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Yugamu was in hell.
Where else would it smell like burnt flesh, irritatingly pungent and heady in a way that stuck to the back of his throat? In this bleak landscape, where there were fallen invaders and flames as far as the eye can see, all Yugamu can do is take one step forward. Hopelessness came in different forms—a knife forced into his hand at the ripe age of seven, the first time he killed another person in cold blood, and being forced to watch as his friend bled and bled and bled. Hopelessness tasted like blood under his tongue and a scream that stuck to his throat like sweet honey.
Takumi always emphasized the importance of keeping safe, that every opportunity to run should be taken if it meant living another day. He painstakingly reviewed their plan today: replenish their supplies for their escape and secure their position on the cruel leaderboard at the same time. Same old routine, same people, same invaders to kill. As plain and uneventful as it gets.
It’s when they encounter an enemy commander that things take a turn for the worse: most of their supplies were unsalvageable after the wrath of dark needles slashing them into dust, invaders overwhelming both of them with sheer numbers alone, and a sudden rainshower rendering his visibility to a mere needle’s breath of what he’s used to. It’s unfair. It’s a dangerous game both he and Takumi were playing, a mere fight or flight response elevated until his ears were ringing with the basal desire to live. He thinks that all would be for naught if he allowed the commander to pass. All of their struggle was so easily trivialized with a single flick of a blade.
Lightning never strikes twice, just as a curse needs only one moment for evil to sink its claws into a person’s very being. Yugamu is granted a split-second glimpse into a nightmare of their own making. In a world where he had been the one who had narrowly avoided a life-threatening attack, nearly skewered into an unrecognizable mound of flesh and bone, that would have been a perfect and dramatic way to exit the stage.
Being on death’s door meant that Takumi would have enough time to make it back to the safety of the academy. By becoming the necessary sacrifice to fan the flames of vengeance in Takumi’s heart, this would be his last and final hurrah to ensure that the monster he created would end the killing game once and for all. He knew that Takumi had every right to resent him for his manipulation, but he had accepted it, forgiven him, and allowed him to stand by his side.
Yugamu can barely hear over the death throes of the invaders. Takumi must have played a part in that with the sheer intensity of his attacks, but it didn’t look like any of it was making a dent in their army. He didn’t quite have the same ferocious desperation that Takumi carried with him like a sin, nor did he have the agonizing burden of being the dependable team leader. He was just his left hand, not his right, but the overlooked left.
He makes two mistakes.
First, an assassin never makes their presence known—a killer must operate in the guise of darkness, and schemes work best in secrecy. His power was strongest in the shadows when the element of surprise could cloak him like an iron-clad defense. Yugamu immediately reveals himself readily, a hefty price he was more than willing to pay to ensure that Takumi was in a safer position in their little game of death. Takumi isn’t nearly as reckless as he is acting now, raising his blade over and over.
Second, an assassin must always be aware of his surroundings. Just as easily as he extends his arms, phalanges snapping out of place and realigning in a matter of seconds, Yugamu slays as many of the little monsters as the eye can see. It’s when Takumi stumbles a step backward that Yugamu flinches. It’s unlike him. Any assassin worth his mettle had to keep his wit even closer than his cards. It’s very much unlike an Omokage assassin to lose himself to panic briefly.
Two mistakes aren’t nearly enough to leave him at a disadvantage, not for him, never for Yugamu, who had every mistake beaten into him with the end of a barbed rod. No. That wasn’t normal for someone who has been in this industry for as long as he has, but he never had the best of luck. He was within range of the commander's raised fist, aimed and ready to crush him. It would crush his bones, rendering him into a whisper of a person, unrecognizable and a mere pile of meat. One strike would leave him in a world of pain, a prison of flesh and blood born from his blunders. Just one second was enough for another's life to end.
Except the fatal blow never connects. His bones don’t snap and crumble, his body doesn’t disintegrate under the weight of the commander’s hemoanima, and he remains rooted in place.
What meets his gaze isn’t a fallen Invader, or a sea of hellfire. It isn’t the thorned blade of his father, nor the hunting crop of his mother, that sears into his skin. What greets him is Takumi’s back, strong and dignified. Two mistakes aren’t nearly enough to sweep him off his feet, but it’s enough for his world to crumble before his very eyes. Takumi falls. Two seconds is all he needs to catch him.
Yugamu was in hell. He was sure of it now.
His vision blurs. From shock, maybe? Blood loss? It didn’t matter. Not when Takumi was coughing up blood in his arms. The third and last rule of being an assassin entailed never leaving a job unfinished. Allowing a target to run free was the greatest dishonor, the very proof of an executioner’s cowardice. None of that matters. Nothing ever does in the face of death’s sweet kiss. He had to keep moving.
Was he screaming? Was he running in complete silence? Yugamu doesn’t know. One singular mission forces his body into motion, far more effective than adrenaline can ever be. For the first time, Takumi’s blood doesn’t ignite his blood into flames of desire, but sickens him. Horrible. This is awful! Make it stop. Someone make it stop. No God would look down upon him with pity; it was that very same God that had forsaken both of them in the first place. He had to keep moving.
“...Sorry,” Takumi rattles in his arms, wincing at the very effort of breathing. “Some leader I am, huh? After I told you that you could rely on me…”
His heart cracks. In all his years, Yugamu had never met anyone more pitiful than Takumi. With the spare bandages he packed, he makes quick work of staunching any further blood loss. It wasn’t his best work, especially not when he couldn’t feel his fingers through all the trembling. Takumi was so warm. He was so feeble and defenseless like this. The all-powerful killer he had reared and cultivated had fallen from grace with a single attack—how could he manage to stay by his side when he couldn’t even protect his leader?
“Stop talking.” Yugamu grits his teeth. He just had to make it back to the academy. Even if it meant having to crawl on his hands and knees, even if it meant having to dig his nails into the ground, even if it meant having to feel the very embers of his life fizzle out before his eyes—
He had to keep moving.
-
Purgatory came in the form of an empty room, coffins lined up where the living once inhabited. It was the silence of knowing that he lay beside his former friends, surrounded by the whispers of what ifs and if onlys. It was the vibrant red that clung stubbornly from under his fingertips, the very same red that never faded from his clothes, no matter how hard he scrubbed. Purgatory was worse than hell; it had to be. There was hope in a somber place. Yugamu could reach out and grasp the spider’s thread of salvation, a feeble light atop an endless flight of stairs.
But this? Yugamu had sunk into the deepest depths of hell. Wires attached to makeshift saline bags, the mechanical beep of a heart monitor, the unsettling glow of the tanks lined against the walls of the Bio Room—all things that once gave him comfort now loom over him and the prone body of his friend.
Threading the gap between Takumi’s abdomen elicits no desire in him. He must have changed, huh? It was mindless now. An activity that he once fantasized about day and night, having to care for a wounded beloved (preferably one that he had personally mangled himself, with love, of course, because he wasn’t a monster) back to pristine health, was one that he hoped would happen to him. Now, as he glances over the pallid face of Takumi, all he sees is the root of all his suffering.
There was no pleasure in knowing that he had inadvertently caused Takumi to be in this state, even when the fleeting thought of Takumi cherishing him enough to force him aside. At least this time, he had done so purposefully and not by accident because of a sudden passion towards one of the ladies in their alliance. Alas. There was no hope for his dream to ever happen in real life, not when the chance to marr Takumi beautifully was so cruelly snatched away from him by an invader. Even covering up his wounds feels so dull and pointless.
Takumi was breathtaking, even when he was unconscious.
“You’re so unfair, Takumi.” Yugamu sighs. He rests his head on Takumi’s chest, listening to his subdued heartbeat. Every breath he took was just so… frail. “I’m just an afterthought to you, huh? I always am. You left me digging through the mud for your corpse when you disappeared with Tsubasa. You never really considered partnering up with me because you always wanted to join up with Hiruko. You knew that I would go along with all of your decisions because I yield to you as a leader. You knew my secrets. You know everything about me, but I don’t know anything about you.” Every mumbled word drives a stake into him, hammering deeper into what was left of his heart. Huh. So, this was a heartbreak? All emotions stemmed from death; love was no exception.
He can’t bear to close his eyes. Yugamu had to commit to memory how his chest bobbed with every exhale, how warm he was, how perfect his fingers felt entangled with his. Somehow, this had been the most peaceful he had seen Takumi. His very presence was an anomaly on the timeline, and that was enough ammunition to kickstart the decay of this timeline. He had god-like abilities, but he was as fickle as the rest of them.
Takumi, even in all his glory, was just a human. Weak, feeble, and at death’s doorstep.
“If I’m the closest to your heart, you’d open your eyes.” Yugamu mumbles, squeezing Takumi’s hand. There’s no response. “If you switched places with me because you cherished me, and not to satisfy your ego, then you’d tell me otherwise, right? Tell me now, Takumi.” He was on the verge of going mad with longing and regret. Takumi wouldn’t wake up with a kiss; his sleeping beauty would only rouse from the lips of his true love. If he were a braver man, he would have pressed his lips against Takumi. Even if it meant that Takumi would never wake, that it would only confirm that there was no love between them. If this was his last day on Earth with no hope of ever making it to the Artificial Satellite, let it end with a kiss from a ghost. Yugamu had everything to lose: a friend, a monster, and a leader.
He had made a scene a few days ago when he had come back with Takumi’s body, pushing past Tsubasa, who was waiting for them back at the Academy, and nearly ramming into Darumi on the way to the Bio Room. It had been two days since he last slept—every hour was spent lying next to Takumi on the cramped cot, watching him as dutifully as a dog of war. Now, on the third day of standing guard, Yugamu feels the ache behind his eyes.
Assassins had no right to cry. He couldn’t.
Yugamu chuckles. In the shadows of the Bio Room, he thinks that anyone could lower the blade against them, render them motionless, and pillage them of their points. Their murderer could easily sneak up on them. At least, then they would die together, their insides spilling onto the cold floor, blood seeping out of all their orifices until the liquid mixed and became one. That would be his only solace—that he and Takumi would fall into hell together.
If hell sounded like the gentle bubbling of seafoam interrupted only by the quiet and relentless beep of the monitor, then it wouldn’t be so bad. If hell meant having to spend an eternity with Takumi, forever in a limbo of knowing and not knowing, then he would never have his love denied. If hell were a quiet agony like this, then he could live with it.
Yugamu watches him closely. He could live with it.
Still, a lingering thought haunts his mind: If Takumi opens his eyes right now, then it must mean that he loves me.
In a few hours, he would have to turn Takumi on his side to prevent bed sores from forming. He would need to give Takumi a scrub-down to prevent his body from becoming filthy. Bandages would have to be changed, saline bags replaced—another 24 hours by his side, watching for every twitch of his face and holding his hand. He could do it. Yugamu had another day in him. Both their position on the leaderboard were secured, and the rest of the alliance was in a good spot. He could fathom another day by Takumi’s side. It was just the same as always, just that his partner was motionless and silent.
Even if it meant having to listen to his heartbeat slowly sputter out—
Yugamu squeezes his eyes shut.
(Some part of him knew that the only reason he could bear to see Takumi in his state was because he was someone so intertwined with life and death—I mean, the irony of an assassin nursing someone back to perfect health is not lost to him. Yugamu knows that eventually he would have to come to terms with the inevitable heartbreak that comes with one-sided love.)
Takumi’s heartbeat suddenly speeds up, a quiet pitter-patter that thundered against his ear. Then, he coughs.
His reaction is just as lightning-swift, tearing himself away like a whip. He must have been hallucinating. Takumi could barely inhale without his ribcage rattling beneath Yugamu’s watchful eye, yet he was now coughing and blinking up at him in confusion. There was barely any color in Takumi’s cheeks, and he didn’t appear to be very lucid, but he was awake! He was actually awake.
“...Yugamu?” Takumi manages to croak out. He reaches out his hand, trembling fingers seeking him out. Yugamu doesn’t know how to feel. Should he be happy that the first word that Takumi utters is his name and not another’s? That the first thing he thinks to do is to reach toward him, knowing it was Yugamu. “Is that… you?”
“Yes, yes,” Yugamu gasps, bounding towards him and grasping his hands tightly. He was awake! “How are you?” He’s sure that the residual drowsiness was beginning to bleed into the deep ache that settled in his bones. Takumi winces, face scrunching in on himself in discomfort.
“Like I got crushed.” Takumi’s laugh tapers off into a wince, and whatever attempt was made to sit up is forgone as soon as his body starts to remember the sensation of pain. “I felt it twice. The first time was on the battlefield, and the second time was as if someone had piled on a bunch of pillows on me.” He looks at Yugamu thoughtfully. “The latter wasn’t so bad.”
Yugamu’s cheeks redden. “Yeah?”
Takumi nods. So, either he’s managed to connect the dots and realize that it was Yugamu curling on top of him like a cat and suffocating him, or the last battle left him with actual brain damage. Or both. It was always a mystery with Takumi. One thing was for sure, though—whatever thoughtless comment Takumi was going to make was shuttered away by Yugamu draping himself on top of him, head pressed hard on Takumi’s chest. Please, God. Let this be real.
He feels Takumi’s chuckle rumbling through his ear and tickling him. “Oh, you’re so quiet?”
Yugamu lifts himself, eyes narrowing. Whatever desire there was to shed tears rolls back and cements itself into his tear ducts. Was he going to let his mascara run because of the imbecile before him? The very idiot who was rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, as if he had just realized that the person crushing him during his brief comatose was glaring at him through watery eyes.
“You’re so courageous for risking your life to save me,” Yugamu starts, his nails pressing against Takumi’s torso ever so slightly. There’s a crease between Takumi’s eyebrows that gives away his confusion instantly at a single glance. “I was in awe seeing your near-dead body hoisting itself up like a martyr.” Takumi opens his mouth, as if to thank him—thank him?
“You’re my hero, Takumi!” Yugamu says, sweetly. Takumi, the idiot that he is, blushes. Well, there was some truth to it. Their positions would be switched if it weren’t for Takumi, and some part of him is grateful. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be paralyzed from the waist up, and you would have to care for me until the end of the hundred days! Does that get you going? Does the thought of having to care for someone so weak, pitiful, and defenseless?”
Realization slowly blooms on Takumi’s face.
“Did you think I was going to say that?” Yugamu’s smile doesn’t drop even when he digs his fingers into Takumi’s skin. “Well, thank you, Takumi! You saved my life, and I owe my very being to you. That, at the very least, I can give you credit for.” He hisses. The back of his eyes strained in the familiar way it always did before he was about to cry angry tears, but he wasn’t going to give Takumi the satisfaction of seeing an Omokage assassin crack at the seams.
Takumi opens his mouth, “Yugamu, I–”
“And, that’s not all,” Yugamu mutters, gaze dropping to the bandages wrapped around his torso. “How do you think I felt seeing my partner take the finishing blow for me? What would have happened if you had never woken up?” All Takumi ever did was do and act based on his self-interest. He wanted to save everyone. After all, he had appointed himself as the sole savior, because only he could fathom the weight of the timeline on his shoulders. All Takumi ever thought about was himself, and it showed because—
“I’m not even a lingering thought in your mind.” It’s a quiet admission of defeat. “You didn’t even think about me when you disappeared with Tsubasa. So, I don’t know what I was expecting this time.” He remembers dirt and dried blood under his nails, and a flavor of bitter desperation he had never tasted before. He remembers choking on his spit and crawling through rubble for just a glimpse of Takumi, anything.
A beat of silence passes over them, washing away any lingering anger he had for Takumi. He should just give up. “But, that was my mistake to ever grasp onto hope in this hell.”
As if his outburst never happened, Yugamu crept away from Takumi. He stands up, feeling the ends of his wounds stretch uncomfortably against his side. Oh. They were matching, weren’t they? That fact was just enough heartbreak to make his heart seize painfully. Maybe, he shouldn’t have exploded on someone who rose from the dead (literally), was still adjusting to being conscious, and was probably confused.
“Anyway, that’s neither here nor there.”
Takumi doesn’t call for him when he leaves momentarily. When Yugamu returns with a pitcher of citron water and light snacks, Takumi is sitting up with his head in his hands. Huh. He pulls a small table over and places Takumi’s food on top, moving to pour a glass for him. Takumi glances at him, a woeful and regretful glint in his eyes.
“Drink it,” Yugamu merely says, “It’ll make you feel better.”
If he were in a better mood, he would have goaded Takumi into thinking that it was poison.
“Even if all I do is make you sad, you never complain about taking care of me,” Takumi mumbles, burying his fingers into his hair helplessly. “I didn’t mean to make you feel so insignificant. You’re the opposite—you’re,” His voice strains tight in his throat, as if every word had to be squeezed out with force, “The reason why I jumped in front of that invader was because I wouldn’t know what to make of a future without you,” Every syllable is another stake jammed into Yugamu’s bleeding heart.
Before Yugamu could offer a snide remark or shake his head with a sad smile, Takumi snatched the glass in his hand and downed it all in a single gulp. One second, he’s slamming his glass on the tabletop resolutely, and in another, he has his arms around him. It’s an awkward embrace, too much skin and bones and flesh for them to know what to do with it. Takumi’s hug is crushing and barbed, arms a vice around Yugamu’s torso as if he never wanted to let him slither away.
“I just don’t want to lose you.” Takumi’s voice echoes, “I’m not talking about the Yugamu I met a hundred days ago, I want to protect the Yugamu that stood by my side since the beginning of the Invader Hunt.” He grips him tighter. Yugamu’s arms are immobile at his sides, frozen. “You look the same as the Yugamu I first met, but you’re different. I can’t explain it because I’m not very good at it, but you just are. You’re my partner, I thought we promised to see the end of the Hunt together?”
“I’m sorry for treating you like you were insignificant. I should’ve taken a moment to consider what the rest of the alliance would think, much less what you would feel if I went rogue again.”
What was he supposed to say to that? What was he supposed to do? Why weren’t his arms listening to him—all he wanted was to do the same. With the arms that killed and maimed, could he hold Takumi the same way he did to him? Yugamu didn’t know—he may never know. A single embrace was all it took for his hell to crumble from a single ray of hope. A single pair of arms tangled around him, unruly hair clouding over his vision, and Takumi’s fingers digging into his haori was enough for Yugamu to try.
Yugamu’s first hug is awkward and clumsy.
“If this is your idea of an apology, I’m not so convinced.” Yugamu buries his head in Takumi’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of antiseptic and soap. He was so warm. He was alive. “That’s all just lip service at the end of the day. If I’m worth a lingering thought, then prove it to me in the next missions.”
“Alright,” Takumi must be smiling; he could practically hear the grin in his voice.
“And, keep proving it to me when we’re up on the Artificial Satellite.” Allowing this hope to take root and grow quietly would hurt in the future. It would probably come to haunt him if hell decides to drag him back by his ankles, it would probably make a foreseeable death more desirable than a life worth living. But, the flickers of happiness that struck him between the gentle lull of Takumi’s laugh were enough for him to imagine a future without ever having to cause bloodshed. “Keep proving it to me until the day you die by my hand.”
“Does that mean you love me?”
Takumi’s question is more rhetorical than it is inquisitive, as if he were some sort of genius for remembering Yugamu’s philosophy. He was thoughtful at best, yet it’s more than enough for Yugamu’s heart to hammer violently in his chest. The momentary squeeze he receives is enough indication that Takumi could feel it, what with the way they were closely pressed against each other. Yugamu remains rooted in place, face now pressed against the crook of Takumi’s neck.
Yes. It’s an answer he can’t say out loud. It was a secret wrapped in magic that was meant to be kept in secrecy for the feeling to remain, locked carefully in the recesses of his amygdala. In place of words, he opts for action. Yugamu finds the courage to inch closer, arms finally settling comfortably entwined around Takumi. His first embrace is fleeting and heartbreaking, heavy in all the words that spanned the distance between their hearts. His first embrace is graceless in its raw desperation, hope, and frustration, mingling until it congealed into a physical manifestation of love.
Yes. It’s painfully obvious, his fingers claw weakly at Takumi's exposed torso.
Yes. All he wanted to be was with Takumi, to melt into his embrace and mold himself into his skin. But, he couldn’t. At least, not until they both ended the Hunt together. A stone-cold killer like him was much more comfortable playing the villain rather than a lovesick princess to be saved, anyway. Yugamu was nothing more than Takumi’s sword, but what was a sword to do but yearn to be used?
“I guess we’re going to have to wait and see.” Yugamu is a coward.
“I suppose we do.” Takumi is just as much of a coward as him.
But who was he to hope for anything more than a pointless relationship with no future? After all, Yugamu had always been in hell.