Work Text:
“-grandest way to die, huh?”
hanma tugged on his sleeves, rubbing them for warmth. he breathed out a hefty sigh as smoke billows before him, it’s his third cigar today- the ceramic frosts in its wake
he takes a swig on the can- maybe two, and by the time he’d put the beer down, it echoed loudly in the piercing cold; he sat down cross-legged and looked up at the name engraved on the erected stone monument; it reflected his own still image
he can see his eyes- dropping and gashed with harsh bags from his vices, he pays more attention to his face; the name inscribed before him billows poison in his gaze
tetta kisaki, a self-proclaimed pierrot
hanma recalls the title, had once slipped past his lips one night of driving aimlessly, he had once found it ludicrous, how had one boy who he looks up to like a man debouch himself in the same field of a jester, he who continuously degrades himself for the humor of thousands- for what purpose?
hanma had been offended, even if it wasn’t him he was referring to, he looks up to him, he who carries himself with grace and malice- the world offered kisaki tetta most of its vigor and hanma had been there to see it first hand
hanma had been the one to see how kisaki had turned the years of harrow to something that could be of benefit to him, he was a master of manipulation, his cunning tongue was his victor that can seize anyone who dares go before his way, he who exploits emotions to garner his upper hand- hanma had been there staring at him in awe
he was someone who he’d deemed untouchable, someone he cannot defeat even when using both of his fists, his wits, and luck
all his life hanma had been aimlessly waiting for color, achieving this with fists cracking up a person’s face. it lights up his vision- it had been a good release, and he got addicted
he chased the drive of making people cower in fear by the whisper of his name alone, but as old vices goes- it comes with repercussions, and long before he can feel anything by his fists or his feet driving a person down the curb- it got old, and he saw himself once again longing for change
kisaki was who he’d been looking for
not long after calling out his name, hanma fell back to old habits- and got addicted
kisaki offered him more than what he’d been looking for, to tower beside him and catch sight of the numerous attempts kisaki makes, the numerous people kisaki taints- it was a show
kisaki didn’t dare put blood on his hands or dirt on his name, and that’s where hanma comes in, continuously harvesting his work, he who puts himself on the line between reoccurring chances of fatality and kisaki
hanma did this once- to garner his attention, his favor, but hanma soon forgot what he had been doing the tumultuous and the bloody work for. all he knew it was for kisaki.
the thought had given him enough drive to carry on
he had heard the title once, ‘reaper’, dubbed to him long before he met kisaki, and he had always rationalized this as his name for putting people seconds away from death itself, but underneath the moon and wrapped in the blanket of stinging cold- he could feel the warm breath of kisaki beside him- the name echoed and as before the word had only put frustration upon himself, he felt enlightened, and through the ripe age of sixteen, hanma deluded himself into thinking that maybe life had finally put things for him into place
the dull buzz of his life glistened neon, and every step he takes feels like walking on spotlight
hanma realizes- it was addicting, having a kaleidoscopic life
and he was just human, a creature who condemns and falls slave to its needs
being by kisaki’s side felt like walking on a trapeze, a magnificent show to see, an experience that can kill you one misstep at a time
but hanma had only one constant thing in his life, and that was being a slave for thrill
hanma couldn’t grasp how far gone he had fallen into the performance of the one and only kisaki tetta, until his light had dimmed him
as everyone constantly seems to forget kisaki was no higher being- no god, he was but a boy
a boy who grows desperate after being deprived of what he had always been longing for, a boy who will maliciously educe plans to cover up his frustrations- whether it be plan b, or unknowingly, a last resort
it was a snowy day
slippery pavements, slick tires, fogging mirrors,
it was glistening, and for a split second hanma had deemed it beautiful
he would’ve had gotten kisaki to appreciate such beauty of a shimmering town under the sheen of snow- if it wasn’t for him having to grasp kisaki in such an unstable drive
he recalls the warmth, kisaki had been clinging to him that day, the first hanma had held the other in proximity, the snow was drafting through his lids as he sped up his bike; he didn’t know what he had been aiming for. all he knew he was the reaper, he would be the one beside him before greeting death
but he hadn’t been there
the snow seemed to pick up volume, and the wind was pounding on his ears, hanma couldn’t see well, for a second- he was glad he couldn’t
he could make out a faint outline of a person closing in on itself. through that white intersection, the blood was gleaming
hanma couldn’t bring himself to move
eventually he walked up to him- the only one who had the humanity to do so- footsteps seeming to grow heavier and heavier with each step
hanma felt himself drift slowly, he didn’t know if it was the snow, the wind, the damp trickles down his face that’s dulling his senses
he couldn’t make out how long he stood there, how long he was just staring- the jester had finally closed his show for the public, and is now on its last remarks to his ringmaster
soon enough it got crowded, he got taken away- through his protests he had injured a man, maybe two- maybe more, he wasn’t there by kisakis side, he couldn’t bare to be without him again, where are they taking him?
the days proceeding the event played out in chrome, hanma couldn’t recall, he dares not- what becomes of a reaper once its master ceases?
-
kisaki was no angel, but he managed to be hanma’s greatest muse
he was smoke- he clings to the back of your throat like it’s his own and every exhale amplifies his mirth as every inhale justifies the lack of space he worms into you
hanma had once been livid by his name, but he gave him purpose- what was once he’d been looking for
he died with him, on that one snowy day- the blood was trickling towards him in a show of humiliation
that day hanma dies with kisaki, leaving but a shell of a man blindly aiming for what once was
till the day the reaper and pierrot meet again, he would have to find himself- in, but the things he has left behind