Author's Notes: Inspired by Miyazawa Kenji's "Eiketsu no Asa" (Morning of Final Farewell). Story first posted at my fic journal (link in profile).
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Final Farewell
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Hiashi caught the Branch woman before she could take the tray and its lone teacup into the room. She started at the sight of him and bowed deeply, careful not to spill the laced drink. "Hiashi-sama."
"I will take it."
She risked glancing up at his face, and though she tried to mask her relief, Hiashi could see it easily. She handed him the tray, bowed again, and fled the burden of something between the murder and the assisted-suicide of a clansmen.
Hiashi lingered outside the paper door, waiting until he could no longer sense the fleeing woman, even though he knew the person on the other side could feel him lurking outside. Then he balanced the tray and its cup in his right hand and slid the paper door open with his left.
Hizashi was kneeling in front of a low table, his eyes already focused on the doorway, finding Hiashi's face above the tray. "Hiashi-sama."
They were not supposed to meet again. Hizashi had left the clan head winded on the floor of the Elders' hall, and Hiashi had his own death to fake convincingly. But Hiashi had always been able to sense Hizashi within the compound (Was it the same for Hizashi? He had never asked.), and the knowledge that this would be it, that this almost-there-nearly-in-range eternal presence would be there no more was not something he could distract himself from.
"Hizashi." He slid the door shut without looking and stepped forward. The room was small; it took just a few steps before he could place the tray in the center of the table.
Hizashi didn't let the motion catch his gaze. "You shouldn't be here."
Neither should you. But they would both know that was a lie, and Hiashi only lied when it was necessary. Instead, he took a step around the table, to kneel on the short side perpendicular to Hizashi, instead of the more proper place across from him. "I wanted to be."
Something crossed Hizashi's face, too fleeting for Hiashi to decipher it. Hizashi turned his face away, back toward the door. "I promised him shuriken for his fifth birthday."
The steam from the tea continued to rise toward the ceiling. It went no more than a hand span before it faded away.
"He'll have them," Hiashi said, and Hizashi nodded once--the appropriate, only possible exchange after such a statement in such a situation. A servant for the master, a father for scraps of sharpened steel.
Hizashi finally dropped his gaze to the cup, and they both followed his hands. The hands gently picked up the cup and raised it to Hizashi's lips. Without hesitation, Hizashi began to swallow.
Hiashi counted the movements of Hizashi's throat.
I wanted to disobey the Hyuuga destiny. I wanted to choose.
Eight swallows, and Hizashi set the empty cup back on the tray. Then he looked back up to the door and waited.
Hiashi waited with him.
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We will be born again, and next time I will make it up to you.
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