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the-shipping-machine · 5 years

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Rusted (Redone tue to mistakes and insomnia)

@ego-16, thanks for letting me know about that unfinished thing.

-----

Every since Daichi escaped the SCP foundation to join Spike at Wondertainment, Akira and Dr. /// Aubrey have been pointing the blaming finger at each other. Trying to find the one guilty for their brothers' escapes. Every time they argued, they'd also try to hit the sensitive spots, trying to show who's stronger.

"You treated him like crap!" Akira yelled. "Whenever we hung out with him, he'd complain! Spike was miserable, mate!"

"Your boyfriend was miserable too, but he still had to work here!" Dr. Aubrey said. "The only difference is that we know neither Spike nor Daichi died."

He just had to bring up agent Camil. He passed away during a breach three years ago, either because of the SCP or due to his disease.

Akira was still not over him.

"Leave Jon out of this, asshole!" Akira yelled. "He didn't die so a moron like you could mock-"

His speech was cut short by a violent cough. He blocked his mouth with his palm. When he looked at his hand, his eyes grew wide.

It was a liquid. Nit blood, but... Something else. Something he's been researching for a long time.

"Akira?" Dr. Aubrey asked. Was he worried about him?

"I... I gotta..." Akira said, trying to breathe. "I... Gotta go to my lab..."

He ran away without another word.

Mr. Smiles and Raven chatted when Akira suddenly burst into the lab, getting paler and paler with each minute passed. From the spots on his hands, they didn’t have to ask him what happened. He got infected.

He locked the doors behind him, leaning against them and burying his face in his hand. Now his work’s about to get even more difficult.

“I’ll let the other misters know.” Smiles said. “Redd’s probably gonna tell Daichi.”

“Thanks.” Akira said.

---

“Goddamnit, Dr. Liu, it’s been a fucking week!” Dr. Aubrey yelled as he knocked on the lab’s door. “Get out of there!”

“Leave me alone, you ass!” Akira yelled from the other side.

“I’ll kick the doors open if you won’t open them!” Dr. Aubrey yelled.

“Leave!”

Okay, Akira’s shit got really annoying, and none of the staff members told Dr. Aubrey why. Was that because he talked about Jon?

He kicked the doors, and they opened widely.

Akira was standing in front of his desk, hands holding him up. He was wearing a gas mask.

“Akira?” Dr. Aubrey asked.

“Leave.” Akira said. “I don’t want the rust to start a fucking plague.”

“Why would it-” dr. Aubrey began to ask as he noticed Akira’s bare skin. It was filled with big rusty spots. “Oh, shit...”

“I almost infected you once. My research is hard enough. Leave.” Akira said. “Just fucking leave and close the doors.”

“How did it happen?” Dr. Aubrey asked.

“Accidentally touched one of the samples without noticing two weeks ago.” Akira said. “Probably during that blackout.”

“You should be more careful!” Dr. Aubrey said.

“Now you tell me?!” Akira said in a sarcastic tone. “Well, thanks for the advice, Mr. Know-it-all!”

“Akira-” Dr. Aubrey was about to say when the man finally looked at him.

“Just leave, Mr. Aubrey.” Akira said. “I can handle my shit. I don’t need your help. If you want to, you can start by finding Daichi and get him back.”

“But the research is locked away!” Dr. Aubrey said.

“You heard me. Now leave.” Akira said.

“Okay.” Dr. Aubrey replied. “But... I just wanted to apologize for being a...you know...”

“An asshole?” Akira asked.

“I was about to say ‘a selfish person’ but that works too.” Dr. Aubrey said. “I know you’re still grieving. I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t matter now.” Akira said.

“Okay.” Dr. Aubrey said. “It was nice talking to you.”

Akira rolled his eyes as he watched Dr. Aubrey goes away, closing the doors behind him.

At least he apologized, right?

#friend's oc #my oc #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I can't believe I didn't save the fucking draftttttt #It's 3:15 AM

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cryptaejoon · 3 years

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peepee poopoo draftttttt

Akaashi locks the door behind him. The sun shines down on him as he turns around. He inhales. The sun is glaring. The air is crisp.

Alive, almost.

He exhales - the breath comes out in ribbons of translucent ivory, folding into the ghost of a cloud as it vanishes into the air. He breathes in again - and out, of course - as many times as need be. It never feels enough. The vacancy in his lungs is suffocating. He hasn't felt the comforting weight of petty worries of the one he had once held so dear to him that had always held him down to the earth. No, he was floating now, light and weightless, no longer bound to the world by any earthly passions and desires.

Not that he wanted anything to do with this world, anyway.

Shaky hands grip the dull house keys while blurry eyes search the fuzz of naked trees, leaves ripped off by the constant change of the weather, by the everlasting momentum of life that threatens to wear down Akaashi's own defense. No, it never feels enough. His eyelids flutter shut, and surely enough he hears the footsteps of who he guesses to be a neighbour walk by past his house, the murmur of the traffic that feels galaxies away . And, if only he had listened carefully enough, he would hear the flapping of soaring wings, the constant grunting of the earth crumpling under itself and even picked up the notes of the song slipping ever so gently out of the earbuds of the stranger walking by. And, if he had concentrated hard enough, he might have felt the tectonics move under him, might have noticed the stir of the stars, the slight bitterness in the air. But alas, he didn't.

A heartbreak shatters the mind, destroys the routine of a life people so desperately cling on to and threatens to collapse the body. No, Akaashi's past that. He's felt the pain, he's cried the tears, he's cursed the gods that dared mock him and force his hand. He's lived and he's learned. No, Akaashi is way past that. Akaashi chooses to lie to himself - he chooses to play the fool. He tells himself he's better, and that it'll only continue to get better. He tells himself there's no regret, that everyday is a new day. He tells himself he doesn't care.

He's not sure if he believes himself.

Eyes parting open, his pupils dialate at the sudden violation from the sun. Anger bubbles up inside of him, and threatens to curse the sun for coming out every day. He's angry. Angry at the trees for dying, angry at the world for turning, angry at the stars for shining, angry - just because. And just as fast as the anger comes, it leaves, like the tide playing on the shore. Except he's not calm, and there's no hum as the water surrounds the fine grains of sand nor is there the smell of salt that is so intergrained into the water. It's unlike him. He unclenches his fist, frowning at the drop of blood that trickles down his finger. He lets it, watching as it rolls down the side of his finger, then the side of his hand, leaving residue behind in the creases of his skin, until it soaks into his sleeve. He wipes the blood away on his trousers, and that is the end of it.

He walks down the front garden and turns to the street, chin buried in a thick scarf he found at the back of his wardrobe. He couldn't recall when he had ever bought the item, and he had come to the conclusion that it must be a product of a birthday gift or a stress shopping spree he had gone on when he realised the lack of winter clothes in his closet. Deep down, he knew it wasn't like that - and the faint smell of citrus that had sewn itself in with the wool of the scarf made sure he knew that. Still - Akaashi pays it no mind, though, because it's Akaashi; and that's just who he is.

Once upon a time, Akaashi had learnt that owls are silent fliers. Their feathers were designed to break the turbulence of their movement down, supressing the flapping of their regal wings. They soared down, picking off their prey before the poor victim could even know what was going on. He also found out that owls symbolised death. Akaashi was never one for symbolism - he found it useless, and never missed the opportunity to let out a sigh of disapproval at the mention of 'deeper meanings'. He couldn't understand what purpose of hiding ideas in such a way served - he didn't understand why things couldn't be as simple as black and white. Nevertheless, he thought that was intriguing.

Akaashi had always loved owls. He thought they were beautiful in a way no other animal was. Cautious - awake. Regal and calculating. Powerful. Only around a month ago or so, he had also found out that owls mated for life. He decided he didn't like owls as much anymore.

The streets seemed shorter than he remembers, or maybe he's moving faster than he realises. He turns from road to road, street to street, weaving his path by parks and shops and other people who he feels the glares of. Everything feels like it's coming towards him, and he feels like he's been tied to the front of a train, and he sees another oncoming one somewhere ahead of him. He shakes it off, because he's better than that, he's stronger than that, and he knows he can't let it get to him. If nothing ever comes near him, nothing can hurt him - or so he tells himself. He breathes into his cupped hands, fingers paled and grayed in the stinging cold. He places them back in his pockets, clenches his fists and continues moving.

He looks up at the bare trees as he walks, shivering, abandoned and as lonely as he was. He scrunched his nose at the thought of having that much in common with trees that fell victim to the cold of winter every year. He told himself he'd never be that weak. He told himself he'd never crumple under the weight of life, and he tells himself that he's stronger now. He knows that's not really true, because he's not stupid, and he knows that, but he chooses to believe in the lie anyway. It's comforting in a way.

Finally, he pushes open the glass door of the shop. He isn't sure why he walked all this way instead or driving. The familiar bell jingles at his entrance, chirping a greeting to Akaashi as he enters. He doesn't greet it back. A head peeks out from behind a shelf, expecting and unsurprised. Akaashi nods his head, also expecting and unsurprised. It seems like both parties knew what was to happen.

"Good morning, Akaashi."

"Good morning," Akaashi replied. He had never addressed the man by his name. He knew it, of course, but there was no reason for formalities to be between them. He was just a customer. The man, whose name Akaashi knew to be Nakagawa, slapped his hands on his apron, dust spinning in the air. A smile was on his face, but that wasn't unusual. He was always smiling when he saw Akaashi. The raven haired boy always found it strange, but it was still comforting to know that someone was still happy to see him every day.

"What are you looking for today?" He asks cheerily, moving around so he's behind the counter while Akaashi turns to face him.

Akaashi is silent for a second. He rubs his nose against the peak of the scarf, inhaling the smell of faint citrus. Nakagawa waits patiently for his answer, busying himself with the clutter on the counter. He knows to be patient with Akaashi. He knows the lies he tells himself, because while Akaashi is smart, Nakagawa is smarter, he's older, and Nakagawa has seen it all happen before. He knows it's been a year, and though Akaashi never told him the reason for coming every single day to buy a single flower, he knows exactly why. Nakagawa sees Akaashi, looks right into his eyes as if he's nothing more than a statue made of glass. And he might as well be one, Nakagawa thinks, He's just as fragile. But he never says it out loud.

He doesn't know that he's made of the same material.

"Do you remember...." Akaashi begins, voice coarse from the lack of speech. He didn't talk much anymore, most of his communication he did through text, or movements of the hand. "The first day I came in here?"

Of course Nakagawa does. He remembers the frail boy entering the door around 5 minutes before the shop would close for the night, shoulders drooped, eyes unmoving and black as the night. He looked around helplessly, like a baby bird who had fallen out of his nest. He was sad, that was clear to anyone. But never did he once cry, nor did his voice ever quiver. He came in the day after that, too. Each day he stepped in, he came with promises of a sort of sorrowful passion, a desperation to cling onto what he no longer had, a spiteful glare at the world.

"Yes- yes, of course I remember."

"Do you remember what I got, then?" Akaashi asked. Nakagawa wasn't sure if the question was meant to be rhetorical or actually the request to be reminded. He knew Akaashi wouldn't forget, because he knew Akaashi well enough, and that's just the type of thing Akaashi would ask, so he nods in return.

Akaashi makes no further comment. Nakagawa doesn't need him to. He weaves through the shop, crouching down to find the bundle of white roses bound together. They look alive and healthy, whispering promises of eternity. They, too, are lying. But Nakagawa brushes it off, because that's who Nakagawa is. He plucks out 2 white roses, not one, and heads back to the counter, hiding the quantity as he ties a small black ribbon around the two, pairing them together till the day they would wilt together in each other's company.

He holds it out to Akaashi, who knits his eyebrows in return. Nakagawa is holding 2 white roses, not one, and he's smiling. Akaashi doesn't reach out.

"Give him one from me," Nakagawa requests, "Tell him I said hello."

Akaashi is unmoving, but after a second, reaches out to take the roses. He tells the man goodbye, and turns around to leave, unsure of what else he should have said.

He doesn't realise he didnt pay until he's halfway down the street. He knows Nakagawa didn't mention it on purpose. He's slightly disgruntled by that; Akaashi doesn't like gifts. It doesn't bother him, though, but to be honest, not much does anymore. He's stopped caring about most things. It's not like the Akaashi he used to be, and he knows that. He grits his teeth, lets out a sigh and keeps on moving; because he's Akaashi, and that's just what he does.

Time goes by, Akaashi loses sight.

He's awake, though, as he enters the gates to the garden, a forceful grip on the roses as if he fears they, too, will leave him. His eyes are trained on a small stone in the corner as he makes his way through the painfully familiar path. He looks down, almost seeing footprints from the 364 days he has visited the park prior to that day. It's not foreign in the soil, and he's no stranger to the garden. The trees and bushes groan their complaints at Akaashi, and he nods understandingly in return.

Then he's standing in the spot. He looks down at the polished stone, a product of Akaashi's dedication. The engraving is fine, and not a single piece of dust taints the gray. His eyes turn to the front of the stone. Akaashi sees the Peruvian lily he placed yesterday, and the anemone flower from the day before, and all the others one before that. He always made sure to clear out the wilted flowers. After all, that's the kind of person Akaashi was.

He crouches down, resting his arms on his knees.

"Hey." He says, the noise coming out much softer and quieter than he intended. He feels like one of the wilted flowers he clears out, useless and dying. But he's alive, not dead, not dying. He doesn't quite feel that way. "I'm here again. Its... been a year. That's a long time. All your stuff is where you left it," He sighs, as if it'll bring him back. "The apartment is dark. Your clothes are still on your bed, and your blanket is still on the couch - the gray one."

Akaashi realises he hasn't said his name once in the past year. It's always been replaced by a pronoun, 'he would like that' or grouped in with himself, 'we used to come here a lot'. He hadn't uttered the name he saw written on the grave stone every day, the name he read over and over as he crouched in the corner of the garden. Why was that? He thinks and he thinks, but he just can't find a reason.

So he takes a step forward in life. "Bokuto," He whispers, "I miss you."

It hurts. It really hurts. Tears suddenly sting his eyes, and his walls come crashing down. The bushes frown and the trees groan as sobs wrack his frail body, as he sits there, so small and so weak, crying and crying. He doesn't feel the air's hands on his shoulder, or the comforting embrace of the sun as they try to comfort him despite his anger at them. He doesn't care - they're not Bokuto. That's all he wants, and he knows that now, and maybe he's known all along.

"I miss you, so, so much, Bokuto." He manages to get out, wiping the stream of salty tears gliding down his cheek, "I miss you. I should've been there - I should've seen you. I didn't even get to say goodbye to you." He gasps, "I'm sorry - Im so so sorry, Bokuto." Now he can't stop saying it, choking out the name so desperately, as if by some miracle it will bring him back. He wishes it would, he wishes he could just stand up and go home, and Bokuto would be there, wrapped up in his blanket on the couch with a tub of ice cream.

But he knows that will never happen.

"I wish there was more time. I'd give anything. I'd give all I have, every single thing that has ever been important to me just to see you a moment longer. I'd give it all. But what would it do? We had time - and I wasted it. I should've told you how much I loved you when I had the chance, I should've taken you out more - or stayed in with you...- anything, anything! I could've done anything to be with you more and I didn't. Bokuto, I'm so so sorry." He couldn't stop now, it just kept coming and coming, spilling out of his mouth onto the gravestone beneath him. Salty tears watered the fertile soil, as Akaashi sobbed and sobbed until his own bones felt hollow, and his lungs felt vacant, and his heart empty.

A long time ago, Bokuto Kotarou had asked him if he believed in the afterlife. Akaashi Keiji had shook his head, told him there was no such thing, that once we died, we stayed dead. Bokuto had huffed in return, a clear expression of dissapointment on his face. Akaashi..!! Don't say that! Does that mean that when one of us dies - that'll be the end? He had asked. Akaashi had shook off the question back then, because that was what Akaashi did. Now, he wishes he could answer it a million times over. He wishes he could tell Bokuto no, there will be a day where they would meet again, that what they had was timeless.

"I love you, Koutaro," He whispered to the roses, and also the wind, and also the trees that stood guard into his little garden of sorrow. He planted a kiss onto the roses, one of each one, and set them down on the grave next to the Peruvian lily, "And I always will. 'Till the end."

The wind scooped his words up, cradling it far, far away.

Akaashi stood up, wiped his tears and breathed. And only for a single movement, he could swear he heard the wind whisper his words back to him.

Another time, one summer evening, Bokuto Koutaro had asked Akaashi Keiji if he believed in soulmates. Akaashi had replied more hopefully this time, saying the science behind it was real. But do you believe that people are destined to be together? Bokuto had asked, clinging to Akaashi's shirt in desperation. Akaashi wasn't sure. He was never a believer in these things. But he smiled, anyway, kissed Bokuto's forehead and told him yes.

But he knew now, for definite, because as he stood there, he felt the wind around him, caressing his skin in a way that felt so, so familiar.

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