Volière
situated on the crook of her neck, little flames fan the feathers of rebellion
When sleep can't find her, Eto takes to the pages of the worn out journal. She consumes ink and the fledgeling ideas that dance at her fingertips, hoping to cure her boredom. And as intricate sprites and creatures skate upon the canvas of her mind, she makes it seem obvious that her literary demons need curved horns askew and great leather wings that dwarf their cowardly little bodies. It's a silly attempt, Eto decides, stopping mid sentence.
A vengeful god casts out her subjects.
The page is torn out with an inordinate amount of care and thrown into the feeble flames that are brief comfort against the frigid weather. Instead, still hungry and restless, she sets out into the night—the sound of her footsteps and humming drowned out by the trilling monotone of Tokyo's 24th ward.
By the time the poor thing has realized, Eto's talons have already torn clean through its body. The ghoul, a young bikaku, has nary the time to gasp before she separates head from spine. The entire process is nothing like her writing. Swift, coordinated movements shear generous chunks of flesh from bone as she greedily swallows mouthfuls of the tasteless meat. A deft flick of her wrist is all she needs to rip appendage from torso, and eventually nothing is left of her late night snack. She is a captivating force of nature, method illuminated by the lovely glow of the moon above.
And, for a few fleeting moments between moments, Eto Yoshimura feels not as a bird in a cage, but an author who has managed to rewrite some idiot's story. She laughs and laughs until her throat is dry and bile rises up to remind her of what she is.
Gratitude
on the hill overlooking the high school, their outlines mired in fallen autumn leaves, they come to an understanding—all three of them.
Taishi Fura is grateful. Grateful that he was the one to end the creature's life.
Yet he can't help but think back to its words. "I hated them all," it says between a cacophony of coughs. "They were trash that were better off dead." As it lay there dying, blood spilling across the length of Yukimura ⅓, those words illicit a kaleidoscope of emotions for the young man. Confusion, surprise, despair. But the sharpest is always anger. His response is cold and laced with disdain.
"No matter how much you try, you'll never be a human. Because killing people just because they aren't useful to society—isn't humane..!"
He wants to grab the quinque behind him and cave the ghoul's skull in, but it makes the choice for him. In what seems like no time, something is impaled on the blade that he holds in trembling hands. Uruka Minami stands shakily and tumbles off the weapon. And with eyes welling in the same tears as his, she muses about simple things like school and exams.
Looking back on it, he thinks he finally understands her words, if only a little bit. He, Minami, and even Arima were just hypocritical, naive children caught up in a long—much too long—war against murderers. Fura's lips purse up into a slight, sad smile. He doubts Arima cares, now nearly doubling over from the prospect that there could have ever been something between the stoic teenager and the girl. But he asks anyways.
"You knew the whole time, didn't you? About her, I mean."
Arima nods, and Fura props himself up against the grey case positioned next to him.
"Why didn't you do it? Was it for me?"
Arima pauses, for a moment, but nods again. The wind howls, as if to laugh at such a blatant lie, and a blanket of leaves settles onto Fura's makeshift seat.
"Thank you—
Taishi Fura is grateful that Arima let her live long enough.
—for not killing her."
Kishou Arima is grateful that he didn't have to.