there are few things crueler than the ghosts of one's past. no matter the lengths you go, how hard you try, how fast you run, the past has a way of catching up to you. unrelenting and unforgiving, collecting the debts it is owed like broken charms and stolen coins, even if it means reaping the remaining filaments of your soul. hauntings are like that, aren't they? a racing chill of terror shooting sharply up and down the spine seemingly out of nowhere, a harbinger of unsettling portents, but somehow, within that muddled cocktail of dread and paralyzing fear, the soul knows — cruel as it is, it is not unjust.
ahri's own never-ending guilt mirrors yasuo's, and for as accepting as she is of her own fate, of her own debts, she cannot accept that, perhaps, whatever yasuo is running from is a fate he deserves, too. how could it be fair, that someone as noble as yasuo must dance strung to the ends of metal wires and silk strings each day and each night without reprieve? he is only mortal — whatever it is, has he not atoned enough? has his past not stolen enough from him? ahri knows the pain that clings to the heels of ghosts, gnawing and feverish with hunger and greed for more and more even when there's nothing left to give, but she's never pried. no, that's not right — she hasn't pried outright in words. nothing so direct as to say " what happened to you to plague you with so much grief that it haunts you even in your sleep? " even ahri isn't that brave. not when it comes to him. but she offers to relieve him of his pain, to share in his burden. it is an intimate way to know someone; dangerous, invasive, and sometimes, if she is not careful, fatal.
yasuo folds into her tonight, a degree of submission doused in oil placed into her fire-kissed palms, a trust bestowed upon her that she would not, will not, immolate his heart, or his soul. she can almost see it, the drying blood seeping into soil buried in his earthy brown eyes. her hands are delicate, tender against him, holding firm until she is sure that he is sure. ahri knows what she asks of him, that — for as selfless as she tells herself it is, for as much it is for his own good than it is hers — it is nothing so simple of an offer, a gift, to accept. but yasuo only draws her closer, presses his lips to the warm curve of her neck, and ahri's eyes flutter shut as her fingers tangle deeper in the thick bed of his hair. take it, he tells her. her magic burns in her chest, burgeoning to burst, clawing desperately toward the surface as its wild brambles squeeze her heart.
" all i want, " ahri quietly mumbles, moving a hand to gingerly cup yasuo's face as the other falls to the nape of his neck to pull him back to face her, " is to not see you have to hurt like this. i can fix it. i'll take care of you. " her lips are feather-soft and berry-sweet against his, but it lasts only a moment before she pulls back ever so slightly, mouth still open, eyes still closed, as she softly breathes in the tendrils of magic, memory, flowing from the very threads of his soul. ahri grows deathly still, too lucid and acutely aware, but she sees navori and feels her heart stop. her own ghosts wander navori; it becomes easier to consume yasuo's past, following her path toward his. he will not forget forever, only for this moment as ahri borrows his memory to flood his consciousness with visions more idyllic than the pain he lingers in. ahri chases the visceral scent of blood, in turn sending yasuo down a lantern-lit bridge beneath the thick overhang of bright pink blossoms and the scent of sweet red bean buns just beyond at a vendor's stall.
