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The ocean seems to ripple with misery tonight, as if it had sensed Hanma wallowing amongst the waves. His jacket does nothing to warm him, only letting the cold, salty air flow in and out but Hanma can't bring himself to pull it closer to him.
Kisaki has died for the eighth time. Eight times, Hanma has been too late, too weak, too slow to save him because he's so fucking pathetic that he can't let the only damn thing he cares about just die in peace. It's selfish, isn't it? Wanting to save someone that is so clearly destined to die. It's not even a case of justice, Hanma isn't so stupid as to think that Kisaki was ever redeemable at his stage of life.
But then again, was Kisaki not some fucked up kid whose fantasies became all too real?
Hanma should have died when he leapt off that pedestrian bridge eight lifetimes ago, when his hair had grown long as the kelp that should have held his body and kept it under the surface.
When he closes his eyes at night, or day, his lungs spasm and his throat closes up the same way they had when he had leapt for the first time, the second time, the third. The eighth.
But he can't die. He can't die because Kisaki is dead and Hanma can't imagine a single thing more painful. Kisaki's own death, probably. Struck by misfortune, his plans foiled by what the news deemed a tragic loss before moving onto the weather.
The last of Hanma's cigarette burns up, the embers so close to the filter he might as well be inhaling flames. He stumps it out before putting it in his jacket pocket, doesn't toss it in the ocean. A habit he's deliberately lost. Hanma doesn't want to soil his resting place, after all.
It's the mid-autumn festival soon.
Soon these oceans, pitch black around the moonlight, will be lit up with hundreds of lanterns that illuminate the night with the glow of day. He shakes out another cigarette, lights it with the same lighter he'll use to send out his own lanterns. Hanma will send two out, like he has every year. One for him, one for his mother. They're supposed to bring good fortune and represent family reunions. Though Hanma isn't a child anymore, no longer being sent out after a "family" dinner consisting of his mother and himself, he still sends them out and hopes for at least one of those things.
It's impossible, of course. No amount of paper lanterns is going to bring back the hazy memories of warm white rice and soy sauce. Or let him forget the same contrast in colour with his pale skin and the soy-sauce dark bruises that spotted them when his cries hailed louder than the television.
Hanma does it anyway and hopes that his mother won't forget him while she rests scattered at the bottom of the ocean.
Good fortune. Hanma snorts to himself at the idea that these lanterns bring good fortune because if they were bringing fortune, it certainly wasn't to him. Perhaps fortune was a blanket statement, perhaps the fortune that he had been praying for went to the world and the world decided that it would be better off without Kisaki.
The cigarette burns out in his hand this time, forgotten in the midst of Hanma's thoughts. What a waste. He makes sure to put it out and attempts to stuff it in his jacket pockets, only for it to bounce straight back out and roll down the pier towards land. Shit, that's gotta be a warning to stop smoking.
He curses, scrambles to his feet because Hanma might be down for assault and gambling and whatever gets him a cheap thrill but he's not getting caught dead for littering—
Until his hand juts out to grab it, slender fingers stiff from the cold, and brushes against something, someone familiar.
"Hey."
Hanma doesn't have to look up to know who it is before a grin splits across his face, any remnants of a bad mood dissipating into thin air.
"Hey yourself," He greets, getting up on one knee. "What brings you here?"
Seeing Kisaki alive never fails to put Hanma in a good mood, even if Kisaki hardly returns the same sentiment. He's bundled up in his little fleece jacket, one hand holding the stray cigarette butt. His other hand hangs by his side, a green convenience store bag held in it that slants him slightly in the direction of it with its weight. Kisaki's hands don't tremble, steady as a surgeon despite the chill in the air.
"Saw your bike while I was going home," Kisaki shrugs, breaking their eye contact and staring past him into nothing. His breathing is calm now, but Hanma can tell he had been running before. Was he on a jog? "I wanted to see if you had drowned."
It's the truth, Hanma knows. If he had jumped, Kisaki probably would have watched his body float across the water in morbid curiosity before leaving to find a new pawn. Hanma laughs at the thought of it and gets up onto his feet, "Nah. Just needed a place to think is all."
Kisaki huffs in amusement, "You can think?" He says, before walking around him down to the bottom of the pier. Hanma follows, obedient as a dog.
"What, you think I got Kazutora in on looks alone? I'm flattered." Hanma croons, hands back in his pockets because if they're not he might hold Kisaki so tight that he won't be able to let go.
"Fuck off," Kisaki's tone is flat, no bite to his words. "I bought too much food. Take some home with you."
He sits at the bottom of the pier with hardly a foot between Kisaki and the water. Hanma is two steps behind him, hesitating to sit down because though Kisaki is not turning to face him, he might be the most beautiful he has ever been. The moon casts glimmers of light onto the water that bounce up and illuminate Kisaki from the front that Hanma cannot see.
From here, Kisaki looks like an angel. Pure white light, the light of the moon, casting him in such an ethereal glow that Kisaki doesn't even look real. He's slouched over, raking through the contents of the bag no doubt, but from Hanma's position, it looks as if a thousand feathers are about to unfurl from Kisaki's back.
Of course, he is no angel. So Hanma stops dreaming and sits down next to Kisaki, legs crossed with his palms in his lap as if he were a child waiting patiently for his turn at show and tell.
He tilts his head at the bag and Kisaki glances at him from the side of his eye. He is beautiful. His eyelashes are lit up like threads of silver and his sharp, callous disposition rendered null because this brand of darkness is not the same as when they're shaded in back alleys and hotboxed hideouts and Kisaki's room when Hanma can't sleep on his own.
"Here, I don't like salted egg yolk that much," Kisaki places a package infront of him, swirling gold and red. There is nowhere near enough light, but Hanma can make it out if barely. Mooncake. "Are you going to the festival tomorrow?"
Hanma has taken the mooncake out of it's package already. He splits it in half, then again so it's in quarters before responding. "It's tomorrow?"
And he doesn't get the look of disbelief he expects from this statement. It's not born from falsehood, Hanma had not taken notice of this flow of time. Instead, Kisaki seems to watch the waters and sink wistful eyes into them.
Lately, Kisaki has been lost in thought often like this. Some nights when they're at the theatre together or smoking, drinking, Kisaki will stare almost mindlessly at walls, floors, meaningless objects. Emotional issues do not come as easily to Hanma as innuendos and fist-fights, so he has not asked about it.
Tonight, he doesn't have to.
"Am I going to die?"
Hanma stops chewing and stares at Kisaki. Somehow he finds that the question is not all that strange, and Hanma resumes chewing while he turns his gaze back to the ocean. The waves are growing larger, and he swallows.
"Do you want to die?" He says. Then, "Are you capable of death?"
Kisaki scoffs next to him but takes the question into consideration nonetheless. Hanma offers him a piece of the mooncake, egg yolk taken out. He takes it, and the sound of the waves seems to have gotten louder.
"I am," Kisaki responds, putting the piece in his mouth and spending minimal time chewing. Always in such a hurry. When he finishes, he continues, "But you're not."
And Hanma can't help but laugh. It's rude to open your mouth while you eat, so he swallows the last chunk of mooncake and continues. His laugh is a wretched sound, not dissimilar to the gargling and desperation of a drowned man, but at least it should scare the sirens away.
"No, I'm not," He nods, a bitter intonation in his voice. "There's your answer."
There is no need to say it aloud. As long as Hanma is alive, he will not let Kisaki die and they are both deathly aware of this. So much so that it pricks at their skin when they are apart, and tears them apart when they're together. Fate will not let them be.
Kisaki rustles through the bag again and Hanma's curiosity is piqued when he sees him pull out two red lanterns, the sheen of the plastic so bright it hurts his eyes. The packaging is taken apart with care, not a single part of it torn or ripped in frustration or haste. He holds an open palm to Hanma while the other starts to unflatten the lanterns.
Hanma hands over his lighter. His fingers linger on the carvings before he lets go, an H and a K scratched into the plastic. It has been the same lighter for months, years.
"I thought the festival was tomorrow," Hanma questions, resting his chin on his hand and his elbow on his leg. "Why light them now?"
Kisaki doesn't respond immediately. His hands are so small that the lighter looks like a child's toy in his palms. He is fragile like that, young and naive yet Kisaki is still, without a doubt, the most dangerous man in Tokyo.
And he is here sitting with Hanma, lighting lanterns for the mid-autumn festival.
He licks his lips. The salty air is starting to dry him out.
"Here," Kisaki hands a lantern to Hanma, the disparity in their size feeling comical when there is something to compare them both to. "It's midnight now."
Midnight. So, tomorrow has come. The lantern is unlit, yet warmth emanates from each paper surface. Hanma runs his hands over the surface to feel the ridges. Then his hands still, and he settles for holding it in his lap, a hand at either side.
"Ready?" Kisaki asks after a moment of silence.
He flicks the lighter once, twice, three times before it ignites. Is it scared? Is it fearful that if it lights, the flame will be gone within an instant? It's a childish question, so Hanma banishes it from his mind.
Kisaki flips over his own lantern, lighting the black slip that presents itself. Hanma doesn't know how he found it, he can barely see the contrast between the off-white paper and the slip. Perhaps the moon has gotten dimmer.
Kisaki keeps a tight grip when the lantern begins to take flight, keeping it close and grounded. He beckons Hanma to turn over his own lantern so he can light it himself. They have lit one anothers cigarette by pressing one hot tip to the other, breathed the same smoke and shared the same bed, yet Hanma finds Kisaki lighting his lantern immeasurably more intimate.
The flame dances amongst itself, as if unaware of its own plight, its own destined demise when it rises high above the ocean waters. Or maybe its passion is that strong and believes it will surpass the moon.
Eventually, Kisaki must let go of the lantern that he is gripping so tightly his knuckles are pale against his tan skin. He does soon enough, and Hanma follows suit. They hang in the air for a split second before floating up, forward and far away. It is cold without them, but the chill is nothing compared to the awe that spreads warm through his body as he watches the lanterns float farther and farther away.
The lanterns are the only two stars in this now pitch-black night. The moon has disappeared, possibly long before Hanma ever realised. There is no longing for it in his heart to come back. Seconds passed, but Hanma would call it a millennia before the lanterns reached the glass ceiling of the sky and promptly vanish.
Hanma blinks, squeezes his eyes as closed as they will go and when he opens them the moon is back; Ghostly and blurred under a blanket of clouds. This hazy dream breaks through to reality and Hanma whips his head around to look at Kisaki with wide eyes.
"How did you...?"
The serenity that once was on Kisaki's face disappears in an instant and he scowls so fast that Hanma would believe it if Kisaki told him that this was his expression the entire time. "You and Hanagaki do the same things," He looks down at Hanma like he is exasperatedly explaining something to a child. "Sometimes you are one way, and sometimes you are another. Like you are a different person."
All of Hanma's attention is pinpointed on him, as if he were the moon in the sky, the lanterns in the night. Kisaki's face softens, and so does his voice. "You're a time-leaper, right?"
Ah. Time leapers, time leaping. Hanma can recall the first time Kisaki had presented this theory to him and laughed in his face, chalking it all up to lack of sleep and the subsequent delusion. Now, he knows better.
He shrugs. "Does it matter?" Hanma asks, falling onto his back to look up at the starless sky. Kisaki leans over him with a frown. The golden frame of his glasses glint for a moment, light sliding across them. A faux shooting star.
"How would it not?"
Hanma wishes for it all to be over. "I can't change anything. I've tried everything and none of it works," His voice starts to waver and his lips tremble. He throws an arm over his eyes, "None of it works. I lose you every time."
He doesn’t stop to consider if Kisaki truly understood his peril, his plight. If he understands, then he understands. If he doesn’t, then what does it matter? Hanma might fail again, and the next Kisaki can try his hand at understanding instead.
His hand is pushed to the side and his eyes sting with hot tears that blur his vision. They do not spill, instead resting on the surface of his eye as Kisaki's blur of bleach blonde is facing him. He is squatted next to him and when Hanma's vision eventually clears, the tears welling up enough to give way to streak across the sides of his face, Kisaki looks disappointed.
Of course he is. He has a right to be, what with how many times Hanma has failed. Anybody else could do better than him.
"But I'm right here," Kisaki says, and Hanma's chest starts to hurt and his lungs start to heave as another wave of tears threatens to come up. "You haven't lost me."
Hanma reaches out up to him with a single hand, eyes distant as if Kisaki were lightyears away, in another dimension. Kisaki takes his hand in his own and Hanma grips it with as much strength as he can muster. He can stay tethered to reality so long as Kisaki is there to guide him.
"How do I die?" Kisaki runs his thumb back and forth across the back of Hanma's hand as he holds it.
His face flashes with regret when Hanma's face sours.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
Kisaki is nicer tonight. Maybe it is a ploy to wring all the information he needs from Hanma before disposing of him, or a way to pinpoint all of his weaknesses to exploit them like he has done to so many before. It doesn't matter, Hanma decides. He is happy to be a pawn in this game, happy to be at Kisaki's beck and call so long as he can bring colour to Hanma's dull world.
He recounts all eight times Kisaki has died. Some he was not even there for it, rather an observer of the aftermath. In a few, he is there to witness it. In one, he had been the cause, a mistake that cost him everything. Kisaki continues to cradle his trembling hand in his own that is so still, like a statue, like an unwavering angel.
Kisaki says nothing when Hanma is done. All he does is take it in for a moment, before turning to the sea and simply watching. Hanma makes no move to get up and Kisaki makes no move to make him.
The silence is so thick it weighs on Hanma's chest, slows his breathing and drags his limbs down into the planks that are damp with ocean mist.
"Isn't that so stupid?" Kisaki speaks abruptly and Hanma startles. He pays him no mind. "That we're in all these gangs, in all of these fights. That so many people die by my hand. I did it all for this girl, you know."
A girl? Hanma tilts his head away from the sky to look at the boy next to him, dark eyelashes that glow in the light and a storm in the eyes below them. Kisaki glances at him but doesn't turn his head.
"You can laugh if you want. All that for a childhood crush. It's stupid, right?"
A crush. Hanma tilts his head back up to the sky. It's not so dark this time, and the north star blinks at him. He blinks back.
"You really like her?" He asks, looking innocently up at Kisaki when confusion colours his face and he turns to look at Hanma. "What do you like about her?"
There is no storm in his eyes anymore. His eyes are bright, outshining the moon, grey and speckled like it as well.
"She was nice. We were friends. She was my only friend, more like, but she had so many others. Everybody loved her."
Damn. Hanma is really nowhere near Kisaki's type, he thinks amusedly to himself. He grins, wonders if he should say it, but Kisaki seems too in thought for him to interrupt now.
"I think I'm done with it all."
"All of it?"
"I haven't done anything in this timeline yet, right? Everything could change right now."
Hanma should probably think about it. Should think if that would change anything, or if the effort would be futile in the end. But exhaustion sets in deep in his bones and his thoughts are slow, so slow.
"Yeah," He sighs, closing his eyes. "Yeah, it could."
It could. He wants it to. He'll do anything for a better future, a future where Kisaki is there with him when he turns eighteen, nineteen, and twenty. Wants to be there when Kisaki's birthdays come around, too.
Tomorrow. They will change it all tomorrow because the moon is too beautiful tonight to do anything other than watch it disappear under the waves. They will change it all tomorrow and the day after that, and every day that comes to them. He'll send out three lanterns instead of two and he'll hope that his mother could see him now.
He'll hope for a better tomorrow and Kisaki will, too.