Chapter Text
Aoi feels the sting against her skin, sharp and burning like an ember. She slaps a hand to her wrist, to where her kingly powers lie—only to find the magic disappearing. Small, blue dots flutter like petals in the bright, warm air. For a moment, she thinks rain will pelt from the skies and soak her, but the world remains ever sunny and bright.
Still, it rains one way or another.
Thick, fat tears roll down her eyes. She brushes her gloved hands over her cheeks, rubbing away the salt, but that only makes her cry harder and harder, until her shoulders are shaking and her chest is heaving. Every barrier she's kept up, every feeling she's held back, pours out of her in a torrent of tears and sobs and 'sorrys.' Legs weak, she tumbles to the ground. Her bracelet burns against her thin wrist, and with clumsy fingers she tries to pull it off lest she burn her skin.
Gently, a pair of soft, warm hands take her fingers away. They pull the bracelet from her injured wrist and set it down on the soft grass. Then the hands cup her cheeks, rubbing away at her salty tears. Aoi closes her eyes and stifles the next sob. It only tugs at her throat and causes her to choke, and then she's tumbling into a soft figure, burying her wet cheeks in their sleek blazer.
"I'm sorry," Hayami says, carding fingers through her tousled, brown locks. "I'm so sorry, Aoi."
"He—he's not—he can't be—"
Hayami presses her nose into the crown of Aoi's hair.
She sobs harder, clutching onto Hayami's arms and chest, refusing to budge. Vaguely, she hears movement around her—other Blues and Reds packing up their war gear and moving away. She doesn't care for a second where Spectre is and what he's doing. All that matters is Hayami holding her close, rubbing her hand up and down her shaking back.
"Mr. Kusanagi." Aoi hears Hayami say. "Should we return home?"
A grunt is all she hears.
Gently, Hayami takes her by the shoulders and helps her stand. Aoi stumbles on legs like a newborn calf, clutching onto first Hayami and then Kusanagi for support. With her wet eyes, the world looks like a neon watercolour painting: messy and hard on the eyes, and so she tips her head forward and lets the two adults guide her out of the courtyard and back to the train. How they'll get home, she doesn't know—the bridge collapsed during the fight. But what matters is not how they'll get home, but how she'll move on.
Without Akira ...
Without Ema ...
There is no more Blue Duel King.
"Rest easy," Hayami tells her, patting her atop the head. "We'll be home soon."
Her eyes close before they make it to the train, and so she never knows how they got off the island and back home—only that, when she wakes up, Hayami sits on the bed, holding her hand. Not too long ago, she remembers be with someone else, holding their thin, papery hand.
He'll get better, he said.
He'll live, he said.
She sucks in a weak, watery breath, tilting her head into Hayami's soft hand.
He'll always be there with them. A Blue more beautiful than them all, and a part of their family.
Spectre has never seen a Sword fall, or a Sword shatter into the air, or any clansmen lose their kingly powers, so he finds the sight of Aoi crumpled on the ground with blue fairy dust fluttering from her wrist quite the mesmerising sight. He steps back to give her some privacy, but hovers nearby to watch Hayami scoop Aoi up, and her and Kusanagi take Aoi home. All the while, blue light flutters up towards the fluffy clouds that have gathered like marshmellows over the campus. For the battlefield of a nearly-world-destroying event, the day looks far too mild.
He spins on his heels, ready to wander back and find Vyra and ask her if they should go look for Ryouken, when he spots the Red King himself heading back. One hand remains shoved in his pants pocket, but his right hand hangs heavily with his revolver. Blood stains the barrel and drips down onto the ground; however, blood also darkens his hand and the tip of his sleeves. Spectre's eyes widen to the size of dinner places. Did his Duel King—was he injured?
Ryouken raises a hand before he can jump to conclusions.
"It's done," he says simply. Wearily, he draws another hand to his face, smoothing back his sweaty, silver hair. Ryouken has always carried a wilder appearance to him, but today he looks positively drained of all life.
Playfully, Spectre bumps shoulders with him. "I won't bore you for details, oh King. Only ask that I ..." He crouches down and examines the barrel. Not Ryouken's blood, he imagines, unless there's a sizable cut under his sleeve. Spectre whistles and stands back up. "Leave this to my imagination," he says.
"Of course."
Soft footfalls pad across the little stones littered through the courtyard. Vyra appears, one hand on her hip and both eyes wide at the sight of the bloody revolver. She keeps her tongue though, only offering a polite "Sir."
Ryouken brushes past Spectre, out to where they stored their D-Boards. Though he says nothing, Spectre hops along after him, falling in line. Vyra takes up the other side. They must look like quite the trio, he thinks: three misfit terrorist hackers walking away from a double-homicide on a private school campus. Fortunately, all the students have quit their panicking, and too busy trying to repair their school and ensure the safety of each other, none of them spot the three Hanois heading to the edge of the island.
They find their boards just where they stored them behind the trees, and Spectre revs his engine. No matter what happens, Ryouken is still here. No matter what, the Hanois still have their Duel King.
"Was it a fair fight?" he asks, itching for an answer.
Ryouken's icy gaze bores into him. "I wouldn't even call it a fight."
"A suicide, sir?" Vyra asks.
"Most certainly."
They pitter off into silence. Spectre chews on the corner of his lip, eyes cast out onto the beautiful, dappled water. Though not quite as pretty as Ryouken's Stardust Road by their hideout, the water still looks star-speckled here.
"Well, at least you're still here," he muses aloud, and makes sure his voice carries just far enough that both Ryouken and Vyra turn around and stare at him like he's grown a second head. Of all the strange things he could have said, that's what has twisted their tongues? He has to laugh, and so he does, loudly and richly over the silent, mourning courtyard.
"I agree," Vyra says too. She sounds earnest and sincere, and Spectre has to roll his eyes at the slight kiss-up tone. Between the two of them, Vyra has always pined for extra attention from Ryouken.
Yet Ryouken accepts the words warmly—not with icy eyes and a turned back, but facing them with the softest glimmer in the corners of his blue eyes. His lips fight to remain still, shivering up into a teensy smile, and just before he breaks out of his stern character, he spins around and calls out, "And will I forgive you if I find you've messed up our headquarters once more? Should you two truly count yourselves lucky?"
Again, Spectre laughs outright. "Maybe," he says, and he doesn't wait for an answer, shooting off his board and out over the crystalline water. No matter what, his Duel King survived.
No matter what, the Knights of Hanoi are still alive.
Kiku doesn't remember much of the battle on the school courtyard, nor does she remember much of what happened after. She was in such a frenzy back then, hurriedly trying to repair the cultural festival equipment and gather together the students. In the end, the festival was scrapped and the school saved its remaining money for next year. Considering the damage done to the school and fields, and the general anxiety coursing through the students like a bad flu bug, she doesn't blame them.
No matter how much she tries to recall what happened leading up to the battle of the Duel Kings, she can't remember. Both Serena and Naoki have told her many times about the fights between the Reds and the Blues, but she hardly remembers anything of that. In fact, she doesn't remember anything from that day, and some memories from the days before. Occasionally, she finds herself standing out front the empty, desecrated dorm room in her building, or gazing at a vacant seat in the classroom. Naoki has told her many times before that there has never been a student living in the dorm room or sitting in the des, and Kiku knows that too ... but she still finds herself wondering if, perhaps in a dream, she imagined such a person.
When she tries to conjure the image of the mysterious student, her mind draws an even bigger blank. Just who was he? He can’t be a student anyone else knows, for whenever she broaches the topic she only receives the blankest of stares. Serena even checked her temperature.
But Kiku knows for certain someone is missing. The feeling washes over her every day when she cooks breakfast and prepares her lunch, or when she ties her red scarf round her neck in preparation for the crisp, autumn weather.
Gently, she lies back in the soft, green grass, locks of blue hair crinkling the fallen leaves. She's tucked herself underneath a maple tree, and from time to time a large leaf lands around her, and once on her nose. Here the tree provides just enough cover that the wind doesn't tug at her scarf or nip at her nose, and she's content to remain outside until the chill seeps into her bones. Lately, she's sat under this tree and watched the clouds prance across the sky or the sun rise and fall each day. Her mind remains ever flighty without the responsibilities as a student council member, and a laugh bubbles in her throat. Wasn't there someone who used to be even more scatterbrained than her?
That's right, she muses. Him.
Him. The boy from her class. The silly, cheery boy who could cook nothing but rice and who always borrowed food from others. The lanky boy who lived two floors above her and who always forgot his duel disk and student pass. In wisps, she remembers his face: blue eyes and white hair, and glasses that made him seem smarter even when he'd stick out his tongue and blush peachy-pink. There was something so human and innocent about him, that, even when his face fades from her memory once more, she feels her own cheeks warming and her heart fluttering.
Even if Serena and Naoki can't remember, Kiku knows that, even if only for a day, he was a student at Den City High. Somewhere there was a white-haired, scatterbrained boy who was her classmate and friend.
And maybe, she thinks, he'll return. Someday, he'll return to school.
"W-where ... where are you, Mr. Soulburner?" Ai says, little head raised up to the billowing crowds. Though no tears pour from his eyes, the skin around his face is pinched at the corners and hanging in other places to give the appearance of sorrow. He looks like a truly pitiful sight, shoulders shaking, hands balled in fists. Next to him, Flame looks like a basket case of emotions as the little ember atop his head flickers and fades, and his own face pinches in concern.
"Takeru! Takeru, where are you?"
Yuusaku sighs, clicking his tongue together. They've been back to Den City High several times since the battle, and never once have they seen Takeru or Dr. Soulburner or the Silver Duel King. The last time they saw him was that fateful goodbye before he went off to stop the Red and Blue Duel Kings—and while Yuusaku knows the outcome of that match, he still thought, just maybe, Takeru would have pulled through. The immortal Duel King—that's Takeru. He should have lived, unless immortality cannot defeat the plunge of a King's sword. He should have kept on living, even if he was never meant to come to the ground in the first place.
Yuusaku knows well that they're unlikely to see Takeru again, and yet he still flicks his gaze up to the clouds, searching for a red scarf or a hot air balloon. Anything. Any sign to remind them Takeru is still watching over them.
He jumps out of his thoughts when Ai jabs a finger into the sensitive skin of his cheek.
"You cruel robot," he mutters. "Feel something for once!"
"I am," Yuusaku says, shoving his hands in his pockets. He mosies down the newly built pathways snaking through the verdant campus, out towards the water. Sunlight speckles over the surface, and Yuusaku hangs his lanky legs over the edge and tries to toe the water. "The Silver Duel King, Dr. Soulburner ... or the student, Homura Takeru, will surely return." He tilts his head to avoid Ai's next jab, and when Flame goes in for his own strike, Yuusaku plucks the two ignises off his shoulder and deposits them on the grass below. "We cannot know for certain, but we can trust that he'll come back as swiftly as he can. Considering his penchant for not dying, I think he'll make a smooth recovery."
"He could be hurt," Flame says, eyes widening. "After what he did—"
"Or he's just napping in some tree," Yuusaku says under his breath.
He turns away to avoid Ai and Flame's dual attack.
"Don't be mean to my Duel King!" Ai says, puffing himself up like a children's stuffed toy.
"Or my Duel King!" Flame says, the ember on his head popping like a firecracker."
Yuusaku shakes his head. He settles back on the grass, nestling into the field and slowly closing his eyes. A gentle breeze caresses his cheeks and flutters his hair. From within his chest comes a deep breath all the way from his toes to his lips.
"You're wrong," he says to the two ignises. He hears them rustle to face him, but with his eyes closed, he never sees the way their faces split in joy, bodies glowing like miniature suns.
"Takeru is our Duel King."