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He wakes up to the sound of water trinkling. It's not bubbling, not from the natural mountain stream that runs right past the shrine and feeds into the temizuya. But it's close.
It's the pause between the plips and the tinks that make him consider it's not the stream, but it's the wooden hollowness of the ladle being laid aside that says it's an individual. And he questions the time, the actual likelihood of a worshiper being here at this hour, whatever hour it is.
He cranes his head to the side to look past the torii, a small wooden thing that rises from the ground, and notices that it's mostly dark out; the sun hasn't even peeked over Fuji looming in the distance, even if the dim glow reveals that dawn is near.
He blinks, and sits up, stifling a yawn. He wants to think it doesn't matter, think it pointless, but the futon at his side is empty, and the blond at the well, yukata folded neatly to the side, is performing a self ablution. He thinks it wrong to yawn at this moment.
X
About seven years before, the blond had stopped wearing the modern clothes, stopped trying to keep up with bygone fashions and the conforming crowds. About seven years before, the blond had taken the offering box, carefully counted out the yen and had returned with a solid white, pure cotton yukata.
The raven had frowned. "It's the end of the season. You do know you'll freeze in a month, right? Where is your jacket? And jeans? Didn't you-"
The blond had laughed, and the sound came out boyishly. "Yato, it's not like I'll freeze to death. Besides, we have the shrine, and, well, don't you think we need to look a bit more traditional?"
The words weren't boyish. The words were mature, a sign of the fifty three years that Yukine had been Yato's loyal shinki, his constant companion. A sign of aging, even if Yukine's body was still young and fourteen and agile.
Yato scowled, "We've never been traditional. Or orthodox." He himself was sporting a pair of prescription glasses, not because he needed them, but because he's clung to anything that made him seem remotely human ever since Hiyori had been diagnosed.
Yukine had laughed, looked down at his attire as if he thought it silly, and dropped his arms helplessly by his side, smile crooked. Despite this, Yato noticed he never changed back.
X
Masaomi opens the door for them when they arrive, the incense already burning, but he forces a smile and says "Welcome," at the exact same time that Yato ducks his head and mutters, "Pardon the intrusion."
Yukine follows silently behind, slips off his geeta while Yato slides off his sneakers and bows his head in respect at the tiny alter on the other side of the room where Hiyori's photo now sits.
"Long time, no see," Masaomi notes, closing the door behind them, and then, he's looking awkwardly at the ground and, "Hiyori did say you two had changed drastically."
Yato glances at Yukine, and blue eyes meet golden. Yato knows Masaomi means the blond, more so, with the yukata and geeta.
"She was worried about you two, changing so drastically." And then the taller, older looking male shoots a glance at the god's hand and -oh, yes, he knows now. He self consciously flexes his fingers, feels the multiple rings that tighten around the skin, and they way the leather bracelets up his wrists settle again.
Yato flashes a grin. "Ahaha, comes with the territory, I'm afraid. Constantly changing your appearance."
Masaomi blinks, bows his head. "Well, get settled. Her ashes will be here soon."
X
Years before, before the diagnosis and the hospital visits, the three of them had been extremely close. They had all shared kisses, at some point or another, had all been in nail scratching arguments that left the days following quiet, and had all experienced each other at their absolute worst and best.
And it continued for sometime, until on the street, someone who could see them had smiled and told Hiyori that her sons were handsome. Hiyori had been thirty eight then. Their romantic relationships had all but ended perhaps four years before, and it was Yukine who'd become desperate and withdrawn when she stopped kissing him or Yato.
Once that year, Yato had grabbed her hand -had grabbed Yukine's too, as if he were going to lead them on an incredible and unplanned adventure like so many years earlier-, but she had pulled away with a weak smile on her face, and said, "Aren't we getting a bit too old for this, Yaboku?"
Yato had laughed, played it off, and made no other advances. But he shot Yukine nervous glances; his shinki was unnerved.
X
He still wears sneakers, jeans, and t-shirts when Yato asks, "Can we talk?"
Yukine had been sitting cross legged, tossing pebbles into a rock garden below him. Granted it wasn't theirs, so it didn't really matter in either of their minds, but the blond still replies with a curt, "I'll stop, I swear."
"Tch," the god clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, teeth slightly apart and, "No, no. 'S fine." He digs through a pile of stones that the other had gathered, picks one that he finds to his liking, and starts under-handing pebbles himself. His skip right across the garden, marring raked lines, and Yukine's lip twitches up in wonder.
Yato turns to him, smiles. "Oi, just take it like this, and," he reachs over, takes the boy's hand, places a stone loosely in his palm before folding Yukine's fingers up. Yukine's eyes dart up, and he swallows as Yato covers his hand with his own, and let's the man lead the motion. It's a small, but quick flick of the wrist, and he lets go just as Yato says, "Now." It comes naturally, depending of each other, completing tasks just by watching the body of the other. The rock goes sailing, skips across the other pebbles once, twice, before rolling to a stop by a small, gnarled maple tree.
"Alright!" Yato grins, and his teeth are blinding, a perk, Yukine thinks, that comes with being a child of tengoku. He runs his tongue over his own teeth subconsciously, feels the small chip on his right incisor, but grins back as well.
Then, "Am I stinging you?"
The god's smile fades as quickly as it had formed, and Yato swings his legs up and drags the blond up with him. Yato is already walking, hands folded before his head, and Yukine takes a short spurt forward to cover the growing distance before settling into the god's own pace. "No, you aren't."
And Yato's words come off so clipped that the blond knows there's something being left unsaid.
"Well..."
"I want to talk about Hiyori."
"Ah, Yato, it's-" And Yukine's palms are up, mid-chest, with an awkward flush darkening his face. He forces a laugh, but when his golden eyes find the serious, pitying look on Yato's face, he huffs.
"I know this will be your first time, other than Suzuha, and it'll be rough, but-"
"Yato, what the hell are you going on-"
"But listen, it'll be rough, and it's okay if it is. We'll get through this together." And suddenly, there are arms around the boy, and Yato's dark hair is tickling his cheek, and he smells like sweat and iron and sweets, and Yukine opens his mouth, but a instead of syllables, a gurgling, choking noise comes out.
He's upset, they both know it, but Yukine just shoves off the affection, literally, and Yato stumbles away, giving a half-assed smile.
"I don't want to talk about this." The blond is furiously wiping away tears with the back of his hand, and even though his eyes are dry, they're rimmed red.
Yato's lip turns up slightly, tucked into his cheek. "If you-"
"Please, not right now."
The man sighs, scuffs at the ground with the toe of his boot and turns on his heel. "Come find me in an hour. We have a job to do."
X
She looks flustered, nervous. She's at the door, hand on the knob as if she'd slam it in Yato's face if he made her anymore uncomfortable than she already is. Her eyes keep darting, and she's just passed fifty. She's no longer quite so beautiful.
Twenty years ago, she'd cut her hair shoulder length, and it fit her in her thirties, but the color is all but fading, streaked with white and gray and dull brown. Slight bags pull down her eyes and crow's feet frame them. She's long since stopped wearing makeup.
"You called?"
"I wanted to talk." But she makes no move to open the door further; instead she tightens her grip, and it only accents the silver band around her ring finger. Yato tries not to grimace. Her husband had died years ago, and her only child had left for a company job in the States.
Yato didn't want to remember that it had been exactly one hundred and fifty six days since he's last spoken to her.
"About?" Yato forces a smile, but it's harder that he thought it would be. Returning here. "I can't cut you a discount, Hiyori. We're running low on funds." It wasn't true. They had the shrine now. Had it for four and a half years. He does the math in his head; him and Yukine had had a home only two years and three months before she'd been diagnosed.
She slips a hand into her pocket and digs out a 50 yen coin, offers it to him and doesn't let Yato refuse before she says, "It's all I have at the moment. I hardly ever carry cash on me anymore. Keep the change."
It came as an insult, in more ways than one, because she was truthful and passive. She didn't carry change on her person anymore, not even for him, and by giving him a lump sum, he felt disregard and disrespected in some twisted aspect. He pocketed the money anyways.
"Where is he?"
"The shrine. Taking care of some worshippers." Where I should be, he thinks, because standing in her presence now is almost stifling.
"How is he?"
"Hiyori, look, I really need to go if this was all you wanted to discuss. Yukine is fine. He's-"
"He wears a yukata now. And geeta."
Yato's chest clinches, but he smiles anyways. "Comes with the territory," he says, for the first time in his life. "Being dead, and all."
"It only started recently. I was just curious. Wanted to make sure everything was alright." She looks sincere, and her grip on the knob has loosened and she looks more relaxed.
There's no one around. She'd once told him she felt embarrassed when walking with them. Because of the age differences, she'd said. After all, she said, he still looked twentyish and the boy even younger. It was improper.
"I just care about the two of you, is all."
He grits his teeth between the grins and can't decide what he feels: frustration or misplaced hopefullness or nostalgia or betrayal. He wants to say, You would know, if you came by. You would know if you really cared. But he doesn't. He smiles and politely thanks her for her coin and goes on his merry way.
On his way back to the shrine, he tosses the money into a pond and watch as the fish dart away from it.
X
"Is there a chance of it?"
"Of what?"
"Of her becoming a spirit after.... Of maybe you taking her in...?" The question is uncertain, and Yukine is grasping at straws.
"No. She's too old now."
Yukine nods, solemnly, and stands up. He returns hours later with a yukata.
X
She tugs her hand away. "Aren't we getting a bit too old for this, Yaboku?"
X
Yukine can still feel the warmth from Yato's hand when, "I know this will be your first time, other than Suzuha, and it'll be rough, but-"
"Yato, what the hell-"
X
Yato doesn't sugar coat the answer. He touches the course rope hanging above his head; the shrine is decorated with them, making something of an obstacle course out of the ceiling.
"No. She's too old now."
X
"Where is your jacket? And jeans? Didn't you-" He's frowning. The blond doesn't look bad per say, but he looks too pure, too unearthly. Like he doesn't belong here.
"Yato, it's not like I'll freeze to death."
X
"He wears a yukata now. And geeta."
A forced smile. "Comes with the territory," a hesitant pause, "being dead, and all."
X
Masaomi has a daughter. Hana. Barely seven, with a harsh grasp on the Japanese language. A consequence of growing up in The States. But even so, she clings to Yukine like he's a star, bright and powerful and hopeful, and in the next room over, Yato can hear the muffled voices as he tells her folktales and history. Stories he'd once told Yato to occupy the time. He can hear him laughing, had seen him give her a true smile.
It had been years since Yukine had smiled, and Yato had pushed a smile past his lips with the bitterness in his mouth that told him it wouldn't last. He tried to be happy anyways.
Yato lights a stick of incense himself, clasps his hands together as he studies the picture. In it, Hiyori is young. None of the sickness visible in her face, her eyes.
"He's good with kids." Masaomi.
Yato wants to snort, but he just swallows and forces a nod. "Of course he is. He's been around for decades." Then, "I think...I think if he could, he would want kids." The words come out quiet.
"He can still want them," Masaomi replies just as softly, but the answer is so naive that Yato laughs until his chest hurts.
"No point in wanting what you can't have. He knows that. To do so, he might as well be dead."
Masaomi doesn't correct him, doesn't say, He's already dead. So Yato flicks his eyes at the man and says, "I can't give him that." And that hurts. Yato, who would do anything for the boy the next room over, can't give him something as simple as a family, or at least a semblance of one.
"He had me as a child. He has Hana." Yato doesn't confess that Yukine had hated Masaomi when he was born, how he'd cursed and cried until his eyes were blank. How they both had.
Yato forces a smile. "But you two aren't permanent. Even now-"
"What are you two talking about?" Yukine walks in, blond hair tousled with Hana shuffling behind him, hand clenching a fistful of white fabric. Long ago, Yato had already gotten used to Yukine's unchanging, concrete image, but now, next to the child, he feels sick. He wonders how much Yukine's features would have changed, if he would have gotten married, had children, which bad habits he would have gained or dropped, and then he wonders if it would have been more humane to have killed Yukine when he'd first met him, to have sent him off into nonexistence versus having to see the unhappiness that encroaches on those immune to actual death.
And Masaomi speaks, "I need you to help Hana prepare for the funeral tomorrow. I can't tie a yukata."
Yukine's eyes widen, then shrink back, and his flicks his eyes to the ground as he mutters, "That's a parental-"
"I want you to do it."
"I'm a male that isn't related. I'm flattered, but-"
"I have business to attend to, and she would love if you spent the time with her."
X
They return to the temple later, when the sun is just lowering behind the mountain and the cityscape. And Yukine is quiet, but he checks the offering box, and pulls out thirty-five yen. It was a slow day.
"Yukine." Yato says, and the blond drops the coins into the chest at the heart of the building. A green, threadbare jacket with the fur-lining falling out is folded at the bottom, but the blond closes the chest without a second glance.
"Yes?" He turns to look at Yato, the man whose dark hair has been trimmed more conservatively over the last few decades, whose sweatsuit is also moth eaten and falling apart underneath the winter coat. Now, somewhat contrary to his personality, he wears jeans and a v-neck. All clean cut. Tanned brown boots that look black in the absence of bright light.
Yato is frowning, and then, "After this, I want us to go away for a while. Maybe to Kyushuu. Somewhere tropical. Away from Tokyo before winter hits."
"That's fine. I don't mind."
"You can practice your English."
"I'd rather not."
Yato frowns even more. "I want you to."
"Then, I will. It's settled."
"Let's go kills some ayakashi. I've not used you in years. We can't have you getting rusty." The dark haired male flashes a grin.
"There's no ayakashi left."
"Of course there is."
"But nothing big. Besides, Yato, the funeral is tomorrow. We need to rest." Yukine pulls out the futons and lays them side by side.
Like a small child being guided by his parents, Yato lays down. They both do, but Yukine turns away, ending the conversation.
Yato looks at the ceiling, eyes following the lacquered wood, and says, "It's all over, isn't it?"
"What's over?"
Silence.
Then, "Us. This life. The time with Hiyori."
The covers shift, and Yukine rolls over on his back and looks up at the ceiling as well. He forces a smile. "That life was over a long time ago, Yato."
They lay in silence, until Yukine turns back over, but not before his hand touches Yato's. It's not too far along that the god turns away as well and lets sleep overtake him.