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Oikawa threw open the door to his shack, startling the black cat that had been sleeping atop the mess of papers on the table. He ran forward, not bothering to shut the door properly.
There was no time.
Reaching into his robe, he pulled out a bone. Long and thin. There was dirt all over his hands and under his nails, but he hadn’t the time to clean himself up. He cradled the bone to his chest and closed his eyes, hoping beyond hope that it would work.
He walked over to his cauldron, already bubbling over the fire. He took one last look at the bone and tossed it in, watching as it sank slowly, swallowed by the thick, green liquid.
Next, he removed the necklace he wore. Dangling from the chain was a vile.
Blood.
It had been His and He had worn a necklace with Oikawa’s in it. Proof of their bond. Their love.
He uncorked the tiny bottle and poured its contents into the cauldron. The brew began to glow, changing in color from green to red before settling on a light turquoise.
Then he readied the final ingredient.
Oikawa reached for a dagger, partially covered by the torn pages of spell books that littered the table. He picked it up and pulled back the sleeve of his robe. After taking a deep breath, he pierced his skin, cutting out a small rectangle of the pale flesh.
He winced as he tore it away, but knew he could heal himself later.
With the last ingredient added, the potion began to smoke, filling the tiny shack and choking him. Oikawa backed away, his lungs burning and his eyes stinging. He tripped over something and heard his cat hiss as he tumbled to the ground.
His arm hurt. He quickly wrapped the wound with his sleeve, ignoring the way the blood soaked through the fabric.
It would all be worth it if it worked.
The smoke began to clear and Oikawa’s sharp eyes searched the room, hopeful, expectant.
Nothing.
No one.
He cursed himself for getting his hopes up. For robbing the grave of his beloved. For pouring out the blood He’d shared with him on their ‘wedding night.’ The searing pain in his arm was nothing compared to the gnawing sensation in his chest.
It had all been for nothing.
“For nothing!” he shouted, kicking one of the table legs and upsetting his black cat once more.
Then he heard something.
Footsteps.
Then the creaking of the front door on its hinges.
Oikawa turned around slowly, eyes wide.
There, silhouetted by the moon, was a tall, familiar form. A broad chest. Spiky hair.
He stood up, rushing over to him, eyes scanning his body, searching for the injury that had killed him. There was none. He was whole. He was there. He was-
“Iwa…chan…?” Oikawa asked, voice barely above a whisper. He was dressed just as he had been on the day he died. The day he’d been buried. There were no proper funerals to be had for traitors who left their village to cavort with those who practiced witchcraft.
Oikawa placed his hand on the other’s chest, eager to feel his heartbeat once more, but he was shaking so badly, he couldn’t tell.
“Iwa-chan…is that you…?”
Instead of answering, the man reached forward, the tips of his fingers brushing against Oikawa’s jaw almost lovingly before he wrapped his hands around his neck.
Oikawa’s eyes widened and his hands flew to the other’s wrists, clawing at them as he struggled to breathe. It was then that he noticed the other man was not wearing his necklace.
The room spun as darkness crept in around his vision.
“I…wa…ch…”
The other man grinned, eyes flashing.
“Not quite.”