in Vergessenheit geraten
(v.) to be forgotten, in a way one fades away slowly in someone's memory, continuously being erased from every history there is
Summary: [Spoilers for end of series.] Nobody knew about the loss of a boy who lived in the garage of a detective agency. (If Shotarou doesn't remember, than no one will.)
Author's Note: What can I say? I'm a sucker for grief/mourning fics.
Disclaimer: not mine!
Shotarou wondered if the last thing Phillip felt was his touch.
It began with the little things, at first. Like forgetting how Phillip dotted his i's (which was stupid, considering he did absolutely nothing special with them, but maybe it was more for the fact when he randomly wrote in English), or how he always wore green on Wednesdays ("It's a Thai custom," he rattled off, eyes gleaming with newfound knowledge. "One wears green for Mercury, the-").
Then it turned into the bigger things. Forgetting how he liked his coffee made, or how he folded the ends of his sheets into little triangles, or how his shampoo smelled. Every day his memory of Phillip seemed to be slipping between his fingers like fog, and no matter how tightly he'd try to hold on (please don't go) it never did any good.
Shotarou took to telling stories about Phillip whenever he could. To the man in the pet store, reminiscing with Akiko, or sharing some exploit from before Terui's time with him. He realized he was babbling whenever Akiko got that distance look in her eyes that made her look indescribably sad. After a while, he begun to simply write them all out on blank notebooks he'd then shove under Phillip's (old) desk in the garage.
Maybe if it was written down the rest of the world would begin to remember, too.
By the time six months rolled around, Shotarou didn't realize his partner had been gone for so long. People on the streets begun to blink at him and ask, 'Phillip? Phillip who?' and would then smile and nod like they were just messing around, because they would never forget who Shotarou's partner was.
It made him realize how little of an impact Phillip made. As Double, they were revered as heroes. Children aspired to be just like them (only him, now) and there was talk of building a sort of monument honoring the masked hero of Fuuto.
As Double, the left half of the man was loved.
As Phillip, he didn't really do anything besides write on whiteboards in a garage. It frightened Shotarou in every way to know that the boy who meant almost everything to him never really existed.
And right now he was mourning a boy who's been dead for years.
There was probably something poetic about that.
Alone in an office that had empty space for one more, Shotarou glanced between his typewriter and case files. He cracked his knuckles, steeling himself for what he was about to do.
Phillip couldn't be hidden between pages of notebooks stuck under an old desk that was beginning to fall apart. If Shotarou waited that long, there would be nothing left to grieve.
He sat down, and began to type.
Because if he didn't remember, nobody else would.