Work Text:
Suits are difficult to wash.
The fabric soaks up water like something tortured by thirst, hoarding the liquid like darkness hoarding stars. It becomes heavier, less pronounced, black strokes melting into a puddle of wool.
Despite the homogeneous inky color, red seeps out from the jacket when Higuruma scrubs at it, bleeding after someone else bled into it. The crimson stains his fingers; or, maybe, his fingers stain the blood.
He had worn this suit since the beginning of his career, some twenty years ago. He recognizes it as well as his own body, knowing where the fabric scrapes his skin after a long day and knowing that a pair of little, permanent holes puncture the left lapel. It is not his first time washing it, nor will it be the last. However, he is unfamiliar with this organic side of his clothing, where the black melts into red and his lapel pin is hauntingly absent. He could almost pretend the suit belongs to someone else this way. A faceless stranger, impersonal and far away. Almost. But you always recognize your own skin.
Everything aches throughout his body. His limbs are sore and numb after countless swipes and throws. His legs are stiff and buzzing by leaping around carelessly. Worst of all, his stomach is bruised with a burning pain; it feels like he downed a glass of fire and guilt without thinking. Most logically, multiple shots, at least counting to double digits. The ache travels up to his chest when he shifts his posture, like a snake pouncing on his ribcage. His bones feel jagged, inhuman, like something alive and unhappy beneath his flesh, something that wants to escape, to be something — someone — else than him.
It’s great, Higuruma thinks. None of this feels worse than killing.
The apartment he broke into still had running water, by the grace of gods. The small bathroom, reeking of an artificial herbal sweetener, was populated by a sink, a toilet, and, on the far left, a bathtub. He stared at it for the longest time when he first came in, far longer than he spent staring at himself in the mirror. In the end, he didn’t — couldn’t — step into the bath, deeply scared of the ceramic texture. So, he took off his ruined leather shoes, listened to the water running in the sink, and began scrubbing.
His pin is tainted with blood too. It sits on the brim of the basin, the scale in the middle glaring at him accusingly. The crimson cries louder on gold than on black.
The only thing more difficult than washing suits is drying them.
Quality wool is demanding, picky with products and feeble with machines — drying it with a dryer has no difference from shredding it with scissors. It needed to be airdried, a slow purification by the wind and the sun.
Yet, there’s something holy in the mundane act for a man who forgot how to be ordinary, a man who forgot how water feels without the sticky texture of clothes clinging to his skin. So, Higuruma carries his suit to the balcony, never mind that it weighs like a dead body on top of his arms. He hangs the clothing up, then stands on the biting cold metal balcony without shoes, watching water drip from the rims of the sleeves. He feels like a hunter watching a draining prey; well, perhaps not, more like a skinned rabbit watching its fleece instead.
He doesn’t sit down despite his body pleading at him to do so. The pain in his abdomen intensifies like a spreading fire, blazing hot needles pressing against the inner walls of his guts, but still, he refuses to sit down.
When had he sat down, actually?
A lawyer stands during court to present arguments. When had he become so comfortable in a chair, as if he were a judge? His suit is familiar with the piercing of a lapel pin, but it doesn’t recognize the feeling of a plush chair underneath his thighs; so why had his skin pretended to know?
The gavel jumps into his hand, stoic and more palpable than blood against his palm. Curse energy hums on its surface like a reverberating blade. It is perfectly clean, but Higuruma knows. He knows how heads splattered underneath the hammer head, he knows how ribs broke under the handle butt, he knows how red looks on top of the cross in the middle. But it is perfectly clean. Despite how Higuruma reeks of iron, his weapon smells like nothing.
When had he accepted that? When had he accustomed himself to the cold wood pressing against his knuckles? When had he befriended the sound of gunshot the gavel makes when it is struck against wood?
Higuruma throws the hammer out, ignoring the muffled crash echoing from a broken window. It comes back a few moments later, snuggling his right hand innocently. The man groans, then throws it out again, striking and denting a wall this time. It comes back again. He grits his teeth and throws it out again, and again, and again, until his arms cannot be lifted anymore. The gavel returns again, and again, and again, like a curse bound to him.
He wants to scream. He wants this gavel gone for good. He wants to touch something again without feeling blood underneath his nails. He wants to shower properly again without wanting to throw up. He wants to forget what killing someone feels like—
He stops his left hand when it reaches over the rail subconsciously, all thoughts screeching to a halt. Higuruma clenches his fist tight, afraid to lose what he held inside, even if it bites into his palm dully. The gavel bangs on the ground as he abandons it, hurriedly covering his left hand in his right, breathing rapidly.
His lapel pin glisters when he peels his fingers open carefully, golden like the sun. Higuruma forces his eyes to keep wide open, even if the light the sunflower reflects borders on blinding him. Not again.
The suit is no longer wet beneath his fingertips when he reaches out for it — damp, sure, but no longer drenched.
Higuruma wants to talk to Itadori again.