Work Text:
when exactly did it start?
for vox, it starts two hundred years too late, in a spring that is filled with the scents of wisteria and sakura in the garden that he mindlessly tends to. he has tended to it for as long as he can remember it existing in his mind, two hundred years back with a boy of lavender and hyacinth, a glass smile and gentle, tender eyes the same colour as the sky, who had loved too much and loved too freely - his downfall in the end.
(the beeping of a heart monitor, the coughing of a boy approaching the end of his time, smile as fragile as the glass he shows up as in vox’s memories, nothing but fond affection and mundane experiences in his mind-
he’d laughed, then, when he’d grasped vox’s hands in his and pulled him in, eyes the same colour as the stormy sky outside, a boy of nature and sky, rain and time with all its soft glass and undulating memory.
will you cry when i’m gone, vox? he’d asked, voice as strong as it ever was, even as his grip was weak and shaky, the heart monitors crying out in shrieking tones as his heart rate rose, pulse rapid and stuttering, a rabbiting, senseless little thing in his chest.
vox had furrowed his brows, looked down at their connected hands, one set weak and thin, knuckles and veins prominent against paper-thin skin, the other smooth and supple, filled with an immortal life with magic buzzing below the surface of his skin. and he’d tilted his head, confused. ike’s smile had wavered like a mirage, for just a second, so brief that vox’s eyes might have imagined it, and he’d laughed again.
of course. ah- don’t worry about it, vox. pretend they were just the ramblings of a hallucinating boy, alright?)
there is a knock on the back door, then, and a head pops over the short fence that fails to keep everything but the next-door neighbor’s dogs out; purple hair and a cheshire smile, eyes curved into crescents, shikigami and magic swirling around him. his tattoos stand out dark and bleak against his pale skin, but vox’s lips quirk into their own smirk as he puts down the wreaths of flowers in his hands, gently runs his hands down the rough bark of the tree, and goes to open the gate.
shu yamino, a pretty sorcerer the same colour as the wisteria in his yard, all cheeky grin and slicked back, careless attitude, wraps him in a hug, his pulse strong and steady, the same way it has been for the last six hundred years, sparking violet between the exorcist and demon as shinto magic meets the skin of the youkai. he laughs, a high, clear sound as vox pats him twice on the back, awkward and stiff, before removing himself from the grip of the only man he’d call a friend and tilting his head.
“to what do i owe the pleasure, yamino-kun?” he asks quietly, yet fond. it’s been a few decades since they’ve seen each other, but shu’s bright eyes and brighter smile have not changed; in fact, nothing about him has changed but for the ring he now sports on his finger that drives a cold stake through vox’s heart.
shu grins again, all sharp fangs and mischief, and holds up his hand to vox. “saw you looking at this like someone had shot you. aren’t you glad for your old friend?” vox takes his hands in his own to look at the ring, a pretty silver band adorning his finger in the shape of vines curling upwards, each leaf accented with a diamond.
he lets a smile touch the edges of his face before he lets out something between a scoff and a snort. “it’s definitely gaudy, if that’s what you were going for.” his heart flutters in his chest, remembering the last time shu had visited him, haunted gaze and tear-stained cheeks, grasping onto vox with both hands, falling to the floor in the autumn garden of maple and ginkgo leaves, spilling boiling hot barley tea over the two of them.
instead, the sorcerer sighs, lovestruck and affectionate, and laughs; it sounds so high and clear, like nothing he’d ever been through had mattered to him. “i didn’t pick it this time, alright? luca did.”
vox raises an eyebrow, smile turning wry at the corners, lidded eyes as he prods his friend with his shoulder. they sit down on the genkan of his house, where vox picks up his green tea and takes a sip before turning his eyes back on shu. “luca, huh? that little kid that kept following you around all those years ago?” something twists in his expression, bitter and hollow, before he puts the tea down.
(shu, all sobbing and wailing, pressing himself into vox’s grasp, folding into the arms of the hungry wolf, fingers covered in dirt from scrabbling in a grave that was already bone-dry and devoid of life-
i have no one left, vox, i have no one left- he’d gasped, all purple tears that stained and sizzled against his flesh, so imbued with magic that it had left lasting scars on the demon’s skin, as if he could cry away his immortality, appeal his case before the gods with his tears, demand an explanation of what did you do to me?!
but vox had stayed silent, grip on shu so tight his fingernails had dug into the exorcists’s skin, staring numb and directionless into the distance as the rain started to fall lavender and the thunder had howled angrily and paper shikigami had fluttered all about them in frantic, distressed motions.
next time, he’d said quietly, whispering into shu’s ear- next time, shu, don’t fall in love.)
“no, no, that was someone else,” present-day-shu says cheerfully, twisting the ring on his finger and flashing another cheshire cat smile at him. “he’s perfect , vox.” a squeal that sounds like a schoolgirl looking at her first crush, or her favourite idol, and vox rolls his eyes, pouring shu a cup of tea that the sorcerer gladly accepts, before wrinkling his nose and putting it down. “never liked green tea,” shu says.
“what about… what about mysta?” vox broaches the subject carefully, quietly, watching shu like a hawk to make sure the sorcerer doesn’t fall apart in his hands, doesn’t stare longingly into the distance with prominent cheekbones and bony fingers because he hasn’t been taking care of himself.
the pretty, mysterious kitsune youkai with mismatched eyes and nine long, pretty tails. a tenko with an extended life that had died so very human, in such a human way, with folly and carelessness following his footsteps. the sound of a car, the screams of the break, the beeping of the heart monitor that folds ice over vox’s heart, crashes and clangs discordant over his bones and makes his breath shudder in his lungs the same way ike’s heart had stuttered to a stop-
did you love him? why did you love him? why can you continue to love? i don’t understand, shu. i don’t understand humans, i don’t understand their souls. i don’t understand you. oh sorcerer blessed by the moon, i don’t understand how you, in all your power, are just as fragile as the humans. they burn so bright, they burn so fast, they burn so beautiful; how do i grieve for someone i didn’t know? how do we grieve, when we have seen so much?
shu freezes, and the cheshire smile fades from his face as he grips the cup in his hands, the air shimmering with smoke as time briefly warps around them. the shinigami flutter frantically, nestling against vox and shu’s necks, in his hair, in the hood of shu’s jacket, before it resumes around them in linear fashion. but vox had noticed, in those fleeting moments, time with all its glass memories and second chances. how foolish, to believe glass soft and capable of holding memory, and shu, ever the attentive one, even as old grief and older grievances appear like ghosts and phantoms across his face, smiles.
“of course i loved him, vox,” he says simply, as if slicing through the gordian knot in vox’s stomach was that easy, as if moving on from the crushed, broken mess he used to be was that easy. on his left hand, on his pinky finger, is a ring made from living wood that vox knows very well - shu had carved it from the sakura trees in vox’s garden, fashioned it into a ring that blossoms just once a year - the night of their anniversary, and refused to take it off since then whispering that it was a reminder - a curse, a punishment, for falling in love.
and that was that, and vox had never expected him to fall in love again. shu laughs bitterly, then, twisting the silvery ring on his finger. “i loved him so much that it hurt, burnt through my skin like fireworks and gunpowder. vox, sometimes, i still smell cinnamon and chocolate on the wind.” another smile that looks wrenched from his face, guilty as his grip on the cup tightens. “you know, i would be lying to myself if i said part of this wasn’t to forget.”
he touches the ring on his finger, twists it around in his hands until the glittering diamonds have disappeared and the pretty pink flowers of the sakura have begun to bloom, covering his pinky finger in pink blooms of bittersweet nectar and origami birds blessed with life by the sorcerer of the moon. “isn’t that selfish?” he asks tearily, voice catching in his throat all thick and muffled, a pathetic thing just as bittersweet as the sakura flowers adorning the wooden ring.
vox pulls him closer with his tail, nestling it against shu’s hands, letting the sorcerer run slim fingers through the fur and scales, iridescent scarlet with prismatic colours. shu’s fingernails clack against the scales as he does.
“then… do you love luca?” asks vox, staring with curious eyes at the boy beside him, just barely three hundred, the last surviving member of the yamino clan, whose ancestors had hunted the great flame of the east and shot him out of the sky, falling, as destructive and beautiful as a constellation as he burned and returned to earth, an imprint of the stars in scars over his chest that ike had marveled at, traced fingers down as reverent and gentle as how he’d handled the bird with a broken wing they’d found in the rain one day.
(oh , are you alright? ike had cooed, picking up the bird, small enough to fit in his hands, a little thrush with its wings twisted and caught in terribly cruel wire.
vox had snorted flame into the darkening sky between them, illuminating the pale brown of its feathers, frowning. ike-
and the novelist had spun around, flashing eyes daring the demon to say no, daring him to ask ike to return the poor little thing to the rain and cold. we’re keeping it, he’d said in a flat, tense tone, as close to angry as vox had ever seen him, and spun on his heel, continuing their walk back to the house after dinner.
i was just going to ask you if you were sure, not to put it back down, he’d said gently once they got home, watching ike tend to the bird with such gentle care and love, feeling strange and floaty, drawn away from his body.
ike had contemplated the question, before answering. well, if i were in trouble, i’d want someone to treat me as gently as that. then he’d smiled. humans are fragile, vox-dono. if i were to break, i’d want someone to treat me as kindly as this.
then he’d looked at vox with an odd, indecipherable look in his eyes. if i broke, would you take care of me like that?
vox had snorted again, the barest tinge of fire in the room as they turned off the lights, ike tucking himself into vox’s hold and quietly staring with eyes lit up like the stars in the dark.
he’d scoffed, turned away. it’s my responsibility, isn’t it?)
vox’s heart stutters in his chest at that, frowning at the sudden memory. shu sighs, waiting patiently, as he always had for the demon’s memory lapses, retreating into himself at the slightest push of the past, broken glass reflecting nothing but his years and years of memory, all dulled at the edges, some splintered so small he can’t remember them-
“welcome back,” he says, another grin on his face as he waves. “what were you thinking of?” vox echoes shu’s sigh, rests his weight on his hands as he leans back, and stares at the sunlight dappling their faces, thinks about the fire in his heart and the stars seared into his flesh that ike had loved, and runs a hand through his hair. “was it that novelist, again?”
vox blinks, looking at the ground, taking a sip of his tea only to find, in dismay, that it’s gone cold. he puts it down just a little too close to the edge of the genkan , before he takes one finger and touches the lip of the cup, pushing just a bit-
green tea splashes across the floor, soaking into the dirt beneath them, at the patch of queen anne’s lace that ike had insisted the plant. “i was- reminiscing about him, yes,” vox says. shu laughs, a pretty sound in the empty garden, and gently flicks vox’s forehead with his fingers, eliciting a grumble from the elder.
the young sorcerer lets a shikigami flit through his fingers, watching them fondly, before he speaks again, shattering the peace and the uncertainty in vox’s heart. “sometimes, i wonder if you’ve just never been in love, or if you’re too in denial to see it.”
the words rustle uncomfortable and sharp around vox’s throat, piercing his skin, the scarlet ropes around his neck, crashing like ice through his lungs, freezing his breaths until the fire is gone and all there is left are unanswered questions and the arcaea of glass and memory that pretends to console him, soft and wavering like ike’s voice always was, and the alveoli have sprouted into fuzzy white dandelions. love . shu’s voice reverberates in his mind, bitter and skeptical, and for the first time in a long, long time, the flightless phoenix of ōma, the voice demon, feels the cold shiver of fear all throughout his body, a neverending shudder that starts from the top of his long life and ends in the present, colouring every memory a stained, camellia wilted red.
love , the thing that brought mysta and shu together. love, the thing that had broken them apart. love, the thing that has brought shu a lover of gold and amber, of childish innocence and sage wisdom, the bright and beautiful thing that is luca kaneshiro shimmering powerful in shu’s immortal soul, so clearly that vox can see the boy in his mind.
but love will also break this relationship apart in time. shu’s love, as strong and unending as the tides, will carry them to the far shores of the west, where a spirit that vox knows well is waiting with scarlet butterflies and broken wings, bare feet and blind eyes, where shu will hand him off personally to the lonely, lonely spirit of death. and shu’s love will destroy him, tear his immortal soul to pieces, rend it so cleanly in half that he will return to vox, all tears and misery, fall into his grasp and sob out-
i have no one left, vox, i have no one left-
love is a blind and beautiful and foolish thing that flutters like a trapped butterfly, that shu has grasped in his hands and nursed and nurtured, the same way ike had nurtured the fallen, flightless passerine, the same way ike nurtured his relationship with the hungry, starved wolf, a fragile bird nestling, unafraid of irs snarling fangs and claws-
love is a broken, shattered thing that vox has neither the time nor desire for, as he watches it break his friend over and over, comforting him through each heartbreak with an ever more bitter heart, vowing never to fall, never to care, even as it sinks its claws into him through the bright gaze and nimble fingers of a novelist, fascination-interest-infatuation in eyes the colour of the sky brimming with hope and curiosity for the world around him. curiosity-fondness-affection for the pretty gardener who insisted on nurturing trees where they didn’t belong, even through his allergies, thrusting a bouquet of sakura and wisteria into vox’s hands with a giggle- you look silly, vox-dono! tolerating-caring-███-
vox lashes out as the tapestry of memory and glass fractures and splinters, shards of porcelain flying as his hands catch the handle of the tea set ike had gifted him, sending it crashing into the wood, shattering and breaking apart as tea drains onto the genkan , splattering onto vox, onto the floor where it joins the fallen cup in seeping into the roots of the pretty white flowers dotting the garden.
(ahh, that one’s called queen anne’s lace, also known as wild carrot flowers, ike had retorted, a cheeky grin gracing his face. vox had raised a lone questioning eyebrow.
feel free to check the flower encyclopedia over there, he’d said, a challenge in his voice like he dared vox not to believe him.
there’s no point, he’d huffed instead, sitting down across from the hospital bed that ike frequented so often it had become his personal room.)
he’s always dreamt of bringing ike flowers rarer than the ones he’d pluck from the park and hand-deliver to the hospital room where he was staying, if only to watch his eyes twinkle and shine with mischief as he’d rattle off the name by heart to perfection, having memorised every leaf, every flower that he could get his hands on, could lay his eyes on. and when he was released from the hospital for a brief, painfully short time, they’d planted the garden in his backyard where the sakura and wisteria only took root after he’d died, fresh and pretty against the cold gray headstone of the boy made from flowers and fragile glass, broken lungs and manic memory.
“do you know how he died, shu?” vox says, suddenly. the sorcerer, waiting patiently with magic buzzing between his fingers, staring at a wet spot on the wall where shards of porcelain and dripping tea have left their mark - suddenly starts, purple drifting in flames to curl into his hair as the magic dissipates, exorcisms and curses falling from his lips in silence as he attempts to mend what is already broken.
shu places the repaired cup back onto the genkan , fingers shifting around the cup as he curls his fingers around it, but remains quiet, gesturing for vox to go on. the pretty flowers on his pinky finger are already beginning to wilt, their time having long past, the same as mysta and shu’s, fleeting and beautiful, never meant to be; the love of an immortal and a youkai, the love that currently exists between the sorcerer of the moon and the human of gold and amber.
“fatal familial insomnia.” vox plucks a handful of flowers from the ground before blowing them from his hand, scattering them to the garden in full bloom that houses nothing but memory and misery of a boy with summer-soft eyes and dark circles under his eyes that only got darker as time went on, as vox visited, despite himself.
unable to sleep, unable to dream, caught on that tantalising knife’s edge between awake and asleep and always pulled back before crossing the horizon - ike eveland has cut himself on that knife more times than vox can count, waking up, crying, pulling him near, sobbing, weeping- i can’t sleep, vox, i can’t-
he had always been a dreamer, stars in his eyes, the world in his gaze, gentle as he nursed the thrush to life, mischievous as he’d named flowers, hurt as he’d asked questions that vox had no answers to, noncommittal answers and vague responses. but in the end, as he languished, as he saw things that were not there, as he forgot the flowers and the sky and the boy of nature became nothing but a shell of his former self, a husk of memory, a temple to the reminiscence of things long past, to lost joy and missing happiness- had he been able to dream? as his eyes fluttered shut, as he’d mouthed something vox would never get to hear-
the only thing that still haunts him two hundred years later in his dreams, ike eveland with flowers blooming from his eyes and throat, mouthing words that are still as silent as the first time he’d heard them with a smile on his face-
did he dream of the flowers in the garden, of the pink and purple blooms and the little dragon curled up amidst the blossoms, snorting flame with iridescent scarlet scales, did he dream of the feathers of the thrush against his fingers, of how he’d cheered and cried as it had flown away, how despondent he’d been when vox had turned away, relegating him to a responsibility? did he dream of the stars seared into vox’s skin, of brushing his fingers across the constellations of the youkai of the east, the god-fearing demon from ōma, and kissing each and every one, quiet love and reverent passion, murmuring- they’re so pretty- you’re so pretty-
had he dreamed of a secret he’d kept for his entire life that he’d mouthed as he was dying?
(fingers caressing against his cheek as the heart rate monitor began to slow, his breathing deepening. the sound of his laughter weak and strained, like he’d forgotten how to, deep dark circles under his eyes, sharp cheekbones and cracked lips-
hey there, stranger, he’d whispered, and then he’d mouthed-
you look pretty. if i knew you, i think i’d love you.)
shu’s fingers brush against vox’s cheek and he starts, a gasp in his chest that feels like a knife, the old wound from so long ago, a katana run through him by someone he’d deluded himself into believing was an enemy, the star-blessed silver of an arrow shot by the ancestors of the man sitting across from him, the dying words of a boy who now lives with the cheeky tenko on the other side of the river where the butterflies dance and weave around reeds and fields of flowers- and they come away wet, with shu’s own eyes mired with emotions vox cannot understand.
“you’re- you’re crying,” shu murmurs; vox’s own fingers come away wet and salty when he touches his face.
and it’s days of shock, weeks of silence, months of sitting in front of a grave, years of forgetting, or trying to forget, and it’s centuries of remembering. something about how the mundane is beautiful, about how the transient and fleeting is precious, something about how the brightest stars fall the hardest, and ike eveland was certainly a star, a boy of starry silver and the colour of the sky that fell so fast and so hard that he burned himself up in the process, laughing and shining with the soul of a fallen constellation in his chest, as bright and clear as the sound of his voice. it’s a dam that bursts too long held back, but the tears are silent with nothing but regret and realisation, the crystallisation of a lifetime’s worth of sorrow, a lifetime of curiousity-fondness-affection-love-
he laughs, instead, and it is a thing of wretched bitterness, a writhing storm in his gut that has been building and building and building, roiling scarlet in his stomach where the fire should be, that all explodes into a laughter that is sharp and cynical, sorrowful and too late. “isn’t it silly, shu?” he asks through tears that still flow unbidden and unwanted, emotions that crash against his bones one after another, leaving him shaking, trembling, weak with the force of it, hitting him like waves eroding the shore.
“i barely knew him- i spent only twenty years with him, why-“ he swipes the tears away, but more keep coming, and the dappled sunlight reflects across the tears like shattered glass and fractured memory, and in every droplet he sees ike eveland’s silhouette, the pretty boy of nature and broken time that told him i love you as a stranger when it was far too late for them-
he clings onto shu, wound so tight he might explode, grip bruising on his friend’s wrists as he asks- why does it hurt so much?
“because you loved him,” shu replies simply- and again, like it’s so easy to cut the gordian knot, like it’s so easy to sort out the virulent sorrow and bitter hostility in his heart, to label it with an emotion such as love ; vox denies it even as he knows it to be true.
the sorrow of the voice demon is thick and cloying, and it smells like pills and prescriptions, rotten flowers and brown feathers, ink and paper, barley tea and strawberries. it sounds like whispers of i’m sorry, i’m sorry as he curls up in his friend’s hold, desperate, frail hope that it was all a dream- that he can wake up from it and see ike standing next to him with eyes the colour of faded wisteria and a summer-soft smile, looking at the flowers in the garden even as his mind slips from its tenuous hold and he forgets, forgets his name and his surroundings and calls him stranger, i love you- the way vox will never hear it again-
he crumples against his friend as, for the first time, shu has to comfort the youkai, the dragon, the powerful demon reduced to something so very human.
i love you, he says, but it’s far too late.
the little lark will never sing again, the pretty novelist will never write again.
———
omake::
it was a few years later when vox decided to visit ike’s final resting place, the soft scent of spring flowers filling his nose and bringing him places, bringing him memories that he did not, or could not want to retain. memories of ike’s cheeky way of addressing him, his straightforward way of answering vox’s questions, offering a solution that no one else could. ike’s sunshower way of comfort, shredding his worries like one would tear paper.
it was an arid spring day, the cold and harsh winter melting away to the more welcoming hands of the spring wind. in vox’s mind, he was silent. even now, he didn’t know what to say to the boy with a summer soft smile and wilted wisteria eyes; centuries later, with ike long gone, and he was still nervous.
“hey ike, it’s me, vox.” he stopped there, wondering what he was to say to this piece of rock that was ike’s only remembrance. “sometimes, i wonder if you’re still dreaming. if you’re making up for lost time.”
“if you’re swimming with whales with bellies full of stars, if the water is warm, if you’re happy. once, i wondered if dying was the better option, if only so you could stop suffering. does that make me a bad friend?”
then he paused, fiddling with his fingers, brushing them lightly down the headstone as he sat down in front of the grave where they’d buried ike after the funeral, his mother weeping openly; no mother wants to put her child in the grave before she goes.
“i miss you, but what am i supposed to say to someone who’s like you?”
and that was exactly the question that had been on his mind ever since he’d stumbled back to ike’s grave, whether by pure accident or fate, vox didn’t know. and although ike had left countless conversations, questions, and promises in mid-bloom, like the premature sakura and wisteria blowing in the gentle spring wind against the grey of the headstone, vox decided that in the end, he preferred to leave them untied and unanswered, as strings that he pondered upon from time to time.