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Music pulsed through Minato’s mind, blocking out the rest of the world. Ryoji sat next to him, wearing Minato’s other headphone, as the two of them enjoyed a rare moment of peace. January was coming to a close, and they were running out of time.
By some miracle, Ryoji had managed to retain a physical body after New Year’s Eve, kept tethered to the world by the strength of Minato’s willpower. And so this had become their nightly routine. After Minato finished up with whatever he ended up doing that night, the they would sit together on Minato’s bed and listen to music.
“Minato?” Ryoji suddenly said, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“Hm?” Minato lifted his head. He removed his headphone, seeing that Ryoji had done the same.
“On New Year’s Eve… I’m sorry you saw me like that,” Ryoji began, looking away. “I never wanted to show you that form.”
Memories rose in Minato’s mind. Death towering over him, its presence overwhelming and absolute. How his heart had hammered in his chest, but not from fear.
Sometimes, he dreamed of that night — Ryoji in his true form, begging Minato to kill him. In those dreams, he would shake his head while approaching Death slowly, then feel the soft brush of its cloak against his skin. He would burrow into it until he was embraced by a familiar cold, and never resurface until he forgot everything about the future, and Nyx, and killing the only person who made him feel whole.
“Ryoji…” Minato ventured. “Can I see it again?”
Ryoji’s eyes went wide. “What? Why?”
“I want to see you.” He reached for Ryoji’s hand. “All of you.”
Ryoji’s head sunk into his scarf. “But… I look horrible.”
“Not to me.” He squeezed Ryoji’s hand.
Ryoji didn’t move, but Minato thought he saw a faint pink colour peeking out from beneath his scarf. He had always been bad at hiding his emotions from Minato.
Finally, Ryoji turned to him, face vulnerable but determined. “All right.” He squeezed Minato’s hand back. “Only for you, Minato.”
Minato nodded, and Ryoji closed his eyes. Blue light enveloped his body, and Minato shielded his eyes as Ryoji Mochizuki fell away, revealing Death in its truest form.
When he opened his eyes, the lights had gone out, and a blue glow now suffused the room. His vision came into focus, and his breath caught in his throat.
Death hovered over the bed, tattered cloak billowing out behind it. Chains floated around its neck, framing a sinister mouth and hollow eyes.
Minato reached towards it, but it shrunk back from his hand. “It’s okay,” he said with a gentle smile. “I’m not afraid of you.”
The shadow paused, regarding him, and then tentatively floated closer. Minato reached up again and cupped its bony mask, his hand tracing along its ridges, until he reached where the forehead would be. Death dipped its head lower, acquiescing to his touch, almost like it was bowing to him.
Sometimes, it was easy to forget what Ryoji actually was. Seeing him wrapped in a human form, Minato could almost pretend he was just another classmate.
But Ryoji was just Death’s flimsy puppet, and if you looked closely, his pieces never properly aligned. Sometimes his shadow would flicker, replaced by a creature wreathed in coffins. Sometimes he would trail black feathers in his wake, and Minato would joke that he was shedding. He was merely a tiny fragment of a vast concept. A concept that should not love, should not feel.
And yet, it did.
Minato thought of the music room, and a song that carried unspoken feelings. He recalled blue eyes lingering on him amidst the school crowds, as if he was the only other person in the world. He remembered the soft touch of a hand, holding Minato’s own with such tenderness.
And he remembered the fear in Ryoji’s eyes on New Year’s Eve, right before he unveiled his true nature. As if Minato would be disgusted by him.
As if that was even possible.
Minato planted a kiss on the top of Death’s mask. “I’ll always love you,” he whispered, cupping its face and pressing their foreheads together. “No matter what you are.”
He pulled away briefly, before nuzzling into Death’s body, closing his eyes. Slowly, silently, Death curled around him, placing its mask atop Minato’s head. Its cloak caressed his face, his neck, his hands, gentle as a lover’s kisses. One of its chains wrapped around his wrist, as if trying to hold his hand.
I love you too, a voice seemed to whisper back.