Minutes
Izzy Girl

The old clock in the Monou living room ticks off minutes rather than seconds. There is always something tense in it's chime, perhaps echoing the bated breaths held anxoiusly, predicting the exact moment the minute hand would click out of and into place.

In his memory, Kamui recalls counting those heavy moments between ticks many times

(eyes downcast and hands folded restlessly in his lap),

but never before did each movement of the hand hit him like a stone breaking the water's surface with a wet thud in his mind.

Fuuma's long arms wrap around his small form and Kamui has an epiphany. There is something most possesive about the way his friend's fingers lock around his shoulder and trace lines through his raven hair as if each strand has been painstakingly memorized.

As most great realization in a person's life, the entire ordeal is rather blunt:

Kamui thinks: "Fuuma loves me."

The nature of the embrace is not that of a brotherly promise, but instead it is one of delicacy. Fuuma clings to Kamui as if the smaller boy is made of the most precious and breakable glass, afraid of shattering the fragile creature if he so much as blinks too quickly. All his long movements are slow and muted and Kamui supposes that he should feel safe and protected but all he feels is burden.

Between ticks on the old clock Fuuma is no longer a detatched savior, someone who cares enough to pick up the pieces but not enough to die like everyone else who loves Kamui. He becomes a liability, another risk, another victim, another pair of lifeless eyes waiting to stare at him accusingly once again. Like Saya and Mr. Monou. Like mother. Like Kotori.

Suddenly the seconds are too long and each one counted becomes like a stab at Kamui's heart, tightening his chest. Fuuma's careful arms are like a cage and it's as if each shuddering breath the taller boy takes is using up the air in the room.

"Fuuma." Kamui whispers, "Fuuma, let me go."

Fuuma doesn't hear. One of his hands slips from Kamui's hair and wraps loosely around his narrow waist. Kamui catches his breath and counts forty-three heartbeats before raising a curled fist and pressing lightly against Fuuma's wide chest. It is a weak gesture, but the knot Fuuma's arms have tied around Kamui's shoulders comes undone. He stares for a few seconds as if choosing his words.

"You... You don't trust me?" it is both a statement and a question.

Kamui turns his head because all he can see is the hurt in Fuuma's eyes and the lips that murmered words against his forehead.

"Are you trying to say that I can't help you?"

"That's not it..." Kamui closes his eyes because all he can see is the blood bursting forth from his friend's severed veins and the mark of fate on his soul.

"So there's really nothing I can do..." words spoken softly, not really an inquiry but a self admission. Kamui takes them personally and attempts to break free completely of Fuuma's grasp.

"That's not it!" he shouts because all he can see is the crimson clouding his visions of death and destruction, the sort shared with Kotori and Hinoto, and himself running away again and again. Fuuma's strong hands close around his shoulders again, gentle and steadying and Kamui feels how very small he is against the whirlpool of destiny and he can feel the tremble in Fuuma's hands, the shivers wracking his strong body betraying just how frightened he really is.

Kamui steals a glance at Fuuma's concerned eyes and is flooded by memories of swords and dances and flames and so much blood that he wonders why his skin hasn't been stained and why his eyes still shine violet instead of that deep, thick red that haunted his every movement. He collapses a bit then and clenches his thin fingers around the bulky fabric of Fuuma's soft shirt.

Kamui sobs a little because in Fuuma he sees no comfort anymore. All he can see are the shadows of a boy who once promised to protect him forever and the shadows of his own future.

"Their destiny was foreordained..."

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