Theme: #1. look over here
Disclaimer: Do not own X, have never owned X, probably never will own X. No profit is being made, etc.
"Look over here," calls Kotori, and so he does, sees her standing there in the shade under the tree, which is, oddly enough, not sakura but something else, green and verdant, the branches thick enough that no sunlight falls on her. That too is strange; Kotori loves the sun, Kamui knows, thrives on it; her smiles are full of it, sometimes you can even hear its light and warmth in her laughter.
She beckons to him. He can see the half-curve of her smile, muted. He starts towards her and the clouds cover the sun. The landscape around them turns grey as dust, as stormclouds, an old-fashioned photograph before they found colour and the tree that Kotori is standing under is made of bone.
She's not smiling anymore. She looks frightened, and Kamui starts to run, to close the distance between them, but he trips suddenly, the idea that present tense is wrong, that Kotori is not an /is/ but a /was/, and his palms sting with the impact when he hits the ground.
"Kamui," she says (said, before, he remembers) and he hears a sound like tearing. He looks up, desperate, angry, brave and terrified and finds her reaching towards him. He reaches for her, helpless, but she is crumbling now, dust to ashes, fine white powder that drifts away on the sudden breeze.
Kamui is left alone and he sits, shocked and lost, alone, but even that is not for very long.
"You have such interesting dreams," and Fuuma is there suddenly, perched in that bone-tree, crouched between its finger-delicate branches like a sleek and deadly predator waiting to spring. "I'm starting to see a pattern emerging, Kamui. Feeling a little guilty, maybe?"
Kamui has no answer for him. His hands are bleeding, slick with it, scars torn open, fresh and raw and painful in more ways than just the physical. He wipes them awkwardly on his jeans and stands up, legs a little shaky.
And then he looks at Fuuma. "Why are you here?"
"Visiting." shrugs his counterpart and he slides out of the tree, landing easily. He, like Kamui, is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and unlike Kotori, Fuuma is very much present tense, and Kamui would like to punch him for it.
As if he can read the younger boy's thoughts, Fuuma smirks, a lazy, dangerous expression, and he saunters closer. "Am I intruding?"
"You killed her."
"Just now?" Fuuma raises an eyebrow. No emotion slides across his gaze, no quicksilver glint of pain or guilt or regret, no glint of anything, not even cruelty, and that, perhaps, is the hardest thing about meeting Fuuma's eyes now. "No, that was you, Kamui. Just as it was then."
He smiles and it's like Kamui's been punched in the gut. Even now (especially now, a tiny, guilty part of him thinks), Fuuma's smile is beautiful. Fuuma's hand is warm against his skin, warm and soft, and his thumb slides so achingly slow along the curve of Kamui's cheek.
Kamui keeps his eyes open, wide open, fixed over Fuuma's shoulder. He doesn't want to wake up. This gentleness-- he doesn't want to wake up. He can feel Fuuma's breath against his face, the barest, /barest/ touch of Fuuma's mouth against the corner of his eye.
He closes his eyes and he wakes up.