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There is a thing dripping water on the floorboards of the Hatsudai Catholic Church of Tokyo. A halfling creature skulks between the pews, scrubbing flecks of dried blood from the white marble floors, resisting the temptation to swallow it instead of washing it down the drain in the church showers.
Nobody knows it is there save for a single person. Pastor Provencher knows that a man hides away in this holy place whenever darkness falls over the city, though the thing doubts he knows what kind of man it is.
As a half-ghoul, there are few places in Tokyo that would provide for Amon Koutarou. He had more than enough to eat, since he devoured any member of Aogiri Tree that found him and there were many. He had clothing because corpses do not miss their possessions like the living do and stealing from them is not a crime.
However, he had no money and many enemies, making finding a place to sleep, hide, and shower nearly impossible.
Originally he had slept outside, in warehouses, in forests, and in gutters. He had rested during the day and fought his nights away. He hadn’t cared about the slick feeling of blood sliding and drying under his nails and in his hair. He hadn’t cared to try to look normal. Instead, like an animal, he would eat, sleep, fight, repeat.
Eventually however, the burden of his new existence became too heavy for him to rest. His kakuja grew and developed, curling over his back like a shell and arching outwards in pairs. He had never had the luxury to see it in a mirror, but his reflection in still water and the eyes of his prey told him he was reminiscent of a dragonfly.
The wing motif was a morbid reminder of the One-Eyed Owl, the ukaku ghoul who was used to remake him. Faintly, he wished that his status as a half-mistake would’ve granted him a replacement arm instead of the illusion of flight.
Unfortunately, his kakuja was not the only thing that advanced in strength. The mouthfuls of rotten meat he devoured seemed to be poisoning him. They made him see hallucinations reminiscent of his torture, things he hadn’t seen since he was last called Floppy.
These visions were dangerously distracting. They became more and more lifelike with each sleepless night and lulled him into a false sense of security, false strength, and he was sure they’d be the end of him.
Eventually, the night came that he awoke coated in gristle and marrow. He had no idea how it had happened or what he had done. The illusionary figures in his mind tried to soothe him, telling him that no good tastes lingered between his teeth, that it was fine, he was fine. With a sickening jolt, Amon realized he was falling prey to the same thing Eyepatch had.
Back then, he had ripped Eyepatch out of his haze, had stood superior and whole in front of him. Thinking on it that night, Amon felt the weight of his hypocrisy settle around his neck as if it were a collar.
Desperate to shake himself free of the voices that followed him, Amon had run for an hour to the water’s edge, peering at his own reflection.
No man looked back at him.
A thing with matted hair, gore-smeared skin, and a crazed gaze bared its teeth from the water’s surface. Eyepatch had never fallen as far as him, even though the version of him Amon constantly saw out of the corner of his eyes said otherwise.
A combination of shame and fear had driven Amon to seek asylum. Those emotions still drove him. He had skulked into a gym at midnight and showered away the decaying remains of his battles, tossing his only clothing into a dumpster.
Luckily, he had managed to scavenge a sports bag and clothing that only managed to fit him because he was missing a limb. Dressed and looking almost-human, Amon had been hit hard with the fact that he couldn’t revisit that place and had nowhere else to go.
Old habits and still-burning candles had guided him to the catholic church. His hallucination had placed its hands on his back and had pushed him forward when he reached the gates. Amon remembered responding to it, terror staining his voice, saying,
“I can’t go in there. Not like this…not with what I know.”
The illusionary man, never fully materialized or easily spotted, had spoken directly into his ear in a chilling tone. It had whispered,
“There are no sins that cannot be washed away with blood. Enter and confess.”
And dug its black fingernails deeper into his skin.
Similar to a lost child, Amon had obeyed its urgings, and had heaved open the great oak doors. He had nearly tipped himself over, unused to compensating for his body’s uneven weight when performing menial tasks.
By the time he had righted himself, the pastor was before him, extending a fatherly hand. He had introduced himself as Provencher and Amon had lied to him, begging to enter a confessional.
The church had become a place he visited nightly with the same excuse on his lips. Through his fumbled attempts at spilling his sins, Amon slowly came to realize he only regretted his past actions. The past was deeply personal to him; his actions as an investigator were telling and he had not wanted the pastor to see the man he had been.
Amon might be a monster now, but his eyes were open and he could not bear the idea of revisiting his ignorance. He only owed one person that conversation, and it was not the pastor.
Due to this, Amon had floundered night after night, unknowingly revealing himself to be a man tortured by the burden of punishment. The pastor knew what good men looked like when they had performed acts of evil.
He had seen men return from wars with hard hands, eyes, and mouths. He had brushed against their soft hearts and knew them for what they were.
Amon clearly had no place to stay. He was blatantly hiding from something, perhaps himself, and the church was his sanctuary. Knowing what he did, Pastor Provencher had acted as he knew God willed.
That night and every night afterwards, Amon Koutarou locked up the church for him. He had offered a lonely man deliverance, had pled the blood for him, and gave him sanctuary in the form of a rusted key ring and willful ignorance.
After dozens of failed confessions and nights spent trying to look a holy man in the eye, Amon found himself with shelter. It had been hard at first, letting himself shower away the vestiges of his enemies in a church. It had been harder still to sleep there, haunted by the echoes of his childhood and the unjustness of his current situation.
Still, it came to be that his body finally found rest and the hallucinations retreated until they were simply odd bulges in the wallpaper. He never used the kitchen and he wondered if Pastor Provencher noticed. If he does, the man has given no indication of it.
Comfortable somewhere at last, Amon gives himself over to thought. He plans, exercises, and studies Aogiri Tree. He dreams of the people he needs to apologize to. When she comes to him, Amon treats Kurona’s wounds there.
Finally, these days he finds himself leaning his head against the smooth stone pulpit and praying for the strength to go on.
He was in the midst of that when a cool breeze brushed over his neck.
~~~~~
Amon’s body tensed in preparation for battle. He knew that the pastor would not return to the church past midnight. Provencher’s wife would never allow it, especially because she found it difficult to sleep without his body next to hers. Amon figured that he wouldn’t be safe at the church forever, however he had hoped he wouldn’t ever have to kill in a house of God, tainted as his faith may be.
He began to twist his body like a serpent, readying himself to strike the moment he laid eyes of the intruder, when a sweet scent flooded his senses and drowned out his thoughts.
Delicious. It smelt delicious, mouth-watering, like the cinnamon-dusted donuts in the 5th ward shop that had been closed for years. An intense pang of longing left his mouth damp with drool and his kakugan throbbed.
His kakugan. Oh Lord, that meant this person was a human. How could one person smell so appetizing? What was wrong with him?
“Err…hello. I apologize about coming in so late.”
This stranger’s voice was softly hesitant though they sounded surprised. It was also achingly familiar, causing a feeling of nostalgia to snake into his hunger, enhancing it like a fine spice.
“I was just passing by…I live here, in the first ward I mean, and couldn’t help but notice that there was someone here.”
That sounded a bit like a lie. Amon had only left a single candle burning on the dais. He had not wanted to be noticed here at such a late hour.
“I felt compelled to come here, to seek solace and company in prayer, to bring peace to my heart.”
The speech sounded practiced and the speaker’s voice wavered awkwardly. Amon heard the man clear his throat and suspicion bubbled in his heart, tempered only by the fact that this person’s voice pulled at him pleasantly.
“I…oh gosh this is embarrassing. What am I doing? I shouldn’t lie to a pastor.”
The man in the doorway mumbled. He sounded so much like Eyepatch when he talked to himself like that. That thought nearly caused Amon to face him, but there was this lingering sense that something was off that stopped him.
“You see, I was actually hoping nobody was here. That sounded creepy, didn’t it? Ugh, give me a moment. I…I didn’t want to be around people praying with clean souls and good intentions. Regular churchgoers. People who aren’t like me. I’m ashamed of myself and why I’m here.”
A blanket of silence fell over the church as Amon awkwardly tried to think of what to do. He couldn’t allow this maybe-stranger to see evidence of his ghoulish nature although it looked weird that he hadn’t turned around. It would look even worse if he started talking without changing position. However, it was also rather strange of him to not reply at all.
While he tried to think of a good excuse to leave, Amon was startled by the footsteps of the mystery man approaching him. He could feel the heat of his presence, could pinpoint his location by the odour and texture of the air, as his guest settled in one of the front-left pews by the wall.
It was oddly polite of him to not question Amon’s unmoving form, kneeling at the pulpit, but Amon wouldn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth.
“Could I…could I also have a clean conscience…?”
The unknown person wondered aloud. His tone was troubled under a veneer of genial good-humour, almost as if he were joking.
Guilt drew some sort of answer from Amon, an affirmative hum that did not allow his inner turmoil to show. The stranger laughed a little at that, humming to himself thoughtfully while he ran his fingers over the wall. There was a painting of the Passion of Christ there and Amon could hear the paint catching underneath their fingernails.
“In Catholicism one can free themselves from sin through confession, right? Though I don’t know if I can confess…I could tell you why I’m here. Would that suffice, Pastor?”
That wistful style of speech, the desperate loneliness of it, the buried sadness, was so strongly reminiscent of Eyepatch that Amon’s hunger abated. In its place arose reminders of Amon’s own longing and the sprouting of a few seeds of doubt.
Confessions were best performed without eye contact. They would allow him to continue hiding his kakugan without causing undue suspicion.
However, Amon had the terrible feeling that he didn’t want to hear this man’s story. He had always wanted to converse with Eyepatch, but this man’s queries alerted him to what felt so wrong. His words lacked conviction.
It made Amon feel ill that the universe chose to tease him with the situation he had most greatly desired only to steal it away from him. Still, he was used to betrayal now. Used to hope taunting him. His safety came before his satisfaction. Knowing this, he swallowed harshly, giving his answer.
“Yes, my child.”
The paint on the walls continued to chip away as the stranger clenched his fists.
“Well, let’s begin then.”
~~~~~
“As far back as I can remember, I’ve had nightmares. The same nightmares. Usually, they can be suppressed with sleeping pills and…other things. Recently though, I keep waking up screaming. I don’t want to disturb everyone else in my household by being loud at night, however this is getting ridiculous.”
The man rants, the troubled quality of his voice growing quickly.
“I’m uncomfortable with them hearing me yelling. I mean, haha, they are probably going to think I’m scared of spiders or something else in my room. I can’t have them thinking I’m a coward can I?”
His humour was awfully forced, but Amon didn’t comment on it. Both Seidou and Shinohara used to find comfort in turning their fears into jokes. Amon could understand the urge to bury your negatives underneath a positive for someone else.
“They already think I’m a loser because of the puns.”
Puns? Amon’s eyebrow twitched in amusement.
“I need to be a good squad le- ah, I’m sorry, I’m going off track.”
A pause followed as the stranger collected his thoughts, scratching at the wall.
“I’m lying to you again. It’s…it’s a terrible habit of mine."
He admitted, sounding uncomfortable.
"Let me start again: I’m having nightmares and I feel like I can’t fall into them at home. I am afraid of what the others will think if they know what I dream about.”
The scratching noises finally stopped. Amon was a bit grateful that the confessor had stopped damaging the church, however he wasn’t sure what they were doing with their hands now. His answer came in the form of the man’s muffled voice,
“My night terrors are intense. They are so vivid that they feel more like memories than dreams. There is a teenager in them, though he looks more like a monster than anything else. His hair…and hands…his feet…he’s bound to a chair. He looks like he’s been suffering since birth. That twists people, you know?”
Amon did know. His breath lodged in his throat with how well he knew.
“He speaks to me. He tells me that I am weak and that my weakness prevents me from protecting the people I love."
He drew a heavy breath (Amon drew one too).
"Sometimes he floats like ether around me and I hold my breath so I don’t breathe him in. During those times he tells me that I am hollow, an empty shell, and that he is meant to fill me. I can FEEL his fingers digging into my skin when he asks for his body back, hissing words of revenge, retribution, and revolution into my ears."
He could nearly hear it too with how vividly the stranger described his dreams.
"It makes my skin crawl. Everything he says is so compelling, but when he speaks it sounds like rustling and chewing and it’s just so wrong! Even though he seems to be a boy his body makes this scuttling sound when he moves and I’ve seen his eyes flicker red when he puts on his mask. I can’t trust him!”
Horror laced his voice. The words seemed to tumble from his mouth and past his hands like an unstoppable waterfall, carrying in them the quality all dark secrets have.
“What’s worse is that he looks like me. I’m a person without a past, see? I can’t remember the first twenty years of my life. I don’t want to. They said that I shouldn’t."
They? Despite himself, Amon found himself intrigued.
"I don’t want to think that he could be me. I don’t want that to be true. However, each and every night my fears seem to fuel him. He comes to me more often when I deny him and I can’t stand it when he cries like the whole world has ended and he’s the only man left alive!”
He sounded so tired, similar to a soldier returning home after a long battle. Amon heard the rustling of clothes and discerned that the stranger had curled in on himself.
He began hyperventilating, causing Amon’s heart to feel like lead in his chest.
“I…I’m a ghoul investigator. I believe…in the tenants…I have been entrusted with. I will not…cause undue…harm. I am an investigator. I have a team that…needs me.”
Was that mantra some sort of breathing exercise? It seemed to be calming his visitor down. The words seemed eerie however, making Amon shift uncomfortably.
Shakily, the man returned to his story, seemingly forcing himself to recover. Amon could hear his plastic smile and could smell the salt of his feverish sweat.
“The man in my dreams…I am positive he is a ghoul.”
The question rose unbidden to Amon’s lips. He couldn’t resist its pull and opened his mouth, uncomfortably shifting his tongue past the drool that continuously pooled.
“How do you know this?”
A sharp exhale told him that his curiousity was alarming to the man in the pews. He began scratching at the paint again as he mulled over Amon’s query, seemingly at a loss for words.
“I spoke to him…not too long ago. I…he asked me not to erase him. He was just a child. Seeing him like that made something echo inside of me and I thought that I really was hollow. Then, his eyes reflected the light and shone red."
He hesitated for a second in which Amon heard him lick his lips.
"Just like mine. May I share a secret with you, Pastor?”
If this fragile creature wanted to tell him something, Amon certainly wasn’t going to stop him now. His story was beginning to enrapture him even as everything he read between the lines cut him to the quick. He murmured,
“Do not fear divulging your secrets. God will not judge you for attempting to repent.”
Like glass shattering, a strained chortle crackled through the air. The stranger wheezed a little, speaking into his fists,
“How can I repent for being part-monster? I am a half-ghoul, though through what means I do not know. The CCG made me into this…at least that’s what I think…I’m not really sure. I am man-made, but him, he’s been like this since he was young."
Why did those words stink of denial? Of familiarity?
"That means he was always like this, right? He’s a true ghoul…truly not human…he’s not like me. His hair has been white since childhood and he has those black nails. Mine is growing out. He’s not like me. He’s always been a monster…hasn’t he?”
Panic was beginning to crawl over Amon’s skin like insects. He resisted the urge to scratch until he bled, chewing on his lip instead, ignoring the desire to bite down further. He didn’t heal as well as he should, barely healed at all really, and so couldn’t risk damaging this body further. It would only intensify the hunger lingering in the back of his head and behind his pulsing eye.
If the person behind him was who Amon thought they were…if the boy haunting their dreams was the same one that lingered in his, then the answer to the confessor’s question was “no”. The stranger seemed to sense his rumination and loosed a despairing groan.
“I’m wrong aren’t I?”
Though it was uttered quietly, the man’s words travelled easily through the still air. The statement was oddly powerful. It carried a note of conviction.
“There’s always another piece to the puzzle, but I don’t want to solve it. I don’t want answers. However, I teamed up with him anyway. I let this creature hang like an albatross around my neck and remind me of the sin of ignorance. Now pain deeper than the sea, pain I’ve never known, never wanted to know, haunts me all the time.”
If it hurt so badly, why was there relief in this man’s voice? Did he feel more at ease with pain than without it? Was Eyepatch’s life so full of hurt that it shaped his very being?
“He’s not always a child when he comes to me. The child was a trap and I think…who I am is dying. It feels like the world he sees is infecting me, demanding something from me, but…all I’ve ever wanted was to be happy."
Amon's chest ached terribly (all he'd ever wanted was a place to be).
"Why…can’t I be happy? Why can’t I save him; why does he still watch me like he’s waiting for me to die? Not even in my past did I have respite.Why does he have to be me!?”
The question was like a punch to the gut. It called up a thousand memories, times that Amon had asked “why me, why is it always me?”, periods during which he wanted to turn his face away from the truth of the world so he could be…happy.
Ignorance was bliss. This world had a disease that knowledge couldn’t cure.
Amon would die fighting against it. He had the sinking feeling that this stranger would too.
Stranger was the wrong word. The crumbling husk of a man behind him, though he was not Eyepatch, was definitely a piece of him. Disturbingly, the person haunting him was also Eyepatch, his dark past hanging off of the near-stranger like a mantle from a king.
There was a pang in Amon’s chest as deep and heavy as the starvation curling his tongue. No matter what or who they were, he and Eyepatch were helpless in the wake of this wrong world.
~~~~~
Dry laughter rang out from the pews. It echoed around the empty church by itself, no other sounds joining it as Amon forgot how to breathe. The heaving cackles grew thicker and wetter. A creaking sound was soon followed by the noise of flesh on stone and the laughter evolved into sobs.
“If he’s a ghoul, so am I right? Riiight? Really a ghoul, not some grand person who decided to become one for the good of humanity! I have these urges that none of the others do!"
A growl ripped from the man's chest. It was feral and tantalizing.
"You smell amazing to me, you know!? I want…I never wanted to think that a human would taste delicious! Even though I can control it, even though it’s only a little tempting, this craving never really goes away. I know what I am and I’m only doing alright because of the suppressants and the meat they FORCE-FEED ME.”
It was awful that the man sounded most human, most present, when he was burying himself in the throes of hysteria.
“I UNDERSTAND THE GHOULS WE TAKE DOWN IN THE STREETS, EVEN THOUGH I’VE KILLED HUNDREDS OF THEM!”
A scream of frustrated anguish sent a shiver up Amon’s spine. His missing limb ached, a constant reminder of his last moments as a Dove.
“I feel like I’m a murderer and I’m afraid they’ll dispose of me if they know. I’m dreading the day everyone I’ve ever known leaves me. I was born three years ago with nothing and no one. How am I supposed to live!? I don’t want to be alone…I don’t want to be…”
His teeth were creaking but Amon couldn’t ease the tension in his jaw. Everything this man said…it resonated with him. It also coloured in his grey memories, painting a vivid picture of the ghoul he had once battled with.
However, it also solidified the existence of the man crying in the pews. He wasn’t only a piece. It was cruel to think of him that way. He was another self; just a few years old.
Amon’s own hallucinations had been sweet to him. They had guided his footsteps, herding him away from blind power, and they had kept him company during his torture. The version of Eyepatch he had seen in his lowest moments was one that edified him.
The Eyepatch that he knew was a man who struggled against the current no matter the cost. He was a survivor that never broke his creed. Amon felt ashamed of his hunger in front of him. When he had thought of succumbing to torture, he had worried it would disappoint the ghostly figure that kissed his lips with melancholic affection.
Amon tried to pick apart the things torturing the person who had entrusted so much to him. He genuinely wanted to help him. He hoped he could say something to soothe his anxiety.
The visitor’s visions of the man who gifted Amon with strength pushed him down and made him weak. Amon wondered if the almost-stranger was simply dreaming of the times that Eyepatch had been lost. What he saw could be the fragments that splintered away during Eyepatch’s torture.
Perhaps it was the Centipede that rustled, rasping deep inside this man’s ears? Or maybe…he was seeing his own self-loathing. His doubts, his wounds, and his sadness from the past had manifested into what he feared most - himself.
“Oh God…”
The man sniffled in disgusted amusement.
“And now…oh God…and now he’s trying to comfort me. White carnations, forget-me-nots, and, of course, asphodels are lying at my feet. Mistletoe is growing over the door. The rest of the floor is just a sea of azaleas, birds-foot trefoil, and plumeria. I can’t believe a hallucination is trying to tell me to forgive myself for being a coward.”
A single sentence fell into Amon’s mind like drops of warm water. More than Yasuhisa ever could, this man and Eyepatch understood him. And, as if it were that same water, tears began to gather in Amon’s eyes. His vision blurred and his kakugan burned horribly, however he could do nothing to prevent silent heaving sobs from escaping him.
It looked like blood was falling from his right cheek and he realized that the man behind him also looked like this when he wept.
He wasn’t alone.
~~~~~
Flowers that symbolized deadly regret, revenge, repentance, faith, innocence, and new beginnings bloomed in Haise’s hands, obscuring the tear drops that rained down there. Many of their meanings were not comforting, but the white-haired boy had never shown him beautiful things before.
Haise watched as a patch of carnations blossomed, flickering out of existence as Kaneki Ken took its place. He shook his head, his white hair falling away in a storm of petals that faded slowly from white…to black.
Suddenly, a black-haired teen was sitting next to Haise in the pews. His smile was melancholic, though it was soft-edged and sweet. He reached out to Haise, wiping the dampness from his face with a gentle hand. Then, without any pretence, he inclined his head towards the shaking shoulders of the pastor.
When Haise’s eyes widened and he failed to move, the hallucination’s expression flickered darkly, like a mask had been placed over it. His nails pricked into Haise’s forearm while he dragged him a stumbling step forward, letting him see the tears hitting the floor before the pastor’s lowered head.
Haise’s heart lurched uncomfortably inside his chest. He hated making other people suffer, yet this man’s tears were moving. He barely noticed as the flowers filling the church wilted into ash, caught up as he was in his thoughts. Haise couldn’t believe that there was such a deeply empathetic human in the world. It was amazing that there was someone who could cry over his struggles.
Awkwardly, Haise picked his way over to the stone pulpit where the pastor knelt weeping. He extended his hand, attempting to make some gesture of solidarity, and hesitated. He had always wanted contact…something normal…something human. This man…would let him, wouldn’t he?
Haise reached out again, this time settling an arm over the pastor’s shoulder, intending to pull him into his embrace. As his arm slid downwards however, Haise felt an abrupt ending to the man’s skin at his shoulder. The pastor was missing an arm.
Sharp black talons curved into his collarbone as the Centipede perched upon Haise’s shoulder. His fallen hands, released in surprise, were seized by the black and white versions of Kaneki Ken. Centipede’s head descended upon him from above at the same instant the two Kaneki’s peered into his face.
Haise’s heart thudded in his chest and his mouth went dry. All of their faces were filled with fervent joy.
“Thank God he survived.”
They whispered in unison, something wild and possessive in their tone. Haise jolted fearfully as they reached out to the pastor and his own hands joined them. An intense feelings of gratefulness was washing away his terror and he struggled against it. He felt his knees hit the floor just as their combined arms wrapped around the only man they all knew.
Unbidden, an idea wormed its way into his brain. He knew that he himself had thought it, but he also knew it was the source of the frightening desperation in every version of himself he could see.
I wonder if this man will accept me.
I wonder if he’ll accept us.
Bile rose in Haise’s throat as Centipede ran his hands over the stub of the pastor’s…
Amon Koutarou’s…
He shouldn’t know that name.
He shouldn’t…
Over Amon’s arm.
Haise, looking for comfort and to comfort, gently turned Amon’s body to face him.
All of him bore witness to the glowing red kakugan and the haunted hungry look of a starving ghoul in Amon’s stare. Exhaustion bled off of the former-Dove. His shirt was torn in dozens of places, concealed under the dark cloak he wore, and it was soaked in what smelled like kagune fluid.
He’d been eating ghouls then?
Centipede purred at the idea of another kakuja. The white and black Kaneki’s murmured,
“Of course. Amon-san is stronger than the Tree. It’s good that he hasn’t hunted any humans.”
Haise felt more worried than they seemed to. He could see the glitter of madness in Amon’s kakugan (that also shone clearly in the white-haired boy’s). This man was entering the slow downward spiral of insanity through his avoidance of good…food.
Two black-nailed hands joined two clean ones on the collar of Haise’s pinstriped dress shirt. Together, they made quick works of the first four buttons.
Alone, Haise gazed into Amon’s eyes, thrusting the shirt open and downwards to expose his collarbone and shoulder.
The black-haired teen whispered in his ear,
“You chose well. That’s the same shoulder I bit into. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”
Amon’s face grew wild with restraint and tension. He looked at Haise pleadingly, lifting a hand to push his shirt back up. Smiling genially, Haise uttered the only thing he could.
“Eat.”
~~~~~
Visibly distressed, Amon lurched forwards, wrapping his arm around Haise’s waist and pressing their chests together. He wanted to ask so many questions, about the past, about now, about this, but instead he leaned into Haise’s warm skin and took a bite.
Haise’s fingers curled and uncurled against Amon’s back. Pain was swamping his senses along with a tingle of perverse pleasure. Amon’s hot breath fanned across his torn skin, causing his eyes to flutter shut.
He could feel the new half-ghoul’s heartbeat against his chest and the press of the silver cross he knew to hang there. A hazy sense of protective adoration crawled into his belly, feeling new and nostalgic all at once. It scared him a little, and so Haise opened his eyes.
His half-lidded gaze was met by that of a human standing in the back entryway of the church. He was tall, white, and wearing a pastor’s garb.
He didn’t look surprised.
In an instant, Haise knew that this man was the pastor, come to check on his favourite guest.
Centipede still rode upon his back and he rattled out,
“Amon is the only one who will understand us.”
The white-haired Kaneki pressed a cold hand into Haise’s spine, just underneath Amon’s warm one.
“Protect this man, please. Protect him. Save him.”
A veil of knowing fell over the pastor’s face and Haise found that he couldn’t look away from him. He clutched Amon closer to himself, shivering at the groan he received for his ministrations.
The black-haired Kaneki floated into view, superimposed over the pastor’s frozen polite smile. His grin was sardonic as he cracked a finger, dissolving and reappearing behind Haise. Gently, he placed his hands over Haise’s eyes.
While all he could see was darkness, Haise spoke in a voice that both was and wasn’t his. Like he was speaking to a lover, he cooed softly into Amon’s hair.
“Amon Koutarou, I never told you my name. I am Kaneki Ken…and Sasaki Haise.”
Amon cried out against his shoulder, trying to pull back, trying to control himself. Haise ran soothing hands over his back, drawing aimless patterns in a sightless world.
“You don’t need to be scared anymore.”
Haise couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear either. Eventually, he could no longer feel his fingertips tracing over battle-worn skin.
Though his senses were numb, Haise still knew one thing with certainty.
With conviction.
“I’ll protect you.”