. Curt.
"I mean, hey seriously, it's just gonna be you and me. You've been out of it all night since dinner-"
"I'm fine."
"-and maybe you just didn't wanna ruin movie night-"
"It doesn't matter."
"-but if there's something you want to talk about—"
" Just! I don't need you for everything!" Yoru snapped. "Just leave me alone, Phoenix."
Then it was quiet. And Yoru really needed to cough. His chest hurt.
"Okay," Phoenix had said, before branching off down another hall.
It took a solid twenty minutes of Yoru doubled over a toilet bowl—vision filled with white, white, white, so many white little petals speckled with blood—before he deemed himself good enough to go.
The worst attack yet, and it spurred him on to find, well, answers. A solution, hopefully.
So Yoru searched.
He kept a notebook, wrote everything down, checked the tomes and the scriptures and documents.
When nothing in science helped him, he looked at legends. The last time he'd done this, he had been new to the protocol and was seeking answers about his mask and his lineage. In about three days’ time he'd exhausted the library's information on ancient Japanese artifacts and left him with what little he knew now. He hoped this case wouldn't meet the same fate.
He kept trudging on scanning through paper after paper, doing his best to keep his mind from wandering back to Phoenix and a due apology. Fucking Phoenix.
Did he have something to do with this? Afterall, the flowers had only seemed to start due to how close they'd gotten over the course of their vacation and even now, just thinking about him, his chest—
No. Stop it. Useless.
Phoenix's powers were limited to being a glorified matchstick. He couldn't curse Yoru with magic-flower-disease.
Unless, he didn't curse Yoru per se. But maybe he was cursed in some capacity.
Cursed. Curses.
When science failed you, magic held answers. Yoru would know.
Remembering something seemingly irrelevant, he scrolled back about three windows and eighty-six tabs. Something on the Lotus Queen in myths about the Guardians.
There. Carved into stone, symbols telling a story. A Queen, a goddess who walked among men. Disdained dishonesty, disdained humans. Beings in her court sprouted flowers in their mouths alongside falsehoods, and men who dared walk her realm were subject to a similar fate. But man lied more than gods.
And yet the Queen… fell in love? That couldn't be right.
She fell in love with a foolish man, and so refused to admit it. Flowers bloomed in her mouth with each declaration of hatred, and eventually, she suffocated under the weight of her lies. Love unrecognized by her own self.
So gods could die?
Yoru stared, for a long time. The carving of a woman in flowing robes, a lotus blooming where her mouth should be, laid on her deathbed, arms crossed over her chest.
No. That's… stupid. Right?
Another open tab. Japan. On the cusp of the Meiji period, a historical case file. A young woman living in the mountains, set to be married to a rich man in the developing city, falling for a boy far poorer than her. She spoke nothing of it, until the flowers of denial took her last breath on the night of her marriage.
Evidence of old radiance? It had been noted on—by Skye, apparently.
Hanahaki , Yoru found the name, on two other files he found bookmarked by Skye.
Influence of the guardians: global reach? Astra's note.
Yoru's head was swimming.
Emotion. Flowers. Love. Denial.
He swiped a handful of tabs off his screen. Too much information.
But now, he stared back at his last open tab, that carving of the goddess on her deathbed.
He looked down, to his desk, at his empty coffee mug, then back up again. More writing.
" Theories suggest that it was not simply denial, but rejection that killed the Queen of Flowers. A stone panel shows the Queen of Flowers in poses similar to courting rituals found elsewhere in the Palace. The Man, meanwhile, shows no return of affection, cued by his back consistently turned to her form in most panels."
Affection. Rejection.
Was this supposed to make sense?
Yoru turned back to the writings on Japan. The poor girl's story. The boy she fell in love with… he married another woman on the day she died. Rejection? No, simply, no reciprocation.
Love. Curses.
Too much.
Yoru closed his eyes. He could feel his eyeballs stinging, finally, in relief. When he opened them again after a long, long while, the clock on the wall caught his attention.
5:22 am.
Jesus. He'd been sitting there for… nearly twenty-four hours. Nothing too bad in comparison to what he'd done before in the name of research but—Christ, he felt about detached from his entire body.
Just as he popped a few cracks in his spine, the door to the library hissed open.
"Hey, Riftboy, you still in there?"
Phoenix. Damn, Yoru didn't realize how much he missed Phoenix until that moment. Instantly, he felt the tension drain out of his shoulders.
He had a tray with him, on it two cups and a steaming pot of, presumably, tea. By the smell of it—the good stuff that Yoru liked and that Cypher kept stacked away from the rest of the agents. He smirked, despite the weak attempt at an apology on the tip of his tongue.
"Got the good stuff."
"Yeah." And at that, Phoenix seemed relieved too. Apology accepted , his eyes said, even though Yoru never really apologized. He sat down next to him, placing his empty mug off to the side and pouring them both a cup.
Cuppa , Phoenix would call it. Yoru smiled. He was grateful for the warmth in his hands, a little painful, but grounding. He needed that.
After about a minute of silence punctured by the occasional tea sipping, Yoru could tell Phoenix was looking over his research but doing his damndest not to read into it or even ask. He knew how his curiosity worked at this point.
"I'm not feeling like sharing," was all he said. And Phoenix nodded, a little startled, but he averted his eyes.
"Gotcha."
A minute more of silence.
"You're quiet." Yoru remarked. "It's weird."
"You're weird."
Yoru snorted. Phoenix grinned.
"But, yeah, you seemed like you wanted the quiet."
"I… I do. Thanks."
Phoenix smiled at him. A private little thing, like the little eye rolls and mischievous looks he'd send him when they were making fun of someone else. This was nice. His knee knocking against Yoru's, left arm steadily flushed along his right. Phoenix's warmth was one more grounding than the tea.
Always so full of himself, but Phoenix certainly paid attention to other people. Had he always? Yoru couldn't tell. But he liked it. It made him tolerable, no, even pleasant to be around. It made Yoru call him a friend.
Something in Yoru's chest ached against the warmth. And for as long as he tried to push it down, he eventually caved and excused himself.
"Hadn't taken a piss in a while," He claimed, ruffling Phoenix's dreadlocks. But as much as he'd love to hear the end of his Firebird's bout of laughter, Yoru had to book it.
Hunched over the sink, Yoru's hacking sent a long spike of fire from his lungs through to his mouth. In the end relief came with the dawning horror of seeing a whole flower, a tulip, stem and all, speckled with blood staring right back at him.