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I always like walking in the rain,
so no one can see me crying.
—Charlie Chaplin
.
The flash came first, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. Carving a bright blue path through the dark clouds, it hacked through the sky like a blade. Rain fell from the heavens, soaking past Yoru’s jacket and into his skin. Beneath him, the pavement turned dark with the heavy onslaught of water, noisy as it pounded down on his shoulders with the savagery of a vengeful god.
Yoru didn’t believe in a god. He didn’t believe in anything other than what his own two hands could achieve. That was why he was here, in this… this mess. It was rare that anything was so readily Yoru’s fault; even rarer that he owned up to the mistake being his own. But this time, there was no denying it, no running away, no slipping past this dimension into the next and pretending like his slip-up hadn’t cost him everything.
Everything had a name, and that name was Vincent Fabron. No. Had been Vincent Fabron; though everyone else knew him as ‘Chamber’. Agent 18—little more than a number on a ledger. To Yoru, he was always something more, something higher, and although the riftwalker claimed that he didn’t rely on the existence of a god, Vincent was the closest thing he ever had to one. Vincent had never known the height, the width, nor the depth of his impact upon Yoru’s life. At least, not truly. Not beyond what his cold logic and infallible charm told him, and that wasn’t very much at all.
It was almost laughable how quickly his faith, his piety, his devotion turned into sacrilege; how quickly something he considered so holy and sacred fell to ruin before his hands.
Lightning struck ahead once more, illuminating the tops of the buildings surrounding him. They were tall, and so, so far out of his reach—just like how Vincent was supposed to be. He was meant to stay as Chamber. Nothing more, nothing less. Starting out as less than colleagues, and even that title had been thrust upon his shoulders. They were forced to get along, forced to be assigned to the same missions, forced to be within a few inches of the other’s breathing space. And yet, despite everything, Yoru’s hatred couldn’t last longer than the few mortal years they had spent together.
The next flash shook the ground, suggesting the worst of the storm might still be yet to come, but Yoru knew that he didn’t care. His hair stuck to his forehead in soggy clumps, droplets of water clinging to the frayed strands, but Yoru knew that he didn’t care. Red marred the water, morphing its clear transparency into a steady river of blood, but Yoru knew that he didn’t care.
What was there left to care about?
A few times, Yoru stared at his ancestors’ mask, turning it between his fingers, tracing a gentle path over its sharp edges. More than once, he wondered what might happen if he abused its power. The thought lingered for longer than it should have—selfish, impetuous, negligent. There were better things to think about than to dwell upon something that couldn’t be replaced, and couldn’t be rewound. Thought was a powerful agent, but not powerful enough to bring someone back from the dead.
Nothing ever was. Even Sage had her limits.
Death was a force of nature, and to reject nature itself was to deny the notion of life.
Biting crescent moons into his skin, Yoru’s hands reflexively curled into the front of his jacket. Something hard nudged against them. It was curiously shaped: rectangular, cool as ice, and with cracked edges worn by time. Frowning, he withdrew the strange object. Stared at it as it sat on his trembling palm. Stared at it some more, as though by mere sight alone, Chamber’s glasses would vanish into smoke. Exactly why they’d been nestled within the wet folds of fabric, Yoru didn’t know. He barely remembered anything past seeing the body. Maybe someone else had plucked them from his lifeless corpse. Yoru was bold, but not bold enough to strip a man down until he was merely a husk of his former self.
Though he could barely call Chamber's dead body a ‘man’ anymore.
There was some small, intrinsic part of Yoru that wanted to crush the man’s glasses between his shaking fingers and watch the shards fall to his feet. Because that was something he could do. Because it was easier than admitting Chamber was gone, and he wasn’t ever going to come back. If by some chance he could reach into the land of death and save him, Yoru would have found some way to cross the boundary even his mask was unable to show him. But Yoru couldn’t. He knew that, his teammates knew that, and if Chamber was still alive and standing by his side, he must have known that too. Because that was the thing. He was dead. Yoru hadn’t saved him. It wasn’t just that he didn’t, or couldn’t. He hadn’t.
There was some infinitely larger part of him that knew if he followed through with his instincts, he would regret it. Because as stupid, and idiotic, and mindless as it seemed, Chamber’s glasses were all he had left. He refused to give himself another glimpse of the dead man’s body. One had already been enough to break him.
Hah. That was funny. Chamber—no, Vincent—used to be everything to Yoru. Now, he was just a dead man. Another corpse in the morgue.
There was some infinitely larger part of him that knew if he followed through with his instincts, he would harbour guilt until death. Instinct. The word rested at the tip of Yoru’s tongue. It tasted bitter, like the cold dregs of coffee swirling at the bottom of a cup.
It should have been him. He knew that. His teammates knew that. Chamber knew that, and it was his knowledge that made him end up six feet under, his knowledge that made Yoru end up here—staring at the ruptured sky and wondering where it all started to go wrong. Water trickled down the glass, smudging the red streaks borne against the frame of his spectacles. Yoru’s gloves clung to his skin. The leather stuck tight. A blow to his chest, stinging like the raw edge of a slap. Where they’d once held stronger, firmer, longer hands in their grip… now?
There was nothing.
Nothing but the mere echo of a man who’d only live on in Yoru’s fragmented, twisted, warped version of reality. Fundamentally, that was what a dream was, stripped down to its bare bones. Somehow, seeing Chamber there—so ethereal, and perfect, and beautifully untouchable in corporeal form—only made him feel emptier. Seeing Chamber there, alive, only reminded him of what he didn’t have. Dreams let Yoru live the reality he had ruined with his own hands, and in ignorant bliss he would wake, eager. Expectant, only to find the other side of his bed cold, the sheets long since absent of Vincent’s scent, and presence, and perfectly pin-straight posture. Posture that was only disturbed by the arm that would always, always be flung across Yoru’s waist.
Seeing Chamber there, happy, was a jarring vision, and it made him punch things. Throw things. Break things. He became angrier still, if such a notion were possible; and there was no one to whom he could direct his rage to more than himself.
It was his fault.
Chamber died because of him.
There was no one who knew fury better than Yoru—a man so swathed within its depths, a man so swallowed by its waves, a man so smothered by its attention, that he could barely see past it.
Gritting his teeth, Yoru squeezed his eyes shut. But even behind closed eyelids, he could still hear it: the distinct crack of a gunshot, the sickening snap of bone, the incoherency of words muttered past all that red. The frantic whir of the VLT/R’s blades still left him gasping for breath in his sleep, slicking his sheets with a fine layer of sweat. Lightning hissed above him, and another harsh crack echoed through the neon city.
Yoru didn't hear it.