Leaving Credence at the spring, Kira’s hackles stay up long enough to see him home, through the motions of getting dressed and feeding the animals. In the bathroom, he sways at the sink, lifting handfuls of water to his parched mouth and eyes, washing the pink stain from his cheek. His temper is already waning by the time he leaves the house, and the resolve that points him north to the crack in the wall slips the further he travels the path.
There’s no undoing snapping at Credence. There’s no taking back why he did it, either. Some people are better off, here. Some people have enough of home with them to make new lives, carry on—but Kira can’t even start that from scratch.
Not without losing everyone.
Not without what he’s lost slapping him in the face.
He’d finally searched the pockets, folding the coat up at the house. There was the note: Kira Akiyama on one side, the twist of the knife on the other. Don’t forget what you came from.
Not where: what.
He doesn’t get friends and mentors out of the fountain. He doesn’t get his family, and the longer he walks, the more he realizes: he doesn’t get Ty. Maybe he could walk all the way up to the glass wall. Maybe he could leave the folded coat outside it, a request of all the vials and hair within. Who cares what it’s for, who cares if any of them are the first them, as long as he isn’t here alone. Even if it’s wrong, even if it’s pointless—
At the crossing path to the fountain park, Kira takes one last look into the trees, knowing the room is beyond them, and turns right instead. It’s almost a straight cut to Tim’s house, and he’s standing on the porch without conscious decision. Everything from the moment he walked out the back door has been a matter of momentum. Run into the trees, follow the path to the spring, yell at Credence, run from Credence, walk north, walk here. It doesn’t stop on the back porch; he spares a glance at the unnaturally dim sky and keeps walking. Maybe the sun is about to disappear for a month: who fucking cares anymore. He toes off his boots at the last step and leaves the coat between them, pushing past the door without knocking.
Once he’s inside, he’s a lost thing, looking around the kitchen like he’s never stood in it before. Like the space doesn’t make any sense without Tim in it.
Tim, right.
He’s here for Tim. The momentum starts again, building in a new direction. Fuck the coat, fuck anything that happened before this place. What’s the point in remembering that if it’s only ever going to be a wound, and not a person? Kira follows the sense of Tim tensing for the fact of someone in the house toward the bedroom, feet steady, only a glance at Tim at all when he catches him readied at a corner by the door. “There you are,” he says, like it explains or settles anything, and momentum carries him into Tim entirely, lifts his hands to Tim’s jaw, pushing past space and fluttering confusion to kiss him. There are so many pulses in his hands, beating in each other’s pauses, a litany of forget, forget.
tim; house 52; nsfw
There’s no undoing snapping at Credence. There’s no taking back why he did it, either. Some people are better off, here. Some people have enough of home with them to make new lives, carry on—but Kira can’t even start that from scratch.
Not without losing everyone.
Not without what he’s lost slapping him in the face.
He’d finally searched the pockets, folding the coat up at the house. There was the note: Kira Akiyama on one side, the twist of the knife on the other. Don’t forget what you came from.
Not where: what.
He doesn’t get friends and mentors out of the fountain. He doesn’t get his family, and the longer he walks, the more he realizes: he doesn’t get Ty. Maybe he could walk all the way up to the glass wall. Maybe he could leave the folded coat outside it, a request of all the vials and hair within. Who cares what it’s for, who cares if any of them are the first them, as long as he isn’t here alone. Even if it’s wrong, even if it’s pointless—
At the crossing path to the fountain park, Kira takes one last look into the trees, knowing the room is beyond them, and turns right instead. It’s almost a straight cut to Tim’s house, and he’s standing on the porch without conscious decision. Everything from the moment he walked out the back door has been a matter of momentum. Run into the trees, follow the path to the spring, yell at Credence, run from Credence, walk north, walk here. It doesn’t stop on the back porch; he spares a glance at the unnaturally dim sky and keeps walking. Maybe the sun is about to disappear for a month: who fucking cares anymore. He toes off his boots at the last step and leaves the coat between them, pushing past the door without knocking.
Once he’s inside, he’s a lost thing, looking around the kitchen like he’s never stood in it before. Like the space doesn’t make any sense without Tim in it.
Tim, right.
He’s here for Tim. The momentum starts again, building in a new direction. Fuck the coat, fuck anything that happened before this place. What’s the point in remembering that if it’s only ever going to be a wound, and not a person? Kira follows the sense of Tim tensing for the fact of someone in the house toward the bedroom, feet steady, only a glance at Tim at all when he catches him readied at a corner by the door. “There you are,” he says, like it explains or settles anything, and momentum carries him into Tim entirely, lifts his hands to Tim’s jaw, pushing past space and fluttering confusion to kiss him. There are so many pulses in his hands, beating in each other’s pauses, a litany of forget, forget.