Chapter Text
“Stop moving. You’re gonna make the pin crooked!” Kotoka fusses, yanking the strands of Doppio’s hair into a tiny Samurai-style bun. He winces, whining low in the back of his throat in protest as his head slowly transforms into a pin cushion with the number of little pins Kotoka’s putting everywhere to ‘set his hair nicely’ before she goes in with the spray.
“But Kotoka—” Doppio whines, only to be promptly shushed by Meloco.
“No talking!” she repeats for the umpteenth time, covering Doppio’s face in powder. What step were they on again? Highlights? Shading? Allergy development to the amount of fucking dust in the air?
Doppio’s too trapped to find out, spine shot up straight and pinned to Meloco’s couch by the weight of the girls’ withering glares. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can spot Hex chuckling lowly; phone held up to record Doppio’s suffering. Doppio shoots him a withering glare.
Ver Vermillion, who had gratefully escaped the girls’ frantic salon about ten minutes ago and is now lounging across the couches as much as he can without disturbing his hair, openly snickers at Doppio’s misery. He glances up from his phone to give Doppio’s progress an appraisal as if he hadn’t been here for the last worst ten goddamn minutes of Doppio’s life.
“You know, I didn’t peg you for the traditional yukata type,” Ver hums, eyes trailing to the cute yellow chick patterns on the magenta fabric of Doppio’s yukata. His obi, a flat, chick-yellow solid tone that matches the little patterns on his jacket and half of his eyes, hang loose on his waist, slowly getting crushed by Doppio’s sitting position. He tries to sit up a little so as not to crease it. After all, this entire ensemble was a gift from Uki and Fulgur—for saving Sonny a few times—and Doppio holds them in high enough regard to cherish the thing.
Besides, the Violet Atelier makes some pretty cool-looking clothes.
Doppio huffs as much as his limited range of motion (read: Meloco) would allow. “Weren’t you the one threatening bloody murder down our throats if we showed up in t-shirts and jeans?” Doppio murmurs, trying his best to move as few facial muscles as possible. Meloco grumbles in annoyance but lets Doppio slide.
Ver chuckles. “Well, yes, but I honestly thought you’d just show up in a haori and call it a day. Honestly, I’m shocked you’re more dressed up than Hex.”
Hex shifts in his seat, shooting Ver a half-hearted eye-roll. His outfit is noticeably simpler—a flat cerulean blue yukata with the top tucked into baggy black tobi pants. His haori—a plain black drape at first glance—subtly shifts in the light, revealing hidden golden owl eyes and feathers when in motion.
“It’s not like I’m the one going out today,” Hex counters, lowering his phone to save his precious treasured snapshot of Doppio’s suffering. Bastard. “Someone has to make sure things are going smoothly in the background. Besides, weren’t you the one nagging at me all afternoon about wearing something comfortable for my injury?”
Ver rolls his eyes, grumbling under his breath. “I’m just saying.”
Hex laughs, low and private, as he pulls Ver by the shoulders and tucks him softly into his lap. Ver giggles in response, tearing his eyes away for a moment to surge up and—
Yep. That’s enough.
“Get a room!” Kotoka yells, throwing a couch pillow at them from across the room and nailing them on the chest. Her own yukata—a short, modern and modified to hell pink dress with apricots and apricot flower patterns swirling around her torso, all tied down with a small yellow obi—hikes up to her thighs in the motion, snagging on the chair and nearly making her topple over.
Doppio surges out and grabs her by the shoulder quickly, stopping her mere moments before disaster. Meloco yelps in panic, almost immediately dropping her makeup brush to rush over and fuss over Kotoka.
In her haste, she almost trips over her yukata, the long purple lily-of-the-valley-patterned satin fabric cascading around her form—just tight enough in all the right spots to make her look pretty but terrible for fast movement. Not to mention her giant dangling sleeves, with each one split into two separate swathes of fabric for fashion.
“Kotoka!” Meloco chides, brows furrowed. “You just got discharged, like, two hours ago!”
“I’m fine,” Kotoka whines, waving her off with an annoyed huff. “Doppi caught me, didn’t he? I’m not gonna break my neck falling half a foot to the ground.”
Meloco pouts, giving her a withering glare. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Kotoka sighs, gripping onto Doppio’s forearm as she pulls herself upright. She adjusts her legs, careful to keep her injured leg outstretched and resting on the coffee table while she tucks the other one under her thigh. With careful but fussy hands, she reaches for Meloco’s bun, fixing her artfully yet precariously tied bun that nearly got undone in the movement.
For a moment, Doppio feels terribly intrusive, watching Kotoka’s gentle—almost reverent touch as she cards her fingers through the strands of Meloco’s hair. She adjusts the elaborate silver hair ornament on her head, finger tracing the tip of the metallic muguet petals that curl around the base of the hairpin.
Apparently, it had been Kotoka’s first gift to Meloco, around the start of their relationship a few months before Doppio joined.
Although Doppio suspects the real gift is the gentle, vulnerable edge to Kotoka’s eyes that only seem to be visible to Meloco.
Yup.
Doppio is definitely third-wheeling right now.
“I’m fine, Melo,” Kotoka pouts, matching Meloco’s expression. “It’s just an hour or so, and Doppi’s gonna be there with me the whole time.”
Meloco worries her bottom lip. “Wouldn’t it better if I—”
“What would be best is for you to help Ver out in my place,” Kotoka reminds her, expression slowly hardening resolutely. Her hand trails down to cup one of Meloco’s cheeks, hovering just a few inches away so as not to smudge the resting makeup. “You’re already doing so much for me, Melo. You know I’d love nothing more than to go to the festival with you.”
A pregnant pause. Then, Meloco sighs, leaning into Kotoka’s palm.
“There’s still tomorrow,” Meloco says, gaze firm. “I’ll get someone else to fill in—and I’ll take you around all the places you didn’t get to see tonight.”
Kotoka smiles—a soft and content little thing. She tilts her head to one side, almost loosening her tight crown braid and matching apricot flower hairpin. Doppio blinks.
Wait. They’re matching?!
Ugh. Lesbians.
“It’s a date.”
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Ver exclaims in a hurry, right as they’re getting out of the car and shuffling to their positions—Hex heading backstage, Meloco and Ver meeting up with Vox to sort out the rest of their opening ceremony speech, and Kotoka and Doppio meeting up with their little guests of honour for the night.
“Hex, did you—”
“Here,” Hex follows, digging around his bag and pulling out a large package to hand to Ver. “I was wondering when you wanted to hand them out.”
Doppio frowns, curiosity knitting his brows together. “Hand what out?”
Ver takes the cloth pack in hand, unravelling it with a small, bashful smile.
“I—ah—went out yesterday,” Ver admits as the rest of the council begin to circle him in bated curiosity. “We’ve been working really hard for this for a while, and even if tonight isn’t quite a celebration for us…”
He reveals the package.
Doppio sucks in a sharp breath in recognition.
“Ver,” Meloco breathes, voice cloudy.
Ver nods shyly, holding out five rings in his palms. They’re tiny and simple little things, nothing more than a silver band with a small gemstone in the middle, shaped a little interesting for each person.
“They respond to your magic,” Ver explains, handing everyone theirs. He slips on his own, for example, fingers dancing over the red diamond-shaped ruby in the center. As his fingers trace over the stone, a breeze picks up, and Doppio swears he catches a whiff of a cluster of scents.
Amber. Lavender. Apricot. Muguet.
Doppio’s breath hitches. It’s all his councilmates’ magic scents’ dominant notes.
“I—realize the soul crystals get a little tedious to carry around,” Ver says sheepishly. “These should function similarly for the most part, although the range is a little smaller. Mostly though—they’re meant to be permanent.”
Doppio glances around, watching his fellow council gently caress the ring in their hand like a fragile winter flower, matching their expressions of disbelief and awe. Meloco openly gapes at her spiderweb-shaped amethyst while Kotoka holds her rose quartz up to the light to marvel at its cute little lightning bolt shape. Hex’s is a curled owl feather made up of aquamarine, and Doppio’s—
A pretty citrine shaped like a little chick. Hesitantly, he runs his fingers over the gem, expecting that wonderful combination of scent again that buzzes through the magic under his skin.
Except this time, there’s something extra.
“Since we share the same dominant note for our magic scents, I had to get a little— creative with yours,” Ver explains, catching sight of Doppio’s shocked expression. Doppio nods absentmindedly, slowly sinking himself into the gentle curl of sweet, strong yet gentle flora around his skin. He looks up, meeting Ver’s striking red eyes—impossibly shy.
Weeks ago, he’d have thought the sight impossible. Ver Vermillion, certified jackass, narcissist, and Doppio’s biggest hater—gifting him such a thoughtful memento and then blushing from it?
But then he recalls last night. The worried furrow in his brow. The quiet resignation as he slumped against Doppio’s shoulder. The outstretched hand and invitation hidden in an order.
Just how much of yourself are you hiding, Vermillion?
“Wisteria,” Hex fills in for Ver, leaning over to drape a comforting hand over his shoulder while pointing his gaze at Doppio. “For love and longevity. Amber, for courage and self-confidence. Muguet, or lily of the valley, for discretion and sincerity. Apricot for happiness and prosperity. Lavender for devotion and serenity. You know, we make quite the crew.”
Ver purses his lips and nods. “I know I haven’t been—the easiest to work with,” Ver admits. “Always chasing after figures in the shadows and working towards some far-off future goal none of us even know how to define, let alone chase. And yet—” he draws a sharp breath, glancing around at his council. They all stare back, eyes brimming with emotion.
“—and yet you all still decide to follow me,” Ver murmurs, voice raw. There’s a vulnerable edge to it that Doppio’s—not quite sure he’s ever seen. Judging by Meloco and Kotoka’s reaction, neither have they.
“So consider this an overdue and advance apology and promise,” Ver concludes, gathering himself as he holds up his hand and ring.
“No matter what happens, you are forever part of our council.”
(As long as we have one another, everything will be fine.
We’ll follow you to the ends of the worlds. Just say the word.
There’s no home without you. No haven without all of us. No peace when even one of us is troubled.
Doppio blinks the ghost of the other Fools’ jumbled memories from the back of his eyelids. He knows the name of this moment. Knows its weight. Knows what this means for their story. It’s the cliff’s edge he is hurtling himself towards, the inevitable point every Fool’s journey passes.
But this is Doppio’s tale.
And he’ll make his council be the one to defy their fate.)
Their rings glint in the streetlight, like drops of moonlight in this corner of private, fragile peace they’ve found in the parking lot behind a small comfort food restaurant downtown. Asphodel is a far cry from being their haven, no matter how much work the council’s poured into it. Really, nowhere is quite completely safe for them, forced to steal temporal little moments in the shadows of the relentless passage of time to talk to one another.
And still, Doppio stares at his council like they’re the only bedrock he’s known in his life.
You are the witness. The archive. The backup.
He is their friend. Their Fool. Their council mate.
Every memory begins and ends at one point or another.
He’s allowed to find himself in at least some of them.
Doppio slowly slides the ring onto his left ring finger, twisting the base. A perfect fit, although he suspects it’s magic. Then, he looks up at Ver, a lopsided grin pulling his cheeks apart.
“Thank you, Ver.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of Ver’s lips.
“No. Thank you.”
“Thank you so much for this, again,” Ike sighs, handing Kotoka a note with a bunch of numbers for emergency contact while Doppio fights for his life trying to chase down a tiny hyperactive cat child who managed to steal his damn ring right off of his finger. It only gets funnier when combined with the ten-year-old child on the side cheering and hollering football terminology at him like a coach.
“Please let me know if they give you trouble,” Ike says solemnly, pointedly digging the note into Kotoka’s palms. The dark eye bags under his eyes have never looked so hollow.
Kotoka makes a mental note never to become a parent but gives Ike her best comforting smile.
“It’s okay,” she offers with a light laugh. “We’re just taking them around the festival for a few hours, surely nothing too terrible will happen.”
Ike gives her a thinly veiled look of sharp alarm and warning. Quietly, he reaches to the side and taps his knuckles against a wooden wishboard sign for luck.
“Maybe that’s true, but—” Ike sighs, trailing his gaze over to where Reimu and Alban are now climbing onto Doppio’s backs, a slightly more reserved Sonny watching and cheering them on from the side. Kotoka suppresses a cackle.
“—ah, whatever. Just—good luck, dude.”
“Ms. Kotoka! Ms. Kotoka!” Reimu and Alban exclaim in unison, tugging the end of the back of her yukata from behind as they practically buzz in place with enough barely contained energy to power a small town.
Doppio looks over his shoulder, shifting his hold to make sure Sonny doesn’t fall off his shoulders. He balances his candy apple between his teeth, watching as Kotoka—who, really, is way too good with the little demons—gives the kids a cute smile and matches their energy.
“What is it?! What is it?!” Kotoka giggles in response, leaning down as far as her crutches would allow at the moment. The little satan spawns—thankfully—seemed to have calmed down once they found out one of their chaperones wasn’t fully in control of her motor functions. They’re even trailing after her with thinly veiled concern, excited for the festival but overall more concerned with helping her from place to place.
No, Doppio is not jealous of an injured person; he’s just—an advocate for equal treatment! Yeah!
Reimu and Alban both gesture animatedly to one of the booths on the side, where Rosemi seems to be running a mini cooking challenge to make dalgona— Korean hard candy that’s supposedly really hard to carve out or something, according to Ver. There’s a small crowd gathered at one of the booths, oohing and aahing in excitement.
“Can we go?! Can we go?!”
Kkotoka laughs, pivoting her crutches and glancing over her shoulder to give Doppio a look. Doppio tilts his head backwards to meet Sonny’s eyes, a lopsided grin on his face.
“What do you say, buddy?” Doppio asks, an excited drawl to his voice but pitched a little lower so as not to scare the kid.
It was a miracle, as Ike put it that Sonny was even out and about tonight. The kid was so scared of just about everything and everyone a couple of weeks ago, and they thought all their progress was undone after the second attempt on his life.
But apparently, he had been stumbling out of bed with resolute determination and courage the last week Doppio missed, trying to explore the entire festival and watching fireworks compilations online or something to get over himself. Uki found the whole ordeal very cute, although he refused to tell Ike why Sonny had sent himself into such a tizzy.
Not that it really matters much. The most important thing is the shy, somewhat dazed smile tiny Sonny shoots back at him, cheeks ruddy and soft with gentle happiness that chases away any trace of anxiety Doppio expected to find. His yukata—a cute, cropped little sun-yellow blanket over his lithe frames decorated with tiny cuttlefish and green onion patterns—catches on his legs as he shifts his position on Doppio’s shoulders, still content for now to just watch the festival.
Adorable.
“I want one,” Sonny confesses shyly.
“Alright!” Doppio grins at Kotoka, throwing her a thumbs up. “Two dalgona requests for us!”
Kotoka grins, hobbling over the stall as Reimu and Alban cheer in excitement.
“Dalgona! Dalgona! Dalgona!”
They slip into the crowd around Rosemi’s stall, squeezing around the edge to make way for Kotoka’s crutches while getting close enough for Doppio to place their order of five for her.
“Woah! Did you see that?!”
“The speed—the finesses—the technique!”
“Who knew dalgona cracking could be so mastered?!”
Doppio glances around the crowd, just in time to catch a hyper-competitive crew of familiar faces aggressively slam out entire batches of dalgona cookies in all sorts of shapes.
Maria and Vezalius, by far, look the most relaxed, genuinely laughing and grinning even as their hands move at lightning-fast speeds to separate treat from mould—and not cracking a single one! Scarle and Wilson, on the other hand, seem to have both given up, mostly egging on the last two while sneakily eating the excess dalgona.
In stark contrast, Aia and Aster look like they’re on the murder path, hands moving so fast Doppio can barely see them while their bangs cover their eyes like some kind of real-life anime dead focus expression. There are two stacks of astronomically high dalgonas next to each one, with another pair of smaller stacks of unbroken dalgonas on their other side.
“Thirty seconds!” Rosemi announces, holding up a little gong in her hands. “Last spurt!”
“Go, Aia!” Reimu cheers, waving her little arms around and nearly smacking Alban in the face with the sleeve of her yukata. He yelps before quickly recovering with a resolute expression on his face.
“No way! Aster’s absolutely going to win!” Alban shouts back, joining the din of the crowd.
“Yeah!” Doppio joins in, holding up Sonny’s arm like a puppet cheerleader. “Go Aster! You show her who’s boss!”
“Ooh, someone’s confident,” Kotoka grins, scratching her chin with one hand. “Wanna bet on it?”
Doppio scoffs, grinning at her from the side. “Loser pays,” he accepts. “Aster’s gonna demolish Aia; just look at his technique!”
It really is impeccable, the way he doesn’t even look at the pattern as the cracks open the edges to let the dalgona crumble naturally, while Aia is painstakingly—albeit very quickly —carving out the actual shape.
Kotoka shrugs. Doppio suddenly notices her eyes trailing to a seventh figure in the crowd.
“Actually, I’m placing my bet on Ren.”
Doppio frowns, about to follow her gaze, when Rosemi suddenly smacks her gong loudly.
“Five seconds!” she exclaims. Doppio snaps back to focus, redoubling his cheering effort for Aster.
“Five! Four!”
Aster grabs his last piece, beginning to chip away at the edges. Aia is halfway through her current piece, brow furrowed in concentration as she traces the edges of a particularly stubborn star when—
Crack!
“Three! Two!”
“No!” Aia cries in anguish as her dalgona crumbles in her hand. The crowd gasps in shock as Aster powers through, determined to break their tie when—
Crack!
His piece crumbles in his haste.
“One! Finish!” Rosemi exclaims with glee. “All players' hands up in the air!”
Aster and Aia both slump back in their seats, competitive adrenaline draining out of their faces and replaced with unbridled anguish. Rosemi begins rattling off their scores, eyeball-mathing everyone’s dalgona piles.
Scarle and Wilson lost, predictably, but they don’t seem too concerned about it. Vezalius came in fifth, with Maria right in front of him with only three pieces. Aia and Aster are predictably miles ahead, landing in a tie at twenty-three pieces each, thus naturally placing third and second—
Wait.
“And our winner, with twenty-four pieces, is—” Rosemi exclaims with a wide smile.
“Ren Zotto!”
“Woo!” Ren—the unassuming bastard sitting in the corner with a stupid high pile of dalgona next to him—grabs one and pops it in his mouth. “Good game, guys!”
Doppio’s jaw drops open. Kotoka nudges him smugly on the shoulder, a grin on her face.
“I never lose, remember?”
Doppio scowls, swallowing a swear word for the kids. “Shut up.”
He pays for all five dalgona, but honestly, the financial damage is nowhere even close to the emotional damage done to Doppio’s pride.
The next two hours sort of pass by in a blur to Doppio. He and Kotoka take the kids (read: Alban and Reimu drag them from stall to stall) around the Orpheus festival, playing little festival games and grabbing treats every here and there. They soak in the orange lantern-lit colours of the night, letting the knots of tension in their bodies melt away with every curl of laughter around the crowd and each gentle tug from the kids to keep moving.
For a moment, Doppio almost forgets he’s technically on subtle patrol duty, practically melting in Sonny’s soft, insistent tugs on his hair like a cheap Ratatouille knockoff demanding he wins Sonny a plushie at the next games booth.
They run into more people along the way. Selen and Enna are parked at one of the mini café stalls, people-watching and absorbed in conversation, but at least shoot them all a grin and wave from across the way. They find the Iluna kids again, learning that apparently, Kyo basically died earlier from spice overload after Ren and Aster peer-pressured them all into trying a treat. They even ran into some of the committee members out and about, making sure things were going smoothly.
Fulgur is out smoothing out some minor dispute between two neighbouring yakisoba stalls for ‘stealing the others’ customers, looking two seconds from murdering someone before Kotoka good-naturedly dipped in to talk to them. Vox and Ver seem to be mostly doing the rounds for appearances more than anything, checking in with stalls and festival goers alike and chatting about whatever it is those leader types talk about.
They even spot Meloco running around like a headless chicken, with Kunai and Victoria doing the smaller tasks. Ike is running emergency directions for them, barking off orders while Hex trails after him with his clipboard, but not before ruffling Doppio’s hair with a teasing ‘Having fun, kids?’
Since his legs were perfectly fine, Doppio kicked him in the shins.
They run into Vezalius and Wilson near the big crowd, pinkies intertwined as Vezalius picks something out of his hair with that stupid, fond smile of his. Doppio frowns, brows furrowed.
Huh. New development?
Sonny’s gotten tired of riding around on Doppio’s shoulder, having gotten down to join his brother and friend in trying to catch goldfish with a net.
Kotoka, to her credit, catches Doppio’s staring and gives him a knowing smile.
“Go,” Kotoka urges. “I can watch them for a little.”
Doppio gives her a grateful smile, standing up from his squat.
“I’ll be right back!” he promises. She waves him off with an eye-roll.
Doppio laughs, heading off to spy on his friends. He gently pushes himself through the crowd, keeping a careful eye and pace behind Wilson to try and sneak up on him. He bends down into a little crouch, mischief dancing in his eyes as he ducks behind a small group of teenagers loudly chatting by a stall. With bated breath, he curls in on himself, about to pounce when—
“Doppio?” an unexpected voice asks, making Doppio jump five feet into the air. He yelps, whirling around and coming face to face with the Vantacrow Bringer. He’s in a yukata, too, although this one is inkly black with curling purple wisps on the pattern. He’s got three candy apples in hand, sandy blond locks tucked into a black cap that is somehow a fashion statement and horribly jarring with his outfit at the same time.
Honestly, Doppio’s shocked he even recognized the guy under his thick black mask. Then again, he’s got a very unique voice and very striking violet eyes.
“Vanta!” Doppio exclaims in a low voice, suddenly reminded of how he basically ghosted his employer for a week. “Oh—uh—about the whole photoshoot thing—”
Vanta blinks for a second before lighting up in realization. “Oh, that? Nah, don’t worry, dude. I ended up changing my mind and going with something else anyway,” Vanta grins. Doppio frowns.
“You—you did?”
Vanta nods, about to answer when—
“Vanta! Who are you— Oh! Doppio!” Wilson exclaims, sliding up to Doppio’s side. His fingers are still entangled in Vezalius’s, practically dragging him along. While Vezalius is in a traditional and proper yukata and all, Wilson stands out like a sore thumb in his sleeveless yellow hoodie and jean shorts. Still, somehow, it’s in character enough that Doppio sort of expected it.
The part he did not expect, however, was Vezalius stepping a little past Wilson, grabbing a candy apple from Vanta’s hands and fucking kissing him on the lips.
Doppio’s jaw drops open. He slowly turns to Wilson, shock and betrayal colouring his expression. Wilson, to his credit, at least looks ashamed.
“You were— occupied, okay?!” Wilson splutters. Doppio shakes his head, not letting his betrayal falter.
“How you wound me, Yu Q. Wilson. And you call me your best friend.”
“It’s a new thing!” Wilson whines, gesturing wildly. “We were—trying to keep it quiet!”
“Your boyfriends are making out in public, Wilson.”
“I—that’s not the point!” Wilson protests, going red in the face.
And—yeah, that’s enough to crack a smile from Doppio.
Realizing he’s teasing, Wilson’s flustered expression drops into a petulant pout.
“Meanie.”
Doppio bursts into laughter at that point. He clasps a gentle hand on Wilson’s shoulder, glancing at Vanta and Vezalius, deep in some kind of hushed conversation. Wilson’s watching them with a lopsided half grin on his face, looking disgustingly fond.
And suddenly, Doppio can’t help but think back to a few hours ago, stuck on Kotoka’s couch and watching Hex and Ver practically drape over one another, all fond and in love.
Doppio curses internally, shaking himself out of his daze.
Stop it, he chastises himself, it’s been months. Get over yourself.
“So,” Doppio tries for instead, leaning in cheekily. “Who confessed?”
Wilson snorts, even as his cheeks dust pink.
“Me, obviously. What, did you really think Mr. Shojo manga protagonist and Mr. ‘made an entire fashion collection over pining’ have the balls needed?” Wilson grins. Happiness looks good on him, Doppio decides. His good fortune was received in compensation for so many years of endless sadistic cycles. He can love now, with no threat of Data Hallucination or whatever tragic curse is rearing its ugly head to threaten him anymore.
I’ll remember you, even if you don’t remember me. I’ll just find you again. Every life. Every cycle. Every world.
I can’t ask that of you.
You don’t have to.
“Are you ever gonna tell him?’ Wilson asks, pulling Doppio out of his daze with a glance out of the corner of his eyes. Doppio purses his lips, trying to punch the thought of lavender and amber curled around his body in a soft hug. He unconsciously thumbs over his ring, tracing his finger over the gem and sending the thin jolt of familiarly scented magic curling around his skin.
He has all he ever wanted in the council already. People to rely on. Somewhere to belong to. Memories worth making and fighting to keep.
He can’t get selfish now.
“You know it’s not that simple for me,” Doppio grumbles. “I—this one is actually morally compromising, Wilson.”
Never mind the fact that Doppio’s only starting to come around how he feels about Hex’s other half, in all his tsundere ass caring gestures, motherly light stalking and tough love nonsense. They’re only mostly friends now; he can’t go around ruining all of their hard-won relationship progress with stupid, unrequited–anyway–feelings.
“Besides, I—” Doppio swallows. He thinks of the lingering touches of a cold hand on his lower back, Hex’s gentle smile spilling across his lips in amusement as he steadies Doppio after a particularly enthusiastic exclamation that has him tipping forward. He thinks of the gentle breath ghosting over his throat in a particularly tight hug after a hard mission, dripping with relief and easy affection.
He thinks of the gentle weight on his shoulder, the soft tickle of lack and red hair poking at the base of his neck. A soft question. Quiet comforts. Murmured apologies for the way he lets him off easier. In the way he trusts him, In the way he looks at the council, that burning soulfire peaking through in his eyes like a threat to the universe to try and wring them from his hands.
And suddenly, Doppio’s not quite sure what to think.
“Besides,” Doppio mutters softly. “It’ll only hurt more if they know and forget.”
Wilson purses his lips, brows furrowed.
“You’re still allowed to want.”
Doppio doesn’t respond.
Mercifully, Wilson doesn’t press.
“Mr. Doppio? Your net broke.”
Doppio blinks—suddenly snapped out of his train of thought. He watches dumbly as the goldfish on his thin catching net breaks through the material, leaving behind a netless, single-hole paddle, decidedly not useful for goldfish catching.
“Oh,” Doppio says. Besides him, Sonny giggles softly, hiding behind his palm. He makes little grabby hands for Doppio’s net, expertly weaving a new one on with practiced hands before gently sliding it into the water. His movements are slow and practiced, like he’s been doing this for years.
“Albie’s terrible at it, but he made a bet with Mumu, so of course he asked me to help him practice, which of course means I also have to get pretty good at it, which means—” Sonny rambles on, all soft cheeked and happy eyed as he demonstrates to Doppio how to scoop up an entire live goldfish on a paper thing net with casual ease.
Doppio’s barely looking at the fish anymore, instead quietly staring at Sonny’s little face.
A dash of happiness. A moonlit council room. The buzz after a mission well done.
Two boys, sitting on the thick mahogany desk, playing cards and making bets with one another. Another one comes in to shoo them off and nag at them about taking off their boots, at least, while a fourth watches on in fond amusement.
Always the observer.
“—pio? Mr. Doppio?” Sonny prods, pulling Doppio back into the present. Doppio blinks, almost shocked to feel the weight of his own body in his hands again. He shifts on his feet, slowly regaining his balance as he blinks the half-formed memories out of the back of his eyes.
Sonny is quiet; violet eyes crossed and downturned in shy thought. Even now, Doppio can see the beginning trickles of the dulling saturation in his iris. The lost spark of childhood innocence was replaced with something much quieter. More contemplative. More knowing.
“You look like Uncle Ike,” Sonny murmurs. “My dad says he gets lost sometimes. That Uncle Vox is the only one who can bring him back and that we shouldn’t bother him when he’s lost.”
I know, Doppio almost slips. I know he loses himself, too.
Then, almost invisibly, Sonny purses his lips and tightens his grip on the goldfish paddle, slipping the edge of the net back into the water.
“But you’re both with family, aren’t you? How can you be lost when your family is right here?”
The goldfish tips over the edge of the net, splashing back into the water. Mere seconds later, it becomes impossible to find it again in the ocean of red and white.
Doppio only stares at Sonny. Distantly, he thinks he can hear Kotoka’s voice calling his name, but he can’t quite register it—too distracted by the flashes of bygone laughter and forgotten touches on the body of another he can only feel ghosts of.
He almost thought the hand on his shoulder was from a Fulgur in his memory, gripping tightly on Sonny’s jacket to ask if he was okay after a particularly hard raid. They were trying to save some kids in this one, from some cult looking to turn them into multiverse destroying soul—
Hoo.
Doppio yelps, almost doubling over in shock as he feels a sharp burst of cold air in his left ear. He blinks, vision slowly losing its blurriness. Kotoka is in front of him, leaning down with concern in her electric blue irises and a gentle hand on his jaw. Just behind her, Sonny is holding back a concerned Alban, whispering something to him and ushering him back to the goldfish game.
Doppio winces softly, looking down to the cobblestone street with red ears.
“How long?” he asks.
Kotoka, having seen hour-long versions of his episodes in their brief stint in the hospital together, is completely unfazed.
“Only a few minutes this time,” she reassures him with a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. And then, she frowns.
“I thought you were getting better. Especially after talking to Wilson. You said he was—important?” Kotoka asks in hushed tones.
Doppio sighs. His Wheel of Fortune, always there to convince Doppio to tip the scales of karma. Telling him did help, to be fair. At least the hallucinations aren’t lasting entire days anymore, making Doppio feel like a prisoner in his own skin.
“They’re shorter,” Doppio confesses. “Less intense, too. I could actually feel you for a moment.”
Kotoka is silent for a moment before getting down and kneeling in front of him, careful to stretch her bandaged leg across the ground.
“But not enough to convince you to talk to us still, right?” Kotoka mutters.
Doppio averts his gaze.
That was his first mistake.
“Mr. Doppio?” Alban asks, nervously shuffling on his feet a few meters away from him.
A drop of blood. Thick tendrils of pure electricity, whipping across his body. A pile of rubble, burying the two of them together.
He’s holding a small plastic bag filled halfway with just enough water to keep the tiny red goldfish inside comfortable.
A dagger pressed into his palm. Guilty violet eyes meeting heartbroken sunlit valley green and melted caramel brown ones. A plea to stop him when things go wrong.
Behind him, Sonny grips his brother’s shoulder tightly, slowly leading him forward to hold out the small goldfish bag towards Doppio.
He won’t let them follow him where they can’t. His predecessor made that mistake, and his council never recovered. But he won’t put his family through that. Can’t allow them even the thought of following him.
But he followed anyway. Paid the price Sonny should have shouldered.
“Mama told me to be your friend,” Alban says, voice surprisingly sharp and resolute for so small of a child. “Mama also told me that if my friend did something nice for me, I should thank them.”
And then, with a smile that mirrors the one his older brother is silently slipping Doppio from over his shoulder—a smile that just tethers enough on the side of childishly hopeful to shatter the illusion of an older, lonelier Sonny Brisko from the edges of Doppio’s vision—Alban hands him the goldfish.
All of a sudden, Doppio surges through the surface of the ocean water, grasping the rays of moonlight in his palm as he breaks through. He remembers the warmth of the district. The orange glow of festival lights that mirror sunsets signalling the end of their work day. The council’s inviting hand, wrapped around his finger in a metal band that promises—no, vows they will follow him everywhere they can’t.
You are not the hero of this story, Seventh Fool.
“Thank you, Mr. Doppio. For rescuing my brother and my family.”
But maybe in this moment—where tears streak down his face in twin rivulets as Kotoka holds his shoulder in laughter while Alban and Sonny nearly jump in alarm—that doesn’t have to be true.
Maybe in this moment—where his friends spot him from across the street and flock to him like birds diving after a fallen friend to shield him from the storm—he’s allowed to be remembered as Doppio Dropscythe, the friend.
Maybe in this moment—where Doppio blinks through the haze of tears and reaches out to accept Alban and Sonny’s little goldfish of thanks—he can be someone’s hero.
And maybe, just for tonight, Doppio can live with just himself.
Remember the world. The world remembers you.
Shackle the truth to the criminal who seeks to deceive the scales of fate.
It shall become the rebirth and liberation of the dead man’s heart.
With the birth of the Judgement paradox, you have received the power to achieve freedom and enlighten the world.
A few hours later, moonlight tempers the orange glow of the festival and begins to drape sleepiness over their shoulders gently. A figure cloaked in black slinks between the shadows, slipping through tired guards and skirting around the edge of the festival attendee’s attention.
It lurches over rooftops, carefully scanning the crowd. An endless stream of yukatas and haoris as far as the eye can see, all colourful and flowery like a sea of flowers. His eyes snag on a particularly— unsavoury sight. His younger clone—a failed prototype—all curled up next to his Sonny Brisko, sleepy-eyed and happy like he hasn’t got a care in the world as that damned Seventh Fool brought both of them back towards Fulgur and Uki’s residence. His family’s residence.
It makes Alban’s stomach churn in repulse.
These people took everything from him, and yet here they are, all happy and soft. These people built a safe haven for themselves and forgot about the outside world until it was convenient for them. They preach acceptance and mutual aid, and look where it got them.
Kidnapped. Killed. Forgotten.
Alban Knox will never be forgotten.
Nor will he be replaced by that fake cretin.
Reaching up to tap his earpiece, Alban dangles over the edge of a building, swaying his robotic tail back and forth in boredom.
“I’m in position,” he reports. The line crackles for a moment before the velvet-smooth voice of the Boss trickles through. Alban can almost feel his blue soulfire curling around his body, the beginnings of a warp spell ready to send Alban into the fray.
Under the cloak, Alban tightens his grip on the fragile ring. A simple silver band. Millie said it used to be an engagement band, one she had to sew together from ashes after some sorcerer destroyed the entire thing in a fit of rage. Something about the object that represented the exact moment the fifth council split apart, the most intense memory they can draw from.
They just have to make him see it, force the whole district to realize what maniac they put in charge and drive him and all the other hypocrites out of their hiding hole.
And then, Alban can have his family back.
“Launching you in five, four,” Boss begins, tone flat and mechanical. Shame he isn’t one. Maybe it would’ve stabilized him more often for the field, save all of them the trouble of all this damn coordinating.
“Two. One.”
Alban inhales sharply, closing his eyes.
“Fire.”
Instantly, the world bursts into fire and consumes Alban’s body. He lunges forward, opening his eyes and quickly readjusting to the festival lights as he stumbles forward. He puts on the act, loudly warbling and pretending to be in pain as he pushes his way through a startled crowd before dramatically dropping to his knees and doubling over.
There’s a surprised noise to his left, accompanied by more frantic and concerned shouts. Alban has to fight to keep a grin from forming.
It’s almost too easy.
Within moments, four familiar voices cross the crowd, loudly asking them to step back. He recognizes Uki’s touch first, gentle and soft on his arm—albeit a bit firmer than Alban remembered him.
“Sir? Are you okay?” Vox’s voice rumbles overhead. Alban bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself into a raspy voice.
“Come— closer—” he rasps, more to make noise than anything. Beside him, Uki is confused, loosening his grip for just half a second.
Vox, however, ever the easy little fool to pull the wool over, leans in closer with a frown.
“Come again?”
Alban makes a show of fumbling with his hands. Then, pretending as if he had merely dropped it, Alban rolls the small, silver custom engagement band into the center of his palm.
It’s a simple little thing, really. Just a silver band with a small decorative fire wrapping around it, circling in on a deep purple amethyst and a rich golden citrine square in the middle. Nothing flashy, but certainly recognizable enough to the familiar eyes.
And Vox Akuma’s eyes have long familiarized himself with the sight of his best friend’s lost engagement ring.
The puzzle almost falls too easily into place after that. His golden pupils widen in shock and recognition. The dark slits of his eyes thin into almost a reptilian kind of aggression. His body convulses, skin threatening to shatter as the true Vox Akuma claws out from inside.
He begins to remember as Alban grins and allows his body to once again be consumed with that cursed blue soulfire.
“Fuck!” Fulgur shouts, cursing under his breath as his fingers narrowly slip through the fading swirls of blue soulfire that follow that cursed shadow’s escape. Vox doubles over in almost unbearable pain, seemingly biting back a scream that Fulgur is already wincing from, unable to stomach the sight of his brother in such terrible shape.
Ike is already grabbing him by the shoulders, hands and eyes glowing golden and blue as his magic seeps into Vox’s body. He’s whispering their usual routine, fighting the Data Hallucination with his own Council Command.
Fulgur curses again under his breath. He has faith in Ike—more particularly, Ike and Vox’s unique relationship—but they’ve gotten this far before. Never had Vox’s condition deteriorated this fast, this quickly.
“Fuufuu-chan!” Uki shouts, snapping Fulgur’s attention back to the present. His eyes pulse holographically for a moment, and he clutches his head with a light wince.
Fuck. He must have been too close and gotten a glimpse at whatever it was that shadow used to trigger Vox’s Hallucination.
“I’m fine!” Uki continues with a light wince, gritting his teeth. He thrusts his palm out, fingers suddenly glowing with a light purple and pink cloud. Fulgur’s stomach drops.
He can’t help Uki. Not like Ike and Vox can.
If his Council Command is returning—
Fulgur isn’t sure he can lose him, either.
“I—I intercepted them!” Uki yells, jabbing his hand at the sudden blob of black that fell on a rooftop two blocks away. “Go!”
Fulgur falters, just for a few moments, to level a concerned look to Uki. “But—”
“It’s just a minor glimpse; I’m shaking it off right now,” Uki cuts him off, voice clearly strained with effort. “But you need to go, or they’ll get away! I’ll be right behind you!”
Fulgur doesn’t like this. But he knows he also can’t just let that damn shadow get away like that. Uki gives him a look that he knows leaves no room for a retort, and goddamnit, why must he make this so fucking difficult?!
So Fulgur grits his teeth, turns on his heel, and prays he isn’t making the wrong decision by leaving Uki behind.
Let it be known that Fulgur Ovid is not as strong a fighter as people make him out to be. For all of his imposing and intimidating mechanical body parts and massive array of hidden weaponry stashed in so many hidden compartments, even Fulgur isn’t sure how many he has—the Fulgur Ovid that might have been an absolute terror on the battlefield has been Forgotten.
Lost to time. Like the fabled fifth council, Vox keeps telling him he used to lead. Like the thrum of a Council Command under his skin, Ike tells him he used to call an old friend.
Still, he’s decent enough at parkour, if only because he has two little pieces of shit for sons who spend more time hanging from alley pipes than on the ground. He will never admit that Alban Knox is right, though, so Fulgur resolutely stops that train of thought vaults himself up three stories via windowsill and street lamps, and breaks into a sprint after the cloaked figure.
“Stop!” Fulgur yells, recalling his arm back as he dips into his strangely endless reserve of laser gun types and pulls out a long-distance one. He opens fire towards the shadow. Out of the corner of his cybernetic eyes, Fulgur sees a small overlay and prompt appear—
Activate Apeshit Mode?
Fulgur really needs to stop letting Claude perform his maintenance.
Fulgur’s mechanical systems kick into high gear as his mechanical parts sharpen his senses. His irises whirr into striking silver, mechanical legs shifting into supersonic boosters as his right arm turns into a mantis blade.
He bounces over three rooftops, catching up to the teleporting thief like a silver bullet in the night. His breath fades away into a silent hitch as he pivots around his left leg and swerves around the shadow. He swipes his mantis blade, cutting through the fabric of space as red lightning burns through the air. The cloaked finger jerks backwards, narrowly dodging but forced to halt his momentum.
Right into his trap.
Fulgur smirked, watching as the shadow stumbled backwards. A surge of pink and purple mist suddenly surrounds his legs, tripping the shadow. Fulgur presses into the offence, letting his system take over as he slices the air with his red lightning blade.
The shadow summons two daggers, nearly matching Fulgur blow for blow, but landing a hit was never the point.
Blocking a particularly strong hit, Fulgur lets himself falter through and break the block. The shadow falls for the hit, lunging forward to dive his dagger into Fulgur’s chest. He raises his gun arm, quickly shifting it into another blade as pink and purple mist erupts from the ground again to trap the shadow and—
Shwick!
A pained gasp.
Unfortunately, Fulgur immediately recognizes it.
“What the—” he curses, quickly snapping back into control as the cloaked figure crumples to the ground. Fulgur loses his footing, falling to his knees. But he doesn’t even feel it, too overcome with a sudden acute sense of dread.
He knows that gasp. Has raised it, culled it, softened it. Has helped a child reconcile with it, make peace with it, stop fearing it. Has loved it, held it, knows it so intimately as if it’s been permanently seared into his fate like a ta—
Fulgur throws the cloak’s hood back.
And then, he remembers.
“So you’re going after him?” Fulgur asks, voice hollow from other side of the pillar. The rain falls around them like a curtain of fog, blocking out their surroundings as it pours like a tsunami between the cracks of the buildings. At this rate, the entire lower section of Asphodel will be flooded within half a day.
Alban grips on his light travel pack, hiding his eyes under that damn hood of his. The same one Uki sewn onto his coat three months ago after nagging him half to death for catching a cold in the rain.
The one with the little orange cat ears on it, supposed to become their little ‘Alban beacon’ even in the darkest fights.
Now, they flop over, like useless flaps of fabric, soaked with rainwater. Alban doesn’t even bother to throw them back.
“I have to bring him back,” he whispers, voice raw and cracked from crying. Then, with more venom. “Because devil knows you’re too much of a coward to do anything.”
Fulgur averts his gaze, watching the rainwater drown the wildflowers underfoot. Whatever is caught in the new drainage and rainwater catch system they installed four months ago slowly flows off into an underwater reservoir, feeding into their reserve system
Their reserve system. The one the council spent months building and fueding and contending for. The one they built together, for the home they raised together.
The home Sonny left, for his stupid little world saving quest. The one Alban is about to leave, to follow him to the ends of the world.
The one Uki pleaded Fulgur not to leave for his fragile hands. He doesn’t have the strength to hold everything together. Not as long as they’ll need to drag Sonny back—if he even could be dragged back.
Alban knows he won’t come back. He knows he’ll die chasing after that Fool. And he knows Fulgur will never forgive him for leaving.
And yet he leaves anyway, in the cover of the rain and the night.
Silently, Fulgur slinks back inside.
Fulgur screams, clutching his head in pain. He stumbles backwards, sharp pain and burning hot lava boiling through his body. His mechanical parts fuse and melt in misshapen spots. The gaps in the circuitry spill open with bright silver and red light as if ripping Fulgur apart from the inside.
A few feet away, Alban scrambles for his hood, desperately trying to pull out the red-hot lightning blade jammed into his side. He screams in pain again, ringing in Fulgur’s eardrums like a bullet tearing through his skull. Distantly, he can faintly see a familiar purple shadow dash towards him as fast as he can, limited by the human constitution.
Suddenly, Fulgur understands that he cannot let Uki see Alban. Cannot let him remember and befall the same fate.
With difficulty, Fulgur pushes himself half up, practically limping over to Alban even though his body splits itself in half.
He almost doesn’t register the final hitch of pain in Alban’s voice as he pulls out the blade and pierces it through his heart.
“Breathe. Stay with me, Ukiki,” Fulgur pleads, pressing his forehead against Uki’s own. He fights through his tears, wishing for the thousandth time that he could cut his ears off, not to have to hear Uki scream in such agonizing pain. The terrible pain of closing his third eye.
Still, he tightens his grip on Uki’s arms, pinning him down as Vox does the same to his life. Above them, Ike and Enna stand across from one another, reciting some kind of ancient sealing ritual to banish Uki and Fulgur’s Council Commands. They can’t retain them, not with that new council in place.
They’ll end up remembering too much, hallucinate memories they aren’t supposed to have and then turn into those monsters. No, they need to get rid of everything in their past.
Their lives. Their pasts.
Their Sonny and Alban.
“Just a little longer, baby,” Fulgur pleads, more for himself at this point. He doubts Uki can even hear him, so deep in the throes of sensory overload. Still, he leans down anyway and presses his lips against Uki’s temple, wishing he could whisper comfort right into his skin. Hoping it would help him bear the pain for just a little longer.
He doesn’t want to think of the pain lingering in his heart, burning through Uki’s skin, as he has to do the same for Fulgur later in the evening. Forgetting forcefully is never that easy.
“Fu—Fuu—” Uki croaks, voice cracking through every inhale. Fulgur closes his eyes, letting his silver tears trail down Uki’s cheekbones. Trying to mend his voice by force.
“I’m here, Uki,” Fulgur chokes, almost unable to make the sounds. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Another jolt of magic, sharp with lightning. Uki screams in agony. Fulgur holds him a little tighter and is almost relieved he’ll have the mercy of forgetting Uki’s plead for them just to kill him. End his life and—
“—uu-chan! Fuu—” Uki’s voice cuts in through the haze. Fulgur gasps, writhing in pain on the ground. He cracks one eye open, spotting Alban’s crumpled figure slumped against the A/C unit. His body crumples, but instead of fading into darkness, this one only rapidly decomposes and fades into dust.
For a moment, Fulgur almost sees a child again. His child reconciled with the image of his closest friend. And then—
“I need a favour,” Vox begins solemnly once the friendly mood of their reunion has passed. Out of the corner of his eyes, Fulgur catches his brother’s—uh, ‘charge,’ or something?—shrink into himself, curled up on Ike’s lap like a scared cat.
The poor thing looks like a mesh of bone and skin, a sickly pale quality, his complexion scarred all over. The only dash of colour on him is his wine-red hair, draped around one side stylistically with the ends burning a deep red. His eyes, a strange pair of pink things, glaring at Fulgur in suspicion and glowing softly like Uki’s. Maybe he can see special things, too.
“When don’t you?” Fulgur chuckles, setting his cup of coffee down on the coffee table. Their little apartment above Uki’s shop in Asphodel is hardly spacious, but it’s still too big for just two people. Vox, in all of his strangeness and demon qualities, tells him there used to be four of them. Two—brothers or something.
Explains the second set of toiletries in the other bathroom. He wonders if they are actually related or something closer to a sworn partnership like Vox and him. Judging by the gear, probably a thief and some kind of officer? A strange combination, but it’s not like Asphodel is home to the normal folk.
And judging by the look of the little creature in Ike’s lap, their newest resident isn’t any better.
Vox laughs lightly, echoing his mirth even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know you’re the only one I can depend on. This one—we can’t let the council get him. Not with that creature at its presidency again.”
Fulgur nods. This part he knows. He eyes the child again, taking another once over.
“He really does resemble our little Soul Reaper friend on the council, doesn’t he?” Fulgur notes. “Just—red, instead of blue.”
“We’re thinking he’s a failed clone,” Ike interjects, finally contributing to the conversation after spending the whole time whispering soft comforts to the child in his hold. “The Reaper needs an heir soon. By the time the next generation of the council, he’ll be at his weakest.”
Fulgur purses his lips, eyeing the child’s hands. Calloused and bandaged. He can spot burns and scars running along his skin, evidence of hard work and harder expectations. And yet—
“You want me to raise a weapon from a child?” Fulgur asks, levelling a half glare at Vox. Vox, the bastard, dares to smile sadly.
“I’m asking you to raise a child from a weapon.”
His skin breaks open. Light engulfs his entire being. Faintly, he can feel his soul split in half—one howling like a vengeful wolf desperate to chase down and devour his nightmares while the other curls into soft sheep wool and yearns to build a home again. Hard light spills from his silver eyes, accompanied by red hot lightning as his skull splits in half in pain.
Suddenly, at the apex of the pain, clarity slaps Fulgur in the face.
In this split second, mere seconds away from completing his full transformation into a Virus Beast, Fulgur realizes three things.
First, that someone must finally deploy their greatest weapon, hidden so deep within enemy ranks. The weapon he raised into a child and then an adult. The child Fulgur was supposed to guide before he failed. The child they need to guide, with no chance of failure. Not after all this work.
Second, that there is not a single important choice he’s made in his life he will regret. He will never regret following that strange blond boy at the market. He will never regret accepting his call for help, standing in front of the weird headmaster man. He will never regret rescuing that purple-haired boy from his crumbling world, vowing to remember him even as the universe forgets him.
And he will never regret choosing to stay with Uki hundreds of times, no matter how many times he forgets their promises.
Third, that he will leave Uki now and for good.
And there is nothing that breaks his heart more than meeting the pink and purple irises his husband paints onto a canvas of an endless starry sky with his own pleading silver ones, dulled and rusted around the edges.
Still, Uki holds his rapidly breaking body like the only thread of fate he has woven from those talented, world-defying fingertips of his.
(It is only then that Fulgur realizes a devastating fourth thing. Although, in hindsight, it’s not much of a realization.
Uki Violeta can, in fact, look terrible.
And Fulgur Ovid can never forgive himself for painting that heartbroken expression on his starlight’s face.)
“U–ki—” Fulgur croaks, voice module splintering and cracking with every syllable. Uki practically sobs, but even as he gently threads his fingers through Fulgur’s desperately—he knows.
They both know, even if only one remembers.
“Yes, love?” Uki chokes, voice almost silent with emotion. Fulgur barely manages to smile, but he can’t bear the thought of Uki’s last glimpse of him being one of pain, even if he won’t remember this.
“I—I’ll always—love—” Fulgur forces out, needing to force the words out. His voice modules give out at the last possible moment.
But Uki understands anyway. He dips his head to Fulgur’s chest as if burying him with his tears. His final gift of devotion: tiny shooting stars to accompany Fulgur’s final breath.
“I’ll always love you too,” Uki sobs, unable to hold it together anymore. “So rest.”
“I’ll guide them. For you. For us.”