Breathing in Smoke

It’s really not fair- to expect him to just, fall back to being the little boy he used to be.

It's all familiar- this world, this body. It's familiar but also not quite home, like reaching out with a hand only to graze a dream. Takuya feels so clumsy as a child; he trips on his own legs running after the ball, keeps miscalculating the length of his limbs. Clumsy, clumsy, clumsy.

 

It’s really not fair, to expect him to settle back into this frail body, as if he hasn’t been gigantic and metallic once upon a time.

Fire- fire is good. Fire is home. Fire is him. But fire, fire burns him. The flames refuse to dance around his fingers, rather darkening his hair and then skin. The embers feel right, in his palms- this is how it should be, this is what he is- but he has to wear gloves, afterward, because he is a child child child not a warrior not a leader, and adults have too little respect and too many questions for him.

 

It’s really not fair, to expect him to take he and son and boy all the time, as if he hasn’t been something beyond that, beyond boxes and expectations and culture.

Brother, Shinya calls him. Takuya used not to notice. He still doesn't, at times. But at others, it puzzles him. The need to make a distinction- that there is a distinction at all, really. Brother. Wrong. Incorrect. It doesn't hurt him- not like that itch to stretch wings that are not there, not like that urge to flick a tail he does not have. But it's inaccurate.

 

It’s really not fair, to expect him to carry around a suit of bones and blood, as if he hasn’t been fire, pure raw combustion, shapeless and energy and freedom.

Some days, he is human, and those days he is alright. But some days, he is not, and those days he finds it hard to breathe because he should not have to.

He cuts himself, once. An honest accident; he's cutting onions, he's not paying attention, and his small hands are clumsy, clumsy, clumsy.

He watches the red dripping off his fingers until his mother patches him up.

Armor does not bleed. Data does not bleed. Flames, definitely, does not bleed.

It's quite a fascinating thing, blood. It's red like fire, shapeless like fire, warm like fire. Fascinating. Fascinating.

Takuya is not fond of unnecessary pains. He's careful not to cut again. Too often.

 

Takuya has been a human and a warrior and a beast and a savior, has been flesh and data and male and genderless, and his mind hasn’t yet gotten the memo that he can only be one of these things now.

And it hurts. It hurts. It hurts. He’s twitching flames and intangible heat in a world that desperately wants him to stay still.

Time passes, and trains come and go. Takuya wonders, sometimes, what he would do if one of them offered to bring him back to the Digital World. He's happy, here; with his family and his friends. But oh, to have the chance to taste sparks on his tongue again...

The train stops at Shibuya's station. Takuya gets off, wallet in hand. He goes to buy matches.