Half-Sight

03 | deal

a/n

hey everyone :)

i hope you've all been doing well. it's been a while, but i'm going to be updating half-sight from here on and catching up on everything that's been happening here (slowly but surely, i promise).

a lot of has happened - i'll post an announcement with updates soon!

with love,

krissy

♙

d e a l 

♙

seven years ago 

bohai tanaka

OSAKA'S FIRST FUNERAL progression for Minami Brawlery's mass-murder is a living nightmare.

To Bohai Tanaka, at least, it is. The fancy beauty of it makes him want to jump out of his skin.

Grief and burnt wax intertwine in the air. The progression starts right outside the soot-black stone walls guarding Osaka Castle, where the fat mist-grey canal splits off into a thousand thinner southward canals.

Bohai watches from the stone's edge, feet dangling, a bottle of shochu seated on his left in tribute. Family and friends of the dead stand shrouded in white on each passing boat, carrying tall lantern poles. Gold light bathes Bohai's vision. It sinks into the water like plumes of paint.

He hates it.

He hates it because it reminds him of two in the morning, when he would hear the jangle of keys and the strike of a match as his uncle Eiji, faithful bartender at the brawlery, splashed water on his face. The gold candlelight was the last thing he saw every night. It gave him the relief of surviving another day, and it was the only thing that eased him to sleep.

Footsteps crunch against gravel nearby. He blinks and raises his head.

Standing over him is a girl with pale grease-stained skin. Small but lean. Older—junior high school, maybe. Splotchy cheeks flushed. Her almond eyes are tilted-up, fierce, unwavering. But there's something gentle underneath, as if she's there not to mourn, but to keep him company.

She points to the spot beside him. "Do you mind?"

He shakes his head glumly and turns away.

Her presence settles unceremoniously beside him, disturbing the somewhat sacred air. A sharp crack startles him—he glances over, startled, as beer foams out of a battered Sapporo can.

The foul smell of it makes him cough. "What're you—"

"Otousan's favorite drink." She meets his eyes guardedly. Some softness in them aches to be in good company. "Cheers, yeah?"

"But I'm not allowed—"

She laughs a little and presses the shochu into his hand. "I'm not drinking it, you dummy. I'm pouring it. A toast, you know?"

"Oh. Well I already did that."

Her face falls. Bohai feels guilty.

She studies him—then clinks his unmoving bottle with her can and tosses alcohol onto the ground in an arc. It's a type of tradition they practice often—spilling alcohol in tribute for victims of the Red Lung epidemic.