Summary: pa·ros·mi·a [pəroz′mē·ə] n. A distortion of the sense of smell, as in smelling odors that are not present. Subaru learns that people aren't haunted only by restless spirits.

Warning: Seisub, violence and violent imagery. Character death of a minor character introduced solely to be killed (sorry unnamed OC). Shamelessly obvious flirting on the part of said minor character, obliviousness on the part of everyone's favorite onmyouji. Nicotine, cigarettes (does that count as drug abuse?). Angst and dysfunctional relationships, masochism and sadism. Lastly, Seishirou. Because he's a warning in himself.

Disclaimer: Don't own X. Because if I did, it wouldn't still be unfinished.

A/N: This takes place between the end of TB and the start of X.

"Do you mind?"

It haunts him like a phantom, like the black demon-fog he sometimes finds at his areas of work. His toes are going numb from maintaining seiza for so long, but he keeps his hands folded neatly in his lap, his face expressionless. Obaa-san takes a sip from her green tea beside him, pristine in her pressed kimono even as the minister of goodness knows what holds up that slim white stick.

"Yes, I do."

It slips out before he can stop it, and the minister freezes, lighter flame flickering pathetically out as his grandmother whips around, stunned.

"Subaru-san!"

The end of the minister's cigarette glows dully. A dusting of grey ash floats down, and Subaru's hand tighten to fists in his shikifuku; the minister smokes Mild Sevens. He offers the man an empty smile and an even emptier apology: no, that wasn't what he meant at all though it might have come across wrongly, please excuse him. A moment of nervous laughter and niceties, then a click, a spark, and the smoke begins to rise again.

Subaru closes his eyes, breathes deep.

...

It wasn't raining.

In the midst of life we are in death.

Tokyo, concrete jungle, city of steel and glass. Light reflects off every surface, bouncing back and forth till he feels almost as if he is trapped in a expertly cut diamond miles and miles wide. And in the cacophony of light and sound, Subaru feels fragile. A clear, sharp sound resonates through the crystal madness like a thread of tension, and he feels like he might shatter any moment into a thousand dazzling pieces, just as easy as the glass kaleidoscope of skyscrapers. It is a ringing in his ears that he isn't quite sure is real or imaginary.

We commit her body to the earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

It wasn't raining, but he thinks he might feel better if it was.

Calls from Kyoto have bogged his answering machine for a week or two, but he knows that the composition of gears and metal is programmed to announce his messages out loud as it records them, so he tries to stay out and takes care to give it a wide berth while at home. Or rather, while at his apartment. He has not had a home since… since the anniversary of this date.

Half of him died on this date some years back—two, three? The days fly past and he counts them no longer, wandering aimlessly forward in a endless blur of

(ash blood smoke)

—the smell is a phantom smell; it is the ghost of a funeral that cannot possibly exist in the middle of a Shinjuku intersection, but he smells it all the same. It is the smell that stood out to him most on this date those years ago, that muted the Buddhist mantras and the clicking of the juzu, the murmuring of condolences and even the roar of the flames.

It is the smell of ash, mingling with the sakura growing between the graves. Ash, supplemented with the barest hint of…

He whips around, searching for the source of the acrid odor with eyes wide, so sure he was for a short moment that the smell is real. He fixes onto a black-suited man wearing sunglasses, but the man jerks a little, disconcerted under the sudden green stare, and he knows at once that it isn't him. The salaryman walks around him, giving him a wide berth and trying to ignore his relieved (disappointed) gaze.

Subaru continues on, the phantom smell lingering in his nostrils.

...

pa·ros·mi·a [pəroz′mē·ə]

n. A distortion of the sense of smell, as in smelling odors that are not present.

It's a terrible smell. It's stale acid that floats on air, acrid in his nostrils and pungent down his throat. He can always smell it and its like a whole new form of torture, like ghostly hands pouring concentrate ammonia down his throat, except he can't run from these hands no matter how he squirms or fights.

He would probably be pleased to know.

That he finds himself in the smoking area of a bar-cum-restaurant somewhere in Ikebukuro is purely because he is waiting for a client—or is she perhaps an ex-client? He has finished the job, but she wants to meet him again. Evening has long faded into night and the city never sleeps. His client is running late, and he is sitting in the open, lighted by the flashes of colored lights so characteristic of Tokyo's nightlife. There had been no indoor seats when he had arrived (the peak hours have passed but the waitress took one look at his blank, blank eyes and let him be and now there is barely anyone in there and everyone out here) and thus he sits right by the railings that partitions the restaurant's space from the pavement outside.

A man eyes him from a short distance away, and he supposes that he must look quite the odd one sitting here all by himself surrounded by clubbers and drinkers. Once upon a time he may have blushed and bashfully run away to find somewhere else to sit, but that time is long past. Now, he simply returns the man's stare evenly until the man blinks and bites his lips, eyes flickering away for a split-second. Subaru sweeps his gaze away, down into his almost-empty glass. A moment later, he is surprised when a hand plants itself on his table. He looks up to find the same man looming over him with a grin probably crafted to look as friendly as possible. He does not smile back.

"What's a guy like you doing sitting here all alone?"

Subaru considers the man for a moment before answering.

"Waiting."

The man seats himself in the opposite seat in a single smooth movement. He raises an arm and a waiter nods from across the tables before continuing to set down his load of glasses. The man turns back to Subaru and smiles again.

"For someone?"

"Yes."

"You've been waiting an awfully long time," At that moment, the waiter arrives, and Subaru's new companion leans a little forward, "So how about I buy you a drink? It seems like you're nearly out anyway."

He gestures down at Subaru's glass.

"I'll have a gimlet," he says to the waiter, not turning away from Subaru even as he does, "What would you like?"

"You don't have to buy me a drink."

"Just give me this little indulgence. It's been a rather uneventful night."

For a moment, Subaru wonders if he should be insulted that he's indirectly been referred to as some source of entertainment. But its better to be entertainment than (to me this is no different from kicking a pebble across the road) a pathetic bore, Hokuto would have said once. So Subaru looks down at the menu the waiter has laid open in front of him, and picks the first thing he sees.

"I'll have a Jack Rose."

"Classic cocktail. Good choice."

Subaru can't tell the difference, but he doesn't correct the man. He casts his gaze somewhere off to the sea of people ambling by him as his companion confirms their orders with the waiter. For a moment he thinks he sees light reflecting across black shades in the opposite alleyway, but a woman rushes by, yanking a screaming child by the hand, and he realizes that its just the shadowy side mirrors of a motorcycle leaning against the wall.

"—to Japan?"

Subaru blinks and quickly returns his attention to the man sitting opposite him. Even if he's never too eager for conversation these days, the politeness ingrained in him by years and years of his grandmother's strict mentorship is something not so easily shrugged off.

"Sorry?"

The man taps a cigarette out and slouches back, draping one arm over the back of his seat. In direct contrast to the man's casual posture, Subaru sits straight, hands folded modestly in his lap.

"What brings you to Japan?"

A spark, and smoke begins to rise. Subaru frowns, confused.

"I live here."

The man nods, understanding flashing over his face as he pockets his lighter and takes a long drag.

"Ah, I see," he says, "Have you lived here all your life or did you migrate here?"

A thick puff of smoke wafts over the table, and Subaru feels his heart clench. He does not tell the man to stop, instead, he picks up his glass and takes a sip. The sharp burn of alcohol does not distract him from the acid burning down his nostrils and down his throat, settling in his body like a purring monster and clawing at the inside of his ribcage with its bloody talons.

"I'm Japanese. I've only recently moved to Tokyo, but I've lived in Kyoto all my life."

He didn't think that his accent was too different from the typical ones he heard here in Tokyo. Years of living here had definitely had an effect on his speaking, though he wasn't too sure what Obaa-san thought of that. But the point was, he didn't think that his accent was that out of the ordinary that he'd be mistaken by a fellow citizen as a foreigner.

The chair grinds across the floor as the man stands up, and Subaru jerks back in his seat as the man leans across the table to squint at his face.

"Are you… wearing contacts? I've never seen green eyes on a local."

A glance at the man reveals dark brown eyes, and a cursory sweep over the table he'd come from reveals varying shades of black to brown. Subaru doesn't think that green eyes are such a rarity that he'd be mistaken as a foreigner. Hokuto had had green eyes as well, though they were identical twins so that probably didn't count. If there was anyone with a strange eye-color it'd be Sei—

Don't think about him!

It is a defense mechanism. The first thing that shuts down is his heart. Like metal shutters in those American movies that slam down in "emergency lockdown" situations. The only difference is that this it is a cold, grey feeling he feels inside, rather than blaring sirens and flashing red lights. Grey, grey and dead as ash, and it congeals in his body like tar and makes him feel nauseous. The first thing that shuts down is his heart, the second is his mind. Steel gates cut the thought ruthlessly down before it can emerge fully. It stems the flow of memories like a dam, stifles all other thoughts along with it. The third thing that shuts down is a side-effect of the sudden shock of lockdown; the third thing that shuts down is his body.

His fingers loosen around the slim neck of his cocktail glass. A sharp smash marks the impact of glass to ground. He is numb even as his companion cries out in concern, and as a waitress comes over with a broom and dustpan, and another with a mop to clean up the mess.

"Your hand is trembling," the man notes with some concern, and yes, it is, "It's the cigarette, isn't it? How inconsiderate of me."

Yes. Put it away. Please put it away.

"Have you run out? I hate it when that happens, I get all cranky and—"

And then he presses the lighted cigarette into Subaru's hand. The unspoken suggestion keeps him in numbed silence as the stranger digs out a second cigarette and lights it. After a moment of inaction, the man prompts him again.

"Go on, take a drag. You'll feel better afterwards. I always do."

(ash blood smoke)

The smoke burns on the way down, like the phantom smell that he can always detect, but a hundred times stronger. His breath comes right back up in a coughing fit the moment it hits the back of his throat, and he is not so emotionless that he cannot feel embarrassed at that. But his companion only reaches over to pat his arm with a look of sympathy.

"Slowly," he soothes, "You haven't had one all day, have you?"

Subaru does not bother to correct him, but before he can wonder what could possibly entice smokers to do such a terrible thing to themselves, the euphoria hits. It's a light-headed tingling that spreads through his body. It's like that one time he'd accidentally gotten drunk after having spiked punch at a bar with Hokuto, except he thinks that he can still walk straight. The next inhale goes down a little more smoothly, and though he still feels the beginnings of a coughing fit, he is able to suppress it to a small cough or two. He clears his throat after the third, and by the fourth, the urge to cough his lungs out is mostly gone.

The smoke still burns his throat on the way down, but uncontrollable hacking out of the way, the smell overwhelms him. It envelops him in a sinful embrace and fills him up to the brim. He knows that its nothing but air, but he feels like his lungs are filled with tar. It seeps through his ribcage, down to his abdomen, spreads through his limbs, it melts over his heart and pours in through the gaps and congeals in his veins. That smell, ash and must and acrid staleness, it swallows him right up, inside and out; owns him, holds him.

He takes another drag, and closes his eyes.

"Sumeragi-san!"

The dark, dark smoke comes out in a long breath, and opening his eyes slowly, he stares half-lidded over the sea of people to the woman in the pink trench coat, waving at him. As she comes right up to him, he recognizes her as his ex-client in a daze of calm relaxation.

"Ano, I'm so sorry I'm late! I was at Shibuya buying something and… you know how busy the trains get," she eyes the man sitting opposite him, "And this is?"

"Just a random stranger," the man answers smoothly, as he gives the girl a cursory once-over, "I'll just be taking my leave."

From that appraising look he'd given her, Subaru wonders if they'll get together once he leaves.

His ex-client is a young woman just a little younger at him, she throws him a smile wider than he deserves and slips deftly under the railing to take the seat the man had just left. It takes a moment for him to remember her name.

"Nakamura-san," he greets quietly, "Konbanwa."

He takes another inhale, careful not to take too deep a drag; the smoke still irritates his throat. Nakamura eyes the cigarette.

"I didn't know you smoked, Sumeragi-san."

It is a statement to which he has no answer, and so he says nothing. He takes another slow drag, and has the courtesy to exhale away from Nakamura. There is a moment of silence before she quickly picks the conversation back up, probably realizing that he is not about to answer.

"Ano… It's getting colder now so I…." she is fidgeting with a single shopping bag in her lap, "I got you a a present!"

The last part of her sentence comes out in a rush as she shoves the bag at him. It is an instinctive reaction to receive it from her, and he notices that her face is a bright red. He wonders what is it about today that has everyone buying things for him.

"You can open it, if you'd like," she urges him, so he does so.

She has gotten him a bright red scarf. It is made of a thick, warm wool with tassels at the ends. Courtesy drives him to drape it around his neck and offer her a smile, small as it is. The wool is a little scratchy against the back of his neck, but he ignores it.

"Thank you," he tells her quietly, "You have good eye."

It is something that Hokuto would have dressed him in. In color if not in material.

"Then you like it?" she asks somewhat hopefully, and Subaru offers her a smile he hopes is reassuring. Once upon a time, smiles came easily to him. Nowadays, he sometimes feels as if he has forgotten how to.

"I like it very much, Nakamura-san."

"You can call me Mitsuki."

Subaru folds the paper bag up neatly and places it in his lap.

"Alright then, Mitsuki-san."

He does not ask her to call him Subaru, and as the girl's expression falls ever so slightly, he wonders if she was expecting him to.

"You don't have to feel like you owe me something," he tells her kindly, "You've already paid me for my services. And its not a big deal. It was only a small exorcism. I do this for a living anyway,"

"Yes… yes…" she laughs a little nervously, "Of course."

"Shall I walk you to the train station?" he asks courteously, "It's dark already."

Nakamura shakes her head.

"I live nearby, so I'll be fine."

She turns and disappears so quickly into the crowd that Subaru is tempted to turn around and see if there are any malevolent spirits loitering behind him. A touch of fingertips to his elbow grabs his attention.

"She was gone pretty fast," says the stranger from before, though he doesn't sound very disappointed at all, "What a pity."

Subaru shrugs.

"Can I buy you another drink?"

"I'm about to go home now."

The man pauses, and sets his drink down on his table. His friends watch on with startling intensity.

"I was about to go back too. How about we walk together?"

Subaru shrugs, and the man leans over the table and grabs his bag, slinging it across his shoulders.

"Alright, let's go then," he turns to his friends, "Look's like I've got someone to sit the ride home with. I'll see you guys tomorrow."

They walk through the crowd for little, and then Subaru slips into one of the alleys. The alleyways are confusing to some, but he's familiar with them. They grant some breathing space and a little quiet compared to the hustle and bustle of the main streets, and Subaru isn't quite afraid of being assaulted in the dark.

"You know the back streets quite well, huh?" his companion comments, "We're both together so nothing should happen."

Subaru balances the cigarette between his lips and slip his hands into his pockets. He closes his eyes and takes another drag, then holds the cigarette between his fingertips as he exhales and tilts his head up to watch it floating away in the cold night air. It rises lazily up towards the moon like a storm cloud, blocking out the light until it eventually dissipates. Even then, the smell of cigarettes linger on. Subaru sighs quietly, and in the fading noise of the streets behind them, his companion turns to look at him, but thankfully says nothing. They are far in enough now that it is silent apart from the muted blasting of music and the sounds of activity from the dark blocks around them.

"Nice gloves," his companion says suddenly, "Is that genuine leather?"

Subaru doesn't particularly feel like talking, but he doesn't need to. The man reaches over as if to take hold of Subaru's hand, whether to remove the glove or to simply hold it, Subaru never finds out. At that moment, someone grabs hold of the man's wrist before he can make contact, and then Subaru freezes as a familiar scent fills his nostrils.

(ash blood smoke)

The light scent of sakura.

"I think it would be best," says a familiar voice, low and pleasant and perfectly reasonable, "If you'd refrain from touching things that don't belong to you."

His companion turns around with a frown and then cranes his head up and up; he steps back a little.

"Well, I think it would be best, mister," he says a little less pleasantly, "If you'd refrain from interfering in other's people's business."

That grip tightens cruelly, and the man yelps as his wrist-bones creak a little from the force of those killer's fingers.

"On the contrary," the Sakurazukamori says, his voice as low and rich as wine and blood, "Subaru-kun is my business. Anything that concerns him, concerns me."

It is a measure of how gone he is that it occurs to him only as a sidethought to take out his ofuda. Sakurazukamori, he reminds himself. Enemy. Hunter. Murderer. He turns around, but Seishirou's slow drawl stops him cold.

"Now, now, Subaru-kun," he says slowly, sounding almost amused, "Let's keep the toys in the box, shall we? After all, we wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

Subaru catches on immediately to the subtle threat.

"Leave him alone, Seishirou-san," he hisses.

Seishirou drops the man's wrist to turn to him, taking off his sunglasses as he does so. Golden eyes are strangely hungry as he fixates on Subaru with a hunter's stare. When he moves forward, it is with a strange, rolling grace that is at once beautiful and intensely frightening. He bears an uncanny resemblance to a black panther, all black in his dark suit and his black shirt and his black pants and black shoes. His eyes are the luminescent yellow of a hunter-cat, and even beneath his black, black suit, his muscles ripple subtly with every precise movement.

Subaru takes a step back out instinct, and finds himself up against the wall. Under Seishirou's hawk-yellow eyes, he is aghast to feel himself stirring. His stomach clenches, pupils dilate. Whether it is the anticipative rush of adrenaline, or is the the helpless feeling of being hunted he does not know. He freezes like a petrified deer, white and wide-eyed against the bare wall. The burning end of his lit cigarette could probably be used as a surprise weapon, but it dangles forgotten between his fingers.

"H-hey!" his companion, who he has forgotten about until now, yelps, "I don't know who you think you are but—"

In a whirl of black, Seishirou catches the man by his throat, hoisting him up against the opposite wall. He chokes, clawing at the iron fingers around his throat, and Subaru regains his voice.

"Stop it! He's innocent. He's just a passerby."

"Ah, but when passerbys look, they want to touch. And when they touch," with a deft twist of his wrist, there is a sickening snap and a wet gurgle, "Then they are guilty."

Subaru winces and averts his eyes as Seishirou allows the corpse to fall to the floor, head bent at an unnatural angle. He steps over the dead body. As he walks away from it, there is a rustle of wind and the scent of sakura strengthens for a moment. Pink petals rush over the body like ants, and when it withdraws a moment later, there is not a speck on the ground to hint at what has happened.

"Still as innocent as always I see, Subaru-kun," Seishirou comments pleasantly, "You never seem to realize how beautiful you are."

The words themselves should have been flattering, should have made him feel like something. But the absent way it's said tears all compliment away until the words are bare. The naked words are not a lie, but they are nothing without the emotions behind them. Seishirou won't feel, cannot feel, will never feel for him. Seishirou reaches out to stroke his cheek with the hand he'd used to singlehandedly snap the man's neck just a moment ago. It is a gross disrespect to the dead stranger, but Subaru does not even flinch away, so desperate is he for a touch, unkind or not. He closes his eyes as he feels strong knuckles brush down his cheekbone.

"A little bit of want is always healthy, I would think," Seishirou says quietly, "Beautiful possessions should always be envied. But when wanting turns to touching, then that is unacceptable. Because touching means that they think they can actually have you. And they cannot have what is mine."

"I thought I was just an object to you," Subaru tries for a challenging tone, but his voice comes out quiet and broken instead of sharp and defiant, "Why do you even care?"

A smirk lifts Seishirou's lips, but it is far from the friendly expressions of those years ago.

"Are you hoping that I could possibly care for you?" he asks, and Subaru feels his heart break a little more, "People and objects. I cannot tell the difference. But it matters not when I can differentiate between what is mine and what is not."

You are a object. But you are my object.

Subaru doesn't know whether to cry with heartbreak or with elation, but in the end when he feels his eyes burn it is due to neither. In the end, when his vision glosses over with a watery sheen, it is due to the helpless horror at himself that he could feel happy at the thought that if he was a thing, at least he was Seishirou's. It's settling for second-best. Because he doesn't deserve, nor can he ever have what he truly wants. If he can't mean something to Seishirou the way he wants to, then he'll be happy meaning something this way. The ground swims and blurs. Light catches in the shine of his tears, until he can't see anything but a blur of white.

"You cry such lovely tears."

The would-be compliment only makes his eyes brim up, tears clinging precariously to his lower lashes like crystals balanced right on the edge of the precipice. Seishirou smiles tenderly as he reaches forward to take Subaru's limp hand gently in his. The cigarette still lies forgotten between his fingers. Seishirou pries it from him it and holds it between his own lips as he peels the glove off. Black, black smoke wafts into Subaru's face, and he does not flinch from it. With the lit cigarette held in his free hand, Seishirou kisses the bare skin of Subaru's knuckles. He shivers as the inverted stars flare up, but says nothing. Seishirou smiles at him, and casually slips his sunglasses back on as he takes another drag from the cigarette.

His fingers close cruelly around Subaru's wrist, grinding the bones painfully together as he stubs the cigarette out in Subaru's bare palm. As Subaru cries out, he grabs the ends of the red scarf.

"But I always think," he murmurs gently, looping the long scarf around Subaru's neck twice, "That you look prettier in red."

He yanks, and Subaru's hands fly up to the fabric constricting around his throat as he stumbles helplessly forward into a strong, broad chest. A tear rolls down his cheek with the jerking motion, and Seishirou leans down to kiss it away.

"That woman wanted you as well," he comments viciously, "Both of them. But you didn't notice, did you?"

"Not everyone wants me," Subaru gasps, "To most people I'm a person, not a object to be had."

The scarf tightens around his throat, and his next breath is cut off. The cigarette drops to the floor.

"All actions are driven by a need for some kind of gratification," Seishirou tells him, "People always say to be aware that other people are all persons in their own right. But it's all words. They rarely truly understand the concept. That's the reason why people gossip, why people are cruel, why people are selfish, why they complain about unfairness and why they expect others to compromise on their behalf and call them selfish when they don't. In the end, everyone sees other people as objects. Its just a matter of whether they see it, and if they do, whether they admit it to themselves or not."

Subaru hits his fists helplessly against Seishirou's chest as his vision begins to dim at the corners. Unfazed, Seishirou transfers the ends of the scarf into one hand and grabs a pale wrist with his freed hand. He kisses the angry red burn from the cigarette, and smiles.

"You do look so very pretty in red."

In the dark shades, Subaru sees himself; his pale skin tinted almost blue by the dark hue of the glass, eyes dazed and his shock of black hair only making him look whiter. Green is the only color on him; he has taken to wearing black now in perpetual mourning. Green and red are complimentary colors, he thinks somewhat deliriously, and the thought comes to him in Hokuto's voice. When complimentary colors are put together, they make each other look brighter! A thick swath of bright red separates his head from his body. In the shadows, it looks like wine— like blood.

He sees himself as Seishirou sees him, and he looks like he's been decapitated.

With a savage yank, the scarf is torn from his throat. It flutters to the ground some distance away, but Subaru does not care. Blood rushes back to his head as he takes in a deep gulp of air. He collapses like a marionette to the floor as his vision goes black. When he looks back up, the Sakurazukamori is gone as if he'd never been.

The stubbed cigarette smokes weakly by his right hand. The dying scent mingles with the barest smell of sakura. And the metallic tang of blood. Subaru can no longer tell if the smell is real. He curls his fingers into tight fists, digging his nails purposely into the burn to remind himself, to ground himself. It is an x-marks-the-spot, it is a country flag stuck arrogantly into foreign soil, it is a mark that says: Seishirou was here.

The scarf lies discarded on the floor, a trail of implied violence like murder clues.

...

Later, he'll return home to find a wine-red bundle folded neatly and conspicuously on his dining table. It will be a deep crimson, not the saturated, maraschino cherry-red of the scarf possibly still lying discarded in a dark alley. It will be made of silky cashmere, undoubtedly expensive and quite unlike the dubiously middle-ranged wool he'd gotten in a Shibuya shopping bag. There will be no card, but the return address will be written in the scent of sakura, blood, and smoke that lingers in the finely woven threads.

Standing in front of his apartment window that overlooks Tokyo at night, he will stare at his darkened reflection superimposed over the twinkling skyscrapers, and he will wrap the scarf around his neck. He will tighten it until he is just a little short of breath, stare at his beheaded self, and imagine that his breathlessness is from a punctured lung; and imagine that the pain in his chest is from a hand through his heart.

(take me hurt me kill me)

The scarf will never be worn. It will be kept away in the back of his wardrobe, far away from his other clothes. He will take it out once in a while with gloved hands and press his face into it. He tries not to touch it more than he strictly should. Sooner or later, the smell of the detergent he uses to clean his house will still replace the original scent of the soft fabric.

...

One day, Subaru carefully opens his wardrobe and reaches purposely towards the very back. He draws out a woven trail of blood and buries his face in it, searching desperately for a fading scent. All he smells is mothballs, the faint smell of detergent, and the wood of his closet. He wraps the scarf around his neck, and watches his pale corpse in the bathroom mirror. The sight is one meant only for an absent man. A razor lies on his basin, but his blood should be drawn only by his beloved killer.

That day, he walks down to the vending machine in the lobby of his apartment. He buys a pack of cigarettes and has a smoke before bed.

When he dreams, he dreams of rows and rows of tombstones, interspersed with flowering sakura. Mourners say their last goodbyes to charred bones as they are lowered into an open grave. Buddhist monks chant their mantras. Click, click, click, goes the juzu. A wind blows, carrying the scent of sakura and— Subaru turns around. A man stands underneath a faraway bough. His eyes are hidden by dark shades, but they are undoubtedly fixed on the funeral procession. He leaves only once the ground is whole again, hiding that significant plot of land, now marked only by a grey slab of marble.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Subaru feels himself disintegrating in the wind.

...

Snip, snip, snip.

Hokuto's ghost falls away in discarded locks of black. When he next sees himself, passing by the display windows of a shop in busy Shibuya, Hokuto is no longer shrouded in cigarette smoke and debauchery. Her eyes are no longer dead and there is no black tar congealing in her lungs. There is no tar squelching in her heart with every contraction meant for her murderer, spreading through her corrupted veins.

In the shop window, a dead-eyed stranger is lost amidst a never-ending tide of faceless shadows.

A/N: Hi. First foray into X fanfic. Here at your service, forever tainting fandoms with dubious writing ...*retreats quietly*

(Is it just me, or is the terrible line breaks and the way FF. net censors out ungrammatical breaks particularly annoying? I have to settle for an ellipsis, an actual punctuation, as a break.)

Review?