Soldier A & B
Sometimes Komui misses the tall, brooding presence that sometimes makes its place on that old couch in the middle of his office. Sometimes, when a stack of paper flutters off the desk, he thinks he hears a silky swish of ebony hair within the fall. Sometimes he feels the heat of a glare on the back of his neck, only to glance over his shoulder and see nothing at all.
Because Kanda's gone off to war, and all he can do is wait. And hope.
Maybe.
He used to know when the mornings started, when Kanda would nudge himself into the office, jacket carelessly slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the morning shower. And when he left, with only a grunt to bid him goodnight, he knew day had turned to night and Komui would be spending the next twelve hours dizzy in ink, the rustling, and Reever's cracking voice.
These days, it's all a messy blur before his eyes; of furious scribbling, of the veins in his eyes popping out as he glances over chart after chart, of taking naps an hour long. He downs his coffee like he loves it, until his hands won't stop trembling and he can't see straight anymore.
"You overwork yourself too much, brother," Linali's sweet, worried voice crackles over the telephone. "If you collapse from exhaustion, you'll jeopardize the outcome of the war. We need you, brother."
Her voice is shaking. But she doesn't see him wince.
His life revolves around this war that isn't his, and he hates being reminded of it. But it's what keeps him going, besides the haze of caffeine and Linali's face, safe and sound. She knows this. She cares. But it's the brutal truth.
"I'll sleep early tonight," he promises.
When she hangs up, the silence rings too loud and the anguish squirms in the pit of his stomach.
It's so lonely. The noise has fled the headquarters, just like the exorcists, and left behind the memories painted in red on the halls. Of the morning brawls and unanimous laughter. Of Kanda's dark, dark eyes staring from behind a staggering mountain of papers. The way he makes an irritated grunt when Komui tilts his chin up for a kiss.
He sees Reever every day. That's about it. Sometimes he sees Johnny, and maybe even Sixty-five, if he's lucky. They barely speak. They're just working and praying, and hoping, and trying.
When news of Kanda's death comes, Komui allows himself a blank look.
And doesn't move.
"Head chief," Reever says, thrusting forth the death acknowledgment with shaking hands. There's holes in his cheeks, the shadow of death in his eyes, unfocused, and dazed, and alive.
The image of Kanda's scowling face briefly flashes in his mind, already being buried in the piles and piles of dusty memories.
Komui takes the paper and scribbles on his signature with a graceful finish. The paper falls into the mess around his office, another statistic for the count. There's too much work to be done and not enough time to remember.
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