Archive of Our Own

The last one died the night before the big fight. 

She had been showing signs for some time before it happened. The color in her scales had started to fade, she’d become lethargic, and she’d slowly lost her appetite until she allowed every little piece to float down to the gravel without so much as a nibble. She suffered no injury or illness; she was simply another victim of the steady, inevitable forward march of time. For a fish whose age was unknown prior to her acquisition, enjoying an additional two and a half years of life was reason for celebration. Her impending passing wasn’t a surprise by any stretch of the imagination.

But when Kakucho rose that morning only to be greeted by her lifeless body lying motionless on the aquarium floor, he felt a piece of himself die. 

He promised himself that he wouldn’t cry. There was no point in wasting tears over a cold-blooded creature with a life span barely a fraction of his own. She hadn’t been a dog or cat whose soft fur and cuddles he would grieve, nor was she a rodent or lizard or serpent or any kind of pet he could handle and bond with. She was a fish , trapped in a tank, beautiful to look at, entertaining to watch, and impossible to touch. There were plenty just like her that he could get for a handful of pocket change. 

He shouldn’t cry over her. 

Yet, as he dug out the net and scooped up her body, that undeniable pressure built up behind his eyes and a lump swelling in his throat threatened to suffocate him. 

He carried her across the room to where a large foliage plant waited. Through blurred vision, he dug a small hole in the soil, careful not to disturb any of the three other burial sites around the base of the plant. Once the shallow grave was just deep enough to pass his knuckles, he carefully laid her to rest and covered her, never to see her again. 

With a dripping fish net in one hand and dirt under the nails of the opposite, Kakucho stared down at the fresh grave as a hollow, aching pain rose within him. Despite his best effort to hold them back, the tears won; they dripped down his cheeks, carrying the weight of this loss with them. 

It was barely past sunrise on the ninth of September and the last living piece of Kurokawa Izana had been buried in a flowerpot. 

Kakucho wasn’t familiar with the care and keeping of pets. Before the accident, his parents hadn’t let him have so much as a goldfish; afterwards, he hadn’t been afforded the chance. Though he regularly fantasized about what kinds of animals he would get if the opportunity arose, he had never been able to act on them.

Needless to say, when he entered Izana’s room to see a tank that covered the majority of a wall and was full of the prettiest fish he had ever seen, he had been awestruck. 

There were four of them in total, each one boasting a different beautiful color or pattern. One was a soft pink; another, a deep blue with its fins tipped with red; the third, striped with gold and violet; the last, solid black, save for a small patch of pale silver over its left eye. They each swam to the front of the tank when he approached, assessing him with the same curiosity he gave to them. If he shifted, they followed, eyeing him with equal intensity. 

It had never occurred to him before that a fish could be just as interested in a person as a person could be in them. 

“I thought that you came over here to hear me play, not gawk at the ladies.” 

He turned to Izana, who sat a short distance away with an acoustic guitar settled across his lap. His expression was unreadable, lying somewhere in the realm between fond and exasperated that couldn’t quite be identified. 

Kakucho blinked. “The ladies…?”

Izana sighed. “They’re all female,” he explained. As he spoke, he lifted up the guitar and started placing it back on its stand, the promise of music delayed by Kakucho’s fascination with the ladies . “Bettas are territorial and aggressive, but the males are more so than the females. If I had a bunch of males in there, it would’ve been a bloodbath. The females can be somewhat cordial with each other, so I can have a handful of them without too many problems as long as they have enough space.”

“Ah.” Kakucho looked back at the fish-- the ladies -- and felt his lips twitch up in a faint smirk. “Do you call them that because you don’t have a human girlfriend?”

“Shut up.” Izana walked over and smacked his shoulder in retaliation, the blow lacking the force Kakucho knew he was capable of. The feeble half-attempt at a punishment told him that that there was no true offense, which made it safe for him to laugh in response. 

Beside him, Izana rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a girlfriend. There’s not a woman on this planet that can keep my interest,” he stated. “Besides, I already know how our future is going to turn out. There’s no room for anyone else in it.”

Kakucho paused. Our future. Our kingdom. It was their ultimate goal-- a world that belonged to the two of them alone-- and he would never tire of hearing that promise. He would build their castle up brick by brick with his own hands if it meant that he could forever listen to Izana call it theirs.  

Sometimes, especially as of late, he feared that his love and dedication went unnoticed. It was small moments like these which reassured him that, no matter what came to pass, he had a permanent home carved out for him by Izana’s side. 

The beam of laughter faded into something softer, fonder , as he let his gaze settle on Izana. There was something about moments like these that made him look soft . As he studied his cherished fish, there was a gentle slope to his lips and the tension in his face relaxed. He was at peace, surrounded by the beauty that he cultivated. 

Kakucho would never dare say it aloud, but a content Izana was his favorite version of Izana. 

“What are you looking at?”

…But perhaps the staring would give away what words refused to say. 

Warmth rushed to his face as Izana met his gaze, one brow arched in inquiry. 

“Ah. It’s nothing,” he muttered, flushing from being caught red-handed. He half expected Izana to press further, but all he did was purse his lips and return his attention to the fish. 

He pointed directly to the pink fish. “Her name is Sakura.” 

“Fitting,” Kakucho replied. He followed Izana’s finger as it moved to the blue one.

“That one is Aoi,” he continued before gesturing to the one boasting gold stripes. “And Takara.”

Finally, his finger drifted over to the fish with the silver spot over her eye. 

“I named that one after you,” he mused, lifting his hand up to his own left eye to highlight the implied similarity. “I thought it was appropriate.”

Kakucho blinked. A fish named after him…? Had Izana picked out that fish specifically because it had a discoloration similar to Kakucho’s own? Or had it been a coincidence that he decided to take advantage of? 

Either way, knowing that Izana cared for him enough that he would name one of his beautiful fish after him made his heart swell. There was only one problem.

“You have a female fish named Kakucho ?” Confusion furrowed his brow, his lip pouting slightly at the thought. 

“Not quite,” Izana corrected. “Her name is Mahal. ”

Mahal . It wasn’t often that Izana spoke in his native tongue anymore, but that word belonged to a language that Kakucho wasn’t familiar with. Over the years, he had picked up on bits and pieces as Izana muttered under his breath, but nothing especially concrete. This word was not part of his small (and rather vulgar) vocabulary.

So, rather than sharing his name, the fish was referred to based on a trait they both shared? A word that described them both? 

Kakucho tilted his head curiously. “ Mahal? What does that mean?”

A quiet hum of contemplation followed his words as Izana pretended to think over his response. The mischief in his eyes as he did so told Kakucho that there was nothing to think about, though. 

“It translates roughly to dumbass ,” he decided eventually, his lips twisting in a smirk as the words left his lips. 

Beside him, Kakucho gaped, offense flaring up and warring with amusement. This time, it was his turn to put his hands on Izana and give him a playful shove with an indignant “Hey!”

Izana snorted and shrugged the assault off. “Take it as a compliment! I was thinking of you!”

“Thinking of me as a dumbass ! How is that a compliment!?”

“So picky.” Izana tutted, shaking his head. “How did you turn out so ungrateful?”

“ Ungrateful ?” Kakucho countered, exasperated. “I’m supposed to be grateful for being called a dumbass? Via a fish ?”

That seemed to be Izana’s limit. He snickered, trying to keep himself contained, but one more look at Kakucho’s face had laughter bursting from him. It was the kind of laugh that burned his lungs, split his sides, had tears prickling in his eyes, and made his face warm to the touch. It was a full, whole-hearted laugh, and it was entirely at Kakucho’s expense.

Kakucho blinked, the reaction stunning the displeasure right off of his face. “What’s so funny?”

“Your face! You’re so-- offended !” Izana managed, forcing the words out between gasps of breath. 

“Hey…” A small pout returned, but it didn’t crease his expression nearly as deeply as before. How could it, when Izana was deriving so much pleasure from it? His laugh was… nice; musical, almost, when it was genuine. It was impossible to stay upset with him like this. 

After a moment, Izana caught his breath and his laughter stuttered back into silence. He wiped at his eyes, ridding himself of the tears that had beaded up before they could shed, and sighed. Turning back toward where his guitar waited, he gestured for Kakucho to follow. 

“Come on. Let’s leave them alone,” he said. “You came here to listen to me play, didn’t you?”

Oh. Right. In all of the excitement surrounding the ladies , Kakucho had nearly forgotten. The small pout faded into a smile, his guard dropping to be replaced by eager intrigue as he followed Izana over to the couch. 

He couldn’t wait to hear what Izana had learned how to play this time. 

Kakucho was quiet when he arrived at their meeting place. His uniform was buttoned up as high as it could be, protecting the precious earring that hung off a chain around his neck. It rested on his chest, right over his heart, and that was where it would remain for as long as that vital organ beat. 

No force on this earth could take another piece of Izana from him. Never again. He would burn it into his skin if he had to. 

The surviving members of the S-62 generation had congregated together, chatting away and riding the high of an impending victory, and he drifted over to them. As the third in command, he should be looking for Mikey-- should be going over his role in the battle and reviewing any specific strategies they might have developed (even if he doubted it would be necessary)-- but his heart was still raw from the morning. It was heavy on his shoulders, made him feel tired and sentimental, and drained his will to fight. 

He wasn’t prepared to give it his all until he felt human again, and these guys-- the last pieces of what had once been a generation of formidable combatants led by the most impressive of them all-- had pulled him out of a much darker place before ( as well as dragged him into a brand new one ). They shared a sense of grief, struggled down the path of healing, and relied on each other for support. While he doubted that they would feel the sting of loss the same way that he had that morning, he felt secure in that they wouldn’t ridicule him. 

In their eyes, rightly or wrongly, Kakucho was the last living piece of Izana, after all. 

He walked over to the little congregation, a solemn expression on his face. Already, they were chatting away as if there was nothing wrong; as if this fight would be an easy win under their belt; as if the Tokyo Manji Gang had ever been anything but formidable. 

Then again, had it been Toman or the man who led it that resulted in its endless streak of victories? Kakucho wasn’t completely certain; he wasn’t as comfortable with this fight as the others seemed to be. 

He wasn’t as comfortable with any of this as they were. 

He wrote it off as a lingering emotional wound from the morning and buried the dread in his gut somewhere it couldn’t be found. When the fight went off without a hitch, he could be rid of it permanently. 

Shion was speaking as he approached, likely rambling on about something that the others would only pretend to agree with, before Rindou caught sight of him and lit up. 

“Kakucho, hey” he greeted, bringing his presence to the attention of the rest of the group. All Kakucho could do in response was raise his own hand in greeting and offer a weak half-smile. 

The relationship he had with the Haitanis was… unique. He got along well enough with Rindou, but Ran… Truthfully, he didn’t know quite where they stood with one another. The elder brother was the reason that Kakucho had gotten dragged back into a life designed to ruin him, but he had heard that he had been benevolent enough to close both his and Izana’s eyes when he thought they had both run out of life. For someone who obviously cared to some degree, he had an odd way of showing it. 

“Shouldn’t you be with Mikey?” Ran chimed in, tilting his head curiously. One braid twirled absently around his finger; a habit that had become more prominent the longer he let his hair grow. His lips pursed slightly. “You don’t seem excited about this fight at all. What’s weighing you down?”

Excited . Maybe he should be excited-- he was never one to turn down a good fight-- but the emotion refused to stir within him. Maybe it was the lingering sadness from the morning. Maybe it was the unsettling feeling he just couldn’t shake. No matter the answer, he couldn’t find the energy to be as eager for the big showdown as the remaining S-62 clearly were. 

“I’m not feeling very excitable ,” he decided eventually. When that answer only earned him furrowed brows in response, he sighed and followed it up with, “The last of Izana’s fish died this morning.”

That seemed to be enough for the group to understand. At the end of the day, they had just been fish . They had been important fish-- fish that Izana had named and treasured during his life, only for Kakucho to pick up where he left off-- but fish all the same. The same kind of grief couldn’t be applied and they all knew it. And yet…

“Ah. How sad,” Ran replied, a small, sympathetic pout on his lips. “And that was his favorite one, too, right?”

Kakucho blinked. His favorite…? There were many times that Izana had commented on his small collection of fish over the years, but he couldn’t recall him referring to any of them as his favorite. 

In fact, the only designation that Mahal had over the others was that she had ( allegedly) been named after Kakucho. 

“Was she?” His brow furrowed. “How do you know that?”

“The name,” Ran replied easily. “The last one was Mahal , right? The one with the little spot over her eye?”

“Yeah?” Internally, Kakucho braced himself for some kind of joke at his expense. Though it would have been beyond inappropriate, he wouldn’t put it past the elder Haitani to try something like that. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the next words out of his mouth. 

“It means beloved. ”

No . 

Kakucho swore that his heart stopped in his chest, missing a handful of vital beats. 

No. There was no way . This must have been some sort of miscommunication. 

He forced out a huff of disbelief. “Where’d you learn that?”

Ran cocked a brow. “Izana told me so himself. It translates roughly to beloved or dear .”

Beloved . 

Kakucho felt like he couldn’t breathe, his heart climbing up into his throat and choking him off. 

Dear .

Memories from years previous flooded his mind, threatening to make it spin. His thoughts were cloudy, but he could see it all playing out perfectly clearly in his mind. 

It translates roughly to dumbass . The way that Izana had smirked at him, teasing him as he took the words to heart. The way he had laughed and lit up Kakucho’s entire world, dulling the offense. The way he had thought of Kakucho when he had bestowed that name upon her. 

I named that one after you. I thought it was appropriate. 

Mahal. It means beloved . 

Beloved . 

Beloved. 

Beloved. 

The word echoed in his head, drowning up any other thought that might have come to the front of it. His heart lurched, aching, and his stomach felt as if it carried the weight of a lead ball. Breath was hard to come by and the world around him started to swirl and blur as that familiar sting prickled behind his eyes. 

“... Kakucho !?” 

Distantly, he recognized someone calling out his name-- someone grabbing onto his shoulders in a vain attempt to ground him-- but he hardly noticed. He swallowed thickly around a rapidly growing lump in his throat, but no amount of self-restraint could have prevented those first warm droplets from trailing down his cheeks. 

He didn’t know how to feel. 

He was devastated; he was overjoyed; he was furious; he was flattered; he wanted nothing more than to turn back the clock and kick himself for being so damn gullible and not realizing this before. 

Yet, there they were. 

On the precipice of another bloody fight on the ninth of September, the last living piece of Kurokawa Izana’s love had been buried in a flowerpot, as private in her affections as the man who had placed that burden upon her. 

His beloved .