Disclaimer: I don't own Kagerou Project or these cuties.
The first time I saw the girl on the roof, her body snaking and swirling over the rails like a ribbon or dream, I nearly wanted to shout — nearly, because the force in my throat caught and twisted like her scarf in the wind, forgotten like her name. Nearly, because as soon as she smiled I hid myself behind the nearest wall, my hands over my mouth. (Why?)
I waited — fear, compulsion, something terrible and pure — but her smile remained, secure behind red fabric, each time I stole a glance. She floated on the wind, a child of sky — was she watching? Could she see? If she did, she made no sign of it — smiling, thin shoulders rising.
I couldn't remember when she disappeared, or when my body had become sticky with sweat, my breathing the only sound to be heard: not the sweet song whistled from her lips, not the whip-whip-whipping of her scarf. The roof had no stairs, no way down, but when I next opened my eyes I saw my own room. That's right. That's right — I have no business in buildings or on buildings or around them. (That's right, that's right.)
The second time, I didn't hide from her. She wasn't flying, then; simply slumped gracelessly against the chain-link fence, scratching concrete flowers with her shoe. Smiling again, patting the ground next to her until I sunk down some distance away.
"Hey, kiddo," she said, like a song. (Smiling, smiling.)
"Hello," I replied, as if I often talked to strange girls who floated. She pointed her toe, and I saw her carve the edges of symbols — an s, in, o — the letters of my name in stone. She tugged my sleeve and pointed — yes, yes, I know you. (Yes, and you know me, as well.)
"Why the frowning face?" she asked, her voice a bird — and pushed, pulled, grabbed at my hand and I was surprised to find that it was flesh, not smoke, and warm. More still that her fingers stung in mine, familiar, comforting.
"One for sorrow, two for mirth," she sang, raising our locked hands, and laughed at her own voice. "Isn't that how the old rhyme went?" I didn't know, so I looked at the clouds for the answer. "They were magpies, you know."
"What?"
"The birds in the rhyme. I sang it to you — the rhyme about magpies, right? Three for a wedding — I'm sure I did. I told you the story, too, about how the thief-king was tried and executed and his wife committed suicide, so they were turned into magpies by the gods and taught the other birds to be mischievous?"
"I don't remember it," I said truthfully.
"Ah, well. It's romantic, don't you think?" she giggled. Her wings touched my shoulder, red and sweeping and warm.
"Not really," I told her, and this time I remembered the taste of her laughter.
"You never appreciated remarkable things," she chided, and when I turned to see her face, she was gone; replaced by a single black bird who did not sing.
(I don't remember. I don't remember. Your name is —)
The last time I saw the girl on the rooftop, she was a bird. Over the fence I could see the thin, strong lines of her arms in the sun, her sweeping scarf, her body tossed high: smooth, unbroken, a long-sleeping memory unfurling at last. Free. (Is it enough to say you saved me?)
She smiled, smiled; red feathers on the wind, just low enough to reach out for, maybe, and I did it without thinking — Ayano, Ayano, I'm awake, I'm alive. "I'm glad that you remember me," she said softly when she touched the ground, sunlight dripping from her eyes. Her cheerful face burned me. I couldn't find the right words, or any at all — not for her memory, not for her sacrifice, not for the smiling mouth that she hid slyly behind her scarf. (It's all right, Shintaro-kun, if it's me then you don't have to act so reserved —)
"Are you warm?" I blurted stupidly. She laughed, high and soft, a bird's sweet titter.
"It isn't so much like that," she said, and showed me her arm: white and translucent, but still flecked with tiny dots, her veins a thin blue map beneath the skin. "Really," she assured me, but I was already reaching — touching her hair, her face, her shoulders and hands. (I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm —)
"Do you remember," she asked in her magpie's voice — the clever, carefree pitch she reserved for fantastical stories and spontaneous speeches about hope — "when we would meet here after school? You were always so sad then. I thought I'd teach you how to smile. I thought I'd teach you, too, to be mischievous." And I nodded — I nodded, even though I didn't, really, and wrapped her wings around my shoulders.
Her hand was warm in mine.
"Four for death," she whispered, and held me more tightly.