[ WELCOME HOME ]; kanba/shouma (FICTION)

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Kanba hates it when he's forced to leave home for weeks at a time. Shouma hates it for him, hates being left alone.

He understands that it's part of their job description, to have his heavy burdens shouldered like they are. He understands that it wouldn't be fair to live an idyllic life after everything that they've gone through, after so many sins committed. This is their punishment, as a family, and he understands the whys behind watching his brother's back as he walks out the door, head held high in a defiance that counteracts the sinking feeling in his heart. Shouma knows that feeling too, the emptiness inside when he fades out of sight, but never out of mind. It's an endless ache that won't abate until the moment that they're reunited again, and even then they're well aware of how temporary that is. There's always a next time, having to repeat the process anew.

Amazingly, it's the first few days that are the easiest. There's plenty of distractions to keep Shouma from dwelling on his other half for too long: he cleans the house from top to bottom, sorts through the pantry and their dried goods, as well as the refrigerator. If it's an absolute must, he'll get some shopping out of the way, stock up on Kanba's favorite things that he can shower him with whenever he makes his return. Sometimes they're simply bought as a reminder, hoping that a piece of pineapple or a cup of strong English tea will be enough to placate him, pretend that he isn't the only one enjoying these. The aromas are comforting, though not as much as an old shirt he may have intentionally forgotten to wash, his shampoo by the bath, or the leftover fragrances clinging to their pillows, the sheets of their bed. These are fleeting, and once they're gone, that's usually a sign of when it all starts to go downhill.

Minutes feel like hours, and the rest feels like a lifetime. It's especially bad when there's a lack of anything to do in the annex; its long-haired librarian will oftentimes shoo him along, saying that he needn't bother today, there's nothing to do. He wonders how true that is, if he's being turned away on purpose, a new method of torture to compound the agony that he's already going through. It wouldn't surprise him if that were so.

If Kanba were around, he'd tell him that it was going to fine, that there's other things he can do, that he isn't as worthless as he thinks he is. If Kanba were around, then he wouldn't be so lonely, having to rely on a pudgy penguin or two in the absence of a warm body that he'd like to burrow into when the day was through. If Kanba were around, then the longing in him would subside, angry that he's reduced himself to a simpering schoolgirl just because his favorite person isn't here to hold his hand, smell his hair, crack jokes that would border on unbearable if they came from anyone else. By the end of the week, he misses the sight of discarded tissues, raunchy magazines that were still held onto despite the consummation of their relationship. He knows that not all of them belong to penguin #1, try as they might to defend it.

Shouma hates it when Kanba leaves home. He hates cooking for one, hates how cold their bed is without him. Every night he stays up hoping for a message on his cell phone, something pre-recorded in his mailbox from a call he didn't get to in time, or three short words that convey more yearning than their author cares to admit. I love you, they say, I miss you, wait for me. And waiting is all that Shouma can do, standing by penguins #2 or #4 at the window as they gaze out woefully at the world beyond. He can't blame the latter of the two, knowing that it must be twice as hard for her when she was such fast friends with her former master, when she harbors the same sort of attachment toward Kanba. They're all waiting for him to come home, to be a family, if only for a little while.

It's the closest that they'll ever get to resembling a real one, which is fine. It'll all be fine, so long as Kanba hurries home safely. Shouma wants to put food on the table for him like the good little house husband that he is, massage the kinks out of his shoulders and back, listen to the stories he has to tell of what he's done, where he's been. He wants to see him smile, hear his laughter, taste his lips after an eon of going without. There's no telling when these things will happen, no deadline on when he's supposed to set foot on his home soil. That's what makes the waiting so bad, building up the anticipation so bad that it feels like he's going to burst. But it's all endured in stride, suffered in silence, accepted for what he's due.

After all, that's the curse of who they are, of being a Takakura.

--

He doesn't hear Kanba come in, tossing and turning in a fitful slumber. With a juicy mackerel on the line, it's #2 who's in charge of guarding the entrance tonight, though those plans are thrown out the window as soon as it lays eyes on its bandaged counterpart. It's a scene that the redhead quietly chuckles at when he slips past them indoors, deciding that it's better to give them some privacy, let #1 stroke the other's face like a long-lost lover, and whatever else it is that penguins do to show their affections.

He doesn't hear the stairs creak as Kanba moves up them, or the click of their bedroom door as it gently slides shut. He doesn't hear the padding of stockinged feet across the floor, doesn't stir until it dawns on him that it's no longer so chilly underneath the blankets, and the cause of it isn't from a feathered friend. Is it...?

"Kyu-kyu." That's definitely no penguin. The voice is too deep, too resonant, which means...

"Aniki—" The term sleepily slurs out of Shouma without thinking, forgetting on occasion that he's not obligated to call him that anymore. He's so tired that he overlooks the poor attempt at humor, swallowing his scolding in favor of latching on to the man who's (presumably) laying next to him. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know that it's Kanba—he can tell by the feel of his body, all bones and sharp points that still find a way to entangle with him, and the body heat that radiates throughout. "Welcome home..."

Kanba laughs again, unaffected at being clung to like a koala. "I'm home," he agrees, feeling at peace for the first time in weeks.

Shouma hums in acknowledgement, hearing his words but lacking in the motivation to follow up with some of his own. It looks as though he's willing to fall back asleep right there, arms tightly locked around Kanba's torso, ankles crossed behind his waist, cheek rubbing into his chest. There's a short pause while he does this, and silence reigns right before he mumbles a question that Kanba can't entirely hear.

"Ehh?" he asks.

"Stupid aniki," Shouma repeats himself, "why aren't you dressed for bed..."

More laughter emerges from Kanba, chased by a fond sigh that's blown into his hair. "I just got here," he says, "why would I do that..."

"Nn..." Someone is clearly less awake for this than he thought he'd be. Still, with a grunt and groan, Shouma manages to tug on his companion and pull them both upright, effectively straddling his lap in the process. He's oblivious to their compromising position, more concerned with hanging on to Kanba and finding the strength to rouse himself to full consciousness. It won't do to pass out now that the Kanba's here, the person who makes it all worthwhile.

"Shouma...?"

"Hold on...just..." He's slow to disentangle from him, crawl off of his form and take him by both hands over to the dresser drawers. He has to stop every couple of steps to curl back into Kanba, nuzzle at him, fiddle with his tie. It'd prompt even more laughter if he didn't recognize the need behind these actions, the tenderness that's been set aside solely for him.

"Shouma," he breathes, pats him gingerly, smooths out the wrinkles in his bedclothes. "It's fine, I'm right here..."

For now, anyway. It doesn't seem like a good time to be talking business, about how long he can stay, when he's due for another departure, how long he'll be gone. A better idea is to let Shouma do with him as he pleases, not batting an eye when his hands are swatted aside so that he can be the one to unfasten every last button of his shirt, slide it off him, slide his hands in turn under the tank top that remains, counting ribs and ensuring that he's here in one piece, alive and whole.

"You're here," says Shouma, voice smaller than he expected. He knows what a foolish fear it is, that no matter how much time Kanba spends out of their home, out of their city, he'll always return eventually. They're impervious to the elements, to life and death and the myriad of other things that haunt mankind, so there's no sense in worrying about his safety. It's a natural instinct from their former lives that he doesn't think he'll ever to shake off. Ultimately, it's not detrimental, not important.

But it's something that Kanba finds endearing, and he smiles in the dark, plays along, brushes his lips over each of Shouma's cheeks, the corner of his mouth. "Of course," he says. "What's gonna keep me away...?"

Shouma doesn't want to answer that, in no mood to come up with a haughty theory as his eyelashes lower, tickle the side of his brother's face. He'd much rather kiss him properly, put a hand on his chest to support himself while he reaches for the nearest drawer with the other to blindly fish out a pair of pants to sleep in. In a perfect world he'd dress him in his usual outfit to wear around the house, but they don't have the seconds to spare on matching attire. When he passes them to Kanba, he finally takes a step back from him, cheeks flushed in embarrassment at acting so boldly, and retreats to the bed so that Kanba can change.

"..." Kanba shakes his head, watching him go. Not wanting to distract Shouma by making a mess, he'll see fit to at least drape his discarded clothes over the reading chair in the corner of the room, making a mental note to add those to the laundry in the morning. When he's dressed more appropriately, he steals below the sheets with Shouma, grinning. "You were saying...?"

On Shouma's end there's nothing left for him to say, simply resuming their prior position as he curls up close to Kanba, head buried into the crook of his neck. "Stay with me," is all he murmurs, "until I fall asleep..."

His elder snorts, a dismissive sound, wiggling around to get a little more comfortable in bed. When he's satisfied, he adds, "I'll stay after. Then we'll have a big breakfast."

"You're not making it."

"Who said I was...?"

"Stupid..." Shouma's grip tightens, and that's the last from him, succumbing to his dreams.

"Heh."

Kanba chooses to stay awake for a short while longer, eyes roaming over his baby brother, the shadows that play over his skin. He'll burn the image into his brain for the next time that he can't he can't be here, when there will be nothing to console him past using a penguin for a makeshift pillow. One of his hands weaves through soft blue curls, sifting them through his fingers, lightly scratching the scalp with his blunt fingernails. This too he'll memorize: the warmth that radiates from them both, the weight of Shouma's arms wrapped around his chest, the way that their legs intertwine further down. He's waited for this ever since he left, secure in the knowledge that absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder.

He hates it when he's forced to leave home, but he'll always love what's waiting for him on the other side.