Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been six years since Paul Verlaine last saw Arthur Rimbaud’s “ghost,” and seven years since Rimbaud had actually died, at age twenty-seven here in Japan. It had been nineteen years since Rimbaud had freed Verlaine from Pan. It had also been fifteen years since Verlaine betrayed Rimbaud and attempted to kill him, causing Rimbaud to lose his memories.

Fifteen years had passed since Verlaine last saw Rimbaud alive.

Thirty-four-year-old Port Mafia executive Paul Verlaine isolated himself in the deep space under the Port Mafia headquarters, where he had been for six years without ever attempting to leave. Late at night, Verlaine was alone in his dim room. It was Autumn, early October but to Verlaine, seasons were inconsequential this far underground. The only things that were of consequence were the assassins he trained.

Verlaine never opened up to anyone. He chose the best answers to pass his mental evaluation and his physical examination was unremarkable, year after year. Recently, there had been an occasional constricting pain in his chest, but it passed soon enough each time.

He didn’t want to see or kill anyone in the outside world. And the only person he still missed was Rimbaud. Rimbaud. He haunted Verlaine’s thoughts when he was alone. When he wasn’t alone, he couldn’t escape his immense sadness and guilt for what he had done to Rimbaud, the only person who had ever mattered to him.

In the years since his failed attempt to recruit Chuuya Nakahara and the self-contradicting singularity that had been Rimbaud had revived him after death, he had been able to reflect on his actions.

He knew now that he had not acted in any way that would have given him what he wanted. Even though at that moment he truly believed he was following the best course of action, he had been lost. His quest for existence, for a purpose, had ended up catastrophically, creating his current reality. Now that he had no one left, his forceful feelings of rage and hope had faded and he only felt deep loneliness and tremendous guilt.

As Verlaine sat at his desk, that familiar constricting pain flared in his chest. Irritated, he waited for it to pass. But the pain readily increased, causing Verlaine to collapse out of his chair and onto the floor, clutching his chest. He was lying flat now, in the worst pain he had experienced in many years, causing him to gasp and writhe. He distantly realized that he must be dying of some form of heart problem. Had Rimbaud’s gift of a heartbeat finally stopped being able to generate ad infinitum? As his vision darkened and the pain began to completely overtake him, he felt panicked, unlike like the first time he had died from Giuvre’s activation. He found he was overflowing with regret. His meaningless life had caused so much suffering, and he knew he deserved to die in agony far worse for what he’d done.

As his excruciating pain brought tears to his eyes, he thought he could see a blurry outline of Rimbaud standing in the corner of his vision. “Rimbaud…… I’m… sorry….” He knew that he was alone, even though he often felt Rimbaud was there with him when he was by himself at night. Verlaine knew that Rimbaud couldn’t possibly be there, but he still felt distant relief. As crushing darkness completely overtook him, he distantly wondered if he would ever see Rimbaud again or if there would just be the cold nothingness of death. He only deserved the darkest oblivion.

Chapter Text

There was a sudden pain. Severe pain at the right side of Verlaine’s head. It grew and grew until Verlaine woke up with a jerking motion. Extremely disoriented, his head was aching terribly. With the entire world spinning, he suddenly felt a strong embrace and his entire body tensed. His face was met with a blurred vision of Chuuya. Chuuya Nakahara? Chuuya embraced him and told him that he was glad he was awake. Verlaine was shocked. He recognized Chuuya. But this was not the Chuuya he knew. This Chuuya was the same, but younger, and wore an expression of affectionate concern he had never seen on his face before.

Chuuya was speaking fast but as the room settled into focus, Verlaine could feel panic rising inside his chest. He was not in the Port Mafia infirmary and he didn’t remember how he had gotten there. He couldn’t seem to activate even his weakened gravitational powers and to Verlaine’s horror, he realized that Chuuya wasn’t alone. He did not recognize the man and woman with Chuuya.

Chuuya said that Verlaine slipped and fell in the rain storm and that he had sustained a severe head laceration. Rain? Chuuya continued to speak explaining that Verlaine’s head wound had caused severe and sudden blood loss that led to a life threatening seizure. Chuuya said that he rushed him to the hospital and called mom and dad immediately. Verlaine had been in the hospital for several days.

The shock of Chuuya’s words hit Verlaine and he felt as if the world had stopped. Mom and Dad? No that wasn’t right. Chuuya’s family was the Port Mafia, and Verlaine wasn’t born, he was synthesized, coded and given existence without God’s blessing. He would never be human.

This was the affect of a skill user who could suppress other powers while their victim was fed illusions within the expanse of their domain.

Verlaine recoiled and pressed his hands to his eyes, willing everything to disappear. He needed to come to his senses. This wasn’t real. This illusion was meant to catch him off guard, to reach deep into his mind and find his vulnerabilities and desires. He didn’t know how the enemy had broken into the Port Mafia’s underground. Maybe one of his assassins in training had a hidden skill and had chosen this time to strike one of the Port Mafia’s executives. It wouldn’t be long until the illusion shattered and the torture would begin, and the true goal of the intruder would be brought to light.

“Paul? How are you feeling?” Came the soft voice of the woman. Verlaine looked up and said nothing, but instead gave a withering and empty look. The concerned older couple glanced at each other and then back at Verlaine.

The brunette woman and blond man stared at Verlaine with kind eyes. Eyes full of affection and concern, but Verlaine could only return their gazes with a cold and controlled glare. These three strangers were looking at him with increasing distress but Verlaine couldn’t let their gazes affect him. He had to break free of this illusion.

Just then a man appeared. He was a doctor. Was this the intruder? Could he change his appearance to appear as a bystander in this illusion? Verlaine attempted to activate any sort of power and when that failed again, he braced himself. His usual fast reflexes felt sluggish and pained.

The Doctor gave him a pointed look. “Mr. Verlaine, how are you feeling?” Verlaine was dizzy and confused but responded “I’m having a very hard time believing that this is really happening. What is it you are trying to accomplish, Doctor? You can dispel the illusion, I know what your true intentions are.” He spoke with the utmost malice.

The Doctor gave Verlaine an incredulous stare. “I’m glad you’re conscious, but the aggression is curious however. But a possible side effect of your head trauma. Paul do you know where you are right now?” Verlaine said nothing. The doctor sighed and then began explaining that his blood and oxygen loss had caused significant physical and mental stress to his body and he was lucky to be alive. He reassured Verlaine that he was safe and in a hospital and had been for several days. “I want these people to leave. I don’t know who they are.” The doctor looked at him with a face of concern and mentioned that his injury must have caused some amnesia, but his injuries were healing and he was expected to recover. He did say that it could take some time however.

The doctor said that it may be best if they leave Verlaine to recover for a bit. The man and woman who called themselves his father and mother left the room but “Chuuya” wouldn’t leave. “What the hell was that?” Chuuya flared. Verlaine looked flatly at this imposter of Chuuya. “You’re not Chuuya. You couldn’t be. Why would you be here?” Verlaine laughed, a spiteful, hollow laugh. “You despise me and you have every right to do so.” A sudden look of pain and confusion crossed this imposter’s face. Chuuya’s look of misery paralyzed Verlaine. Chuuya eyes had started to shimmer with tears.

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Chuuya groaned. “Did we piss you off recently? Playing amnesia is fucking sick Paul.” Verlaine could only stare wide eyed. Chuuya scrubbed impatiently at his eyes. Chuuya was breathing hard and didn’t say anything for a few moments. “Verlaine, you were just ok and everything was normal and then…. and then…..” Chuuya then suddenly closed the gap between them and took Verlaine’s hands in his own. In a pained voice he stated, “You’re awake now. I’m so relieved you’re even alive. I’m here. I know you’ll be OK.”

Verlaine was struck by Chuuya. He had never seen him look this way. He felt an intense wave of emotion hit him. A feeling of longing, a feeling of hope. This is how he had once wished Chuuya would look at him, once wished he would speak to him. It made something deep within him crack.

He didn’t know what was happening, but this entire situation was just so…. strange. His head was pounding and he didn’t know why this reality was starting to feel oddly, true. Why was he suddenly feeling genuine connection to this fanciful illusion of a teenage Chuuya? Could he possibly be…?

Verlaine decided that he could at least vet this Chuuya in his current incapacitated state. Maybe he could get a sense of the intentions of the intruder. There was no way any of this was right.

“Chuuya, I… remember you but I don’t understand. I don’t remember how you know me.”

With a concerned look Chuuya said “What do you mean? I’m your brother. Chuuya.”

“My……brother……..?” Verlaine ventured.
Chuuya just looked at Verlaine in shock.
“I have been busy on tour and we were finally going to hang out.”
“Tour? I don’t understand.”

This caused Chuuya to sigh in anguished frustration. “Verlaine I just got back from tour with the Flags, remember?” We were playing our last show in Berlin before I headed back to France. We were walking to breakfast and that damned rain. You slipped and your head seemed to explode. There was blood everywhere.” He looked suddenly guilty. “I guess I can’t be surprised with you, your head got messed up….”

Show? This Chuuya was a musician? But Chuuya was a member of the Port Mafia. And the Flags…the Flags were dead.

Verlaine felt mildly ill. He had killed the Flags mercilessly at the time, believing they were keeping Chuuya manipulated. That he was doing Chuuya a favor by murdering them. That was the moment he had permanently destroyed any hope of Chuuya trusting him.

Verlaine felt horribly tired, and he decided he would try another approach. He wanted to be alone when the illusion broke. This illusions emotional manipulation was affecting him more than he thought it could. He thought he was stronger than this, extremely resistant to emotional torture, but this was causing him immense agony. He needed to get away.

“Thank you Chuuya. Thank you for being here with me. I’m having a lot of trouble remembering my life for some reason, and I’m sorry. Everything is so mixed up in my head.”

Chuuya patiently reassured Verlaine that it was alright. Just then Verlaine could feel a wave of immense fatigue dragging down his consciousness once again. “Ah. So this is how the illusion breaks” Verlaine thought. He hoped that he could soon face his captor head on and be done with this horrible reality.

***
There was a soft noise that came. Dull and distant at first, then louder, a scratching and rustling. Verlaine woke up. To his dismay, he felt very much the same as the first time he awakened. His head hurt badly and he didn’t seem to remember how he had moved. He realized he wasn’t in a hospital room anymore though, he was in… a living room? Everything was dim and blurry. And Chuuya was still there. Digging in a cupboard. “You passed out again, but it wasn’t for days this time. Only a couple hours.”
Verlaine looked at him dumbfounded, Chuuya was eating snacks. Too tired and pained to resist the illusion anymore, he asked Chuuya what he had missed while he was unconscious. “Not too much. After the hospital released you, we brought you back home to your place. Mom and Dad went back home for now, I told them I would take care of you.”

Verlaine was relieved that he was with just Chuuya. Verlaine could hardly think, his head felt murky. Verlaine had another odd sensation that this was reality. The soft leather sofa beneath him felt very real and why did he feel so comforted by Chuuya’s presence?

Maybe this wasn’t an illusion, and instead he was trapped in a delusional coma. He had just had a terrible pain in his chest while he was sitting at his desk. Maybe this coma spawned an illusion that tapped into a side of himself he disliked. One that reflected just how pitiful he was. “Oh here.” Chuuya pressed a cold rectangle into Verlaine’s hands. It was… a cell phone? When he unlocked it, the screen lit up and Verlaine saw that it is 21:00 and Early October. His location specified that he was in a countryside region of Provence, France. His phone was flooded with dozens of notifications and he turned it off, looking at it gave him a headache.

“I didn’t get the chance to tell many people about you yet, but I wanted to tell you that Rimbaud has been super worried about you and wanted to see you when you got home from the hospital.” The name snapped Verlaine out of his clouded thoughts. He turned to Chuuya, deeply puzzled. “Rimbaud…?” Chuuya gave him a pitied look. “Your friend. Arthur Rimbaud, from next door?” Verlaine bolted upright in a jerking motion that made his head throb. His heart started pounding.

“Rimbaud??”
“Yeah. He’s in the house down the road.” Chuuya nodded out the window. “You two seem to get along pretty well even though he only moved here like a year ago. He’s friendly enough but gloomy as hell. You’re always talking to him about writing and books. He always wears warm clothes even in the middle of summer. It’s…kind of fucking bizarre.”

Verlaine was in immense shock. “Verlaine are you OK?” Chuuya asked. Verlaine quickly thought of something to reassure Chuuya.
“I just feel very confused and tired. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow. Chuuya, can you stay with me tonight?”
“Of course. I was gonna anyways. Seriously what if you have another seizure? Let me know how I can help.”
In the soft light, Verlaine could see that this was quite a large house with a sleek arrangement of dark furniture and had a monochrome palette with soft brown leather couches. Verlaine felt deeply uncomfortable in this strange place so he decided he only wanted to stay in the main room of this house. Verlaine smiled and had Chuuya help him set up beds for himself and Chuuya on the living room couches.

After the beds were made, Verlaine needed to escape this strange place. Verlaine excused himself saying that he was going to check in with Rimbaud. Chuuya looked at him questioningly. “Are you sure you’re good? It’s kinda late to bother him right now.” Verlaine said he felt fine, his head just hurt a little bit. He told Chuuya he wanted to reassure Rimbaud and that he didn’t want him to worry. Chuuya reluctantly agreed but said that Verlaine should get some sleep soon.

Verlaine was relieved to step out into the cool night air. His head actually hurt pretty badly and he felt anxious as he walked slowly in the direction of a large house in the distance that Chuuya had indicated. But he had to know. Arthur Rimbaud? But how could he… There was no gate surrounding the large house and a long smooth path led to the front door. After hesitation and a gentle knock, the door opened and Rimbaud stood there. Rimbaud. Emotion flooded Verlaine with a sensation that made him feel as though his chest was being crushed. Uncontrollably, he reached out and grabbed Rimbaud’s arm.

Rimbaud’s face looked deeply worried and surprised. “How is your head? I was worried about you when I heard you had an accident.” Verlaine noticed his tone was polite but removed. Verlaine abruptly released his arm and took a step back. He apologized, realizing that this Rimbaud wasn’t who he seemed. He was a stranger. A stranger who only looked perfectly like Rimbaud. This Rimbaud hadn’t known him for years.

“It’s alright. Please come in.” The inside of Rimbaud’s large house was softly lit and had a distinct inviting feeling. Verlaine noticed distantly that the place had an elegant countryside sense of furnishing with a vintage decoration sense.

But Verlaine couldn’t concentrate on that much, and just sat down next to this Rimbaud in what appeared to be his living room. He couldn’t stop staring. He looked exactly like the skill ghost of Rimbaud that he saw six years ago. He had the same gray-taupe coat, red scarf and rabbit-fur earmuffs. His long wavy black hair cascaded over his shoulders and his melancholic gold eyes stared at him quizzically. The face was of a perfect vision of him, Verlaine hadn’t realized just how many of the finer details of Rimbaud’s face had started to blur in his memory.

Verlaine just sat there in silence, deeply staring. Rimbaud spoke. “What’s troubling you? Your behavior is concerning me.”

Verlaine knew that this illusion was going to break him. He couldn’t fight it anymore. He resolved to just accept the illusion while it was still pleasant. While it was still here.

Verlaine looked down and spoke quietly. “I think something is very wrong. I can’t remember who I am or how I got here. I was somewhere else before I got here. Somewhere completely different. I have no idea how I could have- But-…” he sighed. “I’m sorry, you must think I’ve hit my head too hard... I should go.” Verlaine bit at the inside of his cheek and willed himself to leave but he found that his legs wouldn’t move. He pressed his fingers into his eyes and closed them.

Rimbaud was quiet for a long time before he asked if the word illuminations meant anything to him. Verlaine froze and resigned himself. The illusion must be about to break. This information was becoming familiar. He looked up and stared into the distant and familiar eyes of Rimbaud. “Yes.”

Rimbaud continued, “What is Illuminations?” Verlaine focused on him. Taking in his somber face before he would disappear again forever. “Illuminations is a skill. It’s… your skill Rimbaud. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Verlaine waited for the illusion to be taken away from him. To dissolve into a hellscape that was meant to extract something from him. But time stretched on and Rimbaud remained motionless.

“This illusion of Rimbaud is very convincing, but you can stop spewing what you think I might want to hear.”

“Who are you?” Verlaine’s voice had taken on a sharp and cold edge.

Verlaine was given a perplexed look. “Verlaine. What do you mean? It’s Rimbaud, Arthur Rimbaud.” Verlaine could feel anger building inside of him. This was too painful to bear. He had to get away. “NO!” he shouted. “This isn’t real, no matter how you broke in, you’ll not get what you want from me!”

Verlaine felt a sudden hand grip him and froze. This illusion of Rimbaud was touching him. “Verlaine…. I’m not an illusion. No one is going to hurt you, you’re safe here with me.” Verlaine could only stare wide-eyed at Rimbaud’s pleading face. He didn’t believe him.

Rimbaud released his grip on Verlaine and knotted his hands together tightly. He had a pained expression and he was looking down at the floor. After a long pause he continued, “Verlaine, this world doesn’t know you, but I do. It’s unbelievable…. But when I was defeated by Chuuya and… died… I woke up here too. I thought I was in an illusion as well but…. I wasn’t.”

He wasn’t in an illusion? But how…? An overwhelming sensation seemed to crash over him. A realization. Verlaine felt as if he couldn’t breathe. And something within him shattered.

He gripped onto Rimbaud hard, not willing to let go. This was not an illusion of a grim reaper or a ghost, but a physical presence. This Rimbaud was his Rimbaud but…. how?

Verlaine was shaking against Rimbaud. He had missed him so terribly, and been so alone with nowhere to express his immense grief and guilt. “Arthur I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Verlaine kept repeating himself over and over. He could feel his throat beginning to close up and eventually he couldn’t speak. He had lost Rimbaud so long ago. It had been so long since he had seen him alive.

Rimbaud waited patiently for a long time. Letting Verlaine grip onto him with his face against his shoulder. When Verlaine was silent and still, Rimbaud asked him quietly “What happened to you?”

Verlaine took a moment to compose himself. “Rimbaud when you died, you turned yourself into a skill-based life form. You were just superficial information with your memories and personality. A year after you died, you appeared to me a final time after I was overtaken and killed by Guivre’s activation. You saved me, by becoming a self-contradicting singularity and reviving me. I lost most of my gravitational powers and I began to work for the Port Mafia. I worked for them for six years and trained their assassins deep underground. I suddenly had this… terrible pain in my chest.”

Rimbaud gave him a sorrowful look and nodded. “When I was dying, I thought I had killed you with my own two hands. But I thought that maybe, just maybe I was wrong. It seems you were still alive. My last attempt to use my skill was successful. I’m glad.”

Rimbaud smiled sadly. Verlaine, after I died, I woke up in this alternate reality. I retained the same appearance and age, only this time I was actually born with the name Arthur Rimbaud.”

Verlaine felt faint. “I don’t understand, so I replaced this world’s Paul?”

Rimbaud paused. “No… not quite. This Paul was always you, just an alternate you, born and raised in a different timeline with a different life. When you died in our original world, this reality’s Paul remembered his previous life, you. You are one and the same.”

Rimbaud continued “You didn’t replace him; he simply remembered all of who he once was. Who he is completely.

“When I died, this world’s Arthur also suddenly remembered who he was and our essence combined.

Then Rimbaud began to laugh sadly. “Paul…. Thank you. Our shared memories prove to me that the life we had before was real. I was uncertain of the state of my mind for an entire year. From what everyone told me, I thought that maybe I was truly going mad. But I gradually accepted my new reality, and you confirmed that our life wasn’t some ghoulish nightmare. It was our life, and one that I still enjoyed, despite everything.”

Verlaine said nothing. He looked down at the swirling patterns in Rimbaud’s rug. Feeling numb.

“From what I’ve been able to learn Verlaine, skills do not exist in this world and neither does the Port Mafia. Your life is one without violence and pain.”

Verlaine felt suspicion creep into his numbness. “If I can believe you…. how could you possibly be happy to see this me? The me you knew for a year here is this world was happy, is….. human.”

Rimbaud looked at him seriously. “You are human, you always have been. Regardless of your origin, you’re you, and that’s always been enough.” He sighed. “The Verlaine of this world and I… we were complete strangers. When I awoke, I searched for you. I knew I shouldn’t have been, but when I found you… I was devastated. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Verlaine stood up abruptly, feeling as though he had to flee. Panicked, Rimbaud gripped Verlaine’s hand. “Verlaine, please stay, I want to help you. I was so happy to have found this Paul, but even still, every day I missed you, my Paul, my partner from the DGSS. Verlaine pried his hand away from Rimbaud and began to back away. Rimbaud began to move towards him. “Don’t come closer.” Rimbaud stopped.

Verlaine’s head was spinning and he just stood there, motionless. Eventually Rimbaud had advanced close enough to gently take Verlaine’s hand in his. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “Verlaine, I understand if you can’t, but will you trust me again?”

Verlaine gave him a flat and cold glare. “I still don’t understand. You should not have wanted to find me in this life.”

“Verlaine, now that you’re here… I wanted to apologize to you again. I think I know now why you reacted the way you did. I know I can’t earn your forgiveness, but I am sorry that I couldn’t truly understand you. I didn’t try harder to support you. When I met you, I wanted to save you. I truly thought I was helping you. But I gave you sympathy and not empathy. I forced you from one violent existence into another and I didn’t consider what you may have wanted, what would have been best for you. When we found Chuuya, I didn’t realize I had broken your trust. I hurt you and I lost you. I’m so very sorry.”

Verlaine felt a horrible paralyzing guilt. In the years since Rimbaud had died, he realized over time that Rimbaud really had always been there for him. He had saved him from Pan and patiently trained him. He had given him freedom. He had let him form his own identity. Through free will, he was able to make his own choices and decisions. Rimbaud had given him a purpose, and in a way they had grown up together. He had eventually given him his own life force as a replacement to the one he lost. Rimbaud had turned himself into a skill to let him live again, and turned himself into something that wasn’t human. Verlaine had squandered it all, believing he had no one.

“Verlaine, I’m your partner, and you’re my dear friend. When I died, I had no regrets. We can’t change what happened in the past, but we can move on in this new present. In the strangest way, by some unknown force, we have been given another chance to live.”

He continued, “You only have memories of our old life right now, but slowly memories of this life will come to you too. You’ll be able to separate your memories from your previous life and memories from this life easily. I know you can be happy here Paul.”

Verlaine sat motionless. He could hardly believe this situation was occurring. His head began to throb violently and he gripped it in pain. Rimbaud looked alarmed but Verlaine needed to get away. Rimbaud looked as if he were about to speak but he remained silent. Verlaine excused himself from Rimbaud’s house and noticed Rimbaud watched him go until he couldn’t see him anymore.

After the cold night air had settled the panic within him, Verlaine quietly opened his front door. Chuuya bolted upright, looked at Verlaine and fell back asleep. Seeing Chuuya there sent a wave relief through Verlaine, he felt warmth spread throughout his chest. He wearily approached Chuuya and tucked his brother’s blanket around him before collapsing onto the other nearby sofa.