[They've been officially out of work for long enough that Kon doesn't feel like he's missing something without the uncomfortable jut of a clerical collar pressing against his throat any more.
There isn't much in life that Kon cares a great deal about. He doesn't really care about the people they work for, the things they destroy, the world they live in. If things are nice for other people, that's pretty fine, but so long as he himself is fit and busy, he doesn't really care what happens to other people.
Except Shouichi.
Somehow, Shouichi fits at his side as naturally as his right arm once did. Not that recent events have been nearly as traumatizing for Kon as they were for Shouichi -- not remotely -- but having him like this, having him so wrong, so off eats at him. He's physically present, but even in his most lucid, comfortable moments when he's concentrating on a task, he's so many steps to the left of where he should be that Shouichi hardly even seems to be the same person. It's not his fault. It's not his fault. (It is his fault and he hates himself for it more deeply with every failed lead.)
Kon curses himself for all the times he'd wished for something, anything, new and difficult to puzzle over. For a long time, all he'd wanted was a problem, a subject to occupy his mind, something to struggle against. He'd been a fool. Wishes never end up the way you want them, any idiot who can read knows that.
He tries to take care of himself, for both their sakes. He walks outside, buys and eats nutritious food, washes his hair, brushes his teeth -- but the sun hardly feels like anything on his skin, the food tastes like dust, and he only cares for his body out of a cerebral knowledge that he must. Every waking moment (and most of the sleeping ones, scant as they are) are completely devoted to the Problem.
He struggles to find balance in how much to push Shouichi, to make him eat when he can hardly force anything down his throat, to coax him into the chipped bathtub when he doesn't want to move, to suffer the weight of Kon's arm around his rigid shoulders. Without Shouichi to hold him steady, to provide the necessary counterweight to hold their apparently delicate equilibrium, Kon flounders.
Every avenue he pursues is a dead end. The network of information that he'd once been so confident in offered him nothing. The vast wealth of knowledge he'd prided himself on was useless, worthless, containing nothing of value. All of the skills that he'd once thought to be so sharp failed him utterly. They've seen possession, curses, spiritual poisoning, and mind control -- a thousand different ways a person could be tainted, broken, or cowed, and what was happening to Shouichi was like nothing they'd encountered. No healing, no magic, no supplication changed the state of things. Kon deeply considered the merit of excising the ruined eye, but if some sort of parasite had taken up residence in Shouichi's body, it was possible that such a drastic move could cause it to react badly, potentially destroying its host. It's an unacceptable outcome, and it is with crushing clarity that Kon realizes that there are no lengths to which he would not go in order to maintain Shouichi. He's become too dependent, too reliant on him. Shouichi has become too much a part of Kon. So bends his thoughts on Shouichi's eye, tracking down possible explanations, remedies, anything to ease the pain with a feverish kind of single-mindedness.
He's hunched in an uncomfortable chair next to the rooms rickety radiator, deep in a text on the topic summoning the supernatural, chasing the desperate hope that perhaps something from another plane could identify the nature of the problem, when he hears the cadence of Shouichi's breathing become panicked. Snapping his gaze up, the book hits the floor before he can properly process what he's seeing.]
Shouichi!
[Blood has never made him feel queasy before, but the dark stream of it coursing down Shouichi's cheek makes him want to retch. He swears in an amalgam of languages, reflexively summoning purifying energy to his fingertips.]
no subject
There isn't much in life that Kon cares a great deal about. He doesn't really care about the people they work for, the things they destroy, the world they live in. If things are nice for other people, that's pretty fine, but so long as he himself is fit and busy, he doesn't really care what happens to other people.
Except Shouichi.
Somehow, Shouichi fits at his side as naturally as his right arm once did. Not that recent events have been nearly as traumatizing for Kon as they were for Shouichi -- not remotely -- but having him like this, having him so wrong, so off eats at him. He's physically present, but even in his most lucid, comfortable moments when he's concentrating on a task, he's so many steps to the left of where he should be that Shouichi hardly even seems to be the same person. It's not his fault. It's not his fault. (It is his fault and he hates himself for it more deeply with every failed lead.)
Kon curses himself for all the times he'd wished for something, anything, new and difficult to puzzle over. For a long time, all he'd wanted was a problem, a subject to occupy his mind, something to struggle against. He'd been a fool. Wishes never end up the way you want them, any idiot who can read knows that.
He tries to take care of himself, for both their sakes. He walks outside, buys and eats nutritious food, washes his hair, brushes his teeth -- but the sun hardly feels like anything on his skin, the food tastes like dust, and he only cares for his body out of a cerebral knowledge that he must. Every waking moment (and most of the sleeping ones, scant as they are) are completely devoted to the Problem.
He struggles to find balance in how much to push Shouichi, to make him eat when he can hardly force anything down his throat, to coax him into the chipped bathtub when he doesn't want to move, to suffer the weight of Kon's arm around his rigid shoulders. Without Shouichi to hold him steady, to provide the necessary counterweight to hold their apparently delicate equilibrium, Kon flounders.
Every avenue he pursues is a dead end. The network of information that he'd once been so confident in offered him nothing. The vast wealth of knowledge he'd prided himself on was useless, worthless, containing nothing of value. All of the skills that he'd once thought to be so sharp failed him utterly. They've seen possession, curses, spiritual poisoning, and mind control -- a thousand different ways a person could be tainted, broken, or cowed, and what was happening to Shouichi was like nothing they'd encountered. No healing, no magic, no supplication changed the state of things. Kon deeply considered the merit of excising the ruined eye, but if some sort of parasite had taken up residence in Shouichi's body, it was possible that such a drastic move could cause it to react badly, potentially destroying its host. It's an unacceptable outcome, and it is with crushing clarity that Kon realizes that there are no lengths to which he would not go in order to maintain Shouichi. He's become too dependent, too reliant on him. Shouichi has become too much a part of Kon. So bends his thoughts on Shouichi's eye, tracking down possible explanations, remedies, anything to ease the pain with a feverish kind of single-mindedness.
He's hunched in an uncomfortable chair next to the rooms rickety radiator, deep in a text on the topic summoning the supernatural, chasing the desperate hope that perhaps something from another plane could identify the nature of the problem, when he hears the cadence of Shouichi's breathing become panicked. Snapping his gaze up, the book hits the floor before he can properly process what he's seeing.]
Shouichi!
[Blood has never made him feel queasy before, but the dark stream of it coursing down Shouichi's cheek makes him want to retch. He swears in an amalgam of languages, reflexively summoning purifying energy to his fingertips.]