Work Text:
「そばにおいでよ。
今行くから待って。」
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It's a few weeks after he returns from the Hanyō Village, bandages still wound around the crown of his skull and covering up the patches of hair that are just beginning to grow back after the skin beneath them was split and torn away, that he finally gets a chance to talk to her. They've seen each other at school, and he's even invited the Kiyo Cross Squad over to his house a few times now that they know the truth and the danger is past, but every time Maki's been hovering at her shoulder with narrowed eyes and defensively squared shoulders, and he doesn't quite dare trying to separate them.
Rikuo understands why. Torii may have been the one who was directly harmed, but it was Maki who had to watch as terrible things happened, again and again, to possibly her most important person and definitely her closest friend. And it hurt her, too — he can see it in the way her expression darkens every time something brushes too close to Torii's back and makes the cat-eyed girl flinch, can hear it in the way her voice dips into a growl when she demands they go home after someone starts asking too many painful questions.
But somehow, he needs to address it, as the one who is the most able to explain what happened and why it happened. He knows he needs the closure, and he thinks she might too.
So today, after Maki has left early to pick up her younger sister (little Kairi is sick, and her dutiful big sister is going to take her home and buy medicine, since their mother is busy with work and their father out of town and their big brother is— well, somewhere else), he places a careful hand on Torii's wrist — not her back or her shoulder, because those are clearly Bad Spots for her — and asks her to walk with him for a bit. She nods, eyes sad and wide and far older than they should have ever become at her age, and they leave Ukiyoe Middle and walk to the nearby park.
The swing set is empty — it's winter, and most children go straight home after school because of the cold instead of playing outside — and Rikuo sits uncomfortably on one of the swings. His injuries are mostly healed, but parts of his body are still sore and tender and some mornings he wakes up with numb fingers and frozen muscles that won't respond to his attempts to move them. Zen had said — between coughs, because winter has always been a Bad Time for him and this one even more so — that his nervous system has probably been damaged, and it will take a few years to totally heal. Of course, if not for his yōkai blood it wouldn't heal at all, but even though it will fade eventually he will have to live with the aftereffects of his battles with Kyōsai and Seimei every day for the next three or so years.
Taking the swing beside him, Torii kicks off the ground lightly and rocks back and forth a bit, small movements that almost distract from the protective hunch of her shoulders and the way her eyes never stay quite still anymore, always darting here and there to make sure she's safe. "So what did you want to talk about, Rikuo?"
He sighs, the exhale creating an opaque mist in the cold air. "I… well, before anything else, I want to apologize." His eyes jump from his knees to his toes to the ground as he hands his head, hands gripping the ice-cold chains of the swing like a lifeline. "I know I can't change what happened, but… it was because of me that it happened, so I'm the one responsible, and I'm sorry. I didn't— I never wanted any of you to be hurt because of who I am."
"Oh." The word is almost a breath, and one of her small hands rests gently on his shoulder. "You don't have to apologize. I mean, you did your best, you know? I know Saori doesn't quite see it like that, but I can tell. There's nothing more you could have done."
Rikuo slowly manages to nod and look up, taking in her too-old eyes and the way she doesn't wear her hair up anymore — now it's down in a braid that promises to grow longer, slowly providing protection for the place she can't stand to be touched anymore. "Thanks, Natsumi."
The whole group of them — he and the Kiyojūji Paranormal Patrol and Yura — have decided that after all they've been through together, first names are probably a good step. Rikuo feels slightly guilty, because even though he can say them out loud, in his head he still thinks of everyone but Kana and Yura by their surnames. He's getting better at it, but it still weighs heavily on his mind — another wall between him and those he likes to call his friends.
She manages a small smile in response. "Of course."
They fall silent, swinging back and forth and listening to the hinges of the swing set squeak with the movement (and the cold). A few stubborn birds call to each other across the park, and a stray cat pads daintily across the sidewalk, lifting each paw carefully to avoid stepping on anything damp like a ballerina. Rikuo's not sure what to say — he knows they need to talk about it, but he hasn't the foggiest idea of how to start the conversation — so he's shamefully relieved when Torii speaks up again, even if her words bring nothing but chills.
"Sometimes, I think I'm back there." Her gaze is contemplative and she stares straight ahead, tired expression at odds with the pink flush of her nose and cheeks that the cold has brought on. "When I'm in a dark place, or if a room is too small or too crowded. I loose track of when I am and I think I'm back in that locker, and I freeze up. The school nurse excused me from P.E. because I have panic attacks in the locker room, and I bike everywhere now so that I never have to go near the subway again. I have to ask Saori to come over in the mornings to help me dress, because I can't go into my own closet anymore."
She speaks frankly, with a tone that seems to say 'I don't need to be pitied or coddled. I want to be understood', and Rikuo thinks he does. These things leave scars, after all.
He nods, and she continues in a slightly stronger voice. "And I can't stand people touching my back anymore, except for Saori and sometimes my grandmother. I think a part of me is afraid that if they do, I'll turn into— into that," She shudders, a tremor that travels from her shoulders to her toes, at the memory of what Kyōsai did to her, "and I don't ever want to feel that way again." Her hands fall to her lap, fingers wrapping around each other. Her voice falls to a whisper. "I felt violated."
It's an admission of vulnerability, and Rikuo resists the urge to reach over and hug her because they both know that it's a bad idea. Instead, he leans to the side and pats her hands with one of his own. She turns luminous eyes on him, a gaze swimming with emotions like pain and memory and strength and a need to be understood and a need to understand. When she speaks again, she sounds stronger, more determined. "Rikuo, why did he do that?"
"He—" Rikuo has to swallow roughly, because both the cold air and his own bad memories make it hard to speak. "—Natsumi, come with me back to the main house, and let me tell you a story about a group called the Hundred Tales clan, and a man named Sanmoto Gorōzaemon."
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"About three and a half centuries, there was a wealthy merchant known as Sanmoto Gorōzaemon who resided the region that was at that time known as Edo."
Torii nods, hands only slightly trembling where they're wrapped around a delicately painted ceramic mug of gently steaming tea. They're seated together at a small table that Rikuo brought up to his room, his blankets draped over their shoulders like a shield against what they have to say.
In one corner of the room, Kurotabō leans silently against the wall. Since his return, Rikuo's Hyakki Yakkō has been notably unwilling to leave him unattended, and tend to shadow him around the house (trusting Tsurara and Aotabō to look out for him at school). Knowing what they were discussing, Rikuo had quietly whispered for Kurotabō to join them, because he still doesn't know all of the details that Kurotabō does, and because he knows Torii feels safer with the dark yōkai present.
He sips his tea and clears his throat, wincing because his right shoulder has once again become numb and unresponsive except for minute bursts of pain like shocks of electricity in the muscles of his back and neck. "I'm not sure when or how it happened, but Sanmoto decided he wanted to create a Hyakki Yakkō of his own, and so he started telling tales of yōkai around a cursed teapot. These tales gave birth to new yōkai, appearing as stories about them travelled in whispers and hushed warnings and preying on the people of Edo, and my father was making it his duty to find and exterminate them."
"Your father? He was—" Torii pauses, surprise evident in her wide-eyed expression, and Rikuo realizes that his human friends probably aren't quite aware of how long-lived yōkai — and part-yōkai — can be.
He nods. "My father, Nura Rihan, was the Second Commander of the Nura clan. He was born about four hundred years ago, in the late Sengoku period."
She takes a sip of tea, wide eyes thoughtful. "That's— incredible. Do you think you'll live that long as well?"
"I don't know." Rikuo feels his lips curl into a frown against his will. "I'm not sure I want to. But to the story— my father and his Hyakki Yakkō finally discovered Sanmoto's location, and went there to stop the Hundred Tales at their root. But Sanmoto managed to defy them, turning himself into a giant yōkai from whom hundreds of other yōkai were borne. Many of them were mindless and primitive, but a select number were born with sanity and cunning, and these select few retreated to plan and plot. They wanted to bring Sanmoto back to this world," He has to take another drink, because his throat is growing rough, "because my father and Kurotabō performed Matoi and killed him together."
The dark-robed yōkai nods when Torii's curious eyes turn to him, removing his wide straw hat and bowing. "I was, at the time, the primary assassin of what Sanmoto was calling the Hundred Tales clan, and he had sent me to kill Nura Rihan. The Second helped me rediscover who I really was and why I was truly born, and in return I pledged my loyalty to him and helped him take down the man who had deceived me."
"…" It takes a few moments for her to find her words, but when she does it is with a smile. "I like your horns, Mister Kurotabō, and I'm very glad you joined Rikuo's father."
"As am I, every day."
With that, he fades back against the wall and falls silent, but Rikuo notes with a smile that he doesn't put his hat back on. Returning his attention to his friend and the story, he continues with a quieter voice — they all know that this will be the harder part to say. "So they laid in wait for many years. Plotting, planning, growing stronger. They made their first move eight years ago, when they orchestrated the rebirth of the reincarnating yōkai, Hagoromo-Gitsune. She—" His voice cracks, because he's never told any of his friends how his father died, and it's an old pain that festers in his heart like the emotional version of the rot that Kyōsai placed in his body.
Torii reaches across the small table and places one hand on his, comfort and understanding, and he finds his voice again. "My father's first wife was a kind yōkai named Yamabuki Otome who worked as a schoolteacher. Because my grandfather helped seal Hagoromo-Gitsune four centuries ago, when she had awoken inside of Lady Yodo and taken over her host, she placed a curse on my family line — the men of the Nura family would never be able to reproduce with another yōkai. They didn't know, then, so Otome thought it was her fault that she couldn't give my father an heir. She left the clan to wander, and eventually died."
He pauses, drinking his slowly-cooling tea and staring at his hands, because the story is still sorrowful no matter how many times it is told. He knows they are at peace now, but it doesn't stop the ache in his heart at the knowledge that it took death for them to reach that peace. "Sanmoto and Hagoromo's son, Seimei, found her in the afterlife. They forced her to be reborn in the form of a child, gave her false memories and sent her to meet me and my father. Inside her mind, they created a trigger — the words of the poem she wrote for my father before she left. He spoke them, and— and she—"
Something warm slips down his cheek, and he realizes that he's crying. He hadn't realized that the story would become so long, but Torii watches with gentle understanding and patience, and a part of him says that he needs to tell it just as much as she needs to hear it. He clears his throat and continues. "She took the sword they placed in the bushes for her — the Maō's Hammer, a yōkai sword that was originally Sanmoto's heart - and stabbed him from behind. In that moment, she remembered everything, and as her mind splintered Hagoromo-Gitsune slipped in and took over. When I— I f-found them, she was— s-she—"
No, he can't say more. The memory is still too painful in his mind, and he can feel the phantom sensation of her drawing lines of his father's blood across his cheek, slick and still warm. He feels lost, like his ears have filled with cotton and his limbs have become lead, and his vision tunnels until all he can see is the teacup in his hands. Time seems to warp and s l o w.
Something warm curls over his shoulders, and he slowly returns to himself to realize that Torii has crossed to his side of the table and wrapped her arms around him, leaning her head onto his shoulder and pulling her blanket around both of them. His mother is there too, a protective presence on his other side and a hand gently carding through his hair, and he wonders if Kurotabō brought her. The warmth slowly brings him back to himself, the numbness in his fingers fading away and his hearing fuzzing back into to the sound of his own quiet weeping.
It's good, he thinks, that his Hyakki Yakkō isn't seeing him like this. They need him to be a strong leader, after all — not a crying child who can't even remember his father's death without breaking down. He's had these episodes a few times since returning from the Hanyō Village, but he's tried his best to keep the rest of the clan from seeing them. The only ones who know are his mother and Tsurara, although now he supposes Kurotabō's seen one as well. He hopes the quiet monk won't think him any less of a leader for this weakness.
Wakana leaves after a few moments, gathering the teacups and draping another blanket over the two of them, and Torii leans carefully against his side as she pulls the fabric tighter around both of their shoulders. "I didn't realize… you were there. When he died." Her voice is quiet, and her expression - when he finally lifts his gaze from his hands to look at her - is gentle. "I'm so sorry, Rikuo. I can't— I can't imagine how horrible that must be, having to remember that. Has anybody— does anybody else know?"
He shakes his head. "I— no. They know that… the main house knows that I found him, but not— I didn't tell anyone that I was there when he— when she—" His voice cracks. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to break down like this."
"Don't apologize." She nudges his shoulder softly. "You're talking about a traumatic experience that you've never had a chance to heal from. There's nothing wrong with it hurting."
The words almost bring him to tears again, and Rikuo absently wonders if anyone else would ever see it that way. Yōkai don't acknowledge trauma or pain like humans do — they see such things as obstacles to power and fear, not as open wounds that need to be accepted and healed from with care and understanding. "… Thank you, Natsumi. But anyways," Because now isn't the time to linger, not when he has the rest of the story to tell, "That was the first move of the Hundred Tales clan. Then, this past year, they made their final move. They had been reviving the Hundred Tales, creating new yōkai and reviving old stories."
This part is going to hard for her, so he wraps his fingers around hers as gently as he can. "Tōryanse the Slasher, the X Village, the… the child in the subway," Her grasp tightens, and he rests his head against hers. It's his turn to be the comfort. "They were all created by the executives of the Hundred Tales clan, to bring about the revival of Sanmoto. And one night, these plans came to a head when they had a Kudan born that predicted that I was, in essence, the new incarnation of the Devil and was going to bring the world to an end. They wanted to punish the Nura clan for what my father had done to them, so they decided to create a living Hell for me."
He has to laugh, because it's terrifying and ridiculous at once. "They started a nationwide manhunt for my head — millions of normal humans who just wanted to do what was right, manipulated by yōkai for nothing more than selfish desires. It was like a three-way game of tag; the humans were trying to kill me, they were trying to kill the humans and me, and I was trying to find them without letting any of the innocents who had been dragged into the mess die."
"That was the night Saori and I were in Shibuya." Her voice is faint, but there's an undercurrent of strength under the wavering words. She's ready to revisit it.
Rikuo's not sure he is, but he nods and continues. "Yes. First, I fought Sanmoto's duodenum, a woman calling herself Akujo Nokaze who delighted in eating people. Then, I was drawn into battle with his bones, a yōkai called Raiden. It was after I defeated him that I heard about the situation in Shibuya, and I travelled there to confront the one creating yōkai, Kyōsai."
"And you found Saori and I."
"Yes." Hopefully, it will be just a brief pain, like tearing off a bandage. "I hadn't realized that he was creating yōkai from people, but once I knew… after Kyōto, I had been training to get better at wielding my Fear, so I was able to control it enough to only cut the yōkai part, not the human beneath." He glances over at her, meeting her determined gaze carefully. "That's what I did to you."
Her voice is a whisper. "Thank you."
"I—" He has to pause. "I just wish I had known sooner what to do. There are some families who will never have their brothers and sisters and parents and children back again, because I didn't know that there were humans underneath in time."
"It's not your fault, Rikuo."
And that will have to be that, for now, because he has a story to finish. "Kyōsai, the artist creating the yōkai, was the incarnation of Sanmoto's right arm. He… I confronted him and cut off one of his arms, in the hopes that it would stop him, but he ran away to the roof of one of the skyscrapers and kept working. He attempted to trap me with a Kusozu — nine paintings depicting various stages and types of death. It was a little like a western voodoo doll," He elaborated for her puzzled expression, "in that he painted me and thus caused the illustrations to have the same effect on my body. I rotted, my internal organs ruptured, my skin blistered and festered with infection as pieces of me fell away."
This time, he's ready for the memories, and can shove them away to the back of his mind until he's alone again. "But I managed to defeat him, and then we found the lair where they had intended to bring back Sanmoto. They failed, because the executive Enchō — Sanmoto's mouth — betrayed them to aid the descendants of the Nue instead, but before dying they managed to activate a monstrous construction that was powered by the fear of me they had caused in the humans of Japan."
"And you defeated that too, and then you had to go away to fight again."
"Yeah."
They fall silent together, and he pulls the blankets a little closer around their shoulders so they can pretend that the shaking of their hands is just from the cold.
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Torii sits down beside him at lunch one day, a week later, and hands him a sweet bun with a bright smile. At her shoulder, Maki continues eyeing the students around them warily, but takes a moment to soften her expression for him and nod in thanks. Both of their shoulders seem a bit lighter, for which Rikuo is glad.
"Saori and I are going to Kyōto this summer to see a therapist," She begins, one foot tapping with her usual nervous energy, "one of Yura's relatives. She promises that they're trustworthy, so we think they'll be good to talk to about everything that happened. I wanted to—" A pause, as though considering how to word her offer, "I thought I would extend the invitation to you, and anyone in your family who wants to come. I— talking about it helped a lot, and I think you need to talk about it too — about everything."
Her expression is earnest, and her hands twist around each other anxiously, and Rikuo's first instinct is to give a polite refusal because he's fine, he's strong, he's the Third Commander— and then he remembers all the times since his return that he's blinked and discovered he's been Somewhere Else for a half hour, all the times he's been unable to sleep because of his nightmares and night terrors and the fear that the next time he wakes up he'll find out it's all been a dream and it's not over yet. He remembers his mother's hand gently carding through his hair, Kejōrō and Kubinashi sitting up with him at night and playing cats cradle when he can't (won't) sleep, Itaku gruffly kneeling down beside him the first time he visited after the battle and wordlessly tugging Rikuo over to lean against his shoulder with a huff.
In the back of his mind, Zen's grouchy voice reminds him that he needs to take care of himself as much as he does everyone else, and he smiles slightly. Perhaps this will be what he needs — he and so many others who haven't been allowed to confront the memories that fester in their hearts because they are yōkai and yōkai shouldn't be weak. He meets Torii's eyes and Maki's eyes, and they're both smiling. When he speaks, his voice feels warmer than it has in weeks.
"Can I bring a few friends?"
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「話をしよう。
いいよ、まず君から。」
(おなじ話 - Humbert Humbert)