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What a hell of a nightmare to wake up from.
Flat on his back, Kubo groans, rubbing at his eyes with sweat-soaked palms. A dull ache gnaws at his insides, fading at once the moment he acknowledges it, as though it had lingered there only to inform him of its temporary presence.
That ain't normal, what's up with—
His thoughts are cut short when he bends a leg, stretching, and his ankle brushes against something solid and strange under the sheets, prompting him to slip a hand beneath to investigate.
A rough, curving surface meets his fingertips for his nails to scrape along on. Whatever it is, it emanates heat, it’s sizable, and it’s...
Oval in shape. Thickening towards one end, while narrowing closer to the opposite, almost like a...
The nauseating agony cooked up by his brain that had ensnared his guts in the dream flashes through his mind. Ignore it. There’s no point dwelling on any of its aspects.
It was all a product of his imagination. The cramps, the intrusion from within spreading him open far, far too wide, demanding to be let out, none of it was real, despite feeling the contrary.
Why’s he mulling over it now?
He scoffs at himself. What, d’ya think ya manifested yer fucked up dream into reality? Get real. Sure, he’s an Angel, but such a feat still sounds inconceivable and laughable. It ain’t gonna be waiting for him when he lifts the sheets.
Sweat soaks through the material bunched up in his free hand’s grip. His mouth’s parched, tongue like sandpaper as he licks—scrapes—his lips.
On second thought, that’d be too speedy of a reveal, wouldn’t it? So he closes his eyes, unearths the mystery object with both hands, and now, on the count of three: one, two, three—
"Nyeghhh—k?!"
An egg. He's clutching an egg the size of a fucking ostrich's in his hands, his throat growing too tight to let loose any other sounds following his startled squawk. A volley of thoughts, all the hows and whys and what the fucks clump up to form a bottleneck in his brain, leaving him devoid of any activity upstairs.
All he can do is stare at it with wide eyes, this hell of a souvenir he'd brought with him from a dream.
Yours, a small observation breaks free from the tangled mess, that's yours. The traces of a vibe he can sense from it are entirely his. More and more of the lump shatters into fragments, each sliver carrying a voice stabbing at his Soul sharp and stern.
It's yours. You gave b— You laid i— You made it.
The fuck. No, he didn't. He can't just, just... dream up things and give them a tangible form, that ain't the way it works. Surely there's a perfectly rational explanation behind it.
He clings on to this hope, even when he squeezes his legs together tight with painless ease. It's as clear as day his Imagination with capital I has shifted his configuration downstairs to the one meant for nurturing the development of new life, and it'd done so in response to his horror show of a dream.
The sheets rustle next to him, and he whips his head toward the figure beside him, as though just now recalling their presence.
Haz, clad in the whole track suit and t-shirt and laying on top of the sheets (Why do I need to undress to sleep?) awakens with a theatrical fake yawn picked up from Kubo. He'd fallen into the habit of actually sleeping with Kubo after the Shibuya fiasco had roused his interest toward understanding humans and their customs.
Before Kubo had departed for Shibuya, Haz used to stay up all night to stare at the Noise Master until dawn.
There's no groggy disposition to be found when he pulls himself up into a sitting position with ease, no bleary-eyed looks to be shot at Kubo. His attention lands on the calcium carbonate nightmare in Kubo's hands, so slippery from perspiration he has to adjust his grip on it.
The gaze directed at it is not the least bit confused, no, it seems to be pretty damn full of curiosity and contentment. He knows. Anger roils inside of Kubo, drowning his astonishment. That bastard knows what this is about.
"What the fuck is this?" Kubo hisses, thrusting the egg into Haz's hands.
His Composer accepts it so readily it's infuriating, egg resting on one palm while the other caresses it, and a realization strikes Kubo on the spot: he'd handed him something that'd been in him. It's disgust's turn to take the seat in his mind.
He makes a move to take back his filth. The instant his hand touches the side of it, Haz's hand covers his, radiating a phoenix's simmering warmth.
"It's yours," Haz says. "It's lighter than it looks."
"Yeah, I know, I don't need ya to tell me that," Kubo grumbles, gesturing at Haz to go on with impatient waving of his free hand. "What I wanna know is how'd it get in me. I can't just"—he's not sure himself what he's trying to pantomime with his wiggling fingers—"just dream of things, and boom, magic 'em up into reality. So, what, am I gonna wake up to a knife stickin' outta me if I happen to get shanked in a dream?" He jabs a thumb at his own chest.
Haz shakes his head, lifting his hand off of Kubo's to tap his fingers on the eggshell in a gentle rhythm. "In this case, you have. You've false brooded."
Kubo's brows scrunch together. "And whassat s'posed to mean?"
"If you were to wish for an egg to lay—or dream of it, like you did, your Imagination responds to the desire by triggering an incomplete brood collab in your body."
The brow scrunching persists. "And that is...?"
"I can't divulge any specific details if you're not partaking in such a collab, but I am allowed to tell you that a false brooding mimics its activation."
"I still ain't gettin' it." Kubo huffs, picking up his clothing off of the floor and yanking them on. "Ya mean to tell me it's the Angel equivalent of a wet dream?"
Haz's opening his mouth, no doubt to ask him to elaborate on what he'd just said. "Forget it, s'nothin'," Kubo dismisses before Haz's even said anything. A thought immediately crosses his mind, awful enough to hit him with a pang of nausea. "...It ain't gonna hatch, is it?"
"No, you would need to partake in a brood collab if you wish to lay a fertilized egg. You could join the n—"
"Thanks, but no thanks, I didn't sign up for any a' this when ya were oh so kind to offer me a job." Kubo zips up his pants. "Ya want me to Invert a ward or two? Yeah, sure, I'd be happy to. Want me to wrestle with a Taboo infestation? Yer wish's my command once again. But there ain't no way in hell I'm ever gonna willingly squeeze out one a' those. I ain't masochistic enough to rip myself apart for the sake of overgrown chicken eggs."
"It'll hurt only if you imagine the pain."
Kubo pauses in the middle of picking up his shirt. "Like I said, thanks, but no thanks." And with that, he wrenches his shirt on, smoothing out the wrinkles with rough palms. "Th'aint my cup of tea."
Bitterness wells up in his chest. Angels don't need sleep, but he likes indulgin' in the harmless lil' human vice. Can't a guy even get some shut-eye now without riskin' layin' breakfast?
"Guess that's it for me when it comes to sleepin', then." He sighs and shrugs, eyeing his socks by his feet. He...
...darts around, yanks the egg out of Haz's hands, turns his back to the Composer and curls around the egg clasped tight to his chest.
He blinks. Draws in a shaky breath. Looks over his shoulder to shoot Haz a sidelong glance. "...The fuck did I just...?"
Haz sidles up closer with an easy smile as though Kubo hadn't just committed a reprehensible act toward a superior. "Though it's false, it's still a brooding, albeit not as potent."
Kubo scrambles to his feet before he can even process the action, egg in his embrace as he takes a few steps back, narrowing his eyes at Haz, now perched on the side of the bed with his head tilted in consideration.
Composer or not, he ain't got the right to barge into his personal space like that, starin' at it like he's looking to nab it b— Fucking hell.
Whatever's conducting his movements and thoughts is doing so in his own words, blending in with his brooding—the thinking kind a' brooding—like a fucking parasite attempting to lay low.
His own body's refusing to co-operate with his desire. He wants to hurl it at the floor and watch it explode in a goopy mess to break free from the divine program in his head, but his arms are content with where they are, wrapped around the source of the problem.
Haz sets a foot on the floor. Break it, Kubo wants to say, but what tumbles out of his mouth is, "Back off."
There's a glimmer in Haz's eyes, the exact same that sparks whenever he finds a new whim to study and pick apart.
The attention would be flattering, if it had come at any other time, and if the price for it wasn't this.
He can move his head. Not too much, but enough for him to nod, first at the egg, then at Haz, hoping he'll get the message. The nod and a smile he receives in return shows his tacit cry for help has gone over Haz's head.
Another sluggish turn of his head has him looking with exasperation at the tiny kitchen tucked in the corner. By now, he'd be sipping coffee if it weren't for this fucking thing. Would it still be possible at the moment to have a cup, and deal with it la—
His foot responds. Then the other, each step he takes closing the distance between him and the kitchen. Huh, would ya look at that. If only it were this easy to smash the—
Kubo blinks, finding himself frozen where he stands, the connection to his feet cut. Ohhh. So that's how it goes, huh? Prying his fingers off the controls whenever he acts with violent intentions toward the menace he's carrying? Yeah, he can work with that.
Actually, y'know what? Maybe he'll have that coffee right now. Some breakfast, too.
His feet resume their trip to the kitchen. Think of the breakfast, think of coffee, don't spare a single thought to what yer holdin'.
There's footsteps behind him, stopping a good distance away to watch. He can feel curious eyes boring into the back of his head as he rummages through the cabinets with the hand that's not cradling the egg. The bitch of a programming sitting shotgun is at ease, so sure he's got peaceful purposes in mind.
"What are you doing?" Haz's tone is purely inquisitive.
"Cookin' some breakfast." He fills an electric kettle with water; it's kind of a bitch to do with just one hand. "I'm not expectin' ya to eat any."
The few times he's managed to convince Haz to give something a go, the Composer's picked at the offered morsels with a fork to inspect the slices of fruits and vegetables and small portions of rice from every angle before having a taste. His expression's never betrayed how he truly feels about what he's sampled, the small smile remaining on his lips whenever he gives the verdict, "I don't see the appeal."
The countertop fills with kitchenware at a steady pace. A bowl's placed down with a firm thud, whereas the coffee cup's handled with more care. A spoon, and another one. A third and fourth, too. Just plain old cookin', nothin' for anyone to get concerned about. He sets a skillet onto the stovetop with a sharp clack.
Let's see how this'll pan out.
"What are you making?"
Kubo pats the egg. He laughs under his breath, a mocking nyeheh before he replies, "This."
He accidentally twists himself around with a little too much force, accidentally banging the egg against a corner of the counter.
The shell breaks inward with such a visceral crack, bleeding translucent.
His stomach drops, flooding with numbing ice, forced to channel and choke on the flood of alien sensations racking the parasite. He growls at the tears pricking his eyes, the vocalized expression of his anger warped as its forced out of a narrow throat. The clench of his chest; the clammy fingers; the blurring vision; they all combine into such an infuriating mix.
Like smashing in the skull of a pathetic soul to put it out of its misery, he gives the egg one more slam. A crack not unlike the snap of a neck. The nauseating stream of feelings dries out within him.
No need to spill the mess all over the floor. He breaks apart the egg over the bowl, watching the yellow pour in heavy, glistening like a sunrise through the veil of tears. The remains of the shell are discarded into the trash can while he rubs his eyes dry on his upper arm.
"Ya could've helped me out, y'know. Ain't polite to just gawk at a man's plight like that," he says to Haz when he turns to find the Composer standing beside him, peering into the bowl.
"I would've stepped in. Eventually." Haz looks between the bowl and the skillet. "Could we split this once it's ready?"
"Split what? I'm not makin' anythin'."
Haz gestures at the bowl with an outstretched palm.
Kubo splutters. "We ain't eatin' that."
"But it looks good."
"We're not—" the next noises Kubo makes are incomprehensible. There's way too much he wants to say all at once; he gestures at the bowl with both hands, the curling and straightening and wiggling of his fingers so haphazard it's as though they're convulsing. "We ain't eatin' somethin' that I laid."
Never in a million years would he have expected to say those words.
"Why not? Wouldn't it be the same as the chicken eggs you've eaten?"
"It ain't comparable!"
Haz cocks his head, thinking. "You have wings, too. And you lay eggs as well."
"One." Kubo holds up a single finger, "I laid just one, no more, and I ain't intendin' to repeat it."
Haz's focus flicks to the bowl again. "I think it'd be a shame to let it go to waste if this were to be the only one."
More spluttering. Kubo drags a hand down his face with a resigned groan, shaking his head. "A'ight, sure. Whatever ya say. Just don't expect me to eat it."
The eggs are whisked while a generous chunk of butter melts on the skillet set on medium low heat, all the while he tries to ignore the fact what he's mixing into an airy, golden blend came from him.
Soon there's a liquid sun in the bowl, edged with clouds of a froth; it's transferred into the skillet before the butter has a chance to burn brown, the heat lowered to provide a gentle temperature for the egg to fry.
Arms encircle his waist from behind as Haz rests his chin on his shoulder to watch the magic happen; the brush of the blond hair against his face tickles. Stirred and folded, herded into curds reminiscent of the shape and vividness of a Pig Salsa with a spatula, it... Well, it doesn't smell half bad. It smells pretty good, actually.
Looks appetizing, too, despite how fundamentally disgusting it is.
It's taken off the heat a few minutes later to let it set in the warmth retained by the skillet. He's released from Haz's embrace to flip on the kettle in order to prepare his coffee.
"D'ya want anythin' to wash it down with?" Kubo drums his fingers on the counter, instant coffee granules already measured into his cup.
Haz starts setting the table. "Mm... no, thank you. I believe I'll be satisfied with your produce alone."
Kubo scrunches his nose, barely reining in the need to tell Haz not to call it that.
Once the coffee's done, the scrambled eggs—he insists on sticking to the plural form; using just the singular rubs him the wrong way—are transferred from the skillet to a plate like a landslide. It's the biggest plate they've got, yet the eggs still pile up to form a miniature mountain, seasoned with salt and pepper.
No point in gettin' too adventurous with the spices, considering Haz's previous adventures with food.
He turns to see Haz sitting at the table in front of a plate and a fork, all smiles. The exact same set up waits on the other end of the table; he takes note of it while placing the plate on a cork trivet sitting at the center of the table.
"That's real polite of ya, but I still ain't eatin' it." Kubo frowns, fetching his cup and the largest spoon they've got, handing it to Haz before taking a seat. "Ya can have it all, if ya want."
Impervious to the heat, Haz slides his fingers beneath the hot plate. He brings it inward to bisect the mountain with the spoon, scooping up half onto his plate with the most interest Kubo's ever seen on his face when it comes to eating. "Your thoughts about it seemed positive."
A weary sigh. "Ya know full well I don't like yer peekin'."
The egg plate's replaced on its trivet. "It was only a little peek." A steady hand balances a heaping forkful of eggs, its mass surpassing the amount of everything Haz's previously had put together. Haz closes his mouth around it, and does so without any hesitation.
He shows his approval with a satisfied hum accompanying a nod, and goes for another bite of the same caliber. The warmth of the food isn't a problem to the phoenix.
Any arguments pertaining to mind reading wither on Kubo's tongue. The kid's brimming with enthusiasm, not a touch of revulsion to his features as he goes for one forkful after another.
Ain't no fuckin' way it's good.
Haz meets his eyes then, motioning for him to come closer with a curl of his fingers. The moment he leans forward, hands on the table, Haz blows at a fork with a bite-sized piece of yellow skewered on it—like he's seen Kubo do before—before pressing it against his lips.
"I'm only asking you to try it once." Haz's reflecting his own words back at him from the first time Haz had agreed to give food a try.
Faced with those warm, expectant eyes, it ain't exactly easy to say no.
Exorcism had torn him apart. Just a lil' taste will be nothin' compared to that.
So he opens his mouth and allows Haz to feed him. When he pulls off of the fork and retreats to drop back into his seat, he does so with a furrowed brow.
The union of buttery and savory flavors sits on his tongue, a perfect balance tinted with a faint kick of black pepper. Not too thick nor runny, sitting midway between the two, the texture a pleasant blend of soft and creamy.
Like chicken eggs prepared exactly the way he likes them, but tasting even better.
It goes down easy. He licks his lips, and grabs the spoon to start gathering the golden fluff onto his plate until half of his share sits on it, inviting despite its nauseating origin.
He digs in, taking small sips from his coffee following each dutifully chewed bite. "It ain't half bad," he comments after a while. "Tastes nice, but the layin' was an absolute bitch." He points the fork towards his bed. "Ya can have that all to yerself. I sure as hell ain't gonna gamble with dreamin' ever again, that's for sure."
"But you like sleeping."
Kubo swallows the current mouthful. "I sure do, but not so much that I'd wanna be cookin' another one a' these puppies." He nods at his plate and takes another bite.
Haz doesn't exactly look pleased. "You should reconsider your decision. I like sleeping with you."
"Nyeheh, tough luck. I s'pose I wouldn't mind layin' next to ya while you're snoozin', but sleeping's off the table now."
"...A command code," Haz offers after swallowing a hefty piece. "If I were to imbue an object with a command code that would inspire only good dreams, would you change your mind?"
A long, thoughtful sip. The noise that spills from Kubo's mouth when he lowers the cup is a conflicted string sliding from mmmm to nnnn to wellll and finally, "Yeah, sure. But if I still end up poppin' out yet another bastard, I'm gettin' rid a' the bed."
"Even if the eggs were to be on the smaller side?"
"Just what kinda command code are ya plannin' on?!"
Later that day he's presented with one of his own Reaper pins soaked in Haz's vibe, embedded with a command code; Haz reassures him of its reliability.
It takes a whole week before Kubo actually agrees to fall asleep with the pin resting on the nightstand.
He's got nothing to complain about when it comes to his dreams made of pure wish fulfillment. Some nights his brain feeds him scenarios of his future with Haz, while on the other nights he gets to experience the thrill of beating the brat looking after Shibuya into a bloody mess of broken bones and bent feathers with his bare hands.
Weeks later, in the middle of a lucid dream, he starts thinking back to how content Haz had looked at the table back then, pleased with his breakfast of scrambled eggs. It did taste good, too, so maybe he—
Before he can catch himself and destroy the dangerous train of thought, control's wrestled away from him. Sheer agony shoots up his spine. Oh, fuck—!
The next morning, while Haz tucks into a big plate of freshly prepared scrambled eggs, he asks him whether he's really going to get rid of the bed.
Kubo refuses to answer him.