Untitled by Kittyling Picture frames and broken glass. The photograph was held gingerly in slightly trembling hands, faded and wearing thin at the edges as though much older than it actually was. It seemed that there had been an eternity between the time it was taken and now...no, no, it had to be longer. He'd been in this room for an eternity, shadows and fluttering curtains and ghosts whispering at his ear, holding him close and letting go, leaving him empty and waiting for this eternity to end. Eyes fluttered shut and open, brilliant green and smoke gray, faceted emerald and spring leaves, scratched dull glass unseeing as a doll's eye. The bandages were long gone, taken and buried with the Rainbow Bridge and everything else that had come to pass in that time. The sharp pain didn't return as it used to, a dull ache replacing what used to be the sting of tears behind his eyes. Pain was something he tried to bury with the rest of reality, closing curtains around him and cradling himself in a sepia-tinged world of memory. Three people. They were all smiling, happy and close enough to be considered family. He could still remember how Hokuto had teased him, told him that he should give "Sei-chan" a kiss for the photograph, because it would be a great moment to capture on film; how he'd protested and blushed at that comment, how Seishirou had laughed good-naturedly at the siblings' antics. He could still remember the innocence and radiance of those days, and he wanted to lose himself in them again, wanted to erase the last ten years and start over. His hands continued to tremble as he turned the photograph over, closing his eyes; he didn't want to see the blood from that day, dried and caked and staining his clothes and skin. He wondered if it would ever wash out completely, if maybe the smell of cigarette smoke remained on him from holding Seishirou in his arms, if he could preserve it in his memory long enough that it would seem he was there again. And the whisper in his ear, drifting back to him and growing softer with each dream, reality and fantasy melding together until he wondered if Seishirou's ghost was with him now, if that was what rustled the curtains instead of the wind, what brought pink cherry blossom petals in to him from the courtyard to scatter around the room, swirling in the breeze and settling on the floor when he could bring himself to close the windows and drapes. Even now he couldn't be sure if Kamui's visits were real or simply another illusion his mind had set up for him, some lifelike enough to make him believe that they had to have happened and others more faded, dream-like and comforting in a way that he knew couldn't be true. He saw so much of himself in the younger boy that it scared him, and though he had no interest in the fate of the earth, he wanted Kamui to be happy. And the weight of scars and pain that hung heavy on the teen's shoulders and dulled the soft violet of his eyes was something Subaru didn't want to see there, didn't want Kamui to go through as he had in the past. Despite that, he couldn't bring himself to leave this room, to leave the memories and return to the reality that he knew would strip him and leave him more raw and bleeding than he already was. And somehow, reality didn't matter anymore. Wind rustled the dark curtains, tired emerald watching as cherry blossom petals swirled into the room as so many times before--and now they were blood red, drifting to the floor and dissolving in beautiful pools of crimson, dripping through the cracks of wood panels and soaking into them. The breeze caught at the photograph in Subaru's hands, pulling it from him and the 13th head of the Sumeragi clan could only watch in silence as the thin slip of paper swirled once through the room and disappeared through the open window. A memory gone. Weary eyes closed; a moment in silence, and then a trembling breath catching and sounding nearly like a sob, shuddering as tears threatened to spill for the first time in a week...had it really only been that long? The ghost's whisper was at his ear, and he pressed his head into the back of the armchair, losing himself again. He opened his lips to speak, a voice unused for so long that it cracked, a barely-heard murmur to an unseen visitor. "Seishirou-san..." Some things that are broken can't be repaired. return to splash page