Archive of Our Own ^beta

Masoh had noticed it only gradually at first. The heaviness in his limbs, the way the sun seemed to press harder on his shoulders than usual. The fields were warm that day, but not unbearably so. Still, as he worked, harvesting the young shoots along the tilled earth, a sheen of sweat gathered across his brow faster than it should have.

It’s just a hot day, he told himself, even though the season hadn’t changed and the breeze from the sea of sand carried its usual cool dryness.

When the ache in his ribs tightened, he straightened, forced a breath, and walked toward the water jars at the edge of the field. He drank deeply, trying to ignore the faint tremor in his fingers as he set the cup down. It was nothing. Just fatigue. He’d worked harder than usual, that was all.

He returned to the rows of green crops, just waiting to be harvested, but before he had even taken up his tools again, a sharp pain darted up his spine. He winced, rolling his shoulders as if that alone could ease it. His hands trembled once more, barely noticeable, but not to him.

He dismissed it anyway, stubbornness swallowing the rising discomfort. He held on through the rest of the day, pushing his body until the sky turned indigo and the last workers trickled back toward their rooms. Only then did he allow himself to limp home, lying down before he could think too much.

But the memory lingered, be it his own traitorous shaking hands or the bite of pain along his back. He turned over in his bed, again and again, willing sleep to come. He would simply wake up the next day, and everything would be good again. The thought that this might be something more than simple exhaustion floated at the edge of his mind, but he pushed it down, clenched his jaw, and finally drifted into uneasy rest. 

The next day, he went back to work early, hoping the stiffness had faded overnight. It had not. And when he lifted a bundle of bamboo with his thymia, the power stuttered as if caught on something, flickering before dying out. The bundle dropped a moment too soon. Masoh flinched at the noise, about to curse himself out. 

Kuchiba, working only a few meters away, turned at the sound.

Masoh forced a grin and waved him off, but mortification burned beneath his skin. For the first time, he couldn’t blame the shaking on heat, or lack of food, or a bad night’s sleep. His thymia was failing for the very first time in his life.

He should have gone straight to an Elder. Or at least spoken to an unmarked person with their wisdom, someone who could help him understand and tell him it was only a short illness, some ailment that would soon fade away.

But he didn’t. Instead, he abandoned his half-finished harvest and walked away without a word. He crossed the length of the Mud Whale until he reached one of the old watchtowers, a leaning structure of mud and sun-bleached rope that few people bothered with anymore. Children played there sometimes, but not often. Adults almost never. It was quiet.

Masoh climbed to the upper platform and sat against the wall, pulling his knees toward his chest. Even just reaching the platform had made him break out in a sweat, despite always having been a good climber. He stayed there the whole afternoon, and then through the night, letting the isolation settle around him like a second skin. If no one saw him, no one could ask questions. No one could tell him that it was more than the flu. 

By morning, he had almost convinced himself to return. To pretend nothing was wrong. He did feel a bit better, his back aching less than the day before. 

Then Kuchiba walked by below.

Masoh froze, breath caught in his throat. Kuchiba’s footsteps were brisk, irritated as always, his red hair catching the early sunlight. He paused near the base of the tower, scanning the vast sea of sand that surrounded them like it had always been, not for Masoh, probably. Just out of habit. But the mere possibility of being seen, of facing the inevitable questions sent panic skittering up Masoh’s spine.

He stayed hidden. Silent. 

When Kuchiba finally walked away, Masoh sank back into the shadows and let the day slip past him. And then another.

Below, the Mudwhale kept moving. People began to notice Masoh’s absence. By the afternoon of the second day, Suou approached Kuchiba with a concerned expression.

“Kuchiba, have you seen Masoh? He didn’t show up for field rotation.”

Kuchiba’s jaw tightened a bit, but he kept the usual annoyed look on his face.

“No,” he said shortly. “He’s old enough to take care of himself.”

Suou studied him for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but nodded politely and walked away. As soon as he was gone, Kuchiba exhaled, the mask of irritation slipping into something quieter. Unease pulled at his chest. Masoh was reckless, yes, but he didn’t simply vanish.

Night came. The island fell silent.

Kuchiba lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He folded his arms, turned onto his side, sat up, lay down again. Sleep refused him, his mind filled with the dark blue eyes that had annoyed him so many times. He had not even noticed, but their bickering had become somewhat rarer, but they had all simply been busier and it had barely been months since Taisha had left their side. 

Finally, with a low groan, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and walked outside. The cool air brushed against his tunic, carrying the distant rumble of the shifting sand-sea. He tilted his head back and gazed at the stars.

“They never change,” he muttered to himself. “Even when we do.”

A quiet voice came from just behind him.

“You say something, Kuchiba?”

Kuchiba nearly jumped out of his skin.

Shuan sat perched on a rock a few meters away, legs dangling, pale blonde hair glimmering in the moonlight.

“By the sea, how long have you been sitting there?!”

“Not long,” Shuan murmured with a sly smile, rubbing his eye. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe I’d get some fresh air… but now I’m curious. What were you thinking about?”

Kuchiba scowled, flustered, heart still racing.

“Nothing,” he snapped. “Go to sleep.”

But Shuan only tilted his head, studying him with quiet, unsettling calm.

Kuchiba wished he would just leave. He crossed his arms and leaned farther against the railing, angling his body in a way that anyone else would have taken as a clear dismissal. But Shuan simply shifted his weight, letting his feet swing lazily back and forth, head tilted with that faint, unwavering smile he always wore.

“What are you thinking about?” Shuan asked again, voice soft and unhurried.

“Nothing I said,” Kuchiba muttered.

“You’re lying,” Shuan said, not accusingly, just stating it. 

Kuchiba clenched his jaw. “You don’t know me that well.”

He chuckled faintly, but the sound was wrong. Kuchiba didn’t respond, staring stubbornly at the sky. The longer Shuan stayed, the more unsettled he felt. That had always been the case, ever since Shuan had grown older and… stranger.

He wasn’t a bad person. Kuchiba knew that. But Shuan’s smile never changed; it clung to him like a mask he couldn’t take off. His eye didn’t match it either, remaining closed, as if he tried to shield it from the world around them. Kuchiba often wondered if Shuan was even real, as if there was something or someone hidden behind. On nights like those, he almost seemed like a specter or a fleeting wisp, meant to haunt the only moments the Mudwhale was calm. They had lived side by side for over two decades, and yet Kuchiba felt as though he had never really met Shuan. Sometimes he doubted anyone had.

Shuan leaned forward slightly. “You’re worried about Masoh.”

Kuchiba stiffened. “I said I didn’t want to talk.”

“Mmm,” Shuan hummed, unbothered. “But you’re still thinking about it. I saw how his thymia faltered, he is getting old.”

Kuchiba clicked his tongue and finally turned to look at him. Anger flared, but beneath it something else gnawed, fear he didn’t want to name or be confronted with. Shuan was marked, too. Only two years younger than Masoh. If Masoh was weakening from age, then Shuan…

Kuchiba swallowed.

“Fine,” he snapped. “If you won’t leave me alone, then go do something useful. Go look for him.”

Shuan blinked slowly, the smile unchanged. “Me?”

“You’re marked,” Kuchiba said, sharper than intended. “You’d understand what he’s going through better than I ever could. And you two were friends when you were kids, weren’t you? I still remember when you two kicked me into the pools.”

Shuan’s head tilted. “So you want me to check if he’s dying?”

Kuchiba’s stomach twisted. If it wasn’t for Shuan’s superior strength, he would have punched him. How did he dare say these words so lightly? “I want you to check on him. That’s all.”

Shuan considered this for a long moment. Too long, in Kuchiba’s opinion. Finally, he slid off the railing with a soft exhale.

“All right,” he said. “I was bored anyways.”

It didn’t take long for Shuan to find Masoh. The island was small, and Masoh had never been a creative hider, just a stubborn one. Shuan approached the old tower quietly, listening.

A harsh cough echoed from inside.

Shuan paused. The sound was rough, scraping, the cough of someone whose body had begun to fray from the inside out. Recognition settled into him instantly. Not something that healed. Not something that slowed once it began.

So it is time for him.

He stood there for several seconds. The simplest and most efficient thing would be to leave. Walk back to Kuchiba and say, He won’t get better. There was no reason to waste time, no benefit in speaking to Masoh directly. Masoh probably already knew. It would spare them both a pointless conversation.

Shuan turned to go.

But something unfamiliar tugged at him. It was small, uncomfortable, like a hand closing around his ribs. It felt almost painful, but in the ache was something deeper and slightly warm. 

Masoh had been one of the only children who’d treated him about the same before and after the experiment. Maybe that was why the feeling lingered, refusing to let him walk away.

He exhaled, long and weary, and turned back toward the tower.

Climbing up, he found the fellow marked seated with his back pressed to the wall, eyes half-lidded and posture tense. When Masoh noticed him, he stiffened.

“Shuan?” Masoh’s voice cracked. “What are you doing here?”

Shuan stepped inside. “Kuchiba told me to find you.”

Masoh snorted, tired but still sharp. “Of course he did. And you actually listened?.”

Shuan stopped a few paces away, watching him with that same unsettling calm.

“You’re getting worse,” he said. “I heard you.”

Masoh’s jaw tightened. “I’m just tired.”

“No,” Shuan replied quietly. “You’re dying.”

Masoh looked away, annoyed and exposed. “You’re awfully direct, has anyone ever told you that?”

“You’re awfully bad at pretending nothing’s wrong,” Shuan countered, and his smile flickered. It was still false, but softer somehow. “If something’s happening to you, you should get the Elders.”

Masoh leaned his head back against the wall with a rough exhale, eyes narrowing. “Wipe that stupid smile off,” he muttered. “You’re next, you know. We’re practically the same age. If I’m going, you won’t be far behind.”

Shuan didn’t flinch. “I know.”

Masoh blinked, thrown off by the lack of fear or annoyance.

Shuan continued, tone calm and soft, almost matter-of-fact. “When it’s my time, I won’t hide it. There’s no point. Time moves on whether we want it to or not. Running only makes the inevitable drag longer.”

Masoh let out a dry, broken laugh that dissolved into a cough. “Look at you. Suddenly a poet.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“It’s not poetry,” Shuan said. “It’s just the truth. I dislike it when people lie about these things. It only makes everything… messier. More emotional. Unnecessary.”

Masoh stared at him for a long moment. The tower was quiet except for the distant groan of shifting sand outside. He turned his gaze toward the sea beyond the broken mud archway. It seemed endless, rippling in shades of pale gold under the waning moon.

“You’re weird,” he said simply.

Shuan nodded as if it were a compliment. “I know.”

He rose to leave. Masoh listened to the soft footsteps, steady and unhurried, already expecting him to vanish back into the dark and return with the truth laid bare for everyone. Shuan had always been like that, in his own unnerving way: bluntly honest.

“Wait.” Masoh’s voice cracked, but it stopped Shuan mid-step.

Shuan turned slightly. “What is it?”

Masoh hesitated, jaw clenching. His fingers curled in the fabric of his linen pants, knuckles whitening. “Don’t… don’t tell Kuchiba.”

“I won’t lie for you.”

Masoh grimaced, frustrated even as his breathing faltered. “I’m not asking you to lie. I just…It’s not the right moment.” His voice thinned, softer. “I want to tell him myself.”

Shuan considered this, head tilting. “Then come with me,” he said at last. “Tell him now. That way I don’t have to do it.”

Masoh’s expression snapped, anger flaring like a spark in dry brush. “No. That’s… That’s not… ” He dragged in a breath, shallow and angry. “Shuan, just do me that favor.”

The blonde stood there, still like carved stone. His smile didn’t change, but something underneath it did: faint puzzlement. 

Masoh looked exhausted, stubbornly fighting something he could not win against. And he was pleading. That was the part that felt wrong. Masoh didn’t beg.

Shuan finally spoke, voice low. “You’re making it harder.”

Masoh clenched his teeth. “I don’t care. Just… don’t tell him. Not yet.”

Shuan exhaled softly, and the tower seemed to hold its breath with him.

“Fine,” he said at last. “For now.”

Masoh sagged just slightly in relief, though he tried to hide it.

“But you can’t run from this,” Shuan added, voice almost gentle. “Not for long.”

Masoh swallowed, looking away. “I know.”

Shuan lingered a moment longer, then turned toward the stairs, leaving Masoh alone with the truth he wasn’t ready to face.

Kuchiba had been pacing for a while, stepping back and forth across the mud that overlooked the sand sea. The night had settled fully, and with it came a creeping cold that bit at his arms and made him regret not going back for an additional layer of clothes. He rubbed at his sleeves, scowling at nothing in particular.

Shuan was taking too long.

“Ridiculous,” Kuchiba muttered under his breath. “Completely ridiculous. How far could he have gone?”

He told himself he would wait five more minutes. Then five more. Then another five. By the time Shuan’s figure finally emerged from between the towers, Kuchiba was shivering and furious.

“Finally,” Kuchiba snapped. “Well? How is he?”

Shuan stopped a few paces away, his ever-present smile faint in the moonlight. He lifted his shoulders in a quiet shrug. “I didn’t find him.”

Kuchiba’s amber eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I searched the usual places,” Shuan said blandly. “But it’s dark. I’ll look again tomorrow.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Kuchiba stepped closer, incredulous. “You’re lying.”

Shuan tilted his head. “I’m not,” he replied, still calm. “I didn’t find him.”

Kuchiba stared at him. Shuan’s smile didn’t move, didn’t flicker. It was as hollow and smooth as always, and Kuchiba could not break it apart, could not look behind. 

“You know something,” Kuchiba said, voice low. “You know where he is.”

Shuan didn’t even blink. “Goodnight, Kuchiba. It’s cold. You should sleep.”

He turned without waiting for an answer.

“Hey!” Kuchiba barked, taking a step forward. “I’m talking to you!”

Shuan kept walking, as if neither Kuchiba’s anger nor Masoh’s disappearance could touch him.

Kuchiba stood alone on the platform, fists shaking with cold and frustration.

“That asshole,” he muttered, but there was no real force behind it. 

Because Shuan had definitely found something, and Kuchiba’s fear had quietly been confirmed. 

Morning arrived in a washed-out haze of pale gold. Usually, it would comfort him, but today it only sharpened the knot in his stomach. He dressed quickly, barely swallowing a few bites before storming outside. He didn’t even bother checking the fields as he passed them, his thoughts were fixed on the hollow answers that had kept him awake half the night.

If no one else is going to do anything, then I will. He can’t have gone far.

He was halfway across the main walkway when a voice burst through the morning air. He halted, startled, as Suou jogged toward him with a relieved smile.

“Masoh came back! I was worried, but he said he was just resting. Everything’s fine now!” Suou said breathlessly. Kuchiba stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

Suou pointed past him, toward the bamboo. “He’s right there.”

Kuchiba turned slowly.

Masoh stood several yards away, harvesting bamboo shoots with the same unrestrained strength as always. His movements were steady, powerful, practiced. Not a hint of fatigue. Not a tremor. Not even the faint hesitation that Kuchiba had noticed yesterday.

Kuchiba blinked once. Twice. A third time.

Is that really…?

For an absurd moment, he wondered if he had finally lost it, if he’d conjured Masoh out of worry and sleeplessness. He rubbed both hands over his face. When he opened his eyes again, Masoh was still there, his thymia swinging cleanly through a cluster of bamboo.

Maybe my eyes are going, Kuchiba thought bitterly. That’s how it always begins for the unmarked, isn’t it? Maybe it’s me. Maybe he never disappeared at all.

Still unsettled, he took several steps forward.

As he approached, irritation began to seep into his confusion. Masoh was acting as though nothing had happened. Kuchiba’s brows knitted sharply.

“Masoh!” he barked.

No response. Masoh kept working, bamboo stalks falling neatly to the ground.

Kuchiba’s jaw clenched. “How dare you run off like that?!”

Still nothing.

“Hello?!” Kuchiba reached a hand out as if to grab his shoulder. “I am talking to you!”

Masoh paused mid-swing. Slowly, he turned around.

And smiled.

It was wide, bright, almost boyish. It reminded him of the smile Masoh used to wear when he was teasing Kuchiba as a child. It hit Kuchiba like a sudden gust of warm air.

“Sorry, Kuchiba!” Masoh said cheerfully. “Didn’t hear you over all the bamboo being cut and moved around!”

The smile looked real. Sincere, even. For a second, Kuchiba felt something inside him falter.

Was he really just tired?

The longer he stared at Masoh’s grin, the more ridiculous his fear began to feel. Maybe he was the one who needed to get checked out. It was true, he had not gotten a good night of sleep since the Empire’s last attack, which had left deep scars both on the ship and its people. But something faint and cold still prickled at the back of his neck.

Kuchiba cleared his throat and tried again, quieter this time.

“Masoh… just answer me. Why did you disappear?”

Masoh swung another stalk of bamboo over his shoulder as if the question barely grazed him.

“Disappear? Kuchiba, I just needed some rest. You always overreact.” His tone was light. “Really, I’m fine!”

Kuchiba watched him for a long moment. There was no tremor in Masoh’s hands now. Nothing out of place. Nothing wrong.

Even so, that perfectly easygoing smile didn’t sit right in Kuchiba’s chest.

But he finally exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to drop it.

“All right. Fine. Must’ve just been… what? A cold?” he muttered. “Next time, just say something.”

Masoh only gave him a quick thumbs-up and returned to cutting bamboo, humming faintly under his breath.

Kuchiba turned away before he could start scrutinizing him again.

He walked without any real direction, his steps lighter than they had been in weeks. He found himself near the patches of flowers that grew on the ship-island in bright bursts of color. He sat down in the grass, stretching his legs out. The morning chatter of the island rose around him: children calling out, someone laughing, the rhythmic clacking of tools against wood.

For the first time in a long while, he let himself smile. It was an open, relieved grin he hadn’t felt since before Taisha died.

Good. He’s all right. Thank the sea… I wasn’t ready. I’m not ready to say goodbye yet.

A breeze swept across the fields, ruffling his red hair. And just like that, the smile slipped away.

He hadn’t expected the memory to come so sharply. Taisha’s blood on his hands, her head falling limp against his shoulder, the way her warmth had drained too quickly. The guilt that had followed him ever since. The quiet, gnawing ache.

He had pushed those images aside for months, burying them under all the times she had smiled at him, bossing him around, relying on him.

He swallowed hard, staring at the sky.

Is that why I panicked? Because losing Masoh would’ve felt like losing her all over again?

The thought made his stomach twist.

Was he just… a replacement? Someone to fill the hole she left?

Kuchiba shook his head violently, disgusted with himself.

“No. Idiot,” he muttered aloud. “They’re not the same. Don’t think that. Don’t you dare.”

Taisha was Taisha. Masoh was Masoh. He pressed a hand to his forehead.

He wasn’t afraid of losing a replacement, he was afraid of losing Masoh. Afraid in a way he hadn’t admitted, even to himself. After Taisha’s death, he and Masoh had grown closer. There was less fighting, fewer snide remarks that actually hurt, more quiet understanding. Masoh had been there for him in ways he hadn’t even noticed at the time.

And Masoh had done so much for the Mud Whale: tireless work, strong thymia, always stepping up when there was a crisis. More than that, he had become a steady presence for the children orphaned by the attacks or by thymia’s cruel limits. Watching him with those kids had always made Kuchiba’s chest tighten in a strange, uncomfortable way.

A way that now felt like clarity.

I care about him more than I let myself believe, Kuchiba realized. And that’s why yesterday scared me so much.

He let out a long breath, eyes drifting back toward the bamboo fields.

Masoh was still there, working, smiling that easy smile.

Kuchiba wished he felt as reassured as he pretended to.

From across the field, partly hidden behind a cluster of tall bamboo, Shuan stood with his arms loosely folded. His expression was unreadable, his gaze sharp. He had come early, as he often did, to check on the fields and perhaps to check on Masoh.

He watched the exchange between Kuchiba and Masoh without a word. It didn’t surprise Shuan. 

When Kuchiba finally left, shoulders easing for the first time in weeks, Shuan exhaled through his nose. Relief for Kuchiba, maybe. But not for Masoh.

He waited until Kuchiba was out of sight, then pushed himself off the boulder and strolled over, hands in his pockets. His soft whistling cut through the sound of bamboo being cut and sorted.

Masoh paused mid-motion, his grip on the stalk tightening ever so slightly before he lowered it. He didn’t look at Shuan right away.

“…Thank you,” Masoh muttered at last, eyes fixed on the ground. “For not telling him.”

Shuan tilted his head, eyebrows lifting in an exaggerated show of puzzlement.

“Telling him what?” he asked brightly. “I have not the faintest idea what you mean.”

MMasoh shook his head, frustration flickering across his face. “Just… leave it.”

“You’ll have to tell him eventually, Masoh,” the blonde said, voice still light, almost playful. “Before it’s too late.”

Masoh’s eyes flashed, and he straightened, finally looking at Shuan directly. “I know that,” he whispered sharply. “Just… shut up.”

Shuan lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, though the smile didn’t budge.

“As you wish.”

Then he turned, stepping away from the fields, his footsteps slow and unbothered. The same tune from before floated back toward Masoh, drifting lazily on the wind.

Masoh watched him go, shoulders stiffening, until Shuan disappeared behind the trees.

Then, alone again, Masoh picked up the next bamboo stalk.

Shuan walked along the narrow path between the bamboo rows, hands clasped behind his back, shoes brushing quietly through the dust. The whistling faded, replaced by a long, thoughtful hum as he let his mind wander.

Why were they making it so complicated?

Masoh clinging to silence, Kuchiba bristling with worry and anger in equal measure.

It would be so much simpler, even painfully simple, if they just sat down and talked. Not even much talking, he thought. Just… honesty. A few words. Enough to stop this useless dance around the truth.

But people never seemed to choose the simple way. They tangled themselves up like fishing nets, pulling tighter until they choked.

He exhaled, a soft snort slipping out.

“Maybe I’m the strange one,” he murmured, amused at himself.

Because to him, it was obvious. Masoh and Kuchiba cared. Deeply. In ways neither of them wanted to acknowledge out loud, though it sat on both their shoulders as clearly as sunlight. That warmth had hit him unexpectedly, not for him, of course, but between them.

Warmth like that wasn’t something he’d felt from others in… twenty years? More? He wasn’t sure when it had stopped. Perhaps around the time his body had stopped working quite normally.

Shuan slowed his pace and let his gaze sweep across the people working the fields: adults gathering bamboo, children weaving baskets, elders tending the small herb garden to the side. All of them moving with a quiet determination, each task part of the same ceaseless rhythm that kept their little island alive.

He had always protected them. They were his people. The whole of them, the whole structure of the Mud Whale, the balance of their lives. But never individuals.

Except Ginshu.

He’d told himself that was only because she was his successor. Someone he was responsible for shaping, instructing, guiding toward the role he would one day leave behind. That had always been enough of a reason.

But yesterday, Kuchiba had reminded him of that ridiculous moment, just days before the experiment, when they’d shoved him into the water. Shuan hadn’t thought of that day in years. The sound of their laughter, Kuchiba’s soaked clothes, the sand stuck in his hair…

It rose vividly, unexpectedly. To his own surprise, his lips softened into a real smile. 

People were strange. Impossible. Unpredictable in ways he could never fully calculate.

Sometimes, he wished he understood them better. But most of the time… he simply watched. And tried, in his own odd way, to keep them alive.

The following day, just before dusk, Shinono made her way toward the springs with an empty clay jug tucked against her hip. The air carried an unusual sting; grains of sand swept across the paths in thin, restless streams, pricking lightly against her arms and cheeks. A dry wind like this usually came before a night of uneasy sleep for the island.

As she rounded the bend, she spotted Masoh at the water’s edge, crouched over the spring with two full jugs beside him. He must have had the same idea of refilling before dark, before the wind grew harsher.

“Evening, Masoh,” she called, lifting her hand in greeting.

He turned, smiling with a warmth she had always liked about him. “Evening, Shinono,” he answered, his voice steady as he reached for the heavy jugs. He lifted them with practiced ease, balanced them against his arms, and began to head back toward the towers.

She smiled to herself and turned to fill her own jug, listening to the quiet lap of water and the whisper of sand through the reeds.

Then she heard a sharp crash.

Shinono spun around. One of Masoh’s jugs lay shattered across the path, water spreading quickly into the mud. Masoh sat in the middle of the mess, stunned, shards around him like scattered pieces of a broken shell.

“Masoh!” She hurried toward him. “Are you alright? Did you trip?”

She knelt beside him without waiting for an answer and began gathering the larger fragments. Masoh’s face flushed with embarrassment, his gaze fixed on the ruined jug.

“I’ll clean it up,” he muttered, reaching for the shards with an unsteady hand.

Shinono chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be this clumsy,” she teased, trying to lighten the moment without giving it much of a thought. She herself had shattered many jugs in her life. It was just one of these things that happened. 

Masoh rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her green eyes. “Long day on the fields,” he said. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his clothes. Shinono stood as well, and though she kept her expression gentle, she saw the slight tremor in his hands, the way he steadied himself just a moment too long before straightening completely.

She didn’t comment. Instead, she watched him with a quiet, almost nostalgic softness.

“So that’s why Kuchiba’s been making such a long face lately,” she murmured under her breath. She was still smiling, but her mind seemed to be elsewhere, remembering times long gone.

Masoh froze for half a heartbeat, just long enough for her to notice.

But Shinono only continued picking up the remaining shards, her gaze lowered, and her expression patient.

“Whatever Kuchiba told you,” he said, forcing a lopsided grin, “I’m fine. He’s just worrying over nothing again.”

He crouched beside her before she could reply, placing his remaining jug carefully at the edge of the path so it wouldn’t tip. His fingers were steady enough this time, though Shinono had already seen the tremor. He sifted through the shards with her, trying to look unbothered.

Shinono nodded slowly, her warm smile never leaving her face. “Kuchiba has always had a habit of worrying quickly,” she said lightly. “Especially for the people he loves, though he’s not very good at showing it.”

Masoh froze for just a heartbeat. The word love seemed to echo in the quiet between them. He swallowed, eyes drifting toward the distant bamboo fields where Kuchiba had stood that morning.

“Love?” he repeated with a weak laugh. “I’ve been annoying him so much, I’m sure he’ll be relieved once the sea takes me.”

He meant it as a joke, but something warm pressed against his ribs from the inside. Shinono caught the flicker in his expression and laughed with him, though her eyes softened.

“Oh, you know exactly how much you mean to that hothead,” she said, brushing a few shards into her palm. “If the time comes, he’ll be the one weeping the loudest.” 

Masoh huffed, pretending to be offended as he dropped another shard into her hand. “And what about you? You won’t miss me at all?”

“Of course I’ll miss you,” she answered with a warm certainty. Then she tipped her head, giving him a playful, knowing look. “But you and Kuchiba… you always had a different kind of relationship. Like an old married couple who’d bicker their way across the whole sea.”

Masoh let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t trembled slightly. Shinono pretended not to notice. She only continued gathering the broken pieces, letting her gentle teasing settle between them like dust on the wind, knowing full well it had struck something deeper than Masoh wanted to admit.

He cradled the single remaining jug against his chest with both arms. Each step along the winding path back toward the towers sent a faint ache up his spine, but he pushed through it, keeping his pace steady.

He passed the first row of towers and paused, drawn toward the balcony-like ledge that overlooked the sea of sand. The horizon glowed crimson beneath the sinking sun, the wind carrying faint ripples across the dunes like waves on water.

A hollow, familiar ache opened inside him. He had stood here before, on the worst day of his life.

The sand had been the same color then, a deep red like an open wound, when his daughter slipped beneath it. He could still see her small arms reaching, still hear her voice cutting through the wind, still feel the helplessness as the sand swallowed her faster than his legs could move. He had screamed until his throat bled, but the sand had taken her anyway.

Years had passed since that day. The pain had softened, dulled around the edges, but it had never vanished. Sometimes, when the sand looked like this, he allowed himself to imagine what she might have looked like now, had she lived. How tall she’d be. Whether she would have inherited his stubbornness or her mother’s gentler smile.

A faint warmth pulsed through him at the thought. It was not painful this time, but strangely soothing. He would see her again. Sooner than later. The idea didn’t frighten him as much as he’d always assumed it would. If the afterlife existed beyond the sand, then maybe she was waiting. Maybe he’d be able to hold her again.

He let the warmth linger a moment longer, then slowly turned from the sand and looked toward the towers. Moss clung to their pale surfaces like green veins. Kuchiba’s room was easy to pick out, its window still glowing faintly with lamplight.

Masoh wondered what he was doing. 

His gaze drifted downward again, back to the memory of small fingers slipping from his hands. Even if he couldn’t have saved her, a part of him would always wish for more time, one more morning, one more laugh, one more chance to tell her how much he loved her.

That ache made something inside him click into place.

He didn’t want Kuchiba to feel that same regret. He didn’t want to leave things unsaid until it was too late. Shuan’s words echoed in his mind: Tell him soon. 

Masoh tightened his grip on the jug. His breath trembled.

He couldn’t run anymore. Not from this nor from Kuchiba.

He deserved to know. And Masoh finally understood that the fear wasn’t of dying, but of leaving without saying goodbye.

Tomorrow, he told himself.

Tomorrow, he would tell him.

Masoh didn’t sleep much that night. As soon as the sky lightened from black to the soft blue of dawn, he left his room and crossed the quiet paths toward the residential towers. A few early risers were already stirring, but most of the Mudwhale still slept. The air was cool and the sun gentle, the hour Kuchiba always liked best.

Masoh reached the familiar door and hesitated only a moment before knocking.

It opened quicker than he expected. Kuchiba stood there, ginger hair slightly messy, eyes narrowed, clearly expecting someone else. Or perhaps no one at all.

“Masoh?” His voice was gruff with sleep and irritation. “Why are you knocking on my door at this hour?”

Masoh smiled softly, and only then did he notice Kikujin sitting behind Kuchiba, cross-legged on the chair with a small piece of bamboo bread in his hands. The boy blinked up at Masoh in surprise, crumbs on his cheeks.

“Morning,” Masoh greeted, a little sheepish. “Sorry to interrupt. I was wondering if you wanted to go on a walk. Before the island gets too busy.”

Kuchiba squinted at him like Masoh had just attempted an awful joke.

“A walk,” he repeated flatly. “With you.”

Masoh kept smiling. “Yes. With me, or are you hothead too good to go on a walk with an old friend?”

Silence stretched. Kuchiba’s eyebrow rose higher. His instincts screamed prank, trick, ulterior motive. For a moment Masoh thought he’d refuse.

But then, slowly, Kuchiba exhaled. “…fine. Wait here.”

He stepped back inside, muttered something to Kikujin and closed the door. When he emerged again, his face had settled back into its usual irritated scowl.

“Let’s make it quick,” he grumbled.

They started walking. The air smelled faintly of dew. No one else was close enough to overhear them. Masoh was grateful for that.

He didn’t circle around the truth, didn’t build up to it. He simply spoke.

“You were right,” he said quietly. “I have been getting weaker.”

Kuchiba stopped walking, but Masoh kept going, hands folded behind his back, eyes on the path. “It’s not too bad yet. I’m not at the end. I can feel there’s still time left in me.” He drew in a steady breath. “But eventually it’ll come.”

Kuchiba’s gaze dragged over him slowly, carefully. Masoh felt it before he saw it. The scrutiny. The calculation. The reluctant acceptance. For a long moment they simply stood there in the cooling shade of the tower.

Masoh finally turned, meeting Kuchiba’s eyes with a small, weak but sincere smile.

“I wanted to tell you myself,” he said softly. “Before the truth caught up on its own.”

Kuchiba stared at him as if trying to decide whether to be angry… or afraid… or both. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

“Are you sure?” he muttered, still not quite looking at Masoh. “You’re not just… imagining things?”

Masoh gave a small, tired laugh. “Positive. I know my body well enough. It isn’t terrible yet. I still feel steady on my feet, and I know I have time. But sooner or later it’ll reach me.” He lifted his shoulders in a light, almost careless shrug. “I just didn’t see any point in pretending otherwise anymore.”

Kuchiba’s eyes moved over him again, openly assessing now. In the soft morning light, the changes were obvious: Masoh’s shirt hung a bit looser at the collar, and his arms, though still strong, had lost some of their previous solidity. Yet the broad curve of his shoulders remained, stubborn and reassuring.

“…So will they move you to the infirmary?” Kuchiba asked quietly.

Masoh snorted. “Not yet. It’s not that close. And I’d rather not be penned in before it’s necessary.” Then, with a faint grin, he added, “Besides, that’s exactly why I told you. I didn’t want to waste any more of the time I still had.”

Kuchiba scoffed, though it came out sharper than he meant. “Right. So you can spend your remaining days doubling your stupid pranks and refusing to leave me alone.”

Masoh turned his head toward him while still walking. “If it’s such a bother, I can request to be moved to the infirmary immediately. You’d finally have some peace.”

Kuchiba stopped in his tracks, clearly offended. “Cut it out. I didn’t mean it like that.” He crossed his arms, glaring. “If it comes to it, I’d gladly get thrown into the pools a hundred more times. Doesn’t bother me.”

Masoh barked a laugh. “That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Kuchiba’s cheeks reddened. “Shut up.” He swung a punch at Masoh’s shoulder.

Masoh caught his fist easily, reflexes still quicker than the unmarked. For a moment, their hands locked, Kuchiba’s tight with embarrassment, Masoh’s warm and steady around his own.

“Careful,” The younger said with a smirk. “This counts as elder abuse.”

The ginger jerked his hand back with a scowl, though the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself. “You’re stupid,” he said. “And you deserved to be punched for all of it.”

Masoh smirked, lowering his arm again. “I just might. Go on then, hit me.”

The older one blinked at him, taken off guard. He hesitated, lifted his fist again, then gave Masoh a light punch on the shoulder, more of an annoyed tap than anything serious.

Masoh stared at him in disbelief. “Is that it? That’s all the strength you could muster?”

Kuchiba’s ears reddened to the tips. “Shut up.”

He glanced away for a moment, then back at Masoh, his expression tightening. “Does anyone else know?”

The younger one nodded a little, his gaze drifting toward the sand path. “Shinono saw me trip last night. And Shuan, of course. He visited me in the tower.”

Kuchiba’s expression twisted instantly. “That bastard. He told me he never found you.”

Masoh chuckled softly. “That one’s on me. I told him not to say anything yet. I needed time to… figure out how to tell you.”

Kuchiba muttered under his breath, kicking at a stone. “He should have still told me. Useless idiot.”

Masoh stepped closer, nudging Kuchiba lightly with his elbow. “If you’re going to be angry, be angry at me. He was trying to help in his own way. Don’t take it out on him.”

Kuchiba’s jaw tightened. The wind shifted between the towers, carrying a faint hiss of sand. He didn’t speak for a moment.

Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine. But he’s still an idiot.”

Masoh laughed under his breath. “Good thing you’re surrounded with idiots, hm?”

From his perch on the upper ledge, Shuan watched them again, the early sun slowly warming the heavy folds of his red coat. He shifted his weight, amused, and let out a quiet snicker.

“Honestly… even from here it’s obvious,” he muttered to himself. “They should just kiss instead of fighting like that.”

He shook his head, smiled, and kept observing.

Down below, Kuchiba had finally come to a halt, shoulders trembling just enough for Masoh to notice. He turned his face away, but Masoh the glint of a single tear sliding down his cheek.

“You,” Kuchiba said, voice rough, “will always be the biggest idiot on this entire island.”

Masoh’s laughter broke through the morning air, utterly unbothered. “You’re right. I’ve been foolish more times than I can count.”

His smile softened, losing its teasing edge. “But for once… I want to be intelligent.”

Kuchiba blinked, thrown off. “What? Since when?”

“There are still so many things I want to do,” The younger one said. “And you…” He nudged Kuchiba’s arm lightly. “You could help me fulfill that wish.”

Kuchiba stared at him, stunned. “What wishes? What are you talking about?”

Masoh only winked, stepping ahead on the sandy path. “You’ll see soon enough.”

That only frustrated the ginger further. “Masoh! Stop walking away from me, Masoh, what does that even mean?”

But Masoh only laughed, the sound bright and strangely hopeful.

Up on the ledge, Shuan watched the two shapes growing smaller on the path. “Wishes, huh…” he murmured. “What kind of nonsense is he planning now?”

He might have lingered longer but the moment was broken by the lively burst of noise from below. The first children spilled out of the towers, racing toward the central plaza with morning energy and laughter. Their voices echoed off the mud, scattering Shuan’s thoughts.

He sighed, pushed himself to his feet, and brushed the dust off his coat. Time was up and he had work to do.

Without another glance at Masoh and Kuchiba, he turned and headed toward the tower, their conversation carried away by the rising wind and the growing hum of life on the island.

And that was where the morning left them.