Different anon here, but I feel that the recent firmamentshipping fiction you wrote should have a follow-up tale. Whaddya say?
THIS TOOK ME AGES AND IM. I’m so sorry omg. I hope it’s a good sort-of sequel, tho it’s probably not the happy ending you were hoping for….
There is a lesson to be learnedhere, from the broken duel disk and scattered cards. There is a lesson to belearned in the way Shun grips his hair so tight it hurts, the way his bodycurls in on itself, forehead pressing against his knees as he shakes like achild.
It’s one that Heartland used toknow, a knowledge that had settled in their bones and woven its way in everyshuttering breath, in their tired and grim faces and lips bitten bloody. It’sone Heartland tried to forget, when the pillars were raised and the colors renewed,and for some it is buried with the ghost of their pasts, in the dim memories ofHeartland’s ruin and the years they spent fighting for their lives.
Those are lucky ones, because thetruth is—the truth is Heartland has not forgotten, for it is a lesson many ofthem, no matter how hard they try, can never truly bury.
Sometimes things are broken, be theyplaces, objects, or people; and sometimes these broken things do not getbetter.
There are sections of Heartlandwhere no one dares to wander, pieces of their past they don’t dare to rebuild.The park where Academia first struck is turned into a graveyard, and the lastdwellings of the Resistance before their fall are empty, hollow shellssurrounded by a reborn city. There are some cards no one looks at, or thinks ofusing—machine-based themes have all but been abandoned. Cards based on anythingsimilar to Academia tech are rapidly scrapped.
And there are people, there arealways people, who wander down the busy streets like they can still see how it lookedwhen desolate and empty, eyes gazing somewhere deep into the past where noother can reach them. Sometimes they peer into dark corridors and shudder. Theymumble names under their breath. Sometimes they’re even happy, until a word isspoken or a reference made, and then their breath whistles from their lungs andtheir eyes go distant.
Maybe Shun is one of them. He thinkshe might be. The years stack up on each other, and it’s been three years sincethe war was won and they could all go home again. Three years since he sweptHaruto up and around and around and around, laughing and crying in equal measure,so happy he could almost forget what victory cost them.
It’s been three years and thenightmares still plague him as vividly as they did before, dragging him back tohell over and over again. Three years and he can still remember how theyscreamed, allies and enemies alike, caught under the punishing glow as theirsouls were sealed away. Some were friends. Some he locked away himself.
(He can still remember how thatfeels, too: the cold weight of his duel disk on his arm; the sharp whirr as themechanisms activated; the way the energy tingled up his arm and made it go numb.He can remember how it felt, that first time, the card cold and thin in hishands, as weak as wet paper, and he can remember someone saying “Let’s tear itin two” and he can remember the way the bile rose in his throat as he lookeddown at the screaming face, frozen forever.
“No,” Shun said then, and his voicewas shaking.)
Even now, Shun can’t stop shaking.There’s blood in his mouth from where he’s bitten through his lip, and nomatter how hard he curls his fingers in his hair they’re still trembling. It’salmost a relief when he hears Haruto’s footsteps thunder back up towards theroom, because it gives him an excuse.
He leaves the cards and broken diskwhere they lie, stumbling toward the window and the balcony beyond it. Threeyears isn’t enough to erase an age of rooftop running, and Shun is out thewindow and over the railing before Haruto even reaches the top step.
Shun hits the ground at an awkwardangle and staggers, pain flaring up his ankle. He ignores it, panic closing histhroat. Irrationally he thinks Haruto is almost there, almost caught up to him,and so he runs, sprinting blindly in any direction, uncaring so long as it is away.
He runs until his heart beats soloud it drowns out his panting breathes, runs until his ankles sears with painand drags on the concrete. He runs until he trips, and then he simply falls,hands catching on the rough sidewalk, the concrete scraping up his palms.
His chest burns with every gaspingbreath Shun draws, and little lines of red and white show where the sidewalkhas scoured his skin. Something warm and wet drips onto the open wounds, andonly then does Shun realize he is crying.
He presses the back of his handagainst his lips and bites down hard on the exposed skin, sitting back to catchhis breath. He feels like screaming, but he thinks that if he starts now he maynever stop.
This is how Haruto finds him, half anhour later—leaning bonelessly against a bench with scraped up hands and bloodyteeth, tears drying on his cheeks and fear drained away to leave a listlessvoid where emotion should be. Maybe this is why Shun doesn’t run again, maybethis is why he stays still: he simply doesn’t have the energy to care when Harutorounds the corner and spots him.
The day is bright and new in a waythat is both peaceful and mocking. The sunlight catches on Haruto’s baby-bluehair and lights him from behind. There’s a worn backpack over his shoulder and Kaito’sold sneakers on his un-socked feet.
Haruto settles before him, legscrossed and backpack resting between them. He looks at Shun and opens his mouthand then closes it very slowly. He presses his lips together until they’re justa thin line, saying nothing, just staring quietly at the backpack in silencebefore zipping it open.
He draws out his hand with two deckspiled in his palm, and Shun thinks he might be sick. “No,” he croaks. “No, Idon’t—I can’t.”
Haruto barely blinks, just settlesthe two decks down in front of them. “I know,” he says, and his voice cracks onthe words. “I know you can’t duel. So we’re—we’re not. Dueling.” He lifts ahand and rest a finger on his own deck, eyes sorrowful and swimming with unshedtears.
“It’s not dueling,” Haruto says, andthe quiet comfort in his voice is just enough to drown out the remaining whispersof the nightmares.
 “It’s just a game,” Haruto says. There are noduel disks. Just them, an old mat that hasn’t been in session since the 2000s,and a deck that Shun used as a child and never quite picked up again, not evenafter Academia brought hell to their door.
Shun swallows the bile back, andpicks up his deck.
“Just one game,” he agrees in a hoarsewhisper, and feels like maybe he’s waking up, if only a little.
