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He’s woken up abruptly by a pitched voice, rising in tenor, saying, “Kuroh, Kuroh, Kurosukeeee—”
“Yes,” he replies, sitting up in bed. Neko’s looking up at him from the foot of the mattress, a plaintive expression on her face. He notices with approval that she has a flimsy shift on—better than nothing, he supposes.
“I’m hungry,” she whines, and he sighs, smoothing a hand over her hair before rising out of the tangled sheets.
It’s been two month since Shiro’s disappearance and their subsequent search. They’ve settled into a routine, so far, renting a cheap apartment and staying there for a couple weeks, wandering the surrounding grounds before moving on to a new city.
“What do you want for breakfast, Neko?” he asks, and listens as she rambles excitedly. It’s rare that Neko wakes up before he does, but he’d been lugging boxes into the early hours last night and it must’ve taken a toll.
Kuroh does odd jobs to support their meagre income—before Shiro, before this, he’d been used to resting in whatever hovel he came upon, but now he has Neko, and she’s his responsibility, bequeathed to him by his King.
Press the egg batter into the pan until it is golden-brown, says Master Ichigen’s voice. Flip the omelette over and repeat on the other side.
“Here,” he says, handing Neko her plate. She perks up excitedly and wolfs down her breakfast, despite Kuroh’s constant admonitions of, ‘savour your meals,’ but he can’t deny that it’s nice, being able to cook for someone and enjoy your food together.
“Slow down,” he says nonetheless, and smiles when she sticks her tongue out at him childishly.
The midday sun casts a gold shine onto her hair, the pink strands glinting white under the soft rays—and then Kuroh lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, because for a moment, Shiro is right there with him, smiling that soft smile he always does.
Once, when he was younger, he’d scrapped his knee badly during a sword fight with Master Ichigen, who’d bandaged it despite Kuroh’s insistences that he was fine. The wound healed well, but he’d still feel a phantom throb in his knee weeks after the fact.
He misses Shiro like that—a constant ache in his chest, sometimes lessened by the wave of day to day affairs, but extant, nonetheless. It’s worse, sometimes, then losing even Master Ichigen (whispers the traitorous part of his mind), because all he has left of Shiro is his red parasol and his own memories, and he couldn’t even be sure of those—memories are flighty, fragile things, as easily lost as a breath to winter air, not to mention as malleable as clay, as Neko demonstrated numerous times.
So instead, he dreams.
Shiro comes back in Weismann’s body. He knocks on the door to their apartment, lets out a sheepish laugh, says, “May I come in?” and takes their shock as acquiescence.
Weismann is tall, regal, with long, flowing silver hair and a uniform in a style decades too old—nothing like they remember. He has a serene expression on his face, but when he smiles in response to Kuroh’s wary glare, it’s all Shiro.
“I know I look a little different now, but I’m still your Shiro,” he says, ostensibly to Neko, who has her head in his lap, but he’s looking right at Kuroh.
He can’t breathe.
“Please excuse me,” he says, and steps outside their front door.
It’s easy to be around Shiro, who’s so guileless and irresponsible and open, it’s hard to believe he housed the body of a King, but now that he’s looking the Silver King in the face, it’s an entirely different thing, not to mention that it’s been months—
“Kuroh,” says Weismann, who’s stepped outside. His smile is terribly sad, and Kuroh’s suddenly irrationally angry that Shiro, in no matter which form, always has to be so alone.
“Things are different now, but I hope that you’ll still be with me,” he says. “Of course, if you—”
“Be quiet,” says Kuroh, “You’re my King. That’s all there is to it. I pledged my allegiance and I don’t go back on my word.”
Shiro laughs and shakes his head ruefully. “You never change, Kuroh.”
Neko passes the days sunbathing on the stone wall bordering the walkway, or tussling lazily with the neighbourhood cats. Often, she visits the old grannies that live on this street, letting them give her good tummy rubs and ear scratches, because let’s face it, Kuroh may make a mean omelette but he has no idea how to properly pet a cat.
She wanders around a lot—slipping through loose bamboo panes or digging tunnels through soft dirt. It’s fun, but there was that time she nearly got caught by a yelping dog, the stupid thing. She hasn’t seen Shiro yet, but she knows he’s still alive, no matter how many grumpy faces Kuroh makes in exchange to her constant protests.
She knows, because even if he wasn’t her King, he’s her Shiro, and she’s his Neko.
Shiro comes back as himself. They’re making a run at the local grocery store—Neko is with him (dressed, thankfully), because even though she doesn’t say in so many words, he knows what loneliness looks like.
“I think this bunch looks good,” he murmurs as he picks out several choice green onion stalks—
“Kuroh, Kuroh, look,” says Neko, her voice high and excited, “Look—”
“Shush, you’re too loud,” says Kuroh, who is mentally calculating how much money they have to spend on tonight’s dinner, fingering the green onion stalks in his hand—
“No, look, look,” she insists, tugging on his sleeve, and exasperated, he lifts his head—
“It’s Shiro!” she cries.
He’s standing right in front of them, looking exactly the same as he was, before—
The groceries slip out of Kuroh’s hands.
“Shiro!” Neko leaps onto him, her face wet, and Shiro laughs, tells her, “I missed you,” then looks up at him.
“Welcome back,” is all Kuroh says and Shiro grins at him, eyes wide and shining and he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t cry at all.
They go back to their apartment and settle down for the night.
Kuroh rinses and brushes his teeth, glancing at the figures on the bed, revealed by moonlight. Neko’s curled up in her cat form, worn out, breathing steadily—she’d fallen asleep in moments.
Shiro’s turned on his side, facing the wall when Kuroh lifts the blankets and climbs in gingerly.
He shifts though, turning around to face Kuroh.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he whispers, but Shiro shakes his head. “I wasn’t asleep.”
Kuroh nods, and in the silence, there’s a heartbeat of space between them.
Shiro looks at him in the dark, eyes gleaming, and suddenly Kuroh’s hot, his skin prickling feverishly. He reaches out, runs a careful hand down Shiro’s jawline, and isn’t surprised when Shiro kisses him. He’s careful, slow, presses his lips to the corner of Kuroh’s mouth and slides across, as if painting brush strokes across his face.
“I—” tries Kuroh, but Shiro merely shakes his head, presses his body closer.
Kuroh isn’t sure this is how things are supposed to go, but it happens anyway.
It’s not as if Kuroh doesn’t know how he felt, even before he had sworn an oath of fealty, bound to serve this man, heart and soul. He’d seen that stupid smile and felt his heart waver, felt it beat unsteadily since the moment he swore to follow through on Master Ichigen’s last wish.
It was beyond simply being a likeable person—Shiro, unbidden, summoned the loyalty and faith he’d only once bestowed before, and he gave it gladly. Trying to live a peaceful life, being dragged into conflict despite his best attempts to stay out of it and righting the wrongs he’d never made—Kuroh wanted him to be happy.
It’s not an ignoble purpose.
Shiro comes back as the Colourless King.
His laugh is ugly, unnatural, and it rings shrilly through the air—Neko growls, discomfited and Kuroh reaches for Kotowari.
“I told you all, I told you,” sings the thing in Shiro’s body, whirling around manically. “I’m the most powerful of them all.”
“Where’s Shiro?” asks Kuroh, and it laughs again—
In a blink, it’s in front of Kuroh and he’s frozen up, can’t move, can’t swing the sword in his grasp—
“It’s too late for that,” it whispers, “your king is no more,” and Kuroh can see the truth in its eyes, before a yawning abyss swallows him whole—
---
“Kuroh,” says Master Ichigen. Disappointment is written all over his face.
“You didn’t succeed in your mission.”
No, Kuroh tries to say, It’s not Shiro, he’s not evil—
Master Ichigen is walking away, and he has no King.
---
Shiro doesn’t come back, because Kuroh killed him.
He stares, horrified, at Kotowari, his hand on the hilt, guiding it through Shiro’s heart and out his back, red splattered everywhere.
Shiro doesn’t say anything, his face frozen in an expression of eternal surprise, and it’s horrible, horrible—
---
Master Ichigen—
Kuroh wakes on a silent scream. He’s breathing heavily; Neko stirs restlessly on his lap and murmurs something indistinguishable. He runs his fingers through her hair, resting his forehead on her back and trying to catch his breath.
“Kuroh?” she asks sleepily, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he replies, “Go back to sleep, Neko.”
She yawns and snuggles closer and he keeps petting her hair, blinking back the sting of unshed tears.
“This is different,” says Kuroh almost immediately. It’s a dream—or it’s supposed to be, except Kuroh feels more awake than ever—he’s not being swept along with the tide.
There’s no landscape, just an endless, arching, pale blue; it’s soft, however, and he feels warm. Loved. He turns around, and he knows, this time, when he sees Shiro, that’s it’s the real thing.
He opens his mouth to greet him, to scold him, to—
“I thought I’d lost you,” he says instead in a whisper; it slips out reluctantly and he’s nearly ashamed, but only for a moment: Master Ichigen had taught him there was nothing wrong with showing someone how much you cared for them. “It was my duty to dispose of the colourless king, but in the end, I—”
“In the end, you saved me,” says Shiro, gently. “We all did what we could, Kuroh, and for me, you did more than enough.”
He steps closer, and takes Kuroh’s unresisting hand in his, pulls him into a gentle hug.
“I left you,” says Kuroh, in a whisper, and he pulls back, because suddenly it’s important that Shiro knows this, that—
“No, I left you,” says Shiro instead, and his smile is bitter, his eyes pained. “I’m sorry I left, Kuroh.”
He closes his eyes, kisses Kuroh’s forehead, then his eyelids, his nose, his face.
“But now I’m here,” he whispers, his breath fanning across Kuroh’s mouth, Shiro’s lips chasing his words.
He steps back and holds out his hand.
“Come find me, Kuroh.”
Kuroh takes a breath and smiles.
“Of course. You are my King,” he begins, ignoring how Shiro rolls his eyes, “but beyond that, I love you. Wherever you go, I will follow.”
Shiro’s eyes widen and his cheeks are flushed. He kisses Kuroh again, and says, soft, “You know where I am.”
And suddenly, Kuroh does.
“Won’t you come?”
Kuroh opens his eyes.