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There is a shadow. Its face has been lost to time, and its voice fades with each passing day. It still does not leave Mushitaro's side, haunting every move he makes with a dogged determination he can't bring himself to fathom. It whispers false promises into his ear, it hovers on the edges of his field of vision, and no light he possesses is strong enough to banish it.
It was once called Yokomizo. Now, he isn't sure what to call it.
Rain is hurling itself out of the sky, too ferocious for the drops to be musical, but Mushitaro focuses all of his attention on the rhythmic thumping regardless. It is in the corner as always, speaking softly to him, and he can't afford to spare it so much as a glance. Giving it attention only encourages it, so Mushitaro presses his face to the window, relishing in its cool caress, and focusing all his willpower on absorbing the sights and sounds of the rain outside.
It takes a step forwards, hand reaching up and stretching out towards him. Mushitaro squeezes his eyes shut so tightly they hurt, attempting to block any awareness of its presence out.
It doesn't take his attempt at ignorance lying down. It never does.
Mushitaro can sense it. He knows it better than he knows himself. It moves closer, closer, until he becomes aware of its breath tapping the back of his neck. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, he doesn't move an inch, but neither does it.
"Mushi-kun," it whispers slowly, drawing the word out as its hands creep onto his shoulders, gripping them tightly. He can't help the way he tenses up as the shadow becomes all too real for a moment, its grip just as unshakable as it is.
He's not really here, Mushitaro tries to remind himself. It's just a poor imitation, a toothless copy.
However fake it is, it knows its succeeding. He can't see it, not that he can ever see its face, but he knows it's grinning. Its hands remain locked in place, its breath keeps ghosting over him, and-
The doorbell rings, easily slicing through any other noise hovering in the air. The rain is silenced for a moment, and it is, too. It retreats reluctantly, and Mushitaro finds himself able to breathe once more.
He doesn't get up immediately, despite knowing who waits on the other side of the door. He keeps breathing slowly, brows furrowing in determination as he prepares to leave the shadows behind.
"Mushitaro-kun."
The voice is soft, and unlike its voice in every way, but he still flinches at the similarity of the words Poe speaks. Mushitaro has to fight to tear his gaze away from the window to allow it to fall on him, hovering awkwardly on the threshold of the room as if he doesn't own this house.
"I don't suppose you could get that?" he asks quietly, gesturing a thumb towards the door. "I think it's-"
"It is," Mushitaro answers shortly, getting to his feet and striding from the room, purposefully ignoring the corner where it is lurking still.
The door to Poe's house is just as ridiculously impressive as the rest of it is - intricately carved wood towers high above him, with almost aggressive detailing on the doorknob. Mushitaro's hand lingers on it, just for a moment, before he yanks the door open.
Ango is standing sullenly on the doorstep, clutching an umbrella in one hand. Mushitaro can't see his shadow, or at least, not in the way he can see his own. He doesn't think even Ango can see it like he does his own, but he certainly senses it. The shadow's influence over him is easy to note. Dull eyes, messy hair, and dark bags under his eyes, though contributed to by the demands of his work, are all exaggerated by the all-consuming nature of the shadows.
Mushitaro probably doesn't look much better, but he can't look in a mirror anymore without it creeping up behind him, so he's not entirely certain.
He doesn't say a word of greeting, and neither does Ango. Instead, Mushitaro slips out of the house, pulling the door closed behind him, and setting off down the driveway. He relishes in the icy cold shock of water against his skin, the feeling bringing him out of his head entirely.
Normally, Ango doesn't make an effort to catch up to him right away, but today he does. He holds out the umbrella wordlessly, and Mushitaro joins him under it just as silently. The break in routine isn't commented upon, just as the routine never is.
Mushitaro can't pinpoint the moment their meetings became regular, an expectation rather than a hope, but he's secretly glad they did. Cooped up in a house constantly takes its toll, and only aids his shadow's growth, but Ango can banish the shadows, if only for a little while, if only by being a distaction.
After all, Ango knows the shackles of a shadow just as well as Mushitaro does. He may be the only one who does.
⋅───⊱ ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ⊰───⋅
Every step is achingly familiar as they walk in tandem. They've taken this path through everything from unbearable heat to raging storms, not once giving up their routine for the weather, so the rain clattering down all around them is no hinderance.
The silence between them persists, but it always does in this stretch of the walk. This is the part where their shadows seem the heaviest, only strengthened by the presence of another victim to the darkness. The silence is a pause, a momentary wandering of their thoughts, rather than an awkwardness hanging between them.
Mushitaro's thoughts twist and wind, allowed to roam in the lack of conversation, finally, and perhaps inevitably, landing on Yokomizo. Not the shadow of him, not the it that lurks behind him, but the living, breathing, light that he was.
He thinks the rain reminds him of his laugh, but he doesn't have the faintest idea why. However much he strains, he can't conjure the sound within his head.
Was it musical and light, uplifting the entire room it was in? Or did it linger just that little bit too long? The truth is that he'll never know, and that wound certainly cuts the deepest.
As Mushitaro stares down at his shoes, once pristine and shiny, but now dullened by age, and he contemplates being real. He watches the ripples that bloom in the puddles from his steps, he wriggles his fingers and toes, and he wonders what makes him real at all. Is he somehow more real than Yokomizo because he persists still? He certainly would never have been considered more real when both of their hearts were still beating. Yokomizo was the one with the promising future, the one with something to offer the world, and Mushitaro was the one slowly getting left behind.
Is it as real as Yokomizo was? It looks like him and it talks like him, so what's to distinguish the two from one another?
Can a shadow ever have as much impact as the light?
Mushitaro peers at Ango out of the corner of his eye, that final question still echoing in his mind, bouncing off the walls of his skull. As if sensing his gaze, Ango looks up, and their eyes meet.
It's a break in routine; they don't speak, and they don't even look at each other. Not here, at least. That doesn't come until later. However much a breach of normalcy the action is, it somehow doesn't feel wrong.
Quite the opposite, actually.
Mushitaro doesn't tear their gazes apart. Ango's eyes seem to say more than words even could - they're steady and reassuring all at once, an unspoken promise of something. He wants to fall into them, to be engulfed by them entirely.
He doesn't need to look away, however, to sense that they're approaching their destination. He knows the path well, and soon enough he's forced to turn away from Ango, to face what they've both been heading towards.
The cemetery tends to be quiet during the times of their visit, devoid of people other than themselves. Even now, Mushitaro has to pause to take a deep breath before he steps inside. Ango doesn't rush him, he never would, but he instead presses the umbrella into his hand, before striding away. He doesn't flinch as the rain begins to strike down upon him, just makes a beeline for the grave that he is here to see.
Mushitaro traces his fingers over the handle of the umbrella, feeling strangely warm at the gesture. He can't continue delaying the inevitable, though, so he picks his feet up, and begins to move.
His steps are burdened by reluctance as he makes his way over to the grave. He can pinpoint it immediately, even from far away, as if his eyes are drawn to it, even in the sea of other headstones.
His heart sinks as he is once more confronted by the reality of Yokomizo's resting place, for there are already flowers choking the headstone, placed there by the many fans of his work. They should be a gesture of remembrance, but in his eyes, they're just litter. None of them even knew him, at least not personally.
Mushitaro sometimes wants to yank them away from the stone, wants to throw them into the sun, wants to scream that he knew him better than any of them ever did.
Isn't it better that he is loved still? a part of Mushitaro whispers. That he won't soon be forgotten?
It doesn't feel that way, not when his grave itself is another painful reminder of all that Yokomizo was. Mushitaro wants to kick the headstone down, wants to pull him from the earth and scream right into his stupid face. He wants to make him regret everything that he did, and everything he made him do in turn.
But he also wants to press himself into the ground above where he lies, wants to trickle down through the soil and finally reach him. He wants to lie beside him, wants to stare into his eyes one last time, wants to remember him in all his glory. The desires clash in his chest, freezing him with indecision. All he ends up doing is standing there, staring bitterly at the stone.
"Those are some silly thoughts, Mushi-kun."
Mushitaro's heart clenches when he realises that it is back. It's right behind him, he can tell it's smiling sweetly, and in that moment all he wants to do is turn around. He wants to feel its embrace, even if it's just a shadow of what used to be.
"I'm right here," it tells him softly, reaching out and taking his hand. It's cold, shockingly so, but he finds he doesn't mind the sensation, not when it's coming from him. He stares down at the hand weaving its way through his own, and his head itches to turn, to finally face it.
Before he can make a choice in either direction, the sound of footsteps slice through his thoughts. He glances up, spotting Ango picking his way through the headstones, and over to his side. Distracted from his mind, Mushitaro is able to yank his hand away from its, and he finds himself letting out a breath of air he didn't realise he was holding as he moves to meet Ango.
It lurks behind him still, but he tries to forget it, tries to focus on what's before him.
"Are you okay?" Ango asks with a frown. He wouldn't be asking if Mushitaro looked as he always does on their visits, just weighed down by regular grief; he must be able to tell that something is up.
Mushitaro is struck by a strange desire to tell him about it, to confess to the shadow that haunts his every move. Something about the way Ango waits, patiently, not expectantly, makes him want to tell him everything.
He opens his mouth, but what comes out is entirely different to what was in his head, the fear choking up his words. It could even be due to its presence poisoning the interaction, so he just keeps talking.
"Yes," Mushitaro lies. "Let's keep going," he adds hurriedly, nodding towards the exit. Though Ango's eyes narrow, not buying his words in the slightest, he returns to his spot under the umbrella, and allows the matter to drop.
⋅───⊱ ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ⊰───⋅
With the cemetery behind them, it's like they can push their shadows to the side, too. Mushitaro knows that it will never truly leave him but, if only for a little while, he can pretend otherwise. This stretch of the walk is always just a brief respite from the shadows, but it's a much needed one all the same.
Their conversations flow as they normally do, and they fill each other in on the week since they were last together. Mushitaro's additions to their talks are far less interesting than Ango's. He comments on Ranpo's regular visits, and the annoying way he sees right through him. For what seems like the hundredth time, he expresses his hatred for Poe's rotten raccoon, who he often finds staring at him when he wakes up in the mornings. Ango's sympathy for the overwhelming nothing that his life has become is expressed in a rather neutral tone, but Mushitaro can tell it's sincere.
As always, when it's his turn to share, Ango lets out a deep sigh before beginning. He adjusts his glasses with a frown, and begins to talk about the thing he hates the most, which is also the only thing substantial enough in his life for him to comment on: work.
"There's an ability user on the loose that's been giving us quite a bit of trouble," he explains gravely. "Several Special Division agents have been attacked, but we still can't pinpoint the specifics of her ability. We're even getting pressure from other departments over it," he finishes with another heavy sigh, as if imagining having an easier job.
Mushitaro offers his condolences, but he doubts they help. Ango's job is constantly demanding, and he spends hours working overtime to meet its requirements. In comparison, he has it easy; he has no work to do at all, and a house to live in free of charge. The only thing hindering his happiness is his own restlessness.
And it. He refuses to acknowledge that fact, though.
The walk continues, and their discussion dwindles. The silence remains comfortable, however. With a small bit of their burdens eased off at the cemetery, and each other's presence as a balm for the shadows, the peace remains.
At least, the peace remains until Mushitaro spots something on Ango's hand - a glowing blue mark, shaped like a cresent moon, which isn't natural in any way. He only has to squint at it for a second before realising its origin has to be an ability.
The ability user, he pieces together. Mushitaro's eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to warn Ango, to do something. Before the words have a chance to escape his lips, however, a woman walks past him, bumping her shoulder against his almost ferociously. His momentum from the hit forces him to turn to face her, which is when he spots the grin on her face.
Mushitaro glances down at his hand, and his heart rate triples at the realisation that he now has the same mark on his hand, too. Ango seems to have realised what's going on, but his exterior remains calm as he turns to face her. Mushitaro's suspicions about her identity are only confirmed when recognition flits across Ango's gaze.
"On behalf of the Special Division for Unusual Powers, I am placing you under arrest for suspected attacks on government agents," he snaps instantly, taking a threatening step towards her. She doesn't move, doesn't flinch, and her smile only widens as her eyes flit over to land on Mushitaro. He takes a step back subconsciously, and she just laughs, before turning back to Ango.
"You won't be so sure in just a moment," she tells him, a hiss creeping into her voice. "After all, how will you two love one another if you know the darkest parts of each other's souls?" Her words sound crazed, and, in the moment, Mushitaro can't piece their meaning together.
Ango tries to take another step towards her, but his legs crumple underneath him like paper. Mushitaro rushes forwards, barely managing to catch him before his head collides with the pavement, settling him down gently in his lap. The umbrella clatters to the ground beside them, and Mushitaro's stomach roils. He looks up at the woman, intending to say something, anything, to stop her. His brows knit together in fury, but when he tries to speak his tongue won't cooperate.
Mushitaro is struck suddenly by a new heaviness, not the one that normally plagues him, but something else entirely, something that has his eyes drifting closed almost instantly.
You need to stay alert, he tries to tell himself. Ango can't defend himself right now, he's at her mercy.
His words do nothing to stop the tiredness sweeping through his bones. Mushitaro folds over right next to Ango, and then the world fades to black.
⋅───⊱ ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ⊰───⋅
When Mushitaro's eyes fly open, disorientation hits him straight in the face. He is lying exactly as he was when he succumbed to the ability, yet the sight before him is entirely different. Unyielding stone is beneath him, not rain-soaked pavement. He is encased by walls, rather than having the sky open above him.
Almost the same position as before, Mushitaro corrects himself when he raises his head blearily, and realises that a jacket has been placed under it. It's unmistakably Ango's, brown in colour and worn, and his urgency increases as he whips around to search for him.
The sight he is greeted with has the blood draining from his face almost immediately. Ango is there, yes, but not just him.
There's another Ango, one far younger than the one Mushitaro knows. This Ango is tied to a chair, arms behind his back, looking decidedly (and understandably) miserable at his predicament. Despite the horrific situation he is in, Mushitaro can still note the lack of his shadow's presence in every line of his face.
His jaw still drops at the sight of them side by side, at the difference between the two. The Ango he knows makes his way over to his side, launching into an explanation.
"I believe this is a memory," he begins in a sombre tone, looking pained at the words alone. "My memory. That version of me can't see or hear us, and-"
"The darkest parts of each other's souls," Mushitaro echoes aloud, heart clenching in fear from the words alone. Ango winces at his repetition of the phrase, gaze darting away from his.
"Yes," he confirms eventually, swallowing nervously. "Her ability must allow her to force us both to witness the darkest moments of our lives."
Mushitaro's eyebrows furrow momentarily, wondering how he's pieced those specifics together, until he realises: this has to be Ango's darkest memory. How else would he know?
His heart pounds more desperately against his ribcage, but it's nothing to do with the possibility of seeing how Ango's shadow bloomed. They may be starting here, but his darkest hour will soon be exposed. To say Mushitaro isn't ready for that is an understatement; the thought alone is enough to make him want to tear his own eyes out. He closes them momentarily, taking a second to gather his thoughts.
Ango remains silent just as he does, contemplating on his own.
"You don't think there's a way to stop it?" Mushitaro asks quietly. Ango's face pinches up at that, regret flashing across it.
"No, I don't," he answers. "From what we do know of her ability, it shouldn't be harmful physically. We just need to let it run its course."
Mushitaro tries to ignore his deliberate use of the word physically. He tries to forget the role of the mind in the shadow behind him that grows with every passing day, and turns his attention back to the scene before him.
It isn't much of a distraction. The past Ango remains unmoving, his face unchanging. Instead, Mushitaro glances out of the corner of his eye at Ango. He looks paler than usual, and tenser, as if waiting for something.
That observation turns out to be more accurate than Mushitaro could've expected. Just moments later, that something arrives, in the form of a person barrelling through the door.
One glance at Ango's face, scrunched up into something almost unrecognisable, is enough to determine just who this is. Mushitaro only vaguely recognises Oda from the photo of him he's been shown just once, but Ango's reaction is enough to pinpoint him as his shadow.
He barely gets to listen to the words their past selves speak, for he is too engrossed in Ango's reactions. The wide eyes and the flinches all spell out the dread that awaits Mushitaro once it's his turn.
Oda swiftly frees the past Ango from the ropes that bind him, every movement gentle as he eases him away from them. Despite how painful his extreme care is to watch, Mushitaro almost expects him to just begin the escape.
He doesn't, of course. Before taking a single step, Oda reaches out, and clasps Ango's hand within his own.
The present Ango stares very deliberately up at the ceiling when confronted with that sight, eyes glassy with unshed tears. Mushitaro steps forwards, reaching out towards him, but Ango turns slightly, angling himself away from him. Mushitaro tries to shove away the sinking sensation in his stomach at the clear message, and turn his attention back to the past Ango.
Hand in hand, the two sprint from the room, and Mushitaro begins following them almost subconsciously. Ango places a hand on his shoulder to stop him before he can pass him by, cutting off his path.
"Don't," he says quietly. Kicking himself internally, because of course he doesn't want him to see, Mushitaro obeys.
The ability that has them ensnared has other plans; it won't let them avoid what they so desperately wish to forget. In the blink of an eye, they are transported, once more hitting Mushitaro with disorientation. The lawn before him seems unremarkable, until he turns to see pillars of smoke, spiralling up from a burning building. A choked noise escapes Ango's throat at the scene, but he doesn't comment on it.
The past Ango is back, panting from his sprint to freedom, and Oda is in a similar state. He's curled over on the ground, palms pressed into the dirt below him. It seems to Mushitaro like the danger is over, the worst behind him.
But this is Ango's darkest moment, and he has a shadow for a reason.
A ball rolls out of the treeline, coming to a stop beside Oda. Mushitaro regards it just as dismissively as he does, watching as he reaches out to pick it up. He, however, doesn't experience the sensations that Oda does, doesn't understand why his eyes begin to fall closed, only that something is very, very wrong.
Or, he doesn't understand until Ango strides forwards, not reaching out to help, or even seeming concerned in the slightest. From that moment onward, it all happens so fast.
Troops dressed in black seem to emerge from nowhere, brandishing guns and sending shivers down Mushitaro's spine. Oda stares up at Ango, the look across his face screaming betrayal as he fights a losing battle to remain awake.
Betrayal. Mushitaro's eyes widen as he slowly turns to face the present Ango, who has a distinctively guilty expression painted across his face.
"You... betrayed him?" he manages to say aloud, disbelief colouring his voice. None of the people from the past pay him a single glance, unable to hear him. Mushitaro watches as Oda collapses, just as they did only moments ago, reaching out towards the past Ango one last time.
Mushitaro's head spins. This entire time, he thought Ango was like him. He thought he finally found someone who understood, who got it like no one else could.
Instead, he found someone with a shadow of their own making, forged in the blood of others. Ango opens his mouth - to explain? To excuse? Mushitaro finds he doesn't care to know - but before a single word can escape it, the world is changing again, and Mushitaro's heart plummets into his shoes.
⋅───⊱ ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ⊰───⋅
The scene before Mushitaro is familiar, but in a way that feels like a blow to the stomach. The hotel room he sees is staunchly traditional, but sunlight streams into it and over the figures within it, filling it to the brim with warmth. The sight still manages to fill him with so much dread that he swears he might be sick, for he knows this moment. It was seared onto the back of his eyelids for months upon months, returning every time he so much as closed his eyes.
Even in this reconstruction of his memory, Yokomizo's face has been lost. Just as its face has faded, the details have blurred away into obscurity. He stares at where his face should be, trying to piece together any semblance of what he may have looked like, but it's utterly fruitless, as it always is.
Mushitaro continues to linger on the thought for as long as he can, because that is the only way to avoid the conversation that is happening in this memory, the one he would do anything to avoid reliving. That's not enough to stop the ability, of course. It ploughs on, entirely uncaring of the destruction being left in its wake.
Mushitaro takes a deep breath and steels himself, bur it's rendered useless when he manages to tune back in at the worst possible moment.
"I'm working on a time limit, of sorts," Yokomizo admits, and Mushitaro's stomach protests once more. His small, bittersweet smile that accompanied those words is preserved in the memory, but his voice isn't. It sounds as if it's far away, or perhaps underwater, the intricacies of his sound lost, just like so many things about him have been.
Mushitaro blinks furiously to avoid tears as his past self asks breathlessly, "Is your stomach... that bad?" His own voice is barely a whisper on the breeze; it trembles like a leaf, revealing the turmoil lying behind the words. A display of emotion that was rare, which only makes it hit all the harder.
"I have a year to live, tops," Yokomizo replies. Even when delivering earth-shattering news, his smile never slipped.
Mushitaro told himself he hated it at the time. Now, he just wants it back.
"Before the time comes, I'm finally going to complete my ultimate mystery." Despite the weight of his words, despite the fact that they were his final wish, he still delivered them in a genial tone, remaining as frivolous as ever. "I have everything in place, except the single most important key." His words were slow, dragging the reveal out. Mushitaro finds his fists clenching in unison with his past self's, annoyance overtaking him even now with years stretching between them.
"What key?" he watches himself ask suspiciously. Even then, he sensed that something would be required of him, but he never anticipated the sheer magnitude of the request. Even now, he can't fathom the audacity he had in asking such a thing.
"The killer, of course," Yokomizo answers, tilting his head mischeviously. An intake of breath from beside him has Mushitaro glancing over at Ango for the first time since arriving in his own memory, and the shock on his face has his own one paling.
It dawns on Mushitaro very suddenly that Ango has no idea what happened that day. He has no idea that he killed a man, and now-
Mushitaro's breaths come in faster and faster pants as Ango's eyes meet his own, and they're filled with what he can only make out as horror. The dreadful scene keeps rolling beside them, and Ango keeps staring, and Mushitaro feels as if his head is on the verge of exploding.
"I need a real-life murderer, one with a motive," Yokomizo is saying, and Mushitaro contemplates jumping atop him. He's a memory, set in stone, but he is struck by the urge to tear him apart.
Instead, he just screams aloud. It's all he can do. Ango flinches, the memories of that awful day don't react, and-
And the false world around him melts away in a flash of blue light, and Mushitaro sits bolt upright in a hospital bed. A heart monitor is next to him, beeping incessantly and hurriedly, but he's too focused on regaining his breath to spare a thought for it.
He stares down at the lifeless white duvet covering him, and his fists, horribly sweaty, caught up in the fabric. It takes him several seconds to realise the mark that marred the skin there is gone now, without so much as a trace.
Eventually, Mushitaro turns his gaze to his surroundings. They're bland and lifeless, and so, so empty. He finds himself wondering where Ango is, but he has to shake that thought from his head.
After all, there's no way they'll be able to see each other with the knowledge that weighs them down. Ango will probably have to arrest him the next time they cross paths, and it's unlikely that they'll ever have an interaction that's not marred with awkwardness ever again.
Mushitaro's heart calms down, but it begins to sink. His breaths begin to slow, but he still aches for someone to be at his side. He closes his eyes, and leans back against the pillows, waiting for someone to realise he's awake and get the arrest over with.
When the door slams open, he doesn't intend to acknowledge whoever it is immediately. If these are his last moments as a free man, he at least wants to spend them in relative comfort. When he tentatively peels open a single eye, he lurches in shock.
Ango somehow looks the most dishevelled that Mushitaro has ever seen him, his hospital gown falling off one of his shoulders. Yet here he is, sitting at his bedside as if he shouldn't be recovering, too. Mushitaro braces himself as he opens his mouth, trying to prepare for the rapid end to any semblance of normalcy his life still has.
"I'm sorry."
Mushitaro blinks. That wasn't what he was expecting at all, but he remains silent, leaving the space for Ango to speak.
"This wasn't what I intended," he continues. "I didn't mean to drag you into work matters."
Mushitaro's brows furrow in disbelief. "That's it?" he demands. "You just found out that I killed someone, you looked horrified and I-"
"Horrified?" Ango asks. "No, no, I was just surprised," he tries to assure him, but Mushitaro isn't buying it. He lets out a scoff, but Ango continues, "I as good as killed Oda. I... don't blame you for what you did."
Mushitaro's brain practically short circuits. "But-"
"No buts," Ango tells him firmly. "I don't blame you." He leaves no room for discussion, as Yokomizo so often did. It should be annoying, but Mushitaro finds himself oddly touched by it.
"How did we get out? We didn't see all of that memory," Mushitaro points out, internally relieved that whatever happened, happened.
Ango lets out one of his usual sighs at that, though it's more drawn out than usual. "There's a detective at the Agency who can cancel out abilities. My team called them up and got their help." Mushitaro nods, as if he knows who Ango is discussing, but he can always ask Ranpo later.
"When can we get out of here?" Mushitaro asks eventually, already growing uncomfortable with his stark white surroundings.
"We're all good to go now," Ango tells him, tone noticeably happier. "The ability has worn off, and nothing seems wrong with us. My subordinates will handle the paperwork."
A smile finds its way onto Mushitaro's face at that. "At least we can stretch our legs." The statement is sort of brushing off the events of their day, but he needs a distraction. If he thinks about it forever, it will destroy him.
It seems Ango thinks the way he does. "Would you like to walk with me?" he offers, seeming almost nervous as he suggests it.
"I would," Mushitaro answers. He has no doubt that there will be shifts between them, things uncovered by a shadow, but he allows himself to forget that. They collect their clothes together, and step outside in unison.
They still don't talk, or hold hands. They walk closer together than they did before, though, and that's not the only change.
"Shall we go elsewhere?" Ango asks. He doesn't need to specify, for Mushitaro can immediately tell what he means.
Not the cemetery. Not the routine they've had for months, the one rooted in their shadows.
"Yes," Mushitaro answers simply, unable to contain a smile. Ango returns it, sending his heart fluttering.
They're not in the light yet; far from it. Mushitaro can still sense it beside him, and he has no doubt that Ango's shadow is just as close.
They're getting closer to it every day, though. Maybe, one day, they'll be able to stand in the sun - their shadows a distant memory.