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A small and delicate stain on the carpet, still fresh and red, easily mistaken for a shadow by the sunlight, maybe just a little off in hue, barely noticeable. Nothing like the copious and abundant amounts of crimson liquid you've seen before. You stay still.
It’s late and you’re alone, the house is warm and Yukine is upstairs studying—you’re not alone. That carpet was a relic, probably nothing more than a trinket found in some unknown department store, but it was so familiar on every visit. The coffee stain not far from the coffee table, and the silhouette of the jam toast Kofuku dropped once. Even under the table, in a corner not easily seen—only if you crouch and look closely—there’s a faint pool of beer from the day you were too tired, and let it spill. You moved the table a few centimeters, hoping Daikoku wouldn’t notice.
He knows. You know. He didn’t say anything, and the smell of alcohol vanished by morning. You couldn’t be more grateful. You can’t bring that smell with you—the acrid stench of fabric soaked in firewater. The house is still warm.
Yukine is upstairs.
And then he isn’t.
“Yato?”
His voice reaches your ears. Your son is beside you, his hands previously at his sides now leaning toward you like you’re warmth—but like he’s afraid to get burned.
You can’t help but agree. You don’t know if you nodded or made some kind of sound because a mop of blond hair is suddenly at your nose. Amber-brown eyes are in your line of vision.
“Ya...to, hey... are--- you okay?”
A hand. You don’t flinch. The hand pulls away. You trembled at your son’s touch. You open your mouth to apologize, unsure why—it just feels right to do so.
“Yato! Your hand!”
Your legs are numb like your bones, like your soul. Your hand itches, burns, weeps red. Pieces of the shattered white mug are buried in your flesh and you see it—your father’s laughter—he’s smiling.
"Aah Yaboku, how clumsy you are. Without your father, you’d be nothing, I always say that."
Alcohol drips and you back away because no. He cannot be near his son—his Yukine. His precious treasure. His name is Yukine and it will always be Yukine, and alcohol could erase that.
You won’t let it.
Take him away, whoever brought him—take him back.
Don’t they know it’s dangerous?
Don’t they know it could take your son away?
You try to pull away, shaking off the hands that seem to tug at your tracksuit to hold you in place. In your desperation, you lose your balance and stumble backwards, hitting your head and spine on the wall.
You hear a groan.
And another one that is not yours.
“I’m Yukine! It’s okay! Yato, it’s okay.”
You don’t realize you’re shaking, and you’re cold—but that can’t be. The house should be warm, a home shouldn’t be cold.
It can never, ever resemble that godforsaken place. His grave
You stand—or attempt to—but your legs tremble and you can’t see.
Since when can’t you see?
Only black.
Hands pull you closer and then—amber. And though it stings, it’s warm.
“Don’t move, idiot! Where do you think you’re going? I have to wrap this up... ah, where the hell is Hiyori when you need her...?”
You stay still. You don’t want punishment.
Hiyori.
Hiyori.
Sakura.
You rise again.
“Yato! What’s wrong?”
You don’t know how, but you manage to say something, a syllable. Your shinki knows you too well—because now you know—you’re with your shinki. In your home. You’re cold. Your shinki is okay. You’re the only cold one. As it should be.
“Hiyori’s fine, Yato. I talked to her about half an hour ago... Who’s Sakura...?”
Sakura. Sakura was dead. You nod. You hear a frustrated grunt at your evasion. You clench your fists and feel the glass dig into your palm—it doesn’t hurt, but it grounds you, like an anchor or a red string. Yukine squeezes back, forcing you to relax. More red stains the carpet and the room turns the same hue with the setting sun.
You wonder how long you’ve been lying on the living room floor.
There is silence, and the alcohol lingers—but not much. Yukine smells like soap and thorns and you lean in because you’re tired, so tired.
You feel yourself falling—but you never crash. You always manage to stop. And you want to break—but you can’t. So you simply lean into the thin thighs of the precious boy you would give your sin-filled life to protect.
“Yato? I finished your hand.”
You don’t respond. You feel the bandages. You’re still cold—but now there’s something at your back. A living creature. Breathing. Here. You are not alone. Yukine is here.
Not underground.
Not in a stupid house soaked in beer and violence to the bone.
Not with a man more deserving of divine punishment and God’s wrath than Ebisu ever was.
Not in a goddamned dark freezer.
He is here with you.
Yukine seems to understand. Understand that you’re present now—because he relaxes. He lets you settle in his lap and brushes the hair from your eyes. And your son is so grown. And you’re so proud. And consciousness slips away just as a pair of warm lips kiss your forehead.