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Draken hasn’t seen Mikey for almost two years, not since he left him bruised and bloody, and each day he feels simultaneously heavier, yet emptier, than the day before.
It’s like his guilt and regret is carving out a cavern inside of his chest, building itself a warm, wet place for nesting. His very heart seems to have been scooped out, and in its place sits a weight that pulls him down deeper everyday. It nails him to the floor. His thoughts drag, his feet drag; he’s too heavy to lift himself up, too insubstantial to stand.
He let Mikey down. What didn’t he see? What didn’t he do? How could he have changed his mind? What more could he have given? Why wasn’t he enough? Why doesn’t Mikey trust him anymore? Want him anymore?
He failed Mikey two years ago and he’s been betraying him ever since, going against his wishes and joining Brahman all for his own selfishness. All because he can’t live without him. Draken is dying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. It eats at him, his betrayal and his loneliness, emptying him out and filling him back up with a feeling of wrongness that itches at the very core of who he is.
This obsession with his own failures drives Draken to seek repentance, punishment, and guidance. And so he grabs a pack of Marlboros and some flowers from the convenience store and goes to visit the only person he can trust with all these broken pieces.
--
It’s cold out and Draken shoves his free hand in the pocket of his bomber, tucks his chin into the oversized neck of his hoodie. He supposes most people might find a cemetery at night frightening, but what ghosts are worse than his own?
He’s about halfway down the well-worn path when the smell of something skunky and cloyingly sweet tickles his nose. He pauses for a moment, taking a deep inhale. It’s probably just some punks smoking weed without the watchful eyes of parents or people around. Afterall, a cemetery is as good a place as any to be left alone.
He doesn't get far before the snap of a can opening rings crisp through the air and has him stopping again. Curiosity gets the better of him and if he’s being honest with himself, Draken’s been on the verge of picking a fight for months now. Maybe putting the fear of god into a couple brats will take the edge off.
He weaves through the headstones towards the sound and is surprised to find, not a group of kids, but a singular man sat cross-legged before a grave. Draken notices that even from behind the marker looks new, relatively unblemished compared to the ones around it. The figure looks up from beneath their hood and Draken takes half a step back.
It’s Hanma. This is Kisaki’s grave.
“Zombie,” Draken says, curt, once he recovers from his surprise.
Hanman lets out a huff of laughter, “Bitch.”
He lifts his can of beer in mock-cheers and takes a swig; there are four more cans in a bag beside him. Draken watches as long fingers lift a joint to wet lips, as Hanma breathes in, holds, exhales out. He stares, unsure of what to say now.
“So, we could do our whole bit and everything, but I’m feeling a little…” Hanma trails off, waving the hand holding the joint through the air. “Want a hit?” he asks instead, holding it out.
Draken thinks about it for a long moment and isn’t sure about what makes him walk forward and pluck the rollup from Hanma’s bony fingers, but he does. He brings it to his own mouth as sits down beside the other boy on the stone. Breathing in, holding, exhaling out. Just like Kazutora had taught him so many years ago. He doesn't smoke often and coughs a few times before passing it back.
Hanma passes him a beer next and they share both vices in a strangely peaceful silence.
“You here for Sano?” Hanma says, nodding to the flowers on the floor.
Draken only grunts his assent.
“It sucks. Being the one left behind.” Hanma says. And his voice is that same sing-song that doesn't seem to hold an ounce of sincerity in it, but Draken knows what he is being sincere. Can tell in the wetness of his eyes.
Draken tries to check his anger. It makes his blood boil thinking of Kisaki and all the things he’d done. It’s hard for him to rationalize someone missing him. He’s not sorry that he’s dead, not even a little. Kisaki getting hit by that truck was the best thing that could have happened for Toman. He pushes the thoughts that say otherwise down. For what he did to… to… he’ll never forgive it.
Still, it’s not easy, or right, to see someone wear the pain of loss and then spit in their face. And he’s smart enough to know that the rage he feels now is only there to mask the hurt of how close Hanma’s words hit to home.
He doesn’t understand it. He knows Mikey must have his reasons for leaving, but didn’t he know? How could he not know that Draken would trade everything, even his own life, just to be by his side. It’s killing him, being left behind.
Another long minute passes in silence and Hanma finishes off the joint. He cracks open a second beer and pours it on the ground on top of the grave. Draken grits his jaw but stays silent.
When Hanma’s done with his tribute, Draken stands. He’ll leave his empty beer for Hanma to deal with. He turns his back on Hanma, flowers hanging so they rest by his knee, but something compels him to acknowledge the moment they just shared.
“I can’t say I’m sorry that he’s dead, but I’m sorry you lost someone important to you, Hanma. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” He nods his head slightly even though he knows Hanma’s probably not looking. When he starts to walk away again, Hanma speaks again.
“Hey bitch boy,” Draken turns to find him holding out the last two beers, strung together by plastic, “One for Sano.”
Draken hesitates for only a moment before leaning to take them, hooking his finger in one of the empty rings. Hanma’s smiling up at him and Draken can’t help but wonder if his smile always looks so cursed.
--
It’s quiet as Draken replaces the wilted flowers on Emma’s grave with the chrysanthemums he brought. This old bouquet is his, the same one he always brings, brittle petals falling off even with his careful movements. He gives the flowers a shake and watches the dried, yellow petals float to the ground. He’s sure Mikey still comes here. Sometimes, when Draken comes to replace the flowers on Emma’s grave, there’s already a fresh arrangement in the vase. The same kind they had at her funeral, white lilies.Those times he leaves his offering laying on the foot of the shrine. The lilies have become a source of small comfort to Draken. A single thread that still connects him to Mikey. It leaves him a little hope, like maybe Mikey is forced to think of him every time he sees those bright yellow petals, just like he is with the lilies.
Before moving to Shinichiro’s grave, Draken spares a moment to finger the teddy bear figurine he left two years ago. He’s always surprised to see it’s still here, faded and weather-worn but still standing.
He opens the pack of cigarettes and takes one for himself before fishing a cheap lighter out of his pocket. He leaves both at the base of Shinichiro’s gravestone and then opens a beer and adds it to his small, meager offering. He takes a seat on the ground and cracks open the last beer.
From here, Shinichiro’s headstone dwarfs him. Much like the man had in real life. Sure, Shin was physically tall, but he was even bigger in presence. He exuded vitality, leadership, and integrity. Standing next to him always made Draken feel so small, treasured, and protected. Draken knows Shinichiro wasn’t his brother, but sometimes it was easy to feel like he was.
What would Shinichiro think of him now? Would he blame him for not protecting Emma? For losing his grip on Mikey? For letting him slip away when he needed him most?
Draken shouldn’t have gotten high. Sitting here on the cold ground he can’t tell if his fingertips and toes and lungs are freezing because of the weather or because of the weed. He came here for answers but all he can think about are more questions: Where is Takemichi? Are they on the right path? Will this yield them the best future? If this is what’s truly best for everyone, Draken can live with it. He can live with his ghosts for the others’ sake. But how can this be the best path if Mikey isn't here? Will Kisaki’s death really save Hina in the future? If so, has his own spared life been traded for someone else’s? With this stolen life of his, is he living on borrowed time? He’d rather that Emma were alive instead. She could have helped Mikey. He wishes he could take her place. He’d even trade with Baji, maybe he could have been enough. How is he going to save Mikey? Where the hell is he? Who is he with?
Draken lets his head fall into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and watching patterns of strobing lights and colors dance against his eyelids.
He hopes Mikey is okay. Is he happy? Is he keeping warm? Is he eating? Has he found a new family? Is he taking care of the CB250T without him? Is he sleeping with someone new?
Draken wishes that Mikey has everything except a better fuck than he had been. He hopes, at least, he doesn’t have that. Sometimes he thinks that Mikey should have the same empty space in his chest too, a hole the size of Draken’s love that could never be filled. Make him need me enough that he comes back, Draken pleads into the dark. He hates himself for that.
It’s distant right now, his rage, shrouded in a layer of white smoke, but Draken knows that when the high is gone it will resurface. It’s inescapable, that thing inside him that urges him to make things hurt as bad as he does--to be violent for the sake of release. He hasn’t let it out for so long, having found Mikey and Toman and the proper outlet for it. But maybe now...
Draken sighs, finishes off the last of his beer and stands.
“What was the big deal with this guy anyway?” Hanma says from over Draken’s shoulder, startling him into whipping around, fists clenching.
“The fuck Hanma? Who sneaks up on someone in a cemetery.” He hisses, forcing his hands to relax, tucking them into his pockets to try and keep them warm.
“Scare ya?” Hanma teases, wiggling his eyebrows. He steps out of the shadows, catching the light from a nearby lamp. The sadness in Hanma’s eyes is almost gone, taken over by something cool and calculating that has Draken on alert.
Draken ignores him and turns around to face Shinichiro’s grave as Hanma comes up beside him. They’re shoulder to shoulder now and Draken is suddenly reminded of the first time he and Hanma faught. Bloody Halloween. It was the first time a fight had made him feel exquisitely alive in a long, long time. The first person he’s met since Mikey, Baji, and Kazutora who enjoyed both hitting people and also being hit. Who enjoyed violence for the sake of it.
“He was just Shinichiro. A big brother, a commander, a helluva mechanic. He was generous and sensitive and kind. He was the best of us.” Draken shrugs, arm bumping into Hanma’s.
“Eh,” Hama says, shrugging his wide shoulders, “heard he was a virgin who was shit at fighting.”
Draken growls his dissent without feeling the need to tell an outright lie.
But the next thing happens so quickly that Draken’s brain struggles to keep up with exactly what went down. Hanma steps forward, picking up the pack of cigarettes on Shinichiro’s grave and then the next moment, Draken has him pinned to the headstone opposite them, forearm to his neck, cigarettes slapped to the ground somewhere behind them.
“Those are for Shinichiro” he spits out.
“Easy killer,” Hanma laughs, bites down on his tongue as his hands raise in the air as if to show his innocence. His narrowed, yellow eyes are even more frightful now. They look… smug. Like something Hanma’s been plotting has just happened. Like he’s won. They’re unsettling in their bright focus and also beautiful.
“Oh Draken, you know, I always thought you and I had some pretty good sexual tenshion. Fighting you is like… it’s such a high.”
“The fuck are you talking about, Zombie freak?”
(His watering mouth betrays him)
“Fighting you always made me want to fuck you. But, I dunno, seeing you all torn up and self-loathing is pretty hot too.” Hanma smiles, snide, dropping his hands and letting his head fall back on the grave marker he’s pressed up against. “Mikey’s little toy all smashed and broken, it’s just so--”
Draken doesn’t want to hear Hanma speak anymore. He doesn’t want that smart mouth enchanting his demons to rise up and snake around him, bind him, immobilize him. So he doesn’t let Hanma finish his thought, shovinging forward and pressing his mouth, his body, into Hanma’s just to shut him up. He kisses Hanma like he fights him: aggressive and without restraint.
The next several minutes are nothing but hot, heavy breaths, sharp bites, and clawing, tearing hands as they fight for control. Draken’s hand slides inside Hanma’s hood, fisting long hair at his nape as the other curls around his neck. Hanma’s sharp fingers, cold as hell, claw into Draken’s stomach and over his scar before gripping his hip bones to tug him even closer. It’s loud and snapping and honestly painful, but Draken feels good, feels some of that anger start to seep out from under his skin, as if he’s pouring it straight down Hanma’s throat.
Hanma manages to flip them, pinning Draken against some poor soul’s headstone as he fumbles at Draken’s belt with frozen fingers.
“Broken, handsome, thing. Let me pull all your pieces apart,” Hanma whispers in the blond’s ear before dropping to his knees and taking Draken’s pants down with him.
The sudden shock of the freezing night combined with the cruel heat of Hanma’s mouth has Draken slapping an open palm down against the pillar behind him. The sound rings so obscenely through the quiet stillness that Draken almost whispers sorry to the spirits.
Hanma get’s Draken down his throat and each time he pulls back the cold air stings where his dick is left exposed and wet with spit. Draken’s forced to lean against the stone behind him so his knees won’t give and at some point he just sort of stops thinking and lets go. Gives in to how good Hanma’s mean mouth feels. He mindlessly moves a hand to the top of Hanma’s head, just resting it there to feel him move forward and back. It feels fucking good, amazing even.
Draken stares ahead at the headstone across the stone path. The characters for Sano burn in his vision like a brand.
What would Shinichiro think about him now?
Draken swallows thickly. He should shove Hanma off of him, push him back into the dirt and rocks. Kick his ass. Kill him. But he can’t move. He doesn’t want to move. He wants to cum.
It’s not lost on Draken that Hanma promised to take him apart, but said nothing of putting him back together. And if that’s the case then he won't make it easy on him.
Draken pushes back Hanma’s hood and brushes his blonde bangs away from his face, curling a strand around his ear. The unexpected tenderness has its desired effect. Hanma pulls back and lifts those haunted, golden eyes, inquisitive and annoyed. But when he sees the expression on Draken’s face, his own relaxes, eyes sparking with hunger instead.
Draken fists his hair at the top of Hanma’s head and unleashes himself.
Right away Draken can feel that fucking Hanma’s face is different from Mikey’s. Yeah, there’s the fact that Hanma’s taller, sits at a better height for both of them, but he also doesn’t have to hold back. Draken slips down to the hilt immediately and there’s no recoiling, no gagging, no resistance, he’s just a warm, wet, endless hole that hugs him tight.
Draken pulls Hanma roughly into his groin, all the way so that his nose scrunches up against his pelvis. He makes only small, short thrusts that rub the head of his cock against the back of Hanma’s throat. Teasing himself but abusing the man on his knees. Hanma lets out a groan, eyes rolling back in his head like a real fucking zombie, and Draken shoves himself as deep as he can get, feeling the vibrations throughout his entire length.
“Jesus” he curses quietly.
Draken picks up the pace. It’s been two years since he’s been with anyone; two years since he’s let himself feel this good. And fuck does it feel good. He can’t stop, is single minded in this chase. And even though he misses the way Mikey used to sputter and choke and whine, he’s glad Hanma’s not a cheap imitation of that, glad that this is something entirely different.
Draken pulls all the way out and runs his leaking tip along those loose, glistening lips, white pre mixing in with his spit in a way that makes his gut clench..
“Open,” Draken says, voice commanding.
Hanma’s lips twitch into a knowing sneer and he rolls his eyes as his mouth drops open, lazy, his tongue hanging out.
Drakens lips curl into a smile of own and he collects the saliva from under his tongue and spits it into Hanma’s waiting mouth. He stares at the site for a moment, tilting his head at the strange and intoxicating image of Hanma on his knees, hair disheveled, holding Draken’s spit patiently on his tongue.
He takes in a short breath before shoving back into Hanma’s throat, feeling his own warm glob of spit along his length. It’s overwhelming how obscene it is, how good it feels. And Draken works himself into a new headspace, or maybe he’s just fucking himself deeper into his own high. He bites his lip but barely feels it, can’t tell how far his teeth have sunk in. It’s strange how his mouth and his hands and his feet feel numb but his cock is ablaze with sensation, like it’s vibrating from the inside out, nipples peeking just from the feel of his shirt against them.
And this feels so good, it does, but it’s nothing like the last mouth he used to fuck. Hanma’s too tall, too complacent, takes it too easily. He doesn’t know if he can come from this but /christ/ does it feel good.
His ripped from coherent thought at the feeling of a Hanma running a thumb under his balls, over his perineum, coating his hole with the spit that’s dripping from where they’re connected.
Draken lets out a long, quiet groan to encourage him and Hanma’s teeth bump up against his sensitive skin as he laughs around Draken’s girth.
Hanma doesn’t waste time, is quick to wet his index finger and presses it firmly against Draken’s hole. They’re both surprised at the immediate give. It’s been a long time since Draken’s had anything inside him, but Hanma’s fingers are slender and the stretch barely burns at all.
“Another,” Draken snarls, probably too soon.
Hanma complies, two fingers sliding in on the next push.
“Hold still.”
Hanma stills, finger’s only halfway in. Drakens hips snap forward and he takes a deep breath before pulling them back, sinking himself on Hanma’s waiting digits. He does it slowly a few times, thrusting forward and pushing back. Hama takes the hint, only moving to make sure Draken doesn’t fall off his fingertips. Once he’s got it right, Draken picks up the pace and uses Hanma to fuck himself. Each thrust is forward into tight heat then backwards onto deliciously long fingers.
Time goes sticky, his head goes static, and all Draken cares about is getting off as violently as possible right now. Two fingers eventually turn into three and Hanma curls them with freakish accuracy, has Draken muffling a surprised cry when he pushes straight into his prostate. Each stroke of his hips drives Hanma’s tensed fingertips straight across that spot and it makes him crazy, blotts everything else out.
Everything except for the words across the way, carved into stone but glaring as if they were lit up in neon: Sano.
What would Shinichiro think of him now?
And Mikey?
What would they think about him getting off in the mouth and on the fingers of the man who stood beside the people behind their sister’s murder?
As if shame has become Pavlovian for him, Draken comes suddenly—harder than he has in years. He doesn’t make a sound as he empties down Hanma’s throat, but his hands fist his hair, his knees go jello and buckle, his thighs tense and shake. He bites down on his lip until he feels warmth flood mouth just to keep his traitorous moans inside.
Draken’s dick isn’t even fully soft but suddenly Hanma’s on his feet, manhandling him across the stone pavers until his chest is pressed up against Shinichiro’s headstone. His feet are kicked apart and Draken does nothing but comply, his thoughts dragging. Behind him is the soft, tinkling sound of a belt buckle coming loose and the heat of saliva hitting him right between his cheeks, dripping down slowly.
Hanma crowds in behind him, hard cock pressing against his ass as he fists Draken’s braid and tugs so his head is pulled back and his chin is dragged along rough stone.
“I’m still going to lay this braid on your grave someday.” Hanma purrs into his ear.
“Not if I kill you first.” Draken whines, he tried to add venom to the words, but he’s too fucked up - too fucked out.
“You could be a bit more convincing,” Hanma teases with his words while his cockhead teases at his waiting hole.
“Just get on with it already,” Draken growls, pushing his hips back to demonstrate his impatience. Hanma drapes himself across Draken’s back and hooks his chin over his shoulder so he can speak, voice soft and soothing, right into his ear.
“Poor Draken, it’s so obvious how few shits you actually give about your own life. You’d easily trade it in for any one of your little friends, wouldn’t you?”
Hanma pushes himself into Draken slowly. Draken’s lips quiver with the effort of keeping silent.
“You hate yourself, don’t you?” He coos, “All those things you think about yourself: that you’re worthless. That you’re not worth keeping around. That everyone ends up leaving you in the end. You’re nothing without him, right?”
Draken grips the edges of the gravestone, neck straining as he pulls against Hanma’s hold so he can hide his face and press his forehead into the cool surface. Hanma lets him go, laying his hand flat beside Draken’s face instead. He wishes he hadn’t. Hanma’s “Punishment” tattoo, stamped into his skin like a brand, taunts him. It’s an omen, a righteously fitting curse from the grave. Probably the one they’re standing on. Hanma’s other hand slides across Draken’s back and around his hip to rest low against his belly. In the state he’s in, the touch feels almost tender. Draken shivers, goosebumps erupting down his spine.
“You’d rather die than be without him, right? Can’t live without him? What is your pathetic life, your servitude, worth if you can’t have him?”
Tears Prick at Draken’s eyes and he closes them, grits his jaw to fight against them.
“We’re the same, you know?” Hanma says, his voice devoid of any humor now. “The two of us are just clowns left behind by their little kings. We’re cowards that don’t see any point in being alive, but are too chicken-shit to do anything about it.”
The next sentence is punctuated by bruising thrusts that punch the breath from their lungs with every slap of their hips, thrusts that have Draken clawing at the headstone with his fingertips, pressing his ass back as his spine dips,
“At least… mine... only left me... in death…” Hanma growls, chest shuddering against Draken’s back. “At least my master is dead.”
And would it be any easier if Mikey were dead? No, Draken doesn’t think so. If Mikey were dead there would be no hope for him. At least for now he has that, even if it’s just a shard, a splinter, a tiny, sharp thing that’s stuck into the corner of his emptied out cave of a chest.
Hanma steps back, pulling Draken with him with the arm that’s wrapped around his front, the other hand moves to the center of his shoulder blades, pushing down.
Draken bends forward easily, arching his back so the angle is right, fingers slipping down the sides of the pillar he’s desperately clinging to.
Bent over in a cemetery in the middle of winter, Draken’s thoughts are fucked from his head, the fight from his bones. Hanma chases his release with brutal intensity but he’s not selfish. The hand on his stomach slips down and wraps around Draken’s swelling cock and for the first time that night he moans, loud and unrestrained. Hama’s dick kicks joyfully inside him.
“That’s it, bitch!” Hanma cheers, picking up the pace even more. Draken’s panting, desperate noises escaping with his labored breaths. Hanma leans over him, second hand slipping up Draken’s loose clothing to twist and play with his peaked nipples until they’re chafed and raw. His palms Draken’s chest, hand to his sternum, before it finally slides up to curl around his throat.
“You’re so fucking hot Draken, but let me kill you yea, yeah? Let me kill you a little bit?” His hand squeezes.
Draken whimpers, and he turns his head to bite into his own arm in an attempt to stifle any more ridiculous noises.
“Say yes Draken, come on say yes. Say you’ll let me take this little bit of you. Let me take a little of your life.”
Both of Hanma’s hands clamp down simultaneously. The one on his throat has his head buzzing, but the hand on his dick hurts . His jaw loosens so that he can cry out, muffled, into his sleeve.
“Say yes, common, say yes.”
“Ye-yes” Draken says but it’s into his arm, muffled.
“I can’t hear you!”
“Yes.” He says, lifting his head so it’s louder this time.
“Yes what? Common, say it and I’ll come for you. Yes what, Draken-kun?”
“Yes, fucking choke me, kill me for all I care. Take it all, I don’t care anymore. Put this stupid fucking braid on my gravestone Hanma, shit, just cum already. Please.” Draken snaps, spitting the words with real fire this time.
Hanma groans loudly against his back, the vibrations traveling through Draken’s own sternum.
“God you’re going to make me cum, where do you want it—fuck hurry up tell me.”
Draken’s eyes fly open and he’s two inches away from those four letters. His thoughts start flooding back to him. He panics.
“Inside, shit inside!” Draken nearly shouts, can’t stand the thought of Hanma defiling this place anymore than they already have. He’d rather die, he really would. He pushes Hanma’s hand off his cock, pinches the base to deny his own release.
“You get one drop on the ground and I’ll fucking kill you.” And he means it. He really does.
“Anything you want, princess.” Hanma sneers into the back of Draken’s neck. He straightens up, grabs Draken by the hips, and fucks into him a few more times before he stills, hips pressed to Draken’s ass, and fills him up hot. Draken squirms, bites his arm again to distract himself.
Hanma waits until he’s fully soft before pulling out and Draken instinctively clenches, trying to keep as much cum inside him as he can. He’d rather ride home in sticky underwear than let any drip out of him here.
Hanma does up his own pants and then bends to pull Draken’s up for him, patting him on the round of his ass once he’s done up the fly. When Hanma steps back Draken’s legs finally give out and he falls to his knees on the ground, staring ahead but unseeing. He’s quickly drowning in the sea of his own guilt.
“Hmm what would the Sano’s think of you now?” Hanma asks. But his voice is flat, soft, almost gentle. It’s not an attack, just a reflection.
Draken stares blankly at the ground before him. Between his knees is the pack of cigarettes he’d brought for Sinichiro and scattered around it are dead, yellow flower petals. It feels like he bought them ages ago, slapping them from Hanma’s hand is just a distant memory.
He reaches out slowly, picks up the pack with shaking hands and pulls out two cigarettes, wordlessly handing one to Hanma. He can’t find the lighter but it’s okay, he hears Hanma flick open his own zippo somewhere behind him. There’s a soft cackle of burning paper when Hanma inhales. Draken is aware of Hanma curling over him and then he’s taking the cigarette from his trembling fingers, lighting it on a his own lips before placing it between Draken’s.
“Thanks.” Draken mumbles, blank.
“Yeah,”
“Sorry,” Hanma says after a long time.
“Yeah.”
It takes a long time before either of them stir. It’s only when Draken feels like maybe they’re not alone, like the ghosts around them have begun to stir and stare, that he shifts and turns to look into the fading dark. There’s nothing there aside from the Zombie behind him.
He gets to his feet and Hanma takes that as his cue to leave, calling something over his shoulder in that melodic voice again. Draken hears it but doesn’t register what he’s actually said. Something sarcastic, no doubt.
He glances around the graveyard, squinting into the dark one more time, and then sits down on his heels to rearrange his offering. He picks up the cigarettes, tucking one behind his ear before putting the carton back, careful not to touch Shinichiro’s headstone this time. He searches around and finds the lighter, lays it gently on top of the cigarettes, and puts his palms together, bowing his head in a hopeless prayer for forgiveness. He wants to curl up on the ground in front of Shinichiro and Emma and cry until there’s nothing left. He wants to lay down here and never get up again. But instead he stands and walks away, setting his jaw, stuffing his hands into his pockets and forcing his chin up. There’s still Mikey , he thinks to himself.
Hours later, if Draken were to return, he’d find fresh yellow petals scattered and crushed into the ground, cigarettes torn and broken on the stone pavers, and the beer missing.
And in the vase on Emma’s grave, a bouquet of freshly cut white lilies.