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madokasoratsugu · 6 years

Text

living dead

[muhyo/enchu/yoichi/biko friendship fic]

summary: The little ways whereby Muhyo, Yoichi and Biko cope (or don't) with Enchu's departure.

a/n: deep sigh. i was Sad so i wrote this instead of working on an impt essay. my grades are dying. so am i. so is everyone’s heart in this fic LMAO. pls read and enjoy !! as usual read on ao3 if possible, thanks!

ao3 / ffnet

Brushing a hand across his forehead, Muhyo feels Enchu tremble with barely contained giggles as his fingers snap against his forehead, an epiphany of giggles of erupting from the pale haired boy.

Enchu’s skin is soft, unscarred. It turns red from the gentlest squeeze, bruises from the slightest push.

He is fragile, that much is clear; but Muhyo doesn’t realise how easily his gentle friend hurts until the town is burning around them, people’s screams fill the streets and Muhyo hears Enchu whisper “you took everything from me”, voice cracking and eyes glossed over with madness.

(madness or sorrow, blame or grief, lies or truth

i love you or i hate you

those whispered words, always whispered in such a shy voice as if the words were a secret only for muhyo’s ears, echo in muhyo’s mind every time he feels the weight of his executor’s book in his hand;

his mind wanders further and the words get louder when he finds an assistant with a smile that captures the essence of fragility his friend once wore like a cloak wrapped ‘round his lithe frame)

--------

“You’re lying, lying, Enchu, why, why, don’t-don’t go! Don’t do this Enchu!”

Yoichi’s pitiful screams seem to pass right by the boy in mention, who smiles mockingly down at the tear streaked face of his former friend.

The judge to be’s hands are shaking, fingers frozen around his pen and seals.

He hears footsteps behind him, knows them well enough to know it’s Muhyo’s, knows Enchu well enough to spot the flickering panic in the way his chest dips in a quick exhale.

Opening his mouth, Yoichi gives out one last strangled plea.

“Soratsugu…!”

(yoichi remembers the pale haired boy with his brilliant smile, remembers how the corners of enchu’s sky blue eyes would crinkle with amusement, remembers the way enchu’s thin arms had curled around his waist, remembers enchu’s soft sigh whenever yoichi buries his face in the crook of his neck.

yoichi remembers, treating enchu who looked like he would snap in half at the softest wind, like the finest of china.

most of all, yoichi remembers the sound of enchu’s soft laugh;

like chimes, long bidden sorrows, a tired song.)

--------

“You’ll get sick again if you eat too much.” Biko always half-heartedly chides, another steaming loaf already being brought to the table to be cut.

She knows better than anyone else, of his weak health, too breakable bones and tragic immune system; she’s their room’s unspoken for doctor, fingers calloused and scratched from herbs and artifact making, constantly smoothing down Enchu’s back as he heaves into the toilet bowl for the umpteenth time that day.

“I can never, not when you’ve baked it.” Enchu always laughs as a reply.

(then enchu takes rio away, the first(perhaps fourth) person to mean so dearly to biko she would gladly have traded an arm, an leg for her to be returned;

yet all biko can think is ‘who’s been accompanying you these cold nights in the lavatory nowadays enchu, you havent been taking care of yourself; look at the weight youve lost, im glad youre alive’

and she weeps for the boy whose heart was weaker than his body,

for the boy she would have traded her soul to be returned.)

--------

None ever talk about the white haired boy when they gather (if they gather).

They trade boisterous greetings, loud smiles, but never, never broach the subject of their once-friend emblazoned on every ‘wanted’ poster, every front page of every newspaper.

Not even when Biko cooks for four; not even when Yoichi turns to reach for a hand that isn’t there; not even when Muhyo leaves Biko’s house, leaves all that he knows and dearly loves, and doesn’t turn back for two whole years.

--------

When Enchu left, he took something from them.

They don’t know what it is, but they all know it left them hollow, desperate, maddeningly sad.

It’s a something that pushes Biko to practice artifact making late into the night, cutting herbs by the moonlight and fusing metal by day, until her spirit is as scratched and burnt as her hands are; but never her heart, no, never her heart.

It’s a something that made Yoichi give up two whole years of his youth to pour over data sheets and dated photographs, scrutinising grainy images and decoding unfamiliar jargon until he earns a detested title he never needed.

It’s a something that weighs on Muhyo like his executor’s cloak, something that he never allows himself to put aside, contracting every envoy he can get his hands on to become a person worthy of a title he swore he would polish until every living being regretted ever gifting it to him.

--------

They were interviewed just once, about what they thought of the fallen student, the magic law exile, the betrayer.

Nobody has ever found the transcript, tape, or interviewer.

--------

“Muhyo, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Biko’s voice is quiet, her hands soothing as she rubs salve over his new burn.

Muhyo remains silent, wishing a snarky remark out his mouth, but his leaden tongue prevents him.

Yoichi sits slumped beside him, clearly exhausted from the tempering drain of envoy contracting.

Matching purple bruises rest under both their eyes, but both show refusal in the firm grip of pen and book.

Biko presses harder onto Muhyo’s skin. Muhyo flinches. Yoichi murmurs a joke about her poor skills as a doctor.

One of the four emperors of Hell is difficult to contract, but it’s necessary.

As necessary as the scars that embed itselves deep into the trio’s heart, with every failed attempt, with every lead becoming a dead end.

As necessary as the pain they condemn themselves to, in hopes that one day they’ll understand the pain they unknowingly forced upon the one dearest to them.

“We’ll try again tomorrow.” Biko says, much more firmly.

She screws the salve container shut, and drags a comforter from her bag. Draping it carefully over the duo, Biko leaves no room for refusal, no room for either to shake and cry and give up - not for them, not for herself.

“We’ll try again tomorrow.” Biko repeats.

Hearing the flat note in her voice, Yoichi pulls her down to rest beside him while Muhyo finally mumbles an agreement.

--------

Time is supposed to heal all wounds.

Time is supposed to help them move on.

Muhyo points out the irony once, quite literally. The belltower with a clock face has never been fixed since the night the town burnt, a pronounced crack running across it’s glass face.

The hands of the clock inside are cracked, splintered. But running mechanisms keep it ticking in place, forever trying to move forward but failing.

Seeing that, Muhyo had laughed for the first time since the night his world fell apart.

Hearing that, Yoichi held Muhyo’s hand a little tighter, while Biko pressed closer to Muhyo’s side.

--------

Enchu is fractured glass, muddy snow, wilted bellflowers.

Enchu is a thousand metaphors, and then more.

Enchu was someone who loved and loved and loved -

And tired of it.

When he appears like he disappeared, in a flurry of confetti adorning a smile too crooked to be genuine, all three remember what the association, the world, always forced them to forget.

Enchu isn’t a metaphor.

Soratusgu is a broken boy who lost too much, too fast, who hurt too easily and pushed himself to try even when he couldn’t.

Soratsugu is a beloved friend.

And they would never, ever, forget that.

--------

“When we can properly meet him again,” Biko starts, softly. Always the only one brave enough to broach the subject, to force them to confront and heal, no matter how broken and backwards their healing may be. “What do you want to say?”

Yoichi visibly settles, lips thinning in a small smile. “That’s a hard thing to pick from an entire bucket load i’ve saved, Biko. Maybe where have you been all this time, you ass?” Always the only one brave enough to say what he thinks, from fear that one day they’ll be gone too, because he said something too late, too little.

Muhyo snorts, taking a step back to distance himself from the hubbub of the inventory store. “As if we already don’t know.” He mutters, leaning heavily against Yoichi’s side. Always the only one mincing his crude words, hiding a softer, gentler side, too afraid of hurting and being hurt again; yet speaking up anyway, because what are words if not to communicate and love?

Yoichi laughs, in a way that makes Muhyo helplessly grin and Biko hide a smile in the curve of her elbow.

“That’s right, we do, don’t we?”

--------

There’s a strangled cry, an outstretched hand, an alarmed yell, and Enchu pummels into the demon carriage, carried by love and magic and the faith of three friends.

For the first time, in a long, long while, the trio watches Enchu let go of his breath, and cry.

Biko is wiping away his tears as fast as they fall. Yoichi cradles him to his chest. Muhyo is slumped against his front, half-conscious.

Still, all three manage to say one phrase lying on the tip of their tongues for two long, long, years.

“Welcome home, Enchu.”

There’s a hiccup, a strained but familiarly beautiful laugh.

“I’m back. I’m back. I’m home.”

And for the first time, in a long, long while, the world settles around Biko, Yoichi, and Muhyo, and everything feels like it will finally be alright.

#muhyo and roji bureau of supernatural investigation #muhyo and roji #tooru muhyo #soratsugu madoka #himukai yoichi #yuu abiko #melon writes

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