a/n;; written for yuletide 2010, for rochelin.

Months pass by, and people begin to forget.

Whispers of Dollars and dullahans and Saika fade into oblivion, carried away by the sweeping tide that is Ikebukuro, replaced once more by common schoolyard gossip and urban legends. It's as if the slate has been wiped clean – what's done is done, show's over, nothing to see here folks. Kida's blood and Shizuo's blood and the blood of countless others has been washed from the pavement, and not a single stain remains to remind them of what once was.

Time to look towards the future. That is the thought that echoes in every silence, every break in the conversation, every meaningful glance exchanged.

But Mikado can't forget, no matter how hard he tries.

He spends most of his time at home now, browsing through old news clippings and message boards. He's not entirely sure what he's looking for. Proof of his own existence, maybe? Proof that once upon a time, he created an army of ghosts. A battalion of the imperceptible, of which he was the most imperceptible of all.

It happened.

… Right?

You should stop living in the past, Setton tells him. There are people out there who are waiting for you.

Who? he asks.

Your friends, Setton types after a long moment of hesitation. But there are no "friends" now that he is gone. There is only Anri and her apathetic eyes, staring past him or through him but never at him. There is only Anri and her false smiles, Anri and her cheerless laughter, Anri and her detached distance as they walk together, side by side.

Even so close to one another, there is an endless chasm between them, created from the empty place where he used to be. The rift grows deeper and deeper and with each passing day the words he spoke on the rooftop those few months ago sound more and more like a lie.

"He'll come back."

But was he ever there in the first place?

.

.

It is a Tuesday night when Mikado feels a change in the steady pulse of Ikebukuro. Something stirs abruptly – reawakens – and there is a subtle shiver like a distant thunderclap, reverberating through the air. It gives him pause, and he looks up from his obsessive browsing, trying to place the disturbance. There is something strangely familiar about it, this disturbance. Something with a recognizable signature.

(A piece of the puzzle falling back into place.)

Mikado decides that it is high time to take Setton's advice. He throws on a coat and steps out the door, walking with a purpose for the first time in a long time.

He takes a deep breath and heads for the place where it all began.

.

The metro station is peaceful this late at night. The hustle and bustle of the daytime is no more, and the cool female voice on the PA mingles with the rush of oncoming trains.

It's quiet.

And then:

"Mikado!"

He turns, surprise written on his face. (Just like it's supposed to be.)

"Kida-kun?"

"What? Are you doubting that it's really me, Mikado? Then I'll give you three choices! One: Kida Masaomi! Two: Kida Masaomi! And three: Kida Masaomi!"

Life is like a neverending circle, Mikado thinks. A möbius strip of memory and thought and emotion. Each time history repeats itself, something small changes, some tiny flaw that disrupts the sense of déjà vu. Most of the time it's impossible to see. But it's there all the same.

Mikado pulls his friend into a tight embrace, just to make sure he's not dreaming.

.

They sit in the park, on the swings that hardly support their weight. The rusty chains creak and groan, and their breath billows in soft white clouds as it hits the cold air.

"It's nice to see you again," Mikado says, each syllable enunciated with painful formality. "I'm glad... I'm glad that you're alright."

Kida's eyes flicker towards him, and a sad smile tugs at his lips. "Worried about me, Mikado-kun?"

"Yes."

"You're such a nice guy," Kida laughs, and there is a bitter edge to his voice that wasn't there before. "I missed that."

Before, Mikado might have read a deeper meaning into Kida's words. Now, he takes them at face value. What they have now is nothing more, nothing less.

"Are you still with Saki-san?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'together'." He pushes himself forward on the swing, cheeks flushed by the cold. His tone is evasive and weary, as if talking about himself takes too much effort.

"Do you still love her?" Mikado asks.

"Hmm... I'm not sure. Do you still love Anri-chan?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

Kida laughs again. A hollow sound. "Yeah," he murmurs. "You wouldn't."

Mikado mulls over his friend's words. There are things in Kida's eyes that only he can see, and unspoken words between them that only he can hear. There is an ease in their manner – or at least, there used to be – that Mikado has never found elsewhere. There used to be a time when they didn't need to speak, because everything was spoken for.

But it's been too long. Now, there is only silence.

"Have things changed much, since I left?"

"No... No, not really." It feels strange to say it, like it's some terrible secret he's been keeping these past few months. Nothing has changed. What a revelation. "The Black Rider is still as mysterious as ever, and Heiwajima-san still gets angry and throws things around, and Yumasaki-san and Karisawa-san still act strangely whenever I see them."

"I see," Kida murmurs. "That's good." He scuffs his shoes in the dirt, brow knit together in a way that makes him look years older.

"Where… where have you been this whole time, Kida-kun? Where did you go?" It's the question that's been plaguing him for ages now, and it tumbles from his lips haphazardly, eager to be spoken.

Kida levels his blank eyes with Mikado's own.

"Everywhere," he says. "And nowhere at all."

.

.

The hotel is a little on the sketchy side, and Masaomi glances around warily as he searches for his key. He feels guilty, making Saki stay in such a place, but they're running dangerously low on funds. And she knows he'll protect her, if worse comes to worst. Masaomi turns the key in the lock and steps inside, frowning at the smell of old cigarettes that lingers in the place. Saki is waiting for him, just like she always is, sitting on the bed with her hands folded delicately in her lap.

"Welcome back," she says.

A gust of wind brushes the back of his neck as the door swings shut behind him. A hand snakes its way on to his shoulder, and Masaomi can feel the sharpness of the man's smile without even seeing it. He leans in close until his lips are almost brushing the shell of Masaomi's ear, and the boy shudders as a familiar terror prickles his skin.

"Yes, Kida-kun," the man whispers. "Welcome back."