Sometimes, in the time before leaving the bar for the day, Izumo had looked at his two best friends with something soft in his eyes. He knew—how could he not?—that Mikoto blamed himself for making both of them his clansmen; just like he knew that both Tatara and himself didn’t mind being his clansmen at all.
It certainly wasn’t something he’d expected, all those years ago when he’d met Mikoto and the years later when he first met Tatara—but he didn’t mind.
At that time, it was hard to imagine a life where Mikoto didn’t become their king, where the three of them didn’t become friends (or whatever word best described them now).
But that was before. Before the night not so long ago where he’d been called to a rooftop and watched one of his best friends die in Yata’s arms. Before he had to call Mikoto, not for the first time, and tell him some bad news—though this was by far the worst news he’d ever had to share.
Before Mikoto’d caught the Colorless King, and before his two best friends were hopefully reunited.
After, it was still hard to imagine a life where Mikoto didn’t become the Red King, where they didn’t take his hands. It was easier to imagine a world where Tatara never told them the warning he’d gotten from Anna, where he didn’t share the fears that Blue (Shiotsu) had planted, where Mikoto shut them out even more than he did.
Even a world where they didn’t have the words (or they weren’t discovered that day), or their words were different—not each other’s or not the same, or not all three of theirs—was easier to imagine than a world where they didn’t take Mikoto’s hands.
Now he was alone, though. Not really alone—he had the rest of Homra still; Anna, Yata, Kamamoto, and the others. But he was still alone, in a way. Tatara’d never whine at him and sprawl against him like that’d help his case again (it usually didn’t). Mikoto’d never break something in the bar smile slightly at the antics of his clansmen, or ask Izumo for food even though he could get it himself.
They were gone now. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what he’d done to deserve that.
(Rationally, he knows that’s not how it works. His thoughts aren’t always rational, for all his spoken words are.)
okay I posted a quickly written thing /flees into the night and sleeps
He couldn't even begin to understand what he'd done to deserve this
It certainly wasn’t something he’d expected, all those years ago when he’d met Mikoto and the years later when he first met Tatara—but he didn’t mind.
At that time, it was hard to imagine a life where Mikoto didn’t become their king, where the three of them didn’t become friends (or whatever word best described them now).
But that was before. Before the night not so long ago where he’d been called to a rooftop and watched one of his best friends die in Yata’s arms. Before he had to call Mikoto, not for the first time, and tell him some bad news—though this was by far the worst news he’d ever had to share.
Before Mikoto’d caught the Colorless King, and before his two best friends were hopefully reunited.
After, it was still hard to imagine a life where Mikoto didn’t become the Red King, where they didn’t take his hands. It was easier to imagine a world where Tatara never told them the warning he’d gotten from Anna, where he didn’t share the fears that Blue (Shiotsu) had planted, where Mikoto shut them out even more than he did.
Even a world where they didn’t have the words (or they weren’t discovered that day), or their words were different—not each other’s or not the same, or not all three of theirs—was easier to imagine than a world where they didn’t take Mikoto’s hands.
Now he was alone, though. Not really alone—he had the rest of Homra still; Anna, Yata, Kamamoto, and the others. But he was still alone, in a way. Tatara’d never whine at him and sprawl against him like that’d help his case again (it usually didn’t). Mikoto’d never
break something in the barsmile slightly at the antics of his clansmen, or ask Izumo for food even though he could get it himself.They were gone now. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what he’d done to deserve that.
(Rationally, he knows that’s not how it works. His thoughts aren’t always rational, for all his spoken words are.)
okay I posted a quickly written thing /flees into the night and sleeps