Muraki, Watari. Could be Murari, if you read between the lines.
Thanks to Colin and Catie for being betas. This was loosely inspired by a poem by Dana Gioia called "My Dead Lover." (found in his book _Interrogations at Noon_) Set in the future, but there's nothing that I think I really need to warn anyone about in here, so enjoy ^^ Need to warn you though: I'm a little shaky about my ending, and I think this may be continued. Or stuck into the same world as Monsters. I dunno, my YnM muses are all insane. I blame rp.
(oh yeah, and thanks to Catie for ever getting me into this pairing XD)
--==--
Muraki stood in front of the grave, his head bowed slightly. He came once a week now. Oriya said it was an improvement over the daily visits he had made when Ukyou first died.
He wasn't sure he believed that. Somehow, it felt like she was slipping away from him, gone more permanently each day. The day would come, he knew, where he would wake up and not be able to recall something important. The way she liked her tea, perhaps, or the soft curve of her lips, the seriousness in her eyes when she read.
When would she be completely free from his grasp?
He sighed softly, looking at his watch with a slight frown. Oriya would have tea ready shortly, and there was no reason to stay longer, turning over old regrets in his mind. He turned away from her grave, reluctantly, to find a set of curious eyes trailed on him, several graves away. Their eyes caught, held for a moment, and then the other dropped his gaze, smiling slightly as he absently slid his glasses up his nose.
Muraki held his breath for a second, letting it out in a soft, controlled hiss as he recognized the other man. He was one of the shinigami – the scientist. He slid his hands into his pockets, relaxing as much as possible as he practically strolled to stand next to the other man.
"Why are you here?" He kept his voice nonchalant, almost amused.
"For the same reason you are, I would expect." Watari's words were quiet, slightly melancholy, and he didn't spare him more than a sideways glance, simply waving to the grave in front of them. Muraki looked down at it, frowning.
The gravestone was simple, only a name and two dates. The once-smooth stone bore evidence of passing years, small chips, a thin, dark crack running over it.
Watari lowered himself smoothly to a knee, drawing a thin sheet of paper covered in precise western script – a poem, Muraki realized—from his jacket, placing it on the grave and covering it with a small handful of maple branches, tied with a worn silk ribbon faded to a dusty orange.
His hair spilled over his shoulders, in tangled skeins, free of its customary restraint. Muraki watched him curiously. "You knew her."
The scientist nodded a little, bowing his head briefly before standing again, one hand adjusting his glasses.
"I did."
"A lover?"
The flash of a smile, both wicked and sad answered him.
"She didn't die on this day."
The shinigami next to him shrugged a bit. "Today is as good a day as any, wouldn't you say?" He slid his hands into his pockets. "You never came back. We expected you to."
He frowned slightly. "There came a time when there wasn't much point."
"I see," he said, but Muraki could tell that he didn't see at all as eyes that were suddenly all-too-keen searched his face.
"Who are you here for?"
It was almost strange to hear that question. It had been a long time since he had kept her a secret. Now that she was dead, it didn't matter anymore.
Still, he hesitated before answering. "My fiancée. She died two years ago."
If the scientist connected the dates, he didn't let it show, just nodded. "My condolences."
The silence stretched between them, awkward, and yet nearly impossible to break. The other man bowed his head a bit, as if in silent prayer. Muraki looked up, at the autumn clouds that threatened to sweep over the sun at any moment. "Can't you see her?"
Watari shook his head after a moment. "No."
"Why not?"
A faint smile played across the others lips. "We were judged somewhat differently."
"Why?"
"She killed three people."
The careful set of the other's shoulders warned Muraki against pushing further, so he let the unanswered questions go, to settle between them almost comfortably.
They stood there, Muraki curiously watching Watari stare at the grave, his eyes growing more distant by the second. The sky darkened gradually, the wind picking up. If the scientist felt the bitter chill, he didn't show it.
Finally, Muraki reached out, hesitantly laying his hand on the other's arm. "It's going to rain."
Watari started a bit, eyes regaining focus as he turned his gaze to Muraki's. Nodding slowly, he looked up at the suddenly grey sky, tucking his hair back. "Oh. Thank you."
He bowed slightly, his lips twisting in a smile that might have been ironic, if it hadn't been laced with understanding. "My pleasure."
Thanks to Colin and Catie for being betas. This was loosely inspired by a poem by Dana Gioia called "My Dead Lover." (found in his book _Interrogations at Noon_) Set in the future, but there's nothing that I think I really need to warn anyone about in here, so enjoy ^^ Need to warn you though: I'm a little shaky about my ending, and I think this may be continued. Or stuck into the same world as Monsters. I dunno, my YnM muses are all insane. I blame rp.
(oh yeah, and thanks to Catie for ever getting me into this pairing XD)
--==--
Muraki stood in front of the grave, his head bowed slightly. He came once a week now. Oriya said it was an improvement over the daily visits he had made when Ukyou first died.
He wasn't sure he believed that. Somehow, it felt like she was slipping away from him, gone more permanently each day. The day would come, he knew, where he would wake up and not be able to recall something important. The way she liked her tea, perhaps, or the soft curve of her lips, the seriousness in her eyes when she read.
When would she be completely free from his grasp?
He sighed softly, looking at his watch with a slight frown. Oriya would have tea ready shortly, and there was no reason to stay longer, turning over old regrets in his mind. He turned away from her grave, reluctantly, to find a set of curious eyes trailed on him, several graves away. Their eyes caught, held for a moment, and then the other dropped his gaze, smiling slightly as he absently slid his glasses up his nose.
Muraki held his breath for a second, letting it out in a soft, controlled hiss as he recognized the other man. He was one of the shinigami – the scientist. He slid his hands into his pockets, relaxing as much as possible as he practically strolled to stand next to the other man.
"Why are you here?" He kept his voice nonchalant, almost amused.
"For the same reason you are, I would expect." Watari's words were quiet, slightly melancholy, and he didn't spare him more than a sideways glance, simply waving to the grave in front of them. Muraki looked down at it, frowning.
The gravestone was simple, only a name and two dates. The once-smooth stone bore evidence of passing years, small chips, a thin, dark crack running over it.
Watari lowered himself smoothly to a knee, drawing a thin sheet of paper covered in precise western script – a poem, Muraki realized—from his jacket, placing it on the grave and covering it with a small handful of maple branches, tied with a worn silk ribbon faded to a dusty orange.
His hair spilled over his shoulders, in tangled skeins, free of its customary restraint. Muraki watched him curiously. "You knew her."
The scientist nodded a little, bowing his head briefly before standing again, one hand adjusting his glasses.
"I did."
"A lover?"
The flash of a smile, both wicked and sad answered him.
"She didn't die on this day."
The shinigami next to him shrugged a bit. "Today is as good a day as any, wouldn't you say?" He slid his hands into his pockets. "You never came back. We expected you to."
He frowned slightly. "There came a time when there wasn't much point."
"I see," he said, but Muraki could tell that he didn't see at all as eyes that were suddenly all-too-keen searched his face.
"Who are you here for?"
It was almost strange to hear that question. It had been a long time since he had kept her a secret. Now that she was dead, it didn't matter anymore.
Still, he hesitated before answering. "My fiancée. She died two years ago."
If the scientist connected the dates, he didn't let it show, just nodded. "My condolences."
The silence stretched between them, awkward, and yet nearly impossible to break. The other man bowed his head a bit, as if in silent prayer. Muraki looked up, at the autumn clouds that threatened to sweep over the sun at any moment. "Can't you see her?"
Watari shook his head after a moment. "No."
"Why not?"
A faint smile played across the others lips. "We were judged somewhat differently."
"Why?"
"She killed three people."
The careful set of the other's shoulders warned Muraki against pushing further, so he let the unanswered questions go, to settle between them almost comfortably.
They stood there, Muraki curiously watching Watari stare at the grave, his eyes growing more distant by the second. The sky darkened gradually, the wind picking up. If the scientist felt the bitter chill, he didn't show it.
Finally, Muraki reached out, hesitantly laying his hand on the other's arm. "It's going to rain."
Watari started a bit, eyes regaining focus as he turned his gaze to Muraki's. Nodding slowly, he looked up at the suddenly grey sky, tucking his hair back. "Oh. Thank you."
He bowed slightly, his lips twisting in a smile that might have been ironic, if it hadn't been laced with understanding. "My pleasure."