Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1

Granpda Seiche is by far Warabi’s favourite grandpa. One of their Grandma Hisanka’s many past husbands, he’s wild and silly and kind, and he’s always quoting famous lines from the first Fresh Fish films (the set where he and Grandma starred on and met, counterparts to one another in life and film) and he always knows how to make Warabi laugh. He's big and tall and full of warmth, from the jovial glow in his dark brown cheeks to the very tips of his ponytail-bound, sage-green tentacles. He has a mustache that tickles when he kisses Warabi on the forehead. Also, he calls them ‘little fern’, which they find charming. He’s Mum’s biological dad, which is probably the only reason he’s allowed in the Hisanka Summer House.

Presently, Grandpa Seiche is sneaking Warabi out of piano practice. Warabi's fairly certain he’s not supposed to be here, but they would much prefer to be stifling their giggles as he leans dramatically around a hallway corner to check if anyone is there than playing Rondo in D major for the eighth time that hour. And even if someone is there, he’ll scoop the octoling into his arms and they’ll scamper past, chortling between themselves the entire way as the perpetually perturbed servant or butler or whoever watches in mild concern. People might snitch on Mum or Mama or worse, Grandma, if it was just Warabi sneaking around, but no one dares to disturb the disorderly, unplanned schedule of Fresh Fish star Grandpa Seiche.

Warabi is finally able to breathe freely once they’ve made it to the far side of the summer house's gardens, where the cliffs rise up along the far coastal horizon and the ramshackle gazebo on the edge of the property waits, ready to shelter them from the rain that the dark, heavy clouds looming above threaten.

“Okie doke, fern,” says Grandpa Seiche, voice echoing quietly off the gazebo ceiling, and unrolls a bedspread he snatched from one of the guest rooms. “You take that side; I’ll get this one.”

Warabi nods severely and takes one edge of the (all white) bedspread, laying it out over the dirty stone floor. They kick their shoes off and step into the middle, sitting and leaning against the marble bench facing the roaring ocean. Grandpa Seiche joins them, and for a few minutes they just look out over the perfectly manicured lawn, at the ancient behemoth of pillars and windows that is the Hisanka Summer House.

“So, kid.” Grandpa nudges them after a while, smile playing in his sea-green eyes. “What’s been going down around here? How’s piano?”

Warabi shrugs. “Eh. I preferred martial arts better, and so did Mama, but Mum and Grandma said it ‘wasn’t ladylike’.” They screw up their nose at the phrase. ‘Ladylike’ was never something they thought applied to them, in all their thirteen years of living. “I guess it’s better than dance- or was. Grandma fired the instructor last week, actually, so it’s been pretty boring while they look for a new one. This is, like... I dunno. The third instructor she's fired.”

Grandpa nods, glancing back over the house. “Yeah, that’s Ophelia. Warabi, do you know what the word ‘tyrannical’ means?”

Warabi nods their head yes, smile creeping over their face.

“Heh. Good.” He gestures at their hands. “I guess piano means those guys are finally coming in, huh?”

Warabi nods again, excited. “Yeah!” They hold their hands up, wiggling their yet-stumpy fingers. “I don't drop things as much, thank goodness. They’re kinda weird, though.”

“Ah, don’t sweat it,” Grandpa Seiche starts. “I remember getting my fingers in, they always start kinda worm-y, it… oh. Huh.” He raises an eyebrow. “May I?”

“Yup,” says Warabi, and offers him their hand for him to inspect. “Mama said she didn’t know why they were so colourful.”

Grandpa hums, gently holding Warabi’s gold and violet digits in his own dark hand. His hand is much bigger, though only a few shades darker. “Well, little fern, you’ve always been pretty colourful.”

“Yup,” says Warabi again, and shakes their head, vibrantly shaded tentacles bobbing. “Grandma told me I was a mutant.”

“That sounds like Ophelia,” Grandpa sighs, and there are bitter undertones in his voice. “Well, you’re a very beautiful mutant, then, Warabi. Don’t you forget that.” He pats the top of their head, then prods the extra tentacle hanging over their forehead. “One special little squiddo.”

Warabi smiles at that. They’ve always sort of wondered how not a single one of the inklings in their family can figure out they and their mother are an entirely different species, but they’re not about to correct anyone. “A shame I don’t get cool powers, though,” they shrug, and Grandpa chuckles.

The two of them are silent for another moment. A flash of light illuminates the evening for a split second, and then thunder drums overhead. Rain starts to patter on the gazebo roof, and Grandpa looks over to Warabi and grins.

“Hey,” he says, and pushes himself to standing. “I know you weren’t too fond of dance class, but could I get one?”

The octoling blinks at him. “In the rain?”

“Only if you want.”

Warabi returns the grin after a beat, brushing themselves off and taking his outstretched hand. They laugh when he dashes out from the shelter of the stone roof, dragging them with him into the light shower. “What kinda dance?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Grandpa chortles, and takes their other hand. “Just go with the groove, fern!”

Damp grass between their toes, Warabi laughs again when the inkling grabs them under their arms and lifts them, spinning them in circles. Thunder rolls as Grandpa Seiche plops them back on the ground, squaring up in a loose waltz formation. “Remember this one?”

Warabi copies him, and they do a few awkward turns before he changes his mind and switches to a sort of two-step. This goes on for a while, Grandpa leading and Warabi gleefully doing their best to keep up. They stop when the storm draws nearer -no one wants to be struck by lightning- and go back under the gazebo to shake off.

Grandpa uses the clean corner of the bedspread to wipe the rain off Warabi’s flushed face. “Thanks for the dance, fern thing.”

Warabi grins at him, nodding, and plops back down on the bedspread. “And thank you, gramps.”

“Of course, of course.” He sits beside them again, sighing as he does so. “Dance class couldn’t’ve been that awful; you’re so good at it!”

They’ve heard this a lot. Sure, they pick stuff up quick, but that doesn’t mean they enjoy it. Dance is easy, but the instructor was a complete arse. Calculus is easy, but it’s so boring, and Mama expects pages and pages of it done every week. Engineering is easy, but… well, no, they like engineering. It’s fun, and Mama's an excellent teacher. But the point still stands: “I didn’t like dance class. At all.”

Grandpa Seiche puts his hands up. “Alright, alright. Sorry, kid. I mean, it comes in handy when you’re appeasing your double-old man, huh? But I shouldn’t assume, sorry. I know what that’s like.”

Warabi tilts their head to the side to prompt him to continue. Grandpa chuckles, quiet under the background noise of hammering rain.

“Yeah, once upon a time, I was the kid people ordered around, y’know. ‘Adofo, do this,’ or ‘Adofo, do that,’ and never anything I wanted to do.” He pokes Warabi’s shoulder. “I’m gonna be honest, though- some of that stuff did help out later, much as I hate to admit it. Some didn’t, ‘course, but some did.”

“I bet,” Warabi sighs. They’ve heard this sort of thing a lot, too, usually when they complain about the workload- this is Important and Useful for your Future Career, sweetheart, yadda yadda yadda. They just hadn’t expected it from Grandpa Seiche.

“Don’t tune out just yet,” Grandpa chuckles. “I’ll tell you a secret, fern. It’s good to get around and do different things, ‘cause who knows when they might help out? Like entertaining some old man, for example.” He jostles their shoulder gently, leaning down to speak at conspiring volumes just near their ear. “But the thing is, if you really don’t like ‘em? You just wait until the second you don’t have to listen to people anymore and you leave it all behind you. Yeah, kissin’ up to folks is never fun, but sometimes it’s what it takes to get through life.”

Warabi nods slowly, absorbing this. “Like when you're so rich and famous that all the servants are too scared to stop you from abducting me from piano practice.”

“Eh,” says Grandpa, making a so-so motion with one hand. “I mean, I guess that’s the gist of it, but…” He trails off, stroking his mustache thoughtfully.

“You’re a bad influence, gramps,” Warabi intones severely, and the inkling barks a laugh.

“I should certainly hope so!”

________

2

“Okie dokie. ‘N what’s this little fucker?”

Warabi squints at the booklet page. “DNA polymerase.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” his roommate, Rottiran, hums. They drop the booklet to their lap, criss-cross on Warabi’s dorm bed. “Man. You think you got this thing down, or do you wanna do one more?”

Warabi sighs. “I’m probably good, thanks. I hate this course, actually.”

“Me too, me too.” The anemone drops the booklet off the side of the bed, glaring after it. “But hey, look, we’ve only got two tests after this one, then the exam, then we’re done!”

“For this course, yeah. I’ve still got calc honours to get through, dude.”

Rottiran snorts. “Yeah, but you’re a total freak about calculus, so you’ve got that one in the bag.” They pause, inspecting Warabi’s face. “Hey, are you good? I mean, like.” They gesture at the study papers spread out over the bed. “No one enjoys this shit, but. You’re lookin’ more morose than usual, ‘Rabi.”

Warabi sighs again, flopping backwards onto the bed. “I dunno.”

“You dunno,” says Rottiran, doubtfully. “…is this about the birthday thing?” 

“I mean,” Warabi says slowly, and folds his hands over his chest. “Yeah, probably.”

“Mm.” The anemone falls into lying position alongside him on the edge of the bed, tail curled between their legs, contented flush in their maroon cheeks. Papers crinkle. “You wanna talk about it? Gettin’ old too much for you?”

Warabi scoffs, flicking one of their white-pink tentacles out of his face. It makes his finger prickle. “No, not the getting old. Eighteen isn’t old for me, ‘Ti. I’m gonna live ‘til, like, the end of time.”

“Assuming you don’t accidentally kill yourself first.”

“I do not indulge in accidents, thank you very much,” Warabi retorts, and Rottiran gives him a shove, chortling. “No, I just…” He shrugs. “I dunno. My birthday ends in, like…” A glance at the clock. “In two hours, and my parents just… forgot.”

Rottiran says nothing, waiting.

“I mean, I know they’re super busy right now -they’re super busy all the time- I just thought, y’know, they’d at least text, or something.”

The anemone is quiet for a second, regarding him quietly. Warabi turns his head to look at them, tentacles squishing up against his face. “What?” he asks.

Rottiran raises their eyebrows. “Mm? Just thinkin’.” They push themselves backwards, rolling off the bed with a thump, and then pop upright again comically. Probably trying to make Warabi laugh. It works, and they grin. “Do you want some ice cream?”

“… absolutely, yeah.” Warabi sits up, palming at his eyes. “Do we even have ice cream?”

“Not presently,” Rottiran admits, standing and brushing themselves off. They preen their tail briefly before continuing: “…but I know a place that stays open this late, so.”

Warabi shuffles off the bed, standing beside them. He glances at the window carefully. “…how long to get there?”

A swish of fabric as the anemone pulls on a windbreaker over their nightclothes. “Eh. About twenty minutes there ‘n back, walking. Or we could hit the subway and do it in six. Up to you."

“Walking sounds good.”

“Sweet,” Rottiran grins, teeth glinting in the light from the desklamp. They click it off as Warabi is popping the screen from the window, pulling the framed glass to one side. The two of them stand there for a moment, taking in the cool night air in a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Then the anemone looks up at him and grins, “After you, birthday boy.”

Warabi snickers and snags his shoes from beside the bed before climbing carefully out the window.

…

The night is cool, for late May, but pleasant enough. The ice cream place is about ten minutes from closing by the time they finally get there, so they tip the clerk at the counter extravagantly, even after she gave the two of them a dirty look.

It seems a shame to walk back right away, with the Inkopolis River Trail being so nearby, and it isn’t as if the school’s going to be doing a dorm check this late at night. So they take the gravel path for a while, under the swaying cottonwoods found in the richer, older side of the city. Spherical streetlamps are dotted along the path, and they find a bench under one of them, sitting to take in the dark view of the river.

Warabi sticks his spoon in his butter pecan and exhales. “Thanks for this.”

Rottiran nods, own spoon in their mouth. They take it out and murmur, “Just figured you needed some distraction, Wibi.”

“Don’t call me that,” Warabi laughs. “But yeah. Probably. Thank you.”

“Happy birthday!” they tease, and help themselves to a spoon of his ice cream. “What’re friends for?”

Warabi glares at them.

“Hey, I paid for it.”

“You insisted! Gimmie that.”

“I figured it was my treat,” Rottiran hums, tail twitching in amusement as Warabi digs his spoon into the anemone’s dish. “And you were feeling down, so.”

Warabi hums through a mouthful of black cherry. “Just kinda disappointed, frankly. Not really surprised, but…” He trails off when he feels Rottiran’s eyes on him, glancing over. “I dunno.”

Rottiran’s emerald gaze lingers on him for a moment, and then they turn back to the river, poking at their ice cream. “Y’know… Well, I don’t wanna sound stuck-up, or anything-”

“You go to the Inkopolis Northside Highschool,” Warabi snorts. “I think you come stuck-up by default.”

“Ouch, man. I’m try’na pour my soul out here, huh? Don’t interrupt.”

“Your soul, huh?” The octoling shakes his head. “Of course, of course. Do go on.”

Rottiran sticks their tongue out. “You’re so cruel to me. Totally ruined the moment.” They sigh and poke at their ice cream. “Nah, I just, uh. I know some folks like that. Always forgetting important stuff like birthdays, ‘n anniversaries, that sort of thing. And it was always ‘oh, I’m sorry, I lost track of time,’ y’know. Always was able to brush it off.”

They tilt their head, tentacles falling across their face as they look at Warabi. “And. You know, sometimes that’s true. Sometimes people just have trouble keeping track, and they really do feel awful.” A chuckle. “And when they do remember, they remember every last detail.

“But the person I knew, uh. They just straight-up didn’t care. And that’s just it, some people don’t. And then they somehow work it out to be your fault.”

Warabi stares at them.

“So, uh.” Rottiran shrugs. “I guess sometimes it just comes down to figurin’ out who they are, in that respect. ‘Cause, maybe they do care, like- like a shit-ton, they’re just super distracted with their own lives, and the stuff they’re doing, and don’t realise all these things are passing them by. Or-” and here, they emphasize the word by jabbing the night air with their ice cream spoon “-or they’re the kind that just can’t be bothered to give a shit about you. Usually, that’s the same kinda people who get pissed off when you return the favour, too. Yeah.”

“…you just be out here sayin’ shit,” Warabi breathes, and Rottiran glances over at him, startling at the tears in his eyes.

“Oh, shit, man! Don’t-” they drop their ice cream on the bench, wrapping their arms around the octoling. “Oh, jeez, ‘Rabi, I’m sorry! I didn’t-”

“It’s fine!” Warabi scrubs at his eyes with one hand, using the other to pat the anemone's arm in a comforting sort of way. “It’s fine, really. I mean, what are friends for?”

Rottiran splutters. “Making you cry on your birthday?? I don’t think that was in the contract!”

“Hey, wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Oh, stop! Shut up!” They bury their face in his shoulder, squeezing his arms, and Warabi laughs.

________

3

“THAT’S ALLLLLLLL FOR TONIGHT, YOU TWATS!” Pearl Houzuki roars, and the gathered crowd cheers uproariously. She spreads her arm out, gesturing across the makeshift stage. “Give it up for these weirdos!!”

Warabi grins and strikes a pose alongside the rest of Pearl’s band. She didn’t expect things to go quite so well, but odd menagerie of metalheads making up the audience seemed to enjoy her more synth style of things. Pearl looks pretty pleased, too, and frankly, that’s all the octoling was concerned about in the first place.

She slips off stage while fans are distracted with the actual band -who doesn’t want Karla scrawled across their forehead in neon orange sharpie?- and tucks around to the back of the warehouse venue before anyone can stop her. That’s enough for tonight. It hasn’t been a mingling-with-strangers sort of week. She won’t leave just yet, though; she still needs to thank Pearl for having her on in the first place. After she’s packed up then, she’ll hang around outside the back entrance and wait for things inside to cool down. It’s not like she has anything better to do.

Warabi is busying herself with scrolling through her photo album when a voice near just-below chest height says “Yo.” and she jumps about a foot.

“Sorry, sorry,” Pearl snorts. She cracks open a can of pop and takes a swig from it. “What’s going on out here, Hisanka?”

Warabi blinks at her and puts her phone in her pocket. “Whaddu’yu mean?”

Pearl takes another sip of her pop and raises her eyebrows. “I mean,” she says, gesturing at the octoling with her can, “that you’re out here, and everyone else-” a jab at the back entrance with her free hand, where a resounding thump of heavy bass music comes under the door “-is getting goofy in there. And they’re crazy about you. What’s up?”

“Oh.” Warabi shrugs. “I guess I’m just not, uh. Not really feelin’ the afterparty vibe at the moment.”

“After that set?” Pearl scoffs. “You are the least interesting cousin I have.”

Warabi scoffs back. “We’re not actually related, Houzuki.”

“Okay, alright, lemmie get this straight. Your mom is my aunt, and my mom is your aunt, so that makes us…?” She waves her hand in get it? sort of motion. “So you’re adopted. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. I’m an inkling, you’re an inkling, we both look pretty ridiculous on account of genetic disposition, we both disappoint our parents to a degree- what’s the problem?”

Warabi can’t help but grin at her insistence, rolling her eyes. “Okay, sure. Fine. Sorry. I just…” She shrugs. “I’m just not feelin’ it right now.”

Pearl regards her for a moment, then shakes her head. “Nah! Nah, it’s cool, kid. I get it.”

“I mean, thanks for inviting me! I had a blast.”

“Good! Really, you don’t gotta worry about it, I promise.” Pearl leans back against the lip of the warehouse, multiple chains strewn about her outfit jingling with the movement. “Sometimes you just gotta get time to yourself. I totally get that.”

Warabi glances down at her. “…I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic, actually.”

“Sar-! Oh, Hisanka!” Pearl clutches a hand to her chest, gripping her pleather jacket. “Oh, I’m hurt. I’m so fuckin’ hurt, girl.” She lets her head loll, thumping against the brick wall behind her, catching her crown with one hand so it doesn’t slip off.

Warabi kicks her boot when the inkling makes gurgling noises. “Stop dying.”

“Okay,” says Pearl, and Warabi snorts when she pulls herself off the wall and resumes drinking her pop. “Nah, y’know what? Before this all’a this you see before you-” she gestures to herself with a flared pinky, popping a hip “-I wasn’t such a star. I had a…” She looks around, though mostly for dramatic effect, because they’re the only ones standing in a poorly lit warehouse backlot at two in the morning, and continues in a hush-hush sort of tone. “…an emo phase, Hisanka, I’m tellin’ you.”

“Oh-ho,” is what escapes Warabi’s lips, and she cackles when the inkling shoots her a menacing look.

“Listen, I’m only tellin’ you this so we can make, uh. A real connection, huh? You flap your mouth to anyone else about this?” Pearl draws a line across her neck with one finger. “Pbbt. Officially out of the good books.”

“Aye-aye.”

Pearl gives a sharp nod of approval. “Yeah, when I was sixteen or so. That was allllll me time, I assure you.” She smirked, sipping her pop before going on: “And were my parents pleased about me goin’ around, representing the Great Fuckin’ Houzuki Legacy lookin’ like that? No, siree. But I was figuring things out, right? You gotta figure things out like that.”

Warabi nods slowly, hoping the mild confusion didn’t reach her expression.

Pearl laughs. “There’s a point to it, I promise. I’m circlin’ round to it, ‘kay? Do a lot of circlin’, in my life. No, uh.” She flaps a hand dismissively, leaning back again. “What I’m saying is, ya can’t please everybody, can’t live up to everyone’s expectations. Do what feels right for you, kid. In the moment, ‘n shit. And then if it doesn’t feel right later, just circle right back around and try again, huh? Most peeps are understanding about that, if you say sorry right. Least my parents were. After I paid for the window I smashed,” she adds, and then makes a face like she’s said too much and silences herself with another sip of pop.

There’s a few beats of night ambience as Warabi works out how to respond to that. “Huh,” she finally manages, when the dull roar of distant traffic becomes overwhelming. “That was, uh. Surprisingly poignant, Pearl. Thanks.”

Pearl chokes on her pop. “Oh, what, I can’t spit fire advice instead of bars, on occasion?”

“No, no,” Warabi chuckles, “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Pretty sure that means the same thing,” the inkling grins. She raps her knuckles against her forehead.  “There’s some wisdom up in this noggin, child. Let me imbue some onto you.”

“…you’re three months younger than me, right?”

“Means I got to stew in the Before for three months longer than you, huh? Accumulating seeds of truth, yo. Ya snooze, ya lose.”

Warabi cackles at the absurdity of that sentence. “You’re right. I’m just stuck losin’, o wise one. Might you plant more wisdom in my mind?”

“Office hours are over, actually,” Pearl sighs. “So sad.”

“Very sad.”

“Go hit up Ryu-Chang, or something.”

The octoling snorts. “Yeah, yeah.” She gazes upwards for a moment, considering things. “Thanks for having me, again. I never expected electronica and metal to go so well together.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Pearl chuckles. “Y’know, if I hadn’t already found someone with the same talents, I’d’a offered you a job. We’d be Double-H, rockin’ and ragin’ through Inkopolis.”

Warabi blinks. “A job? What’s happening with this thing?”

“Eh. Things weren’t workin’, least not for me. I’m fickle, what can I say?” With a crunch, Pearl stomps the empty pop can on the cracked concrete. “But nah, there’s this inkling girl -she just kinda showed up on Nantai a year or so back, weirdest thing- and. Well, first of all, woah, mama, she's a funny looking chick. Second of all, she’s just absolutely banger on the keytar, and, like, practically any music program you give ‘er.”

Warabi blinks again. “Inkling? On Nantai, huh?”

“I go up there sometimes, yeah. Whatever. But she- oh!” Pearl snaps her fingers, turning it on Warabi. “Oh my cod! I should totally hook you two up! Same weird hair, same weird hands, same inability to interact with the public-”

“Thanks.”

“-you two would hit it off, like instantly, I bet!” Pearl strokes an imaginary beard, looking smug. “See? So damn good at circlin’, I do it in my sleep. Here.” She pulls out her phone, gesturing for Warabi to do the same. “I’ll give you her number, huh? I’ve mentioned you once or twice, so I doubt she’ll be surprised.”

Warabi looks on, curious, as the inkling punches this odd, probably-not-an-inkling chick’s number into her phone. “You’re starting something with her, then, I take it?”

“Hoping to,” Pearl nods. “You think she’ll like my circling?”

Warabi takes her phone back. Pearl’s already entered ‘Marina Iida’ as the contact name. “Y’know what, I bet she will.”

________

4

“So, uh,” says Ikkan Formerly Of Squid Squad Inoko (half a week with the guy and Warabi’s brain still hasn’t quite caught up to that). He glances down into the darkness of the alley they’re standing in -the very same in which they had explosive chance encounter number two, a few days back, right in front of the nocturnally-run grocery- then back in the vague direction of Warabi. “You’re good from here?”

Warabi nods, somewhat stilted. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, I- yeah, I’m good. Great, actually.” He runs a hand up his forehead, pushing his tentacles out of the way, trying to calm his pounding hearts. Good doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s been continually afraid of bursting into tears these past few days. “I just- thank you. Really. I dunno how I’m supposed to pay you back for this.”

The inkling just shrugs, still staring past Warabi’s head. “’s cool, I don’t need repaying,” he murmurs. Then he chuckles awkwardly. “I mean- what kinda guy would I be to just leave you there, huh?”

Warabi resists the urge to say ‘sane’ and settles for nodding agreeably instead. “Still, you know, I feel…  well, I’ve definitely gotta pay you back for the impound fee, at least.”

“Eh,” says Ikkan Inoko, with a wave of a hand. “It wasn’t much. Barely anything. You can forget about it.”

“No way.” Warabi crosses his arms, easing a grin onto his face. He’s fighting a desire to scream, excitement bubbling up in his chest and trying to force its way out. “Look- you got my car un-impounded, let me sleep on your couch for four days, and I got to noodle around in your studio- do you think I'm just gonna take that lying down?”

Ikkan laughs then -really laughs, a short set of staccatos, deep and rough, with a faint swelling of light in the freckles and spots on the inkling’s face, splatted over his face like soft stars; and Warabi’s stomach clenches as the excitement swells up with it.

“No, I guess not,” hums Ikkan. “You don’t seem the… lying down sort.”

“Thank you,” says Warabi, despairing silently when the light fades to nothing again.

“If you’re that dead-set,” the inkling scoffs, and even if the light has gone, the laugh has lingered on his face as a barely-there, quick-of-the-lips smile. Warabi realises he would like to pull it to his own face, very desperately, even if the inkling will taste of the pseudo-sugars and spice from the cheap wine in his fridge; and in fact that could be quite pleasant…

“I have to admit,” Ikkan goes on, jerking those thoughts away, “all the… the noodling was pretty impressive. And you had some good pointers about stuff.”

“Sorry,” says Warabi, who had been caught nosing around Ikkan Inoko’s apartment (this had precipitated getting to mess around with Ikkan Inoko’s home studio, but that wasn’t really the point).

“No,” says Ikkan. “It’s cool. You’re right. But, uh…” he twiddles a finger aimlessly, squinting in thought. “Yeah, it was good shit. Kinda… got me back into the groove of things, I think, so. If you’re ever writing again, I wouldn’t mind getting to see it. That’s payback, right?”

“Oh,” says Warabi, and that’s all he can manage for a moment as he wrangles the scream’s attempt to penetrate the barrier of his clenched beak.

“Only if you want,” says Ikkan hurriedly. He glances away again, lips moving without sound. “You don’t really owe me anything, really, it’s… it was just the decent thing to do. ‘sides, if you go around paying debt to everybody, you’ll never get anything saved up for yourself, so. No problem either way. Really.”

The octoling struggles for a few moments more, trying to set his words straight (a considerably lofty goal in front of this guy). With one hand, he anxiously plucks at the end of a tentacle. Wow. Life advice from Ikkan Inoko. If this is the usual outcome of sending his parents into a blind fury, he’s willing to make space in his schedule to do it again.

“So,” ekes partially out from between his teeth, wavering and nervous. He clears his throat and starts again, clearer: “So, like- like. You wanna see my work?”

Ikkan shrugs, looking embarrassed.

Warabi hesitates, if only for the effect of consideration, because Ikkan Inoko would like to see more of his work and he might just start hyperventilating. “Do I get to see… yours?”

Ikkan shrugs again. “I haven’t really… been working, for a while.”

“Well,” Warabi tells him, “you can start, and we can trade.”

Ikkan looks at him for a long moment. That’s the best way to describe it: just looks. No tell of what he’s thinking in his expression at all, and the excitement in Warabi’s chest quails under the fear he’s overstepped his bounds- but then the inkling smiles again, inclines his head.

“Yeah, I could do that,” he breathes, eyes focused somewhere on a point to the left of the octoling’s head. Warabi has to quirk his ears forwards to hear when he adds, so softly, “Thanks, yeah.”

Warabi gazes at him. “Should I just shoot you a text, or…?”

“Sure.” Ikkan goes on staring past him for a second; Warabi tracks the thoughtful flick of an ear, the gentle sway of the inkling’s tentacles. Then, clearing his throat: “Yeah, just- you’ve got my number, right? From the impound?”

“Mm-hm.” Not in his phone, mind you; but he saw it as the inkling was filling out the impound form: 777-1029-7103. Ikkan Inoko’s number is not something he’d forget in a hurry.

Ikkan nods. He’s changed things up, now staring to the right of and a little below Warabi’s nose. “Mm-hm. Sure, you can just… hit me up whenever, then. God knows I’ve got fuck-all to do.”

“Cheers,” laughs Warabi, then falters when the humour isn’t reflected on the inkling’s face. “Uh. You- well, obviously you’ve gotta get writing,” he tries, “‘cause otherwise, I’m not sending you shit.”

Ikkan raises his eyebrows with a scoff, which was more or less the desired effect. “Sure, yeah. I’ll work on that.”

“Good,” says Warabi, and he means it. He finds himself grinning.

They stare at (or, in Ikkan’s case, past) each other for a few beats.

“Well, uh,” Ikkan mutters, thumbing at the grocer’s back door. “Was gonna get through before the night-folks start rollin’ in, so.”

“Yeah,” Warabi says, shaking his head with a jingle of piercings, “yeah, no, of course, don’t- don’t let me keep you! Aha.”

“Nah,” says Ikkan. “Nothing much to keep me from,” he shrugs.

“Aha,” tries Warabi. He moves back when the inkling steps up to the grocer’s back step. “Uh. Send my love to Puaka.”

Ikkan, hand on the doorhandle, glances back with a laugh. “Absolutely. She was starting to like you, I think.”

Warabi just nods. The mention of the slug has brought about the inkling’s lights again, and they thrum, gently; something in the back of Warabi’s brain is desperately instructing him to reach out and touch them. He will not do this.

“See you around, then, I guess?” Ikkan Inoko says, casually, with underlying notes of discomfort as always.

“Sure,” says Warabi, chest tight with elation. The grin on his face only widens. “You- yeah, you too! Uh.”

Ikkan Formerly Of Squid Squad Inoko nods politely, and then the door swings shut behind him and Warabi is alone, standing in one of Inkopolis’ countless back alleys and trembling, slightly.

He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, staring at the door.

Yeah. Okay. It was worth it.

________

5

If you gave Warabi ten seconds to come up with a single adjective to describe Marina Iida, they’d go “Hm.” and then ponder for the length of the ten seconds to come up with something precise.  Really, the answer is situational, but eventually they’d snap their fingers and give it to you.

The situation at the moment involves the beachfront property of Pearl’s mansion, a modified Splatterscope Marina and Warabi have spent the past few hours tediously (not to mention illegally) assembling, and mutually giddy feeling that comes from the results of the sort of mad genius Marina possesses. (Warabi quite likes to think they, too, possess a certain mad genius; they do, frankly, it’s just that Marina’s flavour of mad genius tends to inspire awe, wonder, and sometimes fear. Warabi’s flavour usually gets stunned looks and typically, if Ikkan’s in the room, a polite “What the fuck.”)

“Okay,” Marina smiles, and passes them a pair of goggles. “For shrapnel. Uh, alright. Stand back a bit.”

Warabi snaps the goggles over their eyes and steps back a few paces in the sand. The other octoling flips a switch on the Splatterscope she’s holding, and by cod, Warabi’s never heard an engine start on a Splatterscope before. “Oh, man, that sounds awesome.”

“Doesn’t it?” She glances over at them, gesturing with her head. “The meter’s all set up?”

Warabi nods, giving the little device in their hand a shake. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Marina sets the Splatterscope over her shoulder and squares up, preparing herself for the recoil. Warabi resists the urge to get closer. They’d both promised their respective inklings that only minor damage would be done to one another, if any, and Warabi would love to live up to the promise for once.

The engine continues whirring. Marina is quiet, carefully lining the sight up with a target a quarter-mile down the beach, connected to the device in Warabi’s hand. She deliberates on the aim for a few more seconds, gives a tap with one foot to tell Warabi she’s about to fire, and fires. With the sharp crack of the ink leaving the weapon, the little Pearl key-chain on the end (courtesy of Marina) jingles violently.

There is indeed shrapnel, as the ink reservoir on the top of the weapon shatters, pattering cyan onto the beach around them. Marina yelps as she’s thrown backwards into the sand, though Warabi isn’t sure if it’s in surprise or excitement. And that’s not really what they’re focused on, anyways, because Marina is strong and if the recoil’s that bad, well. They’re a little bit nervous, but also a lot bit freaking out because Marina hit the target dead-on and the damage tracker in Warabi’s hand is beeping frantically.

Marina sits up, breathless, grinning like the sun. “Wow!”

Warabi barks a laugh through the ringing in their ears. “That’s one word for it, I’d- holy shit, Marina! Look at this thing!”

The other octoling scrabbles to her feet as Warabi jogs awkwardly through the sand towards her. She glances at the remains of the Splatterscope, features briefly falling into an expression of mourning, and then moves forwards to meet them, lurching to a stop at Warabi’s side. “How much did it do?”

Warabi tilts the damage tracker to show her the numbers. She squeals, looking between the octoling and the 3106.07DP displayed on the screen. “Shell, if you pointed this thing at someone, it wouldn’t just splat them. They’d be wiped off the fucking face of the earth. Like- pbbt. Vaporized.”

Marina takes the damage tracker, staring at it for a few seconds and then clutching it to her chest, stomping in the sand in pure, unadulterated joy. “Oh, Warabi, thank you! This is a new record! In the three-thousands, can you imagine-!”

Warabi grins at her, her jubilance contagious. If you asked for a word to describe Marina Iida right now, it would probably be ‘terrifying’. “I can’t believe it worked, honestly.”

“You doubted me? Warabi.”

“No, no, not doubted.” They do that unsteady, lurching gait that comes with traipsing barefoot through loose sand over to the Splatterscope. “I mean, it made sense- if GrizzCo. can do it, why not you? But just…” They stoop down, picking up the gun and tapping the power unit stuck on near the sight in respect. Its contents shimmer faintly in the late afternoon sun, gold and gel-like. “Wow. You’re a dangerous woman, Marina.”

Marina pops up beside them, asking for the gun. “Oh, poor thing.” She looks down at Warabi severely. “And you did a good bit, too, Warabi, don’t sell yourself short.”

“Aw, you think I’m dangerous?”

“Not in the slightest,” she giggles, looking over the remains of the Splatterscope. “And… well it’s not like I’m gonna be using it on anybody, of course. That would be barbaric.”

Warabi takes a moment to get over the fact Marina doesn’t find them threatening and asks, “So you’re just continually improving the damage this thing does because… why?” They put their hands up when Marina gives them a funny look and adds, “Not that I don’t agree with you! I mean, yeah, that thing’s just… immoral, frankly. Just wondering.”

“Because,” says Marina evenly, “it’s cool as hell. And I didn’t get suspended from GrizzCo. for the foreseeable future for smuggling an egg out of a run for nothing, right?”  She presses a button on the side of the weapon and something hisses, and then the power source comes cleanly off in her hand when she unscrews it. “I mean, have you ever used a charger that you can rev the motor of before? I think I will need to mold my own ink res out of something stronger, if I want it to do more, but…”

She trails off sheepishly when Warabi pulls their goggles up and catches her eye. They of course whole-heartedly endorse the bettering of this monstrous thing, but there’s the thought of what would happen if it got into the wrong hands, somehow, that is nagging at them. They don’t even have to say anything and Marina’s shoulders sag.

“I know,” she sighs. She holds the up Splatterscope (Warabi has decided they’re going to refer to it as the Scatterscope, on account of what it will do to the atoms that make you up if you’re hit with it), sighing again as the setting sun fragments into rainbows when it hits the shattered ink reservoir. “I know, I know, I know. Just one more shot, Warabi, huh? Then I’ll destroy it. Keep it from the hands of worse men.”

“Woah, okay, sheesh. No need to get dramatic.”

Marina smiles at them. “I thought it was appropriate.”

Warabi scoffs at her, holding up the damage tracker so she can read the numbers again. “Look, yeah, it’s sick as shit, but all I’m saying is that if you get any more power in that thing, you could use it as a bloody siege weapon, Mari.”

“How romantic,” Marina titters, tilting her head to one side and fluttering her eyelashes delicately behind her goggles. “You think I could hit four-thousand, maybe?”

“Get help.”

Marina throws her head back to laugh enthusiastically, tentacles undulating with much content.

Warabi grins at her. “Should we put it back?”

Wiping tears from one eye, Marina nods. “Let’s get the exploded ink res bits up first, though.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When all the bits of cyan-stained plastic have been collected, they return to the massive garage they’ve spent the day in. Warabi almost trips over the box of hex keys they left out earlier, too excited to test the Scatterscope to clean up properly. Marina clicks it shut as Warabi is swearing under their breath about their stubbed toes, placing it reverently among countless other tool sets in the cabinets that line the garage walls.

The Scatterscope is laid in its own special lock-box, even though much of it has been reduced to smithereens at this point, and the little golden-egg power source is tucked into one of Marina’s pockets.

They stand over the gun for a minute, each contemplating.

“Huh,” says Warabi.

“Huh,” Marina agrees, and then waves her hand, directing Warabi to turn around.

Warabi nods, politely looking away as she closes the lockbox and seals it with a keypad code. “Just promise me you’ll have me over to help you destroy it.”

“Oh, certainly,” Marina chortles, and pats the lockbox with a gentle pride. “Certainly.”

They turn back towards the beach after that, side by side as the ground beneath their still-bare feet changes from pavement to grass to sand. The sun is setting, slowly, and it throws long, warming rays of dusk over the west-facing property, setting long shadows behind them.

Eventually, Warabi asks, “What inclined you to build that thing in the first place, anyways?”

Marina hums. “I’m not sure, I guess. I was bored.”

“Oh, what, being one of the most famous individuals on the planet at the moment wasn’t enough for you?”

Marina snorts, giving them a shove. “You know what I mean. I wanted to do something for myself, is all. I haven’t crafted something quite so… destructive since, well. Back in the Domes, frankly. Sometimes, I guess you just gotta do stuff for yourself, right? Just mess around and have some fun. That was pretty stinking fun, right?”

Warabi slips their hands in the pockets of their shorts, looking out over the roaring waves. There are seagulls wheeling over the ocean. They dip and dive, pulling up at the last second before the water licks at their feathers. “Yeah, it was pretty fun.” They glance at Marina, eyebrow quirked. “Are you gonna give the Scatterscope sentience, too?”

Marina blinks. “Scatterscope?”

“Yeah. On account of what it will do to the atoms that make you up if you’re hit with it.”

“Oh,” says Marina, and hides a laugh behind her hand. “Yeah, that’s a good name. And no, I’m not going to give it sentience.”

Warabi nods understandingly. “Only the Suckker must bear that burden, then. I see.” They elbow her in the side gently. “Y’know, you could’a just got a smart Roomba, and that would’a done the same thing without the freaky, like, Frankenstein shit.”

“The Suckker is not Frankenstein shit!” Marina retorts. “Look, I think I’m allowed to build what I want, when I want, huh?”

“I mean,” Warabi chortkes, “it’s bad enough it looks like a mini Flooder with the legs chopped off, but the tentacle waving around on top just gives me the creeps.”

“Don’t you dare say that to its face,” Marina threatens. “You’ll hurt its feelings.”

“It spends all its time cleaning your floors,” Warabi tells her. “I think its probably moved past feelings.”

“Not true.”

They tilt their head. “Yeah? What else does it do, then?”

Marina looks to be suppressing a smile. She turns away and giggles, “I taught it how to play IkaKart.”

Warabi stares at her. “You- You taught it to play IkaKart.”

“Yes!” Marina laughs. “Yes, I felt bad for it, so I gave it something to do while it wasn’t cleaning the floors. It has over 10,000 points in online, by the way.”

Warabi stares at her for a bit longer, and then puts their hands up to rub their eyes. “Sure. Alright. Well, I know what’s on my agenda.”

“Hm?”

“Beating your little Franken-Roomba in IkaKart,” says Warabi plainly, and Marina barks a laugh.

“I think it cheats,” she grins. “Good luck.”

“A sentient Roomba with no morals,” Warabi nods. “Amazing.”

“And great hair,” adds Marina. “No morals, great hair, and a defense system.”

There’s a few beats of ocean ambience, seagulls crying out as they glide over the waves.

“A fucking excuse me,” manages Warabi, and then doesn’t even wait for an answer. “So ‘messing around and having fun’ includes arming the fuckin’ thing?”

“…I was bored?”

“Good gods,” intones Warabi, and Marina laughs again and shoves them playfully.

Chapter Text

The clock on the desk on the far wall reads 3:47 in harsh LED red when Warabi is rudely awoken by the familiar, painful sensation of leafsheep claws making biscuits into her arm.

She shoos Pee-Wee away irritably, grunts "I'm not feeding you right now," at its pleading squawks, and in half-conscious annoyance pitches a stuffed animal at it. When the leafsheep grumbles to itself, indignant at its treatment, and saunters out of the room, she falls back against her pillow with a growl and squeezes her eyes shut against the light coming from down the hallway.

Warabi manages to pause and think for a second as that sinks in. The light coming from down the hallway. The light coming from down the hallway. The light coming from down the hall... Oh.

Warabi pulls her eyes open again, squinting to search for Ikkan's form. The other half of the bed is woefully empty of inklings. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, really, after his murmuring of I'll be right there- Ikkan's definition of 'right there' was a good deal different than hers. To Warabi, 'right there' was a window of ten, maybe even twenty minutes. If she was going off of Ikkan's example, 'right there' was...

She squinted at the clock again. 3:48. Around five hours, then? Not exactly... Well, no, actually, it was pretty on-par for Ikkan. Ikkan was extremely good at smiling gently at her and murmuring things like I'll be right there, promise and squeezing her hand to solidify the promise and then not actually coming to bed for the next five hours.

It doesn't help that their first tour since their recent break is on in the next couple of months- alongside Front Roe, no less. The inkling is stressed about it, and she can't blame him entirely, but gods, is he frustrating at times.

Warabi pushes herself upright to glare at the light flooding in from the studio down the hall. She rubs at an eye and pushes her tentacles out of her face. She glares for a while longer. She heaves a sigh, pulls the blankets back, and swings her legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the coolness of the hardwood seeps into the bottoms of her bare feet. She shivers over to the door, peers down the hall, and thinks to pull a bathrobe on over her boxers and tank-top before padding quietly down to the studio.

Ikkan doesn't even look up when she pushes the door open and walks in, too busy with whatever it is he's doing. One hand scribbles wildly, pen to notebook, moving at an entirely unreasonable speed for this early; the other is scrolling through something on one of the monitors glowing around him. He's muttering under his breath.

Warabi clears her throat.

Ikkan lurches. Not in any particular direction, just lurches. He swivels the desk chair around, eyes wild behind his reading glasses, and then lets out a breath of relief when Warabi raises her eyebrows at him. "Oh. Hey. Sorry."

Warabi nods, somewhat distracted. Ikkan's eyes are bloodshot, half-lidded. He looks a bit ragged and cold, wearing the same worn shorts and t-shirt she'd left him in five hours ago, tentacles turning pale at the very tips in discomfort. The ponytail he usually wears is down, tie around one wrist. 

A thought surfaces in her barely-conscious mind that she still finds him ridiculously attractive. 

"What, uh..." Warabi pauses to cover a yawn. "What happened to 'be right there', dude?"

"I-" Ikkan flaps a dismissive hand at her, turning back towards the computer. "I know, I know. I'll be right there, I promise, I just-"

"It's four in the morning, Ikkan," Warabi sighs, laying a firm hand on the back of the chair to turn him around again. "You gotta stop."

"I can't stop," Ikkan retorts, disbelieving. "There's- we've got a deadline on this thing, 'rabi, I can't just-"

Warabi puts a hand up to silence him. "Ikkan, c'mon. How long have you been at that?"

The inkling opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again to mutter, "I need to get this done, Warabi."

Warabi sighs. "I dunno if you've forgotten, or something, but I'm a pretty damn well traveled individual. Pretty damn knowledged."

"Mm? Wise beyond my understanding, then?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Warabi nods, tugging the pen from his hand and setting it on the desk. "And you know what? I've figured out that pullin' this sort of shit? Does nothing to improve production value. You gotta take care yourself before you take care of any concert, huh? Gonna have problems if you don't, trust me."

Ikkan stares at her. The glower he's apparently attempting would be much more believable were it not for the fact he looks to be struggling to keep his eyes open. "Warabi," he says, slowly (not to be condescending, but because it becomes difficult to form coherent sentences at four in the morning). "Warabi, you know what's coming up, right? I need-"

"-to go the hell to bed, I know. Ikkan, if we miss one deadline, it won't be the end of our career, I promise." Warabi reaches out and plucks the glasses off his nose (Ikkan doesn't attempt to stop her), folding the arms and putting them beside the pen. "You're exhausted, starlight. I can feel it coming off you, almost."

A few more seconds of quickly failing glower, and then Ikkan gives in and closes his eyes. "I don’t need… sure, a break. I'll take a break, fine," he grunts, when he opens his eyes again and Warabi is shooting him a Look, carefully curated to portray Utter Disdain. Reluctance is plain in his tones. "Be right there."

Warabi raises an eyebrow (adding Skepticism to her expression) as he turns to click out of some program on the computer. "No, I'll wait."

"Don't trust me, huh?" Ikkan glances back and smiles at her, though there isn't much behind it besides fatigue. The monitor is clicked off, and he swivels round again, pushing back the chair to stand, stretching. The cartilage structure of his spine crackles loudly in protest, and they both grimace.

"Where're we goin' then?" Ikkan asks, resignedly. A pause. "...is that my bathrobe?"

"You need," Warabi decrees firmly, ignoring him, "some fresh air. Come on."

Ikkan grunts as she grips his hand, tugging him out of the room, headed towards the stairs. "Do I?"

Warabi glances back at him as she's pulling him down the steps. "You've been holed up in the studio for the past five hours, man. Yeah."

"...yeah."

They go through the dark living room, stopping for only a second to ruffle the ears of the sleeping form of Pee-Wee on the boot-rack. Warabi unlocks the front door and steps out, hissing a teasing “Hush!” through her teeth when Ikkan thumps it closed, rattling the doorframe.

The aged hardwood of the front porch is cool underfoot. Warabi holds an elbow out for the inkling to take, smiling at him softly. He takes it, jostling her with a playful shove as he does, and she snorts and guides him over to the porch banister, elbows resting on peeling paint.

This angle gives a perfect view of the length of the street. It's empty, so early in the morning; dark and silent, sparing the usual medley of summer: the doleful call of a lone mourning dove; the rumble of distant traffic, barely audible; the wind in the trees.

In front of the porch, the tiger lilies waver in the breeze, apparently inhabited by a cricket. Windchimes clink together from the neighbour's place.

Ikkan sort of sighs into a slouch, leaning heavily on the banister. He catches Warabi’s eye for a second and rolls his eyes at the self-satisfied look on her face. He doesn’t comment, much to her disappointment. Instead, he tilts his head back, staring upwards. “Clear out, isn’t it?” A faint nod towards the horizon. “Stars are nice.”  

Warabi watches his tired expression for a moment -already, he's relaxing, lights returning and colour filling out- before tipping her own gaze towards the sky.

In the east, the first pale, yellow-orange rays of dawn are slipping over the horizon, seeping into the few wispy cirrus clouds and staining them a sort of peach; in the west, the sky overhead is still dark, spare for the still-glittering stars and a distant glow on the very edge of the skyline- the lights of Inkopolis, ever present.

"Yeah," Warabi murmurs, crooking one arm at an angle to rest her chin in her hand. “They are.” She glances over at him again, smiling at the way his lightspots are thrumming faintly in content. “Down here, too.”

Ikkan huffs in embarrassed amusement.

They stand there in silence for a while longer, Ikkan leaning against the octoling gently. Exhaustion is still palpable in his posture, in the way he sways every so often, catching himself against Warabi's supporting form. He lets a hand fall down past the wooden railing of the porch, running his faintly glowing fingers through the vibrant blooms of the tiger lilies. Warabi tracks his fingers with her eyes. Pollen falls from petals, floats in the warm air.

The soft, simple sway of an early summer morning is briefly interrupted by a wail of police siren, somewhere far off, and it screams on for a while as the moon dips lower on the horizon. When finally it dies away, the silence returns in full, smotheringly heavy. Here and there, songbirds twitter in the brush; somewhere down the half dark, half streetlamp-illuminated road, someone slams a car door and starts the engine. Warabi yawns.

"So," she says, speaking quietly, carefully, trying not to disturb the peace settled comfortably around them. "How're you feeling?"

Ikkan hums. "Better," he admits, just as quiet, tones rumbling in his chest. He reaches down past the banister again and uses his claws to pinch a lily blossom from its stem. 

"Don't pick those," Warabi scolds, even as the inkling is adjusting her tentacles to tuck the flower behind her ear. She sighs when he only smiles at her. "Thanks. You wanna head in?"

Ikkan hums again, stepping back to look her up and down. He nods. "Sure."

"Well, then." She pulls the door open and makes an after you sort of motion,

Back into the dark living room. The door is locked, the lily behind Warabi's ear is slipped into the vase that sits on the coffee table, already chock-full of Ikkan-picked blooms. The stem length varies wildly, and this one is by far the shortest, so it sinks into the water until the petals catch on the rim of the vase. Warabi smiles at it warmly. 

She catches Ikkan's elbow when he mutters something about getting back at it. "Nope. Come 'ere."

"You said," protests Ikkan weakly, following in step behind her as she drags him towards the couch, "a short break. That was twenty minutes right there, what-"

"A long break, then," concedes Warabi. Ikkan sighs. "Sit."

Ikkan obeys, falling gracelessly backwards into the cushions. "This was a trap from the beginning, wasn't it? You're just luring me to comfort so I pass out."

"A trap?" the octoling repeats, expression innocent even as she waves her hands to direct the inkling to lay lengthwise along the couch, head against the arm. "What makes you say that?"

With a raised eyebrow, Ikkan says nothing at first as he moves over. Warabi falls just as gracelessly on top of him, pinning him to the couch in a straddle. "Just a hunch, really."

"Hm. Well, are you gonna do anything about it?"

"...no."

"Good," says Warabi, and leans forwards, bracing herself on the arm of the couch with her elbows, inches from his face. "You've really gotta work on time management, starlight."

Ikkan shifts underneath her. "Says you."

"We are not talking about me." She prods his eyebags with one finger. "When was I in bed, huh?"

Ikkan scowls. 

Warabi scowls right back out of spite, and Ikkan snorts.

"You can't keep doing this, man," she sighs, expression softening. "I'm worried about you. You... you're doing worse than usual, lately. What's ciabatta with you, huh?"

"...I know," the inkling mumbles, after a huff of amusement and a moment's hesitation. "Thanks. I just... I dunno." He's avoiding her gaze. "'m tired, 'rabi."

She lays her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeats, waiting for him to go on.

He does, finally. "I think... I mean, yeah, I'm overdoing it," he admits. "I'm just... I dunno. The first tour we've been on in, like, years is coming up, y'know? And with the old gang thrown into the mix, I guess I just... I'm falling back into old habits. Perfectionism, 'n all that."

"'n all that," Warabi agrees. She picks her head up again, gazing at his wearied expression in the darkness. His lights are dimmed, though not dark. "You know you can talk to me about that shit, right? I promise I won't make fun of you?"

"Not sure I believe that one," Ikkan sighs. "Yeah, I know." He smiles gently. "Ditto, 'n all that."

"Such a way with words you have."

"Thank you."

They lay there for a moment, basking in one another's heat and company. The world outside is quiet though growing louder, awakening with the creeping dawn. Above them, in deep shadow, the old fan in the living room ceiling clunks faintly with every rotation. Warabi's been meaning to look at it, just that so far, she hasn't had the time, and the ceiling is so high... But it couldn't be further from her mind at the moment.

Warabi scoots downwards to slot against Ikkan easier, chin resting on his chest. She slides her hand up, running her thumb carefully over the marvelously warm lightspots near his jaw. They flutter brighter at the contact, and as always, she can’t help but smile.

"...I'm guessing you're not gonna let me go back up there, huh." Ikkan's hands fold together in the small of her back, eyes drifting closed. "Are you?"

"Mm," Warabi hums thoughtfully, rubbing gentle circles just under his ear, watching his lights grow slowly brighter. "Probably not, no."

"Mm," parrots Ikkan, ever so slightly exasperated. "Expected as much."

The octoling's shoulders shake briefly with smothered laughter at the suffering in his tone. "You need the sleep, Ikkan. I mean, I just..." She trails off, watching him carefully. "I care about you, and I think you need to care about yourself more."

"You're tellin' me." He sighs. "You're right. About all this shit."

"Oh?"

"Oh, get over yourself," Ikkan huffs, cracking his eyes open to glare daggers down at Warabi's smug expression. "Yeah, I said it. You're right."

Warabi grins, creeping up and pressing her nose into the base of his neck. "Oh, I know I am, starlight," she teases. “When was the last time I wasn’t?”

"You're such an asshole," Ikkan grunts.

Warabi sits forwards slightly. “Yeah,” she says, “I am, aren’t I.”

“Yeah,” repeats Ikkan, “you are. I have,” he begins, “half a mind to-”

And then he has to stop, because Warabi presses her beak into his clavicle and ghosts it upwards along the swell of his glimmering throat. Ikkan tenses, making a small, comfortable noise and relaxing again when she comes to a gentle stop, nose fitted between his jaw and his ear.

"Go to sleep,” Warabi says into his tentacles.

"...sure," breathes Ikkan after a long moment. "Yeah."

Warabi reaches an arm around to tug the throw blanket off the back of the couch, clumsily pulling it over the both of them. "We can work on things in the morning, 'kay?"

"It is morning," is Ikkan's soft response.

"Later, morning," amends Warabi. "Noon, morning, maybe."

"...that's not morning."

"Shut up," says Warabi, "and sleep."

"Sheesh," says Ikkan defensively, and adjusts the blanket so it covers them better. "Demanding."

Warabi only smiles into the crook of his neck, refusing to encourage him with an answer. 

"Goodnight."

"Mm."

Ikkan exhales, one hand slipping up to hold the back of her head, cradling it; claws pricking not uncomfortably as he fiddles with the ends of her tentacles. He murmurs the little Octarian phrase she taught him (I could live anywhere with you), barely above a whisper, and though his accent is a bit off, his stresses on some words a bit too short, her hearts swell with affection. Warabi returns it.

The fan drones on, clunking ominously. Warabi focuses on that to keep herself awake, waiting.

She can just barely see out the front window across the room if she shuffles her head around. Outside, the neighbour backs their truck out of their driveway. Some bird or other is perched on the porch railing. The tiger lilies sway in the breeze, orange blossoms illuminated by the early July sun.

Warabi gently moves up and down with the inkling's breathing, and as she listens, it's clear he's fallen asleep. Good.

She tucks her face back into the crook of Ikkan's neck to keep the light out of her eyes (well- the light from outside, anyways. The inkling's skin glitters with a cream-purple glow on her eyelids, even in sleep). It's a bit past four, if she's been keeping track of time properly -not too out of the ordinary for their schedule, really- so she's more than happy to drift off, and, if possible, sleep in until some absolutely awful hour.

The day can wake without them.