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can’t we put an end to today / to spitting out indifferent words / and crying over those memories?
waiting for the ‘1, 2’ signal / holding hands with you
is an act of courage for me
-
“Ikey,” comes the low rumble of Luca’s voice, dipping itself between the bones of Ike’s ribcage and pouring into his heart. It’s almost painful, the way Ike’s name on Lucas’ lips makes itself home inside of his chest—ever expanding and ever growing. It pushes against the walls of his ribcage, cutting off his airways with the pressure. It’s even more painful how easily Ike accepts this as permanent , as if there wasn’t(—and there never would be—)anything else that would ever sit pretty in his heart as easily as Luca had. “Ikey, come sit with me.”
“Are you not scared that you’re going to fall off?” With a swallow, pushing the pressure in his throat down to his chest, Ike’s feet push him forward, until he rests his arm on metal warmed by the autumn sun. His mind screams at him to turn around and leave ; that he won’t survive this encounter, but Ike finds himself captive, yet again, to sharp amethyst eyes watching his every move.
Luca has slotted his legs through the gaps of the metal fencing that keeps people barricaded back, perching there while the glow of the sunset rims his outline golden. It’s almost regal, where he perches, like a lion king watching over his domain.
“I doubt that fence is enough to hold you up, if you’re not careful,” Ike says, and Luca laughs —he laughs like there’s nothing weighing down those strong shoulders of his, like the world turns for him and him alone. He acts like it even, with a strong arm looping itself around Ike’s shoulders and tugging him even closer.
“I’m not scared at all,” Luca mumbles, and Ike fights the thrumming of his heart down, down , “You wouldn’t let me fall off.”
“No,” Ike says, more to himself than to Luca, “No, I wouldn’t.”
—
For all of his boisterous flair, the office rooftop is the last place Ike would expect Luca to regularly hang out at. He can see the appeal, of course, because it is also Ike’s favorite place. There is no lack of time that Ike spends up here, leaning against the railing and gazing into the clouds that mingle into the rooftop. The silence soothes his ever-chattering mind, and Ike finds that his pen flows easier here, like a well-oiled tap with limitless water.
Ike does not know what this place soothes in Luca, but evenings spent shoulder-to-shoulder, pressed up against each other in silence evokes understanding in him—that he knows what the furrow in the mafia boss’s brow is for.
Perhaps it is fate that they met again.
—
“You know, Ikey,” The wind caresses Luca’s golden locks as amethyst eyes are tinted golden by the dying sunlight, “I’ve been reading up about something recently.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Have you heard about Elira’s new interest in soulmates?” Luca asks, his voice carefully neutral, though masked under his usual charming lilt, “I think it’s the main plot of the latest game she played. I got curious about the soulmate thing though.”
“And? What did you learn?”
“Apparently, soulmates are destined to meet in every lifetime,” Luca explains, “It’s surprising, actually. There are so many studies about the potential existence of soulmates and everything. They even say that you can’t run from your soulmate, because eventually they will always catch up to you.”
“Doesn’t everyone know that already?” Ike licks his lip, finding it to be dry. The sweat on his hands is because of the heat, he tells himself, the railing makes my palms sweaty. “It’s a pretty common trope in novels and stories.”
“Is it?” Luca turns his head to face Ike once more, and the latter finds himself dodging his gaze. “Tell me about it.”
Ike almost hates the way they push and pull. It’s a dance that only the two of them know, pas de deux a hundred years in the making, steps so practiced that Ike performs them like a ritual. It’s an unspoken promise that hangs over both of their heads—to never address the elephant in the room, that the office was not the first time their gazes crossed. The swell in Ike’s chest will always be a reminder of that fact: that soulmates would always be tied together, for better or for worse.
Through life and death.
“Well,” Ike begins, swallowing down the ache threatening to grip his throat, “Novels tend to use soulmates as a biological trope. I always read the stories where the main character and the romantic interest have soulmate-identifying marks.”
“It’s pretty interesting. Sometimes they have timers on their wrist, sometimes it’s color-blindness, sometimes it’s a red-string of fate. They almost always end up leading the protagonist back to their soulmate though.”
“Oh, that’s so cool!” Luca’s lips curl into a smile, though the corners fail to reach his eyes. Ike finds himself hating that smile to his very core. It doesn’t sit right with him, knowing that Luca is capable of lying through his teeth about the way he feels. He shouldn’t be surprised really, that the mafia boss had that skill. What sits badly for him is the fact that Luca is lying to him, though they exist on an unspoken agreement of truth, and nothing but the truth. Once again, he breaks the gaze he has on Ike, only to turn his attention to the sky again. Ike wonders exactly what’s held his interest above them, either an interesting-shaped cloud, or—
— the same reason he doesn’t want to talk to you about it—
—“Too bad they’re all lies, though.”
Ike’s throat aches; an ugly feeling pressing against the walls of his gullet as the wind turns cold against his skin. If there was any confirmation he could have wished for—for Luca to look at him like he used to, blood-stained smiles and all—this would be the worst possible one. That Luca knows , and yet he smiles like he was none the wiser, and Ike the lone pining fool.
Ike definitely hates the way they push and pull—and this dance will only end in flames.
—
“Ike,” he shouts, or at least, Ike thinks he’s shouting. The pounding of his heart fills his eardrums, and Ike is hyper aware of the feeling of something dripping from his fingers; leaking onto the floor, pooling in a puddle under him. “Ike, Ike !”
It’s probably nothing to do with the metallic tang of iron in his nose and mouth.
“Luca,” Ike breathlessly chuckles, finding the uncharacteristic panic in Luca's voice oddly amusing. It's quite cute—Ike thinks, Luca's always cute—and he suddenly notices he's hovering over the ground, his limbs no longer sinking into the acidic tang of soil, "Why are you crying?"
"Why are you crying?" Ike repeats himself, though the weights locking themselves around his wrists prevent him from brushing the blonde's salty tears away. It's not a view that Ike particularly likes, nor does he want to see it again, but a little seed of hopelessness plants itself in his head; a little voice of reason whispering to him that it'll be the last thing he sees today.
What a shame, he thinks, I missed him so much.
His vision is faint, and he feels like if he isn't careful, he might fall out of his own body—his soul splashing into the Earth like ink, "Don't cry. You look beautiful when you smile."
"Ike, please," Luca warbles—and oh , it's getting so hard to hear him. Ike feels warm, warm, warm , as Luca curls his body around Ike's cold and pliant, holding him close like Ike's always wished for before, "Stay awake, we'll get you to a physician, just—"
"Hey, Luca?" His own voice sounds so far away, and his eyes are so heavy, "I've always liked yellow on you."
"Then I'll keep wearing yellow then, so please, please—"
"It reminds me of sunflowers," Ike's broken voice barely manages a whisper, and his eyes flutter down like a final curtain call, complete, "You remind me of a sunflower, actually. So, so—"
—
"—beautiful, isn't it?" He hears a man say over his shoulder, while he nearly jumps out of his skin, dropping the brochure on the floor. All around them, the sounds of people bustling fill the room, and only paintings notice them; omniscient gaze watching through detailed brush strokes and dried layers of paint.
"Oops!" He hears that same voice say again, and Ike turns around to meet amethyst eyes that send arrows through his heart. Their gaze breaks for the man to bend down and pick up the brochure that Ike dropped, and as Ike stares at the blonde head a small voice whispers at the back of his mind—
—here he is, finally—
—you kept me waiting—
—i'm sorry you had to wait so long—
—but what is—
"—your name?"
"Huh?" Ike snaps out of his stupor, realising that the man's holding out the glossy paper to him with an interested glint in his eyes. He shows no signs of recognition, not a single subtle gesture to tell Ike that they've met before.
"What's your name?" The man asks with a curious lilt in his accented voice, "I'm Luca. I'm sorry for scaring you like that."
"I'm Ike," is the simple introduction, and Luca's smile breaks like the sun rising over the horizon—bright, warm, and everything Ike's ever wanted. When had he pined like this, for someone he never met? But the ache's been soothed, an ache he didn't know was there, and all Ike can focus on is how yellow Luca feels—like sunflowers scattered on a warm summer's day.
"Ikey!" Luca laughs, turning to face the painting that stretches out far over their heads, up to the ceiling that touches the sky, "I was just saying that you seemed pretty interested in this painting. It looks beautiful!"
“‘Beautiful’ doesn’t quite cut it, Luca. This piece is pretty famous for the underlying story, see?” He lifts a slender finger, pointing towards the painting in an effort to direct Luca’s gaze to a prominent area of interest, “The artist made this as a farewell letter to his lover who died in a raid.”
“Raid?”
“Yeah. This piece dates back a couple hundred years—I think the artist was out at war while his lover stayed home. They won the war, of course, but the enemy raided their village in a last-ditch effort to cause as much damage as possible.”
“That’s…”
“A lot of people died,” Ike’s voice lowers in a quiet hush, paying a solemn moment of respect to the inspiration behind the art. It made no sense to his friends, of course. Mysta would scoff at Ike’s insistence of mourning over this particular painting, but it felt right. It always felt right to grieve over this painting, for some reason. “There were no survivors.”
“And the artist?”
“Well, I guess there was one survivor. But his art made him famous only after he died, no one knows why he kept so quiet the entire time.”
Though Ike’s only known Luca for a good five minutes, the distant look on his face reminds Ike of a far off memory, one that smells like burning wood and wet soil. It takes all of Ike’s effort to keep his hand down and not tuck the stranger’s blonde lock of hair behind his ear, more to soothe the distress out of Luca’s face, rather than to keep his vision clear.
“I don’t like this painting much,” Luca mutters, and Ike lets out a breathy chuckle.
“To each his own,” Ike glances back to the painting—reds, blues, and yellows swirling in his vision, “I always thought this painting spoke to me.”
—
“Why would you say that?” Ike asks, ignoring the splintering of his heart into his throat like glass, “It’s not like you to be so pessimistic, Luca.”
“Is it?” Luca grins, toothy smile more malicious than endearing, “I think anyone’s allowed to be a little annoyed at fairy tales.”
“How do you know it’s a fairy tale?”
“Simple—fairy tales give false hope. There is no happy ending, is there?”
—
While Ike is no stranger to loneliness, it is in the middle of torrential rain on a quiet day that the weight of his isolation sinks in. Growing up, silence has always greeted him the moment he returns home—pencil smudges littering his hands like battle scars against word problems and lesson packets. He’s long been acquainted with the ghosts of his house, who watch him set the table for one as he waits for the toaster to ping. To fill the space, he learns to read and lose himself in worlds that welcome him like their own; words that soothe the ache in his chest and throat when the shadows get too loud in his head.
“Do you think soulmates exist?” He once asked the kind old woman running the bookshop along the street, whose walls carry a musty old scent of worn paper and stale ink. “A lot of authors seem to like talking about soulmates.”
“No one was meant to be alone, little one,” She replied, wrinkled old hand ruffling his head, “No matter how we try to run, there will always be someone along the path. It’s just how humans were built—we were born with love in our hearts. Why be born with it if it wasn’t meant to be shared?”
The malaise burns his skin, as raindrops soak him to the bone. He leans against the brick, almost groaning at the cold, cold surface against his forehead.
Would he die like this, without having found someone to share his heart with?
—
“We never know if we don’t try,” His hands tighten around the railing, and Ike wills his hands to relax, relax , “Love comes in all forms, how is it that absolutes cannot exist then?”
“Not everyone is privileged to enjoy absolutes, Ike,” Luca says, “If karma exists, which it does, do you really think that the damned and the sinner should be given that blessing?”
“Yes,” Ike forces down the surprise from his face, shocking himself that he would bite back so hard without a single moment of hesitation. With wide eyes, the argument in Luca's throat dies out as Ike stands his ground; his head is held high as he speaks with confidence. “Even the damned deserve to love, and be loved.”
—
“Hey, you awake? I’m Shu,” The strange boy says, “Here, I’ll bring you in.”
It’s an odd sight—one moment he’s close to death in an alley, the next, he’s laying spread eagle in front of a strange building, towering over his head. Where are the houses? Where is the alley? Where is the old bookshop along the street? None of that seemed to exist in this vacuum, only a weirdly tall building and this stranger a sign that Ike hasn’t been left for dead yet.
“Where am I?” Ike asks, shocked at how raspy his voice sounds. He could really use a glass of water right now, but finding his way home was the bigger priority now, “How did I get here?”
“Well, I don’t think you need to worry about that. I promise you, you’re safe here!” Shu says as he takes Ike’s hand, pulling him to his feet. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, one that sends a warning of foreboding down Ike’s spine, Shu smiles, “Do you trust me?”
Hell no, is Ike’s first (rational) thought, but his heart doesn’t pound in fear or uncertainty. He’s been here before, Ike realizes, and this isn’t the first time he’s met Shu. The face is terribly familiar, and it is beyond doubt that he harbors memories of this man—memories he isn’t sure belongs to him. In his daydreams he sits with Shu under the vast blue sky on a warm summer’s day, sharing an ice cold popsicle as they chat. Ike doesn’t remember what they talked about, but he doesn’t have to. The feelings from the endless laughter drifts upon the winds of time, and it carries over several lifetimes—keeping safe within the comfort of Ike’s heart.
Call it intuition, or call it blind trust, but Ike chooses to believe in his memories. Shu would never hurt him. He loves him too much to even try.
“I trust you,” Ike replies with absolute certainty that surprises even himself, and Shu’s smile spreads into a familiar, friendly and homely grin.
—
“Be honest with me,” He doesn’t know what’s come over him, but he can’t stop his mouth from running. Was it the anger? The trepidation? Ike does not know the answer, but he snaps at Luca anyway, “This isn’t the first time we’ve met, is it, Luca?”
“What do you mean, Ikey? Of course not. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Cut the crap, you know what I’m talking about.”
Luca’s too-tight smile is telling of the taller man’s actual answer, but only strained silence replies Ike; it would take much, much more for the mafia boss to be honest, for a reason unknown to Ike.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this nonsense you’ve been spouting today needs to stop.”
“Is it really nonsense, Ike? If I told you that I’m not as clean as you think I am, would you still believe me?”
There hasn’t been a lifetime that I’ve never believed you, you utter fool.
—
“There’s one last person you haven’t met,” Vox Akuma tells him, “He’s running late though, I’m not sure why.”
“It’s okay, I’m sure everyone’s busy,” Ike smiles in assurance. It wasn’t as if he had time to be wasting anyway, since he didn’t actually have anything else to do at the moment. His unfinished novels were sitting snugly on the desk in his home, his home that he has no way of getting back to at the moment. Instead, he focuses on the golden-eyed man in front of him, who carries himself with such poise and grace that Ike cannot help but feel swayed by his charisma, “Do you have anything else to do?”
“No,” Vox shakes his head, “All I have to do today is to introduce you to our members, really.”
“In the meantime, do you have any questions for me?”
There were so many questions, so much more than he could count, really. For starters, not a single person seemed to be put off by his arrival. They had explained to him that everyone in the building arrived the same way—either through a portal that dropped them off at the front steps of the pristine glass skyscraper, or they had simply chanced upon the building after years and years of listless wandering. Your arrival’s a little different though , the fox-like detective—Mysta, was it?—had said, I don’t think anyone’s just casually woken up on the steps like that before.
“How are you not… surprised, by all this?” Ike asks before he can really stop himself, the thoughts too strong to silently bear on his shoulders alone, “Don’t you have a home? A family to get back to?”
“My family’s dead.” says Vox, pale face so carefully still that Ike instantly feels the weight of guilt sitting in his stomach.
You idiot, you should know this
, his voice scolds him from a far away corner of his mind. But how could he have known?
“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, though Vox shakes his head, brushing the heavy tension in the air away as swiftly as it had arrived.
“None of that, boy, my family’s been gone for hundreds and hundreds of years. It would be a lie to say that I had nothing to do with it either.”
Though Vox is quick to wave him away, he knows that expression like the back of his hand. Ike’s seen it countless of times, after all, in the glass windows of the shops he walks by; in the ripples the rain draws in the puddles by the roadside—Ike’s even seen that face in the very same alleyway he last remembers being in, the strange feeling that he’s watched himself die weighing heavy in his mind. The distant, longing in one’s eyes is hard to erase, no matter how bright their smiles are.
Ike’s also long learned that loneliness wears like a second skin, after all. It’s found in the shadow under the eyes, the too-tired stares out windows, the contradicting slack of tense shoulders; Vox Akuma wields loneliness like a professional smile, and the nagging itch of recognition in the back of his mind tells him that he’s found a very long lost friend.
“What about you? Is there anyone waiting for you?” Vox asks, flipping the script back to Ike in a single, smooth line of dialogue, “I’d expect that you’d be a lot more panicked if there was, pardon my rudeness.”
“No, no. Not at all, you’re right.”
Because that was the truth, and there is no point in denying. With what pride did one have to pretend that silence greeted them every time they came home? That only the squeeze and clench of an empty, hungry stomach on a brink of starvation reminded them that they had gone two days without a single bite of food? Ike is practical—rational; there is no need for pride when one had no necessity for it, not when they were god-knows-where, and god-knows-how-far away from home they were.
“Oh, Ike. You’re making the same mistakes, all over again.”
“Pardon me?”
“Enough of that for now,” Vox’s voice snaps Ike out of his line of questioning(— what mistake was he making? Did Vox know him from before?—)as the latter notices the sudden welcoming lilt in his words, “Our very-late friend has showed up.”
“Aw, Vox, you didn’t need to wait for me!”
“And have you miss out on making a new friend? I couldn’t do that to you, Luca.”
The laughter echoes through the room, its bouncing sound oddly soothing to Ike’s ears. When Ike turns around to greet his new acquaintance, amethyst eyes land on gold for the first time—in the longest time—in the—
Luca, you’re Luca, aren’t you?
It all comes rushing back to him like his brain’s been sucked out of a tube, finally freed for the first time in… God knows. It flickers through his head like a montage, the coruscating colors of memories and time spent in the arms of a lover. His skin feels like he’s been set on fire, marked in burns shaped like handprints and marking Ike; he might as well have been, anyway. He never quite forgot how Luca holds him so tenderly, like a precious gem cradled in big, soothing hands.
Luca’s eyes widen against the expanse of the beautiful, beautiful sea. He is 17. He is 42. He is 25. He leaves a trail of kisses against Ike’s nape as a possessive hand curls around his waist. Luca brushes Ike’s fringe back under the star-dotted sky. Ike slides a ring of metal wire up to the first knuckle of Luca’s ring finger, ever-watching gaze of a goddess whose name he does not remember blessing them in the abandoned chapel. Nearby, he hears a bomb go off as they tie themselves to each other, once again, in a war-torn land that only exists in their memories.
Find me for the last time, when we can be happy for good.
Ike’s fingers trace the letters of the time-worn tombstone. He has lost the love of his life only recently, a woman who made him so achingly happy. He will never forget amethyst eyes—the same shade of the stone embedded into the ring he doesn’t remember ever taking off.
I’ve finally found you.
His head(—when did it start to hurt so bad ? It felt like something was threatening to break his cranium open—)hits the floor, while the distant, muffled sound of Vox’s shouting voice sends him off to nothingness. It’s bright, then it’s dark, and the last thing Ike remembers is the shock that paints Luca’s face; the color leaves his face, like a ghost greets him hello in Ike’s place.
—
“I don’t see why you’re playing this game, Luca,”
“People who don’t understand the big picture tend to think it’s a game.”
“I think you are being ridiculous.”
It is not everyday that he argues with Luca. Whether it’s the soulmate thing, or natural chemistry, Ike finds that he never disagrees with his companion very much; every little conflict is quelled swiftly with open dialogue and honesty. Yet, this hostility is something that Ike finds very unnerving indeed—what had made Luca feel so aggressive and confrontational? It wasn’t like him to stay quiet about his feelings either. Luca, his golden, golden heart, had always strived to be honest and approachable. Now, staring in the face of a territorial lion, Ike feels like he’s intruded somehow on something that was never meant for him to know.
But how could he not know, especially when it directly involved him?
“You wouldn’t understand,” Luca makes a move, pushing himself away from the railing that he’s plastered his front against. He’s running, Ike realizes, as Luca starts walking away without a word.
“How can I understand when you’re not telling me what’s on your mind?” Ike raises his voice to Luca’s retreating back, “You always tell me what’s wrong, what’s any different now?”
But the man does not reply. This terrible, terrible man, who had the audacity to keep his peace while Ike hurts and aches on his own. This scene is a familiar one, one that Ike’s been witnessing for centuries—millennia on end; one of them will leave before the other, and there will be no happy ending for them, only flames.
But why should that stop them?
In all the lifetimes he’s lived, this is the only one he remembers in, the only one where Ike can make a connection to all the threads he’s left loose before. To give up now is a shame, to give up willingly is cowardice, and Ike could not understand why Luca— his bravehearted Luca—would turn away from him like this.
“ Luca! ” Ike shouts, and it is by miracle that Luca’s hand hovers over the handle instead of pushing it down, evacuating himself out of Ike’s desperation like he wasn’t the one to plant that ache in his chest.
“You still want to talk, Ike?” Luca does not turn around, but even Ike knows that his voice is dangerously low, as if telling him to
stop, don’t question me any further, this conversation is over.
It fills the novelist with anger, fury even, that Luca would dare to intimidate him away from answers, answers that Ike was owed, “I have to go.”
“I don’t know what’s changed—I don’t know why you insist on pretending like we don’t have lifetimes before us, but I can’t keep playing this game,” He’s always prided himself on being independent, because he is. How many lifetimes has he lived without Luca? Without anyone by his side? But isolation is a friend, while Luca is a lover. He will not leave this rooftop without an answer; would they walk down hand in hand, or would they be severed once and for all? “Luca Kaneshiro, are you listening?”
“I told you, it’s not a game— ”
“ If you hate having me as a soulmate so much, just say so! I won’t chase after you if you just tell me yourself! ”
The world shivers and shakes as the wind torrents through the trees below, as if responding to Ike’s sudden outburst of anger. It had been too long since Ike last felt this fury—maybe even never—where he fights for control over his own voice like a bottle too full to close; his anger spills over the concrete like water, and Luca in its path. He can almost feel it, the ugly void gripping at his heart and threatening to yank it out, to leave a hole in its absence.
When had Luca started hating him? There was no way he didn’t remember the lifetimes intertwined, like blonde locks tangled within limber fingers and warm lips on a collarbone. Ike knows nothing but adoring looks and the promise of eternity; he cannot bear to focus on Luca’s eyes—eyes that once loved him—to see hatred, loathing—
“I could never hate you, Ikey,” Luca says instead, and it’s the first time in centuries, literally, that Ike witnesses his soulmate wear vulnerability, instead of longing, yearning distance, “I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t want you to think I could ever hate you.”
In truth, Ike has no real clue how long they’ve been tied together like this. In almost every life he can remember, he’s always chanced upon Luca, one way or another. Yet, he knows that there’s something that Luca is not telling him—if Ike could deduce from the nervous, almost resigning look on the taller man’s face. It is the key to answering his question of the day, their question of a lifetime, and the meaning of their existence, and Ike will not let Luca down this rooftop without a satisfying conclusion, whether positive or negative.
“Don’t you remember what happened in our last life, Ike?” Luca begins, forcing his hands into fists and hanging them by his sides. His head hangs, and if it weren’t for the gravity of the situation before them, Ike would have likened him so much to a golden retriever, caught with something inappropriate in its mouth. “I hurt you.”
Ah, yes. Ike had an inkling that something along that line occurred.
“Truthfully, I don’t quite remember what happened in our last life,” Ike admits, because why should he lie about something so serious? No matter how hard he tries to dig within the confines of his memory, he pulls his hands out with nothing. The memories fall through his fingers like dust, never able to be saved again, lost to Time. “But whatever happened, it gives you no excuse to ignore me like this. It’s been five months since we met again, Luca.”
“You wouldn’t be talking like this if you remembered what happened,” and Luca, bless his dearest heart, has the audacity to pout , hunching down and curling over himself to make himself seem much smaller than his large stature, “You’d be cursing at me, and telling me you never want to see me again.”
“Exactly what did you do so wrong that you think I would ever do that?”
“I literally killed you,” Luca grimaces, his words clearly hurting something inside of him, “Someone broke into our house, and I—”
He cannot finish. Luca’s mouth snaps shut as he drops his gaze to the floor.
Though his memory is weak, he finds bits and pieces of memory that match Luca’s story. A man barges into their home—the home of the head of the Yakuza—making an attempt on Luca’s life in an effort to destabilize their organization. Ike knew of the risks that he had taken, in that distant life where he chose to marry the man who was more dangerous than anything that Ike had ever known, but he didn’t regret it. He would never regret it. Even with the knife plunging into Ike’s chest as their attacker drags him into harm’s way, his heart was fortified with the love that he had for Luca; even into his very last moments where he soaked into the floor, leaving Luca with hands stained in blood he never wanted to take.
“Luca,” Ike closes their distance in one, two, three quick strides, quickly taking his hands. He ignores the way his bigger hands flinch, as Luca’s leather gloves were not enough protection to keep skin from burning upon contact. There was no return for Ike, though. There was never any return the day he chose to tie his soul to Luca’s, several millennia ago. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”
Though his head is still dropped, it’s plain and obvious to Ike that Luca’s hurting—from the way his shoulders subtly tremble and shake. The bigger man grips tighter on Ike’s hands, as if Ike could fade away at a moment's notice. His heart aches with sadness, to know that one night a lifetime ago that he barely remembered could leave such a wound in his beloved’s heart.
“I didn’t want to get close to you,” Luca’s voice cracks, and Ike’s torso pangs with grief and pain, “I didn’t want that to happen to you again. I’m still in the mafia in this life, Ikey. I can’t lose you again.”
“But you won’t,”
“How do you know that?”
“For one,” It is here that Ike feels a swell of gratitude in his heart, that Chronos would bless them with temporal shelter from the reality of their lives. While he does not know the exact status of their situation, and this liminal space they, as well as the others, inhibited strangely reminded him of tales of purgatory; his books didn’t lie to him very often. “Something tells me that we won’t be going back to where we came from.”
“But what if we don’t ,” Luca finally looks up at him, watery amethyst eyes desperate for Ike to stay, “What if we return to where we came from? What if you die again? What if—”
—”you leave me?” goes unsaid, but Ike gets the message loud and clear. He’s never seen Luca, his Luca this scared before, and it’s an emotion that doesn’t match his loud, boisterous and beautiful self. He knows that Luca is meant to laugh, laugh, laugh, like nothing ties him to the ground and his happiness will carry him to the stars and beyond. It is Ike’s job, of course, to keep him tethered to earth—to him . And it is a job that Ike will take seriously, through sickness and health, through life and death.
“Let’s say that actually happens, Luca,” Ike combs his fingers through soft, blonde locks— he’s never really gotten over the habit of washing his hair too late at night, has he?— and he massages his lover’s scalp, enjoying the small sounds of comfort that Luca makes, “I promise you that in every single life I will find you, and I will never stop finding you.”
“Even if you get hurt? Why would you put yourself through that?” But his actions betray words of hesitation; large gloved hands quickly meet Ike’s as he threads their fingers together—puzzle pieces made to fit together comfortably. “You could leave now and I wouldn’t blame you, you know.”
“And leave your silly self alone? Please, Luca. I have signed a contract that I would very much like to see to the end.”
Ike reaches up and loops his arms around Luca’s neck, pulling him down. Even in this lifetime, he still finds himself far too short to match up to Luca’s height; still having to tiptoe even while Luca folds himself partially to match Ike. He wouldn’t ask for any other, though, because this is Luca— his Luca.
“Well, Mister Kaneshiro? What do you have to say to that?” The tension that Luca’s eyes held moments ago fades into the air like a stream of smoke leaving the end of a cigarette, replaced by the same adoring gaze that Ike knows and loves. His heart flips in his chest; he’s never really gotten used to the intense way that Luca silently shows his love, not even after centuries of fleeting touches, deliberate kisses, and laughter drifting in the gentle breezes of time.
“I love you, Ikey,” Luca nudges their foreheads together, his strong arms looping around Ike’s waist. He does not smile, but Ike believes he doesn’t have to. His lips will do all the talking when they’re this close, never to be apart again. Something tells Ike that he doesn’t have to worry about splitting ever again, because they’ve done the work. Chronos will not break the puzzle again, and two souls meld into one—as it should have been long ago.
Their lips connect as Ike’s eyes flutter shut.
I love you too, Luca. I will always love you.
-
there’s no such thing as a right answer / so where the hell do i have to go / to find the end of this story? / waiting for the ‘1, 2’ signal / holding hands with you
is an act of courage for me
-
"They've finally figured it out, I see," The black-haired man takes a long sip from his teacup, leg elegantly slung over the other as he shares company with the sorcerer, "I'm surprised that they took so long."
"I never really took Luca to be the repressed kind," Shu shrugs while he pinches an eclair between his clawed fingers, watching the way the chocolate drips from the tips of his fingers onto the plate below, "Glad it's all settled though."
"It's certainly a good turn of events," The tea is refreshing, and it leaves a herbal note in Vox's mouth. He makes a note to slow down to savor the flavors—it would not do him good to finish his cup too quickly, "Do you think that more will come, after this?"
"I guess," Shu says, though he carries himself in a way that says he's more than certain that Ike is not the last to find his way in this space that transcends time and dimensions itself, "I can't guarantee that the ones after him will remember, though."
"That is why we are here, aren't we?" Because that is the very reason why Vox was given access to this pocket of time. He makes this his home and welcomes the strays—just like his predecessors have done, and their predecessors before them. He and Shu are the next generation of keepers that will guide lost souls to their rest, and he would not have it any other way. Vox sighs, feeling the warmth of the tea leave his lips in an unseen heated fog, "We do have our work cut out for us."
"What about him though?" Shu asks, damn him and his insistence in clear communication. He could always count on his friend to drag his feelings out of him, whether he likes it or not, "I think he might be coming."
"I don't want to believe in absolutes, Shu, you know nothing good has ever come for me when I do so."
"I know, Vox," The sorcerer says, oozing with sincerity. It almost hurts Vox—that Shu would choose to be so open with him. It is a lesson that the demon must learn, to accept the love and camaraderie offered to him. "I just want you to be happy too."
"I am happy, Shu," Vox's lips curl up, though the image of a boy with flames for eyes echoes in his memory. It pains him so, that he cannot remember his name any longer—it has been far too long, and Vox is far too old. "I am happy that I have you, my friend."
"You know what I mean."
Indeed, he does.
Vox picks up his teacup again, filling the silence with a sip of tea; he swallows the clear, amber liquid down—washing his feelings off his heart.