A/N: The moment you've all been waiting for! Shiro finally, finally goes to Rome. And hey, Q, if you see this? I have a little bit of translation I need help with, for the grand introduction of a certain character... ;)

Also, a special thanks to Fox for the eyebrows. êuê

Refs to ch: 20, 91, 132

I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.

Summer holidays were an unknown concept to exorcist students. A cram school is only ever a cram school, and summer courses were a regular feature where valuable extra hours were added to their education. There was a fair deal of grumbling about this. Students like to tell themselves that once they graduate life will be a lot easier, which of course is just delusion. Once they had obtained their licenses there would be no more summer courses, but neither would there be any summer uniforms. No more comfy short-sleeved shirts to ease the humid heat, just the heavy, all-covering fucking black exorcist robes.

Shiro was so glad he was dressed casually for the journey.

The 17th of June was too early for the really high temperatures. The warmth was pleasant on the skin without clinging to it with that sticky humid film that came about around July. The smell of sun-baked asphalt was in the air and thrummed with the song of cicadas. Campus was practically deserted after all the regular students had gone home over summer, and it was a pleasant stroll that took Shiro from the boys' dorm to the girls'. There were people around, of course: summer was the busiest time of year for the platoon of janitors that kept the school tidy. Hedges had to be tamed, lawns groomed, benches oiled, and barrels of pesticides used to combat the weeds that stubbornly cropped up between stone tiles. There were uniformed men at work in every flower bed, and when they spotted him they waved. Shiro hefted the cardboard box onto one arm to wave back.

"Not gonna help us this year, Fujimoto-san?" called one Shiro remembered well: Okada-san, a talkative man in his forties whose wife made the most delicious-looking lunches.

"Nope – leaving today."

"That so? Vacation?" Okada was standing up and slapping the dirt off his gardening gloves now.

"Nah, moving. I'm gonna be staying in Italy for a while. Get some field experience, maybe grab another exorcist Meister or two."

"If it's field experience you want, it's us you should work with." Okada had another favourite pastime, aside talking: cracking terrible puns. The rest of the janitors politely pretended they hadn't heard anything while the man himself chortled heartily at his own joke. "My son wanted to go abroad when he was younger, too, after he finished school. But I said to him: 'Naoto, if you want to go abroad you would have to go to school another two years and learn foreign languages. Or wait till people abroad learn Japanese, whichever you think will go faster.' The last thing he wanted was to spend more years in school, so-"

"Okada-san." The foreman of the janitors had three main tasks to perform: take instructions from the manager above him, coordinate his team, and keep Okada focused on his job. The last thing was a routine everybody was familiar with, and Shiro smiled when Okada bowed and apologised for the interruption.

"Well, good luck in Italy, Fujimoto-san", he said, waved, and squatted down to continue weeding.

"Good luck to you here, too." Shiro gave the team a nod and continued on his way to the girls' dorm.

Sen was hanging laundry when he knocked. That or she and Midori had been engaged in some private fun-time, because nothing else could explain why she had a lacy blue bra slung over her shoulder when she answered the door. She was fully dressed, but knowing what an odd pair those two were Shiro decided it was better not to take any risks.

"Hi. You guys busy with something?"

"No. But, weren't you leaving today, Shiro-kun?"

"I'm about to. Just have a couple of things to take care of before I do. Can I come in?"

Sen didn't answer that, only opened up the door fully and stepped aside to let him through. Shiro stepped out of his shoes and wedged himself and the cardboard box sideways into the very special room that belonged to Midori and Sen. The doll head still served as lamp screen. There was still an assortment of flotsam treasures lining the window sill and walls, although the ones on the window sill had been moved to the table to open the window. Midori's sleeping space was still a tangled nest of sheets on the floor. A short bit away from it, backed up against the wall, sat a basket with unsorted laundry. On Sen's desk gaped an empty pastry carton, suggesting that Midori had indeed landed the summer job in the bakery.

"Is that box one of the things you need to take care of?" Sen followed him with her eyes as he put the gift down on the floor.

"Yep. I'm dumping it on you as a parting gift." Shiro placed the letter on top and was about to turn and ask where Midori was, when he spotted something that hadn't been in the room last time he visited.

The vacant bed had been transformed into a miniature village. Houses huddled together around a small town square, assembled from all kinds of twigs, pine cones, chestnuts and walnut shells. Midori had continued to explore the possibilities of her steel wire, too, and had built little people to populate the village as well as fanciful trees with dried berries and plastic pearls strung up on their branches. Shiro was about to compliment the project when something hit him in the back of his head and wrapped itself around his face. Something soft and flappy and fabric-like.

The object turned out to be a school uniform vest, once Shiro had removed it from his head. He also dodged just in time to avoid a rolled-up pair of socks that came whooshing in through the open window. The sock roll bounced off the wall and landed a scarce decimetre to the left of the laundry basket.

"I'm gonna miss you guys and your crazy shit so badly." With a lopsided smile, Shiro dropped the vest off in the laundry basket and bent down to help the sock roll join it. "Shortest route to take in the laundry from the roof?"

"Yes. That, and Sir Pheles didn't permit Midori to join the school basketball team", Sen clarified as she folded the bra and laid it neatly in its proper drawer. She lingered a moment then, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the open drawer. "I knew he wouldn't. Gehenna and Assiah must be kept separate: that is the purpose of the Order. To keep the truth secret. To keep the worlds apart." She turned around, and Shiro wondered – not for the first time – just how deep into those empty, reddish eyes you would have to reach to understand the entity that was Sen. "But what about the ones that are in between?"

In between the worlds? Yeah, what about them… People like Midori and Ryuuji, where did they fit in? Shiro hadn't expected a light talk to turn heavy so quickly and needed a moment to get his thoughts on the same track as Sen's. Time was never an issue with that girl, fortunately. She would be quiet and still as an owl and just wait.

"I guess some can fit in without much effort, like Ryuuji-san. I'm not talking about the ears and tail and that; I mean he's been raised human and is very human in how he thinks. I haven't asked him but if I did I'm pretty sure he'd say he thinks of himself as human."

But would others? Shiro's brow furrowed at the thought, and the long-standing habit of nibbling the tip of his tongue made itself known. Ryuuji would say that Assiah was his home and that he belonged among humans, no doubt. Not all would agree with him. Not all would agree he had the same status – or rights – as pureblood humans. And Midori, who had retained much more of a demon's nature than Ryuuji? Shiro honestly didn't know where she felt she belonged, but he was fairly certain which category others would put her in.

"It's not just about how part-demons identify themselves – I know that. It's just as much about how everyone else views them, if not even more", he continued, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. Sen remained before her drawers, still like a model before a painter, and watched him. No nod, no hum or huff to indicate what she thought of his ruminations. No nothing.

Shiro took that as his cue to continue.

"I can agree with the Order's ideas somewhat; Assiah as it is isn't prepared to know about Gehenna or that there are part-demons walking about." He tilted his head to the side, as if physically looking at the matter from a different angle. "At the same time, putting a lid on it isn't gonna make anything improve for those who are stuck in between. Just perpetuate a bad situation." He huffed, thinking of what Samael had told him during his preparations for Rome. "The Vatican stance is pretty much just 'ignore the problem till it goes away'. Maybe they believe that if we just keep demons out entirely there'll be no more half-bloods born and the ones we have will eventually die off." So with one party unaware of their existence and the other ignoring their existence, where could part-demons turn? Shiro sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a complex situation – if it was easy it would have been solved long ago. "I don't know if you were actually asking me a question and expecting an answer. I don't have one. The best solution – that isn't even a solution – would be if in-between people got together and founded their own in-between place. Like the Futotsuki clan's village. Some place where they can play basketball and do whatever they want without worrying about freaking people out."

Another laundry ball came hurling in through the window. Shiro caught it on reflex: it was a pair of panties. He stared at them. The teddy bear face at the front stared back.

"It is the same conclusion I came to." A perfectly untroubled Sen padded over and picked the garment out of his hands. It was the first time Shiro had been the one feeling awkward about a girl flashing her panties. "A society apart from society. A sanctuary." She brought the panties with her to the drawers, folding them with an almost ritual meticulousness. "That would be the easiest." Again, she stopped: hands still and eyes staring into the wall as if the answers she was looking for were written on it. "But is the easiest way the best way?" she mused softly as she laid the underwear to rest. "Have you heard the cicadas?"

"It's hard not to." You could hear them in the very room, even: that's how loud the summer chorus was. Not knowing where Sen was going with this, he decided to make himself comfortable on the floor. He sprawled himself sloppily against the wall, one leg straight and the other drawn up at a comfortable angle so he could rest his arm on it.

"Cicadas used to live above ground, long ago. They flew like birds and sang each other songs like birds. But they were not birds, and they were hunted and eaten." There was none of Midori's pantomime features when Sen told stories. The dreamy quality of her voice made her good at it, however. It made her sound like she was recalling memories from many, many years ago. "Eventually the cicadas decided to move underground to live in peace. They did, and they were safe, but they were not free. They were not happy. They did not fly or sing underground, and they were lonely. After years and years they could no longer stand it and returned to the world above. Sooner or later, all cicadas return. It is only then that they fly and sing to each other." Sen turned away from the drawers to look directly at him. "It isn't much to ask, to have the same freedom as everyone else."

Allegories are useful things. When words fall short, or when abstract thought must be given concrete shape, allegory replaces words with images. Shiro saw what she meant, but still… In his mind Sen had been a dreamy girl living in her own world, not minding much what happened outside it – and maybe she had been, but she wasn't anymore. She had changed while he had been absorbed in studies. They all had. Matured. Grown. Become people slightly different – or very different – from who they had been when they first came together. There was determination in her posture now, as if her spine was made of railway iron. She would bend at nothing to see her ambitions achieved; he could see it in her gaze when their eyes met.

Their eerie, reddish eyes.

Shiro's had begun to change after he hosted Samael's heart. They had been brown before. Had held the faintest trace of a different hue in bright light, yes, but they had definitely been brown. Now, for the first time, he wondered if maybe Sen's eyes had been brown, too, once. He wondered what she had been like, before she bonded with her goblin.

…wondered how much like her he might become.

"I always wondered why you joined the Order when you clearly don't sympathise with how they do things", he found himself musing, just loud enough to be heard above the cicada choir. "You're gonna make them change, hah?"

"I hope so. The world can't stay ignorant forever."

Shiro blinked. Had he heard that right? Moreover, had he understood that right?

"The world? Not just the Order?"

"The Order won't be enough." Sen spoke as if lost in thought, or as if she was speaking more to herself than to him. "It claims to protect people, but what it does is imprison them. The world is living a lie: no one is free so long as that lie persists."

Ever so slightly, Shiro's eyebrows twitched. Those words. To know the truth; to be free…

"Well sometimes a pretty lie is better than a nasty truth – not often, but someti-"

"Better for whom?" she cut in, and there were edges to her voice that would bury deep if he implied the wrong things. "Does the right to freedom belong only to the majority?"

"That's not what I meant." Sen had no idea what he meant. Sen hadn't been there, late at night in the New Graveyard with the harsh freedom that came with knowing the truth. "Of course half-bloods should have the same freedom humans have – what I'm questioning is how that's gonna come about. You think things will change for the better if the world finds out about demons but what says it won't get worse? What if society can't handle the knowledge and we get a witch scare like in the Middle Ages? Half-bloods might end up getting more marginalised than they already are." Shiro hauled himself up from the floor. Couldn't sit down in an argument. On second thought… he didn't want his last visit to his friends ending with an argument, either. Biting back any further opinions he might have had to share on the topic, he opted for a compromise: "It's too big, is what I'm saying. Go for changing the Order, sure – they need that. But don't waste time chasing dreams that might just be smoke and mirrors."

He dodged on reflex when a bundled-up shirt came flying in through the window. The motion brought him closer to Sen, who… was laughing? She was covering her mouth with her hand, and there was an unmistakable trembling in her shoulders. But why would she laugh?

"What?" he said guardedly, eyebrows pulling together in a frown.

"It is funny, when a man of faith doesn't know how to believe. Here." She brought her small, chubby hand up, hovering millimetres above his chest without touching him. "Everything begins here. Before anything can change, we have to believe it can. We have to believe we win something greater than what we sacrifice." Instead of touching him, she touched the badge hanging from his shirt pocket. Whether he was wearing the black robes or not, he was an exorcist; an exorcist's duties follow him wherever he goes, and so does his badge and license. "Congratulations, Lower Second Class Fujimoto-senpai."

Shiro blinked: it was the first time he was referred to by rank. He pulled a face immediately after.

"Seriously, don't call me that. It's freaky."

His reaction put a smile on Sen's lips, and her hand moved from his badge to cover it. The smile never reached her eyes, however, and he wondered once again how much of his own reflection there was in her. Did his smile reach his eyes?

"My battles are for me. And yours are for you."

Shiro blinked. What did she mean by that? Did it mean anything? Was there something she knew, or was his paranoia making him see things that weren't there?

"What was the Aria exam like?"

It was like she was playing marbles with his thoughts, knocking them this-way-and-that with her sudden topic changes. But when he thought about it, Sen would be taking the Aria exam next year. And there were more similarities between them than just their eyes: only following rules when it suited them was one of those things.

"For future reference?" he asked with a crooked grin. Sen smiled sagely, tipping her head forward ever so slightly and peered up at him with a knowing look. Yes, she was planning on passing her exams next year. "It was pretty fun. I don't know if it'll be the same next year but my exam consisted of playing karuta." As absurd as that statement was, Sen showed no reaction whatsoever. "Not regular karuta: demon karuta", he elaborated, still hoping for a reaction because he had found it unexpected as hell. "You had these enchanted cards that had summoning circles and seals respectively, and then you had to pair them up right before the card finished its chant and summoned a demon."

Sen showed no indication that she was following what he said, although she was listening intently – at least he assumed so, as she kept owl-staring at him even though there was no reaction whatsoever to anything he said.

"It wasn't too hard. Stressful, but not hard if you just keep your head cool. I did well for the first three quarters of the game: then came a chant where I couldn't even place the language."

Maybe she was just messing with him? Like she was stone-walling him with that distant gaze on purpose to see how long she could keep him going?

"I panicked for maybe a second there. Then I snapped out of it and went by method of exclusion: if there was a seal I didn't recognise then that should be the one matching the chant I didn't recognise." He paused, more for effect than out of any real hope that Sen would ask how it went. "I found the right one, but I took too long spotting it so the demon was summoned from the card."

…okay, when she didn't so much as pull an eyebrow at that, Shiro decided it was a challenge. He could mess with people, too. Especially when they reminded him of things about himself he didn't want to remember.

"Luckily I had my gun handy and killed it before it could do any harm."

Sen's detached eyes came alive in an instant. They flared up, then hardened like steel and spread the tension across her face and all the way down to her shoulders.

"Finally got a rise out of ya", he smirked. "I'm joking, Sen-chan. I didn't have any gun and I didn't kill any demon. I just tore up the card with the summoning circle: the game continued after the demon was exorcised."

Sen scrutinised him intensely, and Shiro wondered if maybe he had gone too far with that joke. She remembered their Esquire exam, surely. She remembered the naga he killed. Did she think he would kill a bound demon again, if he was ordered to?

Well… He could.

"I didn't", he repeated, emphasising by bringing his hand up to his chest. "On my honour as a man, I didn't. All I did was tear up the card."

Sen visibly relaxed, and the steel seeped out of her eyes.

"It puzzles me how you passed when you didn't know the chant", she said without missing a beat. "You destroyed their examination equipment, too. Is that not against the rules?"

"Evidently not." Shiro shrugged. There and then he hadn't even thought about it. "The point is that you get the job done, not how." Hah – his cram school teachers would have had a few things to say about that. "Though I guess if you apply that solution to every card in the deck they'll assume your Aria skills suck."

"What chant was it that you didn't recognise?"

Shiro snorted good-naturedly at that. Didn't have any qualms at all about passing her exams, did she? They had a thing or two in common, alright.

"Tibetan. It summoned a girimekhala."

"Slaaaaaaaam duuuuuunk!"

That, was the only heads-up they were given before Midori came swinging in through the open window at the end of a rope. She let go with perfect timing, sailed across the room, and slammed a bundled shirt down in the laundry basket before making contact with the floor.

She was so damn hot. Not only was she wearing the shortest mini-shorts Shiro had ever laid eyes on, but the tiniest belly-flaunting tank top ever made – and no bra. Shiro's conscience made an effort to mentally slap him for staring, with marginal success. As if she wasn't indecent enough already, Midori was showing her tail. Shiro had seen it once, when he came upon her bathing in the creek in the forest, but only when it was wet and when he was without glasses. Now that he saw it properly it was simply beautiful. It was as red as her hair, just like he had imagined, and it was long and fluffy like a proper fox tail. And when she moved – god, when she moved – it followed her motions with an effortless sensuality that simply blew his mind. All girls should have tails.

"I'm almost jealous, Sen-chan."

"You should be."

At that, Shiro had to do a double-take, and was met with a look he would have categorised as smugging if only Sen had had more animated facial expressions.

"Congratulations, Lower Second Class Fujimoto-senpai", Midori beamed. She had heard their talk through the window, no doubt. "What is this, hm~? A present?" She tip-toed over to the box and scrutinised it from all angles with great interest: the curling motions of her tail said so.

"Farewell gift. It's just something I found when I was clearing out my stuff. I can't take it with me and I figure it should stay with people who'll have fun with it. …how do you even hide that normally?" He gestured at her. "Your tail. It's huge."

Midori ceased her inspection of the present and straightened up, looking at him with surprise on her face. Then she looked at Sen, and must have sent some sort of telepathic message because Sen knew immediately what she meant. The Futotsuki girl searched the cluttered desk for a moment and handed Midori one of the ribbons she used for tying her hair.

"Is easier to focus if you have an anchor", she explained, and held the embroidered, green ribbon out between her thumb and forefinger. What happened next looked like some form of simplified ritual. With her free hand Midori pinched the ribbon between her fingers and ran them down the length of it. This she repeated, again and again, with a look of intense concentration. Once satisfied, she reached behind her back and gently tied the ribbon around the base of her-
There was a puff of smoke, almost like when Samael used his magic, and when it cleared Midori had no tail. The only "tail" on her was the long braid of hair from her neck, and it was tied with the same ribbon she had put around her real tail a moment ago.

"All kitsune illusion", she smiled and spun a casual pirouette to show off her altered looks. "But I like no illusion better." Midori pulled the ribbon off, and when the puff of smoke cleared she had a tail again. "Not having tail is like not having eyebrows", she said and performed a show-reel of facial expressions from angry to confused to happy. All of them included very much eyebrow exercise.

Shiro had never thought of it like that. It was with great fascination he eyed the tail – and felt like he had yet another thing to be jealous of.

"Why do demons always get all the cool stuff? But, what I was gonna say: I have a taxi to catch, so I was just going to come over and drop this off. And this, too." Shiro fished the envelope out of his pocket and held it out to Sen. The letter inside was written entirely in hiragana. "This is for Kasumi, next time she drops by. Since I won't be seeing her today. Don't forget to give it to her, okay?"

"We won't." Sen bowed and accepted the letter with both hands. "Safe trip, Shiro-kun. Don't forget to write."

"Yeah, I wi-guhh…!"

Midori's hug squeezed the air right out of him. Shiro returned it awkwardly, locked as he was and only able to move his arms from the elbow and down. There was a thin, soft coating of fur on her naked back. She was warm, and underneath his fingers he could feel the muscles move as her tail made agitated little flicks.

Shiro's conscience could punch and kick him all it liked, he still tingled from head to toe at the surge of heat that shot through his groin.

"No goodbyes", she murmured softly to his ear. "Promise."

"I promise. No goodbyes", he smiled, even though she couldn't see it. A different kind of warmth coursed through him now, one he wanted to absorb and keep and remember.

Midori slipped out of the hug, but she didn't let go. She grasped his upper arms and held him in place so she could level a very, very serious gaze at him. Shiro tried his best to keep a straight face through her scrutiny. Shit, did he smell of pheromones already…?

"I want postcards of goats in trees."

"What?" His face was one big question mark. "Goats climb trees in Italy…?"

Midori nodded vigorously. Goats climbed trees in Italy and that was something she had to see – her eyes were positively glowing with excitement. Shiro chuckled warmly despite the faint ache in his chest. He would miss these people. He would miss people.

Indeed, they were all different now from who they had been when they first came together.

"Alright: goats in trees it is."

The taxi ride to True Cross Airport went by quickly. Actually, everything that day seemed to be moving very quickly, or maybe Shiro was just preoccupied and slow to keep up. Now, as he walked towards the sliding doors of the airport – backpack in one hand and suitcase in the other – he was a knot of thoughts chasing each other's tails. New place. New start. New people who didn't know him or his reputation. All he had to do was make the best out of the opportunity and not make a mess.

Shouldering his backpack, Shiro padded across the squeaky clean floor, head turning left and right to spot the sign for domestic flights to Tokyo's Haneda Airport. It wasn't like the time he had flown with Samael's private jet, but it was still incredibly smooth. He found the right counter, checked his suitcase in, showed his passport and visa and received his boarding passes – both the True Cross-Haneda stretch and the Haneda-Fiumicino stretch –, and followed the signs to the gate number that was stamped on the boarding pass. It didn't quite agree with him, being herded around by directions on signs. It made him feel like sheep, or some overly intelligent lab rat that was instructed to clear a maze. Shops and waiting halls, doorways, glass windows, secure spots behind pillars – his eyes jumped this-way-and-that, scanning the environment. Mapping out where surprises might come from and where he could take cover if they did. An exorcist thing.

The advertisements were everywhere: on pillars, beams, and walls. Shiro approximated that at least half of them were for the True Cross Academy centennial next year. The posters promised the greatest musicians from all across Japan, dance performances, a circus set up in Mepphy Land, fireworks, food stalls serving dishes from all over the world – the lot. There would even be an outdoors cinema, like the ones they had in the United States, with a projector showing film on one of the Academy's towering walls. Midori would no doubt try to eat her way through every single food stall. Ryuuji would be glued to the stage with the performers – if he wasn't on stage himself. There was so much Shiro wouldn't be part of, in his new place with his new start.

He tore his eyes away from the posters and shook his head. He was supposed to think about the good sides. Not about everything he would miss.

"I might be back in time for the centennial", he mused to himself. One could always hope, right? "It all depends on how fast we can spring the trap on Tanzi."

No matter how much he focused on thinking of good opportunities, the bottom line remained carved in stone: he went to Rome as an undercover assassin. He was going to do the very same thing Agari and her team had done when they came to True Cross Academy. If he screwed up, he would meet the same end, too.

"I'm so good at positive thinking."

Flying in a regular passenger plane was nothing like flying in Samael's private jet. There was no real leg space (although there were very pretty stewardesses) and for the first time Shiro realised how very dangerous flying was. The wrong kind of dangerous, at that. He could enjoy fun-and-dangerous, a lot more than he should, but this sitting-on-your-ass-and-watching-everything-go-to-hell-with-nothing-to-be-done-about-it kind of dangerous had far less appeal.

The stewardesses went over the procedures for what to do in case of drop in cabin pressure, in case of emergency landing in water and on land, where the emergency exits were and how to open them. For some that might be reassuring. All Shiro could think of was how many plane accidents he had seen on the news just the year before. The exact number of survivors in those accident eluded him but a twisting feeling in his gut attested it hadn't been reassuring at all. The instructions the stewardess was explaining didn't make him feel the least bit better either: bracing himself against the seat in front of him didn't seem like it would do much good if the plane went into the ground at 800 km/h.

It was a very long half-hour flight to Haneda Airport. On top of it all Shiro discovered that the motion sickness he had developed due to Samael's goddamn teleportations did not exclude air planes, and it took a considerable amount of willpower not to throw up in his neighbour's lap. Not until the plane had taxied all the way to the domestic arrivals gate did Shiro relax, and when he did it felt like his whole body went slack. Disembarking the plane with the rest of the passengers, he wondered just how the shit he was going to survive the thirteen hours from Haneda to Rome's Fiumicino Airport.

Haneda Airport was a lot bigger than True Cross'. Once Shiro had calmed his stomach, he loitered around exploring it to pass the time until his next flight: he had plenty of time, after all. The operative word being had, because when he checked his wristwatch again two hours had somehow become twenty minutes.

Fuck Samael and his fucking deal. Dyslexia was far less hazardous than missing your plane 'cause you didn't have any sense of time.

He wasn't even in the right goddamn terminal, it turned out. Airport personnel informed him that he was in the domestic flights terminal and that his flight was in the international flights terminal, and that he should get his ass on the shuttle bus as quickly as possible if he didn't want to miss his plane.

The shuttle bus did nothing for Shiro's stomach. He could have sworn the driver had some kind of undiagnosed double vision problem because the man kept making turns to avoid obstacles that weren't there. Shiro's eyes darted between the airfield and his wristwatch, teeth nipping nervously at the tip of his tongue. He was considering stopping the bus and running the last bit on foot when finally they arrived at the right terminal. Shiro rushed past shops and zigzagged between slow moving passengers, heading wherever the signs pointed him. He would make it, just with very little margin.

"Fuji?"

Shiro's feet slowed almost to a stop. But no, he couldn't have heard right. It was someone who just sounded similar to Kasumi and was calling for her kid or something. He picked up pace again: he had a plane to catch.

"Don't ya dare ignore me!"

Shiro stopped dead in his tracks, turned around, and just stared. It took him several moments to verify that it really was Kasumi who came storming at him from the airport bathrooms, because his eyes and his brain didn't agree with each other. She couldn't be there, his brain claimed, while his eyes insisted that yes, she was there. She was there and she had a face smooth like peach skin and her eyes were nailing him in place where he stood.

"How did you get here?" his mouth asked, but his eyes had already found the answer: there was something in Kasumi's hand that shouldn't be there.

"I used the key and what the fuck's goin' on? What's happened ta my face?"

Shiro might have answered if he hadn't been blacking out wondering the exact same thing. Kasumi's face wasn't supposed to change until after he had left Japan. Kasumi wasn't supposed to have a magic key. Nothing was making sense and his brain was grappling madly for anything that did.

"You weren't supposed to be here", he murmured, completely unaware that he was speaking his thoughts out loud.

Kasumi did the only sensible thing to do when given such a reply: she smacked him across the face. Hard. He deserved it – part of him knew he deserved it more than well, while the rest of his brain cared only about the key that Kasumi shouldn't be holding. It was one of the Order's keys. Except the Order's keys didn't connect to airport toilets and weren't given to non-Order exorcists.

"You weren't supposed ta form a contract! Ya promised me ya wouldn't!"

"I wasn't going to, I just wanted to set things ri-"

"Did ya ever stop ta think what I wanted?! Did I ask fe' this?!" One moment he was sure she raised her hand to hit him again, but no. She touched her own cheek: touched it like she was more disgusted by the flawless skin than she had been by the glaring scar tissue. "Demon deals are a slipp'ry slope ta hell an' you of all people should know that! Ye're cancelling that deal right this moment, Fuji! Or so help me I'll cut my face off mese-"

"I can't, Kasumi, please hear me out, I can't."

"Of course ya fucking can!"

Kasumi was every bit Shizuku's sister when she was angry. A thumbnail tempest not giving two shits if she was yelling so the whole airport hall could hear. She gestured with her whole body, arms sweeping and hands alternating between clenching and unclenching the air.

"I can't", he urged her – pleaded her – to understand. "I bail out of this contract and my soul goes to him."

Shiro could just as well have hit her: one of those open handed hits across the face that don't really injure, just… hurt. Her eyes went dull, her mouth silent, the tempest stilled. Shocked. Uncomprehending.

"Just…" Shiro's voice wanted to waver, but it was too late for that. It was too late for everything. "Let me go and fulfil my end of the deal and we never have to think about this again. There's a letter Midori and Sen-chan should- It's an awful thing to do and I never wanted it to go this far but-"

"Your attention, please. Mr. Fujimoto Shiro is requested to please check in at gate 113, flight JAL3963 to Rome."

Shiro's head flicked towards the speakers that announced his name in the hallway. When he turned back, Kasumi had gone ghost white. Not chalk white: ghost white. As if all life had drained out of her – from her skin, from her eyes – and taken her fighting spirit with it. It was eerily quiet, after all that heated shouting. Quiet as if the pressure in the air had risen and burst their lungs apart. Quiet in a way that, when she spoke again, it made her voice ring hollow like a dead tree.

"What is yer end o' the deal, Fuji…?" She didn't want to know. But she needed to. Shiro could see her brace herself for his reply. "What are ya really going ta Rome for?"

"That's between him and me", he said softly. "Look, I don't have the time, and-"

Like a dead tree struck by lightning. Kasumi was roiling thunder, her eyes were swirling black, and there was nothing ghostly or hollow about it when she grabbed his shirt and shook him with all the force she had.

"Then use yer fuckin' time right fuckin' now or I'll make that between Pheles an' my fist!" she snarled through bared teeth. "Explain ta me! Tell me what tha fuck it is ya think ye're doing!"

Realisation hit him like a sledgehammer. Everything was clear. Everything was clear and sharp like steel strings sawing through his lungs. Samael had arranged for Kasumi to come here. Samael knew she would be furious. He knew Kasumi would seek out the only other person who held the answers Shiro wouldn't give.

"No, you-" Shiro placed his hands over hers, squeezing them to stress how important this was. His eyes darted down the hall, to the gate sign reading 113 a mere hundred metres away. "Kasumi, you don't go to Mephisto about this, whatever you do you don't; trust me, and don't contact me in Rome-"

"Trust you?! After what- I trusted you ya lying piece o' shit!" She shook him violently, trying to rid her hands of his. She was crying. Tears glittered on her cheeks and in her eyelashes but she didn't even seem to notice. "In spite 'o everything Shizzy said I decided I'd trust ya and then ya go an' do this?!"

"Please, just listen: you have to-" If time would just stop, if he could just make this stop before everything went wrong, if the situation just wouldn't slip like water between his fingers-

"I trusted ya'd love me even if I was ugly!"

"I do love you! That's why I'm doing this! You gotta trust me on this, you gotta promise me you don't go to Mephisto!"

"Why?! What did he do te ya?! What the fuck ya mean 'don't contact ya in Rome'?!" The fists that held his shirt yanked so hard he almost lost his balance. "If ya want me ta trust ya ye're gonna start giving me some fuckin' answers Fuji!"

"Attention please. This is the last call for flight JAL3963 to Rome. Passengers that have not boarded are requested to go to gate 113 immediately. This is the last call for flight JAL3963 to Rome."

"Read the letter. Goodbye Kasumi", he breathed… tore out of her grasp…

…and ran.

"Fu- Wait dammit! FUJI!"

He didn't have Kasumi's stamina. What he did have was a demon's strength, and he poured it into his legs and cleared those hundred metres at times that could have landed him a slot in the nationals. He entered the gate with one last glance over his shoulder to see Kasumi grappling with airport security when she tried to force her way through.

The flight from Japan to Rome was the worst thirteen hours of Shiro's life.

He was empty. In every way the word could be applied. The motion sickness kept him retching in a bag until there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up. His fellow passengers were less than happy but he didn't give a damn. He chain smoked his way through all three cartons he had brought onto the plane and only that indistinct sense of connection to Sayuri kept him from lighting up her cigarettes too. He needed to shoot something. He needed to work out. He needed so many things that crawled around in his gut and under his skin that he kept the seatbelt on only to keep himself from doing laps in the plane aisles. But most of all, more than anything, he was empty.

He had fucked up everything.

There was a neurotic mantra churning in his head, thirteen hours on repeat like an auto-induced brainwashing programme. Get off the plane. Get his luggage. Find a phone. Call- Shit, Kasumi didn't have an address, let alone a phone number. Shizuku would slaughter him verbally if he called the boys' dorm. Sen and Midori would do. It wouldn't be pleasant to explain to them why they had to tell Kasumi not to visit Samael but- Fuck, the time difference. The flight itself took thirteen hours, and he departed at about three in the afternoon, and the difference in time between Italy and Japan was… Screw the mathematics. If they didn't pick up he'd call later.

When the plane finally landed – bless every kami in every shrine from Hokkaido to Okinawa – Shiro barely understood speech anymore. He had been awake for 22 hours, had fasted for 16, and the only word still in his throbbing brain's dictionary was "telephone". He had to find a telephone. He had to make a call. He had to dredge up enough words to tell Midori – or Sen – what he needed them to do. But before that, he had to make out what the exit stewardess was saying to him. And stop swaying in the plane aisle.

Something about being well. That couldn't be right. He was as far from well as a human being could be, so he tried to listen in again because clearly he must have heard her wrong through the static in his head.

Something about dehydration. He remembered studying that. It was bad. The symptoms and effects he couldn't remember, but it was definitely bad, and it arose from losing excessive amounts of fluids and not drinking enough water.

The stewardess was holding forth a plastic cup to him. Shiro blinked and tried to focus. There was water in it. It still took him a moment to remember which hand he was holding his backpack in and which hand was free to accept the cup. He emptied it in one sweep. The only thing it did was to alert him to how badly his body needed water right now. And food. And a phone.

"Thanks", he slurred – which language he spoke was anyone's guess. He staggered off the plane: plastic cup in one hand, backpack in the other, and head swimming without life vest. The oily plastic smell of the disembarking corridor didn't make things better: his stomach clenched miserably but couldn't quite muster up the strength to retch again. Shiro stopped, leaning against the wall to let other passengers pass, waiting until he felt moderately steady. Then he began dragging himself towards the baggage reclaim.

It was a quarter to eight p.m. local time. Shiro's wristwatch was nearing four a.m. in Japan. It was only when he checked the time that he realised he was still holding that plastic cup. How he had managed to hold on to that, while simultaneously shouldering his backpack and picking up his suitcase, was a mystery. He discarded it in a trash bin and double-checked that he still had the suitcase, then sleepwalked his way to the information desk to ask directions to the closest payphones. The latter had their own corner near the exit, where units were mounted side by side on the walls and separated by minuscule glass screens that seemed to fill a mostly symbolic function in terms of privacy.

Shiro set his suitcase down and squinted at the prices printed on the phone. He fished the wallet out of his pocket and squinted some more to read the chart with country codes above the unit. +81 for calls to "Giappone". Good thing there were flags next to the codes, otherwise he would've missed it.

Nobody picked up at the girls' dorm. He tried calling the number twice, but the signal was never answered and the payphone returned his lire to him. He tried once at the boys' dorm, too, but no luck. Hanging up the phone, Shiro stared at the machine for the longest time. He turned the Italian lire over in his hand, looking at the stamped images and pondering his last option.

He should. He just really didn't want to.

"Laurel head and I call, lady with mohawk helmet and I don't call." He was too tired to make decisions: might as well leave it up to Hazard. Shiro singled out the 100 lire coin, flipped it, caught it, and slapped it down on the back of his hand. Laurel head. "Fuck you, Lady Chance's drunk cousin."

Shiro slipped the coins into the machine before hesitation caught up with him and dialled the number to the one person who could be expected to be up at four in the morning. The receiver crackled and buzzed, and after what seemed like an eternity there came a faint voice from the other end.

"Guten Tag~ Johann Faust the fourth speaking."

The pleasantly cheerful greeting brought Shiro out of his fatigued stupor faster than any smelling salt. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, and he was fully awake within a tenth of a second.

"Cut the crap. Why did you breach the contract?"

Kasumi's face wouldn't return to normal until after he left Japan: they had both been clear on that. Yet the magic had set in prematurely, which should mean that Shiro was absolved from his end of the deal. That made no sense, no matter how long Shiro was given to think about it during the time it took for the phone signal to reach the other end.

"Good morning, Shiro!" The voice crackled with enthusiasm over the line. "Or evening for you, I suppose. Did the flight go well?"

If the flight went well? To ensure that Samael knew exactly what he thought of that disgusting chipperness, and release some of the fuming rage that rose inside him, Shiro unleashed every curse and foul word he knew in every language he spoke. Or almost spoke.

"My, how creative: I've never heard anyone insult a dress like that." The reply was calm. Superior. In control. Shiro hated it. Everything bad about Samael condensed in that tone; that condescending arrogance, that nonchalant belittlement, that complete and utterly flippant dismissal of other people's feelings and value.

Shiro slammed a fist into the undersized glass screen hard enough to make it rattle.

"Hmm~? Did something happen?" Samael hummed blithely.

"Somebody missed the door with a baggage cart", he retorted with mock sweetness as they both knew that was a lie. "Breach: why?"

"Indeed, why would I do something like that? There has been no breach of contract. The international transit zone of an airport is no man's land: juridically, you left Japan the moment you stepped into transit in Haneda."

Shiro felt like kicking something. Or crushing something – Samael's throat would've been nice. Slippery son of a bitch, of course there had been loopholes! Shiro drew slow, calming breaths, counting the seconds they hissed in and out between his clenched teeth. The phone receiver creaked ominously in his hand.

"And the key you gave her?" His voice echoed back to him as if he had been standing in a cave, sounding taut as it strained against the tight muscles in his throat. It's one thing to use a loophole: that was still within the outlines of the contract. Sending Kasumi to see him was a different matter altogether, and that Shiro could only put down to pure wanton spite.

"Merely facilitating the severing of ties you failed to cut, seminarian Fujimoto", came the smooth, crackling response. "Loose ends turn into noose ends easily if left untended."

Shiro bared his teeth in a grimace that spelled murder. True, he had known there would be consequences if he didn't break up. But he had intended to break up. He had broken up, and in a much better way than the shitstorm he had kicked up at Haneda airport.

"I was going to break contact with her and I had left her a letter that she would have read if you hadn't gone in between and given her that goddamn key!" His voice echoed through the static buzz as if he had been shouting into a metal can. It died down, and there was static only. The silence was long enough for Shiro to wonder if the line had gone dead, and he was about to drop another coin in the slot when the answer came. It was that voice. It was the voice Samael had when he dropped the Mephisto persona and revealed the devil behind it. Smooth. Silken. Sharp, and with all the precision of a scalpel.

"How long do you plan on holding others accountable for the consequences of your weakness?"

Shiro felt like he had been run through with a spear there and then. There must be magic to that voice, for it kept ringing in his head like the echoes on the phone line. How long would he blame others? It was such a bad habit humans had, holding demons accountable for the times when their restraint and self-control hadn't been enough. Oh yes, those words gave echo: he had heard them once before, though not the exact same ones. He had heard them in Samael's office the day he had signed this god-forsaken contract. It's such a bad habit you humans have, blaming your faults on demons.

But it wasn't his fault – at least not all of it, and even if it was he shouldn't be punished for it like this, and- and- Shiro shook his head and focused on keeping his barriers together. He might not feel the fatigue, but it was there. Furthermore, demons were there – he could feel their presence pressing heavier and heavier against him as they homed in on his bleeding anger. This was not a discussion he was prepared to have, not under these circumstances. Had to prioritise.

"You're the biggest goddamn asshole that ever walked the earth and you're not doing anything to Kasumi", he hissed into the phone. "When she comes up to your office – and you know damn well she will – you're not going to harm her physically, magically, verbally, or in any other fucking way you can come up with. No matter what she says, no matter what she does, she has nothing to do with our contract and you will keep her out of it." Shiro slammed the receiver onto its arm before Samael could reply. He was done with his shit. He was done with this whole train wreck of a day and all he wanted was to get to his apartment, ward the place, and go unconscious.

"Keep your distance you little shits!" he snarled, although he didn't know if the congregating demons could actually hear him. Shiro focused on deep breaths, focused inwardly, focused on letting go and making himself unreachable, untouchable. He was in Rome, god-fucking-dammit. He could not have any slip-ups now.

It worked, it did. Massaging the scowl lines off his forehead, Shiro stalked out through the sliding door exit and was greeted by the warm Italian evening. The air smelt of sun-baked asphalt, like it hadn't rained in a while and earth was sending the sky dusty smoke signals for moisture. There were no real clouds, just a faint haze that covered the sky and dimmed the light from moon and stars. It was an evening that would have been perfect for walking, if he had trusted himself not to swerve out into the traffic.

Shiro soon spotted the sign for taxi parking at the far left of the terminal building and began walking. He had intended to take the bus originally but there was no way he could read time tables and switch between bus lines in this state. He could spend that extra bit of money on a taxi this once. The yellow cars were swarming in the dusk like overgrown fireflies, and he only had to raise his hand for one to spot him and drive over to the airport sidewalk.

…that was when Shiro discovered that his hands were empty. His backpack was still on but the suitcase was nowhere to be seen. For one panicked moment he thought he had forgotten it on the plane, only to remember that he hadn't had it on the plane, and that it must be sitting under the payphone.

Making a heel-turn and cursing under his breath, Shiro stalked back to the terminal exit just in time to slip in through the automatic sliding doors when disembarking passengers came out. He rounded the corner to the payphones and… There was no suitcase.

The bustling of voices and moving feet that filled the terminal faded into a churning background monotone around him. Shiro's brain kept repeating to him, like you do to a little child, that no matter how long he stared at the spot where the suitcase had been, it would not suddenly materialise before him. He might wish it would, but it wouldn't. The message never reached through, however, because Shiro's consciousness was being covered in a thick, rubbery coating of apathy that shut out everything. Fatigue fell back over him like a block of concrete. He was too tired for this. Too tired to care. He was done. With all of this.

"I'll call the Lost & Found tomorrow. If they have one." Shiro closed his eyes to be alone with that thought for a moment. Call tomorrow. Yes. When he had the brain capacity for it.

Swaying slightly when he turned around, Shiro dragged himself back out to the taxi parking.

A/N

Always keep your passports, money and other vital things in your backpack or storage pouch on your person and never let it out of sight. (Shiro had his stuff in his backpack, don't worry, he's still got at least that.)

Cicadas are as cool as they are bizarre. Given their life cycle it's not surprising that Buddhist tradition has used them as a metaphor for reincarnation and spiritual growth, just like the lotus; in Journey to the West a monk is likened to a cicada in how he sheds his illusions one by one during his journey and eventually achieves enlightenment. The chapter name is a flirt with a psychological horror series by the same name, also known as Higurashi No Naku Koro Ni. (It just might be the most brilliantly executed manga/anime I've seen.) There is a point with that reference, of course. It's just so very obscure and vague that it won't matter practically. (It just gives me something to chuckle contentedly about whenever I think of it. C:)

Demon karuta is something Lightning mentions in chapter 71 of the manga, as a popular way of examining prospective Arias. No discrediting Bon's effort here, I just think Shiro would better at thinking outside the box. ^_^' They have gone to quite different schools of life, and while Bon's had a lot to do with precision, tradition, and "the proper way of doing things", Shiro's had more to do with getting into sticky situations and improvising with what was on hand (sometimes not even in that order).

Girimekhala is a demonic elephant of monstrous proportions, and is said to be the mount Mara rode on when he tried to tempt the meditating Buddha.

Inflight smoking was allowed on most airlines at this time, in case some of you were surprised that Shiro could smoke three cartons without getting caught by the stewardesses. Japanese airlines didn't ban smoking on international flights until 1999, due to many Japanese sharing Shiro's bad habit. =P

Insulting dresses is not what Shiro meant to do, obviously. He was aiming for "testa di cazzo" (fuckhead) but ended up saying "vesta di cazzo" (fuckdress). Don't speak when tired and so on.

International transit zones are a funny business, but useful if you're Edward Snowden or some other person who would benefit from juridical grey zones. I can't tell you exactly how that stuff works, since it's at each country's own discretion to decide exactly how to interpret the legal status of that no man's land and the people in it.

Dear eight-orange-flowers
It's okay! Sheesh, dude, it's more than okay. x) What with me disappearing for months at a time (and being notoriously scatterbrained with replying) I wouldn't ask of you to come read my chapters at a moment's notice. Do your thing and whenever you have the time to stop by you're welcome!

/ Dimwit