"let me wash away your fears"

Harumasa should feel something, anything, but the panic around him feels like the distant crash of waves against the ocean shores he’s never seen. It’s there, he knows, but it’s not something that belongs to him. If he’s pulled away by the tides, then he was meant to drown.

He waits, hands folded on his lap in his hospital bed, medical supplies glowing scarlet with each pulse of the alarms. The only thing that he has, the only thing that’s truly his, is a yellow headband that he keeps tucked under his hands.

A boy like him is worth nothing more than the people who use him: this is a truth that has been ingrained in Harumasa’s bones, a lesson that’s been taught to him over and over, from the very beginning.

And he would have been okay with being a tool. As long as he is useful, he is in some capacity loved. 

“If you’ve experienced enough bitterness, then other parts of life can be sweeter.”

Isn’t that what his master taught him? But then, his master is gone. Has been gone for the past few days, and now the facility is in disarray. 

His master, who snuck him books and stuck him with needles that left behind purpling bruises, who taught him archery and injected him with clear fluid, who gave him cake on his birthdays and told him to endure during the worst of his flare-ups.

Perhaps Harumasa hasn’t been as useful as he should have been. Or perhaps, he’s no longer useful at all, and his master has left him for better experiments.

The only thing Harumasa has left is this headband. He could throw it away, but every time the itch to do so tremors through his fingers and he picks up the fabric, he can never bring himself to follow through.

Footsteps echo down his hallway, which sound heavier than the footsteps of the staff he’s come to know, and his door is wrenched open. People in suits and equipment and helmets, people he’s never seen before, stare at him with confusion, and then horror.

“There’s a child in here,” someone murmurs in disbelief. “They’ve been… on children… Those sick–”

A man in front raises his hand, and the murmurs fall silent. He strides to Harumasa, and peers down at him, a strange tenderness in his eyes. 

“You’re safe now, kid,” he rumbles, in a rough, low voice. “We’ve got you.” He reaches out a thick, gloved hand. “Do you want to come with us?”

And what else can he do? Harumasa takes the man’s hand. If he is useful, then he is loved. If he is needed, then he can live. And if he’s worth nothing at all, then he should just let go. But is that really all there is for him?

 “Yes,” he whispers. His throat is dry. He swallows, and speaks again, louder. “Yes.” He grips his master’s headband. Is the sweetness promised to him waiting just past this? “Yes.”

ii.

He pierces his ears in the high school academy dorm bathroom, bloody tissues strewn across the counter, catheter needle sliding into the tender flesh of his ear with a laughable slice of pain. 

Harumasa is alone, as he always is. The years ghost by, barely touching him. He grows older. His scars fade, but never completely. He does well in academics, does well with people. They love him, or they think they love him, the slouchy, easy-going genius. Love letters pile in his lockers. People ask to meet him after class, determination sparking in their eyes.

He always turns them down, as gently as he can. They deserve to give their affection to someone who’s capable of loving them back. 

In the bathroom mirror, his own face stares back at him. His uniform is unbuttoned at the top, his hair messy (in an artful way, he likes to think). Dark circles bruise under his eyes, and his ear is bright red as he pushes the needle through to the very tip, placing the earring at the top of the needle until it pops out from the other side and the earring is left in his lobe.

He pushes the earring back in, and admires his handiwork. 

It should hurt more. But the pain is as easy as it always is when it comes to needles.

Here, then, is a body, his own. Marked by his own hand and not others, for once. Will this make him more real?

Harumasa has always had this nagging knowledge, pooling in the back of his mind, a stagnant puddle. He is no person, no life; only the purest form of hunger, a constant, endless roving desire for survival. He does not know what comes after. There is no after, only a desperate clawing for another day. Isn’t that what a tool is reduced to, after years of rusting?

He will die one day. His fate had already been decided the second the doctor gave him his diagnosis. He was expendable once, and he is expendable now. What does living really mean, when every minute is precious and trickles towards a predetermined ending?

In the mirror, his master’s headband stares back at him. A relic of the past that he hasn’t been able to let go. A reminder of things he can’t forget.

Harumasa picks up another sterilized needle, and slides it into his other earlobe, marked by a small yellow dot. The pain, as it always is, is his oldest, most familiar friend.

iii.

Did he survive just for life to pass like a dream?

He graduates with honors, top of his class, with recommendations from the most difficult to please professors.

“He’s a genius,” people marvel when they see him, and he hides his calloused hands behind his back, adjusts the choker over his scars, and smiles. 

Easygoing, playful, an incorrigible slacker: he’s been careful to craft how other people perceive him, but it’s still easier than expected. No one has ever truly looked at him, or maybe they prefer this palatable version of himself. Easy to love, easy to envy, easy to tolerate.

He’s recruited to Hollow Special Operations. He joins Section One, their sterling recruit. No one complains when he walks in with rumpled uniforms and an unbuttoned shirt. No one complains much of anything, in fact. It’s quiet and dull, the pay is nice, and as long as he produces results, no one says anything about his constant leave requests.

At home, Harumasa sits alone at his table, takeout cartons crowding in front of him, watching whatever cheap movie he’s rented for the week. If he never goes into work again, if he ran away into a Hollow or walked into the sea or his heart simply gave out, how long would it take someone to notice, and then to care? 

Life could pass like this forever, but one day, a transfer request is slipped on his desk, and suddenly, he is no longer Asaba Harumasa, Section One Executive Officer, but a member of Hoshimi Miyabi’s elite squad of Section Six, personally recruited and handpicked.

It’s easy enough to find her, the city’s youngest Void Hunter, heir to a family with a lineage so prestigious it makes his head spin, leaving behind a trail of frost in her wake. People fall silent in front of her, respectful or fearful of a genius, though her status has never done much more than stir his curiosity. 

They’re a little similar, Harumasa likes to think, in some ways.

Miyabi is alone, inspecting her new office, every surface polished and shining to the point it hurts his eyes, the room smelling of something empty and clean. It’s ripe with possibility, of newness, of an unsullied ideal that makes his heart ache.

“Hoshimi Miyabi,” he says, voice filled with a careful laziness. “Or is it Chief now? You’re my boss, right?”

She turns, and even that movement is ridiculously elegant, her steps light and poised, not a single wasted gesture. Even death would be rendered beautiful by her hand. “I’m not officially your chief until tomorrow. The paperwork hasn't finished processing.”

“Right, right, but functionally, you’re my boss, aren’t you? Say, Chief, you wouldn’t mind if I took a few days off after orientation, right?” he says. “Or are you going to expect us to go into dangerous Hollows right away? I don’t know if Section One has told you, but I’m a little fragile. Are you sure you want to trust me?”

She tilts her head, another efficient gesture, and her eyes seem to swallow him whole. It’s a little frightening, how she stares directly at him without any hesitation or fear, like there’s nothing he can truly hide from her.

“I chose you,” she says, “not because of what other people say, but because Section Six needs you, Asaba Harumasa. I trust what I see with my own eyes.”

He knows all about what it means to be needed. But somehow, Miyabi’s expectations don’t feel suffocating. 

“All right,” he says, voice as light as possible. Miyabi’s ear twitches, and he knows she isn’t convinced by his lackadaisical demeanor. But it’s enough that she allows him this pretense. “Then I’ll look forward to working with you, Chief.”

She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t need to. It’s enough that she keeps her cool gaze on him, and Harumasa is seen.

iv.

To Harumsa’s surprise, he’s not the only recruit to Section Six. There’s Tsukishiro Yanagi from the New Eridu Defence Force, and you. It only makes sense that Miyabi would recruit people she could trust, and people with such impressive achievements in their careers, though you stand out as an oddity in that respect.

Your resume is impressive, certainly: top academics, honors, prestigious internships, and glowing recommendation letters from professors who can’t stop raving about your skills. But you have virtually no combat experience on the field, so you’re still a risk, one Miyabi has willingly taken, for whatever reason.

Besides, genius is nothing special to him. You remind him of every bright-eyed recruit at the academy with something to prove, and it’s only a question of how your dreams and ideals will survive when faced with the pressure of the numbing work, the relentless threats, the difficult decisions.

You approach him in the very first week, presumably on Miyabi’s orders, with a mission dossier in your hand.

“We’ll be working together, starting from today,” you tell him. Your uniform is ironed to flat perfection, not a single crease in sight. It’s a far cry from his own rumpled clothing and the jacket tied loosely around his waist, which you scan with a critical eye.

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “What are we working on today, partner?” 

You flick through the sheets of paper. “Meetings, as always. Some reports and a joint training session with Section Four. Oh, and a venture into Hollow Zero for a routine check-up.”

“We have to do all of that? I don’t have the stamina to keep up.”

“Well, it’s what’s expected of us,” you say. “We’d only be assigned so many tasks if they trusted us to handle them well.”

Your posture is stiff, your shoulders tense. You don’t like him, Harumasa realizes, or you don’t think he’s taking this seriously. And maybe he isn’t, but your reaction makes him want to poke at you, just to see how you’ll react. He has a feeling you’d react just like a cat, hiss or scratch him and run away, but, unfortunately for you, he has a fondness for cats.

“In that case, do you think you’d be okay handling it by yourself?” he says, voice as innocent as he can make it. “Since I’m technically your senior, you can think of it as me having high expectations for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tsukishiro is around if you need any help,” he says. “I’d offer, but I’m a little too frail for all of that work, you know? I might have to take a day off tomorrow if I do.”

“I’m not going to push your work off onto someone else, and I’m also not going to do it for you! You’re an Executive Officer!”

“Don’t be so serious. You won’t last long here if you don’t relax a little,” he teases.

You’re silent for a few moments. Has he gone too far? But before Harumasa can say anything, you stride forward until you’re close enough to grab his wrist. Your grasp is tight enough that he can’t slip away, but still gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt. It’s a thoughtful touch.

“I don’t care what excuses you want to make,” you snap, “and you can do whatever you want in your free time, but we are going to fulfill every piece of this agenda together. I’m not letting you go until we do!”

“All right,” he says hastily, because you look like you’re one second away from slapping handcuffs onto him so he can’t escape. “I didn’t take you for someone who cared so much about your job.”

You tilt your head at him. Your hand is as warm as a spring day. “Well, the entire city is counting on us. There are so many people out there who need us to protect them.”

Underneath your cool tone of voice, he can sense it: your genuine desire to be needed. To do something real. That is something, he thinks, he can understand.

“I guess we can’t let down all the good people of New Eridu, partner,” Harumasa says. “I’m all yours, just for today. So, where to?”

v.

The best remedy for work reports, Harumasa finds, is folding them into paper airplanes and sailing across the room, trying to see how many can land in the trash can. As it is, only several have made it in, and the rest have crashed across the office floor at various intervals.

He aims another airplane in a lazy arc and it only makes it halfway through the air before Yanagi strides into the room and plucks it out of the air with expert precision. She unfolds it and shakes her head at him, smoothing it out in her hands before placing it back on his desk. “Asaba, don’t fold your reports into airplanes.”

“I’m finding a good use for them,” he protests.

“They’re already useful as mission reports. I have a few updates for you,” she continues. “I scheduled your doctor’s appointment for next week.”

“Deputy Chief,” he whines, but she ignores him. 

“You get to take a day off work to attend, but it will count towards your monthly leave requests.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t sound so pleased. We have a meeting later today, one which you aren’t allowed to skip. And this is an interpersonal request, but I want you to stop teasing your deskmate so much,” she says. 

“Who on earth are you talking about?” Harumasa says in an oblivious voice.

“You know who I’m talking about. You’re going to drive them half-mad if you keep this up!”

“It’s fun, though.”

“Fun for you, not for them.”

“I think they enjoy it. Do you see how they get all stiff and they wrinkle their nose? They’re like a cat,” he muses. “Maybe they need a mouse toy for their desk.”

“If you do that,” Yanagi says, voice worldworn, “Then I think I’m going to have to clean bits and pieces of you out of the office tomorrow.”

He laughs a little at that, but Yanagi’s expression doesn’t change. Though he’s had brief run-ins with Tsukishiro Yanagi when he was still a part of Section One, this is his first time working with her in such close proximity for an extended period of time. Her accomplishments in the New Eridu Defense Force are startlingly impressive, and, in all honesty, she’s the only reason Section Six runs as well as it does. 

You do your fair share of work, sure, but Miyabi, and Soukaku, Yanagi’s ward who joined a little after everyone else, create their own fair share of trouble. And he does, as well, if he’s honest.

Yanagi is overly serious, and yet, so unwilling to admit to her own achievements. She’s the sort of person who he, contrary to what some may think, admires. She’s the type who thinks of others before herself, and it’s hard to truly dislike her when there’s no genuine malice to her actions. Unlike Miyabi, Yanagi’s type is easy to understand.

But there’s also the risk that Yanagi will eventually burn herself out if she assumes that overwork is the only way she can keep up with everyone else.

Ah, well. That only means he has to pick up more of the slack than he intended for Section Six’s hardworking Deputy Chief.

“Tsukishiro,” Harumasa says instead. “Why’d you have to make my appointment?”

She adjusts her glasses, pushing them further up her face. “If I didn’t, you would have put off making it until the last minute. That’s a bad habit, Asaba. You need to take care of your own health.”

“If you think so, then my next leave request—”

“I will not be accepting it for you,” she says immediately. 

“I thought you cared about my health!”

“I do,” she says. There it is again, the seriousness in her voice that makes it hard to look at her sometimes. “I want all of you to stay healthy. Which is why if you skip your next medical appointment, Asaba, then I’m going to reject all of your leave requests for the month.”

“You’re so unfair, Deputy Chief,” he says, fingering the work report she’s placed on his desk. It’s still creased from where he’s folded it.

“Only when I have to be,” she says. “Now, don’t let me hear you’ve skipped this appointment, or I’ll make more follow-ups for you. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, I do,” he groans.

It’s a strange feeling. None of his coworkers in Section One would have cared for him as much as this. It’s strange, but not bad.

vi.

Harumasa can’t quite put it into words why he can’t leave you alone.

It’s your reaction, sure. You’re serious and straightforward and responsible, and when you snap back at him, it only makes him want to push at your buttons again.

It could also be the novelty of how you never avoid his eyes, and refuse to hide your distaste for his actions, like so many of his coworkers had done in Section One. No one in general talks so openly to him like this, outside of those in Section Six.

“Your weapon makes no sense. You’re going to slice off your fingers pulling your bow one day,” you would tell him. “And I know you’re the one drawing cats on my work reports! Cut it out!”

Or maybe it’s the need in you, the deep, drowning need, familiar to him as if it’s his own. To be loved, or to be needed, or to be useful. If he looks too close, then he’ll sink too far into it, too far into you. 

So as fun as it is to mess with you, Harumasa knows to keep his distance. It’s easier this way, and better for the both of you.

And perhaps everything could have continued like this, a string of warm days and aimless teasing, until a venture into a Hollow with the entire section, one that should not have been different from any other.

There’s a swarm of Ethereals around, more than usual, and it takes all of your respective concentration to cut through their numbers. So perhaps, in the thrum of intense battle, he doesn’t react as quickly as he should before an ink-black monster is on him, roaring, wild strikes aimed at his neck.

Harumasa jerks back, shoots several arrows in rapid succession through its headless core, and then he feels it. A weightlessness around his neck, a strange nakedness.

His choker coils on the floor, a shining black snake.

He tries to suck in a quick breath, but he can’t quite manage it.

His choker. His neck. He can feel the itch of scars, of phantom injections, of the Hollow’s corruption weighing down, and he slaps his hands over his neck, a wild attempt to protect himself.

But there’s no point. Black spots swim in front of his eyes. He’s useless. He needs to move. The sound of metal and corrupted claws are so distant. Is everyone trying to keep them away from him? He has to move. He has to. 

Pick himself. Keep going. It’s what he’s always done, so why can’t he now?

Something warm lands on his head, solid and comforting and real, pressing against the back of his neck. You’re in front of him, white work shirt fluttering as you smooth your jacket down the side of his face. He’s cocooned, and the world shrinks down to just this: you, and him.

“Harumasa, look at me.” A rustle of fabric. Your gloves flutter to the dirt below, stark and black. And then— warm hands. The warmest hands he’s ever felt, cradling his face, bringing his wane face to yours. 

A smear of blood across your cheek. Sweat beading across your forehead. But your eyes are beautiful, steadfast and luminous. Like the moon, lighting his way home.

“You’re okay,” you say, voice so quiet, as if it’s meant for no other ears than his. “You’re okay, I promise.” 

He can’t breathe. He can’t do anything, but stare at you, sweat trickling down his face.

“Look at me. Tell me what you see right now.” 

He swallows, the gesture thick and unnatural. “I see…” 

“Yes?” 

“You.”

“That’s right. And what else?” 

He feels stupid, childish, as his voice comes out in a slow wheeze. “The… sky. The ground.”

“And can you smell anything?”

“Blood. Sweat. Dust.”

You don’t move your hands from his face, and even if you had, he would have chased after your touch without a shred of reticence. But you keep your hands steady, your voice soothing, as you run through questions about what he can sense. He answers you without hesitation, until his breathing steadies and the world is no longer spinning.

You keep your jacket wrapped around him as you bend down and grab his choker, pressing it into his hands.

You must be curious, surely, about his reaction, his sudden uselessness in the Hollow. But you never speak. All you do is take his hand and guide him out somewhere less crowded, less noisy. The others have already moved on, a decision that they seemed to have made with you while he wasn’t focusing.

But your hand is warm. So warm, as warm as it was on the day he first met you. Like this, he would follow you anywhere.

vii.

Harumasa wakes with pain radiating from his chest like a starburst, limbs weak, nausea crowding the back of his throat. Sweat coats his body, a migraine pulverizing his brain into useless mush. 

Harumasa can barely breathe, let alone stand. It’s all he can do to fumble for the pills scattering his nightstand, swallowing them dry out of desperation. It takes the slightest edge off his pain, just enough that he can reach for his phone and construct a blithe message to Yanagi about not coming into work and cashing in one of his sick days, before losing it among his blankets.

He passes the next hour in and out of consciousness, a fitful sleep eluding him before the pain jolts him awake.

In a way, he’s grown used to functioning with a certain amount of pain. His weak lungs, his unstable heart. People can adapt to anything, and even constant pain can become mundane. But other days, his illness flares with an intensity that leaves him immobile.

In moments like this, curled among his blankets, knees pulled up, unable to do more than wait, Harumasa thinks about the life he’s built: the parents who he no longer remembers. The haze of pain of his youth, sterile white hospital walls and perpetual needles. His master, who patted his head gently and then abandoned him. The academy, where he passed aimless days. Graduation, where no one was there to give him flowers. Section One, which was cold as a grave, full of grim orders and blank coworkers. Crowds of pills in his cabinet and on his bedside, several which are for daily use, taken every morning and every night at a consistent time, and the others for managing moments when his pain is unbearable.

But there’s also Section Six, who welcomes him like he’s coming home every time he opens the office doors. The stray cat who hops onto his windowsill everyday, who hisses at him but can be coaxed with bits of canned food to lick at his fingers. You, who has held him with a touch so tender it makes him want to stay by your side forever.

Harumasa is still going to die. He’s long made his peace with this, the knowledge that everything must come to an end. No matter what he does, it only prolongs his inevitable ending. But until then, he is still alive.

It might not have been the best life, or even a very good one, but it’s his, one’s he fought for with every bit of his blood and tears to keep and hold. He’ll survive, swallow every bit of bitterness for even a hint of sweetness in his future.

Every year, the probability of his survival lowers. So every birthday, he thinks, is a miracle. Every moment longer he has is an opportunity he can’t waste.

Like his master’s headband, which he still wears even now. There are things he can’t let go, that he will cling on to no matter what.

This is what living is, a taste so sweet it makes him crave more.

viii.

Moonlight spills into the office by the time Harumasa is ready to go home, several hours past the time he usually clocks out of work. 

He stands, stretches, and does a slow circle around the office. Everyone else has already left, Miyabi and Soukaku dragging Yanagi out before she could pull her third all-nighter at the office. It’s empty—or at least, he thinks it is before he finds you, flung along the couch hiding near the back of the office, head resting on the armrest, cheek pressed into the smooth fabric. 

You must have fallen asleep, and he hadn’t even noticed. It’s funny how that works: he’s perpetually aware of your presence, the most accidental brush of your skin against his making his nerves spark, and at other times, he’s lulled into a gentle peace in your presence, letting his guard dangerously low around you.

He pads over to the office lighting and flips it off, so the room plunges into sudden darkness, lit only by the liquid silver light of the moon puddling on the floor. You must be exhausted, running back and forth all the time, voluntarily working overtime alongside Yanagi.

Dedication to your job, perhaps, a noble profession that serves as a guiding light for the people of New Eridu. Are you aware of the corruption that lurks beneath the surface, the stink of ill intentions? Or is it something that guides you to do better instead?

He drifts back to you, pulled like the tides by the moon. You look peaceful, younger, moonlight softening your face and pooling in the hollow of your throat. If he folds his legs underneath him, there’s enough space on the couch for him to lay his head next to yours, close enough he can see the breath fluttering in your throat, the light exhalation and sign of life.

His hand just barely grazes along your jaw, but he can’t bring himself to touch you, not fully, though he can still feel the heat emanating from your skin. 

It’s obvious what you think of him. He’s irritating, a slacker, someone who only gets in your way–but there’s an edge of fondness in your voice now. The teasing and exaggerated eye rolls has become your new routine. Lately, you’ve started to doodle cats with little pouts on his papers, or bring back an extra cup of bitter black coffee for him when you’re out running errands.

Sometimes, he imagines what it would be like to grow older by your side. He’s always been fascinated by the wrinkles of the elderly, the gray hair, the worn joints, the various markers of a life well-lived and loved.

But he doesn’t have the luxury of aging, and he can’t envy what was never his.

You make him feel afraid of things he’s never been afraid of before. One day, you will only remember him from the yellowing pages of a photo album. He will stay the same forever, in the bloom of youth, while you drift further and further from him. You will always recognize him, but the face he sees now won’t be the one you will always have. You will change, and time will unmoor him from you. 

He can’t pull any closer than this. This is the safest distance, this easy fondness, the meaningless flirtations. Never any step closer, into a space where the two of you could be hurt. 

What is it that you want? A love? A family? A dream? He wants you to have it all, to indulge in every desire, every joy. Your life is a miracle, the greatest miracle he knows.

ix.

“Harumasamasa, you’ve gotten a lot of letters and gifts again! Is there any food in them? Is there?” 

Soukaku bounds up to him, all overeager, enthusiastic excitement and expectant eyes. He tosses several packages at her, wrapped in cheerful colors, which she catches with startingly precision. “Just a few chocolates and cookies,” he says. “They’re all yours, Soukaku.”

“Yay!” She tears into them with abandon. It’s a ritual they’ve developed over the months, where, when he’s flooded with sweets from fans he never knows what to do with, Soukaku is the one to sweep them up. It’s better than letting them go to waste.

Harumasa flips through a few letters as she talks, all personalized notes and careful handwriting on cute stationary, declarations of love and admiration and gratitude. Soukaku and you get your fair share of fan mail, though no one can beat Miyabi when it comes to the mountain of love letters on her desk. 

It’s part of the job, the fanservice, but it doesn’t mean it’s one he enjoys. You’re careful with your letters, and he doesn’t know what Miyabi does with hers, but this simply feels like a repeat of school: confessions he can’t accept, that pile up uncomfortably in the corner of his room until he throws them away because there’s nothing else to do with them.

“You don’t look happy, Harumasa,” Soukaku says, her cheeks stuffed with chocolate.

“Hm? Why wouldn’t I be happy? All these people love us so much,” he says. Soukaku is sweet and earnest in a way that makes him cognizant of how he interacts with her; Yanagi has done her best to protect Soukaku, so it wouldn’t be right for him to ruin those efforts. The world can be cruel and kind in equal measure, and she deserves to believe in that kindness before anything else.

“Because you always tell others to do whatever they want with your letters.”

“But I won’t have any room to nap if I let all my letters pile up! Besides, it’s not good for me to accept letters from people whose feelings I can’t cherish properly, right?”

Soukaku tilts her head like a puppy. “Does that mean you would be happy with a letter from them?” She points at your desk, situated right next to his, with its clean surface and neatly stacked files and supplies.

Harumasa hands her another package of chocolate, which Soukaku tears open. Every once in a while, she has a flash of sharp insight that reminds him why Soukaku has been allowed to join Section Six. 

“I don’t think there’s a reason they need to write me a letter,” he says. “We talk every day.”

Soukaku pops several chocolates in her mouth, swallowing it in one giant gulp. “Nagi says sometimes it’s easier to say things over letters, because there are things you can’t say right when you try to say them out loud. So maybe they would be happy if you sent them a letter, too.”

“Do you think we need to talk, Soukaku? Me and them?”

She brings her fingers together, fidgeting with them over and over, eyes shifting away. “You look sad when you’re talking to them and they can’t see, so I thought maybe there’s something you can’t say. And sometimes you look like you’re going to go somewhere far away, and I get scared you’re really going to leave, Harumasamasa. And I really like you, so I don’t want you to leave us. So…! That’s why you should send each other letters!”

His heart aches at her voice, earnest and slightly afraid. Though Yanagi has kept the precise details of her past quiet, he knows enough about what happened to the Onis to guess at what she’s gone through. And she’s young, still so young.

“I’m not going anywhere, Soukaku,” Harumasa begins, placing a hand on her hair and ruffling it. “I promise, okay? I won’t leave you or anyone else behind. So don’t worry.”

She sniffles. “Okay. You’ve promised. So you can’t break it.”

“I won’t break it,” he says. It’s a lie, but what could he say otherwise, when she looks at him with such a hopeful expression? Soukaku’s is one heart he can’t break.

x.

They’re half an hour into the party before Harumasa decides it’s been long enough that Yanagi can’t be mad if he escapes for some air.

The party is some private, stuffy affair with the City’s elite, all elegant crystal and tailored silk and calculated words that make him yawn. He knows what these sorts of people are like, and what they expect, so it makes him laugh under his breath to see them flustered at Soukaku’s cheer, uncaring of their games, and Miyabi’s blunt words, cutting through their pretenses.

You and Yanagi are the ones socializing and trying to keep things professional, but from the tight set of your smile and the way you clutch your wineglass like you’re considering using it like a weapon before you set it down, a break is in order. The person you’re talking to is also leaning far too close, and you keep angling your body away from him, a hint he can’t seem to take.

You look like a dream under the soft, warm lights, in an outfit he knows you agonized for hours before deciding on something tasteful and sleek.

Harumasa materializes right next to your elbow, cat-like grin on his face, hands shoved in his pockets. His tie is slightly askew, his collar popped open, his choker shining. He’s not in the most elegant suit in the room, but it’s his best one.

“I need them for a moment,” he says, smiling. “Pardon us.”

The person you’re talking to blinks. “But–”

“Official HSO business. It’s very urgent. And private,” he emphasizes, hand drifting to settle on your waist, pulling you infinitesimally closer to him.

“It’s true,” you say, jumping on the lifeline he’s offered you. You give a half-apologetic shrug. “I have to go now. The Hollows wait for no one.”

With that, the two of you are gone, striding across the room. He hasn’t lifted his hand from your waist, and you haven’t moved away. Neither of you speak until you’re out in the hall, where a sudden hush descends, lush carpet and imposing artwork muffling the sound of voices and muting the golden light.

“Let’s go there,” you say, pointing to a set of frosted glass doors, draped by lacy curtains.

He obliges, and steps out onto a balcony, a cool breeze sending the curtains swirling behind the two of you. Moonlight gilds everything in silver, and you break from him as you step up to the stone ledge, taking a deep breath. Below, the city lights glow in the distance, spreading out before you like a paradise.

“I needed this,” you say. You rest your elbows on the balcony.

He steps closer to you, until you’re side by side. “I thought so.”

“Thanks.” You smile briefly at him, a look that’s more open and genuine than the one you had given your previous conversational partner. “I know we need to do this for funding and PR, but it gets exhausting.”

“Well,” he says, “You’re part of HSO. People can’t be too mad at you if you take advantage of that. There’s only so much they can say to one of the city’s heroes.”

You laugh. “I know. I’ve seen you do exactly that, you slacker. You’re hardly up to dress code. Did you even iron your suit?”

“I didn’t see the point,” he says.

“I knew it. But like you said, it’s fine. You’re part of HSO. People call you a lazy genius, you know? You have a reputation that precedes you.”

“I didn’t know you talked about me like that to other people.”

You open your mouth as if you’re about to make another joke, before closing it, contemplating him. “No, I’ve just heard what people have said about you. I mean, to be honest, I thought that way at first. But then I noticed you actually work hard. A lot harder than you want other people to notice. Besides, we’re partners. I’ll have your back, and you’ll have mine.”

“You’re unexpectedly open tonight. What was in your drink?” he says. “Isn’t this the part where you tease me or make some jab at my work ethic?”

“I want to be honest with you sometimes,” you declare. “And I’m also a little tipsy. So don’t get too used to any compliments.”

It’s unbearable, sometimes, to see you like this. He wants to hold you like something he cannot have, something he doesn’t deserve.

“If we’re being honest, then I want to show you something,” he says. Harumasa touches your hands, and brings them to his neck, the movement slow and deliberate, until your fingers brush against his choker.

His heart quickens, the familiar bile rising in his throat. You’re close, too close, and he can feel the old wounds flare until his choker, igniting that familiar fear even at your gentle touch. It’s pain and pleasure, mixing together in a way that makes him feel light-headed.

You brush your fingers along the slick material, all the way to the back of his choker, right at the clasp that keeps them together. You hold your fingers there, waiting, staring into his eyes, but he doesn’t look away, and so with a single snap, his choker flutters away. The weight is gone, and his neck is bare.

Harumasa lowers his eyes to the ground, bending his neck like a lamb to slaughter. You brush back the hair on his neck, fingers ghosting along his skin. His breathing is shallow as your fingers explore every tender, sensitive inch of him. 

It’s too much. It’s too much—and then your fingers are gone as you kiss his neck, a ticklish, fluttering feeling that sends his nerves alight with liquid flame. His old scars flare against the brush of your soft lips, wounds aching, ripped open anew.

There’s the faintest edge of teeth as you nip against his skin. He wishes you would sink your teeth in deeper, marking him as yours. You could do anything you wanted to him, anything at all. Your violence would be salvation, your touch a blissful cruelty.

He tries not to make any sound as you place another kiss along his bare, slender neck. It’s too sensitive, and he can feel every inch of your touch. It’s painful, and he wants you to kiss him until he’s numb and afraid and you are all he can remember.

Something familiar clicks around his neck. His choker. The weight of it grounds him, and Harumasa lets out a slow breath. When he looks back up at you, you look uncharacteristically hesitant and nervous.

“Was it too much?” you murmur, fiddling with your fingers.

In response, all he can do is take one of your hands in his own. Hands that have saved him, over and over, in ways he can name and ways he can’t.

You’re quiet as Harumasa brings your fingers to his lips and wets the tip of them with his tongue, gentle as nothing else. He can taste the sweetness of your skin, and feel the slight tremor of your hand. To anyone else, you would be stone, efficient, responsible, impenetrable. 

It’s a beautiful part of you, as every part of you is beautiful. But to Harumasa, who holds any part of yourself that you offer with a greedy intensity, you are love itself, and so he will know you like nothing else.

You let out a little gasp as he laps at your fingers again. He nibbles at your forefinger, a teasing edge of teeth. You’re sweeter than life itself, and he could get drunk off of you, again and again. 

There are things he’s afraid to say, things he can’t give you. He is afraid, always afraid. Afraid of you, afraid of the day this choker will fall from his neck forever and he’ll turn into something you can’t recognize, afraid of the tears he’ll make you shed. 

He has never been someone who could accept love, who could live with an ordinary relationship, with an ordinary happiness. This is as far as he can go, and this is enough for a man who has never had anything before this. To stay by your side, to treasure every moment with you, to be accepted so wholly. 

Life is cruel and life is kind, but this is a life all his own, one he has built and chosen for himself. No matter what happens after, Harumasa will always remember this: the sweetness of this life of his.

“What’s the favor?” you respond evenly. “If it’s to convince Yanagi to accept your request for time off, I’m not going to do that.”

“It’s not that!” Harumasa insists. “But it’s about something that’s important for the well-being of Section Six.”

You glance around the room; Soukaku is doodling with crayons on some confidential reports, Miyabi has left for a meeting with the rest of the section chiefs (and you can guarantee that she isn’t paying any attention), and Yanagi is steadfastly working through a towering stack of papers on her desk, so high that you can barely make out the top of her head. No one is paying attention to the two of you.

“Well, what is it then?” you say, and Harumasa casts a furtive glance at Yanagi before leaning closer to you, bracing his elbow on your desk. He’s enjoying himself a little too much, you can’t help but feel, what with how his smile curls like a satisfied cat.

“We need to meet up on our day off, preferably in the morning and somewhere near Lumina Square,” he says conspiratorially. “It’s too risky to pull off here. But it’s important, partner, so make sure you’re not late.”

“If it’s something that’s important for Section Six,” you whisper, tilting your own head closer to the shell of his ear, “Maybe it’s something that we should bring up to the others. What is it? Some illicit venture into a Hollow? Should I call Phaenton, too?”

“There’s no need for all of that,” Harumasa says hastily. “You only need to bring yourself. Maybe a disguise,” he adds, “to avoid public notice. This is a confidential mission. I’m relying on you.”

You let out a small sigh. Visions of curling up on your couch tomorrow, browsing through books with a mug of warm, sweet tea vanish in front of your eyes. “Fine. I’ll be there. But you owe me for dragging me out on our only day off.”

“I’ll make it worth your time, I promise.” Harumasa has the audacity to wink at you, like you’ve agreed to some ridiculous, under-the-table deal. 

Maybe you have. It certainly feels like it when you drag yourself out of bed the next morning, donning sunglasses, a long, caramel-colored coat buttoned up to your neck, and pulling a hat low over your head to complete the look. You’re out the door and on the train to Lumina Square before ten minutes have passed.

You’re set to meet Harumasa at some nondescript corner of the square, an alley boxed in by towering buildings and mostly hidden from view. What does he have in store for you? Despite the playful attitude he had yesterday when asking you for help, there was also something serious underpinning his words, even as he tried to pass it off as a flight of fancy. Harumasa would never ask you for help unless it was something important. 

You’re certain that you’ll have to wait for Harumasa to show up a few minutes late, making some slap-fash excuse. To your surprise, he’s already waiting for you. You almost can’t recognize him at first. He’s forgone his usual headband; instead, he’s wearing a hoodie, a cap, and a facemask, slouching against the wall, staring aimlessly at the sky. 

“Harumasa?” you say.

At your voice, Harumasa immediately straightens, lifting himself off the wall. You can hear the smile in his voice, even if you can’t see it. “There you are!”

“You’re early,” you say. “I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”

Harumasa slings a casual arm around your shoulder. “Well, I didn’t want to miss our date. But don’t let Yanagi know that I’m capable of showing up on time, okay?” 

“It’s not a date,” you say, lowering your sunglasses to give him an unimpressed stare, “It’s a mission. Or so you claim.”

“It is,” he says. “Come with me. I’ll show you our place of operations.”

Harumasa still has his arm around your shoulders, but you don’t shake him off as he leads you confidently through alleys and down back roads, avoiding the bustle of crowds in the main section of the city. The breeze is cool, the sunlight warm on your face againsr the winter’s chill.

Eventually, the two of you stop in front of a hospital, a towering construction of shining metal and glass reflecting squares of blue sky. People bustle in and out of the sliding front doors, letting out gusts of sharp, chemically scented air.

Harumasa is silent as he stares up at the building, his hat shading his eyes. You can’t make out his expression, but you lean your head on his shoulder, a brief, reassuring touch.

He seems to come back to himself, then, and Harumasa’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he resumes talking in a clear, casual voice, “So, this is where our mission is taking place. Here’s the gist of it: I need you to pretend to be my spouse.”

“What?”

“Come on,” he wheedles. “I’ve been avoiding coming here for a while, but they’re not taking my excuses anymore. And they wanted me to bring a family member over to verify some things.”

“You could have just said so from the beginning,” you say. “I was beginning to think you wanted us to infiltrate somewhere.”

“If you think about it, we technically are,” Harumasa muses. “Besides, isn’t it more fun if I tell you we’re on a mission, instead of just giving everything away? Also, this is necessary to Section Six; what are they going to do without their star Executive Officer?”

The arm around your shoulder is shaking imperceptibly; sometime during his words, his grip has tightened, just slightly, as if he’s clinging to you to keep from sliding down a cliff. The unspoken truths hover in the air: that you’re the only one in Section Six who knows about his Ether Regression Aptitude Syndrome, and that he can’t ask anyone else to help him for this.

“Why your spouse, though?” you say instead. “Why not just say I’m a distant relation? You could also just not specify what our relationship is.” 

“Because it’s more fun for me,” Harumasa replies. Typical.

Within the next few minutes, the two are checking in at the front desk after a brief wait, Harumasa wading through tedious paperwork and bureaucracy and health insurance forms with clipboards and pens that click more than necessary. 

“Make sure to tell the doctor I’m here with my spouse,” Harumasa emphasizes, tapping the clipboard with his pen. He slides his arm around you, drawing you closer to him, and you try to resist the urge to pull away and keep your face schooled in a neutral, pleasant expression.

“All right, Mr. Asaba,” the receptionist chirps. “He’ll be out to see you in a bit!”

The waiting room is filled with rows of yellow and white plastic chairs, carpeting worn by the tread of countless anxious patients, and stacks of old magazines on tables and televisions mounted on the walls playing a cheesy blockbuster with the voices muted. A bored child plays with the hospital’s block toys on the floor, his mother talks quietly into her phone in front of him, and an elderly man flips through a magazine, his cane resting on his lap.

You and Harumasa settle into your seats, side by side. In the space between, where your hands dangle, his knuckles brush against the back of your hand before he draws your hand into his. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow become his stress ball, something he needs to touch to ground himself. 

“Still holding up alright?” Harumasa whispers. “You cleared the first hurdle.”

“Maybe I should be asking you that,” you whisper back. “Are you okay?”

“I’m used to it.” At times like this, you wish you could see Harumasa’s mouth, because his eyes betray nothing. 

Still, when the receptionist finally calls out, “Asaba Harumasa, the doctor’s here to see you,” you don’t let go of Harumasa’s hand. The doctor is stocky and short, with tired, drooping eyes, and he frowns when he sees Harumasa.

The three of you start walking down the hall, the doctor setting a rapid pace as he lectures Harumasa. “You’ve been avoiding my calls for the past week. Do you know how hard it is to get in contact with you? Proper medical care requires consistency!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Harumasa says without sounding sorry at all, but he seems more focused on swinging your joined hands together like a child on a swing set. 

In the doctor’s office, the two of you are finally separated as Harumasa perches on the examination table. You’re sitting in a guest chair lined up against the wall across from him. The doctor moves through standard physical procedures with a deft, practiced hand. Harumasa follows along easily, thoughtlessly, as if these processes are second nature: the lights shining in his eyes, the blood pressure cuff around his arm, the routine questions. 

However, whenever the doctor is distracted recording results or marking down Harumasa’s answers, Harumasa will pull down his mask and make faces at you, to which you’ll respond with a roll of your eyes or your own exaggerated expressions of annoyance. 

“Have you been resting well?” the doctor asks sternly, turning back around just as the two of you quickly settle into more typical expressions. “You’re not pushing yourself at work, I hope?”

“I haven’t,” Harumasa says, with wide eyes. 

“Hmpth.” The doctor turns to you. “Well? Is he being truthful? As his spouse, I trust you’ll be honest for the sake of his health.” Behind the doctor’s back, Harumasa strikes you with an expression of mock disbelief, raising his eyebrows dramatically. It’s almost enough to make you laugh, but you control the tremor of your lips. 

“He hasn’t been pushing himself hard at all,” you say smoothly. “If anything, I think my husband has been resting a little too well.”

“All right. And your medications, Mr. Asaba? Have you been taking them properly?”

“Right as instructed, every morning and night,” Harumasa says. “My lovely spouse would know. They’ve seen me dutifully take all of them.”

“He has,” you verify. From what you know, anyways, Harumasa never misses a dosage. 

The doctor peppers Harumasa with more health-related questions and logs down all his answers. It’s over before you know it, and Harumasa leaps off the table as soon as the doctor puts away his clipboard. 

“I’ve missed you, cutie,” he says, throwing his arms around you like you haven’t seen him in months, snuggling up to you as the doctor watches with a weary expression. 

“The two of you get along well,” he says stoically.

“Oh, we do,” Harumasa chirps. 

“Make sure to make a follow-up appointment, Mr. Asaba. Your health appears stable, and your symptoms haven’t worsened.”

“I’ll make sure he does,” you supply, shooting a quick, withering glance at Harumasa, who only gives you a pleading expression in return. “He won’t be late to the next appointment.”

“I appreciate that, Mx…?” the doctor trails off questioningly.

“Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa interjects. “That’s their name.”

“That’s right,” you say. “Thank you for your time today.”

Harumasa wraps his arm around your waist, giving the doctor a lazy wave, and then the two of you are through the door, down the hall, and out of the hospital. Once you’re a street away, Harumasa finally speaks. 

“You were excellent there, Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa says. 

“Of course I was. Though you don’t need to call me that.”

“Why? I think it has a nice ring to it,” he muses. “Mx. Asaba and Mr. Asaba.”

“I was serious about what I said back there, you know,” you say. “You need to make your follow-up appointment soon. And you should try to show up to it on time.”

“You’re so strict. What if I need you to come with me again to feel better?”

“Then just tell me when, and where,” you say. “If you need me there, then I’ll be there, no matter what.” 

A brief flicker of surprise lights across his face, before it smooths out into his usual relaxed smile. “You’re soooo good to me, Mx. Asaba. Since you went out of your way today to help me with such a confidential mission, let me treat you to some food!” 

“I suppose that’s what a good spouse should do,” you say. 

Harumasa’s arm is still around your waist, but you can’t bring yourself to shake it off as he enthusiastically guides you to whatever restaurant he has in mind. His grip is casual, loose enough that you could shrug it off if you really want to. But if you do, then he’d never pull close to you like again.

Harumasa is attentive in that way. If you set a line, then he would never cross it. All his jokes feel like a casual calculation of the distance between the two of you. How far is he allowed to go? How much are you willing to put up with? What’s the boundary of your relationship? 

It’s like he’s waiting for rejection, offering you the chance to push away from him in a way that would make it easier for both of you. The way he touches you is akin to possession, but from a man who’s afraid to say he deserves to call you his.

Yet, if you push a little too close, more than he’s comfortable with, then he’ll run away like a skittish cat, afraid your affection will turn to boredom or cruelty. You’ve been with him long enough to understand this. So you’ll play along with his jokes, his little white little lies and deceptions, if it’s the only way he’ll let you stay close to him.

It’s a date, or a confidential mission, or whatever excuse Harumasa wants to use. What a complicated, beloved partner you have.

“We’re here,” Harumasa says. You’re at a ramen shop, with low stalls pulled up the counter, the simmering heat and steam from the kitchen feeling like a miniature summer. Thankfully, it’s empty, but your disguises ensure that neither your nor Harumasa’s fans will bother you for pictures and autographs in either case. 

“Order whatever you want,” he says, and you pick up the laminated menu, browsing through the various options. “Oh, wait. Pose for a second.”

Harumasa pulls out his phone, opening the camera, and aims it in your direction. You make a quick peace sign, menu held aloft in your other hand, and the shutter snaps. “What’s that for?”

“You looked nice,” he says. “I’ll send it to you later.”

“I didn’t realize you liked photography.”

“It’s a good way to preserve things that are fleeting, but important to you,” he says. “Moments that won’t last, people that might leave. Things like that.”

“Are you planning on divorcing me already?” you ask, propping your chin on your hand, peering at him over the top of your sunglasses. 

Harumasa places a hand over his heart. “Me? Never.”

The two of you place an order for ramen, and it doesn’t take long for the noodles to arrive. It’s simple, but delicious: hearty, flavorful broth, bamboo shoots, seaweed, fish cakes, slices of charred, fatty pork, and an egg with a jammy yolk.

Neither of you talk as you sit in silence, slurping noodles and drinking spoonfuls of broth. It’s been a while since you’ve gone out for a meal like this, and even longer since you did so with someone that wasn’t some sort of business partner or official whose good graces you need to stay in. 

You glance up with a mouthful of noodles to find Harumasa watching you, chopsticks in hand, a small smile on his face, as if he’s never seen anything so charming, his own ramen forgotten. Your face burns for reasons you don’t want to identify; you’re only thankful he doesn’t ask for another picture.

Harumasa lets out a sigh of appreciation when he’s done, placing his chopsticks neatly over his finished bowl. “Soukaku once cleared out almost all the noodles in this place, did you know that? I’ve been meaning to go ever since she told me.”

“Did it match your expectations?”

“I don’t normally like heavy food, but this time, I didn’t mind it,” he says. “Or maybe it’s because you looked like you enjoyed it a lot. It made me appreciate this bowl more.”

“Smooth-talker,” you say. “If you’re done, should we head back–”

“Wait, there’s somewhere else we should go,” Harumasa interrupts, holding up a hand. “We need dessert after a meal, don’t you think?”

“Really? A dessert? What are you thinking of getting?” you ask.

“There’s a popular drink shop around here. They serve milk tea in these cute little Bangboo shaped cups,” Harumasa begins. “I thought it might be fun to check it out.” 

“I thought you hated sweet things,” you supply. The two of you stand, and you smooth down your coat as Harumasa adjusts his facemask. You’re ambling down the street again, but this time, you loop your arm through his, pulling him close. It’s an effortless gesture, and it’s startling how easy it is to press so close to him.

“Well, you don’t,” he returns. “And it’s a popular date spot too. Can’t I take my lovely spouse out some more?”

You bump him with your hip. There’s no need to keep up your pretense anymore. There’s no one else here to listen to your lies. Both of you know this, but you can’t bring yourself to state the obvious. If you point out the script, then the curtain will fall and the play will end, your fragile happiness disappearing as the actors take a final bow. “Sure, if you keep paying.” 

The two of you end up in front of an inconspicuous milk tea shop. There’s no outdoor or indoor seating, but there is a counter and a blackboard with the menu chalked in, alongside doodles of smiling Bangboo holding milk tea on the side. A tired salesgirl stands in front, her expression at odds with her bubblegum pink uniform. There’s a few teenagers milling nearby, hands cupped around their milk tea and conversing in giggles.

Harumasa tilts his head as he looks at the menu, hanging above the two of you. “They sell iced coffee here,” he muses. “I thought this was a milk tea place.”

“They probably want to offer a variety of drinks for people who might not like milk tea,” you supply. 

“What are you getting?”

“The Bangboo special milk tea,” you say immediately. “It’s their speciality, and it comes with a Bangboo shaped cup. If it’s cute, I might take it home and wash it so I can reuse it”

He eyes you with amusement as the two of you approach the counter, where Harumasa slides his card across the counter. You make a note to treat him out to dinner at some point; as much as you tease, it wouldn’t sit right with you if you didn’t return the favor. “One iced espresso and a Bangboo special milk tea for me and my spouse, please.”

“Got it.” The salesgirl doesn’t bat an eye as Harumasa leans against you, his eyes crinkling at the corners like a pleased cat.

It doesn’t take long for your drinks to arrive. Your milk tea is in the shape of a Bangboo’s head, and topped with a pile of jellies over delicately set tiers of differing flavors. You take a sip, and you’re flooded with a creamy, milky sweetness.

Harumasa, who hasn’t even taken a sip of his espresso yet, looks amused as he watches you. “Let me try some of yours.”

“You won’t like it,” you protest, but Harumasa is already pulling down his face mask and leaning towards you. You raise your drink to let him take a quick sip.

He licks his top lip in thoughtful contemplation. “Way too sweet.”

“I told you. Now give me some of yours,” you say. “It’s only fair.” 

He obliges without protest, tilting his straw towards you. You take a quick sip, but it’s cold and bitter. You wrinkle your nose; you’re no stranger to coffee, especially when shifts run late into the night, but you still like to add creamer and sugar to take the edge off. 

“Coffee is an acquired taste for true adults,” Harumasa says when he sees your expression. “Maybe I’m just a bit more mature than you.”

“Sweetness is also an acquired taste,” you quip. “It’s good to learn to enjoy the sweet things in life.”

“Maybe it is. Oh, wait. Before you finish your drink. Let’s take another picture.” Harumasa pulls out his phone again, and you don’t protest as he raises it and angles it down towards the two of you. You raise your cup, and Harumasa lopes his arm around yours, locking the two of you together.  

With a few press of his thumb, he’s done, and lowers the phone for your inspection. You examine yourself the same way a stranger might; the two of you huddled up together, Harumasa’s cheeks red from the cold, your lips drawn into a smile, looking almost like the married couple you’re pretending to be. 

“You look cute as usual,” Harumasa comments. “But it makes me look bad. I’ve got to stop taking pictures with you.” 

“That’s not my fault,” you protest. 

“Of course it isn’t. You can’t help being the cutest person in the world.” 

You’re saved from thinking up a response that won’t betray your own embarrassment by the curious giggles of the teenagers across from you. They keep glancing furtively from you to Harumasa, hands cupped over their mouths. You can hear whispers of “Section Six” and “celebrities” which doesn’t bode well for your current anonymity. 

Swiftly, you grab Harumasa’s hand and start pulling him away from the cafe, down the streets of Lumina Square. The winter sun has started to droop in the sky, painting the world in a vivid, melting, yolky light. Laughter drifts around you from people lost in their own worlds. 

You’re not sure where you’re going, only certain on heading away from anyone who can recognize you. Harumasa follows along gamely, your willing accomplice.

You fly up a flight of stairs and you’re suddenly on the walkway above the streets, the city stretching out below you, buildings stacked like decadent cakes, people little figurines trotting carelessly by. 

You’re far away from everyone else now, cocooned in your own world. Harumasa’s fingers squeezes yours playfully, and suddenly you’re aware of how his hand feels in yours, warm skin and calluses from his bow and reassuringly slender fingers wrapped around your own. 

You drop his hand, finally, and take a sip of your own drink, which is sweet, so sweet, as Harumasa walks up to the railing and braces his elbow against the metal. 

“You’ve been taking a lot of pictures of me today,” you say. 

“I want to treasure every moment we have together,” Harumasa says, without turning. A cool breeze stirs, sending his hair fluttering, his clothes rippling. 

He’s unfair when he talks like this, the tenderness in his voice making your heart ache over the inevitable future, a predetermined ending. Like he’ll slip through your fingers as easily as water at any moment.

You pull out your phone, swipe to your camera, and raise it to frame Harumasa in the center, backlit by the glow of the sun and the tart light from the windows of buildings around you. 

“Look over here,” you call, and Harumasa turns. He’s beautiful, so beautiful it hurts. “Strike a pose.” 

“Shouldn’t I be the one taking a picture?” he asks. 

“I want to remember you,” you say. “Forever.” 

Harumasa tilts his head back. “Me?” 

“You’re not the only one who wants to cherish every moment we spend together.” 

Harumasa slowly pulls down his face mask, and you can finally see his smile, more brilliant than the sun behind him, flooding through your nerves and filling every part of you with a warm light. 

You press your phone’s camera shutter, once, twice, immortalizing Harumasa for as long as you can. You lower your phone, and join him at the railing, looking down below at the peace you’ve both fought so hard to protect. 

The world is filled with such endless cruelty and stunning beauty in equal measure. And yet, it’s the only world you have. You tap your fingers against the railing, a nonsensical song. 

“For your next appointment, maybe we should try a different restaurant when you’re done,” you say. “And we can walk around and take more pictures. There’s a few art installations around.” 

“You sure you want to come back with me? You’ll have to pretend to be Mx. Asaba again, you know.” 

“I don’t mind,” you murmur. “It has a nice ring to it.” 

“If you talk like that, you’ll make me want to make it official…. Of course, I’m kidding,” he adds before the words can linger for too long. 

“Have you thought about getting married?” you ask.

“I couldn’t do that to someone,” he responds lightly. “Besides, it’d be bad for PR. You know how intense our fan clubs can get.”

Of course, you understand. Marriage is an alien thought for a job where you risk your life everyday fighting against Ethereals and venturing into Hollows. You barely have enough time for yourself after long shifts and overtime and late nights, ready to be called into action at the slightest emergency. Could you bear to leave behind someone you love under the circumstances? Could they bear waiting and worrying for you? You would never be able to provide them any form of normalcy.

“Leaving someone behind like that… I don’t think I could do it. Or ask them to understand why I can’t give them an ordinary life,” you say. 

“Right, right. I wouldn’t want to make my partner cry,” he says. “I knew you would get it.”

His eyes gleam, two precious pieces of gold. Of course. Neither of you are capable of an ordinary relationship. Whatever the two of you have right now, whatever form you let it take, can’t be named. Something will break if you try. 

Carefully, delicately, you lean your head against his shoulder. He stiffens only momentarily before relaxing, a silent affirmation of your presence. Below, cars rush by, the misty glow of streetlights winking into life as the sky darkens.

“I’ll let you know when I have my next appointment,” he says, voice carrying like the wind.

“All right. I’ll be sure to make the time for you, Mr. Asaba.”

He laughs, a low, soft sound. “Thank you, Mx. Asaba. I knew I could rely on you.”

And it’s nice, like this. For just a while longer, you can forget anything that’s happened before, or anything that might happen in the future. Right now, it’s just you, and him, together. 

You struggle to sit up in a bed with several different blankets and pillows tossed about like lost sailors in a storm. An arm slung across your torso, casual and possessive fingers gripping your hip, tightens. 

With the arm preventing you from fully rising, you have no option but to slump back into bed, following the curve of the arm and a pale neck to Asaba Harumasa’s face, inky hair falling across his forehead, his eyes still closed.

Your mouth parts in shock at seeing your coworker fast asleep next to you, holding onto you with an unconsciously tight grip, before the pieces of last night click in. 

Sometimes, and only sometimes, when you get off work late and you’ve missed the late night train back to your apartment, you crash at Harumasa’s place. He lives closer than you do to HSO’s head building, and sometimes you’re not in the mood to deal with sleeping on spare couches, shitty corporate coffee, and lukewarm shower stalls.

“You really can’t get enough of me,” he teased the first time you agreed to stay at his place. “Coming over like this so easily… what am I supposed to think?”

In response, you gritted your teeth, sleep deprivation and a library of paperwork waiting for you tomorrow causing your patience to wane, and say, “Not another word, Harumasa, if you want to live to see tomorrow.”

You’d started off simply with crashing on the couch, but you could never catch a single wink of sleep, not when the slightest noise would startle you, and Harumasa was prone to nightmares and shuffling around in the early hours of the morning in his kitchen or bathroom to clear his head.

At first, to help him rest easier, you only settled with chatting with him throughout the night, brewing him floral tea that was supposed to aid with sleep and trying not to fall asleep at his kitchen counter. Later, you’d tried calming music, or holding his hand until he could ease into a more peaceful rest. After that, though, you’d settled on a different compromise, because you were starting to fall asleep at your desk during work: you’d sleep in his bed with him instead, if only because a warm body seemed to ease him more than anything else.

“This is purely for… medical reasons,” you told him crisply. “Nothing else. All right?”

“Of course,” he said, but you couldn’t trust the grin creeping across his face, which you couldn’t describe as anything but “goofy” and “untrustworthy.”

And that leads you to your current predicament. Of course his apartment looks unfamiliar in the daylight; you’ve only ever stumbled in during the late nights, and left before the sun rose in order to get to work early (that, and to avoid any rumors if the two of you arrived at the office at the same time). You should be used to waking up next to Harumasa, but it still startles you every time to see him so close. 

However, the color and depth of the sunlight, and the fact your alarm isn’t the reason you woke up causes unease trickles through your veins.

“Harumasa,” you hiss. “Harumasa!”

He still doesn’t stir, and you shake his shoulder until he blearily blinks his eyes. “Hm… Wha…”

It’s at this point you can shake off his relentless grip, lunging for the night stand to pick up your phone and to see, with growing horror, the bright “11:24 AM” on your screen, along with several texts and a missed call from Yanagi.

“We’re late. Oh my god. We’re late!” you say, finally leaping out of Harumasa’s bed. Where are your clothes? Scattered on the floor alongside Harumasa’s. You’re in nothing but a tank top and athletic shorts, and you pick up your white dress shirt, now unbearably creased. You’ll need to get it ironed later, but you have more pressing issues to worry about as you slip one arm through the sleeve.

“Oh. Is that all?” Harumasa says lazily.

“Is that all? Come on! We’re three hours late for work!”

“It’s fine. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Come on, get up!” you say, swiftly buttoning your shirt closed, reaching over to his supine body and giving his shoulder a light smack. “Yanagi’s going to give you overtime if you keep sleeping.”

At your words, Harumasa finally sits bolt upright in bed, eyes widening. “My pants are over there! Throw them over, quick!”

You reach down and toss him a pair of wrinkled black slacks. The two of you rush to get ready in the next ten minutes, taking turns running in and out of the bathroom and throwing together some bland, packaged food for breakfast from Harumasa’s kitchen cabinets. 

You pull on your coat, teal and crisp and a mandatory part of the official HSO uniform, but it’s wrinklier than you remember. But there’s no time to worry about your outfit, so you pin your ID to the front and slip on your loafers, tapping the front of each toe lightly on the floor.

Harumasa pauses, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom as he watches you. There’s an expression that’s strangely tender on his face.

“What?” you ask. “Something on my face?”

“No. I just think you look nice,” he says. You wait for a joke to follow his words, but nothing does.

“Thanks. You look nice, too,” you add. Might as well pay him his compliment back. “Now, let’s go!”

There’s no time to deal with the caprices of public transport, the afternoon rush or the inefficient wait times, so you take off at a brisk jog down the streets instead, Harumasa following at his own lackadaisical pace.

“I can’t believe I slept past my alarms,” you lament. 

“That might have been my fault,” Harumasa says. “I think I pressed snooze on all of them.”

“What? Why?”

“I wanted to sleep in,” he says.

You purse your lips. “Well, I didn’t!”

“I also thought you looked cute so I didn’t want you to wake up,” he says conversationally. “Sorry.”

The image of Harumasa, propped up on one elbow, watching you sleep with a smile playing on his mouth, rises to mind, unbidden. You push it away; there’s no point in letting yourself wander down that path. 

Harumasa is a smooth-talker, carefree and light, like a dandelion puff that’ll blow whichever way the wind will carry it. He’s your coworker, someone who you trust and tease in equal measure. You care about him, more than is safe, but despite the fact you sleep in his bed, there’s so much you don’t know about him.

Where do his nightmares come from? What condition requires him to take so many pills? Why does he let you in his arms, but not his heart? He never explains, so you never ask.

If he had tried to touch you any of those nights together, you wouldn’t have pushed him away. But there’s a line he never crosses with you. He holds you tightly, desperately, as if he doesn’t want you to leave, but he never reaches out first.

His desires are contradictory and confusing, and so hard for you to piece together. Harumasa is like a skittish animal, keeping inches away from your outstretched hands, yet unable to keep his hungry gaze away from you.

“Oh, please. You’ve seen me sleep a hundred times before,” you say, tone teasing. “I don’t know why today is so different. You’ll see it a hundred times in the future, too.”

You no longer hear Harumasa’s footsteps behind you, so you turn. He’s stopped in the middle of the sea of people rushing by, like water around rocks. You’re suddenly displaced from the stream of crowds around you, all with their lives, their goals, their dreams, so unknown and alien to you.

What does Harumasa want to say to you? There’s something trapped in his gaze, his throat, the way he worries at the edge of his lip with his teeth, as if biting back some ugly truth. The same things he’s always hidden from you, from Section Six, from the rest of the world.

“I haven’t had any nightmares lately. I haven’t properly thanked you for that,” Harumasa says. He’s only a few feet away, but it feels like there’s miles between the two of you, oceans and canyons that you can’t traverse to reach wherever he’s speaking from.

“You can thank me after work,” you say. “Take me out to eat, if you feel bad.”

“Sure. We’ll go somewhere nice. You can choose.”

“Maybe we can bring the others along,” you add. “Soukaku will feel left out if we get something tasty without her, and Miyabi and Yanagi have been working hard these past few weeks.”

“Now you’re adding people without asking me? Do you want me to go bankrupt?”

He’s the same as he always is, with his carefree attitude and casual jokes, the way he keeps the mood light. Why, then, do you still feel so distant from Harumasa? Like he’ll be swept off into this crowd of people and you’ll never see him again?

“Harumasa.” You stride forward and circle his wrist with your hand, an anchor to keep him moored to your side. “I’ll be here for you, you know that, right? I’ll stay with you every night for as long as you need. I want to support you. You can tell me anything.”

Harumasa smiles ruthfully. “You’re too good to me. What if I take advantage of that?”

“I’ll let you,” you say quietly.

His breath hitches, his eyes dropping, as if searching for the right answer on the pavement beneath him. “The only thing I’ll ask you to do is to keep staying with me every night. Just help me sleep.”

“All right.”

He wiggles his hand free from your grasp until he can ghost his fingers along your palm, slowly intertwining your fingers together. His touch is as tentative as a butterfly’s kiss. You’re afraid to move, as if he’ll vanish if you do. “And I trust you. I know there’s a lot you’re curious about, but I need some time. There’s some unfinished business I need to deal with, first.”

“Take your time,” you say. “I’ll be waiting.”

Harumasa squeezes your hand briefly before letting go. “Also, this doesn’t bother me, but you do realize we’re still late to work, right?”

Shit. You glance at your phone, and the bright number makes you want to faint. “Let’s hurry! We’ll talk after work, all right? You still owe me that meal!”

The two of you race down the street (well, you run and Harumasa languidly follows a step behind), and you swear you can hear Harumasa’s quiet laughter all the way to the office. 

You don’t stop your frantic pace even as you check into the Hollow Special Operatives building, scanning your ID and bursting into the elevator, riding it all the way to your floor, where the doors pop open to a scowling Yanagi. 

“I’m so sorry!” you cry, explanations and apologies bubbling from your mouth. “Yanagi, this was extremely unprofessional of me, and I promise I’ll never be this late without prior notice again. If—”

“It’s okay,” Yanagi says, cutting in with a sigh. “You’re not normally this late. I was worried something happened to you.” 

“Tsukishiro, you’re so kind to us,” Harumasa says, grinning. 

“Asaba! This is your sixth time arriving late–” Abruptly, Yanagi stops her scolding, looking at Harumasa with a confused expression, before her eyes drift back to you. You can see something click in her thoughts as a mixture of recognition, shock, and weary acceptance play across her face in rapid measure. “I hope the two of you remember HR protocol for office relationships,” she says finally. “I have no feelings on your personal relationship outside of work, as long as… you don’t let it affect your performance.”

“What?” you say. Yanagi’s lips are pursed, and Harumasa’s expression is smugly pleased, like a cat with a particularly juicy piece of fish. Your eyes naturally drift from Harumasa, whose jacket isn’t as baggy and oversized as usual and instead looks strangely familiar, all the way to your own body, where you see that it’s not your jacket, but Harumasa’s jacket, hanging off your shoulders.

Shit. In the morning rush, you’d probably grabbed the wrong coat off the floor. That’s most likely why Harumasa had looked at you so oddly, too. 

Harumasa must notice the dawning horror on your face, because he adds, in a voice that makes you want to kick him, “Don’t worry, Tsukishiro. We’d never act so unprofessional in the workplace.”

“Yanagi, this isn’t… We’re not… There’s a perfectly good explanation for…” Any excuses that come to mind fall flat. What could you say without making the situation worse? Throw Harumasa under the bus and explain that you sleep with him to help with his nightmares? Or that you stay at his apartment when you’re too exhausted to return to your own? Both of those sounded like a professional nightmare in their own right.

“Yes?” Yanagi says patiently.

“I’ll… be careful,” you finally say.

“All right. If you need anything, let me know,” she says, patting you on the shoulder.

“Tsukishiro, this is obvious favoritism!” Harumasa protests lightly.

“Favoritism? I’ve been fighting to get all of your sick leave requests approved, even though you’ve exceeded your limit for the month.”

“Point taken.”

“Now, since the two of you are here… If you’re ready to head out, I need one of you to head out to Hollow Zero,” Yanagi says. “Section Four has requested back-up, and since Soukaku and Chief Miyabi are checking out a different disturbance, I haven’t been able to go since I’m handling business here.”

“When did they request help?” you say. “If we’ve been keeping them waiting…”

“Don’t worry,” Yanagi says. “The request only came a few minutes ago. I was considering leaving to handle it, but then the two of you showed up.”

“Of course. Then I’ll–”

“I’ll go,” Harumasa announces, interrupting you with a cheeky wave of his hand. “I owe it to my, ah, coworker, don’t I, for causing so much trouble?”

“You want to volunteer for additional work?” you ask dubiously.

“Well, consider this a repayment for everything you’ve done for me. Would that suffice? Oh, and not to worry–I’ll still treat you to a good meal after, even if I have to drag my poor, bruised body to the restaurant.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” you say. 

“I’m sure.” Harumasa raises his hand, as if he means to touch you in some way, but it simply hovers in the air before he gives you a quick pat on the shoulder, the same as Yanagi had done. It’s both relieving and disappointing. “So start thinking about what you want to eat. Oh, Tsukishiro, you and the rest are invited, too.”

“You’re treating us to dinner? Are you going to pull something ridiculous later?” Yanagi asks, with the same disbelief you had.

“Not at all! Think of it as some good old gratitude. I owe everyone here a lot. So look forward to it.” He spins on his heel to press the elevator button again. “All right, time to head out!”

There’s so much you want to say to Harumasa, and so much you can’t. But he has promised you the truth, eventually, so you won’t push him further. You can only take this quiet snapshot of him in your head, his loose posture, his rumpled clothes, the way your jacket is tied low on his waist.

It comforts you that he’ll have this piece of you with him, like a lucky charm. If he won’t ask for his jacket back, then you won’t ask for yours.

“Come back soon,” you say. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I’ll be back.” Harumasa smiles briefly before the doors slide shut and separate the two of you.

The majority of the day passes in a blur of menial office tasks, paperwork and reports, with cheap, filtered coffee carrying you through it all. You drink yours bitterly black, and think of Harumasa. A few hours later, Soukaku and Miyabi return, covered in light scrapes and bruises that will fade within the day. 

“Welcome back,” you tell them, standing to greet them near the entrance.

Soukaku bounds up to wrap her arms around your waist in a tight hug, and you ruffle her hair. “Where’s Harumasa?” she asks.

“Out providing support to Section Four,” you say. “He’ll probably be back before the end of the day. How was your mission?”

“Fine. There wasn’t much trouble,” Miyabi says. 

“By the way, Harumasa is going to treat us to dinner tonight,” you add, fiddling with the ends of Harumasa’s jacket sleeve.

“Yay!” Soukaku says. “Let’s get meat!”

“Grilled meat,” you supply. “The best kind.”

“Premium cut…” Miyabi muses.

“Don’t ask too much from him,” Yanagi adds, looking up briefly from her desk to address the three of you. 

“You don’t want premium grade meat, Yanagi?”

“Well…”

“Take the time to think about it,” you tease.

The rest of the time pours away in a sluggish trickle. As the sky reddens to a color like pooling blood, Harumasa still hasn’t returned. It’s taking more time than you expected. All you can do is tug at the ends of Harumasa’s jacket sleeves in nervous habit, watching the teal fabric fall over your hands. It hasn’t lost his scent yet. 

Perhaps the others have sensed your unease, because the mood is more sombre than usual. Even Soukaku is quietly fidgeting at her desk, the entire office enveloped in a fragile, waiting silence.

Harumasa likes to act lackadaisical, but you know from firsthand experience that he’s competent. Besides, he’s promised to come back and tell you the things he’s been hiding. And he still has to take you and the rest of Section Six to dinner. 

This is a simple back-up mission, you remind yourself. Yanagi hadn’t mentioned any complications. It would be fine. Harumasa would come back late with some excuse, you would tease him, the entire office would have dinner together, and then you would go to his apartment and curl up in his bed, and maybe hold him a little tighter than usual tonight. It would almost be as if you and Harumasa are the lovers Yanagi thought you two were. 

The elevator dings, and you hear rapid footsteps on the carpet. Your head whips up as someone stumbles into the office—it’s not Harumasa, and your heart tightens with disappointment. Instead, it’s a person with tattered clothing whose Section Four ID is, oddly enough, still pinned to their chest, caked in a layer of blood, dust, and sweat, familiar bow in their hands, dry mouth gasping as if they’ve run all the way over without stopping, “There’s been an accident. The operative you’ve sent… Asaba Harumasa… turned into an Ethereal.”

Blood roars in your ears, a sudden, swelling ocean overtaking you. Harumasa? An Ethereal? It’s not a very funny joke, but the Section Four officer is blinking away tears. You’re standing–when did you get up?–and Yanagi and Miyabi are urgently pelting the person with questions. 

All you can see is the dulled blades of Harumasa’s weapon, glinting coolly in the person’s hands. There’s a coating of grime over the metal, and the handles have been dirtied. It needs to be cleaned and returned to Harumasa. You want nothing more than to yank it out of the person’s hands. 

The operative sees your expression, and holds out the weapon. Their voice is still hoarse and shaking as they say, “It’s all we could retrieve. I’m sorry.”

You grip the bow in your hands. The weight of it is comfortable if heavier than you expected, like holding a piece of Harumasa himself. Pieces of the conversation drift to you, but you can’t quite make out what they mean. Something about the Hollow fluctuating and their carrot being useless, getting lost and overwhelmed by Ethereals, and Harumasa using himself as a distraction. Doubling back when someone was separated from the team. Staying behind, finally, to ensure everyone could get out safely, until his own body betrayed him and he changed into an Ethereal, so rapidly no one could do anything.

There are other words, too, but they don’t make sense. You don’t want to hear them from a stranger, and not from Harumasa himself. Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome. High likelihood of mutation in a Hollow. A fatally terminal illness.

It’s wrong, you want to say. Harumasa has promised to take you to dinner. He likes to mess around, but he’s a good person. He’s not cruel. He wouldn’t lie to you. He wouldn’t leave you behind like this.

Something cool touches your numb body. It’s Miyabi, and she’s put a hand on the back of your neck, guiding you to look at her. It’s a clear, gentle cold, somehow comforting, as she watches you intently. 

“We have to go,” she says quietly. “The Ethereal has been designated a high-level threat. We’ve been assigned to dispatch it.”

“It’s Harumasa,” you tell her, your voice clumsy and whiny, even to your own ears.

Her expression doesn’t change. “I know. But these people need us. And he needs you.”

You want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to run away. But all you can think about is Harumasa. His golden eyes luminous in the late night as he whispers to you. The way blue dawn light cradles his face, peaceful and unguarded in sleep. His smile, always so teasing, always so gentle, always shining down on you like the sun.

There’s so much you still don’t understand. About him. About your relationship. Why he keeps a certain distance from you, but never draws away when you approach him. Why he opens his arms to you every night, like it’s the only place you belong. Why you count the beat of his heart and the rhythm of his breaths when he slumbers, reassuring yourself that he’s still there. Now, the only one who can answer these questions is gone.

And you know. Miyabi is right. You must go. There is no other choice but this.

On the way there, you move like you’re in a dream. Your preparations are swift, and you’re out the door and driving to Hollow Zero before you can make sense of it. During the car ride, you clutch Harumasa’s bow like a lifeline. Soukaku sniffles, and Yanagi puts an arm around her. Miyabi is only looking at the Hollow stretching out in front of you. Once you step out of the car, with one gesture from her, the four of you venture in. 

It’s a painfully quiet trek amidst crumbling debris and corrupted growth. The four of you move swiftly, in sync as always, but there’s something missing: Harumasa, his absence like a black hole in your formation. There’s no jokes, no quips, no teasing. Only grim silence as you approach the location in your carrot.

You hear Harumasa before you see him: the scrape of blade against the resisting ground, an endless, dull roaring, like the distant echo of the ocean. He lurks beautifully in the distance, a core like the night sky nestled against twisted neon yellow and white flesh. He circles around in a tight, restless loop, as if, even in this form, he can’t be bothered to venture far. 

For a second, the four of you can only watch him quietly, hidden by a pile of stacked, blocky concrete that shields you from his notice. A flicker of teal catches your eye, buried in the rubble near Harumasa. It’s your jacket. You look away.

“I’ll draw his attention,” Yanagi begins. “Then, the rest of you can–”

“Let me do it,” you interrupt her. 

“You want to be the distraction?”

“No,” you say levelly. “There’s only one thing I can do for him right now.”

Yanagi’s eyes widen as your meaning sinks in. “It’s dangerous,” she protests. “It’s safer if we approach this as a team.”

“Will you be able to deal the blow?” Miyabi says. She’s watching you intently again, and there’s something sad in her gaze. 

You’ve watched Harumasa assemble his weapon countless times, but you don’t have his practiced ease as you unsheathe his blades and clumsily combine them into a bow. It’s not your preferred weapon choice, even if you’ve been trained in it, but it’s his, so you can use nothing else.

“I have to,” you say.

Miyabi nods. “Then I leave you with this decision.”

“If you’re sure,” Yanagi says softly. “It’ll be difficult, but I believe in you.”

“Harumasa sounds sad. You’ve gotta help him,” Soukaku says. It’s one of the first things she’s said during the mission, and you can see the drying tears on her face. It makes your heart ache.

“I’ll be there for him,” you tell her. “Don’t worry.”

With one final breath and a last glance at Section Six, you step out into the open, exposing yourself to Harumasa. An unknown bow can be finicky, but Harumasa’s weapon responds easily to your demands, bending with a grace and swiftness as you notch an arrow. You remember his movements, the assured, flowing gestures of his fighting style. You spread your feet apart, as he would have done, searching for the perfect location to strike.

You need to hit him before he notices you, but Harumasa turns. You tense, bracing to enter combat, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he stills, as if he’s finally found what he’s been looking for. 

There’s no way he knows it’s you. There’s not even a face anymore for him to watch you, not a single part of him that’s familiar. The curve of his back, the dip of his shoulders, the hollow of his throat: it’s all gone. So why isn’t he moving?

Your fingers shake as you draw the string back, careful not to take your eyes off of him.

It’s the most ridiculous moment for it, but you still remember the first time you started sleeping by his side. You’d both been sitting on the edge of his bed, draped in velvet shadows, unsure of the time. Neither of you were able to sleep. You could have, but you didn’t feel comfortable snoring away on Harumasa’s couch while he stared aimlessly at his own ceiling.

“How about this? I’ll sleep next to you,” you finally said. 

He lets out a small, surprised laugh. “Why?”

“Because I want you to sleep well,” you said. “I’ll stay by your side until you can.”

And it’s just like you once promised Harumasa. You would stay by his side until the end so he wouldn’t be alone, even if this time you can’t follow him where he’s going. After all, you want him to sleep peacefully. 

Harumasa—No. It’s no longer him. The Ethereal is still watching you, as if it’s waiting for your decision. It raises its arms, slowly, but no blow comes. They only hover in the air, outstretched like a supplication.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice ragged with tears. You fire. Your arrow strikes swift and true.

What happens next is a blur. The Ethereal crumples in one blow, melting away like a sigh. Yanagi, Soukaku, and Miyabi appear, hugging you and whispering reassurances that fall on you like warm rain. You’re led out of the Hollow, still gripping Harumasa’s bow like you’ll fall to pieces without it.

It’s confusing to be back at the office. Yanagi disappears to file reports, bringing Soukaku with her. Tomorrow, you’ll need to clear Harumasa’s desk, and prepare for his funeral. But it all feels so distant, so unreal. As if he could still walk through the door, and protest at your hasty decisions.

Miyabi hands you a tattered pile of dirty rags—Harumasa’s clothing, or what’s left of it. There’s his (your) jacket, barely clinging together, his headband, grimy at the ends, and his choker, the metal dented.

“It’s what I could find for now,” she says quietly. “I’ll give you the rest tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” you say in a hoarse voice, not trusting yourself to say any more. 

After that, Yanagi calls you a taxi, and when the driver asks where you’re headed, you give them Harumasa’s address.

His apartment is just as you left it. Still warm with the lingering scent of sunshine, the blinds open and the city lights glittering like stars. Empty dishes and glasses in the sink. A full trash can, which needs to be taken out. His blankets askew, unmade, left with nothing but a cool indent of where he once slept by your side.

You curl up on his bed, snuggling into his blankets, still wearing his jacket, too exhausted to do much more than hug his tattered clothes to you. You can still smell his scent, refreshing and slightly bitter, sunk into the pillows.

There will be no body to bury. There will be no answers. There will be no one to return to anymore.

You close your eyes. You dream. And if you hug his clothes tightly enough, you can pretend that it’s Harumasa by your side, arm around your waist. In the morning, you’ll see the light spill across his face, and smile.