Archive of Our Own

Your name is Mochizuki Ryoji and you are happy. 

Happy is an understatement. You are so full of energy to the point it is a wonder it does not shine out of you. Never before have you understood that to be overjoyed is, in fact, literal. It hijacks your heart and the cup that contains your emotions overflows. Your mind soars to the moon and back.

And why shouldn't it? You've transferred to a new school. It's a fresh start, something you've secretly hoped for ages. Your parents are loving but work dictates they move just as you get settled. You don't hold it against them. Not anymore. When you are younger, less mature, you throw a fit on moving day. You beg them not to leave. 

You recall the gentle touch of your mother's hand on your face. She explains, with patience and understanding contrast against your ugly red face, that life is full of departures. That due to their standing, you must bear more than most. That she is sorry, but that is reality. That is life. She cannot make it up to you in any way that it matters. But it must happen. She loves you very much, and you are very brave. 

The next time is easier. And there is a next time, and a time after that.

You set your mind to reach out for the closeness of friendship, regardless of knowing each will end. You can be such a child at times. Every time, you hear the same platitudes: we'll miss you, we'll keep in touch, this isn't the end. It's hard to keep in contact, even though you have memories of mailing letters to old friends. Your address changes too frequently for consistent replies. Sometimes, the end is easier to accept. 

But not with this school.

Gekkoukan represents hope. It is friendship and bonds and human connection. Each is a powerful thing in its own right, and your days of high school are limited. You are a second year here, and one day in the future this will be the time you look back on fondly.

As you walk up to the iron gate, decorated by bespoke engravings in marble posts, the school shines in the fresh daylight. It is both beautiful and modern—the newest school you've ever set foot in, for sure. The November chill bites, and you adjust your scarf to cover your tender skin.

You must have forgotten your jacket, but you haven't the heart to care.

There's a smile on your face, and on the faces of everyone you greet, even if there wasn't one before you glanced their way. You nod at the sports team making laps around the campus. You wink at the cute girls at the gate. You also introduce yourself to your teacher, a woman in a pink pantsuit and a lipstick-laced frown.

She's frazzled as she turns her attention to you, a pencil behind her ear and papers to grade in her hands. She's even more so when you explain your situation: the new transfer student.

You sympathize and crack a joke, which cracks her stony expression as she vents about the latest in teacher drama. You laugh politely. Then you talk her ear off, because you're nothing if not eager. You're the third transfer student this year. How auspicious! You've always loved the number three, for some reason.

The chiming bell ushers you both to your places.

It's a large classroom with a small concentration of students. Still, no nerves reach your throat as you introduce yourself on the podium, then seat yourself at the front. It's similar to the other high schools you've been to prior. How many of those have there been? Three? They all blend together, the same plain white paint and accompanying array of desks. You settle on three. That sounds right.

At the end of class, girls gather around your desk. You're all too willing to lay on the charm. After all, you know you're pretty. Perhaps not the most traditionally masculine, but your confidence compensates in spades. One girl in particular, a blonde with blue eyes, watches with unmatched intensity. She stays in her seat after class, but you're cut off before you can make your way to her. A boy in a baseball cap grumps, and you flash him that same disarming smile. You can sense he's the class clown type, someone meandering through life.

He reminds you of a friend you had before (you think). Yes, that's right, your former best friend. He loved sports too, and the two of you held a friendly competition. Sometimes not so friendly, but you always made up with one another. He introduces himself without any fanfare or enthusiasm: his name is Junpei.

You can certainly work with that.

It's after a conversation that meanders into opinions on baseball team compositions that you notice the girl glaring at you is not alone. No, there is a boy with blue hair beside her, listening to whatever she says in rapt attention. You search for his eyes, but he avoids yours. When you approach he ducks out of class before they have a chance to meet. The pretty foreigner at his side follows, her movements stiff. Before she leaves, she looks back at you.

You smile.

She shuts the door with a little more force than necessary.

You ask Junpei what's up with them.

He shakes his head, scratching his cheek. "Man, you don't want to get me started."

You really, really do. That's why you asked, after all. Yet you can sense a sore point for him there, and you want him to like you. You want to be his best friend.

You won't get answers for a long time. Not until it's too late.

Junpei is an open book, though. Talking after school becomes habitual. You fool around in the corridors and exchange pick-up tips. You go to the mall and get kicked out of the antique store on his actions that you certainly did not instigate. He asks about your first girlfriend. You can recall her, probably. She had gray eyes, or maybe blue. It blends together, but he pats you on the back and congratulates your game when you relay as much. You ask about his and when he hesitates, you joke that there's probably been too many to count. Then you move on, talking about swimsuits or something vaguely scandalous that you can't recall.

He doesn't bring it up again until you go get takoyaki at the station together, your favorite. He trips and drops his, you laugh, then buy him another. Your camaraderie with Junpei is natural, like looking up at the sky, hearing birdsong, or eating tasty food. You share that with him. You share how much you care about Tatsumi Port Island, even if you omit that it makes that thing beneath your ribs thump in excitement at the chance to experience another day. You share your memories from home, and you even share your parents' car crash—

"Car crash? When'd that happen?" Junpei interjects. You startle, and nearly choke on a chunk of octopus. 

The two of you sit on the bench in front of the bookstore. He waits for your reply, and you stutter.

Wait. No. That's right, your parents were in a car crash. They were fine, but it stuck with you as a worry. More of those childish habits, you suppose.

You laugh it off.

"It was about a decade ago. They're fine, but it was scary, you know?"

He says he knows. Do you know? You're not sure. But something in him settles at that, a sadness before unseen. It's darker than his five o'clock shadow. You touch his shoulder and guide his face back up to the light.

"What's up?" You ask, with enough normality in your tone that he could make a joke about the sky and move past the whole thing.

His whole body shudders. Then he tells you about someone named Chidori.

Death isn't something you've given a lot of mental weight to. You know two things: it is inevitable and it is far-off. Here, you're confronted as Junpei pours his heart out, picking at fried bits with a toothpick. He tiptoes around the story with little elegance, but you take in his words as if they are unadulterated truth.

"She was. . . I mean, what wasn't she? We didn't hit it off right away or anything, but she was an artist. I never got art. Hell, I still don't, but I think I understand it more now. Or something like that. She was hurting a lot, and I picked up a job to buy her flowers. She was in the hospital, too, and what's a hospital room without flowers? It's just clinical. I'm not tryin' to bring her up at school all the time, but I feel like I have to talk about her. I feel like I need to share her. She's a part of me."

People pass by on the street, indifferent to the high school kid pouring his heart out. That's the part you can't believe: that life around you circles uncaring as the story soaks in. You purse your lips, then tap a finger over them. This can't be solved with a joke or a grin. The moment is raw, vulnerable, and you clasp it in your hands with care. You've never had a connection like that to compare it to.

He mistakes your silence for discomfort.

"I know that was a lot. My bad."

"Maybe you could be an artist too, Junpei."

It's the right thing to say. He claps a hand on your shoulder and the both of you relax. In truth, you don't know a thing about art. You'd like to, but art and its creation is something nebulous. Beyond your grasp. All you know is that it eases the weight on his soul. You are content with this.

On another day, you come over to his dorm. His room is a mess, trashed with hanging posters and manga. It feels suffocating, and you have the odd impulse to clean. You swallow that feeling while you watch movies and scheme about setting up dates. Not that you've ever had any trouble with that. It's not bragging if it's the truth. 

He punches you for that (lightly) and you do deserve it. 

You listen to him try and describe her art. Her notebook rests on the sole clean spot in his room. He confesses he's never loved anyone before her, has never known what it's like to understand with full intensity that another person can make life so wonderful. He says this barely sparing a glance towards you.

You reassure him that loving someone is hard, but worth doing.

You can relax and hang out, then, before heading downstairs. There's a sign in sheet on the counter, but you've been reticent to pen your name. Your hand stalls before you can and no one checks for your signature. There's something odd about the list, or perhaps of a memory it evokes. Something far-off, long ago. You can't put your finger on it.

This dorm isn't supposed to have visitors, but you can see the odd collection of residents visibly relax once you start speaking. You're disarming, you're charming, and you already care about them. 

You care about them so much. 

The class president reminds you of your mother. Elegant, no-nonsense, and a tad out of touch. She recognizes your existence but doesn't challenge you. 

She's shut you down with a wave of her hand before you can get the words out your mouth. 

Yamagishi situates herself in the corner as you chat up Junpei and the lovely Takeba. Sanada passes by with a curt nod toward them. There's a shadow that doesn't quite reach out beyond his visage. Amada carries the same.

You lift your head at the footsteps plopping down the carpet and—

You see him. 

You see him. You see him. You see him. You see him. You see him. You see him. You see him. You see him. You see him. You see him. You see him. 

You see him. 

Your eyes burn. You blink, dry. His are gray. Blank. Blank?

Junpei saves your lack of response. That, or he doesn't notice. "Hey Leader!"

"Makoto, have you met Ryoji?" Takeba inquires. 

He mumbles some response. It's non-committal and frayed. You catch it, because you have excellent hearing: Yeah, he keeps showing up and taking you away.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you're avoiding me," you smile.

He blinks in surprise. Then he does just that, slinking off to the stairs.

After a while longer in the dorm you excuse yourself for the evening. Junpei waves goodbye and you chuckle. Everything is fine. Nothing has happened, you reiterate in your head. You're off balance and out of tune without reason.

Your heart pounds in your ears. You can't remember Yuki's lips moving. You're sure he spoke. You heard him, after all. Your eyes are fools who thought his pretty mouth stayed shut. That's it.

There's something there that you fear. A part of you screaming out in warning, the signal of an oncoming train while you're on the tracks. You can't remember, and then you do, but the feeling's an awful aftertaste.

You feel so achingly lonely.

Perhaps Kyoto will help clear your head. The class trip approaches. It's what you've been looking towards since you transfered. You want to tell your mother, but she isn't home. You can't recall the last time you spoke to her.

They ask about your previous trip. 

Your mind hitches.

(You can't recall what home looks like. You know you go to sleep and to school every day, so there must be a home. There has to be. You have a room, probably. It has a sink and large windows across from your bed. You remember.

You swear you remember.)

The hotel is at an onsen. There's plenty of space and independent time. You watch pretty girls in the lobby and do not think of the texture of your yukata against your flesh or how your skin does not fit.

Music calls you back to reality.

There's a piano in the lobby. The musician presses the keys with tender affection. It's a haunting piece. A classical work, one part of you so reflexive that it bends back like a muscle. Your fingers dance at your side.

"D-flat major." With a prominent section in C-sharp. Played soulfully—pianissimo. 

Before your mouth has caught up with your mind, out of the corner of your eye you see him.

You know music? is etched on Makoto's face.

"Anyone could recognize Clair de Lune."

You hum the opening notes. It sounds like art.

He must accept it. He plops off in his sandals, and you watch him go. He's spent much of this time alone, and you know this because of Junpei and Akihiko. You manage to rope him in to your schemes and things feel normal. You escape from sneaking on the girls, giddy and relaxed. You've been weird about him in your own head, but this feels normal. You're content to contend that before was a fluke. Makoto is a normal guy, if not quieter than most. Maybe you could even be friends.

You stare out the train windows on the ride back to Tatsumi Port Island and daydream.

The foreigner girl—Aigis—is the one who will not let you pretend. You kick your feet in the lobby of the dorm, waiting for your friends, when she approaches.

"You are no good." She says.

You laugh with your nerves in your throat. "My reputation's that bad already?"

"Stay away from Makoto-san. You should not be here."

"If this is about what happened during the trip, I'm sorry, it was a genuine accident—"

"I do not care about that. There are pieces of you that do not align. I do not know who you are, or what you will bring, but you are dangerous."

She walks away and you watch her go. You wander to Paulownia Mall, disregarding your prior arrangements. You help a girl with her bags and compliment another on her dress. You take her on an impromptu date to Chagall Café. She gives you her number, and you do not explain that you do not have a phone. Instead, you promise to text. You do not think about how there are incongruent pieces about you.

Until you do. All days must end. When night comes, your thoughts darken.

It doesn't add up. You try to recall the path to your home. You remember walking it. You do not stay in a dorm, so you must stay with your family. You recall your father, with his harsh tongue and all of the repugnance of your mother with none of the grace. You live together, yes. You do not enjoy it. There is a discomfort there that you have swallowed your entire life. Your mother has your existence in her hands (she says it is what's best for you. You must understand, Ryoji. There are larger forces at play than your desires.)

You wander outside of the mall and admire the full moon. You've always loved it, but now you act without thinking. It calls to you, forward, onward, and over.

You go to the bridge.

(You wander past coffins.)

Aigis is there. She wears no garment, revealing intricate machinery at her limbs. Your mind is swarming. She's speaking to you, but you don't know what she's saying.

You are Mochizuki Ryoji and—

The night you are born, torn away from Her, you are angry and you are hungry. It was peaceful before you came to be. You were soaked in the bliss of nonexistence, but now you are, and you are furious.

Death lurches forward, newborn and starving. Your teeth bite down into clean white coats and bleached floors. There is so much to consume that it overtakes you. The urge is not of your nature; it is the song of your very self. Flesh and stone alike bend under the crux of your being. The souls of the researchers are old and dim, fading lights in the canopy of stars that burn brilliant in such short time. You destroy the island laboratory and claw your way towards fresher light.

Their weapons falter beneath your strength. These simulacrums reap the benefits of living without paying the price. You are all too eager to exact it upon them. Hundreds of the anti-shadow weapons do little to slow you down. A force of nature, you careen toward where the light shines.

Fire erupts from the vehicles. You taste their souls in your teeth. The Moonlight Bridge's wire rope suspension snaps and the concrete support shudders.

One little thing stands in your way.

She fights with her sisters in mind, moves in a way unpredictable to you. You tear at her, intent on rending her existence into the abyss from which you were forced out of.

She shoots lead into your jaw and destroys your new form instead.

You flicker, a light yourself reforming. She scoops you into her hands, her pearlescent form cast in radiant blue. She cannot crush you. She cannot kill you.

You foolishly believe you are safe.

And then your existence slams into that of a child.

Sealed.

Your name is Mochi—no. Your name does not matter. 

You know Aigis. You know more than your body can contain.

Her body shortcircuits as her motor overheats. She has grown as much as a machine can, and you have grown stronger than you ever imagined.

Your head swims with knowledge as old as humanity itself. Older. A grim finality fills your intonation as you comprehend. You know who you are. No, what you are.

You are Death. You are the doom of the world.

You recall this as a man possessed. No, Aigis stands no chance against you, this ersatz being of metal with a butterfly-shaped soul.

Your family does not exist. Not in the way your mind, in its suggestible state, constructed.

You almost ache for want of another half.

Then, there he is. All of them are. They scramble to collect Aigis and you feel a pang of regret. Not that you could have stopped her from fighting you if you wanted. She is set in her role, and you yours.

You see him.

You give him a deadline: one month. One month to decide on the fate of your existence.

You see him.

You are overcome with the visceral sensation of hate.

You look away and disappear into the night.

You return to where you have been all along; not a home, but a dark alleyway shielded from the other shadows. It makes no sense (perfect sense) on how you believed this to be an idyllic apartment with a family that exists in shadows of shadows.

You want to throw up. To calm yourself, you think of him.

You juxtapose your manufactured memories with Makoto's. No, not manufactured. Altered to fit the reality you are presented with, but they are his. They are both of yours. 

You take in the aftermath of the car crash, on the Moonlight Bridge where you thrash against the confines of his soul. You drink his grief and terror. You intend to consume him whole.

You do not.

You cannot. You can take him in bit by bit, but you are sealed. 

You move from place to place. There is no home for you. There is no lodging that will accept you, Death chained. There are indeed many schools, and from each Makoto transfers away. He does not make friends, but his acquaintances claim they will write. Their retrospective platitudes churn your stomach (and he gave you that).

They are glad to be rid of him. To lift his presence from their lives, that ominous reminding toll of bells and clinking chains. 

Makoto cannot stay because of you. 

But. 

His kindness surrounds you. With each bit of energy sapped, you intake more of his essence. His soul. You are enveloped in the unparalleled mercy of unconditional love. You want to cry out, and he is there for that too. Comforting you. It is inescapable as it seeps into you, altering the fabric of your very being. 

With each moment bound together, he grows colder and more monstrous. 

With each moment interlaced in one another, you grow warmer and more human. 

You see it, then. 

In another universe, Makoto flirts and cries and flares jealous. In the world unmade, he and Junpei are best friends. Yukari introduces him to her parents, and the two build a future together. He grows up on Tatsumi Port Island with his mother and father. There is no Gekkoukan, only a childhood that sounds like bad karaoke.

This is what your existence has stolen from him. 

You cry. 

It is Christmas Eve and your only wish is that you did not exist.

Still, you do not go to him. You wait. His friends are not yours to keep: not Akihiko, not Yukari, and not Junpei. There are six more days left until the quiet of his bedroom, when all is still. 

The countdown to December 31st has been filled with dread. Yet, as he takes in a breath past the threshold of your—his—bedroom, you relax. You should not, but you are comforted by the approaching end. It is exceedingly human of you. 

Of course, the job is not over yet. He must kill you. Once the monster is slain he can return to blissful ignorance and reclaim the life taken from him. He will forever be altered, and you are sorry. You are so sorry, but it is better this way.

You are happy he will not have to live with knowing it. Humans invent such exquisite tortures for themselves. He is not above that.

He gives pause. So you reveal yourself.

A soft laugh falls from his lips. With it, away falls the weight of the world. It is the sweetest sound you have ever heard.

Despite everything, you pray.

You pray it is relief, that it is the sound of a step towards a righteous action that he will not remember.

"Thanatos," he says, overflowing with fondness. Then, he corrects, "Ryoji."

If such a feat were possible, you are confused. But it is impossible, because Makoto knows you and you know him. 

This kindness (his kindness), this mercy (his mercy) pours back to you in waves. You want to weep for having been separated. You want to kneel at his feet and swear your fealty. You want to worship him. 

He takes a step towards you, Thanatos, the god of death. Ryoji, harbinger of evil and the god of nothing at all. Sound from the outside world silences. 

He severs that unending silence first. Because he is kind, and you are oh so afraid. It is a silly thing, for such a small creature to inspire divine fear in one such as yourself. And yet, you are afraid down to the core of your being, as you imagine what he might say. As you construe his rejection. As you imagine isolation. 

"I've always known."

You brace yourself. 

"And I've always wanted to hug you, you know."

You recoil. 

Out of all responses both possible and probable, beyond your wildest fantasies is Makoto looking up at you with utter adoration. And he is.

It strikes you. You still do not understand him. How can you take his kindness, his vulnerability, his future, and be received thusly?

You search and there is no deceit. No merciful lie to make the last lingering moments of your existence palatable. You bring him joy.

He chooses you. 

And who are you to deny the request of a boy who has asked for nothing? You are not so much a monster as that. Not anymore. 

You feel an answer—the answer—thrumming against your shared heart.

You sink down in a bow, sword at your side. The romantic in you (which is a good deal of the human in you) conjures an image of a knight and weaves it into the scene. You are nothing so pretty or noble. You are a wretched thing. 

Makoto presses his forehead against your maw like a kiss. 

You cannot fault your other half. To ask him to be selfish goes against his—your own—nature. 

You entertain your own selfishness: one where both of you return to one entity. One where you run to the ends of the earth together. One where you can shake the chain binding you to your fall and merely be. 

There was one outcome of asking him to kill you. To present it as an option was a futile act, you understand.

You protected me, he does not say. On my awakening here. You were always with me. I knew it. I did not give up on you.

As if there was a choice, you do not reply. There is never a choice with him. Each shadow was a part of me. Of us. Any part of me that rises to strike you must be cut down.

You have returned to yourself. The only way you are able to identify such is the clenching of his fingers into your clothes and his breath on your neck.

Either he or you are shaking. The specifics do not matter. You have preferred to think of him as an extension of you during this long month.

When you pull away, he reaches out.

This is it?, contorts his face in an expression you've never seen from him.

You nod.

Surprise strikes you as he moves quick, pressing you against the door. There's conviction burning in his eyes. Your mouth hangs halfway open to ask why, and for a moment you believe he's decided to kill you after all.

He presses his lips to yours clumsy, his fingers digging into your scarf. Your teeth clink together awkward. You comb a hand into his hair before you can think better of it. You're unworthy to touch him, especially as he is now.

He pulls back. You shudder against one another, cradling his head in your arms.

Were the circumstances any different, you'd be surprised at his forwardness.

"So that's where I got that from," you chuckle.

But you are out of time.

You descend down the staircase, shaded in lamplight, hand in hand. Both of you look convincingly human.

His companions brighten, as if this is a kindness. There is some power in choice, you suppose. You let go of him.

Then you tell them of your mother. She is the challenge they must face (though you do not explain in what form. You have always been an extension of her wishes.)

You glance at the lobby clock. The new year rushes to wash your consciousness out to sea. You rise off the couch and dust off for posterity.

You look back at him and your stolen friends.

"Sayonara," you say. You mean it.

You will not look at him again for the same reasons humans cannot witness an unfiltered eclipse. You cannot bear him. You cannot bear yourself. 

You love him.

The human concept of marriage renders two individuals as one. This is for legal reasons entirely, the baggage of centuries of controlling populations and exerting the divine bloodlines of kings (and when you believed you were human you joked you would never be married, which is neither here nor there).

Still, you find yourself contemplating it. It is overly simplistic to call what he and you are a marriage, but not inaccurate.

Your existence will fluctuate and degrade until what is "you" will cease to be at all. This was not a terrifying prospect ten years ago, when you were synthesized by scientists. Now, you lurch on the precipice of terror. You would have consumed him whole, but your chest burns with such exquisite humanity you cannot help but feel that is what he is doing to you. Slowly, with each radiant joy and sorrow, you burn.

You grow more monstrous each passing day.

You fight to remember. You must remember him and his companions. Your companions.

(Your fingertips are turning black.)

You must remember love.

(There are feathers in your hair.)

Halfway into January, you succumb.

You return to him in the strangest of ways.

It is in the place between mind and matter, where the curtains are drawn and the floor ascends ever upward. It is where time takes reprieve.

The allure of death pulls you before him. You tower over him, serrated sword in hand. 

He smiles at you. 

All worry vanishes from your mind. You are connected by the strength of your bond, the unshakable, impossible Death Arcana. If your existence can serve him like this, then serve him you shall.

You kneel.

"I am Thanatos. I was born of thee, and I shall walk by thy side."

You have always been Thanatos, in a way. A piece of you, of your bond, that could not be unmixed. Nature is rarely so elegant with the fusion of forces.

As it is with his compendium, too.

It is during a Dark Hour lonelier than most. You sense his presence stronger than ever. Orpheus pulses beside you.

You understand more than ever. You swear you see Makoto smile as the two of your hearts merge and he calls forth,

"Messiah."

In less than three months of your souls being separated, you forgot how lovely it was to intertwine once more.

You will attempt the impossible together. Yes, you will fail, but you will walk together and fall together.

"I am thou, thou art I," you recite. It is a promise. It is also a vow (to think you belittled wedding ones). You know how to finish it. "I am Messiah."

"From this day forth—"

"—I shall be with you."

Your name is Death, and you are not meant to exist. You are the culmination of man seeking out its own end. You bring the invitation of extinction as a birthday gift.

Your name is Pharos. You are an existence limited, a broken bridge to a world that calls out for your return. You are stuck in time, a pale imitation of a boy who is your vessel, who grows up without you. You are a reminder, a countdown, a death knell. They ring in threes.

Your name is Thanatos. You must protect him and oppose the aspect of you that dooms him. Even if you destroy a part of him to do so, you will wreak havoc on the darkness that bears down against him. You will rip and tear and cut down and conquer for his peace. You are an oxymoron. You are here for what he needs.

Your name is Ryoji. You are human. Painfully so. Before remembering all of this, you allowed yourself to construct a life with the skeleton of your other half's grief. You are still in love with life and living. What is the moon, if not the shadow of the sun?

You are every Arcana he has fought. Your siblings are every Shadow that seeks to strike them down.

Your combined name is Messiah. You are his potential future with music, swallowed whole and reborn as sacrifice. You are a future promise of life reneged. You are a piece of power incarnate. Doom and destiny walk with hands intertwined.

You are all of the above and more. Your existence is a nested one, inherently complimentary and contradictory.

Your name is Nyx. Avatar of the end. The body you once were, warped beyond comprehension.

Your name is Thanatos, bound to the soul of Yuki Makoto forever and ever.

You are Her and She is You. 

You are Him and He is You.

The children stand before you in a futile show of will. You are inevitable, and you are so tired. 

Your Mother is all of your existence but for this stolen piece of life he has given you. You wage war against yourself. 

You are disappointed in your child-never-to-be. You are also proud. Being a parent is like that; the want for them to stand individual from you and the fear of what they will stand for. 

You are too of their world to ever return to Her. Your sequestered humanity thrums against Her thrall. 

I love you. Stop.

I love you too. I cannot.

You cry out in pain, in rage. Your being has been split before, splintered from the whole, so this is not too terrible to bear. 

Their world is pain, my Appriser. They desire Death. Allow them release.

You scream loud enough to shake the sky pillars atop Tartarus. You stand opposing yourself, a contradiction of love and death and light and shadow. The Avatar tires.

It isn't enough.

One by one, each of his companions falter. Exhaustion bears down on them. Yet Makoto stands. Exhaustion is ingrained in him.

You know what he is about to do. You cannot stop him, though you scream with the scraps of your soul for him to live, live, live. . .

The others are summoned to the boundary. You explain what you can to them, and Aigis most of all. You hope that she can forgive you, and that one day, she can meet you at the boundary where all living things end.

It is then you understand why humans fight against it so hard. Nothing in your existence (or nonexistence) has ever been wracked with such grief. You, Death, feel part of yourself die.

Then all is his quiet.

He cannot stay. He has a promise to keep, he tells you. It will be an extra month of painful existence, but to leave them without it would be to create a wound with no salve. He keeps his promises. And he promises to return to the edifice he has made. A barrier between the beings that made you, your "mother" and "father".

It's over.

He lives a month of the life you took. A life lived with joy and childishness in the hearts of his peers. He gets to say his goodbyes. You watch as he laughs and loves living more than ever before. You want to cradle him, to let him go and live, to smother him. But you are Death. And he loves you far too much. There was ever only one outcome.

There is only one outcome.

On March 5th, he purchases a bouquet of roses at Rafflesia that he carries to the roof.

And he comes to you.