[team two] in memoriam
this took ages to complete, sorry. more messiah, ariga/kagami (+ mentions of shirasaki, 🎻)
‘In Memoriam,’ the engraving had read, the silver catching a momentarily glint of light from the lamppost a few steps away. Ariga stares at the pendant, pondering if it had a hidden weapon or recording device. A small blade that comes out when you thumb the lettering, perhaps. The edges of the dog tag are rounded and blunt, so he probably can’t cut anything with them.
“And the occasion?” He prompts, because Itsuki has started kicking the pebbles at their feet instead of offering up an explanation, avoiding eye contact. “Itsuki.”
“A token,” Itsuki responds, after a beat. His hair is in all directions, even though there’s only a slight breeze. Ariga tamps down the urge to ruffle the wayward curls, run his fingers through them like he used to when they were holed up in that small village just below the Arctic, Itsuki asleep after all the manic energy had coursed itself out of his system.
Ariga remembers a different time, maybe in Moscow, when they’d passed each other in a Northern Alliance convention, both posing as delegates from different branches. He’d been a full agent for close to five years by then, not that he was keeping count, and the two of them had met less than a day in total. It wasn’t unusual, then, that the shock of seeing Itsuki with bleached hair shorn so close to the scalp made Ariga lose his footing for a split-second. They didn’t acknowledge each other in the crowd, but when he returned to his room that evening there was a black, custom-sized leather case about the size of a shoebox atop his bed, black roses and a few locks of dark auburn hair nestled inside.
Three days later, Ariga had found his partner for the summit dead in the bathtub, the handle of a throwing knife protruding from where it had stabbed his chest.
“He was on to you,” was the only answer he had gotten, squeezed out of his Messiah in between feverish kisses several months after that encounter, and that had been that.
They never talk about it, how he faithfully keeps all the mementos Itsuki sends. One for every life important to Ariga that he has to take out of necessity.
Ariga comes back to the present when Itsuki breathes out, the puff of air forming a fog in the small space between them. He’s not shivering yet, but Ariga will bundle him up in his much warmer down jacket and a new pair of gloves before they have to return to their respective posts. This quest to make the world a better place at the expense of their shared time has started taking a toll on him much more than he would like to admit.
“I met Shirasaki-san a while back,” Itsuki says, tilting his head up, snowflakes catching on his cheek. “He says hi.”
Ariga had met Shirasaki, too, in Fukuoka, last month. They’d shared stories over dinner, hushed voices drowned by the sea of noise from the bustling evening crowd.
He hopes the necklace isn’t for that, because Shirasaki was perhaps the only other friend they had, and technically they weren’t even allowed to have him.
“Stop thinking he doesn’t like you,” Ariga answers. Being overprotective was a default trait for Shirasaki, something he had not unlearned despite time and distance. “That was years ago.”
Itsuki stays quiet, standing up to stretch. They’re right outside an abandoned graveyard, and without warning, he jumps over the low, wooden fence with practiced ease, the hem of his trench coat inches away but not snagging on the rusty barbed wire covering the planks. He heads deeper into the cemetery, toward a section to the east cordoned off by trees, Ariga following close behind.
They stop in front of an unmarked grave, adorned with a bouquet of purple asters, forget-me-nots, and yellow camellias. A single white rose sits next to the bouquet.
Ariga crouches next to the flowers to examine a familiar piece of steel entangled between petals. A tag to match his own, the name carved on it familiar and bittersweet. He closes his eyes and sees a pair of pale hands, gentle as they caress his arms and shoulder, the same way they would his precious violin.
“Shirasaki-san said that it was today.” Itsuki’s voice sounds far away, like Ariga was hearing him through a glass bubble. “And that he wouldn’t have minded that you didn’t remember.”
Obviously, his Messiah had minded. Both the thought, and Shirasaki’s words.
Ariga opens his eyes, sighing. He untangles the chain and pockets the pendant, turning to Itsuki with a small smile. He’ll keep it safe, along with everything else Itsuki has given. “Next time we meet, I have to remind Shirasaki that I stopped having the emotional capacity of a bullet a long time ago.”
next up is hikabu
‘In Memoriam,’ the engraving had read, the silver catching a momentarily glint of light from the lamppost a few steps away. Ariga stares at the pendant, pondering if it had a hidden weapon or recording device. A small blade that comes out when you thumb the lettering, perhaps. The edges of the dog tag are rounded and blunt, so he probably can’t cut anything with them.
“And the occasion?” He prompts, because Itsuki has started kicking the pebbles at their feet instead of offering up an explanation, avoiding eye contact. “Itsuki.”
“A token,” Itsuki responds, after a beat. His hair is in all directions, even though there’s only a slight breeze. Ariga tamps down the urge to ruffle the wayward curls, run his fingers through them like he used to when they were holed up in that small village just below the Arctic, Itsuki asleep after all the manic energy had coursed itself out of his system.
Ariga remembers a different time, maybe in Moscow, when they’d passed each other in a Northern Alliance convention, both posing as delegates from different branches. He’d been a full agent for close to five years by then, not that he was keeping count, and the two of them had met less than a day in total. It wasn’t unusual, then, that the shock of seeing Itsuki with bleached hair shorn so close to the scalp made Ariga lose his footing for a split-second. They didn’t acknowledge each other in the crowd, but when he returned to his room that evening there was a black, custom-sized leather case about the size of a shoebox atop his bed, black roses and a few locks of dark auburn hair nestled inside.
Three days later, Ariga had found his partner for the summit dead in the bathtub, the handle of a throwing knife protruding from where it had stabbed his chest.
“He was on to you,” was the only answer he had gotten, squeezed out of his Messiah in between feverish kisses several months after that encounter, and that had been that.
They never talk about it, how he faithfully keeps all the mementos Itsuki sends. One for every life important to Ariga that he has to take out of necessity.
Ariga comes back to the present when Itsuki breathes out, the puff of air forming a fog in the small space between them. He’s not shivering yet, but Ariga will bundle him up in his much warmer down jacket and a new pair of gloves before they have to return to their respective posts. This quest to make the world a better place at the expense of their shared time has started taking a toll on him much more than he would like to admit.
“I met Shirasaki-san a while back,” Itsuki says, tilting his head up, snowflakes catching on his cheek. “He says hi.”
Ariga had met Shirasaki, too, in Fukuoka, last month. They’d shared stories over dinner, hushed voices drowned by the sea of noise from the bustling evening crowd.
He hopes the necklace isn’t for that, because Shirasaki was perhaps the only other friend they had, and technically they weren’t even allowed to have him.
“Stop thinking he doesn’t like you,” Ariga answers. Being overprotective was a default trait for Shirasaki, something he had not unlearned despite time and distance. “That was years ago.”
Itsuki stays quiet, standing up to stretch. They’re right outside an abandoned graveyard, and without warning, he jumps over the low, wooden fence with practiced ease, the hem of his trench coat inches away but not snagging on the rusty barbed wire covering the planks. He heads deeper into the cemetery, toward a section to the east cordoned off by trees, Ariga following close behind.
They stop in front of an unmarked grave, adorned with a bouquet of purple asters, forget-me-nots, and yellow camellias. A single white rose sits next to the bouquet.
Ariga crouches next to the flowers to examine a familiar piece of steel entangled between petals. A tag to match his own, the name carved on it familiar and bittersweet. He closes his eyes and sees a pair of pale hands, gentle as they caress his arms and shoulder, the same way they would his precious violin.
“Shirasaki-san said that it was today.” Itsuki’s voice sounds far away, like Ariga was hearing him through a glass bubble. “And that he wouldn’t have minded that you didn’t remember.”
Obviously, his Messiah had minded. Both the thought, and Shirasaki’s words.
Ariga opens his eyes, sighing. He untangles the chain and pockets the pendant, turning to Itsuki with a small smile. He’ll keep it safe, along with everything else Itsuki has given. “Next time we meet, I have to remind Shirasaki that I stopped having the emotional capacity of a bullet a long time ago.”
next up is hikabu