[FIC] Until You Say Goodbye - Full Version (KKM/omg_maou; Shinou/Murata, G)
Happiest of birthday wishes to my beloved sora_ishida. May the upcoming year bring you nothing but joy. ::snuggles:: ♥ ♥
Title: Until You Say Goodbye (Full Version)
Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou with slight influence from omg_maou
Pairing: Shinou, Murata; implied Shinou/Daikenja; possible very tiny YozRata hints
Rating: G, maybe light PG for mentions of war
Disclaimer: Very much not mine. No profit, for entertainment only.
Notes: Birthday gift for sora_ishida, with two versions. Fics are identical, except the full version has spoilers through episode 73. The short version ends before that point. Angst in both. The name given to the Shinou comes from omg_maou.
Until You Say Goodbye
Murata Ken had never really stopped and thought about how very odd it was that there was always someone with him that no one else could see. Having been that way for as long as he could remember, it seemed perfectly normal to him. So it was not surprising that on the day he woke and that man was suddenly gone, he felt rather bereft.
*
“There,” Murata said, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated and carefully placed the final block. Castle complete, the almost five-year-old beamed up at the man that watched him, grin growing wider still as the man smiled and knelt to study the small wooden structure.
“Very good,” the man, whose name Murata had not yet thought to ask, pronounced after spending a long moment scrutinizing the little building. “Would it please you to visit a real castle someday?”
“Yes!” Murata replied eagerly, by now used to the slightly formal way his interesting friend always spoke to him. “Have you seen one?”
The man nodded, blue-violet eyes going unfocused as though he were staring at something much farther away than what Murata could see. Some days he did that a lot, and he wasn't always smiling like he was now. “Many years ago, I lived in a castle,” he fixed his gaze on Murata again, “and so did you.”
“Me too?” Murata's eyes were very wide as he looked at his friend in astonishment, and then his brows suddenly drew down in a frown that looked far too serious for that tiny, angelic face. “I wish I remembered.”
“You will,” the man was still smiling, but he looked a little sad now. He reached out as though to pat Murata on the shoulder, but then let his hand drop, as whenever they tried to touch each simply slid through the other's body. “There will come a day when you remember everything.”
“I hope it's soon,” Murata said, hitting his castle with a swift sweep of his arm and laughing as all the blocks came tumbling down.
*
“Are you an angel?” Now that he was six and a half years old, Murata's mother had told him that he was getting too old to have an imaginary friend. However, that didn't make the blond man go away. So, Murata figured that there had to be another explanation for the man's constant presence.
He hadn't really expected the man, who Murata now knew was named Alarik, to burst into laughter like he did at the question. It was, Murata thought, the first time he'd seen the man ever laugh. But that didn't seem quite right. He was almost sure he could remember the man's laughter, but it seemed that at the time he'd been bigger. That didn't make a bit of sense either. Sometimes, when he thought too hard about his friend, he began to get very confused.
“No,” Alarik's voice, still edged with amusement, broke Murata out of his musing. “I am not, nor have I ever been, an angel. In fact, I have at times been called a demon.”
“Oh.” Murata stared at his friend curiously. “But aren't demons bad?”
“No worse than any of the people that make the claim,” Alarik replied, folding his arms and tilting his head a bit as he watched Murata. It was, Murata knew, the way Alarik looked when he wanted Murata to reason something out for himself. “Have I ever done anything to you that you would consider bad or evil?”
“No,” Murata answered slowly, propping his elbow on his pillow and resting his chin on his palm while peering at Alarik through the near-darkness of his room.
“You should not always believe everything you are told. Demons, and even angels I suspect, are often misunderstood,” Alarik said. “It is best that you form your own opinion, based on what you experience.”
“Okay,” Murata agreed easily. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment before speaking again. “Are you imaginary then?”
Alarik shook his head. “No, I am not imaginary either. Though we cannot touch each other, I am still just as real as you are. I just come from a different place, and cannot create a body that is solid here.”
“Will I be able to come to where you live someday?”
There was a flash of some impossible to read emotion in Alarik's eyes when Murata asked the question, and for some reason he wanted to take it back right away. Before he had the chance, Alarik was answering him in a gentle voice.
“That is something that we will talk about at some point in the future. For now, it will be best if you get to sleep.”
Murata lowered his head to the pillow and closed his eyes obediently, but not before he saw the way Alarik reached out and let his hand hover just above the blankets like he was smoothing them the way Murata's mother often did. For some reason, that gesture made him feel like he had lost something important, and the back of his eyes began sting like he was about to cry.
*
On Murata's eighth birthday, there was snow. The flakes fell quick and furious, dusting his hair and catching in his eyelashes. For a moment, they obscured his vision to the point where he couldn't see Alarik and a short rush of panic rose hot and frantic in his chest. He blinked, turning his head and wiping his eyes clear, and there Alarik was again, smiling just like he always did when Murata consciously looked for him.
“You aren't going to leave me, are you?” Murata asked, serious gravity of the question somewhat taken away by the way he bit nervously at his lower lip.
Alarik looked faintly startled by the question, and then the blue-violet eyes clouded briefly and he slowly shook his head. His lips thinned for a moment, and then they parted on an exhale that, had Alarik been fully present in this world, would have caused a cloud of steam in the cold air. Bending to put himself on a level with Murata's worried gaze, he spoke with a quiet sadness.
“I will not willingly leave you until you say goodbye,” he said slowly. “Until then, I will always be with you.”
There was a small stretch of silence, then Murata smiled, wide and happy. “I won't ever say that, so we can be together for always.”
Alarik didn't answer, and Murata was once again distracted by the swirling, chill snow and so didn't see the pained light that caught in his friend's eyes.
*
Murata was almost eleven before the first actual memories began to return to him. It started while he was asleep, the fabric of his usual dreams changing, growing sharper and more intense. There was fighting, smoke and dust and running bodies, all underscored by the sounds of weapons clashing and hoarse shouts and screams. He was not at all surprised to find himself here, on the outskirts of where men threw themselves forward to die.
The lines were weakening, and his eyes quickly sought the spot where they seemed likely to buckle. Just as he found it, the ground shook, and the enemies that threatened were swallowed up in a sudden crack as the earth surged. He turned his head, hair heavy with dirt and sweat, exhaustion pulling at the muscles in the back of his neck. Beside him, calming his restive mount with a weary hand, Alarik looked up and gave him a tiny, tired smile. That fleeting moment was all they had time for before they were moving again, off to another place where they may be able to save more of the lives on their side of this vicious war.
Murata opened his eyes, somehow expecting to still see the battle in front of him; to feel the heat of nearby fires and smell the acrid smoke. Instead, he stared at his dark, familiar ceiling and then fumbled for his glasses. Perching them on his nose, he pushed himself half up and looked over to the corner where he knew Alarik watched him.
“That wasn't a normal dream, was it?” Murata asked, his features matching the blankness of the expression Alarik met the question with.
“No,” the blond replied, arms folded loosely across his chest. “It was not.”
“I thought not,” Murata replied, pulling off his glasses and settling back down to sleep.
*
By the time Murata was twelve-years-old, he had remembered nearly everything. It wasn't easy, as it was far more than just that first life where he'd been the Great Sage. He remembered all the lives in between then and now, and sometimes it was hard to keep all the threads separate, the entire lot bound together by the single, shining strand that was Alarik, always watching over him even when he himself wasn't aware of it.
They spoke of many things; a future that was meant to come, a past that would shape the coming days. There were things Murata didn't understand, and sometimes he thought that Alarik was deliberately vague on certain points. But, really, he didn't mind. It all sounded quite adventurous and there were times when he wished he could have told someone else and had them believe him. Since he could not, yet, he kept his secret and developed a habit of wearing a small, mysterious smile when he didn't think people were looking.
Alarik always noticed, though, and his usually hard to read expression would take on a faint cast of sadness. When Murata would ask his friend what he was thinking of then, and push until he received an answer, Alarik would always say the same thing, in a quiet, reserved tone that Murata imagined held a hidden, trembling warmth.
“Ore no Daikenja.”
*
Once the day of Murata's fifteenth birthday arrived, he had already met Shibuya and now knew that everything in his life would be changing soon. Alarik had told him that this would be the year, but had not said when. So, that morning he opened his eyes, happy and excited.
He sat up, put on his glasses and looked around the room. Then he looked again. A third time, this search made out of his blankets and walking around, as though there may be some hidden space he couldn't see from his futon. He started a fourth, but only made half a circuit of the room before stopping, hands loose at his sides, eyes wide and unseeing.
For the first time that he could remember, Alarik was not waiting for him to wake. In fact, Alarik was nowhere to be seen at all. He spent a moment convincing himself that the blond would be back in a moment, that there was something that had drawn him away for only an instant, but he knew better. Alarik had told him that he was often present in both realities at once, and the man had never left him ever before.
His mother called, reminding him that if he didn't hurry he would be late for school. Murata swallowed hard, and then began to put on his uniform. Numb fingers fumbled at the buttons, and he didn't notice that though he was far too old to cry, tears stung the corners of his eyes.
*
The first time, he could have gone with Shibuya. Had he stayed, the bullies would have been more than happy to inflict the same punishment on him, he knew that instinctively. But something had made him run at the time, some sense of not being ready for it then.
Standing in front of the painting made him understand. He could feel Alarik here, to the point where it made his skin itch, where he thought if he looked over his shoulder quickly enough he would see the man, standing behind him. In spite of that, this was the only way he could see Alarik. This mute and motionless collection of paint on canvas. And beside it...
“Ore no Daikenja.”
The memory of those words, in Alarik's voice, haunted him whenever he stared at the pair of paintings. He crossed him arms tightly to keep from reaching out to touch the still image. Deep down inside, he knew he would see Alarik again; that his world would fall apart if he didn't.
“I won't ever tell you goodbye,” he said quietly to the silent portrait before walking away, smiling over the obscure ache as Shibuya came around the corner to meet him.
He never saw the red-headed spy whose blue gaze followed him thoughtfully.
*
It had been building for some time. The sense of Alarik's presence growing until it was as though the blond permeated every bit of air he breathed. There was something wrong, some sharpness to the sensation that rubbed at raw nerves and kept him on edge.
Finally unable to take it anymore, he walked away from the boxes, distanced himself from the full intensity of the feeling. Leaving the Shrine, lost in thought, he didn't hear the soft steps behind him.
“Geika,” the voice made him jerk, and he turned startled eyes to Yozak. “What is this all about?”
Murata watched Yozak for a long minute, seeing the stern expression melt into something softer, understanding. Rather than his usual levity, it looked like Yozak knew; like the man was aware that there was some deeper history than had been told between the Shinou and his Great Sage. Slowly, Murata exhaled.
“Come,” Murata answered at last, closing his eyes and shivering a little, still able to feel Alarik's spirit close. “I may need your help.”
*
The shape that coalesced when the boxes were opened was enough to make his heart freeze in it's frantic tripping in his chest. His name begged to emerge from Murata's lips, but he knew better than that here.
“Shinou,” he breathed, and then listened as the voice he'd known so well, for so long, mocked him for the coldness of his greeting.
“I knew it was you.” More than that, he could not find the words to say.
He knew what he had to do, but his voice was locked up somewhere behind his teeth as he watched Wolfram fall, saw Conrad and Gwendal charge in, witnessed Shori holding Yuuri back. The trap was ready to spring, and still he hesitated. Finally, something unclenched inside of him, and he called for Yozak.
The water fell, a crashing roar, and he saw the rage fill familiar eyes as he waited to close the door until everyone was out. Standing on the other side of the portal, Murata heard the contempt, the assurance that the trap would not be enough to stop the Original King.
“Until you say goodbye,” he whispered before pushing away from the reassuring solidity of the wood to take up the burdens that now lay on his shoulders.
~Owari~
Author's note: The "ore no" used by the Shinou means "my".
Title: Until You Say Goodbye (Full Version)
Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou with slight influence from omg_maou
Pairing: Shinou, Murata; implied Shinou/Daikenja; possible very tiny YozRata hints
Rating: G, maybe light PG for mentions of war
Disclaimer: Very much not mine. No profit, for entertainment only.
Notes: Birthday gift for sora_ishida, with two versions. Fics are identical, except the full version has spoilers through episode 73. The short version ends before that point. Angst in both. The name given to the Shinou comes from omg_maou.
Until You Say Goodbye
Murata Ken had never really stopped and thought about how very odd it was that there was always someone with him that no one else could see. Having been that way for as long as he could remember, it seemed perfectly normal to him. So it was not surprising that on the day he woke and that man was suddenly gone, he felt rather bereft.
*
“There,” Murata said, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated and carefully placed the final block. Castle complete, the almost five-year-old beamed up at the man that watched him, grin growing wider still as the man smiled and knelt to study the small wooden structure.
“Very good,” the man, whose name Murata had not yet thought to ask, pronounced after spending a long moment scrutinizing the little building. “Would it please you to visit a real castle someday?”
“Yes!” Murata replied eagerly, by now used to the slightly formal way his interesting friend always spoke to him. “Have you seen one?”
The man nodded, blue-violet eyes going unfocused as though he were staring at something much farther away than what Murata could see. Some days he did that a lot, and he wasn't always smiling like he was now. “Many years ago, I lived in a castle,” he fixed his gaze on Murata again, “and so did you.”
“Me too?” Murata's eyes were very wide as he looked at his friend in astonishment, and then his brows suddenly drew down in a frown that looked far too serious for that tiny, angelic face. “I wish I remembered.”
“You will,” the man was still smiling, but he looked a little sad now. He reached out as though to pat Murata on the shoulder, but then let his hand drop, as whenever they tried to touch each simply slid through the other's body. “There will come a day when you remember everything.”
“I hope it's soon,” Murata said, hitting his castle with a swift sweep of his arm and laughing as all the blocks came tumbling down.
*
“Are you an angel?” Now that he was six and a half years old, Murata's mother had told him that he was getting too old to have an imaginary friend. However, that didn't make the blond man go away. So, Murata figured that there had to be another explanation for the man's constant presence.
He hadn't really expected the man, who Murata now knew was named Alarik, to burst into laughter like he did at the question. It was, Murata thought, the first time he'd seen the man ever laugh. But that didn't seem quite right. He was almost sure he could remember the man's laughter, but it seemed that at the time he'd been bigger. That didn't make a bit of sense either. Sometimes, when he thought too hard about his friend, he began to get very confused.
“No,” Alarik's voice, still edged with amusement, broke Murata out of his musing. “I am not, nor have I ever been, an angel. In fact, I have at times been called a demon.”
“Oh.” Murata stared at his friend curiously. “But aren't demons bad?”
“No worse than any of the people that make the claim,” Alarik replied, folding his arms and tilting his head a bit as he watched Murata. It was, Murata knew, the way Alarik looked when he wanted Murata to reason something out for himself. “Have I ever done anything to you that you would consider bad or evil?”
“No,” Murata answered slowly, propping his elbow on his pillow and resting his chin on his palm while peering at Alarik through the near-darkness of his room.
“You should not always believe everything you are told. Demons, and even angels I suspect, are often misunderstood,” Alarik said. “It is best that you form your own opinion, based on what you experience.”
“Okay,” Murata agreed easily. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment before speaking again. “Are you imaginary then?”
Alarik shook his head. “No, I am not imaginary either. Though we cannot touch each other, I am still just as real as you are. I just come from a different place, and cannot create a body that is solid here.”
“Will I be able to come to where you live someday?”
There was a flash of some impossible to read emotion in Alarik's eyes when Murata asked the question, and for some reason he wanted to take it back right away. Before he had the chance, Alarik was answering him in a gentle voice.
“That is something that we will talk about at some point in the future. For now, it will be best if you get to sleep.”
Murata lowered his head to the pillow and closed his eyes obediently, but not before he saw the way Alarik reached out and let his hand hover just above the blankets like he was smoothing them the way Murata's mother often did. For some reason, that gesture made him feel like he had lost something important, and the back of his eyes began sting like he was about to cry.
*
On Murata's eighth birthday, there was snow. The flakes fell quick and furious, dusting his hair and catching in his eyelashes. For a moment, they obscured his vision to the point where he couldn't see Alarik and a short rush of panic rose hot and frantic in his chest. He blinked, turning his head and wiping his eyes clear, and there Alarik was again, smiling just like he always did when Murata consciously looked for him.
“You aren't going to leave me, are you?” Murata asked, serious gravity of the question somewhat taken away by the way he bit nervously at his lower lip.
Alarik looked faintly startled by the question, and then the blue-violet eyes clouded briefly and he slowly shook his head. His lips thinned for a moment, and then they parted on an exhale that, had Alarik been fully present in this world, would have caused a cloud of steam in the cold air. Bending to put himself on a level with Murata's worried gaze, he spoke with a quiet sadness.
“I will not willingly leave you until you say goodbye,” he said slowly. “Until then, I will always be with you.”
There was a small stretch of silence, then Murata smiled, wide and happy. “I won't ever say that, so we can be together for always.”
Alarik didn't answer, and Murata was once again distracted by the swirling, chill snow and so didn't see the pained light that caught in his friend's eyes.
*
Murata was almost eleven before the first actual memories began to return to him. It started while he was asleep, the fabric of his usual dreams changing, growing sharper and more intense. There was fighting, smoke and dust and running bodies, all underscored by the sounds of weapons clashing and hoarse shouts and screams. He was not at all surprised to find himself here, on the outskirts of where men threw themselves forward to die.
The lines were weakening, and his eyes quickly sought the spot where they seemed likely to buckle. Just as he found it, the ground shook, and the enemies that threatened were swallowed up in a sudden crack as the earth surged. He turned his head, hair heavy with dirt and sweat, exhaustion pulling at the muscles in the back of his neck. Beside him, calming his restive mount with a weary hand, Alarik looked up and gave him a tiny, tired smile. That fleeting moment was all they had time for before they were moving again, off to another place where they may be able to save more of the lives on their side of this vicious war.
Murata opened his eyes, somehow expecting to still see the battle in front of him; to feel the heat of nearby fires and smell the acrid smoke. Instead, he stared at his dark, familiar ceiling and then fumbled for his glasses. Perching them on his nose, he pushed himself half up and looked over to the corner where he knew Alarik watched him.
“That wasn't a normal dream, was it?” Murata asked, his features matching the blankness of the expression Alarik met the question with.
“No,” the blond replied, arms folded loosely across his chest. “It was not.”
“I thought not,” Murata replied, pulling off his glasses and settling back down to sleep.
*
By the time Murata was twelve-years-old, he had remembered nearly everything. It wasn't easy, as it was far more than just that first life where he'd been the Great Sage. He remembered all the lives in between then and now, and sometimes it was hard to keep all the threads separate, the entire lot bound together by the single, shining strand that was Alarik, always watching over him even when he himself wasn't aware of it.
They spoke of many things; a future that was meant to come, a past that would shape the coming days. There were things Murata didn't understand, and sometimes he thought that Alarik was deliberately vague on certain points. But, really, he didn't mind. It all sounded quite adventurous and there were times when he wished he could have told someone else and had them believe him. Since he could not, yet, he kept his secret and developed a habit of wearing a small, mysterious smile when he didn't think people were looking.
Alarik always noticed, though, and his usually hard to read expression would take on a faint cast of sadness. When Murata would ask his friend what he was thinking of then, and push until he received an answer, Alarik would always say the same thing, in a quiet, reserved tone that Murata imagined held a hidden, trembling warmth.
“Ore no Daikenja.”
*
Once the day of Murata's fifteenth birthday arrived, he had already met Shibuya and now knew that everything in his life would be changing soon. Alarik had told him that this would be the year, but had not said when. So, that morning he opened his eyes, happy and excited.
He sat up, put on his glasses and looked around the room. Then he looked again. A third time, this search made out of his blankets and walking around, as though there may be some hidden space he couldn't see from his futon. He started a fourth, but only made half a circuit of the room before stopping, hands loose at his sides, eyes wide and unseeing.
For the first time that he could remember, Alarik was not waiting for him to wake. In fact, Alarik was nowhere to be seen at all. He spent a moment convincing himself that the blond would be back in a moment, that there was something that had drawn him away for only an instant, but he knew better. Alarik had told him that he was often present in both realities at once, and the man had never left him ever before.
His mother called, reminding him that if he didn't hurry he would be late for school. Murata swallowed hard, and then began to put on his uniform. Numb fingers fumbled at the buttons, and he didn't notice that though he was far too old to cry, tears stung the corners of his eyes.
*
The first time, he could have gone with Shibuya. Had he stayed, the bullies would have been more than happy to inflict the same punishment on him, he knew that instinctively. But something had made him run at the time, some sense of not being ready for it then.
Standing in front of the painting made him understand. He could feel Alarik here, to the point where it made his skin itch, where he thought if he looked over his shoulder quickly enough he would see the man, standing behind him. In spite of that, this was the only way he could see Alarik. This mute and motionless collection of paint on canvas. And beside it...
“Ore no Daikenja.”
The memory of those words, in Alarik's voice, haunted him whenever he stared at the pair of paintings. He crossed him arms tightly to keep from reaching out to touch the still image. Deep down inside, he knew he would see Alarik again; that his world would fall apart if he didn't.
“I won't ever tell you goodbye,” he said quietly to the silent portrait before walking away, smiling over the obscure ache as Shibuya came around the corner to meet him.
He never saw the red-headed spy whose blue gaze followed him thoughtfully.
*
It had been building for some time. The sense of Alarik's presence growing until it was as though the blond permeated every bit of air he breathed. There was something wrong, some sharpness to the sensation that rubbed at raw nerves and kept him on edge.
Finally unable to take it anymore, he walked away from the boxes, distanced himself from the full intensity of the feeling. Leaving the Shrine, lost in thought, he didn't hear the soft steps behind him.
“Geika,” the voice made him jerk, and he turned startled eyes to Yozak. “What is this all about?”
Murata watched Yozak for a long minute, seeing the stern expression melt into something softer, understanding. Rather than his usual levity, it looked like Yozak knew; like the man was aware that there was some deeper history than had been told between the Shinou and his Great Sage. Slowly, Murata exhaled.
“Come,” Murata answered at last, closing his eyes and shivering a little, still able to feel Alarik's spirit close. “I may need your help.”
*
The shape that coalesced when the boxes were opened was enough to make his heart freeze in it's frantic tripping in his chest. His name begged to emerge from Murata's lips, but he knew better than that here.
“Shinou,” he breathed, and then listened as the voice he'd known so well, for so long, mocked him for the coldness of his greeting.
“I knew it was you.” More than that, he could not find the words to say.
He knew what he had to do, but his voice was locked up somewhere behind his teeth as he watched Wolfram fall, saw Conrad and Gwendal charge in, witnessed Shori holding Yuuri back. The trap was ready to spring, and still he hesitated. Finally, something unclenched inside of him, and he called for Yozak.
The water fell, a crashing roar, and he saw the rage fill familiar eyes as he waited to close the door until everyone was out. Standing on the other side of the portal, Murata heard the contempt, the assurance that the trap would not be enough to stop the Original King.
“Until you say goodbye,” he whispered before pushing away from the reassuring solidity of the wood to take up the burdens that now lay on his shoulders.
~Owari~
Author's note: The "ore no" used by the Shinou means "my".