Title: And Then There Was I (Alone, Left)
Fandom: [K], Project K
Characters: Kusanagi Izumo-centric, Kushina Anna. It's intended to be gen, but go ahead and squint for some Mikoto/Izumo/Tatara and Izumo/Bar Counter.
Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.
Warnings/Summary: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, possible OOC-ness, canon character death. Kusanagi Izumo, the aftermath of being left behind.
A/N: Because I think the one who would quietly mourn behind the screen and not telling a soul would be Izumo. And because I think he'd have a hard time coping with what happened, having all the responsibility on his shoulder and bearing it single-handedly. He'd be fine, I think, but he'd also have a very hard time dealing with the fact that he's the only one left of the original trio. So here's a ficlet. Hopefully you guys will—enjoy?
A [K] Project Fanfiction
And Then There Was I (Alone, Left)
It's seven in the morning, and it is very bright outside.
The ice in his drink clinks daintily, the sound echoing in the corners of his empty bar. The liquid inside swirls as he tilts the glass this way and that while he watches slivers of morning sunrays slipping in through the curtains. The wooden floor of his bar glimmers under the light; it reminds him of scattered tears and hearts. Colors are dancing before his eyes—and isn't it funny, that he's only realized how beautiful they are now when he's seen the same exact thing every single morning?
He looks down at his drink, and thinks of blood. Thinks of the color red that turns black on the pure white snow, like a stain impossible to get rid of. Thinks of the color red that blends perfectly into a black jacket and a smile tinged with apology. Thinks of last breath, last words, last chances.
Thinks of being the last.
Maybe that's just what owning a bar means. Everyone who comes in will eventually leave, and he would forever be the last, the one to clean up the mess and put everything back in the right order and take care of stories-hearts-laughter-tears-hopes-lives scattering all over the wooden floor. He really shouldn't be too attached to some of his particular patrons, because he'll always be left behind. He's the owner, after all, he needs to stay and take care of what's left.
Even if what's left is just blood and tears and pride.
Eight years is a long time. Long enough to define happiness, long enough to carve dreams and hopes and expectation. Eight years should be long enough to compensate for the sudden goodbyes and unspoken apologies.
Except it isn't.
Grief is a terrifying thing, he thinks, feeling it stirring in his stomach, crawling up to his chest and thickens until he can't breathe. It weighs heavily, like the unspoken apology that is too reckless, and he hates it, he hates the way his King throws away all his responsibility onto his shoulder. Hates the way it makes his shoulders sag, hates the way it anchors him to reality, hates the way it forces him to stand tall.
He has so much to do, but he doesn't even know what to do now.
There's an old magazine on the counter; worn and well-loved, opened to the pagespread of a wild lion in an African savannah. He dips a finger into his drink, and dots the page with thick red droplets. The paper crinkles under the wetness of his fingertip. It makes the corner of his lips twitch up bitterly.
"I should go to Africa," he murmurs absently. The sunrays on the counter dances and sets the red alight, flickers warmly like his abandoned but lit cigarette on the ashtray. "How would you like that, huh? I'll leave and go to Africa, and your clansmen are going to kill each other when they bicker. That way Tatara will finally grow to dislike you and you'll be alone in your afterlife."
The unspoken too weighs heavily in his tongue, but he swallows it back. It tastes like regret.
"You're horrible, Mikoto."
He closes his eyes, and imagines the warm laughter trailing behind Tatara as he drags Mikoto down. Imagines one time where he holds Tatara's hand in left, and shakes Mikoto's in right. Imagines the gorgeous red blazing like life and hope and freedom, and remembers the little red glows floating up amidst the white snowflakes, the last gift from the King to their Princess, the remains of a soul who'd chosen to go down to do what he had to do.
There's never been nothing after revenges, he reminds himself. But it doesn't mean that they're not necessary either.
He'd have died trying himself, if it were him.
With a heavy sigh, he slumps on the counter, inhales the smell of the wood, expensive and filled with laughter and contented melodies. It's smooth under his fingertips, but steady and strong when he grips it. He chuckles, whispers love and regrets and curses against the counter surface, and hopes he's strong enough. Strong enough to fix things, strong enough to pick up the pieces, strong enough to take care, strong enough to fulfill his deceased friends' last wishes, strong enough to mend the bond. Their bond.
Strong enough to stand and face a tomorrow that he cannot see.
"Izumo."
He doesn't see Anna in the doorway, because he doesn't look up. But he feels her coming, feels her tiny hands tugging his leaves, and he wants to cry because he's not the one Anna suppose to tug on, but he opens his arms nonetheless and lets the little girl winds up her arms around his neck.
He smiles. "Did you have a bad dream?"
Her head shakes, tiny and quiet, but her arms tighten. He draws her into his embrace, rigid and desperate, because she's the only person who completely understands, because he's the only one left for her to hold on. He buries his face onto her hair, silky smooth and peach-scented, and remembers the day she comes, remembers the day she takes Mikoto's hand, remembers the day she curls up against Tatara, remembers the day she sits down on his lap for the first time.
"Don't go, Izumo."
The grief in his throat thickens impossibly, closes it up and bursts out through his breath. He grits down, closes his eyes and lets himself drown in tears.
-o0o-