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They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but Ryo’s eyes are always narrowed either in concentration or laughter, rarely letting any glimpse of his inner thoughts through. Having been in the military before joining Kingdom and subsequently, the Protocol, he hasn’t had the opportunity to meet a lot of Japanese people, but perhaps this is common in his lover’s culture. As far as Vincent knows, Japanese doesn’t have an equivalent idiom.
Ryo’s usual reticence is why he’s having a difficult time parsing his lover’s current expression; there’s a spark in those eyes, slightly wider than usual and the dark circles beneath less pronounced than usual. Glad though he is to see that his lover’s been getting more rest, Vincent still can’t identify what it is that has Ryo dragging him inside his room with such haste.
The door has barely closed behind them when Ryo lets go, digging through the air to rip open a rift. He takes a step inside before extending a hand to Vincent, who exhales deeply before taking it.
One step forward, and he’s falling, patches of blue roaring past him as he stumbles. The whole plane seems to resonate, hissing in his ears. Functionally, he’s blind, deaf, and doesn’t know up from down.
The grip on his hand tightens and he holds onto Ryo’s hand like a lifeline, the only certainty grounding him to anything familiar. A few heartbeats or an eon later, he feels the tell-tale pull of the destination portal. With a lurch – up, his senses tell him, albeit uncertainly – they emerge from the rift, Ryo hauling him up as his knees buckle.
The lingering cold numbs his senses for a second, and then it all comes rushing in. He blinks, taking in the row of twisted mangrove trees with roots sunk into the wet sand beneath their shoes. For a moment, he thinks he can still hear the phantom hissing of the rift, but then the sound diminishes before returning again, and he realises it’s the sound of waves crashing against the beach they must be standing on. He can’t make out much else. The sudden darkness disorientates him.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“Iriomote,” answers Ryo, letting go of his hand when he sees that Vincent can stand on his own. Seeing his confusion, he adds, “Okinawa.”
“We’re in Japan?”
Ryo doesn’t bother replying, striding off purposely off into the distance. It’s clear that he’s been here before; to Vincent, the treeline of the surrounding area looks much the same to him whichever way he turns.
He turns to follow and hisses involuntarily as he regains feeling in his arms, an all-too-familiar sting along his right forearm demanding his attention. Unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt, he folds back the sleeve. In the dark, the jagged outline of a rift scar glows blue, the unearthly light pulsing and lighting up his skin in the dark. The black of his blood stands out in sharp contrast until the glow fades away.
Turning back to Ryo, he easily catches up to his lover in a few long strides. “Kiss it better?” he suggests, lowering his voice flirtatiously as he sidles closer.
He’s expecting Ryo to scowl, hoping that he’ll even blush. It catches him by surprise when Ryo takes his hand and presses his lips to the wound. He’s the one left blushing as Ryo makes eye contact.
Dropping his hand, Ryo starts walking again, navigating the uneven mud with the grace of a wild animal. After stumbling a few times, Vincent keeps his eyes on his feet, trying to make out the roots and puddles in the silvery light of the stars.
Walking forward, he bumps into Ryo’s outstretched arm. Ryo doesn’t even look back as he thrusts his hand towards him, and Vincent gladly takes it.
They make better progress with Ryo guiding them, and soon the sound of the waves recedes, overwritten by the quieter trickle of river water. The moonlight glitters on the surface of the water, the constant flow of the water and the shadows of the trees breaking the light into jewelled facets.
Still holding his hand, Ryo steps down nimbly to stand on the riverside, walking around the mangroves until he finds what he’s looking for.
It takes both of them to pry the carved boat and its two wooden oars free from between the knobbly roots of the tree they were left in. The boat sinks slightly in the water as Vincent climbs in at Ryo’s gesture, and even lower when Ryo clambers in - but it floats.
After a few prods at the riverbank with the oars, they start their journey upstream. It’s clumsy at first, but they soon find a good rhythm. Rowing in the near-complete darkness is difficult, especially as the mud glitters almost as much as the water.
It becomes a little easier after a while, as more light streams through the thickly packed trees. Looking up, he can make out the barest sliver of moon through the branches, and wonders at the fact that it can light up their way.
“The moon,” he says to Ryo, pointing.
Ryo’s head snaps up, and he looks to where Vincent is pointing. “Shit.” He grabs his outstretched arm by the wrist, ignoring the surprised yelp he lets out. He squints at Vincent’s watch and swears again, letting his arm go.
The boat lurches alarmingly as Ryo resumes rowing with renewed vigour. Vincent closes his eyes for a moment as the end of the oar slices into the water with a splash. Wiping water from his face, he checks his watch and calculates the time. Factoring in the time difference between the base and Japan -
“Ryo, it’s two in the morning,” he says, but his lover gives no sign that he hears him. He’s left wondering what exactly there could be that requires such haste, but no answer seems to be forthcoming. He joins his lover in rowing, and the boat glides smoothly among the dappled patches of moonlight.
They plunge deeper into the jungle. The river narrows slightly; the trees smell earthier here, clustered together more densely than the mangroves. The hunched-over forms of the mangroves grow fewer and fewer until they’re floating past trees that he’s never seen before; small, straight trees with overhanging branches that blot out most of the moonlight.
Without warning, Ryo holds up his hand and jams his oar down. The boat lurches to the side and swings up against the riverbank. The trees grow right down to the water; he could touch the trunk of the one closest to him if he wanted to.
“Wait,” Ryo tells him, and they lapse into silence. Ryo pulls back his oar and lets it drop to the bottom of the boat, and Vincent copies him. The water moves slowly, its constant trickle occasionally interspersed with the slow croak of a frog somewhere on the riverbed. The earth sleeps, its breaths humid and warm.
The moon rises gradually higher, illuminating the riftwalker’s face in profile. From behind him, Vincent can make out the old rift scars on the back of his neck glowing softly.
“You must take better care of yourself,” he says, gently thumbing over the marks. They pulse slightly, shooting cold through his skin, and he continues to draw out the chill as they wait.
Ryo nods. Vincent can feel the tension in his muscles - something has his lover drawn taut like an overtaxed bowstring, ready to snap.
He doesn’t push it. Ryo will tell him what it is when he’s ready.
They both look around at the same time. There’s a hint of a heady sweetness in the air, a scent similar to vanilla but more floral. Breathing in deeply, he realises that the scent is growing steadily stronger.
“Soon,” Ryo mutters, and he watches the moonlight break through the trees above, bathing them in broken silver.
The scent is blooming all around them now, suddenly much more potent. The sudden light makes him realise that the trees on both sides of the riverbank are budding, the branches near them covered in tight blossoms. In front of their very eyes, spidery blossoms unfurl, glowing white in the moonlight.
Enthralled, Vincent leans forward slightly. The flowers - they’re so strange that he might not have realised they were flowers if not for the scent - are clustered closely together. Each one consists of dozens of thin tendrils radiating outwards from a blush-pink core. As the moon rises higher in the sky, bathing the buds in clean silver, they open all along the riverbed. The vanilla-like scent, tempered by its innocently floral nature, blooms all around them. Sweet, alluring, unforgettable.
“They bloom in the dark,” Ryo says, his voice a near-whisper. “The scent draws the insects.”
As they watch, a bee bumps against the thin petals of a blossom. It takes a few tries before the bee lands on the centre of the flower, its slight weight dragging it down a fraction of an inch.
Ryo leans back and Vincent wraps his arms around him, resting his chin on his shoulder as he supports both of their weight. The familiar act loosens some of the tension in the riftwalker’s body. Pressed against each other, they watch the flowers tremble in the humid breeze.
The sound of the insects is noticeable now, the bees buzzing as they flit from flower to flower. They stay very still, the rocking of the boat their only movement. The flowers are still blooming all around them, each one opening at the touch of moonlight.
Slowly, Vincent noses against his lover’s neck. He presses his lips against one of the scars there, and they pulse blue at his touch. He repeats the process with each of the tiny rift scars on his lover’s jaw and neck, soft and unhurried; they have all night.
Ryo sighs and relinquishes himself to Vincent, relaxing and leaning into him completely. The boat rocks at the motion but rights itself.
Vincent presses one last kiss to his cheek and together they watch the bees find the flowers by scent, coming and going busily.
“What are they called?” he asks, tilting his head to look at Ryo’s face.
His lover frowns in concentration. “Sagaribana,” he says. “It’s a wisteria.”
“Beautiful,” Vincent breathes. The moon is high overhead now, all the blossoms open and releasing their sweet scent into the night air. He briefly wonders how far away the scent can travel. Would the insects be able to pick it up from a distance they couldn’t? Probably, but they’d be drawn without even knowing what they were flying towards.
They must doze off like that, because the sound of something hitting the water near them wakes him up with a start. Blinking, he makes out the form of a flower on the surface of the water, its still-whole form the centre of brittle concentric ripples.
“They fall at sunrise,” Ryo says, his voice heavy with sleep. “That one was early.”
True to his word, they watch for another half-hour or so before the next blossom detaches silently from its branch and lands in the boat, next to Ryo’s knee.
At the fourth flower that falls into their boat, Ryo straightens up and cracks his neck before reaching down for the oars.
The flowers are falling more frequently as they continue their journey upstream. One of them falls into Ryo’s hair and stays there, translucent white nestled between blue and black. A laugh bubbles up in his chest and he reaches for it - then lets his hand drop back to the oar.
“What?” Ryo says, half-turning, and Vincent shakes his head.
“Nothing, amour.”
Ryo shrugs and they keep rowing for a few minutes before Ryo’s oars slow.
“We’ll leave the boat here,” he decides, and with a few careful manoeuvres, the boat is tapping lightly against the tree roots. Dropping the oars back into the bottom of the boat, Vincent clambers out and crouches on the riverbank, extending a hand to Ryo.
When the riftwalker straightens up, he strides forward without sparing a backward glance.
“The boat -”
“Leave it.”
The moon has disappeared, and with it their only light. It doesn’t seem to bother Ryo, though Vincent can’t make out a thing. Holding his hand, he follows Ryo blindly, trying to avoid stumbling on the rocks he feels under his feet.
He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking when they finally stop. They’re at the foot of a waterfall - Vincent can hear the roar of water, feel the spray on his face and arms.
“Keep up,” Ryo huffs, before throwing a glowing fragment of the rift into the air. Barely glancing at where it lands, he teleports up to the top of the cliff. It’s so high up that Vincent has to squint to see him crouch down, then swing his legs over the edge of the rock. Even at this distance, he can make out the way the scars pulse with new light, etched deeply into his neck and jaw before receding.
Without hesitation, Vincent flicks a card up and watches with satisfaction as it flies up, landing neatly next to where Yoru is sitting. A snap of his fingers, and he materialises in front of his lover.
“Always,” he purrs, settling down next to him; unlike Ryo, he keeps his legs tucked in. Ryo just turns away to look over at the horizon, and he follows his gaze to see the edge of the sky begin to glow, heralding the arrival of the dawn. It’s still too dark to make out anything except for the faintly lit horizon; the sea swallows the light. From the top of the cliff, they are sitting on the top of a land completely in the dark, save for the hint of gold at the edge of the world.
“We missed hanami,” says Ryo.
“Next year,” Vincent promises, eyes fixed on that line of gold.
“No,” Ryo says, his voice suddenly firm. “I brought you here to see sagaribana because it’s not like cherry blossoms. Cherry blossoms stay for a few days and then get stepped on when it rains. These flowers know when to leave.”
He swallows, and suddenly Vincent knows what this is.
Vincent finds that he can’t speak - there is something constricting his throat, making it difficult to breathe. The silence has suddenly turned volatile, and he’s afraid he could shatter it with the wrong word.
Because this is goodbye, isn’t it? For all their efforts, this was inevitable.
It was always going to happen, he reflects, watching Ryo’s fingertips skate over the rocks, blue sparks flying off the surface. In the near-silence, he can hear each tap, each breath the duelist takes.
He came to the Protocol for a purpose, didn’t he? And he made the most of his time here. There’s nothing that he regrets.
Well, that’s not quite true. He regrets all the lies.
Ryo bites his lip and turns away, and the silence falls around them again like a shroud. The handbreadth of distance between them feels like an eternity.
He makes himself bridge the distance, turning towards him. If there is a chance that he can salvage this, he’ll reach for it - no matter that it might be thin enough to cut him. In his mind’s eye, he sees the thread of fate connecting them - thin enough to be colourless, stained red with how tightly he’s holding onto it even as it cuts deeper and deeper. Despite the pain, he can’t bring himself to let go. “What do you know?”
Ryo is silent for a moment, and Vincent knows what expression he’s making at that moment: eyes narrowed, lips slightly pursed, a small crease between his brows.
“All of it,” he says finally. There’s a small pause before he amends, “Maybe not all of it. But enough.”
He can’t stop himself. “How?” he blurts out, reaching out unconsciously and taking the riftwalker’s hand in his own.
Ryo shakes his head, making no move to remove his hand. “You’re a bad liar, Vincent. And you talk to yourself when you think no one’s listening. But that’s not important.”
Vincent notices his hand is shaking. He lets go, wringing his wrists. The rift scar burns, but he barely notices.
“I know you killed those people,” Ryo continues, ignoring the way he’s fidgeting. “I’m not here to blame you. I know what it’s like to fight people because you have to.”
The scar throbs. Below them, there are birds starting their morning song - he can hear two, three different melodies.
“So leave,” Ryo says, and the sun illuminates his face as he finally turns to face Vincent. “Leave, and finish it.”
Even expecting it, Vincent thinks his heart will split open at the words. He nods wordlessly. It’s difficult to breathe.
He doesn’t usually hold in his tears in front of Ryo, but this time he tries. The pressure behind his eyes builds, searing hot as he blinks. Ryo has seen him cry a handful of times, and it has been a blessing to have someone so dependable watch him as he did. But he has to go back to hiding them now. Has to get used to becoming strangers again.
“You wouldn’t be happy unless you did,” says Ryo, and his voice cracks on the word happy. “Until you do. You wouldn’t stop.”
I would stop. For you. But the words don’t come out.
Ryo holds out his arms and he falls into them, and the tears finally fall. The other man’s tight grip makes it difficult for him to breathe. They stay like this for a few seconds, neither of them willing to let go.
“But you have to promise me one thing,” Ryo says against his ear, and there’s a sharp pain in Vincent’s chest as he hears the choked tone and realises his lover is fighting tears of his own.
“Anything,” he rasps, and the embrace grows even tighter.
“You have to come back.”
Vincent doesn’t say anything. Can’t. He just nods and lets Ryo hold him in the slowly lightening sky.
This isn’t a goodbye. This is a gift. He is letting him go.
By the time the sun is up, there is only one person at the top of the waterfall. Ryo sits cross-legged on the rocks, looking straight ahead into the steadily brightening sky. It’s a beautiful spring day, the warmth of the sunlight telling him that summer will follow not long after.
Below, the dawn turns the waterfall into a rainbow. The river it feeds flows languidly, its surface white with fallen blossoms.