Mikoto Souh was having a bad day. Generally assuming, he was usually in a glum or sour mood, and today would have been no different, except for the fact that while digging around his room for his jacket, he uncovered a relic. The guitar had been shoved in the very back of his closet, with multiple shirts thrown over it, as if to conceal the memories that came with it. It was badly out of tune, with one of the strings loosened so much that when pulled back, it snapped dully against the fret board. It didn't matter to Mikoto if it had once belonged to one of his clansmen, one long dead in fact, because he just wasn't that sentimental of a man. Upon finding it, he pondered why it had been in the back of his closet and why he even had it in the first place.
He threw it outside on the curb for the trash.
However much he protested in his head, he felt deep down that finding the broken instrument had left him disturbed. The peace of the past few days he had grown so used to had been shattered and an acrid taste coated his tongue. It was unlike him to get so worked up, so he simply ignored the feeling, even if it did coil and twist in his stomach as he approached the graveyard.
The sunshine of the day that had seemed so promising in the morning had disintegrated into a mass of gray storm clouds and a light drizzle. Murky water splashed up onto the hems of his pant legs while he walked, and fat raindrops dropped out of the sky like deployed bombs. Most people had abandoned the streets or at the very least, carried an umbrella. Mikoto was not one of those people. Water drenched his hair and slicked down his clothes to skin in an increasingly uncomfortable manner. Being a creature of fire, he usually despised the rain, but it felt somewhat appropriate today. And besides, the cool rainwater felt nice against his warm skin -cooling the flames within into nothing but a mere spark.
He had gone alone, as he usually did. The ones back at HOMRA couldn't have even guessed how often he visited the grave, and he didn't want them to either. The gray stone was in the far back of the cemetery, sandwiched between an old crypt and a willow tree. Flowers, recently placed there, had grown wilted and the rain had hammered them down into the mud. The petals laid strewn across the expanse of dirt and grass, and Mikoto almost felt relieved at the sight. Tatara had family, he knew that much, but he also knew that they were estranged and rarely ever contacted him. He doubted they even knew that he was dead, but judging by the flowers -snapdragons, Tatara's favorite- he was wrong.
Mikoto knelt, not caring of the mud stained his clothes, and reached out a hand and braced it against the center of the gravestone. The gray brick was warm, much warmer that anything else in this god forsaken place, and the scarlet haired man couldn't help but smile. It seemed he carried the clan's fire, even in death. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Mikoto tilted his head back towards the heavens, relishing the feel of water pattering against his skin like a gentle massage. The storm was getting worse, and now a chill had begun to settle into his bones. He didn't care -he was already sopping wet, so what could a little more water possibly do?
The snapping of a twig brought him back to reality. His eyes opened and stared up at the sky for a dazed moment before he shifted his head towards his left, looking over his shoulder. Through the haze of rainwater, he could see a figure standing at the far end of the cemetery, standing at the black iron gate. His vision was too murky to make out any details, but he could tell that even across the expanse of dirt and death, they were making eye contact. He was amazed for a brief moment that he had even heard the snap of that twig, and wondered if was even the person watching him who had made the sound.
It didn't matter anyways, but Mikoto was curious about the figure. He continued to watch, and after a long moment, the figure turned and began to walk away. Mikoto sighed heavily and turned back towards the grave, his eyes downcast and regretful.
"I'm sorry, Tatara."
The rain from earlier had let up, leaving only gray skies and a gloomy atmosphere in its wake. As Mikoto walked down the street leading back to his house, he ignored how vibrantly the rays of sun shined as they filtered in through the clouds; like the last reaches of a dream or unattainable hope. His boots squeaked against the wet pavement of the sidewalk, and he closed his eyes for a moment as he walked, tired despite having woken up just mere hours before. His hands delved deep into his pockets, searching for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. His fingers curled around the box, damp from the rainwater that had soaked through his clothes, and tugged it out and slipped the end of a cigarette between his lips.
The lighter was a different matter. His hands search ardently in his pockets for it, but the more he looks, the more he wonders if it had fallen out while he was walking earlier. He feels the cool brass of his house keys, a crumpled receipt from the HOMRA bar, and some dryer lint he failed to clear out -but no lighter. With a slight scowl, he raises his own finger to the tip of his cigarette instead, having abandoned his search, and lights it that way. Inhaling deeply, smoke fills his lungs and burns delightfully. The flavor was a bit musty from the water damage, but he didn't mind that much.
Climbing the stone steps that lead to his home, he keeps his head tucked down and doesn't even cast a glance towards the mailbox where his trash is piled up, ready to be taken to a landfill. He plows right towards his front door and pushes it open. He notes dully that the door was unlocked, he must have forgotten about it in his daze before he left this morning. He makes sure to close the door and lock it as he enters, then tosses his key in a small bowl by the TV. His home is deathly silent, as it always is, but for some reason, Mikoto feels sick from the solitude. He halfheartedly presses the power button on his remote, and the TV sputters to life in a mass of static before clearing out and revealing a woman's monotone voice reporting the weather.
"-storm is now moving on from the Shizume City area and heading towards Tokyo; specifically the Ikebukuro area. The storm seems to be picking up momentum and officials in Tokyo are advising residents to stay indoors."
Mikoto scowled as he stepped into his kitchen and stripped off his wet jacket and shirt. Tossing it into the back of a chair, he pulled open his fridge and took out a flask of whiskey. Izumo over at HOMRA usually prepared much better drinks than crappy dollar store whiskey, but Mikoto didn't really feel like walking down there just for the sake of a drink. He just wanted to drink until he passed out on the cold hard tile of his kitchen. He didn't bother grabbing a shot glass from the cabinet, and went straight to drinking the alcohol as soon as he unscrewed the cap and tossed it across the room, not caring where it landed. He took another puff of his cigarette before moving out to his sofa.
After a few moments, his sickness subsided and was left with only a faint feeling of worry. Mikoto had learned to ignore such things like that in his years as the Red King, and when he heard sirens wailing outside, all he did was turn up the volume of his television. Sitting there on his couch, his head turned towards the window against his will. The trash was still sitting there, bit the more he stared, the more something felt off. Narrowing his eyes and leaning forward, he searched for the guitar he had placed there this morning, but couldn't find anything. A surge of panic rushed up his spine, and he stood up and walked briskly over towards the window. Maybe it had fallen over in the rain from before, and was hiding? But no matter what angle he looked from, there wasn't any trace of it.
The guitar was gone.
Rin Totsuka was not having a very good day. Of course, she didn't usually have good days- people who lived in Ikebukuro rarely had days that would qualify as good- but today, God had deemed it fit to strike down any last hope in her mind. She had spent the morning searching for a decent priced hotel room, only to be robbed blind by some street gang that fancied themselves on par with the Blue Squares- fat chance of that, the Blue Squares were animals. Immediately following that incident, she got a call from Izaya Orihara (little weasel). Apparently, he was in need of a courier. Rin had flat out refused to have any connection to him, lest she be pummeled by a certain dyed blonde bartender.
All she wanted to do was to stay in town for a few days and visit her brother's grave, but even that seemed unlikely as she trudged through the muck and rain, hopelessly lost. The fabric of her boots had been thoroughly soaked, and the rest of her clothes weren't much better. A hard wind blew, and Rin nearly toppled over from the force of it.
"Stupid stupid stupid..." she growled under her breath, reaching up to adjust her sodden scarf. Strands of her black hair whipped around her face and stung her cheeks and eyes, making her squeeze them shut temporarily. "Stupid STUPID-"
The next step she took, her foot snagged the small ledge of the street, and she was sent toppling into a rather large, murky puddle of rainwater. The palms of her hands, which she had outstretched to brace herself, were scratched and bleeding. Rin cursed loudly and climbed to her feet. Her hands stung as she clenched them into fists, beads of blood lining the scrapes and dripping like rubies. With a huff, she brought them to her face and examined the wound, but as she eyed the torn flesh, her mind wandered and she was left thinking about that night. She remembered it well enough; she had been out eating at Russia Sushi when she got the call.
When she learned her brother was dead.
Her steps slowed, and her hand dropped to her side limply as her eyes stared down at the ground. The inexplicable anger in her had subsided into a horrible numb feeling, and she sighed. It wasn't often that she lost her bearings like that, and a wave of shame washed over her.
"Damn," she said, lifting her head as she began to walk down the street again. "What am I even doing here?"
The rain was getting harder, and her walking pace soon escalated into a jog as her head swiveled on her shoulder's, searching for the familiar black iron gates that usually encircled graveyards. Her clothes were completely drenched now, and little streams of water slipped down through the hem of her shirt and ran down the indention of her back, making her shiver. There was nobody on the streets, so she couldn't ask for directions, but as she rounded a corner, her eyes landed on a large 'open' sign hanging from a bar's window.
"Finally. A place that's actually open!" Rin said gratefully as she pulled open the door to the bar and rushed inside, shaking water out of her hair. The droplets went everywhere from the movement, and she stared bashfully as a puddle formed where she stood.
"Welcome to HOMRA," a pleasant voice called, tinged with an accent. Rin looked up, her eyes finding an attractive bartender with soft looking blond hair and blue tinted glasses. He wore a charming smile while an unlit cigarette rolled between his lips. Rin did a double take and squinted at him. If not for the friendly and inviting aura he emitted, she could have sworn he was Shizuo Heiwajima, a dyed blond brute that ripped telephone poles out of the ground with his bare hands. He also happened to be a chain smoker and wear blue sunglasses and a cheap bartender's outfit.
The man shifted under her stare, uncomfortable with the silence between them. "Ma'am?"
"Oh," Rin said with a blink. She moved towards the bar but didn't take a seat, and noted with a tired sort of curiosity that she was the only customer. "I'm sorry. You resemble somebody I know, is all. I didn't mean to be rude."
The bartender smiled in understanding. "No worries, mademoiselle. What can I get you?"
The rain outside picked up and slammed against the window panes of the bar loudly, and it was a moment before Rin was able to answer him. She was still soaked, and every time she moved, she could feel water droplets crosshatching her skin. "No drinks," she said. "I need directions."
"You intend to go back out into that war zone, petit belle? You could catch pneumonia, you know." He said, wiping off a glass with a white rag and setting it down on the bar. Rin was shocked when he reached under the counter and handed her a crisp linen towel, and was even more shocked when he poured the glass halfway full with vodka and a few candied cherries. "You should warm up here first. The drink is on the house."
Rin felt herself frown, but took the towel and sat down anyway. "I shouldn't."
"But you are." The man smiled. "What are you looking for, anyway?"
For a moment, Rin hesitated. Her lips parted but her breath caught in her throat, and she was struck with a deep ache in her chest that almost immediately set fiery tears to her eyes. She stayed quiet for a moment and took a sip of her vodka, willing herself to remain calm. Once the pain had subsided, she spoke carefully, each word enunciated slowly, as if they would fall from her lips and spatter against the floor if she didn't. "I'm visiting my brother''s grave. I need to find the graveyard."
The man paused with his cleaning and looked up, strands of his honey colored hair falling into his face and obscuring his hazel eyes. He looked apologetic, and Rin turned away to avoid the pitying expression on his face. "It's his birthday. February 14. He would be 23 today."
The man made a sound that was similar to an animal being choked to death and Rin looked at him in alarm. His expression was now void of pity and mirrored her own alarmed and shocked expression. She noticed that the white rag he had been holding had fallen to the counter, and it was closely followed by his unlit cigarette, which rolled off the bar and onto the floor. His eyes flicked to the corner of the room, just behind Rin, then back to her.
"Mademoiselle," he said, his voice a shocked whisper. He leaned across the bar and stared into Rin's eyes. He was so close that she tensed up and her cheeks began to burn. "What was your brother's name?"
There was a beat of silence, and then "Tatara Totsuka."
Understanding dawned in the bartender's eyes and he bowed his head. His locks brushed lightly against Rin's chin, and she tilted her face back a bit and stared at the man in worry. He was muttering things under his breath, but he was speaking to softly for her to make any sense of the words. Shifting in her stool with discomfort, she poked the man's shoulder tentatively. He looked up and met her gaze, then took a step back. "You look just like him."
Shocked at his words, Rin stood up so fast that her stool nearly toppled to the ground. It teetered on one leg before regaining it's balance and aligning itself. "I don't understand," she said.
All the man did in response was point towards the corner of the room, the one he had stolen a look at when she had mentioned her brother's birthday. Rin turned around slowly, almost afraid of what she would see, but when her eyes landed on a plethora of photos pinned to a cork board, she felt as if somebody had punched her in the stomach. Tatara was in almost every single one of the photos, laughing and smiling with so many unfamiliar faces that it physically hurt Rin to see how much of his life she had missed.
There was a single picture in the center that drew her attention the most. It was taken with an old camera with a black and white filter, and was of Tatara sitting at the very same bar she was sitting at, strumming away on his Spanish guitar with a serene expression. Rin had gotten him that guitar four years ago as a Christmas present, and in the picture, she could see his initials carved into the wood of the body.
"Oh," was all Rin could say before she broke down crying.