Work Text:
“Yi Sang. Peer through the glass and look into those worlds that lie just beyond your reach. Tell me, what do you see?”
A long time ago, a man whose face he could no longer recall had asked him that.
Back then, all he could see was ‘him,’ the one who held everything and lacked nothing. The person behind the mirror had smiled at him kindly, offered him comfort when there was none to be found, and served as the sole source of warmth within that cold, sickeningly white room.
(He knows now that those wings he saw behind ‘him’ were none other than his own, staring back at him, waiting for the day that he would finally take flight.)
Today, he stares at the mirror and sees worlds upon worlds upon worlds, fragments of pasts and presents and futures he does not recognize and probably never will. Yet, as he reaches through the shards and slowly pieces them together, he begins to see them in their full forms.
In one reflection, he holds the utmost dedication to the art of the sword, leaving behind scars as he chases an ideal that he simply cannot bring himself to forsake.
In another, the branches of beautiful flowers that haunted him so sprout upon his back, blooming a madder yellow, as his gaze rests on a horizon from the past that can no longer be attained.
In a third, his hands hold the barrel of a gun that he very much recognizes (how could he not?), and the tattered cloak he wears is permanently stained with the stench of strangers’ blood.
Yet even in these images, no matter how haunting they may be, he is not alone, for there is always someone at his side. Whether it be their strict military sergeant with a past veiled in smoke, or their short-tempered fighter with a heart of silver, or their somewhat peculiar artist with an odd affection for abbreviations, he is always accompanied in those strangely mirrored worlds.
He is well aware that not everyone shares his view, but he has truly come to think of the rest of them as his companions.
The chains that bind them together remain strong and unbroken, even as they each endure their ‘turns.’ Conflicts have come and gone, facades have been forcefully shattered, and so many murky pasts have been dredged out from their depths and laid out for the rest to see as they all struggle to cover up their pains.
No longer do the ghosts of his past linger before his sight. Instead, in this world that is reflected in his eyes and his eyes alone, he sees twelve fellow travellers, each with their own paths through this city. But for now, for as long as they remain here, they’ll follow a common road and accompany each other through inferno, purgatory, and paradise, until the curtains fall and their shared story comes to a close.
But for now, he looks on as:
Faust stands in the corner and bites into a slice of mint chocolate flavored cake, silently grimacing at its significantly stronger than intended flavor;
Don Quixote chases around the others with confetti poppers, threatening to cover them with a strange assortment of multicolored confetti;
Ryoshu awkwardly stands by the backdoor holding both a slice of cake in her hand and a cigarette in her mouth, unwilling to let one go in favor of the other;
Meursault blankly stares into the distance with an unfittingly colorful party hat that was unwillingly bequeathed upon him by the others;
Hong Lu cheerfully eats his cake, albeit a little confused as to why its mint flavor is so strong when he clearly put in the right amount of peppermint extract;
Heathcliff attempts to eat his cake in peace but nearly chokes on it after Sinclair almost knocks him over as he runs past him;
Ishmael holds onto the remains of the cake and dodges the running Sinners, unwilling to let the ongoing chase ruin the cake they so painstakingly baked together;
Rodion finishes gobbling down her fourth serving of cake yet and quietly looks around, hoping to snag any unattended slices left sitting around;
Dante looks around the room wearing a panicked expression (as panicked as a clock can look) and attempts to stop the ongoing chase before Vergilius inevitably walks in;
Sinclair trips over the edge of a seat and falls down face first onto the floor, leaving him wide open to be attacked by Don and her confetti;
Outis attempts to yell as loudly as she can at the others as they run by her, but is almost completely drowned out by the ensuing ruckus;
Gregor sits on the floor and grumbles as he attempts to pick the remaining confetti off his clothes, having already become a victim of the confetti chase;
and as he watches this scene unfold in front of him, he cannot help but feel his lips curl into a smile
and maybe
for him at least
that itself
is enough.