The castle is gone. The note might be gone too, given that he's never seen it while laundering Akechi's bedding in so long now. The men they were back then – an easily frightened, desperate to help heal counselor and a kindly, gracious prince – have long since fallen by the wayside. They've both changed – visibly, Akechi's features sharpening further into the definition of adulthood, thatches of gray cropping up around Maruki's temples. There's so much blood between them now, their own and each other's, and so much care, and so many lifetimes, and a whole world.
So little has remained the same, and yet–
The day comes without fanfare. Akechi wants to be alone, to spend it in peace, just as he did before. Maruki thinks that may have been the first entirely honest thing Akechi ever told him, before they knew the rot in each other well enough to cast their masks aside.
He's cooked for Akechi every day, without fail, for a full year. The traditional breakfast was a significant gesture then, but something like that is so commonplace now.
At two in the morning, Akechi receives a text: ]
Come to the tatami room when you get a moment.
[ Any response will be read, but not responded to.
And though Akechi likely expects to find him in there, when he slides open the door–
The dim lights of the room are on, but it's empty. On the low table sits a cup of instant ramen, two chopsticks placed over the top to hold the flimsy top down as it steeps. The snacks from their reality have long since run out, but this is one Maruki set aside with purpose and hid so it wouldn't ever be found before it could become the gift that it is now – the same brand Akechi favored as a child running around that castle, without any of Maruki's usual doctoring up of soft boiled eggs or spring onions. Plain, just as he demanded it back then, just as he must have enjoyed it with his mother.
Next to it lays a thin book with the bright image of a sailboat at sea splashed across the front. It's clearly one of many Maruki's lifted from the library, though far from his usual subject matter of philosophy or religion – it's a short, informative photo illustrated guide to different types of ships and boats, and the white edge of a small piece of paper sticks out of the top.
Opening to that page shows a full-page spread of a scow, and the paper slip sticking out of the top simply says Good for one bouldering outing, redeemable at any time.
And then, tucked further down into the crease of the book so its presence marking the page wasn't known until opened, a plain note card that reads:
Happy birthday, Akechi.
My reality will always be sharper and clearer for having known you.
you know what the fuck it is
The castle is gone. The note might be gone too, given that he's never seen it while laundering Akechi's bedding in so long now. The men they were back then – an easily frightened, desperate to help heal counselor and a kindly, gracious prince – have long since fallen by the wayside. They've both changed – visibly, Akechi's features sharpening further into the definition of adulthood, thatches of gray cropping up around Maruki's temples. There's so much blood between them now, their own and each other's, and so much care, and so many lifetimes, and a whole world.
So little has remained the same, and yet–
The day comes without fanfare. Akechi wants to be alone, to spend it in peace, just as he did before. Maruki thinks that may have been the first entirely honest thing Akechi ever told him, before they knew the rot in each other well enough to cast their masks aside.
He's cooked for Akechi every day, without fail, for a full year. The traditional breakfast was a significant gesture then, but something like that is so commonplace now.
At two in the morning, Akechi receives a text: ]
Come to the tatami room when you get a moment.
[ Any response will be read, but not responded to.
And though Akechi likely expects to find him in there, when he slides open the door–
The dim lights of the room are on, but it's empty. On the low table sits a cup of instant ramen, two chopsticks placed over the top to hold the flimsy top down as it steeps. The snacks from their reality have long since run out, but this is one Maruki set aside with purpose and hid so it wouldn't ever be found before it could become the gift that it is now – the same brand Akechi favored as a child running around that castle, without any of Maruki's usual doctoring up of soft boiled eggs or spring onions. Plain, just as he demanded it back then, just as he must have enjoyed it with his mother.
Next to it lays a thin book with the bright image of a sailboat at sea splashed across the front. It's clearly one of many Maruki's lifted from the library, though far from his usual subject matter of philosophy or religion – it's a short, informative photo illustrated guide to different types of ships and boats, and the white edge of a small piece of paper sticks out of the top.
Opening to that page shows a full-page spread of a scow, and the paper slip sticking out of the top simply says Good for one bouldering outing, redeemable at any time.
And then, tucked further down into the crease of the book so its presence marking the page wasn't known until opened, a plain note card that reads:
Happy birthday, Akechi.
My reality will always be sharper and clearer for having known you.
Maruki ]