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Chuuya sits atop a mossy gravestone, looking out into the ocean below. He’s not sure why he still visits this grave. He doesn’t really have a right to do so, him being the reason Rimbaud is no longer with them. Sometimes he hopes Rimbaud can hear his silent apologies.
In the end, Rimbaud picked the fight; Chuuya won it. However, winning never got him the answers he craved.
“You’re going to break that old thing if you keep sitting on it like that.”
Chuuya looks up immediately. Nothing good came out of receiving visitors here about a year ago. He’d like to avoid getting stabbed again.
The voice comes into view. A tall man with blond hair. Chuuya’s “brother.”
“I didn’t know you still left that basement.” Chuuya hops down from the stone slab, peering behind Verlaine just to be certain he’d come alone. There was no one. No one besides them and the ocean breeze whirling in his ears, creating a slightly eerie ambiance.
“Occasionally. I won’t stay here long, don’t worry.” Verlaine approaches, and Chuuya moves to stand behind the gravestone. Verlaine kneels down in front of it, swiping his hand over the moss to clean it. Only then can you read the name written on the slab, “Randou.” Verlaine stares at it fondly for a moment before taking a seat on the ground.
Chuuya follows suit, taking a seat beside him. Still, he keeps a wary distance.
“Change of heart?” Verlaine asks, looking down at him for a moment. “I didn’t expect to see you out here.”
“Something like that.” Chuuya doesn’t look back at Verlaine because he can’t. He feels so guilty. The way his brother looks at the name on that headstone makes him sick.
“What’s with the long face?” He can feel Verlaine’s eyes boring into him. Chuuya swallows away the emotion that’s causing a lump in his throat.
“Nothing. You’re seeing things, old man.”
“I’m not that old.” Verlaine starts, a sudden far away look in his eyes. Then, oddly enough, he starts laughing.
“Something funny?” Chuuya asks, his tone lacking it’s usually bite.
“Sort of,” Verlaine’s faint laughter ceases into a quiet sigh. “Rimbaud used to say that all the time. Now I’ve surpassed him in age.”
“..Right.” The twinge of guilt returns.
“Do you feel bad for me?” Verlaine’s question is sudden. Chuuya lets it marinate in silence for a long while.
“No. I pity you, though.”
“Why? I took a lot of things from you, I think it’s only fair that I suffer the same.”
Chuuya traces circles in the dirt. Anything to not look at Verlaine. “That’s where we’re different. I don’t suffer— I’m not suffering. You are.”
Verlaine tilts his head. “Suffering,” He parrots. “How so?”
“You smell of musty basement.”
“Seems like a fault on the Port Mafia’s behalf. You all could at least fix that cold draft for me.”
Chuuya’s lip quirks into the very slightest hint of a smile. He fully turns his head away so Verlaine can’t see.
“I just think,” Chuuya carefully chooses his words, he’s not sure why he feels the need to speak kindly to his brother. After all, he doesn’t deserve his kindness. Maybe that’s another fault on his part. “Ran— Rimbaud. Wouldn’t want you to waste away in a basement. Sure, you can’t go outside very often. But there has to be something you can do.”
“Huh...” Verlaine’s eyes drift back to the grave in front of them. Chuuya allows himself to glance over at Verlaine. “Perhaps you’re right.”
-
A year later, Verlaine began training ordinary mafia to become the most elite of assassins. Just as Rimbaud had done years prior.
Rimbaud couldn’t speak with him now. Though Verlaine is certain, with this strong feeling in his heart, that he would be the slightest bit proud.