Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[No matter what you become, if you call me in that voice… 

Wherever you are-]

I. Waking

Aleksandre’s sword carves a line - a squeal against stone - as it cleaves through another faux vampire, sending its ashy remains smattering against the wall. Taking the chance at reprieve, he sucks in a breath and wipes his cheek, smearing blood along his jaw. He grimaces; it’s a cut that hasn’t healed - his mana supplies are running too low.

A gunshot rings true over the din of hollering demons, followed by a dying screech. There is more at stake than just the fake safehouse, which had been one of the shaman’s traps anyway.

“Kanae!” He screams under sheets of pouring rain, “Kanae! We have to go!”

He turns frantically, searching for his friend, but the field is thoroughly obscured by the horde of enemies and stormy fog.

Another bang , and Aleksandre mutters a curse, ripping his boots from where they’d been mired in mud. He pivots to slash down another mindless beast, forcing his way through with his sharp nails and sharper blade.

“Kanae!”

Through the telltale scent of rot and black magic, there’s the unmistakable tang of blood. His own, Kanae’s - he doesn’t know, he’s charged with adrenaline and battlelust, but the drawn-out fight has numbed his fingers. Even his weapon is loose in his hands. The Vampire Lord twists it through the chest of a monster upon turning a corner, and squints through the rainfall. His form is murky, but no-doubt, that’s his priest.

“Kanae,” He wheezes, coughs, then takes a moment to regain his footing, “Kanae-! There’s no point in fighting!”

This time, the human hears him, firing a bullet through the forehead of a visceral, humanoid thing, before whipping around. They meet each other back-to-back, both breathless. Kanae’s hand is wrapped in one of their provisional bandages, his garb is torn in multiple places and there is a visible gash on his neck - albeit light, otherwise he would not be standing.

“You look terrible!” The priest announces, not lacking snark even as his gun goes off again.

Aleksandre is a lot worse for wear; the cut on his cheek, blood staining his sleeve and socks, and multiple tears in his cape that had gone through to meet skin - but he’d be damned to admit it. It speaks for his recklessness and flashy way of fighting.

He forces a smirk, “A lot better than you!”

“Are you out of mana?” Kanae pushes back to dodge a swing, and Aleksandre instinctively leans forward to accommodate, making distance with his sword, “Tsk - you wouldn’t be calling for a retreat otherwise.”

“Maybe-” He starts, and  then yanks Kanae’s collar, “Get down!”

With an ear-grating warble, one of the monsters throws itself at the pair of hunters, claws outstretched and rows of teeth bared. It misses, barrels into one of its own, and scrabbles on dirt to face Kanae, who deals it a killing blow from the ground. A second demon tries its luck. Aleksandre deflects this one - a metallic shriek of teeth on metal, before he runs it through. Small fry.

When its dust clears, Aleksandre stiffens. They’re surrounded by a throng of lumbering, black forms, swathing like flies. They prowl just out of killing range, snarling - no doubt waiting to tear into their prey.

“This might be it for us,” Kanae chuckles wryly.

Fat chance. The Third Son of the Lagusa House refuses to be killed by a petty trap. He slings an arm around Kanae’s waist, ignoring his companion’s violent jump, and inhales sharply - almost a whistle between his teeth, feeling out his reserves of magic.

“Are you sure you can-” Kanae cuts himself off with a strangled cry as Aleksandre’s wings flair out to their full span, an intimidating wave of mana pouring over the field.

The circle of feral demons cringe and shy away; others give defiant growls or inhuman moans. Kanae is a light weight against his side when he takes his running steps, before pushing off into the air. Howling, the shaman’s underlings swarm hungrily at their toes, many of them try to follow on foot, but Aleksandre is stumbling through the rain and wind as best he can, Kanae clinging, terrified, to the one arm holding him tight.

He doesn’t make it far before he can feel the absence of mana like ice in his veins - sending his vision swimming, his balance teetering. The stickiness of his blood on his skin feels suddenly hotter, every sustained injury burning him up.

-ou better n- drop m-, god- Sash-?- Kanae’s voice becomes distant as his body turns to lead, limbs failing to respond; and then they’re tumbling through the air, and someone is screaming, something is snapping -

Silence.

...

...

...

He rouses to deft fingers combing through his hair, gently untangling knots and rubbing circles into his scalp. Somewhere beneath the touch is an ambient crackling and watery pattering. Daring to shift, he groans softly.

His head is throbbing, his chest aches. The soreness in his neck is pleasant by comparison.

“-re you awake?”

There they are, those delicate tones. The healing wonders of his voice, Aleksandre ponders on them a moment longer, in the dregs of sleep. Surely, he’s died and gone to heaven.

“-asha?”

His cheek is pressed against something warm.

“Sasha?”

It’s clear this time - and cuts through the throes of his unconsciousness. Eyes fluttering open, he squints against the light and sneezes - his clothes are thoroughly soaked and his hair is matted, proud silver turned muddy by the wet. He’s freezing.

“Sasha,” A faint sound, reverent in its relief, “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Lose me ?” He mumbles, a bit disoriented, “What the hell are you talking about?”

There is a sigh against the top of his head, and he blinks twice before reeling away from Kanae with as much grace as a drained Lord can manage. There is a mark on his face from where it had been squashed against the priest’s shoulder.

Kanae’s usual composure errs, “Well - your sword, when we fell. Ah… you hit  your head. Right here.”

Aleksandre, echoes his movement and presses the ball of his wrist against his temple - he winces when it comes away red.

“Sorry.” A pause, “…What about my sword?”

Kanae grimaces, “Well - that, it went right through you, and I had to pull it out. It was rather unsightly.”
Again, Aleksandre echoes, “Sorry.”

“It’s alright. We’re safe now, thanks to you.”

Unable to find the words through his daze, Aleksandre hums an apologetic response. 

In the silence, he looks out from the small rock shelter to a sea of trees and undergrowth, still damp from the dim drizzle. Petrichor hangs rich in the air, therapeutic after the filthy atmosphere of demon ashes and gunpowder. It’s doused in monochrome - the sky has not cleared yet.

Aleksandre spares a glance for the man beside him. Kanae clutches his sheathed sword tightly, uneager to let go. Deciding he doesn’t need it back, the vampire watches the firelight flicker excitedly, playful oranges bringing heat to chilled skin.

Despite the bloody marks, Kanae is still all round edges and modest features; not pristine, but perhaps beautiful, in a bloodstained sort of elegance. There is a solemn peace to the priest, that Aleksandre often sees in his more solitary moments, writing in his journal or reading a book by the windowsill. It is a sort of loneliness that the vampire cannot discern, but it is Kanae’s privacy, and he would not seek to ask unwelcome things.

Absent-mindedly, Aleksandre reaches for his head again, and finds himself brushing over a wad of gauze underneath his hairline. Kanae is watching him now with a cautious, near-parental gaze. It seems the priest had tended their wounds while he was unconscious, not that an immortal entity this powerful requires it.

Regardless, he mumbles out a begrudging, “Thanks, didn’t need it.” and tries to tear through the bandaging with his nails.

As if to chide him, Kanae’s fingers ghost over his to tug them away, “Don’t touch it.”

“...Why? They’re gonna heal.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Kanae says, expression stern, “You took an awfully long time to wake up. I know you pushed your limits, so please just don’t touch anything.”

Aleksandre scrunches his nose, “How long was I out?”

The priest raises three fingers. The fast motion blurs across his sight. 

“Two hours?”

“ No - do you have a concussion? Three hours.”

Frowning, the vampire mouths, Damn.

Voice turning quiet, the priest does not let go of Aleksandre’s hand, “I kept calling you, and you just wouldn’t wake up… at all.”

There is an unnatural vulnerability to his companions' tone - something both cross and deeply mournful. He is awash with that intangible emotion, so much so that Aleksandre nearly recoils, but is instead overwhelmed with the desire to sweep it away. Kanae is baring a piece of his soul, letting down his bauble of natural confidence and easy words. The fear of loss is not ugly on Kanae, but he would not forgive himself if he let it afflict his friend any longer.

Brushing his thumb against Kanae’s palm, Aleksandre brings his hand to his lips in secret adoration - something he would later vehemently deny, and blame on his concussion.

But in this moment, wearied and worn by battle, there is nothing more pure than the promise written into their scars.

“I’m here,” He whispers, “You can call my name as many times as you like.”

Kanae stares back at him, dawning a tiny smile. And Aleksandre thinks, maybe he is drowning in those rainwater eyes, because they are all he sees.

「雨音が響いていますね　｜　あなたを愛してました。」

There is the sound of rain. (I loved you.)

Chapter Text

[I close my eyes and ask the world-

Have I been noble today as well?]

II. Adversary

An indeterminable amount of years later, Aleksandre is just as bruised and bloody as he was in that lost thread of time. Nothing is as it should be - his ears fill with gunshots and explosions and fire. Fire that streaks across the horizon in some hideous smoke signal, a silent testament to a Lord’s failings.

Kanae and he had fought to preserve their small sphere of peace, the village and their lonely little church on the hill; and what had become of that struggle, when Aleksandre had set it aflame along with the priest’s body. A send-off, cloaked in the scent of lilies.

He’d cried his first tears that day.

His palm secured firmly around the hilt of his sword, he peers across the battlefield, proud red cloak fluttering in the breeze. He stands as a symbol - Lord Aleksandre Lagusa, a herald of victory for the forces of the Demon Realm and a harbinger of death for the humans. But he knows he’s gone soft, because stealing the lives of mortals desperately fighting - for what, do they even know? - ties sickening knots in his stomach.

What would Kanae say, watching him threaten an impossibly young soldier, with just the sharps of his teeth?

You weren’t as different from them as I thought, Sasha.

It’s only the whisper of a ghost, but the icy scorn rips through him.

“Tell your general to surrender,” He orders the boy soldier, “You won’t be winning here today.”

Wrought with the fear, the boy nods eagerly, pale-faced as he turns and flees into the sea of violence. If his message makes it to the leader, it will have been a mercy for all of them. The higher-ups will call his action a kindness; he will call it a means to an end.

Somewhere across the flatlands, a man has climbed to the top of a rocky outcrop. Raising his gun in the air, he fires three shots, screaming something to the ground soldiers. As he’d hoped, it sounds like retreat.

The humans turn tail and flee quickly - is there much they can do against an army of supernatural beings? The emptying field is an answer enough, and Aleksandre’s forces soon pull back on their own accord, leaving the Vampire Lord the sole person amid the wreckage: charred earth and burning remains that do not scatter to the wind; unlike the past, which seems too much a fantasy.

He’s about to turn around to trail after his troops, when he hears a stifled cough from a ditch off the center of the field. It’s a sooty, wet stutter, alone and pained. At first, Aleksandre hesitates; any other day he’d leave a man’s fate to luck, but that whisper steals past his ear again, and he crosses the remaining distance in fast strides.

He peers over the edge - and yowls - a bullet had gone right through his head, sending him stumbling backwards. Slapping a hand to his forehead, Aleksandre scowls through the blood in his eye, and storms right back over to the trench. There is a second gunshot, that merely whizzes past the vampire, nicking his ear.

“If you keep firing I won’t be inclined to help you.” He snaps.

“A demon would never help anyone.”

Aleksandre stills. The grip on his sword slackens.

“...Who the hell are you?” He hisses, something cold sliding up his spine.

From underneath the cap, the human shoots him a defiant look, “That’s not your business, vampire.”

He knows those eyes. He knows that voice. Forcefully sheathing his sword, Aleksandre hooks the heel of his boots into the ground and skids down to the bottom of the ditch. The human fires another round - which he bears with grit teeth as it pierces his shoulder. He tears the gun from the man’s hands and tosses it sideways, and hauls him to his feet by the collar.

The human gasps hoarsely and wobbles, Aleksandre grabs his arm to steady him.

“Look at me.”

And the soldier does.

Aleksandre’s mouth runs dry.

It’s a shock to his system at first, electricity zipping up his spine and into the tips of shaking fingers. He’d almost forgotten what Kanae had looked like - it’s been too many years since then, since that day. Too many. There is a trickle of blood down the side of his face, but it’s the same, soft and angelic. Framed by those milky brown curls he remembers running his hands through on lukewarm nights, once upon a time.

Broken, he croaks out, “Kanae.”

That ugly glare doesn’t suit you .

Kanae throws off his arm, “I don’t know you,” He spits.

Aleksandre recoils. Of course. He wants to say. If I’d been long dead, I wouldn’t either.

What a cruel joke.

“Well,” Kanae scoffs, “...That was a lie. Everyone knows you, Aleksandre Lagusa .”

He stiffens, nearly curls in on himself. There is so much venom in those words he can barely stand it - his name is an insult. Kanae is here, in some wretched twist of destiny, drained of his kindness by the brutality of this pointless war.

“What will you do with me? Suck me dry and feed my corpse to the crows? Demon.”

The nonchalance Kanae speaks with is chilling.

“What? I- no -”

“Oh, a prisoner of war then? I’m not worth anything, unless you’d like to keep me as a blood slave, perhaps that wouldn’t be too awful-”

“ Enough. ” Aleksandre grouses, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Curse this sadistic, divine prank.

“Why haven’t you retreated yet?” He knows why, but he’s fumbling through his thoughts.

Kanae’s eyes narrow to cat-like slits, calculating, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”

“I’d gain nothing from killing you.” He says sharply, fighting to keep composure, “Where is your encampment? Obviously , your injuries won’t make it easy to go yourself.”

There is a slight limp to his balance - perhaps he twisted his ankle and fell - and the blood on his face is telling of a minor concussion. The Demon Realm’s scouts would swoop him before he’d make a mile.

Should the sun set, his chances would be even slimmer. Night will fall soon.

Uneasily, Kanae reaches a hand beneath his cloak, “Why would I give away any intel?”

Aleksandre cannot deny the validity of his point. And he’s sure there is a knife under that cloak- he lingers on the idea of being distrusted by a man that might’ve loved him once.

“ Fine. Allow me to escort you nearby to your encampment then.”

“You’d help me?” 

Exasperated, Aleksandre just sighs and jerks out his hand, palm up. Kanae’s expression scrunches up in skeptical surprise, a cute furrow of the brow. He glances at the sky; the sun is dipping into the hillside as a dusky purple spreads overhead. Then he looks down at his feet, shifts his balance, and grimaces when he applies his ankle. Defeated, his hand comes away from his cloak to hover above Aleksandre’s.

“I shot you.” He mumbles at last, “How can I trust you?”

Aleksandre drawls, “Do you have many other options?”

“Why are you showing me such kindness?”

His voice is familiar now, like a breath of fresh air. It’s the same tones the vampire hears in the throes of sleep, light and gentle.

You taught me to. The words catch in his throat. He shakes his head.

Lips pressed into a thin line, Kanae takes his hand.

Perhaps it’s a good thing Kanae had refused to tell him the location of the human encampment, that he’d never taken Kanae that far. Because he hears his brothers talking of its annihilation later in the night.

The Demon Realm’s forces are meant to withdraw in order to be deployed elsewhere, but Aleksandre finds himself pushing through bracken. Dead heart propelled forward by a dull fear, he treads muddy detritus listlessly. Divine prank or not - he needs to know whether the Kanae of this time is alive. Upon reaching the clearing where he’d left his friend last night, he follows the trail of broken twigs and disturbed leaves to the edge of the woods.

It’s not hard to spot the trampled base - littered with the bodies of the dead, dying flames licking at tents. Kanae is standing at the edge, staring hopelessly at nothing, a bundle of salvaged first aid provisions gathered in his arms. Aleksandre stops beside him.

“...Were they your friends?”

“No,” Kanae whispers, “I think they hate me. I was favored.”

The lord doesn’t say anything to that. Just bows his head and lets the silence overtake them, until a low chuckle bubbles away in the wind.

“I don’t even know why I’m fighting,” Kanae murmurs, “My savior is a demon.”

Numb, Aleksandre offers: “Should I take you home?”

“The barracks are my home.” Kanae turns to look at him, really look .

There is a beat of tension where they stare at each other, searching for something neither of them knows they are looking for. Until Kanae finally smiles, exhausted but sweet, “You’re kind, aren’t you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re too kind for war.”

Aleksandre runs a thumb over the handle of the blade on his belt, “That’s nonsense. If anything, you’re the one who’s too kind, for letting me help you.”

There is a challenging flash in Kanae’s eyes, that fades into the aether with the long breath that falls from his lips. “I think I’m just lonely.”

“You think a lot.”

Kanae laughs.

They scour what they can from the remains of the human encampment, burying the fallen and marking their graves with whatever they find. There are no flowers to decorate their deaths, and Aleksandre does not pray. Kanae tells him he’d arrived after the attack, when the flames were still high, but the monsters were gone.

Aleksandre asks, “Am I a monster as well?”

When he thinks of monsters , he thinks of the shaman’s half-developed, shambling piles of stringy, blackened flesh. White-eyed mockeries of his species, only hungry for blood. He’d thought his breed noble even after that, but now, he’s unsure.

“You can’t be,” Kanae says simply, like stating a fact, “I told you. You’re too kind.”

Aleksandre hums, “So you think cruelty is what makes a monster?”

“I suppose so.”

He digs another wooden stake into the dirt, “Then the real monster is this war.”

Serene in the ruins of his comrades, Kanae spreads his hands, “No doubt about it.”

This is when he learns that Kanae wears his smiles wide in times of pain.

Day slips into night, poking a campfire two miles out from the burial grounds.

Even when he’s all bandages and gauze, Kanae adamantly insists the second-line base is only a few more hours walk. Aleksandre points at the moon and calls him an idiot. Kanae sulks, but settles down regardless. It’s a rhythmic familiarity.

“Won’t they be looking for you?”

Aleksandre rouses from mindlessly poking twigs into the fire, “Who?”

“I don’t know. Your people? Your soldiers? You’re a Lord, aren’t you?”

His mouth forms an ‘o’, “I guess. I didn’t think about it.”

“Was it because you were too busy thinking about me?” There is a teasing lilt to Kanae’s tone, and Aleksandre startles when the fire cracks loudly.

Yes! That traitorous conscience of his shouts, Always!

“How can you be so cheerful?” He protests instead, stomping on the stray spark the fire had spat at him, “You’re still the same as ever.”

Kanae catches his mistake before does, and draws his knees to his chest, “Did you know me? In the past?”

“Uh,” Aleksandre struggles, glancing everywhere but in Kanae’s direction, “Maybe.”

‘The past’ weighs heavily on his shoulders - the things he should’ve done and the things he shouldn’t have done, pressing doubts behind his every decision. Speaking of it feels taboo, like defying the whims of fate would only worsen the curse. It’s a punishment, he supposes, for letting carnal instincts drive him in the priest’s last moments. His fangs feel heavy in his mouth.

“You said my name as if you knew me, yesterday.” Kanae muses, “I don’t remember anything, you know. From before I became a soldier.”

A noise rises from Aleksandre’s throat, something between acknowledgement and pain. Eyelids fluttering, Kanae sighs. A pure, faint sound.

“I think I could’ve fallen in love with you, in a different life. If we’d been given time, and peace.”

Aleksandre chuckles drily, his nails scratch deep lines into the soil, “You’ve known me for a day. I’m a demon.”

“I don’t think that matters. You’re different. You’re kind. I feel like I know you.”

“And you’re too trusting.”

“No, far from it. You’re just… different. You make me feel human.”

At a loss for words, Aleksandre lapses into silence.

“Hey, Sasha,”
And his world shatters. He shouldn’t know that name, not that one. He shouldn’t say it so tenderly, when they were adversaries, living in different worlds. Sharing one night under the stars shouldn’t make Aleksandre’s heart beat so hard it cracks his ribs, shouldn’t make him taste blood that isn’t there and shouldn’t make him smell lilies on the breeze.

Kanae, who’s here somehow, but shouldn’t be.

“-Oh. Is it that bad?”

“No,” He swallows thickly and takes a deep, shuddering inhale, “No, no. It’s good. I like it, what are- what were you saying?”

He throws his arms over his knees and looks down at the ground, letting his sweep of silver locks hide his expression.

“I was going to ask, is there anything you want to do when the war is over?”

Aleksandre gives his head a shake.

“No. I've never thought about it.” When his future is indefinite, he tends to pay it little mind.

Kanae likes to fill the silence - this, he knows, has known for years. So he anchors himself to the melodic hum that his companion makes, and clings.

“I’d like to go to Japan someday. I hear the cherry blossoms are wonderful.”

Without thinking, without meeting Kanae’s eyes, Aleksandre reaches out and pinches his sleeve, tugging loosely. He clings. “I’ll take you. We could run away.”
Kanae glows in the firelight, hurt beyond the wounds on his skin, but still so beautiful.

“You’ll find me?”

Tomorrow, Kanae will be back at his base. Tomorrow, Aleksandre will have returned home. Come morning, their campsite watched by the moon will be empty and forgotten. But just to see Kanae light up with that tiny shred of hope he’d been missing, he makes this promise:

“Just call for me. I’ll find you.”

Come morning, Aleksandre marches out to battle.

He tucks last night away in a box, packs it safely into a compartment in his heart. A heart he may have never had, if not for the man whose memory lives within it.

Kanae does not call his name, and Aleksandre does not hear it when he’s clearing an enemy line. How many of these soldiers are people Kanae has met? Is this war worth this many lives? If his brothers found out, they’d scold him - you are a Lagusa. You are cold-hearted and dangerous. You are the head of our family. Humans are livestock.

Kanae’s face flashes through his mind when he strikes down another human. He stares, dazed, as the pool of blood laps against the tip of his boots.

“ Sasha-! ”

It is a deceptively weak scream that tears through him, rips open the locked box in his heart and before he knows it he is running.

He is running, wild and desperate - shouldering through the clashing humans and vampires, boots kicking up all kinds of muck, set on nothing but the other man clawing his way between bodies. The soldier stumbles, clutching his side, face twisted in pain.

Throwing his sword down, Aleksandre drops to his knees and skids. Quickly, he draws Kanae into his arms, as if to block out the ugly, perverted world just behind his back. Silver strands tickle Kanae’s eyelids.

He chokes, covering the fatal injury on the soldier’s side with a hand, but all he can muster is a, “Why- are you already fighting?”

“I couldn’t just leave -” He winces, and Aleksandre can only watch in horror, “I couldn’t run away, I’m sorry.”

“You need a medic-” Aleksandre starts, but is struck dumb when Kanae just laughs.

It’s bitter and cold, and then his body is wracked with a series of coughs so violent, Aleksandre is afraid they might haunt him in his next life.

“Who hurt you?” He growls, chasing the fear away with anger, “I’ll… I’ll-”

“Enough, Sasha. Enough.” Kanae’s hands reach up to cup his face.

Kanae’s thumb paints a crimson line as it brushes over Aleksandre’s cheekbone, “I like it better this way.”

“You’re- I don’t. I don’t. ” His grip tightens, grappling desperately to keep this precious, precious person from slipping away in front of him. Not again.

A deadening quiet has fallen over the battlefield, humans and demons alike making a wide ring around the two slumped in the center. Each of them keeps a solemn reticence, but the sounds of guns and swords still ring in the distance. Aleksandre does not notice, focused on the terrifying moment where Kanae doesn't respond, and then the stuttering inhale.

“...Will you still take me to Japan?”

Overhead, the sky is brilliant, pale gold. Sunrise has just broken, warm and bright. Unable to bite back the tears, Aleksandre sobs, and holds Kanae closer.

“Don’t cry,” Kanae breathes, “It doesn’t suit you.”

His hands fall limp.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls.

「まるで夏空が泣いてる見たい　｜　目の前に明日が死んでいます。」

It’s as if the summer sky is crying. (Tomorrow is dying before my eyes.)

Chapter Text

[There’s a dead person who’s living, and a survivor who’s long dead.

That’s no different from a zombie.]

III. Fateful

Aleksandre turns his back on the war.

Resolving that he wants no part in such a pointless conflict, he leaves his name and his family sword behind. Turning his back on the cold looks and muttered disappointments, he tucks a small, wooden box in the crook of his elbow and sets off.

He touches down on the rocky coast of Japan, the ocean turned a velvety blue by the night sky. High and white with froth, the waves kiss his boots and melt away, as if beckoning his next move. Aleksandre tilts the box, and the ashes inside scatter to the wind. Then, he tosses the container out to sea.

He lingers for a moment to watch it batter beneath the surface. By the time it disappears from view, the Lord is gone.

Without direction, title, or something to protect, Aleksandre finds himself at a loss. He spends several days not far from the breach of rocks and waves, wearing a path into the ground with aimless back and forth wandering. His throat parches, his nails crack, and a tiredness drags him to his knees. A part of him was afraid to set out into an unfamiliar land, a part of him resented himself for dismissing pride in lineage. A larger part of him feared never finding what he might search for, and living in a forlorn loneliness for all eternity.

All the ideas were so fantastical, his sense leaving him as sedentary days ran him by.

“Oh my,”

And then he awakens one sunrise to the sound of ringing, and a short woman craning over him. She peers at him with curious eyes, thick furisode sleeves raised to obscure the bottom of her face. Her hair is a shade of lilac that falls over her front, a gold fascinator propped with a royal purple ribbon on the back of her head. Aleksandre had roused to the light call of the bells on her sandals, but what is most alarming is the horns sprouting from her forehead.

“Oni…?” He mutters thickly, attempting to blink away the dregs of a dreamless sleep.

He’s never seen one before, but she appears so distinct, it would be difficult to mistake it.

The woman giggles, eyes curling in gentle crescents, “I didn’t think I’d find anyone out here, goodness. If you were a human, that would’ve caused quite a scene.”
Aleksandre does not reply, only stares dumbly.

“My dear,” The oni-woman catches on to his confusion, “You seem in a horrible way. How long have you been out here?”

Aleksandre frowns, “I’unno,” His throat hurts.

She kneels down to inspect him, allowing him a clear view of her face. There is a beauty mark on her chin, and her complexion is fair.

“A vampire?” She ascertains, “You seem weak. Have you eaten?”

There is nothing threatening about her - a kindred soul, he supposes, even as the war between humans and demons rages on in a land he’d abandoned. He shakes his head.

“I’m afraid all I have on me is some sake,” The woman sighs woefully, reaching to unclasp a drinking vessel tied around her waist, “It should do.”

He accepts it gratefully, and hesitates as he weighs it in his hands. He’s never much liked alcohol, but his mouth waters at the prospect of something to consume. He takes a sip, and though the alcohol scores like fire down his throat, his next few gulps are eager. It takes the edge off, his predatory thirst waned and stiffness abating. It is then that he realises he might not have to survive solely on blood anymore.

“Don’t get drunk now,” The oni smiles at him, “Just between us, it’s quite strong, though I’ve got the best tolerance in the world, I think.”
Her tone is jesting, and Aleksandre spares her a weak chuckle of his own.

“Are you a wanderer?” He himself hadn’t expected to see anyone so far out.

“Oh, yes!” She claps her hands together in delight, “The human world is so interesting. What else is there to do with a lifespan like ours, besides?”

Aleksandre considers this. The soldier is dead - he cannot bring a corpse to see the trees. Why is he here? He cannot return to whence he came, having cast off his name and responsibilities.
“I’m a little lost,” He admits after a while, “I don’t know what to do.”

The woman’s cheer softens, she leans her head on her hands. The regard she gives him is aged and searching, and in her eyes Aleksandre can see aeons of wisdom. She must be old. Far, far older than him.

“Have you lost your way, or has someone lost you?” Her voice comes like a breeze, the sort that chills the skin and snaps a person back to reality.

“Both,” Aleksandre murmurs, “I don’t know why I do anything.”

It is easy to confide in her, when they share traits: the sharps of their teeth and the point of their ears. There are no barriers of status or species, and only a rare, mutual understanding shared between solitary travellers.

“For people like us,” She starts slowly, “Living is not so simple. We live long, so we lose so much more. But there is a beauty in that. The world gives us much more. We are taught to adapt. We must move on quickly, and find something new to drive us. Wherever you came from, you are here in this country now because you chose to be.” She stands up and props her hands on hips fiercely, “If you do not know the way, all you must do is learn the paths. If you are lost, you need only find your guiding light. As long as you are moving, you are making progress.”

“You’re awfully energetic for an old lady,” Aleksandre drawls, trying to appear untouched by the optimism of her words.

Her platitudes are needlessly corny, but sometimes, a little bit of bared hope from a peculiar stranger is what an adrift vampire needs to hear. He can’t spend all his days ghosting an empty coast, wasting away.

“How rude!” She snorts, “Most people say I look much like a child, which I may find almost less offensive now, thanks to you! How can one not long for adventure?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Aleksandre heaves himself to his feet, and finds them sturdier than they’ve been in a while. He hands the oni back her vessel of sake, which she snaps up eagerly, and shakes to see how much is left.

“Fair enough. Then I guess I should go.”

“Go where?” Her eyes sparkle teasingly.

Aleksandre grimaces, “Go… searching.”

“For what?”

He hunches his shoulders, a pout tugging at his lips. This old hag … He’s been embarrassed enough just listening to her heroic-journey speech.
“My… motivation , or whatever.”

She giggles behind her sleeve, devolving into a bark of laughter, “You don’t need to be so self-conscious.” When her fit has died down and Aleksandre finishes sulking, she offers her hand, “I’ve plans to travel to the next land over, but I am certain we will meet again.”

He returns it with a firm shake of his own, charged with gratitude, “I’m sure we will, miss…?”

“Rindou will do.”

“Miss Rindou.”

After warning him not to go marching about looking the way he does - lest he frighten the humans - she bids him a formal farewell and eventually disappears from sight, turning into a purple smudge behind the line of distant rocks.
It was weak of him, he knows, to be so utterly thrown by his dislocation - from home, bloodline, familiarity, Kanae. If Kanae had been brought to Earth once after death, then Aleksandre dares to trust the cruel whims of fate to return him again.
Even if only for that uncertainty, he can’t afford to waste another second.

Revitalised, Aleksandre casts a look out to sea, lends one more minute to the soundscape of waves beating stone, and makes a silent promise to the clouds lining the horizon.
There is someone he needs to find, and this time, he won’t fail to protect them.

It’s easier said than done.

Aleksandre is left to follow the wind; he exchanges his silver locks for a plain black with a spell, and his clothes for something less dignified and more comfortable. Somewhere along the way, he cuts the length of his hair short. He feels the loss so acutely that he has a habit of going to move it from his front, only to remember it isn’t there at all.

The solitary journey is as much a fumble as any foreigner in a country that speaks a language they’ve never heard before. After a one-sided conversation with an easily-angered man running a takoyaki stall, he wishes that Rindou had stuck around to teach him at least the alphabet - not that she could’ve known. Several weeks of frequenting the library at a town far from the coast and attempting to converse with the much more well-mannered citizens, and Aleksandre finally gets the basics down.

Jumping the language barrier relieves him of the biggest stressor - he’s happy to leave learning the intricacies to time. And time is something he has a lot of.

There’s an odd tranquillity to surviving on the kindness of strangers, bartering chores for a roof over his head and a warm meal.  He spends long enough familiarising the new life that he forgets what it means to wield a sword, to maintain a posture befitting a Lord, borne of blood and power. The slipping of his old habits leaves behind solace in a peace so boring he can spend his days lazing away under a shady tree, pretending the nobility flowing through his veins never meant anything in the first place. His favourite moments lie in the farmer’s stables with a borrowed radio, rain tapping the tin roof and a meat bun stuck in his gob.

Placid as they were, his days there are short and forgettable. Knowing that living sedentary in a secluded corner of the country won’t help him find who he’s looking for, Aleksandre bids the kind townsfolk farewell and sets off with only brief regret.

Japan is beautiful, with its high mountains and hidden groves. He travels on foot, traipsing through empty fields and sunflower meadows. When convenience strikes and Aleksandre has coin on hand, he boards a rattling train or tram, and lets it take him where it pleases. Rindou was right - the human world is endlessly interesting; he likes its foods, its flavours, its scents. Even people, though weak and fickle, hold a fraction of intrigue. It must’ve been Kanae who made him so soft on humans.

In the middle of an early one of his spring seasons, he encounters a clearing circled by sakura trees, flushed pink with new blossoms. Pretty . A non-committal thought; Aleksandre can’t make heads nor tails of their appeal.

The years wear on, and Aleksandre’s drive slowly fades. The war to the north starts and ends with arduous negotiation, but Aleksandre does not feel it any more than the grass under his feet. Instead, he begins to lose heart, the idea of surrender weighing a slouch into his step.

A rainy day stranded in a bus shelter leaves him wondering. For what reason do his legs ache, for what reason does he let the rain drip from his hair down his back, for what reason does he put his faith in a fate so capricious, when his target is even less than a needle in a haystack?

There must be no such thing as God, especially if the priest met such a grisly end.

And if He does exist, Aleksandre cannot forgive the way He jerks around their lives like puppets on red strings. Who’s to say Kanae will ever return? Who’s to say he’ll ever be found?

A clap of thunder jars the tin roof of the bus stop, Aleksandre’s teeth clench. Casting a derogatory glare at the heavens, he runs a hand through his sodden hair. Curse this rainstorm. From underneath his cloak, Aleksandre withdraws a map. It’s crinkled right through the centre from repeated rollings and un-rollings, so he tilts and pulls so the paper strains in a way that he can read. Every action grates on chilled bones.

On the verge of giving up, Aleksandre plans a route to Tokyo - Japan’s neon capital that he has yet to visit, if only for fear of the high concentration of humans living there.

“I’ll get a house,” He grumbles to no-one, voice thick with exhaustion, “And find a job.” And end this wild goose chase , he doesn’t say, because it would be a betrayal of the highest calibre. And yet he can see no reason to further pursue a gambler’s fallacy.

That’s it - that’s all it was, of course. A one-time fancy by the hearthside; just destiny playing tricks on him. And Aleksandre cannot chase ashes in the ocean.

His arms feel heavy.

With a hacking cough and a creak, the bus pulls up in front of him. A wheeze of black exhaust, and its doors open. Aleksandre gathers the measly coins from his pockets, eyes downcast as he steps on board, dripping a pool onto the floor.

The bus trundles into a bay near central Tokyo just after sunset.

As Aleksandre steps out, he is overwhelmed by the sheer pressure of the city’s atmosphere.

Swathes of civilians mill about, the crossroads filled with their noisy chatter. Umbrellas buffer against each other as they pass by, to ward off the evening’s drizzle.

Under the neon haze and approaching night, the city seems cast in a daze. How many of them are the same as him? Demons in disguise, or creatures having lost their way. It’s easy enough to lose sight of the stars here - Aleksandre had watched them fade one by one as the bus drew closer - how hard it must be to keep watch on that glimmer of hope in a torrent of lights.

Stifled by the ambience, Aleksandre takes to the off-roads to escape the sounds of cars and people. Even adjusting to the sights and scents is a struggle enough; the demon realm and countryside had never felt so unruly. So loud .

He pauses just out of sight in an alleyway, glancing both ways before sucking in a breath and sliding down against the stone. He can put the world on mute for a bit, just to gather his senses, sort his motives.

“-Ahaha… oh wow, check that out. Hey, you lost?”

For an honest second, Aleksandre debated responding with yes , but thought better of it after realising the tone was mocking him. He glances up from where he’d been leaning his head on his arms. The faces of the two boys staring at him declared anything but sincerity.

“No,” He deadpans.

“Must be homeless then.” Snickers Brat B, “What? Your parents kicked you out or something?”

“Your parents will kick you out if you don’t cut it.”

He’d spoken without thinking, but can’t bring himself to regret it. The boys glower.

“You wish,” The first one Aleksandre had heard - Brat A - scuffs his shoes on the pavement, sending some pebbles scattering. “Clear out old man. Or we’ll make you.”

Aleksandre bites the inside of his cheek, brows twitching with the sudden pulse of annoyance. As if children could bring him down.

“You listening? Don’t tell me your hearing’s bad too.” Brat B kicks a pebble, it taps pathetically in his shoes. “Wow. This homeless freak must need hearing aids.”

“C’mon man. Let’s just go before they catch up.”

Brat B huffs, kicks a rock with more force, “Whatever.”

Aleksandre hadn’t been gracing them with his attention, which is why the rock - a lump of brick, he would later ascertain - hits him squarely on the jaw. With an audible snarl, Aleksandre bares his claws, lashing out to rip them to shreds. Halfway, he stops, remembering in his rage that humans do not solve things with violence. He raises his hand to rub at his cheek, and the brats watch him fearfully, rigidly tracing his movements.

“Did you see that…?” One whispers, then whimpers loudly when Aleksandre shoots him a glare with a flash of crimson.

The first brat takes an automatic step back, cowed.

Nothing but wannabe bullies.

He’s about to fully commit to scaring them away when a woman rounds the corner, breathing heavily and appearing quite cross.

“I’ve been looking all over for you-!” She starts, and gasps, “What have you two been doing? Leave now! Go find your father!”

With minimal complaint, the teens scramble to obey the woman’s orders, throwing terrified looks over their shoulders. Their mother, he supposes, and silently scoffs.

“You poor thing,” she coos, and Aleksandre is just about ready to send her running too, “I’m so sorry for them…” she hesitates, raking her eyes over his form.

Aleksandre knows he’s an eyesore - with damp, tattered clothes, feeling gritty from travel, but her eyes settle on his cheek, still covered by his hand. She glimpses the rock that had left the mark, and Aleksandre watches as her tiny mortal brain works to put two and  two together. Hesitantly, she reaches into the handbag hanging at her side.

Treated like a feral animal, Aleksandre narrows his eyes as she kneels and places a few bills beside him, wearing a sympathetic smile.

“Please forgive my boys…” She bows her head, and then turns to quickly walk away when she is given no response.

Aleksandre is left astonished. For the first time in a long time, the vampire experiences true loathing - humankind, so foolish as to trifle with the likes of him. Humankind, so shallow as to believe a creature of his standing needs their pity . Humankind, the dumb race that fight amongst themselves, scrabbling to chase power trips they hardly deserve.

Humankind, the race that the gracious and teasing Kanae belongs to.

His anger quells, and he finds forgiveness in a piece of humanity given to him by his dearest friend. The very reason he’d come to Tokyo, and now he doesn’t know where to begin. With the hefty sigh of a man giving up, Aleksandre leans his head against his knees. An empty tiredness takes hold of his body. He’s so, so tired. But the ground is no place for anyone. It shouldn’t be.

With leaden limbs, Aleksandre digs his claws into the stone wall and heaves himself to his feet. When his vision finds itself fit to focus, he notices the money the woman had left for him.

A human’s pity is not something a Lord will ever take. But Aleksandre isn’t a Lord - hasn’t been a Lord for so long that he can barely remember the list of duties he used to do every day. Instead, he is here amongst the people, hiding in the alleyway of the neon capital, far from home and his own kind.

Aleksandre has nothing - no money, no title. Only one of those is an issue, and he solves it by snatching up the charity on the ground, as dirty as it makes him.
He can set a starting line with this, is what he tells himself, as he makes his way into one of the city centre's off-shoots. He can find some food, or some shelter, bed down for the night and start hunting for a job in the morning. In a place where strength does not decide everything, money is power.

But there is a terrible sensation nagging at his gut, hideous in its desperation.

You’re forgetting something. Cool, ghostly fingers press against his freshly healed bruise. You promised.

Aleksandre stops dead. The bills crumple in his fist.

“There’s no way,” He glowers at his reflection in a window. “I’ll never find him.”

His stomach sinks. The words out loud are bitter and poisonous. Rindou’s bright features flash in his mind, but he can only scowl.  His reflection glares back reproachfully.

Then he hears something - the ringing of bells, akin to the sound of glass wind chimes. It fades just as quickly, leaving a strange, nostalgic echo in the air. When Aleksandre glances every which way and finds nothing but empty roads, he looks back to the window to give his reflection one last contemptuous snarl.

The streetlight behind him flickers off, dimming his form in the glass. Eyes naturally adjusting to the dark, Aleksandre looks past himself.

Inside, a book is perched upright, plain and utterly nondescript, save for the title, penned in a modest blue: All the Things that Won’t Come True. Printed underneath, Anonymous is written in place of the author, and Aleksandre cannot help but frown.
When he steps inside, glass chimes ring above the door.

Aside from his worn map - which he’d actually left on the bus, to his frustration - All the Things that Won’t Come True becomes one of the only travelling companions to stay with Aleksandre longer than a week.

He can see how it deserved to be the sole occupant of the bookstore’s window, with its intriguing prose and studies of humanity. It flows like a lullaby, painting watery images of comedy, tragedy and love.

The first depicts a teenage boy and a young girl, musing over a butterfly. The next, a man who woke up in the world with amnesia and no family registry. The third is about a priest who did not believe in his faith. Aleksandre is letting the train to some other part of Tokyo rock him halfway to sleep as he pages through it, unsuspecting and entirely alone.

[“Is there anything you want to do when the war is over?” The good soldier asked.

“No, I’ve never thought about it.”

“I’d like to go to Japan someday. I hear the cherry blossoms are wonderful.”]

He pauses, turns back the page and squints. Something uneasy stirs in his stomach. A peculiar coincidence, it couldn’t be anything more. Even if the voice those words belonged to was reciting them so sweetly in his mind. With quaking fingers he turns the page, again, again, again and again, over and over, not reading the words so much as searching through them.

The last story comes back to the teenage boy, this time sharing his thoughts with a black cat. With no further signs than a trembling familiarity, Aleksandre is about to quash the sparks of hope threatening to burst into an inferno.

[“Lottie,” Said the boy, with a hint of wistfulness, “Sometimes I hear it in my dreams. A voice. And when I answer it,
I call it ‘Sasha’.”]

The book drops to his lap. He brings his hands to his face and breathes a shuddering breath through the gaps in his fingers.

He has to find the author.

But there is no name signed, not even a pen-name, and the bookstores in Kyoto, where Aleksandre had disembarked, cannot say either. Whether it's passerbys in the street or scholarly librarians, they all give him a shake of the head and a ‘sorry, I don’t know. ’. Frustrated, Aleksandre drops himself on a flight of stone steps framed on both sides by foliage, hidden away from the main street. Though the book itself is fairly well-known, it seems tracing an anonymous author is as onerous as it should be. A frown etched deeply into his face, Aleksandre turns it thoughtfully in his hands, when a pair of sandals stop a few steps below him.

“Hey, onii-san. You’re blocking the stairs!” The voice is cheerful enough to spike Aleksandre’s skittishness.

“Ah, sorry, I’ll get out of the way-” Lamenting the loss of his communication skills over years of solitary travelling, Aleksandre moves to scramble to the side, but stops short.

“Oh, I’ve read that book!” The man chirrups happily, and Aleksandre glances up.

His hair is a soft shade of orange - not bright enough to be ginger - that matches the gold of his irises. There is a beauty spot printed under his right eye, and a purple magatama around his neck. A tuft of orange fur hangs from his waist; a peculiar choice of accessory.

“Uh,” Aleksandre swallows his reservations, “You don’t know the author, by any chance?”

The man’s lip curls in a boyish smile, “Are you looking?”

Slowly, Aleksandre nods.

“That can’t be easy, looking for the anonymous writer of a pretty popular book. Needle in a haystack, right?” The man has a fox-like air to his movements, mischievous in spite of his easiness, “But there is a shrine at the top. Never hurts to make a wish for it.”

“I dunno. I don’t really believe in wishes and stuff…”

The fox-like man laughs. His teeth are sharp. “Then you’re not the superstitious type? That’s odd, coming from you!”

The stranger’s eyes flash with a hint of knowing. Before Aleksandre can discern the true nature of his words, he grins, “But if you wanna find that book’s author that bad, it’s worth a try. Take a chance on fate.”

He hesitates, for once considering the offer. Usually, he would disagree, and search for an excuse to be on his way. But his eyes are drawn to the magatama around the stranger’s neck. Fate? Would it be wise, when fate has done nothing but pull him around like a dog on a leash? Yet he knows that he’d only come this far on fortune, and thinks back to the set of bizarre happenings right before he had stepped inside the bookshop.

“Yeah, I guess.” He relents.

“Great!” The fox-like man beams, “You got a name?”

“A name?” The vampire ponders for a moment, then shakes his head.

“Too bad. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again after this.”

The shrine at the top of the stairs is modest and aged, but well-kept. With its curved roof and red-gold accents, it reminds Aleksandre of Kyoto’s larger shrine - the one he remembers by its endless hallway of Torii gates.

“You know how to make a wish, right?” The friendly stranger asks him.

He’s attended shrines before, so Aleksandre snorts, “Why wouldn’t I know?”

The fox-like man hums, and just smiles. Aleksandre eyes him warily.

“Well, do you have five yen?”

The disguised vampire digs five yen from the lint in his pocket. He doesn’t say it’s the last of his funds.

Politely, the fox-like stranger takes the book from him, and gestures with it toward the shrine, “Go on then.”

Sparing one more look for the man beside him, Aleksandre flicks the coin into the saisen box. He pulls the red tassel and the bell rings - a clear, pure sound - then bows twice, and claps twice. Even for a creature as thoroughly unholy as him, the ritual is fulfilling, and leaves him with a fizzle of warmth. The sound of bells fades after a few long seconds.

He turns to receive his book from the stranger.

“So, where’d you come from?”

The question catches him off-guard, and he misses his first grab for his book, “Just from Tokyo…”

“Oh, wow. That’s pretty far. But you haven’t been anywhere West yet?”

“No…?”

“Huh! In that case, I think you should try Fukuoka. It’s Southwest, though.”

With his singular belonging returned securely to his hands, Aleksandre startles, “Fukuoka? Why?”

“Why not? It’s nice there!”

It is then that Aleksandre recognises it. That same warmth that he’d felt from the shrine ritual, glimmering in the molten depths of golden eyes, piercing yet insightful.

“...Why did you help me?”

The fox man brings a finger to his lips.

Sensing he wouldn’t gain anything more, Aleksandre mutters his gratitude and turns to make his way back down. He pauses at the gate just before the stone steps to peer over his shoulder, and dips his head in an awkward bow before descending.

Had he looked back one more time, he would have seen the orange-haired man, with fox ears and red markings under his other eye, merrily spinning a five yen coin on the tip of his finger.

Travel by transport is not cheap, but with enough hunting, he scrounges up the yen he needs from street gutters and sidewalks. Whether his luck is a product of a deity’s favouritism or not, Aleksandre does not squander it, and barely makes it in time to board the three-hour train to Fukuoka.

Fukuoka is by no means a small city - it strikes a sharp silhouette against the horizon as the train closes in, squares of light flickering on as night folds around its shadow. Aleksandre had never bothered to venture so far before - too much walking, too many people. The train’s gentle rattling finally ceases as it pulls to a halt.

For just a second, his head lulls tiredly against the window. He doesn’t remember the last time his mana had been at what he used to consider a reasonable level, nor does he remember his last meal. He could turn away from his search, if he wanted - run from the inevitable result; the owner of the pen that wrote this book of memories, the heartache, the guilty familiarity after years of loneliness. He could call it here, and get some food from somewhere. Find a bed for the night, throw the book away and leave its memoirs buried in the past. Tell fate he’s sick of its games.

Ghostly lips take to his ears and whisper you’ve come this far, you made a promise, what do you want?

But the answer is the same, no matter how many times he asks himself.

Aleksandre slips out the train doors as they’re closing.

It’s not the first time Aleksandre feels small - monoliths of concrete scrape the sky, casting roads and paths into deeper darkness. But it isn’t the scope of the city that stokes his nerves, rather that from here, he is lost - there are no stray gods to tell him where to head next. He blames the buzz under his skin on the night air and not anticipation, as he treks his way down the streets, eyes fixed on the ground in thought.

How will he find one man in such a large city? Nowhere as big as Tokyo, but still far too big. Aleksandre presses the ball of his wrist against his temple as he walks, and squints at nothing, in testament to the struggle that is thinking with such a tired, muddled brain.

The person he’s seeking is close, this he at least knows, but what is his next step? He sighs, frustrated, and gives the book in his other hand an angry glance. Aleksandre is about to once again resign himself to defeated wandering, when a floral breeze tickles his nose and elicits a loud sneeze. First, he cringes at the way it slices the evening silence. Second, he curses spring for its strong scents. Third, he pauses in realisation -
It smells distinctly of sakura.

Cherry blossoms are not peculiar in and of themselves, but it is the sudden understanding that cuts cleanly through Aleksandre’s thoughts that renders him momentarily still. And then - like always - he is running. Hopeful, this time, light on his feet like his heart hadn’t started beating until a moment ago.

He doesn’t know how far he jogs - just that, by the time Aleksandre was running out of breath, the streets had given way to an illuminated park of sakura trees. There are people still out and about at the evening hour, some who give him strange looks when he curls over to lean his hands on his knees, wheezing. Running , ugh . Not that he knows exactly when he started hating exercise.

When he goes to recompose himself, All the Things That Won’t Come True slips from his grasp. It’s a frantic fumble to catch it that only sends the book sprawling about a pace away, splayed open face-down. Inwardly, Aleksandre winces at the maltreatment.

He moves to retrieve it, but a slender hand picks it up first, stopping him short.

“Ah… ‘Why, when I think of the past, does it become so heart-breaking? Why, when I think of the outstretched hand, do I become upset?’ ” The man straightens himself, scoring a thumb through the dirt on the pages, “‘And why do I think of such things? All those things, and in truth, everything, has no meaning nor reason.’ As written in the last chapter of All the Things That Won’t Come True , by an anonymous author.”

The moonlight pricking through the cherry trees glints against the man’s glasses. His eyes are cast down as he runs a hand over the book’s spine, an entirely gentle, uncruel smile playing mischievously on his lips. And it occurs to Aleksandre, then, like a jolt back into the present, that he has not seen Kanae smile so peacefully since before the day-long encounter with his second incarnation. The relief that blooms in his ribcage is a spring warmth, after a harsh, barren winter, melting away the fog of loneliness that had been pervading him for the innumerable years after casting the soldier’s ashes to sea.

He wants to cry. Wants to curl his fingers through brown locks and pray gratitudes for that soothing, unmarred smile. Wants to say, I’ve been searching for you, wants to ask, are you happy?

Aleksandre says none of those things, only stills his fingers at his side with a shuddering breath. Fate.

“Sakura is said to mean new beginnings,” Kanae fills the silence, as he always does, “They’re really very lovely.”

His face is speckled in the light peeking through the petals. There are some strands loose from his ponytail, and his pallor is a little pale under the stars, but the softness to his features cries of familiarity. It’s terrible, the way Aleksandre can feel himself being lifted away, pulled into orbit like an angel’s embrace, never to be released.

If he once fell in love with Kanae in a day, then now, a second is all it takes.

“Yes,” Aleksandre croaks, thinking of the soldier in a faraway time, spilling his dreams to an enemy commander, “They’re wonderful.”

Kanae turns to face him then. Quiet descends over them, punctuated only by the city ambience. All the while, Aleksandre tries to hold together his fraying edges, unravelling at the sight of the man in front of him. Blissfully unaware of the vampire’s internal meltdown, Kanae peruses the book in his hands, admiring its wear - the corners are thinner on pages re-read over and over, neat little scratches accidentally made with nails too sharp. There are some creases here and there, some water stains, some words faded by sun exposure. He hasn’t had it long, but this book is loved, back to front.

It warms him, just a little bit.

“You’re not really here for the cherry blossoms, are you?”

The question is posed softly, and Aleksandre does not reply, lacking an answer in the face of the latent certainty Kanae speaks with. It’s as good a response as any, because Kanae crosses to the distance to return his novel. He takes it into his hands with renewed fragility.

“You were looking for the author of that book.”

Kanae isn’t bashful in his assumption, but Aleksandre is distracted by how his glasses obscure the depth of his eyes. He stifles the pained scoff that threatens to escape. Whether it’s that obvious, or if it’s Kanae’s intuition, he doesn’t know.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” He says sharply, to disguise his nervousness.

Kanae blinks owlishly at him, only exaggerated by the roundness of his frames. Aleksandre feels himself flushing under scrutiny. It must amuse him, because Kanae chuckles.

“Well, it’s not so embarrassing-” It really is. Aleksandre would rather die than admit a human skewed the course of his life. “-but I wrote it anonymously for a reason.”

The ‘ I’d rather you didn’t know me' goes unsaid, but heard. Aleksandre can only deny the sentiment, because, frankly, it’s far too late for that.

“Ahh… whatever.”

It’s a blunt and bratty reply that Kanae baulks at. But Aleksandre is exhausted, and doesn’t have the mindfulness to mince words. Then again, he never really was the type to in the first place, for anything but his secrets.

“I could call you a stalker, if I so pleased.”

“You won’t.”

“What makes you say that?”

The ‘ I know you,’ dries his mouth, so Aleksandre shrugs. He’d rather not entertain this underlying dialogue when his limbs are screaming for reprieve. Kanae’s brows crawl toward his hairline, he brings a hand to his chin in thought. And, to Aleksandre’s surprise, grins, with an unsettling mischief.

“...What?”

“Nothing- you may find this strange, but you’re very much like him .”

“Like who?”

Kanae leans forward to tap the surface of the book in Aleksandre’s hands, “One of the main characters - the other one. You did read it, no? You’re almost exactly how I pictured him to be.”

Reflexively, Aleksandre steps away, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

“Sure, I read it.” He lived it. “But you barely know me.”

“I wonder about that…” A guarded expression flickers over Kanae’s face, “You really are similar… but something’s not right. Is this how you always look?”

Aleksandre pauses, any amusement he might’ve had draining to make way for caution, “What else would I look like?”

Kanae regards him for a moment; a tilt of the head, narrowed eyes, as if attempting to peel back the layers to reveal the truth underneath. It’s the priest’s preferred method of intimidation, the same as when Aleksandre stared down the barrel of his pistol at their first encounter. He scours the inky black of Aleksandre’s locks, the dull copper colouring his eyes. His gaze lingers on the fang that peeks out, contemplating.

“Of course,” And then it melts, with all the tension in Kanae’s shoulders, “I knew it was silly.”

But Kanae remains troubled by the semantics of his question, evident in the purse of his lips, and the way his fingers twist the edges of his sleeves. Aleksandre is trying to pick apart the meanings of each habit, to piece them together into an image that will tell him the thoughts running circles in his friend’s head.

His puzzling is interrupted. Kanae slips into a relaxed posture, as easy as slotting a mask into place: “But I’d be remiss to let such an interesting muse walk off into the night. Why don’t you stay with me?”

It’s not an offer so much as it is an irrefutable request. An olive branch peppered in thorns, ulterior motives veiled under the thin, effortless quirk of the lips Kanae gives him. This smile is not one of contentment - it’s a lure for the unsuspecting; a charming promise to rip Aleksandre’s secrets out from under his feet.

Though he knows Kanae’s ‘offer’ screams of danger , there are questions of his own that Aleksandre wants to see answered, the meaning of the book clutched in his hands only one of them. Perhaps it’s just an excuse to seek the sun in front of him a little longer, but before he can correct himself -

“...Okay.”

Aleksandre stumbles into the mousetrap.

「星が綺麗ですね　｜　あなたは俺の思いを知らないでしょう。」

The stars are pretty. (You don’t know my feelings.)

Chapter Text

[Purely wishing cannot save anyone.
But, you can “wish endlessly”. And that is enough for me.]

IIIV. Identity

“Are you hungry?”

He’d been leading his new companion through the thin arteries of Fukuoka’s backstreets, trying to listen to the sound of footsteps behind him. They fade in and out of hearing, confident one second and hesitant the next. Sometimes, he cannot tell if they are there at all.

The man goes rigid, evidently having been caught in a daydream. Exhaustion is worn into his bones, dirt and other minor scuffs littering his clothes.

“There’s a vending machine over there…” He points to a dimly lit portion of the street, where a square of light illuminates the dark pavement.

“...Is the walk long?” He asks.

“To my house? It’s only fifteen minutes from here, if we take the shortcuts.”

The man watches him for a long moment. His lip quivers, but his coppery eyes hold Kanae’s gaze with feelings that he can’t describe. Something inexplicable swims deep in the recesses of the stranger’s mind - and the scariest part is that Kanae recognises it like a sixth sense, knows that he’s hiding something with the same certainty that the sun rises every morning.

Their stare-off breaks when he’s offered a tentative nod.

“Do you have enough coins, or did you spend every last one getting here?”

An artful trap. Kanae is devious, and he wants his answers.

Answer enough is given with the stranger’s glowering silence. Smile saccharine, Kanae presses some coins into his hand, and watches him stalk off.

From a fair distance, the stranger looks utterly ordinary, crouched in front of the vending machine and perusing his options. But there is nothing normal about the way his stare catches, the way Kanae’s lungs seize in his chest and his hands begin to ache, uncharacteristically cold. The vending machine’s flickering blue turns to a whimsical violet in his eyes, and once again the author is left feeling as if he is missing pieces.

Always missing pieces, and he doesn’t know how this stray fits into any of it.

“Which way is it?”

“Forward,” He breezes, with not a shred of visible hesitation.

Pushing past to lead the way, he ignores the numbness that tickles down his arm when their shoulders collide.

Kanae’s house is small and quaint, with a sparse yard boxed in by a metal fence. The black-haired stranger inspects the splash of ivy decorating a portion of the wall, lingering by the empty flower bed as the author climbs the steps and fishes for his key. It strikes him, then - that he is doing something reckless in letting what he presumes is a homeless man into his humble abode, but he cannot bring himself to regret extending the offer. If only to ward off the belated wariness creeping up on him, he loudly pronounces:

“Now that I think of it, you never told me your name.”

“Name?” The stranger mumbles, and slurps emphatically on his straw.

Strawberry milk? That’s mildly amusing, if not a little adorable. Almost as if he adopted a kitten with a preference for flavoured dairy. Or a toddler.

As the non-response stretches, however, Kanae quirks a brow, “Do you not have one?”

“I… don’t.” The reply fizzles out like a dying sparkler, he looks sadly down at his carton - it must be empty.

That’s a surprise. What kind of normal person goes without a name? This man looks no older than Kanae, yet carries himself like a wanderer beaten down by the cruelties of life. Sympathy wells up from the bottom of Kanae’s heart, tempted by the thought of a kindred spirit. No normal person, surely.

“Do you not remember it, then?” He finally finds his key in the pocket dimension of his sleeves. “That’s alright. I know what it’s like.”

Waking up one day to the stark sound of a heart monitor, the even starker bleached-white walls. Questions upon questions, and nary a memory save for something he supposed must be his name. And he had clung to it with every fibre of his being, even in its irony.

Can a wish come true if you don’t know whether you made one in the first place?

“And? What’d you do about it?”

“I chose my own.” He fits the key into the lock, measuring the distance the same way he measures the truth of his reply.

He remembers feeling muddled, overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of the voice that croaked past his lips. 

“Why that one? I thought ‘Kanae’ was more of a girl's name here…”

His hand freezes to the door handle.

Were it anyone else, he might feel a surge of fear. Instead, Kanae feels weightless - as if all of a sudden plunged into space with no gravity. Floating, but simultaneously so heavy with the knowledge that there are things beyond his reach, that he cannot possibly grasp.

“How did you know that?” He’s a little breathless, he so desperately wants to know.

About this person’s bizarre obsession with him, about the inscrutable connection that draws Kanae into his orbit, despite every common sense pulling at his clothes. About the smoky figure in his dreams that almost, almost , shares his shape.

“It’s just a coincidence!” He raises his hands in a placating manner, “Lucky guess.”

A deadly pause hangs in the air between them. Fisted in the folds of his hakama, Kanae’s knuckles are white, gripping hard. Firmly, his feet are placed back on the ground,  his universal truth evaporating into the spring night. He stares, and stares, wondering why he feels so slighted by the withdrawal, and the stranger can only hold up under the scrutiny, shifting his feet and pretending he really is the clueless street rat he makes himself out to be. But he and Kanae both know: nothing about this is coincidence.

“Fine,” He says sharply, jarring the door handle so hard it whines.

His guest is dumbfounded at the concession, drilling stunned holes into the back of his head as he steps inside. When Kanae turns around, he still hovers nervously at the doorway.

“Do I need to welcome you in? Make sure to take off your shoes.”

Haphazardly, Kanae tosses his keys into the tray on the table, vaguely noting the flowers in the vase are wilting. Behind him, his guest leaves his copy of All the Things That Won’t Come True beside it, crowding the tiny surface.

“Watch the tatami, it’s frayed. Are you still thirsty?”

No response comes. He frowns, glancing over his shoulder as he approaches the kitchen. His guest stares at the withered lilies, coloured an arid brown in all their decrepit glory. He’d forgotten to throw them out several times over.

The stranger looks up at him, appearing paler than before. Only now does Kanae notice the sallowness of his skin, almost as faded as the flowers.

Kanae is struck with a profound sense of loss. One he’s sure isn’t his.

“Sit. I’ll bring you something warm.”

After artfully opening the sliding door with his foot, Kanae sets down a tray on the kotatsu.

“Stop that. You’ll get reed splinters.”

Immediately, his guest recoils from where he’d been running his hands over the fibres of the tatami mats. Placing down a cup of steaming cocoa and a pot of tea, the author drops down opposite him. Eagerly, his guest takes it into his hands, alight with childish excitement. A pang of fondness tugs at Kanae’s heart.

“Do you really have no name, then?”

Taking a long sip from his cup, the stranger stares at Kanae expectantly over its lip.

“Alright. Then you should choose one.”

Finally drawing away with an exaggerated ‘ah’ , he crudely wipes his mouth with his sleeve. Maybe he really did just adopt a stray.

“I’m not good with names. You pick.”

Taken aback by the rash suggestion, Kanae chuckles nervously, “Isn’t this something you should decide for yourself?”

Stalwart, he repeats, “I’m not good with names.”

Kanae gifts him with flat displeasure, but after a few minutes of determinedly loud slurping in return, the author gives up. With an exasperated sigh, he pours himself some tea from the pot.

“Alright.” Intent on examining the character of the person opposite him, as all half-decent authors tend to do, he squints, “How about ‘Toya’?”

“Why?”

“It seems like a sharp name? And you seem sharp.”

His guest cocks a brow, “In what respect?”

“Your… chin.”

A snort, “No.”

Well. Not every draft is a keeper.

“No dice? Okay. Then something cool… like ‘Gilzaren’.”

“What kind of fantasy are you living?”

Kanae’s voice drops theatrically low, “ Gilzaren the Third. ”

“As if.”

“You’re stubborn. ‘Tanaka’.”

“I thought authors were creative.”

A noise of frustration escapes him, “You should do it yourself.”

“No way,” The stranger grins, condescending in every manner, “You’re hilarious.”

How dare he, really. Kanae fixes him with a broody glare, accompanied by the sound of manicured nails tapping against a wooden surface. There is a pause in which he properly deliberates, despite his unamusement, gaze straying over his guest’s shoulder. He can feel curious eyes on him as he passes through several minute expressions, settling on something that delivers a petty satisfaction.

“I’ve got it,” He declares, “How about ‘Kuzuha’?”

He pronounces it with as much seriousness as he can muster. Still suspicious, his guest turns to check over his shoulder, only to find the moon shining through the window, leaves peeking over the sill.

“Not bad,” He admits at last, “But you’re tricking me, I just know it.”

“How bold of you,” Drawls Kanae, “To accuse your host.”

Very astute of him, actually.

The leaves belong to the kudzu plant, an invasive type of ivy that Kanae simply cannot get rid of, no matter how many vines he rips out of his roof. Or away from his windowsill, for that matter. He keeps this to himself; a smug jab at the entity intruding on his hospitality, welcome or not.

“But it’s nice isn’t it?” He eventually repeats, “Kuzuha.”

‘Kuzuha’ has finished draining his cocoa now, and inspects the bottom of the mug, “Is that what you wanna call me?”

“Since you’re being so elusive about it, I don’t see why not.”

Not saying anything more, he puts his cup down on the table. His brows knit together, in a different kind of thought from the melancholy looks Kanae had received during their meeting at the park. It doesn’t seem like distaste, but Kanae deflates nonetheless.

Averting his gaze to his tea, Kanae is greeted by a momentary delight.

“Oh! Look, Kuzuha. There’s a tea stalk standing up.”

He hears a stuttering breath - as if the first after swallowing mouthfuls of dark, muddy water.

When he peers upward, colour has returned to Kuzuha’s features, lending him a subtle brightness that burns away the shadows in the corners of the room. His fingers dig into the mats below - splinters be damned - as if to remind himself that this is real, and that he is a part of it. When he speaks, it’s with faint relief.

“That’s lucky.”

The stranger next to the withered lilies must’ve been a ghost.

How easily they slip into something that stilts time.

Somewhere between the first night and the next morning, Kanae had silently decided to take it upon himself to look after his traveller-guest - as any good host should , he reasoned - and never said a thing about the fact that Kuzuha expressed not a word about leaving.

Like clockwork, Kanae rouses from the throes of a fragmented dream, yawning into his palm as he steps carefully over the log of blankets that makes up his improvised roommate. Instead of lingering on the nostalgia that tastes like ash and gunpowder, he tends to breakfast, and by the time the tea is brewed and the meal prepared, he returns to see Kuzuha kicking the futons into rolls, groggy in his movements.

Sleep well?

Mm. Mornin’.

After breakfast, Kuzuha will laze in the sunlight listening to the radio, splaying out lanky limbs in an unceremonious splat on the verandah, and Kanae will read his chosen novel of the day. The moments of lapsing silence, punctuated by the excited buzz of the radio and Kuzuha’s occasional bursts of laughter, are the moments that squirrel Kanae away into some crack in reality. He floats here, outside of time and conflict, away from the problems that cage and claw him. To forget that the holes in his chest were once empty, to forget the times where he feels his lungs failing, is one of the greatest merits his short, treacherous life will give him.

Indeterminable minutes later, his roommate will claim business elsewhere and stride out the door, purposefully pulling a borrowed jacket over his shoulders.

The first time he does this is two weeks after their arrangement - that neither had discussed, because it fell so naturally upon them that they had simply not needed to. 

Where are you going? Kanae queried that afternoon, and Kuzuha only provided him with a set of embarrassed grumbles, before shimmying out the door.

It wasn’t unusual for Kuzuha to demand snacks and set out for the nearest convenience store, but never had he been so secretive, so Kanae could not help but feel he had wrong-stepped somewhere, or that Kuzuha had grown bored of him.

Kanae hadn’t expected him to return, and took to his writing, nursing a wound that irritated his quiet insecurities.

The words he penned that night were dour and talked ill of devotion, and he could not place where they had come from.

Kuzuha returned at midnight to a Kanae who could not sleep. He muttered something about ‘odd jobs’ and ‘rent’ and ‘paying you back’ and ‘then I got lost, forgot your house number,’ .

And Kanae could only stare at him in innocent surprise - to think his friend was only bashful in gratitude, there’s a term for that, he was sure. Then he laughed at his own stupidity, at Kuzuha’s silly charm, cold fingers turned warm with relief.

The words he penned that night are scrunched up now, buried at the bottom of one of the house’s wastepaper bins.

Kanae cannot deny he’s grown attached, and for once, he cannot bring himself to shrug off an attachment. There is no space now, anyway, to put Kuzuha at arm’s length, when their futons are crammed together at night, only inches between them in that tiny tatami room. Sometimes, he catches himself wondering if he should go looking for a slightly bigger place.

He can’t bring himself to do it.

Kuzuha obtains a reputation for being helpful, insisting that he pay Kanae for keeping him. Amused, Kanae always returns the favour with more snacks, as the pain of parting with his money is clear on Kuzuha’s face.

When he can find the strength, he takes Kuzuha to the beach on occasion, to the arcades in the central city, to sweet cafés and his favourite parks. Kuzuha smiles in a way that Kanae’s sure he never has, and laughs so freely that at times, it quickly becomes contagious. Soon, Kuzuha is the one taking him, and he shines like sunlight on Kanae’s frozen patch of the world.

“S’not so bad,” Kuzuha tells him twelve weeks later, through a mouthful of strawberry parfait, “It’s nice, even. Maybe. I don’t hate it.”

“What’s nice? The food?” He’s only teasing, but Kuzuha scowls anyway.

“Obviously - no, actually, this is really good . But also I meant this.” He gestures between them with his spoon.

Stifling a surge of affection, Kanae croons, “That’s so sweet of you, Kuu-chan . If I’d known you felt that way-”

“Stop! Stop, shut up. That’s not what I- ugh. Why are you always like this.”

“It’s alright. I don’t mind you, either.”

Kuzuha flushes the colour of his dessert.

It would be nice. Kanae muses, If ‘this’ got to last.

But he knows, perhaps better than anyone else, that wishing doesn’t save anyone. So he will hold this unspoken thing in his heart under the water, until it dies with him, just like the flowers in his garden.

He can live like this; walking the tightrope between secrets and safety. If it means a moment more of domestic bliss, forgetting his sinister curiosities about Kuzuha’s appearance is hardly a sacrifice.

What he doesn’t tell Kuzuha is that he can see himself in the mirror, skin going a hue greyer with every passing day. What he sees is the slow decay of a walking corpse, one that feels alive in the presence of a partner he’s sure isn’t human anyway.

So he hides. He sits in the sunlight when Kuzuha is home, to hide his paling skin. He changes from yukatas to sweaters to hide the trembling weakness in his muscles, so he can tuck his bluing fingers in his sleeves and pretend things don’t slip from his grasp more than they used to. He hides the exhaustion that shadows him with a faux smile so perfect that not even Kuzuha - who seems to see beyond who he is, can guess its faults.

It helps that Kuzuha is so unsuspecting.

In truth, he hadn’t meant to last so long. But the rooms of his house - once empty, now filled - remind him he’s gained a reason to stick around.

That borrowed jacket, which now may as well belong to his housemate, cast over the bookcase. Or the knocked-over radio ever-present on the porch. New scuffs in the tatami and extra tins of instant cocoa in his pantry, among the bitter teas that Kanae had only ever kept for himself. By the tray for their keys remains that book - All the Things that Won’t Come True , propped beneath a piggy bank, dusty and untouched since that first night.

Kanae thinks of it often - it is his , after all - but to touch it seems like it would be a scalding betrayal of their delicate balance. He hasn’t dreamt those dreams in a while. Those dreams that are written so intimately in those pages, those dreams that he lent to the world, hoping to have them returned with answers.

They were returned, in the hands of a street rat who seized up with tears at the sight of him. Like something straight out of a fairytale. And Kanae found that he no longer wanted those answers, that the person who held that book so carefully was enough to fill the void where his past should be.

Kanae breathes unsteadily. The ceiling is dark and fuzzy.

My vision is awful. He berates himself, as if the night doesn’t put the world on lowlight.

Kuzuha mumbles something in his sleep, his hand swinging a wide arc in the air and landing an inch or so from Kanae’s face. The scent of Kanae’s softening lotion lingers on his pillow. As if to steal just a shred of his body heat, he dares to loop their pinkies together.

Kanae breathes.

“Kuzuha, take me to the sea.”

“Get up and walk yourself.”

The door clicks softly shut behind him, blocking out the midnight sky. In all his actions Kuzuha is gentle, deceiving the sharpness of his words.

Kanae resents to break his peace.

“I can’t walk.”

“Can so,” Snorts Kuzuha, “Don’t be a baby about it.”

“It’s true.”

Kanae receives a long, thoughtful look. Then a stiffness creeps over the usual easy-going slope of Kuzuha’s posture, turning it stiff as a board. His eyes grow comically round.

“I’m just a little sick today. Do you mind?”

They both know - ‘a little sick’ doesn’t even begin to cut it. Kanae had awoken gasping for air, one hand clutching at his chest and the other cutting off the circulation in Kuzuha’s fingers. His coughs had torn through his ribcage, and Kuzuha had felt the bones rattle under his palm.

It’s just a sick spell . Kanae had told him, after calming the attack, Don’t worry.

It’d been a half-hearted attempt at relief, because Kanae knew his timer was ticking dangerously low. But the both of them are practised escapists, so Kuzuha had said,

Alright. I won’t.

He hadn’t moved from his futon all day, staring listlessly at the ivy choking through the window.

A walking skeleton; every breath now seems to clatter.

“I don’t mind,” Mumbles Kuzuha.

Kanae folds his hands around Kuzuha’s neck with his nose buried in the fuzz of his partner’s dark hair. It has the scent of their matching shampoo.

“You’re not heavy,” Kuzuha whispers, an admission more than anything else.

Kanae does not respond. The winter air is biting, so he relishes in their contact. It’s hard to think they’ve only spent a few seasons together; it could’ve been years.

“‘Scuse us.” He hears Kuzuha mutter, and feels himself jostled.

Another night owl on the road.

“Kuzuha,” He starts, and he responds with a noncommittal hn? , “The trains don’t run this late, you know.”

Their steady pace comes to a jarring halt.

“I’m not above dropping you.”

Kanae laughs, “Would you punch the elderly? Children?”

This earns a begrudging reply, “If they deserved it.”

“You’re not meant to say that!”

Kuzuha does drop him - gently, on a nearby bench. The feel of stone under bare feet is unfamiliar, but strangely liberating. Standing in front of him, Kuzuha runs a frustrated hand through his hair. He grumbles out something like - who thought this was a good idea? - but Kanae is caught on the way his nails tear through fresh knots.

- hey, are you listening?

Kanae thinks he sees it, then - in his friend’s profile illuminated by the streetlight, the stars swimming in his eyes. He looks a little different in the darkness. The perpetual bags under his eyes are lost to deep shadows, his silhouette is long and stretching. His skin seems no darker for it, though, and that is the strange thing.

- what’s wrong with you? Oi.

This whole story is oh-so-circular. In a park at the dead of night, feeling as if he’s just met Kuzuha for the first time.

This isn’t the first time.

“ Kanae -”

His hand shoots out, pulls Kuzuha in by the collar. Nearly nose to nose, Kanae scrutinises him.

“It’s true, isn’t it? You know things about me that I don’t.”

His memory plunges into the blackness that often plagues his dreams, the same inky spots that pattern words into All the Things that Won’t Come True. Always, he remembers, is that vague, splotchy figure, tall and regal with hair like snow and eyes like jewels.

Maybe the light is shining just right, or maybe the looming threat of death has driven him crazy.

But he can see it now. Flecks of ruby hidden in the deep.

His partner doesn’t say anything.

“Kuzuha. I want to know why you came to me that night.”

Kuzuha takes his wrist and wrenches it away, “What’s it to you?”

“I think you know what.”

“I made a mistake, and now I’m here. Isn’t that enough?”

Kanae bites his lip, “That’s not the whole truth! You know me in ways I don’t even know myself - how do you explain that? There are things you’re not telling me. I’d like to know.”

Silence.

Kanae waits. Kuzuha breathes a shuddering breath into the winter air.

“The book you wrote- I followed it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. How did you know it was mine? We’ve never…”

Met. The word sticks in his throat. He swallows back a lump that tastes of iron.

Kuzuha’s expression is familiar. It’s the same one from spring, all those seasons ago. A little less hopeful now, shattered around the edges. Pained like every word sliced his gums.

“I can’t tell you. I don’t know why but.” His fist clenches, he seems to grasp at last some kind of realisation, “Are you dying?”

What does that have to do with anything? Kanae grasps it, too, then.

He stares down to the concrete. The night those dreams started, his lungs were seized with briars. He’d wretched over the sink, but only found himself agonisingly short of air. Dreams. Memories .

“That’s why,” Kuzuha murmurs at last. He drops into a crouch, pressing his face against the backs of his hands. “That’s why I can’t tell you.”

Memories he wasn’t allowed to have, by some punishing construct of fate. But he’d written them anyway, into that book. Letters to the lost, and the lost had come home. That piece of him that had always been missing.

He pries Kuzuha’s hands away, holding them like something precious. His skin is rough. Again, he looks at those nails - long and smooth.

Is it painful? To know all the pasts in that book were real, to lose each and every one.

Even if those dreams were only his memories in wispy fragments, he knows the answer.

“I’m here now.” He whispers instead, bumps their foreheads together.

Kuzuha sighs, “I know.”

A beat passes. Then two.

They stay there for a while, drinking in the warmth of each other’s touch. Burning it into memory. Things Kanae refuses to forget he will brand into his skin, leaving a permanent mark that glows when it finds its other half.

He gets it now - that empty hole in his soul.

“I’ll take you to the sea.” Kuzuha stands up, but never fully breaks away.

“The trains aren’t running, remember?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I can take you.”

“What do you-?”

That damned street light flickers out, leaving them by the moonlight.

It’s not all that dramatic, but the transformation stuns Kanae anyway. The inky black of Kuzuha’s hair melts away, overtaken by a soft, snowy white. It’s long - only for an instant, and when he blinks the muted copper of his eyes has turned a stark, glow-in-the-dark red.

Like jewels. He recalls, but that is only the least of it.

Kuzuha is tugging him forward, easing him upward into the sky.

“To the sea?”

He’s breathless, lifted off the ground on crimson wing.

“To the sea.”

「海が不思議ですね　｜　あなたに溺れています。」

The ocean is a wonder. (I’m drowning in you.)

Chapter Text

[I was always crying that it wouldn’t come true,

In a starry sky that waltzed with my dreams.]

V. Knowing

Beep.

“Come again.”

The convenience store’s doors slide shut behind him, abandoning him to the night. Darkness has fallen like a veil, Tokyo’s lights blinking and blaring rhythmically; in and out of focus. People bundle by on their way home, their chatter gathering like a flat note against the rushing of nearby cars.

Kanae does not hear any of it.

He feels for his keys in his pocket. Next, for his phone, just to ground himself. To remember that his friend is still only a text away, even if the gap between them feels impossibly wide.

“I dreamt of you, last night. We were fighting.”

“An argument?”

“No, together. With swords and stuff.”

He’d dreamt the night before, and Kanae, by rule, does not dream.

A byproduct of amnesia, perhaps. A lack of anything meaningful to dream of. Fitting then, that Kuzuha had managed to creep his way into that blank space and make it his own.

“Weird.”

“Yeah. Almost like it was real.”

“You don’t normally dream.”

“No, I don’t. This is the first time.”

He walks, but he does not see where. Home, presumably, before the dark clouds over the city break and let down their storm. He feels strange, distant, staring down at the pavement.

“Why now?”

He stops at the traffic lights amidst a group of people, waiting to cross. At his feet, his reflection stares at him from a puddle. It’s disfigured by the ripple of the strengthening wind, the pairs of business shoes skirting its edges.

“Well- I’m not sure. Is it a bad omen?”

Kuzuha’s eyes, deadly sharp with uncharacteristic seriousness, glint in the blackness behind his eyelids.

“Could be.”

It had left goosebumps- the murmur that sounded very much like a true admission of fear. It was unlike Kuzuha, so unlike him, that a quiet uncertainty had settled over Kanae like frost. Biting, seeping into his skin.

“You should go home.”

“What?”

“You shouldn’t stay.”

His reflection turns green with the traffic light’s signal. He sees himself - or so he thinks - young and small, a past he doesn’t recall having. And then all at once, in a rush of everything and nothing, he stands there, young and small, staring down at a puddle containing the face of his older self.

Come here. Quit dawdling.

The voice that calls for the young Kanae is garbled and distant, but nonetheless he turns and takes hold of the pale hand that reached for him.

“What’s for dinner?” Asks mini-Kanae, stubbornly refusing to budge in spite of himself.

“I don’t know, whatever you want.” A pause. “How about omurice, then?”

The child throws his free arm into the air with glee. “Yay!”

He steps forward to pursue the heavier footfalls, leading him into the illusory whiteness.

Tires screech, the vision is smashed to pieces on the sound of a loud honk; rubber skidding on tarmac. The traffic lights are brought back into view, to his right, the flare of headlights blinds him. All Kanae can hear is the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

It’s too late, he thinks, this might just be it.

His neck jerks violently, fingers digging into the back of his turtleneck. Not Kuzuha, he knows - Kuzuha’s tugs are hooks, drawing him in like a fish on a line. With gravitas, the movement of a retired predator.

He scrapes his elbows on the pavement, the snacks he’d bought scattering about. The car gives a final honk, the driver looking briefly distraught, before disappearing down the road. The walking signal remains decisively red.

“Kanakana?”

Despite knowing it wasn’t his partner, he still feels a stab of disappointment. It’s disconcerting, to suddenly feel so estranged from someone he’d always seemed to have at his side. Being denied answers and forced to a distance in the span of a few excruciating seconds had left him impossibly lonely.

His view of the dizzied sky is blotted out by a blurry face, pale blue eyes sharp in focus. He surmises it to be Akina, based on the way his affectionately-named ‘chilli’ tickles the tip of his nose. As the lingering white from his vision fades, Fuwa’s curious features pop up, having unhitched his nails from the neck of Kanae’s sweater.

“Are you okay?” He burbles, voice discombobulated with shock.

The words come before any thoughts: a natural, composed response, “Thanks to you. I certainly owe you one.”

Though his balance hasn’t quite found him yet, Kanae gets to his feet and gathers the things that had tumbled over the pavement. Fuwa leans down to pick up an upside-down pudding.

“You can keep that if you want. Coming home from work?”

Torn between gleefully accepting the treat and addressing the much more blatant issue, Fuwa doesn’t manage to speak before Akina does.

“We’re on our way to visit Mayuyu… are you sure you’re okay?”

“Positive,” Kanae offers them his most peaceful smile, but does not elaborate.

One wouldn’t suspect Fuwa, embellished in his suave purple suit, with his usually mussed hair parted smoothly to the side. But if a host did not have the ability to read his customer’s emotions, he wouldn’t be worth his salt. Scrutinising Kanae’s moods and picking apart his thoughts took a certain skill, which he was sure nobody shared with Kuzuha, until Fuwa’s multi-coloured eyes chased the uneasy twitch of his finger.

Warily, he tucks his hand in his pocket.

The dynamic duo exchange worried glances.

“Well, if you’re sure…” Akina relents, shoulders slumping in defeat.

Feeling as if he’d just kicked a puppy, Kanae offers a grateful pat on the shoulder.

“Kanae-san,” When he glances sideward, he has to steel himself for the intensely concerned gaze Fuwa directs at him, “Kuzuha-san came into the studio a while ago for work, he didn’t seem like himself either…” He trails off.

The ‘Did you have a fight?’ goes unspoken.

 There is no satisfaction in knowing Kuzuha is also unhappy. It only begs the question, why .

“Maybe he just had a rough day.”

“Is there any rougher day than almost getting hit by a car ?”

Kanae forces a chuckle, “I’ll go see him tomorrow. Text me if you want dinner, okay?”

Kanae doesn’t see him tomorrow.

He wakes in the morning staring at himself in the mirror, until the glass tilts and ripples, disfiguring his features. He looks away before something strange can happen, and resolves to attend to his routine blind.

He has work today - with Kuzuha.

It’s an ordeal to just sit down beside him during the meeting, where their greetings were exchanged in muted, clipped tones. Kuzuha is not receptive, almost appearing guilty in the way his eyes flicker to Kanae and away again, long nails tapping against his thighs as they do when he’s idle and anxious.

It’s worrying, to be the one causing the habit to show.

What are you concerned about? He whispers. Did I do something wrong?

Kuzuha squirms. It’s nothing.

He refuses to tell him.

The distance between them is a frozen spark. The gap in his heart that coincides with the one in his memories would protest loudly, in cases of argument where they both prefer to brood. But it’s been different, as of late, filled with recollections of that strange vision.

It makes Kanae’s skin crawl.

The cloudy days wear on.

He buys a cup of coffee from a cafe, on an evening before a late studio night. The lid pops off when he squeezes it too hard over a frustrating thought about his partner, and he stares into its murky brown. It should be frothy - it isn’t, and a version of himself wearing authorly spectacles laughs at his miscalculation.

He throws it out.

Have you seen anything lately? Kuzuha sidles up beside him.

He’d bump their shoulders, usually, but today he keeps a step or two away.

Kanae debates his answer. He could lie, if he wanted to, easily. Would lying repair the rift that had splintered between them?

He chooses a non-answer. I saw a cat yesterday.

That’s not what I meant.

You’re going to have to be more specific.

No, nevermind. it’s nothing.

He doesn’t want a lie to be the basis of their reparations, but the silence stings.

[-as the rainy season approaches, weather will grow more erratic over the next week. We are issuing a monsoon warning for the evening. We advise citizens to stay indoors and secure any outdoor objects that are at risk of blowing away or-]

“There you have it. We should head home.”

Kuzuha gives him a grunt of acknowledgement, staring absently at the blackened sky. It’s the best he’s gotten out of his partner over the week; disengaged nods here and there, customary complaints, and the occasional dozing off. He’d almost say it was normal, if not for the way Kuzuha never looks him in the eye, or dares to use his name. Pulling away from the convenience store’s overhead monitor, Kanae leads them outside.

“My place or yours?” It slips out before he can stop it, he clamps his mouth shut so hard his teeth clack.

“We can split at the station.”

Do we have to? He wants to ask, What do you suddenly have against me?

Over Kuzuha’s shoulder, he catches sight of his reflection in the window. He’s been avoiding such surfaces as much as he can of late, and it shows in the number of cowlicks sprouting from his head. His reflection holds a finger to its lips. He can tell of its malicious intent, even beneath the cloak and half-mask. He averts his gaze, only to notice Kuzuha staring at him intently. Unnerving, in the sense that he hasn’t been given the chance to look into gemstone eyes in some time.

“What did you see?”

Not ‘did you see anything?’ , not ‘have you seen anything strange lately?’ . A confirmation for the vampire, but a denial for all of Kanae’s attempts to evade the subject.

But this is not a friendly prank. There are stakes to this, he knows.

“Me.”

He doesn’t lie.

Over his partner’s shoulder, his reflection points at him.

Bang.

Kuzuha doesn’t say anything, at first. Just presses his lips into a thin line, playing with the loose threads of his jeans.

“Do you know what it means?” Kanae pushes through the silence, just to stifle the fear sending his heart into overdrive.

“No,” Says Kuzuha.

“Liar.”

The vampire goes mute.

“Why won’t you tell me?”

And this, too, feels oddly nostalgic, as if he’s heard those words from his own mouth, in the exact same situation.

“I’m not sick, Kuzuha. I’m not going anywhere, you don’t need to protect me.” He’s not sure why he says this, either, but it waylays the apprehension rising in his chest.

Kuzuha must find comfort in it too. His stern neutrality falls into something guilty, sad. Soft and not yet quite so broken, eased by the gentleness of Kanae’s voice.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” He mutters.

Kanae doesn’t know where these promises bubble up from. Only that he’s caught on the version of himself in Kuzuha’s eyes, bloodied and beaten but still so loving. He feels tender touches ghosting over his cheek, and for a moment, understands the defeat that comes with loss. The regret that echoes off Kuzuha’s every breath. The ‘I miss you’ s and the ‘I wish you were here’ s, lost to the aether. The ‘I’m sorry’ s that still ride the wind.

He wants nothing more than to wave that loneliness away, to warm cold hands and tell him he deserves it. The desires come in the form of so many voices, that all belong to him.

All of them say,

“It’s not your fault.”

Overhead, the clouds burst. It’s a silent affair for all but a second, until the rain hits the ground in a thunderous roar. In an instant, Kanae is soaked to the bone. Beneath the pounding, he hears a sharp intake of breath, and sees a flash of red. Though he cannot see behind the curtain of water, he knows Kuzuha is gone.

Though the wind is tearing at his skin, he cannot feel it, focused on the blurred figure formed on the surface of a thousand droplets. A priest, he thinks, another version of himself. The first, or the last, he’s not sure, but most certainly, a version of himself. With what little he knows, this is enough, to keep his heart from crawling up his throat, rejecting him as his other half disappeared.

In all likelihood, his other selves died before him. He thinks he sees puncture wounds, or perhaps he’s truly seeing nothing at all - a phantom image, sepia photos bleeding into his reality. It doesn’t startle him nearly so much, but rather like something has clicked.

Even if they did die, it has given him the chance to be at Kuzuha’s side.

The thunderous roar falters, turning to a heavy pattering as a shadow looms over him. He turns around, and is met with the kindred features of his purple-haired, bell-ankled coworker.

“Give him some time.”

Rindou’s knowing smile is a comfort.

“Thank you very much.”

“I should be the one saying that.”

Delighted, Rindou takes a sip from the coffee he’d prepared for her. She’d escorted Kanae home, soaked as he was, extending a helping hand upon seeing him alone in the rain. Though her shoes remain at the entryway with the bells attached, she still manages to make tinkling sounds as she moves.

“Not at all, I’ve a knack for showing up at the right time.” The cheeky grin of hers tells him it might go much further back than an umbrella, but Kanae repeats his thanks anyway. “Who left such a strapping young man as yourself out in the storm?”

“We were lucky it didn’t get worse while we were out there,” He comments, still towelling his hair. “You didn’t see?”

“I wonder,” She hums, hands firmly pressed to the coffee cup to drain the warmth. “It’s a shame this isn’t sake.”

“I don’t have any at the moment.”

Rindou giggles. She must be swinging her feet, because the soft tinkling persists. Unsure of what to say, quiet descends until the tinkling dies, a solemn, wise air overtaking the room.

“I think he just needs some time,” She murmurs at last, “I’m not sure anyone has ever told him that before.”

“You were there.”

“I was,” She leans her head in her hand as he slides into the seat next to her, “And I’ve known him a lot longer than anyone could guess. Though I’m not sure he still remembers me.”

Kanae cracks a smile, “He’s pretty forgetful.”

He knows Kuzuha’s lacking in family, living entirely on his own. To know that someone is looking out for him is like a sigh of relief, though he’s sure any other of Kuzuha’s friends would do the same.

“He’ll come. I’m sure of it.” She downs the last of her coffee in an impressive last gulp, before hopping to her feet. “I was a traveller by trade, long ago.” She throws Kanae a meaningful look. “But the only place he’s ever looked for is the one next to you.”

He chuckles, raising one hand to his cheek to hide the pink blooming there, “That’s a bit embarrassing.”

“Is it?” She’s putting on her shoes now, plucking up her umbrella from the stand. “It’s not so silly, when you realise you’ve known him a lot longer than I have.”

“He’s never forgotten me?”

“If I had to guess, not once. Treasure him, won’t you?”

Like a breeze, she’s out the door, whisked away in the strengthening wind.

Kanae can do naught but wait, quashing the anxieties whispering into his ear. When he watches the rain out the window, his ghosts do not look back. Perhaps because their messages managed to reach across the stretch of time. Or perhaps illusions brought about by that mysterious dream he had, all those days ago.

Either way, they are gone now. Kanae does not regret them, and he hopes his precious partner doesn’t, either.

It’s not until the storm passes at about midnight and the skies clear that Kanae can make out the world beyond his little room. He tells his viewers that the monsoon is over, to sleep well and wake up healthy the next day. He opens the balcony doors to the scent of clean spring air, purified by the cloudburst. He waits, and he waits, watching the full moon overhead. Kanae is endless in patience.

His doorbell rings. He promises himself some composure, even as stubs his toe on a stool making his way over.

He cracks it open just an inch before sharp claws dig into the doorframe. On the other side, a sopping Kuzuha, dripping pools onto the floor.

“I couldn’t find my way through the rain, and would you believe I had to walk because my wings were damned wet-” He babbles, dragging the last syllable in his nervousness, “I’m- I, I mean when you-” He draws a deep, stuttering breath.

“I didn’t mean to leave.”

Heart aglow, Kanae draws him in with arms around his neck, “It’s alright. If you don’t, I won’t leave either.”

Hesitant, Kuzuha leans in to return the embrace. Despite his size, he’s small in Kanae’s arms, like a lost child who’d just found their home.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

「月が綺麗ですね　｜　あなたを愛しています。」

The moon is beautiful. (I’m in love with you.)