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When he’s alone, he imagines.
He imagines this world, open blue sky, green grass rustling underneath. He pictures a two-story house, not too big, not too small. Just right.
Not an apartment, not a mansion. Just a house that felt like home.
And in this house, there’d be a person, sitting near the window, looking out and up at the clouds. He’d have bandages on his face, and headphones around his neck.
Murasaki would go to him.
Pain.
It’s all he can feel. Someone’s kicking his ribs in. A woman’s laughing. Freemum. Art.
He’d say the boy’s name.
And blue eyes, like the ocean, like the center of a cut sapphire gem, blue eyes that can pick out the tendrils of insincerity in an instant, would twinkle at him. They’d crinkle at the corners.
The boy with the bandaged face would smile.
He coughs out blood. So much blood. The Minimum Holders around him don’t let up. He tries his best to stay silent even when he’s winded.
You’re not listening to music, the man with the glasses would say.
There’d be a smile from the other. It’s not quiet out here. Do you hear the wind?
Murasaki knew the boy hated the deathly quiet. Hated it like he hated those who never practiced what they preached. He hated those who aren’t true to themselves.
“Careful, careful. Can’t go too far on this guy.”
“Just let me get a few punches in! I’m getting a crack at Hamatora scum for once!”
Maybe that’s why he accepted Murasaki, even when the latter had felt so strongly against him. He’d wanted to beat the boy with the headphones with everything he had. It was still his greatest wish.
You’re not playing around, the bandaged boy said.
Murasaki knew that he’d never do such a thing.
He’s dizzy. His vision wasn’t working. His glasses are probably broken. The thrumming of All Or Nothing was completely gone. Leaving his mind feeling utterly empty.
He still wants them to be equals. He still wishes to take the boy with the headphones down a peg.
But at the same time, he just wants to hold him. To brush the hair back from his eyes. To cut it if the boy so wanted him to, annoyed that it was too long.
And at the same time, Murasaki wants to clean the dishes that would serve food made by his own two hands, to see the boy with the blue eyes sit near the window and watch outside, like some creature in another universe, a person who could never sit still, being entranced with the world around him.
Soap could get on his glasses, on his hands and sometimes even on his sleeves, and he wouldn’t mind.
Because at the end of the day the boy with the need to hear the non-silence will still want Murasaki with him. To feel his touch. To know that his rival, his friend, his partner, his tiger, was right here. And he won’t be anywhere else.
He’s slipping into unconsciousness. He wishes he could move. Where’s Art? Was he on the move for the boy Murasaki fought so hard for?
And all Murasaki really knows is that he loves him. He loves him beyond comprehension and beyond reason, jealousy and envy and admiration swirling up inside every time he sees the boy snap his fingers and become the rider of the vibrations in the air, and he still loves him.
The boy could dance circles around Murasaki and the latter could never get a single hit on him, zeroing in and tackling him onto the ground, so fast it wasn’t even a contest, and Murasaki loves him.
That boy has never done a single chore in his life, dives headfirst into situations when he’s agitated, surprising at the worst of times and restless and no one will ever get on Murasaki’s nerves more than he does, and Murasaki loves him.
And Murasaki would protect him.
He’d protect him against Art. Against Freemum.
Against their friends.
If the whole world turned on them, Murasaki would protect him.
No matter what the cost was, he’d be there. He’d be his shield, his shoulder to rest on, his support.
And he didn’t need anything in return except a hand in his.
Murasaki would protect him with his life.
There’s a white glow in his vision now. As if he’s floating. Like he’s not really here.
Someone’s dragging him.
Where’s Art? Did he succeed? Did Murasaki fail?
A sob surges in his throat.
No. Please tell him it’s not true. He failed, he lost his Minimum, he’s fought so hard, and he can’t move.
Unconsciousness surges up on him like a tidal wave.
…
“ Oh my God, oh my God.”
There’s a hand in his.
A familiar voice.
Murasaki could cry if he was awake enough. There’s a hand on his cheek, and it’s trembling.
“ Murasaki, ” Nice whispers, and the tears were imminent.
The wet weight comes seconds later, buried against Murasaki’s chest as the boy with the blue eyes, bandages, and headphones cries onto his partner, bonelessly relieved.
It’s okay.
Murasaki tries his best to squeeze their shared grip.
I protected you.