Chapter Text
RUSHING RIVER
速い鯉の川。
“A river of rushing koi.”
December 21st, 2005.
Kamurocho, Tokyo, Japan.
Millennium Tower, Top Floor.
Ares.
"Nishiki!"
There's been few, if any, moments in Kiryu Kazuma's life where he's felt so out of control. Fate has a way of traveling down many, many different paths, whether they're ideal or not. Lose as much as he has, you grow to live with every last one.
Tachibana? Shit.
Shinji? Man.
Reina? Damn.
Kazama? God.
Yumi? He sure hopes not. But given the shot to the abdomen she just took and his history thus far with these types of things, it isn't looking good.
At this point, you're no longer in the driver's seat. You're moreso kidnapped in the trunk, bashing at it with tight, angry fists. Fists that, oh goddamnit, why did they have to be fists?
Could they not be outstretched hands, embracing Nishiki and Yumi and Yuko?
Could they not be clenched around a baseball, just shooting the shit with his kyoudai?
Why, oh why, were they clenching desperately at nothing but blood and sweat, wishing desperately that it was his kyoudai instead? That it was his Nishiki?
The millisecond he plunged deep into Jingu’s body with his blade, Jingu firing a shot of his own into Nishikiyama's stomach, Kiryu’s heart sank. But the second Nishikiyama raised his gun, eyes trained on the bomb, Kiryu's heart dropped . He knew. He fucking knew.
“No way I'm letting this asshole…get away with it.”
No.
“The responsibility is mine…so let me do this.”
No!
“Don't! Don't do it, Nishiki!”
Kiryu is no stranger to raising his voice. He'd prefer to speak in soft, loving coos to his loved ones, but that simply wasn't the hand he was dealt. He longed to laugh, to love, but he was born to yell, to scream. But this wasn't any average yell. This wasn't him barking out warnings to the various chinpira that challenged him on the street. This wasn't him shouting threats at whoever dared threaten his family or way of life. No, this ripped out from his very soul, tearing through his chest as he not only yelled, not only screamed, but sobbed his kyoudai’s name.
“NISHIKI!”
He was so helpless. He was so goddamn helpless. Helpless to this shit life, a shit life from the beginning, and a shit life to the end. Helpless to the way things ended out. Why did things end out this way? How did they end up so…so bad ? So incredibly fucked?
Why was Nishikiyama, no, his Nishiki…
Why was he dead?
December 21, 1976.
Machida, Tokyo, Japan.
Himawari.
“Seriously, it's just peppers,” Akira prattled on and on, for the umpteenth time that day. “I eat ‘em, no problem. It's very mature of me. How are we supposed to make oyaji-san or anyone else proud if we can't even eat—”
By that time, Kazuma had stopped listening. Okay, he didn't like piiman. Green peppers were every child's worst enemy. In fact, they should be the worst enemy of all grown-ups, too. He had never been one to have such strong opinions thus far, but this was the one thing, the one thing that he could confidently say his take on.
Favorite color? He wasn't sure yet.
Favorite food? He was easy to please.
Favorite song? He didn't really listen to music. But Yuko always had a lovely voice.
Favorite game? He'd take so long trying to answer that, by the time he had one, everyone else was already off playing whatever game they'd decided without him.
Meanwhile, Akira? He was nothing but opinionated.
Favorite—you needn't continue. White, a good anpan went a long way, Yuko’s singing, and hide and seek. All before you even finished your question.
Kazuma frowned. Akira really seemed to have his entire life figured out. But between him and his much more fragile sibling, someone had to be there to do all the dreaming for the both of them.
“Hey, hey, what's with that face? I didn't hurt your feelings, did I?”
No. (Yes.)
“It's gonna be fine, Kiryu,” Akira swung an arm around Kazuma, eliciting a half-hearted grunt of protest before ultimately giving in, “I'll teach you how to act like a grown-up too, just like me! Feel better?”
Yes. (No.)
Kazuma's hummed approval was nothing short of unconvincing, the slight frown on his face still prominent.
“Hey, no, waitwaitwait—”
Any time Akira felt guilty, he always started talking all fast. He already talked enough—perhaps overcompensating for something he didn't quite know yet—but when he felt bad, it became not just frequent, but frantic. They hadn't known each other for very long at all, but at his core, all Akira wanted to do was make sure nobody around him was ever in pain. Emotional, or physical. That, they could both agree on.
Okay, maybe he felt a little better. He wasn't trying to tease. He was only trying to help.
“Do you think oyaji-san hates piiman too?” Kazuma asked, the first full sentence he had said in a while. Akira brightened immediately, like a flower in full bloom. “Grown-ups love piiman, Kiryu,” Akira said, very factually. That was indeed very true. “Yeah,” Kazuma agreed, until a faint smile crossed his face. “But y'know…”
He looked over at Akira, a mischievous shine in his dark brown eyes.
“Bet he doesn't make stupid faces when he eats it like you do.”
“Hey!”
In a chorus of giggles and not so serious threats, Akira toppled over Kazuma, tumbling across the dirt. Would they have hell to pay later when it was their job to do the laundry, trying to get grass and dirt stains out of their clothes? Absolutely. But kids know nothing about foresight, about the consequences one action might have. Kazuma learns this the hard way, at the ripe old age of twelve. Akira and Yuko already learned that lesson, at eight and six, respectively. But they were eight and eight and six right now, with no lessons to be learned but to love and to love and to love. And love would always be enough.
By the end of their little spat, Akira is pinned to the cold ground, bits of dirt and rocks and dew from the grass littered throughout his hair. Kazuma is on top, as always. He was grateful for that much—where he fell behind the other kids sometimes in mental aptitude, he made up for in physical ability.
“You take that back!”
“And what if I don't?”
“Then I'll…I’ll…!”
Akira did not have an adequate threat for the situation.
Kazuma snickered.
“Terrifying.”
“Akira! Kazuma!”
At the sound of Yuko's voice from the door, they disentangled themselves, racing towards the direction of her voice. “Last one there is a—!” Kazuma's challenge was cut off as, totally on accident, Akira's foot shot out in front of Kazuma, sending him stumbling, but not quite falling. “Cheater!”
“I'm not cheating! I'm just—”
“Boys!”
Akira stopped.
Kazuma stopped.
Yuko snickered softly, only to be nudged by their caregiver. The headmaster of Himawari.
Hinode-san.
“I ask you two to grab the clean laundry and clean up for dinner,” he began, voice exhausted as he worked his brow between his index finger and thumb, “and somehow, you two are even dirtier.”
“Well I didn't mean to I was only—”
There Akira was again, talking fast when he felt bad.
“Akira, I can't understand you when you speak like that. Take a deep breath and speak like a man. Kazuma,” he looked over at the boy in question, who was simultaneously trying not to meet Hinode’s harsh gaze and trying to make unwavering, confident eye contact all at once, “you’re not off the hook either. What got into you two?”
“We…got distracted.”
“I can tell.” While guilt made Akira frantic, guilt made Kazuma stupid. He simply states the obvious and hopes that somehow, things get better. “Akira? Now that you've taken some deep breaths, care to explain?”
“We were on our way to get the laundry, then we started talking about food. We talked about how Kiryu hates piiman and I don't,” a brief flicker of amusement danced across Hinode's eyes, a short respite from his stern demeanor, “and then we started fighting. Not fight fight, play fight. We forgot. Then Yuko called us. And then you called us. And now we're here. And now I'm telling you how we—”
“Yes, thank you, Akira,” Hinode interjected before he could talk his way into circles, catching another snicker from Yuko. He withheld his nudge for the time being. “While I am more than convinced to put you two on laundry duty for the next week starting now, you all know that Kazama-san is visiting tonight. So there's no time for that. Get clean, you two. We're running out of time, before we all know it he'll be here and you two will still be dirty and I'll have you tossed in with the laundry. So, I expect you two clean and tidy, looking your absolute best, in the next half hour. Got it?”
“O-okay!” Kazuma stammered, while Akira nodded rapidly. Hinode raised an eyebrow. Instantly, the two of them straightened up, bowing. “Yes, Hinode-san!” They said in tandem, earning a satisfied nod from their headmaster. “On with it, then.”
As Hinode turned to leave, Yuko looked over at the boys with an evil grin. “Soooomebody's in troooouble,” she sang, before catching a sharp side eye from Hinode. “And you'll be helping them, Yuko.”
“What?!”
It was only nikujaga. But when you were having dinner with the Kazama Shintaro, nothing was “only nikujaga.” Kazuma and Akira were dressed, well, neatly enough. It wasn't their Sunday best nor their Saturday pretty good, but it was damn sure their Tuesday good enough. And Yuko was beautiful. Yuko was always beautiful. She was both too young and too fragile to do most of the other girls’ jobs, such as cleaning the entire house in a frenzy, but she knew her way around a set table like it was no one's business. Everything was placed with near terrifying accuracy, for a six year old.
The nikujaga was placed, the rice and miso soup on either side, the smell of the shoyu wafting through the air. Kazuma's mouth began to water. The tsukemono was there too—maybe he could just take one small…
“Don't even think about it, Kazuma,” Yuko scolded. She was so much younger, a whole two years, and she already knew everything he was gonna do.
She was only six.
It was his job to be a role model for the younger kids, not be scolded by them!
“I was just…making sure it was plated correctly,” Kazuma defended himself, only to receive an offended scoff from Yuko. “Are you doubting my plating exper…eper…I’m good at it, okay?” Kazuma resisted a smile, albeit one moreso of fondness rather than teasing.
She was only six.
Akira, on the other hand, was busy hauling things back and forth. He was less physically strong than Kazuma, that went without saying, but it didn't mean that he was weak by any means. Hinode, on the other other hand, was bordering on neurotic, ordering that this be moved here. And that be moved there. And that be moved here.. And this be moved there. And repeating the process over and over again, for every piece of furniture, until he was something at least somewhat similar to satisfied. Nothing was too good for Kazama-san.
Hopefully this would go better than last time. Last time Kazama was going to visit, Kazuma had only been at the orphanage for about a week or so. He didn't know what he was missing out on. But, judging by the way Hinode-san deflated once six o'clock came and went, retreating to his office, leaving behind a bunch of confused children with more food than they knew what to do with, Kazuma figured it wasn't great. And the older kids spoke of another time, and another time, and…another time…
Kazuma shook his head, a determined look on his face. No matter. This time would be different. It just had to be.
Two rows of children lined up at the door, from oldest to youngest. Being around the middle, Kazuma and Akira were separated by about two or three other kids, with Yuko plenty of kids further down. Yuko waved at Akira. Akira waved at Yuko. Kazuma waved at Yuko. Yuko waved at Kazuma. Kazuma and Akira waved at each other.
Akira's hair was pushed back behind his ear.
A certain warmth bloomed in Kazuma's chest, so overwhelmingly fond.
And then, the door opened.
In came some tough looking man in a suit. Kazuma squinted at the pin on his jacket—it was a character he couldn't read yet. But he decided it must be important. Then came a kinder looking man, but he still maintained a tough aura, along with a mysterious pin. And then… him.
Kazuma didn't even know him as well as some of the other kids, but something in him, without even having to be told, had him bowing the first millisecond he caught sight of that stern face. As he stole a glance upward towards Akira, he saw him doing the exact same. They exchanged a smile.
The other kids bowed as Kazama passed, but the two of them remained bowed, even long before he reached them.
Click. Step. Click. Step. Click.
Kazama’s pace, cane clicking on by, was constant, unwavering.
Step. Click. Step. Click. Step.
He was coming this way.
Click. Step. Click. Step. Step.
Kazuma stiffened immediately. He had stopped…right in front of him! And as he dared to glance upwards, he caught side of those deep, dark eyes, glimmering with knowledge he could only dream to obtain. Nowadays, it was knowledge he could only dream to forget.
“Welcome to Himawari, oyaji-san!” Kazuma and Akira barked out. They were in perfect sync. A brief shine of interest reflected over Kazama's eyes. Now this was interesting. “Nishikiyama, Kazuma,” Kazama regarded them both, before continuing down his path.
Step. Click. Step. Click.
Akira and Kazuma looked up at each other. And, in sync once again, barely restrained their giddiness as they beamed. Kazama, of all people, noticed them! Them!
As they all went to their seats, Hinode-san and Kazama-san locked in a quiet conversation, Kazuma sat between Akira and Yuko.
“Can you—”
“Can you believe it, Yuko?” Kazuma, of all people, interrupted Akira's excited rambling. “Oyaji-san saw us!”
“I know! Do you guys think he saw me too?”
“Uh, obviously,” Akira said, as if such a thing were the most absurd thing he had ever heard of, “he saw you. How could he not?” Akira ruffled Yuko’s hair gently, with little protest from her. It seems she really needed to hear that.
He's really nice, when he wants to be.
Secretly, Kazuma wasn't quite sure what to call Akira. Akira called him Kiryu. That was simply factual. It made sense, because that's how things were. They both called Yuko by her first name. The occasional Yuko-chan from Akira, if he felt so inclined. Kazuma would never cross that line, it made him feel funny. So he stuck to Yuko. But as for Akira…
Nishikiyama? No, too formal. Kiryu was just Kiryu. But Nishikiyama was Nishikiyama. And Akira? Too casual. It made him feel like he was being mean. Nishikiyama-kun? Akira-kun? Too weird. He didn't call him Kiryu-kun. So he wouldn't call him anything -kun. Akira-chan…?
No. That was just stupid.
Akira was fine. He could simply call him Akira and get over it.
“Hey, um…Aki—”
“Itadakimasu!”
Shoot. Dinner’s starting. I'll barely have time to talk, now!
As Akira dug into his food like a starving man, Kazuma's own hunger was briefly forgotten.
Akira…
No. That made him feel funny too.
Kazuma began to eat. With all the other kids, oyaji-san, Yuko, and…whatever he was supposed to call him.
He skillfully swept aside some piiman on his plate. Akira ate his confidently, but Kazuma could see the grimace on his face, the way he seemed to struggle with every bite. Yuko was no better.
Kazuma glanced over the table, noticing Kazama at the other end, with Hinode-san. Hinode ate neatly, gracefully, appreciatively. Every last piiman. And Kazama…
He swept his aside, as well.
Kazuma snickered softly, and then continued to eat.
Told ya.
December 31st, 1976.
Machida, Tokyo, Japan.
Himawari.
“You and Nishikiyama are close, aren't you?” Kazama had asked, exactly ten days ago. It caught Kazuma completely off guard. Kazama was heading out, his entourage already leading him towards his car. But he stopped everything, once again, just to speak to Kazuma. “Me and Yuko? Yeah, I really like her, we're—”
“You and Nishikiyama Akira.”
Him and Akira, huh? They had gotten close. Him and Yuko got close first, due to her simpler nature and his protective nature, but his relationship with Akira was special, too.
“Yeah, ” Kazuma had said after a moment, “he’s cool.”
“What do you like about him?”
“No matter what, he really wants everyone to be okay. Him and me and Yuko. He doesn't really like anybody else. I think we're his only friends and that makes me sad sometimes. But I don't wanna be with him because I'm sad, I stay with him because when I'm with him, I'm happy. Nish…Aki…he makes me happy. Really happy.”
Kazama listened to him with interest, but his struggle over Akira's name did not go unnoticed.
“And yet, you don't know what you should call him?”
“I dunno. He's younger than me so I feel like it doesn't matter what I call him, but he's not really too much younger, so it still matters. It would matter no matter what, actually. I just want him to be happy, too. I wanna make him happy too.”
“Then call him what you think would make him happy.”
It sounded so simple, but it made so much sense. So much sense that, on the morning of omisoka , Kazuma laid awake, just thinking about it all. Everyone was still fast asleep. But he couldn't help but think. What would make Akira happiest?
Early that evening, just full enough of osechi with room for toshikoshi soba, Akira turned to Kazuma. “Hey. Hey, Kiryu. Hey.” He repeated, tapping him gently. Kazuma was already listening, of course. When it came to Yuko or Akira, he was always listening. “Yeah?” Kazuma reassured him anyway, letting him know he was here. It earned him a smile. “Come with me.”
“Come with you? Where?”
“To the garden! We gotta hurry before it's too late and we gotta go to—”
Kazuma didn't care. He was already there, from the moment Akira first asked. They hurried down to the garden, as much as they could, at least, in their formal wear.
“Isn't Hinode-san going to kill us? There's no way we're not gonna get dirty.”
“Not if we're careful. Besides, I do this every year, this year isn't gonna be any different.”
“I guess…”
Kazuma was cautious as the sleeves of his haori dragged over the lush leaves and various plants, stepping carefully. Akira was somehow even more careful, treading with utmost precision.
“I'm looking for flowers. Purple ones,” Akira stated, as if that explained much. It did not. “What for?” Kazuma prompted. Akira looked away, a slight redness to his cheeks. Kazuma only grew more and more confused. “For Yuko,” Akira muttered softly, so much so that the briefest rustle of the wind threatened to completely drown him out. It did not. “She's always so sick, I usually get her flowers every omisoka so she can go into the new year feeling happy before she feels sad again. I know, it's stupid, but every year I—what are you doing?”
All caution thrown to the wind, Kazuma plunged into the meadow, ignorant to how the twigs and plants tugged at his hakama. Oh, Hinode-san was going to kill them. But Kazuma was entirely locked in, and wasn't backing out for a millisecond.
After a moment, his head popped out from the flora, and he scurried back over to Akira, wincing as the sticks and stems stabbed at his legs. But, in his left hand, was a small bundle of purple flowers.
“For…Yuko.” Kazuma agreed, breathless. But, in the face of his best efforts, a brief snort fell from Akira, uncomposed, uncouth. Much unlike his usual grace. Kazuma frowned slightly.
“You look ridiculous,” Akira said softly, but his tone held no malice whatsoever. Gently, he plucked debris from Kazuma's hair, closer than they had ever been without it being during a fight. If not for a pristine outfit, intact hair was the least he could do. Hair was everything, at least it was to him. And Kazuma simply leaned into his touch, eyes glittering with appreciation. “You okay, Kiryu?”
“Yeah.”
After handing him the flowers, Kazuma notably held his right hand behind his back. Akira rolled his eyes.
“Lemme see.”
“But—!”
Akira wasn't taking no for an answer, taking his hand into his. On his index finger laid a small nick, a large droplet of blood welling up at it. “Just from some roses. Grabbed the wrong flower,” Kazuma admitted, embarrassed. But, without a thought, Akira took the digit into his mouth, removing the blood in an instant. Kazuma's breath hitched in his throat.
“Better?”
All he ever wants is for no one to be in pain.
Sucking on cuts did jack shit to help them. Kazuma thought it was gross. But, in that moment, it was all Akira could do. It's what he thought would make everything better. And, as a burst of warm, overwhelming affection filled Kazuma's heart, it truly did. It was innocent. It was kind. And, while it wasn't exactly state of the art medical assistance, it truly made him feel special.
“Yeah. All better.”
It was the truth.
But, even truer, Akira deserved to be called something special. Something no one else ever got to call him but Kiryu Kazuma. His very own title. Not Akira. Not Nishikiyama. But…
“Thanks…Nishiki.”
A wave of confusion, embarrassment, affection, and amusement washed over Akira all at once in a vast array of facial expressions.
“Eh? Nishiki?”
“Yeah. Nishiki. I didn't wanna call you Nishikiyama because that's not nice, but I didn't wanna call you Akira because that's not nice either. Is that…okay?”
Akira mulled it over for a moment, but in his heart, the decision was already made long, long ago. “Do whatever you want,” he hummed, but he clutched the flowers a little tighter. Kazuma smiled brightly, warring with the setting sun.
“Let's go, Nishiki.”
And so, Nishikiyama Akira was no longer Nishikiyama, nor Akira. He was Nishiki now.
This was his Nishiki.
明けましておめでとう.
Akemashite omedetou.
Happy new year.
The new year came just like any other. The dragon had yet to become a dragon. The koi had yet to become a koi. But, in the furthest reaches of his mind, a mere fleeting glimpse, lay the presence of a singular, lone dragonfish.
January 1st, 1977.
Kamurocho, Tokyo, Japan.
Tōgenkyō.
Kasuga Ichiban is born. And, in the furthest reaches of his mind, still yet to be formed, a mere fleeting glimpse, lay the presence of a singular, lone koi.