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Pointed leaves needle his arms as he pushes past them, frantically crawling on his hands and knees through the estate garden. There were other ways to go about this, but none of his other options are as direct. His palms land in wet soil and patches of mud with each passing moment. The earthy slurry squelches through his fingers and stains the once stark white cuffs of his sleeves. He hasn’t gotten the chance to take a look at his legs, and to be honest, he doesn’t want to think about how he’s ruined his dress shoes and long socks. Father and Mother are bound to be upset with him, but... still, he presses forward. Whatever punishment he’ll endure for sullying his clothes will be worth it, if it means not losing sight of the Young Master. Thankfully, Yuzuru knows exactly where he needs to go to find him. Just a little further through the winding hedges, and then he can get out of the dirt…
“Young Master!” he calls out, just to be safe. He’s fairly certain of the Young Master’s location already, but he supposes it wouldn’t hurt to know sooner. Naturally, no response comes to him. “Young Master…!”
Yuzuru reaches the end of the dense cluster of greenery, and rises to stand. A hidden clearing is spread out in front of him, untamed by the mansion’s gardening staff. Unkempt grass and wildflowers wave gently in the breeze, brushing against his legs. He’s been here a few times before, this little field surrounded by hedges and woods, on the occasions when the Young Master tries to hide away from the world. Normally, Yuzuru winds through the maze of hedges to get here, though, never in a particular hurry--the Young Master makes it painfully obvious when he plans on “running away”. Yuzuru isn’t sure if the rest of the servants know about this place. Part of him is tempted to let them know, out of some strange obligation to the others, but by his measure, it’s his job as the Young Master’s personal servant to keep his secrets private.
This time, though, the Young Master is due to meet with an heir to another affluent family, and he needs to get ready very soon. Father and Mother had been discussing it just a few days ago; ‘Tenshouin’ was quite the elegant name. And if the Young Master ended up being late, the blame would certainly fall on him.
Yuzuru can hear their voices in his head, already: You have a responsibility, Yuzuru. You should understand this, by now. Father’s tone is cold and unflinching. It is your duty as a Fushimi. We are disappointed in you, Yuzuru. Mother frowns, her eyes narrowed.
His eyes have been squeezed shut, he notices, blinking.
He’s absolutely covered in grime, now that he has the opportunity to look at himself. Dirt reaches farther up his arms than he had thought, and his legs look like he had been wading through trenches of mud. His stomach drops at the thought of having to walk through the mansion like this. It gets worse when he remembers that he has to bring the Young Master with him.
Figuring that they can’t get much worse, he smears his hands on his legs, trying to get even a little of the thick mud coating them off. There’s still some caked under his fingernails, which bothers him to no end, but there’s more important things to take care of.
Just as he thought, the Young Master is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the clearing, and is even more dirty than he is. Mud clings to the ends of his hair--it almost looks like strawberry ice cream. A sigh of mixed relief and exhaustion escapes him. “There you are, Young Master. We need to go inside, it’s almost time to--”
“Shhhh!” the Young Master turns around and glares pointedly at him. His next words come out in a carried whisper. “You’ll wake them up! Be quiet!”
‘Them’? Yuzuru doesn’t feel like upsetting him further, especially since they have a place to be very shortly, so he follows the Young Master’s demand. He’s found that it’s easier to get the Young Master to behave if he thinks that he’s getting his way. In practiced steps, Yuzuru approaches from behind.
Laying in front of the Young Master are a mother cat and her litter of kittens, all sleeping peacefully. The Young Master is running his (muddy) hands through the mother’s white fur, stroking gently at her belly. With each pass, Yuzuru can see brown spots cling to her, slowly matting and dirtying her.
“Aren’t they sooo cute?” he whispers again. “I’m going to ask Mama and Papa if we can keep them!”
The Young Master begins listing off names that he plans on giving each cat, but Yuzuru has already tuned him out. He knows that they’ll never allow pets in the house, given that the Young Mistress is allergic, and that they would cause too much of a mess. Instead, Yuzuru rests a hand on the Young Master’s shoulder, and runs it slowly down his arm to reach his hand.
“We must be going now,” he murmurs, pulling up with just enough force. “Master will be very upset if he finds you like this, and even more so if you are late. We can speak with them later, I suppose--”
He is cut off again with a whine. There is no time for the Young Master’s antics, unfortunately, so Yuzuru steels himself and marches toward the exit to the hedge maze. He doesn’t look back at the cats.
They have no hope of sneaking past the buzzing mass of servants who are preparing for their guests’ arrival. One of the head servants spots them first, aghast at their appearances, and shoves them away into the Young Master’s suite. It is just Yuzuru’s luck that this servant--an older man who has served the Himemiyas for decades, to his knowledge--is close with his grandparents and parents. Yuzuru keeps his mind empty as he scrubs away at the Young Master’s fluffy pink hair, lest the stinging sensation in his eyes overcome him.
Father and Mother do not look at him, the whole evening. Every other servant in the house cannot take their eyes off of him. He feels disgusting.
The dirt doesn’t come out from under his fingernails, not for a while.
The air is dry, clouds of dust and dirt floating in it from every scrape of his soles on the ground, settling within him with each breath that ends up in his lungs. It clings to his fatigues, coats his exposed skin, and refuses to leave, even when he scrubs himself red and raw. He spends his meals picking grime out from underneath his fingernails, only to find just a few hours later that his efforts are for naught. He takes as much extra time as he can afford in the showers, without getting screamed at by his commanding officer, nearly scalding himself and making the most of his allowance of soap for the week. He volunteers to do the laundry for his platoon every time it comes up, because he knows that all the other privates don’t care about the condition of their clothes. Yuzuru hates being dirty; it might be one of the only things in his life that truly bothers him to no end. It makes him feel disgusting.
It hasn’t rained in three weeks.
They’re out in the fields today, of course. While the sky is overcast, and the air devoid of humidity, everything is uncomfortably hot. It certainly doesn’t help that they’re running laps today; “stamina training”, as their commander calls it. Normally, Yuzuru is largely indifferent towards these athletic training activities. Sure, he would much rather be doing other things, exercises that are more relevant towards his purpose of being at the camp, like weapon drills or strength training. (A voice in the back of his head prods at him, everything here is part of your training, Yuzuru . It sounds like what he remembers of his father.) But at the same time, Yuzuru picks up on things quickly, and so it’s not as if any of their other regimen is difficult to him.
Today, as usual, their commander sets them into pairs. No one wants to be with Ibara today (no one ever wants to be with Ibara, to be perfectly honest) and so Yuzuru is left in charge of him once again. Ibara is better off working with him anyways, he figures. Without his constant supervision, Yuzuru is sure that Ibara would’ve been kicked out of the camp several times over already. And in some twisted way, Yuzuru relishes in having the responsibility over him. He'll grow incompetent without someone to look out for. This is training , he reminds himself, as Ibara shoves him from behind and goads him to get a move on. I am here for a reason , he steels himself, when Ibara stops right in his tracks to salute to him with a shit-eating grin. I will make the most of it, he sighs, striding right past Ibara and waiting for him to trail behind, like the clingy puppy pining for its owner that he ultimately is.
Ibara paces several steps behind him as they pick up speed into a light run. The military camp doesn’t have a dedicated track, so they run along the perimeter of the training grounds, far out of sight of their commanders. Most of the grounds are barren, empty fields of dirt; there is a thin line of trees and brush nestled along the barbed-wire fences. Some roots poke out of the earth on the inside of the fencing, desperate for moisture. It’s easy to trip over them, if one is not careful, and so Yuzuru makes sure to glance at the ground every now and again for any incoming obstacles. A couple hundred feet ahead of him, one of the older privates has fallen face-first into the dirt-- he must be new here, Yuzuru figures. He doesn’t stop to help. Neither does Ibara.
Yuzuru’s arm is tugged backwards, causing him to nearly lose his own footing. Nails dig into his skin, an ironclad hold, as Yuzuru is dragged towards the fencing.
“Would you like to tell me why we’re stopping?” he tries to keep his tone even. Revealing any frustration is a huge mistake, he’s learned, as Ibara latches on to weakness and never lets go.
“Who cares? It’s not like anyone is watching,” Ibara shrugs nonchalantly, Yuzuru’s arm still in his grasp. “Besides, even if they do catch us, we can just say that you tripped or whatever. They don’t give a f--”
“And what’ll your excuse be? That you decided to come and help me up?” he yanks his arm out of Ibara’s vicegrip. His skin is imprinted with pink semicircles, and the afterimage of Ibara’s grasp. “I’m not sure they’ll buy that.”
Ibara lets out a sharp laugh. “Nah! I would tell ‘em that I came over to laugh at you.” He crouches down right at the steel fence, underneath the shade. There are some dead branches poking through the links, looking like scraggly hands, ready to grab at them at any moment. Ibara snaps a stick off of one, and threads it through to their side. He breaks off another small piece, right at the top of the stick, forming a point. Yuzuru surmises that he must be satisfied with it, after he pokes his palm with the end, and then jabs it right into the ground.
The lack of recent rain makes the dirt almost behave like sand. It puffs up in little dust clouds with every strike and dig of Ibara’s makeshift spear. He’s digging very close to the fence, right next to a cluster of roots that have made their way over the boundary. Could he possibly be looking for…? A feeling deep within Yuzuru’s stomach is goading him to make Ibara stop. It would be one thing if their commanders caught them loitering around, but this is getting dangerously close to looking like an escape attempt. It doesn’t help that Ibara is being unnaturally quiet throughout this whole ordeal. Normally he’d be chattering incessantly, about one thing or another that he doesn’t like (well, Ibara would use stronger words than that, but one of them has to take the high road), either to distract Yuzuru or perhaps even himself.
It’s unnerving. Ibara is laser-focused, eyebrows furrowed and tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Glancing left, right, behind him, Yuzuru instinctively makes sure that they’re not about to be seen. There’s a few adults running ahead of them, but they don’t seem to care that the two brats of the camp are acting out of line. A thin layer of moisture coats Yuzuru’s hands, and when he curls his fingers inward, the sweat mixes with the lingering bit of dirt on his palms. He hastily wipes them off on his fatigues.
“Ibara,” he starts, unable to hold himself back any longer. “We need to go, already. Don’t tell me you’re trying to…”
Even in the shade, Ibara’s eyes are piercing. His tongue flicks over his cracked lips. “Trying to what?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Yuzuru rests a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon. Enough.”
He barks out another laugh, and jams the stick into the dirt. It sticks straight up, like some sort of beacon. “What kinda dumbass do you think I am? Do you seriously think that I would try and dig my way outta here in broad daylight? Fuck off,” he rolls his eyes. “I would at least wait until nighttime. Let those assholes go on a manhunt for the scrawniest rat in camp.”
Ibara plucks another broken branch from the fence links, and forms a point on his new tool. This branch is thinner and longer, fitting better in Ibara’s hand. This time, he aims right at the smattering of grass at the base of the fence, but turns himself in a way so that Yuzuru can’t exactly see what he’s doing.
It’s obvious that he’s in a bad mood. Ibara’s temperament is awful to begin with, but every now and again he gets like this. Overly combative, swearing every time he opens his mouth, and strangely aloof. Yuzuru typically lets him be when he acts like this--mainly because he doesn’t have the energy to manage an Ibara who’s worse than he usually is--and it doesn’t take too long to get Ibara back to his normal state of brattiness.
This isn’t a good time to be leaving Ibara to his own devices, though. Yuzuru doubts that he’ll do anything too idiotic, but he also feels responsible for looking after Ibara, and letting him go off on his own now won’t do either of them any good. At this point, he has three options: walk away from the situation and let Ibara do who knows what, force Ibara to get a move on and risk his abnormal ire, or wait this out and take the chance of getting in trouble. None of them are particularly appealing.
“Hey,” Ibara calls out suddenly, pausing whatever he’s doing. “You think anyone’s died here?”
What? “I’m sorry?” Yuzuru has no idea how to respond to that. Where in the world does Ibara come up with these things?
His pointer finger slices across his throat. “Died. Kicked the bucket. Someone must’ve by now, right?” Still crouched, he shuffles over a couple inches to the right. Yuzuru can now see what he was doing--there’s a stack of beetles neatly skewered on his stick. Their legs jut out at awkward angles. One is still twitching, clinging on to its last moments of life. “Wonder if anyone’s gotten killed. Wouldn’t be surprised, really. The adults here don’t give two fucks about anyone.”
Sure, there have been instances of people disappearing overnight, never to be seen again, but… “I highly doubt that,” Yuzuru scans their nearby surroundings once again, without realizing it. “Don’t you think that the camp would’ve been shut down by now, if that were the case? People’s families would find out eventually, and they’d certainly get the police involved.”
Ibara scoffs. “Not everyone. You honestly think that if either of us were gone, anyone would actually care?”
Moisture drips down his neck. “I should hope so,” Yuzuru finds his fingers curling into fists. The grimy feeling of sweat catches in his palms. “In fact, I’d imagine that my family would be quite concerned, if something that dire happened. I am their only child, and I have quite the responsibility to go back to--”
“And when was the last time you heard from them, Your Highness?” The beetle skewer is thrust toward his face. Ibara stands. “Get over it. They don’t care about you. The sooner you accept that, the easier things’ll be, trust me.”
“You don’t--”
“And you’re going to tell me that after all these years, you actually want to go back to your wonderful luxurious life of indentured servitude? You wanna be some rich brat’s slave for the rest of your life?” The point of the spear brushes the skin of his neck. “Honestly, if I were you, I’d rather die than go back there. At least then you could say that you ended things on your own terms. You’d die a mutt, but I think that’s better than being a pet dog.”
Eloquence is failing him. Words cannot describe the sickness that has settled deep within him, something between anger and frustration and strangely enough, fear. Ibara smirks, taking Yuzuru’s silence as a win, and plucks a beetle off the stick.
“Hey, you think they know about all these juicy bugs out here? They’d probably make us eat them. Wouldn’t be much better than the shit rations we’re fed n--”
His body moves on its own, before he can exert enough self-control to stop it. Ibara is slighter than he, always scrawny since the day they met, and lifting him off the ground is an easy feat. The cloth of his fatigues is rough in his hands. Striding forward, the chain-link fence clatters as Ibara’s back presses into it. The muscles in his forearms twitch.
Realization hits him all at once. This isn’t--Yuzuru doesn’t do this sort of thing. He is poised and silent and calm , as a butler should be, not....not--
Air leaves his lungs in a shaky exhale.
They’re both silent. Some of the other privates have stopped to stare, but neither of the children either seem to notice, or care to acknowledge them.
Fingers pry at Yuzuru’s own, methodically searching for release. His hold remains strong.
Ibara sneers at him.
“It took you this long to snap, huh,” God, Yuzuru just wants to punch that stupid look off his face. Wait, that’s not -- “Always knew you had it in you, Your Highness . Guess you really are just a mutt like the rest of us, deep down.”
“Shut up,” he spits back, voice low. “Ibara, shut up .”
Ibara’s tongue flicks out of his mouth, mocking. “Make me.”
Yuzuru doesn’t know if it’s because of the heat, or he’s just had enough of Ibara’s relentless taunting, or the latent terror that he knows Ibara is right--
But he does.
The first thing that registers is the feeling of glass cutting across his knuckles, drawing blood. It stings, but whatever power is possessing him at the moment blurs the pain. The fence rattles from the impact, shaking the dead branches along with it. Ibara’s head snaps to the side, reeling from the force of Yuzuru’s fist. He writhes out of Yuzuru’s grip, finally, now that Yuzuru has let go with his right hand, and unceremoniously drops to the ground. There is fire in his eyes as he glares up at Yuzuru, and blood dripping from a large scrape that runs along his cheek. Ibara scampers up, ready to lunge, but the cloth of his fatigues is caught on the fence. His fervor is not enough to release him immediately, and his feet slide through the dirt and cause him to land once again.
He looks ready to kill; maybe there will be someone murdered at the camp, after all.
Rough, calloused hands pull Yuzuru back. Arms lock under his own--adult arms, stronger than he--preventing any possible escape. Another person intervenes, pulling Ibara up by the scruff of his neck. Ibara has wiped at his face, judging by the smear of blood running from his nose to the high point of his cheekbone. He kicks and flails and bites at the adult restraining him, but it is for naught. Craning his neck, Ibara gives one last glare at Yuzuru. He is saying something, Yuzuru realizes by the movement of his mouth, but it’s impossible to hear over thrumming of blood in his veins and the ringing in his ears.
There’s a sickening crack . Someone has stepped on Ibara’s glasses, breaking them beyond repair.
Yuzuru stares down at his hands. Blood runs down his knuckles, through the spaces between his fingers, staining his palms a burnt red. It mixes with the sweat and dirt that remains.
How disgusting.
He hates the stench of cigarette smoke.
“Fushimi, I thought you were better than this.”
It permeates through everything. It sticks to his clothes, his skin, his hair. He wants to find the strongest soap and scrub it all out, until his hands are raw and blistering.
“I would have expected this behavior out of Saegusa, not you. But from what everyone is saying, he didn’t even lay a finger on you…”
The whole office smells of it. At this rate, he’ll be in the showers for an hour, maybe two, depending on how long it takes for him to feel clean again. Part of him wishes he could drop to his knees right now, with a sponge and a bucket of soapy water, and clean until everything was right again.
“Aside from a few scuffles that Saegusa’s dragged you into, you’ve been a commendable soldier from the start. Honestly, I still can’t believe that you would go this far. Did the little brat finally get on your last nerve? I don’t really blame you.”
Yes, that’s it. He needs to clean. Everything will be fine once he washes the blood off his hands. He’s in control. Everything is fine.
“You realize that I have to report this, correct?”
Smoke wafts across the room. He coughs into his hand; the blood is still there, dried and caked in between his fingers. He wonders how much of it is Ibara’s.
“It’s unfortunate, since you’ve been doing excellently. You’re usually a model soldier, Fushimi.”
If he wipes his hands on his fatigues, they’ll stain. It’s not worth it, he can wait. Just a little while longer.
“Your parents certainly won’t be happy to hear about this.”
Ah.
Yuzuru breaks out of his stupor at his commander’s words. Depending on their reaction, he might be stuck at the military camp even longer, now. All because he lost his temper once. He’s managed to put up with Ibara’s taunting for this long, so why couldn’t he keep control?
They’re going to use this as an excuse to keep you here. Ibara never said these words exactly to him, but it’s his voice that’s in his head. You’ve given them a reason to throw you away. They didn’t want you before, and they sure as hell don’t want you now.
He manages to find his voice, amongst his thoughts. It comes out raw and cracked. “Yessir.”
We can never escape. That’s why we have to take control. Make our lives our own. They don’t need you, and you don’t need them.
It’ll be like this forever.
His commander sighs and takes another drag of his cigarette. He jams the butt of it into his ashtray, satisfied. Smoke curls up into the air. “I’ll decide on a punishment for you later, Fushimi. For now, go clean yourself up. You look like an absolute mess.”
“Yessir.” Yuzuru’s limbs move on their own, like someone attached a leash to him and has started to tug. His mind is somewhere far, far away.
When he closes the door behind him, red is left on the doorknob.
The visit to the infirmary is brief. The head doctor clucks at him, shakes her head, and doesn’t say a word as she dabs antiseptic onto his knuckles. It hurts more than he would like to admit, but he bites his lip and bottles it up. Gauze is woven tightly across his hand, stark white against his skin.
At least he finally got to wash his hands. It still feels like there’s dirt left on them, though.
Ibara isn’t in the infirmary, thank goodness, but that means that he’ll be waiting back in their shared dorm. Yuzuru knows deep inside that this isn’t over. He takes his time walking back, thinking about what he’s not going to say.
Sure enough, when he unlocks the door, Ibara is sprawled out on the bottom bunk, pillow over his face. He doesn’t say a word, even when Yuzuru opens the window to let some fresh air inside. The heat has calmed down, now that it’s evening, and a breeze runs across the fields and into their room.
If Ibara doesn’t want to talk about what happened, Yuzuru supposes that he won’t, either. Wordlessly, he climbs the ladder up to his bunk, vaguely content with the idea of going to sleep early.
(The whole thing doesn’t sit right within him, he’ll admit. He doubts he’ll get any sleep until this is settled.)
He’s about to climb into bed when a slim hand grabs at his left ankle. Yuzuru twists himself around, precariously pulling off a balancing act with one foot on the top rung. Ibara hasn’t taken the pillow off of his face.
Part of Yuzuru is sure that Ibara is going to yank his arm down, sending Yuzuru down with it.
“Ibara.” he says, softer than he had meant to. The grip on his ankle doesn’t relent.
“Shut up.” the sound is muffled by fabric and polyester filling.
“Ibara, I honestly don’t know what came over me. I’m--”
“I said, shut up, ” Ibara hisses, and his hold grows tighter. Yuzuru’s foot starts to run numb. “ Yuzuru .”
Ibara never calls him by his name. It’s either Instructor or Your Highness or just you , all spat out with venom. A pang of guilt and tenderness strikes his heart.
“Will you at least allow me to apologize?”
“Never. And for the last time, I said shut up .”
“Alright, then,” Yuzuru sighs. He tries to tug his foot out of Ibara’s grasp, but to no avail. “May I have my foot back?”
Ibara shoots up in bed, the pillow falling into his lap, but his hand still stays put. It’s weird seeing him without his glasses on, and it dimly registers in the back of Yuzuru’s head that he is responsible. Compared to earlier, Ibara’s eyes lack their signature sharpness, as if he traded it in for the bloodshot rims his has instead. Had he been…? No, there was no way.
“Ugh, fine .” Yuzuru slips his leg into bed before Ibara can change his mind.
They don’t say much after that. Ibara hasn’t tried to kill him (yet), which is a good sign. Or, perhaps it’s not? Did his punch rattle Ibara that much?
A good fifteen minutes passes before Yuzuru decides to speak up again. “Have any idea what my punishment will be?”
“They’re gonna cut you into little pieces and feed you to the rest of us for lunch tomorrow. ‘His Highness’ Royal Soup ’. Bet it’ll taste amazing.”
He can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes him. “Better than your beetle skewers?”
“I changed my mind. It’ll taste like shit.”
An actual laugh, now. Yuzuru leans over the railing. “What, you don’t want to eat me? Wouldn’t you be happy to know that I was gone?”
Ibara pauses for longer than Yuzuru would have thought. It’s enough to be telling; Yuzuru isn’t sure what it means, though. “Not if I can’t rip you apart myself. It would take all the fun out of it.”
“Well,” Yuzuru lays back again. “I suppose I can let you have the honor of killing me. Not anytime soon, though.”
Before he knows it, Ibara scurries up the ladder. “When we’re stranded without food in the middle of nowhere, that’s when I’ll eat you. You won’t even see it coming,” He shoves Yuzuru over to the side to make room. Yuzuru simply lets him. “...unless I kill you before then.”
He shoves back, lightly. “Yeah, yeah,” The sun is beginning to set, casting golden rays through their sole window. Ibara’s eyes light up aquamarine, uninhibited by his old glasses. “We should head to the showers, while everyone is at dinner. I feel disgusting.”
“Whatever you say, Instructor~.” Despite that, Ibara keeps blocking the ladder, his usual shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
“...Or maybe we’ll just stay here, for tonight. I suppose it can wait.”
The residue is still clinging to his skin. He feels uncomfortable, but neither of them move that night.
They’ve started a little vegetable garden, in the patch by the garden terrace. It’s right next to Oogami-sama’s plot of tomatoes and garlic, and so they catch him there more often than not. The seeds have just recently been planted, and so it still looks quite barren, but in a few months their hard work will be there to see.
It was Tori’s idea, as many things typically are. He had stormed into Yuzuru’s bedroom a few days ago, declaring that he wanted to grow vegetables and make a homemade meal for Eichi-sama. It’s wonderful to see him take initiative, so Yuzuru had no intent of turning him down, even though he knew that he would end up secretly doing a lot of the work. Still, Tori has made quite the effort, visiting the plot every day, excitedly bragging about how great the plants would be since he was growing them.
Yuzuru knows that Tori doesn’t like getting too dirty now, though. He has an image to uphold, pristine and angelic and cute, and calloused hands do not suit him. They went to the store and picked out gardening gloves; Tori had chosen Cinnamoroll ones, of course, to match the rest of his accessories at home. Even with the gloves, Yuzuru can see Tori hesitate every time he has to stick his hands in the soil, and pull them out as soon as he gets the chance. Yuzuru is much less fearful, combing through the dirt with ease, staining his gloves almost immediately. When he pulls out his hands, they are slightly sticky with sweat. Dirt manages to get inside of them, regardless.
It’s alright. A little scrubbing never hurt him. He’s done it before, and will do it again.
The dirt will come out from under his fingernails eventually.