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Glancing at the ceiling of the basement, Verlaine got lost in thought. He wondered, was the sun shining outside, or was it raining heavily? Were the breezes filled with summer warmth, or did the breeze let one shiver in the cold? Then he laughed bitterly. It was then that he realized that he didn’t care, and didn’t have a reason to. With the one person in his life gone that he felt something for, there wasn’t anything that would be worth going out for. Sure, Verlaine had started getting attached to the assassins he trained daily—especially Gin Akutagawa and Kyouka Izumi—and appreciated their company, yet it always felt like something was missing. The worst part was that he knew what felt off.
Arthur Rimbaud was gone forever.
Even in his last moments, he had given Verlaine everything he possessed, still displaying the same amount of care he did years prior. Verlaine felt sick every time he thought about it, knowing he never gave Rimbaud anything in return. Because of that, he stayed in the basement, stuck in the thoughts of what he could’ve and perhaps should’ve done differently. The only thing he could now do for the other, after all, was to live with the second chance he had gotten, the reason for him being alive still unknown to everyone else.
Before Verlaine was able to delve into his thoughts even more, he heard a person coming in. The steps were too heavy to have been from one of Verlaine’s pupils, so he wasn’t surprised to see another familiar figure suddenly sitting on a chair—one broke in half—close to him. “Chuuya,” Verlaine said in a neutral voice, watching the other use his ability to sit on the chair properly. After Chuuya managed to pull off what he wanted, he leaned back and let out a long sigh.
It had become quite a common occurrence for Chuuya to come down to Verlaine, telling the latter about stuff that either annoyed or excited him. One might say that Chuuya only came down to get himself some company, but Verlaine, too, knew deep down that Chuuya cared for him to some instinct and came down to accompany him if there wasn’t training to be done. Most of the time, Verlaine just listened to the ramblings, giving only short answers if asked a question. This time, however, Chuuya didn’t seem excited or annoyed, his expression completely unreadable.
“There’s a new strong ability user around,” he started, tone monotone, although it still carried more emotion than Verlaine’s own. “Their ability is to send people into the past a specific number of times. However,” Chuuya suddenly stopped, holding up one finger, “only under one condition; they need to have something from the past that’s associated with the person. If they do that, the person disappears and doesn’t return most of the time, considering that they change their timeline and create a new reality different from ours. So far, they haven’t done too much, but as soon as they get ahold of more information on everyone, they have a very big potential to do lots of damage that won’t be able to get undone.” Verlaine just nodded in silence before he heard the other suck in another breath, “Oh, and they need to make eye contact with the person in order to activate his ability.”
With that said, Chuuya looked at Verlaine, trying to figure out what he was thinking. As usual, his expression didn’t convey any emotion, but there was the slightest hint of curiosity in his eyes. “How do you know all of this information?” he asked, leaning slightly forward as he looked back at Chuuya. The latter only huffed in response, his expression changing into one of familiar annoyance. “Our boss wants us to cooperate with the Armed Detective Agency for whatever reason. He and their boss came to an agreement to let the two organizations work together for this mission. Of course, it didn’t take long for Ranpo and that shitty Dazai to figure out what was up.” Chuuya groaned, putting his head onto his hand with an all too familiar expression, “We don’t even need them! We could’ve figured it out on our own, too, I bet!” In a different timeline, Verlaine would’ve laughed at Chuuya’s ridiculousness, yet in this one, he just stayed silent as he watched the other continue complaining, the previous topic already entirely forgotten.
After Chuuya had left with a small smile, Verlaine was left alone once again, thinking about the conversation they had. Slowly standing up, he made his way to a spot almost entirely hidden from everyone’s eyes. He opened the drawer, revealing a book that was sealed inside. Sighing quietly, Verlaine brought his hands forward, letting them touch the smooth leather of the cover. As he took the book in his hands, he glanced at the slight Rimbaud’s journal written on the front. With the tiniest hint of a smile, he let his hands wander around the material, noticing the way some of the edges were severely damaged. After all, it had been some time since someone last wrote something inside of it, and it also underwent a journey on its own throughout the years. In the end, it landed in the hands of Verlaine, the last piece of Rimbaud he had left.
With the journal in his hands, Verlaine got up and walked to his chair again. When seated, he put the book on his lap and went through the pages filled with Rimbaud’s thoughts and actions. They managed to let Verlaine feel both warm on the inside, but also bitter about his feelings. Because of that, he usually didn’t bring it out often, but that day something inside of him longed to reach out for the diary, and so he did. Whether there was a reason or explanation behind the longing, he didn’t know.
A few hours passed as he just sat there in silence, eyes falling shut without him noticing. The sound that made him realize that he had even fallen asleep in the first place was the rushing of footsteps, the people seeming to be in a hurry. Rubbing his eyes and groaning at the pain from the stiff posture, Verlaine got up and was about to head to the door, but there were already people running in on their own, completely uninvited. Out of reflex, Verlaine picked up the book and hid it under his coat as he watched the people spread out.
“Paul Verlaine, it’s best for you to get out of here in an instant,” one of the people said, belonging to the higher-ranked Port Mafia members. At that, Verlaine raised his eyebrow with a simple, “Why?” while being completely unfazed at the amount of panic the members were spreading. “Because it’s not safe here, Verlaine,” a new, more feminine, voice appeared, red hair coming into Verlaine’s view. It didn’t take him long to realize who the person was. “Kouyou,” he said with a voice so monotone that it sounded like he was just simply stating a fact. The other nodded, going toward Verlaine with a fierce look. “This is serious. I know that it’s been years since you last stepped outside this basement, but I cannot guarantee your life if you stay here now.”
After a bit of thinking, Verlaine just shrugged, deciding that he had no other choice.
Following the others upstairs, he noticed the paintings hanging on the wall. They weren’t of bright colors, but that wasn’t to be expected of the Port Mafia. Some seemed like the artist behind the drawing was lost within the world of art, while others were more complicated to decipher. One, Verlaine noticed, was a painting most likely resembling Arahabaki. He wondered if Chuuya was behind it and then thought of the possibility of hanging his picture of choice on the wall, before suddenly coming to the realization that he didn’t even have one, anyway.
There was absolute chaos when they arrived on the main floor, some people shooting, others using their abilities as they fought off foes. With his gaze wandering around, Verlaine couldn’t help but ask, “What happened here?” There was also an underlying ‘Or is it always like this?’ considering he hadn’t seen anything aside from his basement for years, therefore not knowing how the Port Mafia behaved under normal circumstances. Kouyou just sighed as she guided him and the other Port Mafia members away from some of the chaos. “There’s an ability user who can send people back in time if they have enough evidence related to the past of the person. It seems like they’ve found some sort of companions, and are now working with them against us. They have enough information to send us all back in case he wants to.”
Even though Kouyou’s tone was calm, her expression and body language showed otherwise. Her fist was clutching her kimono tightly, and there was a slight glare hidden between her eyes. It was clear to everyone that it was a big risk for them all. With that, Verlaine said, “I’ll help if you need me to.” Kouyou simply inclined her head in response, knowing that even without the powers he used to possess, Verlaine was a very skilled assassin. “As of now, it’s best to execute the intruders as quickly as possible. The longer that ability user runs around, the more danger we’ll get in,” she suggested while slowly drawing her sword already. Without another word she was gone, hurrying off to work against the troublemakers.
At first, Verlaine just stood there, keeping an eye out for anyone suspicious looking, but before he could attempt anything, he felt something behind him. In a matter of seconds, he turned around. The sight that greeted him wasn’t something he expected. A young girl, barely even a teen, sat not far from him, a book in her hands as she gently smiled at the other. Her eyes were crystal-blue, while her hair was as white as snow. The clothes she wore were worn down, some parts only hanging on by mere threads. Overall, she looked like a poor lost child. But then Verlaine saw the book in the hands of the other. He froze.
“Give that back,” Verlaine demanded coldly, placing a knife under the girl’s chin with a swift movement. The kid, however, didn’t seem to mind as she just continued to gently smile, legs bouncing up and down. “You know,” the girl started speaking, her Adam’s apple gracing the blade, “I don’t want to be here, either. I have been cursed with my ability to basically let one disappear if I hold something from their past in my hands as I lock eyes with them. Because of that, someone took away my eyesight not too long ago just so that I wouldn’t hurt them on purpose. Ever since I’ve learned how to live on my own and used my other senses to survive. Life has been a living hell, but then came along a person I could rely on, one that I could play with, but they disappeared soon, too. Now, a group of people took me in, telling me to put my ability to good use for them, and then I’d get a good home in return.”
The child paused for a second, sucking in a shaky breath. “But it never felt the same as it did with that other kid my age.”
Verlaine narrowed his eyes, ready to ask why the hell she was telling a stranger all of this with a knife pointed to her throat, before the girl spoke up again, “After all, I was cursed with my existence. I wish I would’ve never been born. I wish that kid was still with me. I wish I wasn’t here right now.”
Hearing that, Verlaine’s grip on the knife loosened, eyes widening in realization. He felt his whole body go cold, refusing to move. It all sounded way too familiar to him, and he also perfectly knew why. In the strange kid, he saw himself, from the past and the present. Strangely, he imagined the girl sitting on the cold ground in frustration, completely stuck with the thought of hating existing. Then, there was a hand that was held out to the other, the person telling her that it was all going to be okay and that she was worth more than she thought. When the other person disappeared out of the girl’s reach, Verlaine imagined the way she probably broke down, too, eyes fixed on the sky.
“I’m sorry, mister. It seems like I have gone a bit too far. You can have your book back,” the child said, voice lacking the emotion that should be there. She held out the book for Verlaine to take, but the latter hesitated as he eyed the girl. The ability user in front of Verlaine wasn’t the dangerous person he thought of when he heard the reports of both Chuuya and Kouyou. Under the curse of the ability was only a child, not knowing how to handle things. At last, Verlaine’s eyes locked with the ones of the child who seemed to have been looking at him for the past few moments. In one instance, he felt himself become dizzy. He wanted to reach out for the book, but his arm didn’t allow him to. “By the way,” the child spoke up again, “my name is Taylor.”
Before Verlaine was able to respond, the image of Taylor faded away in front of his eyes, brain shutting down.
“Mister? Don’t you want to take your book back?” the girl asked a certain someone that was no longer there, the knife lying on the ground where the man had stood prior.
<><><><><>
Black, there was only darkness surrounding the person.
Then they felt like they could breathe again, destroying the one thing that hindered them from being free.
Rage, frustration, sadness. All of it filled the person as they destroyed everything around them. After a while, exhaustion hit, letting them fall to their knees with a loud crunch. And then there came the familiar blackening darkness again.
It hurt.
…
Verlaine blinked, sitting up straight as he massaged his temples in order to reduce the headache he started to get. It felt like his eyes were still blinded by bright, white light, only making his headache worse. With a sigh, he wanted to lean back but then realized he wasn’t alone. Another person was sitting not far from him, focused on the work on their desk before they turned around, smiling as they said, “You woke up, I’m glad.” At that, Verlaine froze instantly. How could it be? The person he was practically living for, the person he had been missing for years after their disappearance, now stood in front of him.
Arthur Rimbaud was alive, breathing—and around nine years younger than when Verlaine last saw him six years before.
Then suddenly, Verlaine remembered. Chuuya as he talked about the new dangerous ability user, the chaos in the Port Mafia, and the girl named Taylor who held Rimbaud’s journal in her hands while the world started to fade to black around Verlaine. It all came together as one, various emotions immediately overcoming him when he saw the worry on Rimbaud’s face. “I know that it’s probably a lot for you to take in, and that’s totally fine; take your time,” he said with such a gentle voice that Verlaine felt slightly warm at the familiar tone. Slowly, Verlaine nodded, doing the exact same thing he did fifteen years ago; it felt natural. Back then, he had indeed been feeling very confused with the surroundings and Rimbaud himself. Now, though, his heart and emotions were a mess, completely overwhelmed with the situation.
When Rimbaud stepped away to give the other some privacy, Verlaine almost reached out, afraid of his ex-partner disappearing again. Yet, Rimbaud stayed in that same room without a hint of fading away, so Verlaine relaxed. He used that moment to collect his emotions. Because of the ability user Taylor, Verlaine was thrown back into his past, in one of Rimbaud’s first journal entries. If he remembered correctly, then he would only be in the past for a specific time before he had to return to a newly formed present if there were any changes. Even just the slightest slip of the tongue could create a completely different route. And yet, did he really want to leave without changing anything?
Sighing quietly, Verlaine pushed himself up from the bed he had been lying on. Even though Rimbaud clearly noticed the movement, he remained still, a cup of coffee in his hands as he stared out of the window. He looked so peaceful, and Verlaine couldn’t help but look at the gentle smile he hadn’t seen in years. They both stayed silent for a while, Verlaine looking around the room and Rimbaud standing by the window. Then, the first change happened. It wasn’t that Verlaine didn’t see the notebook fifteen years ago already, but this time he knew what it was and its importance. He stepped closer, unable to resist the urge, and ask, “What is this?” Sure, Verlaine knew the basic answer already, yet he wanted to hear it from the past Rimbaud himself.
Upon hearing the other’s question, Rimbaud turned to look at what Verlaine was referring to. As he took in the question, his shoulders tensed slightly. Despite the uncomfortableness Verlaine saw on the other’s face, Rimbaud still responded, “This is what I like to call a journal or a diary. In it, I write about what happens day by day.” His shoulders relaxed, and he stepped closer to take the notebook in his hands, the words Rimbaud’s journal not present on the front cover. “Most of the time, this kind of stuff is kept hidden from anyone else because the content is personal, but for my journal, I expect to give it to someone when they’re ready,” Rimbaud said, a warm smile spreading across his soft features.
Verlaine’s heart ached as he took in the information. In another lifetime, Rimbaud would’ve been able to give the journal to the person, yet it wasn’t the previous one, and it wouldn’t be the current one.
“Nonetheless,” Rimbaud spoke up, clearing Verlaine’s thoughts, “we have to get going now. I’m sorry, it’s probably a lot for you right now.” Verlaine returned to the way he acted back then, shrugging in response. At that point in time, he had felt a lot of emotions, too, but they canceled each other out, leaving him to think he felt nothing. Thus, he didn’t care about where he was going, either. For a while, it had been like that, not caring for anyone or anything. That, however, was in the past, Verlaine had changed and so, instead of blindly following Rimbaud out of the door without looking back, he now observed the room once more, treasuring the memories he had tried to bury all those years ago.
“Let’s go,” he said, stepping out of the room and leaving the notebook on its own.
<><><><><><><>
Everything went around the same as Verlaine remembered, the previous conversation about the notebook entirely forgotten. Even though he felt grateful for being able to see Rimbaud again, he still had grown to hate the French Government for taking away his freedom and for almost taking away Chuuya’s childhood. After a long day, both Rimbaud and Verlaine went to sleep, the former explaining the importance of sleeping to the other. Verlaine just shook his head with a smile before stepping into his own room. With his eyes roaming around, he let out a shaky breath. The room was very familiar to him, and he had spent both good and bad nights in it, the place buried in memories. When his back hit the bed, he could feel the exhaustion and tiredness taking over him. After all, he suddenly time traveled to the past within a few minutes, although it felt like so much more. All that was added onto an already exhausting day that Verlaine remembered having fifteen years ago.
However, unlike the sleep he expected, it was just pitch-black darkness surrounding him. Then, it felt like he was being thrown back, letting him vomit black liquid as he clutched his chest tightly. It wasn’t a dream, Verlaine knew. In his whole life, a dream never once occurred in his sleep. The stuff happening to him was far worse than a nightmare could ever be, his organs felt like they were being pulled out. Everything turned to black, his hands, his legs, his arms—and perhaps even his eyes, although he wouldn’t be able to notice. It felt suffocating. His head was spinning, memories and headache mixed with dizziness. Despite the torture Verlaine had previously gone through, this just felt as bad; he was feeling sick.
After what felt like hours, he could finally open his eyes properly. He didn’t even have time to acknowledge his surroundings, his vision blurry and his head spinning as he got up from the bed in a hurry. Every once in a while, he stumbled over his own feet while making his way to the bathroom, which location he didn’t even know of. Upon arriving, Verlaine threw himself over the toilet, the green liquid coming out of his throat immediately. Unlike in the void, his vomit carried a regular color instead of a black one. His throat hurt from all the coughing; his head hurt from not being able to focus. Both carried the aftermaths of the—dream? Thing?
It had been a while since Verlaine last felt this awful. Even as his coughing stopped, he felt utterly disgusted at the mess he had created. He left the bathroom with a flush of the toilet, instead collapsing on the bed. When he turned around to face the ceiling, he first only saw stars, but after they faded away, he quickly noticed something else; this wasn’t the bedroom he fell asleep in last night. To not collapse again, he stood up slowly, then looked around. Other than the beige-colored walls he remembered, these were completely white, even with the dimmed light. That was another thing; he didn’t have curtains in his usual room.
But then, Verlaine remembered. This was from a few days before they went to take Chuuya away—a few days before everything went south. By then, he had changed the way his hideout looked, letting Rimbaud paint his walls and add a curtain to also newly built windows. With that came the realization as to why Verlaine was there; this was one of Rimbaud’s other journal entries. As far as he could remember, his ex-partner—at that point still partner—was not far from him, on his way to the other’s hideout. Verlaine had the urge to get up and do something but decided against it, finding it unreasonable. Instead, he looked at the time to figure out when he would have to expect a guest. The clock read ’17:18’, shortly before Rimbaud came over to celebrate Verlaine’s ‘birthday.’
Sighing quietly, he sat back down, dizziness still slightly clinging onto him. As he sat there in silence, he considered the possibility that his feeling ill was a side effect of the time travel ability. After all, he just jumped between months again. Groaning, Verlaine wanted to fall back on his bed again, but then he heard a knock on the door. Just like he had expected, Rimbaud appeared not long after. What was new to Verlaine, though, was the way Rimbaud’s facial expression changed, his face displaying worry while holding a hand out to touch the other’s forehead. “Are you okay, Paul? You look so pale,” he asked with such concern and care that it left Verlaine speechless for a moment. However, he quickly regained himself, asking, “Why are you here, anyway?”
With a warm smile, Rimbaud held up the wine in the air, attempting his best to hide the present. Verlaine just sighed at that and opened the door wider to let the other in. "Can’t I just visit my partner without a reason?" Rimbaud asked as he sat down on a chair, placing the wine on the table next to it. 'He really is a bad liar,' Verlaine thought while his eyes softened. Rimbaud’s intentions were clear, but Verlaine went along with them. Even back then, without all those memories, he sensed the lie instantly, yet didn’t care too much about it. This time, however, he sat down with a softer expression, noticing the way Rimbaud seemed a bit more excited. Fifteen years ago, Verlaine had missed that detail, now he noticed.
“I got you something for your birthday,” Rimbaud started as he placed the hat on the table. In response, Verlaine raised his eyebrow, pretending he didn’t know what the other was talking about. Upon seeing Verlaine’s invitation to continue, Rimbaud leaned his head on his hand while saying, “A birthday is to celebrate the day someone is born. I know you don’t have an official date where you were born, but I decided that it’s today.” He pushed the hat toward Verlaine to take, which the latter picked up almost immediately. Various types of emotions washed over him when he traced the Rimbaud written inside the hat. It had been a while since he last held that piece of fabric, considering it had been passed down to Chuuya. His ex-partner went on about the functions the hat possessed, but Verlaine let the voice blur together in his head, focusing more on the thing in his hands.
“Thank you,” he breathed out when Rimbaud finished, his voice merely above a whisper. As soon as Verlaine looked up, he saw Rimbaud’s eyes widen, expression unreadable. ‘Did he not expect this response?’ Verlaine wondered in his head. After all, fifteen years ago he had just shrugged it off, and they spent the rest of the night drinking wine peacefully. That must’ve meant Rimbaud expected Verlaine to react that way, considering he hadn’t been surprised about it. However, the way Verlaine reacted this time wasn’t the way Rimbaud had expected it to go, thus he was quite shocked at the response, but in a good way. After recovering from the shock, he smiled at his partner fondly.
Upon seeing that familiar fond smile, Verlaine felt his heart ache yet again. Obviously, he had been enjoying the other’s company a bit more than he did back then, appreciating the things before they were gone. Yet, he also knew it’d come to an end the following day; the day they freed Chuuya. Despite the regret, Verlaine had felt about doing things he hadn’t done before, they were all minor and couldn’t trigger big changes. After all those years, he’d still help Chuuya escape, even if it meant turning his back on his partner. For now, all he could do was live on and enjoy the bit of time they had left together.
“Don’t thank me for it. Happy birthday, Paul. I’m glad you were born—and I’m so glad I got to meet you,” Rimbaud said softly, pulling out two glasses to fill them with wine.
Verlaine froze.
Memories from that moment started washing over him, the words feeling too familiar. At that moment, realization finally settled in his gut. Nothing would ever change. No matter what he did, it’d all end up the same way. Although Verlaine had gotten the chance to change the past, it could never affect the future. Frustration filled him. Obviously, he had known it’d end, yet the realization never hit as hard as it did now. Looking at his favorite wine he had been drinking from time to time after Rimbaud’s death, he grabbed a now-filled glass of wine, drinking the contents in one go. If Rimbaud noticed the change in the other’s behavior that night, he didn’t comment on it.
<><><><>
After a while of them drinking, one more and one less, Rimbaud guided Verlaine to his bed, the latter not completely sober. With a small laugh at his partner’s carelessness, Rimbaud left him alone, returning to his own home. As soon as Verlaine heard the door shut, he groaned while looking at the ceiling in silence. Although he wasn’t completely sober, he also wasn’t really drunk, considering his high tolerance. However, that left him with the thoughts he was trying so hard to suppress. While trying to bury his face into a pillow, Verlaine could feel a new dizziness and headache settle in. At first, he had shrugged it off, thinking it was from drinking too much, but then he also started to feel nauseous, with a liquid present in his throat. Then, he threw up. Instead of the usual green that the vomit should be, it was black.
It was then that Verlaine realized he wasn’t in his hideout anymore. Everything swallowed him in pitch-black darkness. ‘Not this again,’ he thought as he started struggling to breathe once more. His consciousness from the drinking cleared, replaced by the crushing headache he received from the stuff around him. When Verlaine tried to get up, he got pushed against a wall. Then, he realized, ‘Wait, a wall?’ The last time he had that happen to him, nothing quite physical hit him. Now, however, Verlaine felt something behind his back, and when he opened his eyes, he saw white. In a distance, he could hear a voice, too, but it was all blurred together, making it difficult to hear the contents of the words.
“Paul!” Upon hearing that familiar voice, Verlaine tried to focus, even when his head only hurt more. “We need to hurry, otherwise we might get caught.” With a tug on his arm, he got to his feet, being pulled along. After walking for a bit, Verlaine actually recognized and remembered his surroundings. They, as in Verlaine and Rimbaud, were in the military facility, on their way to rescue Chuuya. “Are you okay, though, Paul? You suddenly collapsed,” Rimbaud shouted a little without turning around, although there was worry in his tone. Verlaine just shrugged it off, fighting the nauseous feeling in his throat. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” he replied, quickening his pace in order to match Rimbaud’s. With that, he saw the other’s worried expression melt into a small smile.
It didn’t take them long to reach the glass cylinder that Chuuya was in. Verlaine felt himself inhale a sharp breath when he reached the boy. “Paul, what’s wrong? This child is Prototype A2-5-8. There is no question about it. What are you waiting for?” Rimbaud asked as he stared at Verlaine who had suddenly stopped reacting. Shaking his head, Verlaine did the same thing as last time, replying with, “I know.” In a matter of a few seconds, the glass shattered, revealing a boy that was sealed inside. After picking him up, Verlaine and Rimbaud rushed out of the base as quickly as possible, enemies already on their way to hunt the intruders down. As they were running, the distance between them grew bigger. When they reached an alley, Verlaine stopped, forcing Rimbaud to stop as well.
“What’s the matter, Paul?” Rimbaud turned around. “Hurry. The enemy is catching up.” The other remained silent, lips pressing into a thin line. His heartbeat quickened as he thought of what to say. “I’m not giving this child to France,” he settled with, thinking that the following deja vu felt sickening. “What?” Rimbaud exclaimed as he looked at Verlaine in confusion. “I’m not giving him to anyone. He won’t be going back to the research facility, either. This boy is going to grow up in a quiet countryside village somewhere in secrecy, never having to know what he truly is.” Word for word, Verlaine let history repeat itself, finding nothing he could say instead. “No step closer,” he already threatened before the other even had a chance to act.
“What are you talking about?” Rimbaud spoke up again without moving an inch. “This child should be taken care of and educated by“ “-the government you say?” Verlaine interrupted him. Frustration rose in Verlaine once more as he realized that nothing was changing at all. “God, Rimbaud. Why is it all the same, why will it always be the same? I don’t want Chuuya to live in that hell-hole of a government where I had to grow up, but I don’t want to fucking lose you again, either. All of this pain is only for me to probably go the same way and end up alone again. You probably think I’m crazy, and honestly, I can’t blame you, but it’s not like it matters anymore.” Without a chance for Rimbaud to cut in, he could only watch when he saw his partner raise his gun.
“I’m sorry, Rimbaud, again.”
This time Rimbaud’s back wasn’t turned, and his eyes were filled with more confusion than before, yet they seemed even sadder. “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” he shouted at the other while warding off the bullet Verlaine had fired. “Please explain it to me, Paul!” A bitter laugh rang through the air. “I wish I could, but I can’t. Nothing ever changes, anyway.” Another gunshot was heard, the subspace of Rimbaud growing. “Then I will wait for you to explain it to me someday! After this all has ended, I’ll wait for the words you can’t yet say.” There weren’t any more words to be exchanged, the battle deciding it all. Just like last time, Verlaine left after “winning” the battle, leaving behind a “dead” Rimbaud.
“I promise, Paul.”
<><><><>
A cold wind blew by as the two shadows stood in front of the unmoving body of a person. “It’s over for you, huh,” one of them said, hair colored orange. The other just smiled lifelessly, their coat swinging through the air. Then, the body coughed. “I suppose so, not that I had thought of anything else. Everyone dies sometime after they’re born, after all,” they breathed out with some of their last remaining strength. “Hah,” one of the shadows laughed, “you sound like Dazai when you say it like that.” Glaring playfully, Dazai just replied, “Chuuya, that’s rude, you know? Don’t you even have sympathy for the dead?” Chuuya sighed and returned his attention to the person on the ground. “Do you have anything else to say, Taylor?” The child, Taylor, just grinned at that without any emotion, “No, I’ll gladly bleed to death here alone.”
Before Chuuya could end the girl’s life, he noticed a red cube forming in front of his eyes.
“Wait!” a voice cut in.
At that, all three pairs of eyes turned toward the direction where the voice had come from. Out of the darkness appeared another person, cubes in their hands. “Randou, what are you doing here?” Dazai asked with a knowing smirk. Calmly, Rimbaud took another few steps forward until he was in front of the others. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Taylor on my own,” he simply responded, gaze remaining on the child. After a bit of silence passed by, he added, “I’ll make sure he’s dead by the end of it, don’t worry.” Skeptically, Chuuya looked at Rimbaud and was about to say something, but instead, Dazai grabbed the other’s wrist, dragging him away. “We’ll get going then. Don’t torture Taylor too much, bye-bye!” With a protesting Chuuya at his side, Dazai left the place, leaving only Rimbaud and Taylor behind.
“What do you want from me? Do you really want to extend my suffering that much?” the girl asked, her blue eyes looking dead already. “No, I did not come here to torture you. Rather, I want to ask you a few questions.” Rimbaud sat down in order to talk better to the other person, expression neutral. Without hearing any other complaints, he continued, “Your ability is to send people back in time, correct? Most of the time those people don’t return to the original reality, because they’re creating a new, alternate one. Do you have any connections to yourself from other realities if that’s the case?” Taylor sighed upon receiving the question. “No, why would I? I can’t even travel back into the past myself.”
Having expected that, Rimbaud nodded, replying, “I see.” Then, he pulled out a notebook. He put it in the hands of Taylor, watching the way the other traced the letters and material. “Do you recall something like this?” At first, the girl wanted to shake his head, but then a scene replayed in her head, filled with voices without color. “But…it can’t be, I never remember stuff from different realities, especially when it’s still several years from now on,” she admitted, her hands shaking. Rimbaud smiled a little upon having his theory proven correct. “You are most likely connected to the other realities in some way. Based on what I’ve heard, you don’t age either, correct?”
Taylor remained silent, either because a response wasn’t needed or she didn’t have the energy for it. Thus, Rimbaud continued on his own, “You also said it’s several years from now. Do you know when that’d be?” The girl held up a few fingers before realizing some had been torn up in the progress, so she lazily replied, “It’s seven years from now.” Afterward, silence settled in, spent with Rimbaud processing all the information, while Taylor waited for her death. Then Rimbaud noticed something. “Why are you telling me all of this? I expected at least some kind of protest against all the questions.” In response, the girl just shrugged.
“I don’t have anything left to lose. I can’t even remember being born. All this time, I’ve been searching for a purpose to live, but there is none, I shouldn’t have been born in the first place.”
Sympathetically, Rimbaud smiled and bent down in order to pet the other’s head. “Everyone lives for a purpose. Just because you haven’t found it here doesn’t mean you won’t find it anywhere else. After all, you’re linked with your other selves. Perhaps you can find some peace with them in a way,” he whispered calmly. Then he added, “Either way, you deserve to be born just like everyone else, even if it didn’t go as usual. Being put under this pressure can be tough, so it’s understandable for you to feel this way. Don’t let it get to you, all right?”
Laughing, tears left Taylor’s blinded eyes. “I’m not the first one you told this, right?” To that, Rimbaud let the silence answer the question, too deep in thought about a certain person. Then, he withdrew his cubes, and the child immediately coughed. “Good night, Taylor. May you have better luck next time.” It didn’t take long for the girl’s time to completely expire, her eyes closing with a smile. After getting up, Rimbaud looked over the place once more and removed his journal from the girl’s bloodied hands. “So I was right after all. I’m sorry it had to end that way last time. I won’t let it happen again,” he whispered to a person that wasn’t there as he looked up to the sky.
The next day Rimbaud left the Port Mafia.
<><><><>
Shortly after Verlaine rushed off, he could feel the dizziness come back, quickly overtaking him. At that, his knees went weak, letting him drop to the ground and cough. Suddenly, everything was spinning around him. He reached for the ground in an attempt to steady himself, but his hand touched nothing and instead pulled him along for a fall. Despite having gone through that kind of stuff twice already, it didn’t make this time any better. Other than usual, though, he didn’t vomit, not even feeling slightly nauseous. Even then, his body was as weak as ever, and his head hurt more than a hammer smashing through it would. Gasping for air, he breathed in the darkness around him, infecting his lungs. As a response, the lungs hurt so that Verlaine could do nothing but cough his heart out, nails digging into his palms at the pain.
The process repeated itself before finally he got the chance to breathe properly. As he took the deep breath he had been wanting, he opened his eyes fully and stared at a ceiling—a familiar ceiling. It took him a while for the information to settle in, considering the headache and dizziness clouding his consciousness. However, when he did acknowledge his surroundings, he let out a big long sigh. Back he was, indeed. Verlaine would never forget the room he had been staying in for the past few years. The basement felt as empty as it always did, the broken chair still lying in a corner. “As expected, nothing changed,” he spoke to no one in particular, moving not a single muscle as he stared into the nothingness of the basement.
Perhaps it was destined to be that way. After all, Verlaine knew he hadn’t been the greatest person, Rimbaud deserved better than that surely. Even then, it all felt so wrong. Groaning in annoyance, Verlaine leaned back so far that he almost slid off the chair. His return to the basement probably meant that the situation with the ability users went smoothly. ‘How Taylor is doing I wonder,’ he thought as he mindlessly stared at a wall. Then, Verlaine remembered the reason he even managed to travel back in time in the first place. After finding the strength to get up, he walked toward the safe he had put Rimbaud’s journal in. While attempting to open it, his hands were shaking. Whether that was because of the time travel or the journal, he didn’t know.
Other than expected, however, the journal wasn’t there. Instead of the object that should’ve been lying inside, there was nothing. Verlaine looked around some more to no avail. Rimbaud’s journal was nowhere to be found, no matter how hard he looked. Exhausted, he let himself fall his a chair again, realization dawning on him. After all, this was a separate timeline, and it turned out to be pretty likely for Verlaine to not have gotten his hands on the journal of his former partner. Verlaine let out a shaky breath upon coming to that conclusion. In the end, he had even less than what he had started with. With his head turned toward the ceiling, he closed his eyes, feeling the headache and dizziness fade away. ‘At least I don’t have to throw up,’ he thought bitterly to himself.
Then, he heard steps.
As expected, Chuuya stepped through the door, wearing his familiar annoyed expression. Without a care in the world, he let himself fall on the ground, close enough to Verlaine. “The boss said something about a special person returning or something,” Chuuya sighed. “I wonder who is special enough to-" His expression melted into disgust. "Ugh, don’t tell me it’s that shitty Dazai. Then again, I doubt he’d come ever back, he also has no reason to.” Verlaine listened to the other ramble, not caring about the person in the slightest. It wasn’t uncommon for good and memorable people to leave the Port Mafia, only to return again because they couldn’t think of how to survive alone. Truly, it would be entertaining if Verlaine cared about those people.
Before Chuuya could talk about how useless some of the Port Mafia members were, the door opened yet again, revealing red hair. “Chuuya, I know you’re in here. The boss called you,” the owner of the hair said, it being none other than Kouyou. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Chuuya grumbled as he got up, dusting off his pants. Kouyou’s eyes switched to Verlaine who had been sitting on his chair the whole time, expression unreadable. “You come, too.” In a surprise, Verlaine lifted his eyebrows, “Me?” Usually, Mori let Verlaine do as he pleased. Whenever the boss had something to talk about, he came down instead. This was the first time he was called upstairs, meaning it was very important. ‘Does it have anything to do with the ability user?’ Verlaine questioned himself.
Following the other two executives, Verlaine looked around to see whether something else had changed. However, the number of strokes used in the paintings remained the same, just like the flowers in the flower pot near the entrance. Despite having not gone out much, he remembered the way the building looked before he traveled back in time. That was the only memory he could base the changes on. Shaking off his thoughts, Verlaine and the others reached Mori’s office. In it, they could already hear muffled voices, both too deep for Elise to have been one of them. Without hesitation, Chuuya knocked, the voices growing quiet inside. “Come on in!” Mori exclaimed cheerfully in response. At that moment, Verlaine didn’t pay attention to his surroundings in the office, considering he was only there because he had to be.
But then he heard a voice, “Paul, you’re here.”
Verlaine could feel his heartbeat ring through his ears, eyes widening. His eyes shot up to see the owner of the voice. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Yet, the person standing next to Mori was Arthur Rimbaud himself, looking fifteen years older than when Verlaine last saw him. “Chuuya, Kouyou, I’m sure you guys still remember Randou, or should I say, Arthur Rimbaud,” Mori said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Both Chuuya and Kouyou nodded at that statement, a bit surprised at the sudden name drop. “However, that’s not why I called you two here. I need your help with something else,” Mori’s gaze landed on Verlaine, “but you, Verlaine, are familiar with Rimbaud, are you not?”
Too shocked at the situation, Verlaine was unable to respond, letting Mori continue on his own, “Not that I’d know, but Rimbaud asked for you. I wonder how he knows about your location here, indeed.” Smiling, he got up, most likely knowing the answer already. “It doesn’t matter, though. Rimbaud, Verlaine, the two of you are dismissed. Kouyou, Chuuya, stay here,” he said, signalizing Kouyou and Chuuya to follow him further into the room while dismissing the other two. Doing as they were told, Rimbaud and Verlaine turned around and stepped out of the door. It didn’t take long for Verlaine to grab Rimbaud’s wrist and drag him downstairs to the basement.
As soon as they were alone, Verlaine turned around to look at the other with bewilderment. “Rimbaud, is this actually you? Why, no, how are you even here?” His voice was layered with emotions as he spoke; he didn’t even know what he was feeling himself. Calmly, Rimbaud sighed as he responded, “I know this is a lot for you right now, and I’ll explain, but calm down first, okay?” Smiling slightly, he gestured for Verlaine to sit down. While nodding, Verlaine sat down on his familiar chair, watching the way Rimbaud leaned against the table. After taking a few more breaths, Verlaine looked at his former partner questioningly. “You’re supposed to be dead, there’s no way it’s actually you.”
There was pain in Rimbaud’s eyes, he noticed.
“In a different timeline, yeah probably,” Rimbaud started, turning his head to avoid the other’s gaze, “but in this one I’m alive. Paul, for the last few years I have been waiting for the opportunity to approach you. Back then, do you remember what I told you?” The information was a lot for Verlaine to take in at first, considering he was completely thrown off by the whole situation. Obviously, Verlaine still remembered, for him, it was just a few minutes ago. Yet, the fact Rimbaud remembered was the shocking part. Not only should he have lost his memories of the explosion, but the incident was also fifteen years ago from his perspective. “You said that you’d wait for me to tell you what I was talking about, right?” Verlaine said hesitantly. “I never thought me saying that would actually have an impact.”
Rimbaud nodded in response, his eyes returning to Verlaine. “Back then, I was confused, but it sounded like you knew what was going to happen. That made me curious, and I wanted to understand you. Because of that, I started searching for the answers on my own after our battle. After a lot of digging, I found out about an ability user named Taylor. She was able to send people back in time. Then, years passed, and I ended up in the Port Mafia. In the end, I was able to talk to her, and she told me about what happened. You traveled back in time using my journal, didn’t you?”
Inhaling a sharp breath, Verlaine looked at Rimbaud full of emotion, finding it hard to process it all. “If you want to know, it was an accident,” he began, voice shaking a little. “I coincidentally stumbled upon Taylor, and she stole your book that I had in my hands. When I wanted to take it back, she and I locked eyes, and before I knew it, I was gone. Looking at you in the past hurt , you know? I thought nothing was going to change, anyway. I’d end up alone in the basement again, but now you’re here and I don’t know how to feel ,” his voice cracked at the last word. “After all, for the past six years, I’ve been living with the mindset that you were gone forever and I couldn’t do anything to show you how I felt.”
Now it was Rimbaud’s turn to process the information given to him. Softly, he looked at his former partner who seemed completely done with everything. “I died originally, didn’t I? That’s how you got ahold of my journal, and that’s why you’re feeling the way you’re feeling right now. I’m sorry, Paul. I probably made you feel even worse,” he smiled sadly as his gaze met Verlaine’s. The latter just laughed silently, “There you go again with your apologies. Why are you never mad at me? I messed up your life both times, but you always end up smiling and apologizing.” Seeing that, Rimbaud crouched down in order to look up at Verlaine. “Because I want to understand you, and because I,” he stopped for a moment, debating on what to say, “care about you. You’re way more important to me than you might realize.”
Silence filled the room as the former partners took in the words thrown and scattered between them.
Then, Rimbaud pulled the other into a hug. It was uncomfortable, considering he wasn’t sitting or standing properly, but it felt perfect for the two of them. Verlaine only leaned his head against the other’s shoulder, mumbling, “I’m sorry, too. Even this time I let you wait fifteen years for me. It’s truly pathetic.” He could immediately feel Rimbaud shake his head. “No, it’s fine. You read my journal, right? There’s a line I wrote that I still firmly believe in. ‘I would gladly walk through any hell for my partner’s sake. So long as there is a god in the heavens, this bond in my heart, and a future within reach.’ Nothing about that has changed.”
Verlaine laughed. Other than the bitter laughs he had let out before, this one was free, full of happiness and joy. As he pulled away from the hug, he smiled the most he had in his entire life. The emotion that had won over all the others was happiness.
“But tell me,” Verlaine began, standing up in a way so that he stood next to Rimbaud, “what did you do all those years?” At that, the other hesitated in his movements, a sad glint in his eyes replacing the warm smile. “I thought a lot about what you said, and I knew I couldn’t return to the French Government, so I went to Japan for the Port Mafia instead, considering I had heard of them getting access to some information rather quickly. For eight years, I stayed there, stuck in the research of it all. Then, seven years ago from now, the ability user Taylor appeared. She had that puzzle piece I had been missing all that time; it just made sense. Through some big incident, the Chuuya you were talking about was forced to join the Port Mafia, had to team up with Dazai, and defeated Taylor. Afterward, I went up to the child and asked her questions. I left the Port Mafia the next day.”
Amazed, Verlaine looked at Rimbaud with surprise. “You did all of that just because of a few sentences I said?”
“Precisely,” Rimbaud said as he turned around to walk toward the door leading out of the basement. Before long, his figure stopped in its tracks, head slightly inching to Verlaine once more. “But that’s in the past, isn’t it? For now, all that matters are the present and the future. Let go of your past grudges of yourself and live your life to the fullest.” After six stressful years, new tears finally left Verlaine’s eyes again. At first, he didn’t even feel or notice his cheeks getting wet, yet he felt so relieved . Despite tears bringing sadness most of the time, it felt comforting in this case. The warmest smile grazed his features, highlighting his sparkling eyes.
“Yes, I think I’d like that.”
Rimbaud returned the smile gracefully, taking a few more steps forward. “Also, a smile suits you very well. You should wear it more; it’s pretty.”
If Verlaine’s face reddened a little, neither mentioned it as they stepped toward a bright, new future.
Together .