This is a continuation of the previous chapter almost entirely because it's another color prompt. I couldn't help it. It just made sense to me, that I use all the color chapters to make something … interwoven.
You know, like a blanket.
Or something.
.
Brushing a thumb over a portion of yarn that had faded to pink over the years, Noa said: "What was she like, your sister?" He looked up, wonderingly. "What was her name?"
"Amane," Ryo said, sitting down and gazing fondly at the article in Noa's hands. Noa whispered the name to himself, so quietly that Ryo almost couldn't hear him. "She was always the brave one, out of the two of us," Ryo went on. "There isn't any use in me trying to pretend otherwise."
Noa was already smiling and nodding; Ryo supposed he was thinking about Mokuba.
"I still write letters to her," Ryo said. It was clear that Noa had no intention of interrupting him; not right now. He was too busy running his fingers over the yarn. "She would always want to know about my day, when I came home from school. At first, she just wanted to know what school was like. Then, when she started going herself, she wanted to compare notes. Since we went to different schools, you see." Ryo hesitated. "I guess . . . I thought, when she died, she wouldn't want me to stop telling her about my day. It never felt right to just abandon her, even if . . . even if . . ."
"Even if there is no Heaven," Noa murmured, sounding like he was offering up a prayer. "You offer up whatever you can, just in case. If they do go somewhere, then good. The words will serve their intended purpose. But if they don't . . . well, at least they aren't just sitting there, wrapped around your heart."
"Yes." Ryo nodded. "Yes, exactly."
"I think," Noa mused, "I must feel the same way about my father." He flinched, then held up a hand. "Not to say that I'm comparing Chichiue to your sister. It's just . . . I think he ought to know, even if he can't hear, even if he wouldn't care, that our name lives on. Whether he likes it or not, that name is bigger than it ever was in his day. Aniki has made us more prominent, more powerful, more influential, than Chichiue ever did. I wonder . . . would he be proud of Aniki for that? Part of me thinks he must be, but a bigger part of me hopes he isn't. I hope he hates it. I hope he's rolling in his grave, and his spirit realizes just how much time he wasted. I hope he grieves for it."
Ryo reached out and put a hand on Noa's arm.
Noa flinched again.
"I'm sorry," Ryo murmured.
"No," Noa said, "no, I'm sorry. You were talking about your sister, about Amane, and I . . ."
"Said something you needed to say. It's okay. We have all the time in the world for me to tell you about Amane. She isn't going anywhere, and neither am I."
"I should hope not," Noa said. "This is your house."
Ryo laughed, and Noa laughed, but Ryo didn't miss the fact that there were tears shimmering in Noa's eyes; the promise found its mark. Ryo was glad. If there was any part of Noa that worried Ryo might leave, for any reason, then he fully intended to exorcise it.
It was only fair, after all.