Chapter Text
eiji doesn’t have time to ask, that first moment between space and time and everything right in the universe. that first time he sees ankh again.
and maybe he doesn’t want to ask. maybe he doesn’t want to get the wrong answer.
maybe he doesn’t want to ask the wrong question.
eiji - eiji doesn’t think he’s scared easily. sometimes that feels like a bad thing. or, well, people tell him it’s a bad thing - he’s never really concerned about what’s happening to him, whether he can prevent it or not. worry isn’t something for him, not really, better used given out than taken.
the sharp edges of the medal feel enough like fear for him to hesitate, though.
did you want to come back? he wants to ask. am i making a mistake?
you seem happy here. you’re laughing more.
is it a good tomorrow?
but, then again, there’s things him and ankh can say to each other, and things they can’t. it’s never been a clear path between them, even if they understand each other more than they’d ever expect.
“is this going to be the last time, again?” eiji asks instead. it’s a empty question. eiji knows he won’t - can’t - might never stay. ankh’s beautiful, and breathtaking, and burns up faster than anyone else, and might be the perfect example of what life is, at least to eiji.
(maybe that’s why. maybe that’s why he’s willing to reach his hands out until they burn black under him. he’s never been like that, never felt it, never even wanted to, but ankh - ankh is a million colors at once, twisting together into something eiji could never replicate.)
(that proof of existence, the reason why life might be beautiful - it’s not fair for it to dissolve into ashes the same color as the empty one left behind.)
“if you don’t want it to be, then you better survive!”
it’s like a rainbow. that’s all eiji can say, catching the medals thrown in his hand. each movement is transient, and he knows it will be gone tomorrow.
but it’s beautiful. he’s beautiful. alive, and bright, and beautiful.
and the questions fade and die. a new one springs forth, just as withered and thorny as the others, pricking into his throat with each second that he waits, knowing that seconds are all he has left.
but it doesn’t come out right. not a single combination of syllables is what he wants to say and ask and hope for. so like a prayer, he holds it, silently, and knows he might never get the chance.
the last time, again -
eiji doesn’t regret holding his hand out. that’s what he says, over and over. a fervent plea.
he holds a little too long, pressing his thumb onto those edges in a hope that they’ll scar.