A/N: Halfway through writing it, the theme kind of changed and suddenly I couldn't remember where I was originally going with it, but oh, do I love this one. I hope you guys do, too.
Chapter 35. Rust
The lethargic sun wearily makes its climb over the desert, once again casting blinding rays onto Death City, a Death City that remains quiet one week after the battle on the moon. It has been seven days, long days, yet somehow, they've managed to pass too quickly. Some of the city's people quickly return to a life of normalcy, while others still search for the mundane routine they'd once had, finding nothing. Morning coffee goes untouched, the classrooms of the DWMA are quieter, and above everyone looms that black moon, a constant reminder.
Nevada's air holds the weight of passing time, yet it hasn't been at all long since the final battle. It is the changes time brings, the meddling in once carefree lives that drags everyone down.
It is the erasure of stupid banter that holds him in a firm grip of unease and melancholy.
Death the Kid shifts his leg, allowing it to swing freely over the rounded side of the middle spike jutting forth from the Academy. His shoe scrapes away some red paint as he does, and the shinigami frowns at the wear and tear of the architecture. Scrapes and scuffmarks, the structure is no different than the occupants it houses.
Releasing a low sigh, Kid brings his attention to the thick band of metal embedded into the concrete. It glints brightly in the sun, its rivets blinding like tiniest jewels, as if the iron piece is no more than a crown bestowed upon their school.
As if it isn't a reminder of past times, somewhat simpler times. Times of them being dumb kids, yelling nonsense and having little knowledge of madness. When hunting kishin and exams were the most trying things, and they were free to bask in blissful ignorance.
Blissful ignorance.
It's not an idea with which Kid is familiar. He's always had an underlying sense of unease residing deep in his soul. When he was younger, he knew it to be from symmetry, a subconscious fear at everything being imperfect in the world, and often being proven right over and over again. Growing older, this underlying unease morphed into a steady supply of anxiety, constantly gnawing at him. His concerns for symmetry having lessened, the reaper often found himself struggling to discern the true source of his fears.
But his search would come up empty, his concerns never quelled, and he'd find solitude in the quiet, desert air and fixate on something minuscule, something to take away the irregular heartbeat.
The iron band glimmers faintly.
Kid focuses on that, on the heated metal, its glow in the rising sun.
There is rust.
The shinigami breaths deep, eyeing the flaws, the proof of age and nature's influence. It is a flaunting of time's grasp, a display of moments long since passed, moments that won't ever return.
It is the blatant fact nothing will ever be the same.
Something trembles—his soul, he thinks, and there's a pressure behind his eyes, one with which the young reaper has grown familiar these days.
He closes them to the city and the sun and the rust. Closes his eyes and wills himself to be still, asks time to stand still so he may capture a single second that may hold the answer to every question.
And in a second, there's suddenly a presence behind him and a warmth on his back much different than the sun. It's firm against his tired shoulders and soft on weary bones. It takes the irregular heartbeat of his and softly hushes it, coaxing it back into a state of peace.
Kid slowly opens his eyes. He sees rust, but feels calm.
He doesn't need to turn and look, nor does he need any soul perception to know the one who's joined him.
Black Star doesn't say anything, sitting with his back gently against Kid's, providing the smallest bit of support while also resting his exhausted self. He doesn't need to say anything, because he's also been in Death City for the past seven days. He's also been victim to the time passing too quickly, yet at the same time, much too slow.
He's also been considering, with great frustration, things that won't ever be the same.
Very slowly, the shinigami tips his head back, feeling Black Star's hair against his and he allows a low sigh. Things aren't so hectic in his brain right now. The sun is the sun and time is time and memories are memories.
The rust is rust.
Despite the assassin's soul conducting itself helter-skelter and its human pursuing in a blur of arrogant taunts and foolish action, it can be, in brief moments, a soothing thing. It's a ridiculous notion, but one Kid quickly noticed following one of their first encounters: a typical break in at Gallows Manor. The shinigami's frantic nature over the assassin's antics hadn't lasted long. His fears had been lulled into an unfathomable sense of security. At the time, Kid regarded it as a fluke, a strange happenstance, but then it would keep happening. His constant worry and fussing would be quieted, leaving only Black Star's victorious grin and an incredulous reaper.
Although a loudmouth and pompous idiot, the assassin harbored a tranquility deep within his soul he often used subconsciously. His soul always had to dominate the atmosphere, even if the energy was that of stillness. There was always a suffocating calm the assassin willed upon the reaper, just as he was now.
That was still the same.
Kid blinks at the realization, and feels Black Star's weight shift against his own, a little heavier now. He wonders if the other has drifted off the sleep, feeling the steady rise and fall of muscles against his back.
The Grim Reaper closes his eyes and embraces the serenity around them, his soul quiet and worries quelled, breathing in a moment that has stood against the unforgiving force of time.
Time could have its scrapes and scuffmarks. It could have its rust.
But it would not have this.
