Chapter Text
1. false form
You say that a lot. That I'm your false form.
There's a little pause in his thoughts. He sips at his tea. There's no reason for the pause; they're thinking at each other, and they both know that it's a pretense while he gathers his courage to ask his question. What does it mean?
For a moment they watch the steam linger and rise through the air. The mist moves bravely, for one little cup's worth of it, in the house too empty for their one body. Yukito can hardly breathe.
I don't know, Yue says finally, quietly. There's a trace of defeat in his mental voice, the way he always gets when he has to admit that his past was not perfectly planned and that the futures Clow saw were not told to him. What else do you call someone you become, who isn't you?
The thought hangs in the space between them, perfectly still, a polished crystal of a moment. It's a fragile thing.
So it isn't a common magical term, or anything? Yukito wonders. A hint of hope enters his voice. Maybe he's more than the aftereffect of a spell after all. It's not something that usually happens?
I'm not something that usually happens, Yue answers, tartly, immediately. My master was - remarkable. Unusual. What he did, very few else could have dreamed to do.
So there's no knowing from example, Yukito muses, taking another sip. The tea is getting cold, but it matters less and less, when they're having this kind of conversation. He can never get Yue to talk about anything important, and now that he has, he doesn't want to let it go. There's only what you've - figured out.
Just so.
Can you tell me what they're like? The things you have figured out, already.
The sensation of withdrawing, of being cocooned in white wings, of pulling away. There is no need for you to know, Yue says, at once cold and distant, and Yukito has to stop himself from gasping at the loss of contact.
Wait! No! Please, Yue, he says, and Yue flinches the way Yukito knew he would when he used his name. Please. It's dangerous, that I don't know. He sets the tea down, forgotten, unable to trust his hands to hold the cup without dropping it. He's shaking too hard for that, now. When I didn't know - Yue, we nearly -
He can't finish the thought. He doesn't have to. He can feel Yue's acknowledgement of it, echoing the sentiment like two quiet ripples in deep, still water.
If I had known, I could have - we wouldn't have had to - Yue, we can't pretend like we're living a normal life. Or that I could live a normal life, now. There's no reason not to at least tell me. Please. Tell me about all of this. Let me help.
Another long silence.
I was not - I was not aware that you would come to be. Yue's voice is quiet, hesitant, shaky. Offering this, but frightened of it. I was not informed of this aspect of my nature. You know, now, that I am dependent on a master. Moreso than I am dependent on the moon.
Yukito nods, although he knows he doesn't have to.
Without a master, I will wither and die. Very little, if anything, can sustain me without that sort of permanent bond. I am meant to be sustained by the one I serve.
Yue pauses.
And you know that it becomes a serious problem, if I do not have a master powerful enough to support me. He continues briskly, as if he isn't talking about something that could - that has - almost caused them their death. I suspect you were a failsafe against that... weakness. My master knew, must have known, that he would - Yue falters, and Yukito doesn't fault him for it - that he would not be ours forever. He must have taken measures to ensure our safety in the... meantime.
But Kero doesn't have a human form, Yukito points out. He takes a shaky sip of his tea. It's very cold now, but he doesn't want to waste it, and he needs the distraction. He's - well, you know how he is.
The faint ghost of a smile, or what feels like one. Yes. But Keroberos will not sicken and die if left unbound.
Oh. Yukito looks down into the mug, sees only the faintest reflection of his face. So I was meant to find you a... another master. Another source of magic, if you went too long without having one.
I think, Yue says quietly, that you did.
Touya, Yukito thinks, just to himself, and it comes out as a little sigh. Touya, who he'd made friends with immediately. Touya, who had always been there for him. Touya, who gave them his gift, his magic, all he had, to keep them alive.
Would he have been able to sustain you? Yukito asks, quietly. If he'd - if you'd taken him as a master, instead of just taking his power.
It does not matter. I am bound to Sakura, and sworn to her service. I cannot sever such a bond myself. And I am tied also to the Cards; he would have had to take mastery of the cards from Sakura, and even if the transfers of contract and power were feasible for our young master at that time, I doubt your Touya would have wanted to retain them. In any case, even if it were possible, it would have been... Yue pauses, searching for the right word. It would have been unspeakably careless, to sever that bond, and attempt to forge a new one, given the state I - we - were in.
But if all that had been possible, Yukito persists, would he have been able to sustain you, without giving up his power?
I don't know. The answer is no, but Yue won't say it. Why do you ask?
The answer is because I feel guilty for doing that to him, but Yukito won't say it. Instead he stands up and says, aloud, "I'm going to make some more tea." He heads to the kitchen before he can think too much about the answer he didn't give Yue.
Is there any kind that you want to drink? he asks instead, carefully conversational. They've been testing things about their link, recently, and they've discovered Yue can experience some things without their changing form entirely, if he wants to. They can get back to working through the tea cabinet instead of talking about guilt and regret and grief.
He feels Yue relax a tiny bit, knows that if it were Yue's own form his wings would be folding back into a resting position, no longer tensed to fly at a moment's notice.
I think the lemon-ginger blend is nice, he answers, and Yukito brightens immediately. I'm so glad you like it! I don't like it that much myself, it tastes too strong for me, and I don't want it to go to waste...
2. communication (yukito)
At first it's Yue who has to start the communication. At the very beginning, Yukito isn't at all able to reach his other self. He knows he exists, has gotten a few bits of information here and there from others, but he hasn't learned anything himself about Yue. It isn't for lack of trying - he's tried lots of things. He started out by thinking hello and good morning and good night so Yue might answer, but there was never any response, and it didn't feel any different from thinking his own thoughts alone. He kept that up for a week or so, at least, just to see if persistence would get through to Yue, and when it doesn't he considers his next options.
Paper and pen are his next bet. He's certain that if Yue transforms in the house, he'll see the messages he leaves around. He writes little notes everywhere - more good mornings and good nights are left on the table and at the bathroom mirror, and notepads and pens are kept conveniently nearby. But there are never any responses to those, either. Belatedly he realizes Yue probably never transforms in the house anyway; he probably spends most of his time fighting for Sakura or doing other magical things. Going on adventures, or whatever it is that magic other selves do.
(He's still not really used to the idea of it. He's not sure if he would have been, even if his other self had started writing back to him.)
But Yukito isn't going to give up so easily as that, and it isn't really as if he has anything to lose by continuing to try. Finally he decides to at least see if he can talk at him a bit. Even if it's not going to make for an actual conversation, it's better than nothing. He wants - needs - some kind of acknowledgement that this is what's happening. There's a quiet hum in the back of his mind that tells him it's not, that everything is just as it always was, that the blackouts and amnesia can be explained by fatigue and stress, and he's a little terrified that maybe he's losing it and he's hallucinating it all. Yukito knows "hallucinating" doesn't cover "turning into a magical creature that goes on adventures that he doesn't remember at all", but it's easier to swallow the explanation that he's cracking under entrance exam stress than... this. Having some kind of confirmation from said magical creature would help a little bit.
He knows Yue remembers everything that happens, even when he's not in his own form, and that must mean Yue also remembers when he says something. So he starts to chatter out loud to himself when he's alone, talking to himself while he gardens or does chores or homework.
It helps. Talking to him like this, even if there's never going to be any response, at least helps him feel like he has something with his other self. (He tries not to feel like this is just losing it a little more, if he's going so far as to talk to himself when he's alone.) He talks about anything, everything. What they did in school that day, what clubs have asked him to help with this or that, what he had to eat. (He still eats a lot. Not quite as much as before, but he still has to. He supposes Yue can't help it.)
After about two weeks of this, give or take a few days, Yukito feels something stir in his chest. It comes with the sensation of stretching, wings unfurling, a face greeted by a breath of moonlight after a day spent asleep. It feels - cold, untouchable, but not in an unwelcoming way. It's something like the wonder of a perfectly reflected full moon on a dark body of water.
You don't have to do that, you know.
It's Yue, it has to be Yue, this other voice, its soft, low words lilting with quiet amusement. You don't have to speak aloud, should you wish to communicate something to me.
"I don't?" Yukito is breathless, delighted, an excited smile bright on his face. After the other failed attempts at communication on top of two weeks of nothing, he hadn't expected anything to ever change. He'd have made himself content talking at Yue for the rest of his life, really. This is more than he thought he would ever get.
If you think something, and direct it at me, I will be able to hear. As I am doing now, for you.
Oh! Oh!! Yukito cries, with the sweetly determined touch of snow once it's decided to cover the ground, with the bright warmth of being outside and clothed warmly to watch it fall. It feels different from thinking to himself, when there's someone there to speak to, a little like talking to yourself in the dark versus talking to someone across the house. Like this?
Yes. Exactly that.
His presence withdraws, and Yukito knows he's alone in his head again. Well, maybe only as alone as he can ever get, with someone else sleeping there in the back of his mind, but he can tell Yue isn't there anymore. He maybe really is alone, for now. Yukito exhales with disappointment. He wishes Yue would have stayed longer, talked more, but there's still a little smile left on his face.
It's good to meet you, he whispers, practicing this new way of thinking-at-someone, and it's like little snowflakes on concrete that drop and disappear without a trace. He doesn't feel anything in response. He doesn't know if Yue hears it at all, since he's not there the way he was moments ago, but he's too excited about this first touch, this new lifeline, to worry about it.
I hope we can get along, Yue.
2.5. communication (yue)
At first it's Yukito who starts the communication. Yue would have been perfectly content never to reach out across the abyss that separates them otherwise. It's a selfish status quo, and he knows it; everything must be much worse for Yukito, who blacks out and wakes up in places he doesn't remember going, who didn't know why he was dying until much harsher truths were revealed to him. But it isn't as if it's Yue's fault that this is the way he works, so he's not particularly fussed about changing anything about it, and that's why he doesn't bother trying to say anything to Yukito until Yukito starts talking to him.
He talks about anything, everything. What they did in school that day, what clubs have asked him to help with this or that, what he had to eat. Yue notices that he never talks about what he thinks or feels. Never anything beyond quick, casual opinions on topics like the weather, the day's club activities, the ideas he has for the new bakery nearby, how he's fond of the cat that visits the Kinomotos' backyard. Nothing about what he's thinking as the day goes by. No true hopes or dreams or wants or wishes pass his lips, even though he only talks to Yue when they're alone.
Yue has to wonder if Yukito is hiding it on purpose, or if he simply doesn't know that Yue can't hear what he's thinking, can't sense what he's feeling, unless Yukito chooses to show him. It's possible, but Yue wonders if it really is just that. There's a strict separation between the light chatter and anything else that someone might confess when they're talking to themself alone, and it's so consistent that Yue has to believe it's meaningful. Yukito is intensely, precisely perceptive, even though his smile is genuine and sweet enough that one might never notice that, but Yue has.
He wonders if Yukito is talking to him the way he would to an acquaintance, but when Yue goes through Yukito's memories there isn't really anyone he talks to like this. There are people that talk to Yukito at school, here and there, but Yukito never makes attempts to sustain conversations the way he's doing entirely singlehandedly here. The way Yukito talks to him isn't at all like the way he talks to Touya, either, though Yue only gives those memories a quick skim. (He does have some respect for Yukito's privacy. He can give him that much.)
For Yue, Yukito talks and talks and talks, and he puzzles over it for a week and a half, watching a little more carefully when Yukito interacts with others, paying more attention to the ebb and flow of human conversation, and at last he concludes it really isn't like the way he talks to anyone else.
It takes Yue another few days to make up his mind. He doesn't want to leave Yukito to talk to himself, alone, if he's this determined to make some kind of contact with him. And he is, despite himself, curious what Yukito is thinking.
He waits until they're alone, Yukito sitting at the table with a cup of tea while he takes a break from house chores. It's a rarity these days - he's almost always at the Kinomoto house, or out visiting Touya at his most recent part-time job - but today he's at home, and everything is quiet, and he seems more than a little lonely, sitting there in an empty house with a cup of cooling tea.
A moment passes, then another. Yukito looks up. He takes a breath to start talking into the empty house, again.
Yue doesn't want to let him talk to himself alone any longer.
You don't have to do that, you know, he says. It comes out amused, and Yue is glad that his mental voice doesn't betray his quiet concern. You don't have to speak aloud, should you wish to communicate something to me.
"I don't?" Yukito is breathless, delighted, an excited smile bright on his face. He maybe doesn't realize that he's doing exactly what Yue said he doesn't have to do.
If you think something, and direct it at me, I will be able to hear. as I am doing now, for you. Yue hopes he doesn't have to specify that they can still hide things from each other. There's a lot - a lot - that Yue doesn't want to share with anyone, and it would be more than a little self-defeating if he ever has to tell Yukito that sharing a body doesn't mean they're sharing everything in their minds.
Oh!! Yukito cries. He's so happy. He makes no effort to contain the feeling - Yue can feel how the delight bubbles over, how it rushes through him and settles in his cheeks, his fingertips, his chest. He really must have been terribly lonely, and something in Yue aches, thinking about that.
Like this? Yukito asks, still tingling with excitement.
Yes. Exactly that.
Yue hates to cut off the contact this soon, especially when Yukito is so excited to hear anything from him, but Yue knows exactly how long he can go thinking about loneliness or not having anyone to talk to anymore without dissolving into grief again, and it's only a few seconds more. He pulls his attention away to carefully contain everything he's feeling. Now that there's been internal contact, there's every chance that Yukito will learn to listen for stray spills of thought or emotion rather than assuming they were thoughts of his own, and the stronger an experience is the more likely Yue won't be able to hold it all on his side.
It's not as if he's very good at that to begin with. Clow had always gently chided Yue when he tried to hide his feelings, always told him it was obvious when he was worried or tired or upset.
Oh, oh. He can't think about this anymore. He curls into himself, focusing desperately on staying calm or at least collected. He cannot, will not, let this slip through. It takes more than a few moments of focus, but he manages it. He's had to deal with this ever since he woke again. It's fine. It'll be fine.
He imagines this slow tightening around his throat is what it feels like when humans are being strangled, when they can't breathe.
A thought winds its way through everything. It's a way out from all this. He reaches for it.
I hope we can get along, Yue.
3. false memories
He gave you false memories?
Yue doesn't answer, not immediately. Yukito backs off from the mental conversation and focuses on his senses so he doesn't press too hard at Yue's awareness. It isn't hard to find something else to think about - there's a lot to pay attention to at this little cafe. Soft lighting and quiet music wind through the winter air, twined with the occasional chatter of other customers, and Yukito lets the gentle current of daily life wash over him. They're alone at a tiny two-person table, tucked in a corner where he can see the counter, and to pretend he's not just here to bother his boyfriend at work he has a cup of some kind of coffee. It's bitter as anything, and not something he would have ever chosen to drink himself, but he came here at least in part for Touya and wanted Yue to get something out of the deal. The least he could do was let him choose a drink. So it's come to this, sitting here drinking the bitterest thing Yukito has ever tasted, talking about false memories.
There has to be some kind of poetic irony in that.
He did, Yue says, finally. It's tired and defeated and defensive, all at once. Yukito tries to contain his sense of hope at shared experience, but he's not as good at blocking off his feelings as Yue is, and some of it slips through as sunbeams drifting through the windows of an empty classroom. The light plays through the dust in the air, waiting and warm.
Yue doesn't like that idea. It isn't anything like what you have, he says. It's as sharp as he can get without shouting at him, like snapping the curtains shut and locking the door as he leaves. His other self has opened up about a lot of things, initiates conversation much more than once in a while now, but on this topic he's still defensive and cold and - and - terrified. That feeling winds its way beneath the other things Yue is projecting at him, as loudly as he can. Maybe to cover it up.
It probably isn't the same, Yukito agrees. His whole life before Tomoeda was fake. Yue has a few weeks' worth of falsehoods. It's not kind to point that out now, though, and it clearly means a lot to Yue no matter the amount of time involved, so instead of responding Yukito takes a sip of the coffee. It distracts both of them. Yue savors the play of flavor and scent, loves the way it curls through their mouth, compares it to fine chocolate. As for Yukito - he's at least gotten himself to not make a face at the coffee now that they're halfway through it, and he's very, very glad they make milk chocolate these days.
He'd chosen to visit Touya at work today, specifically, because he has a shift at the cafe. Not just because he likes getting an excuse to sit where Touya's working for a while, but for Yue, too. They tend to have important conversations over drinks. (He can't help thinking this with a little bit of amused delight, which Yue dismisses with an equally amused - if still pained - huff.) If Yue didn't want to talk about things, Yukito would still at least have this little visit with his boyfriend, and if he did - if he does - they'd get to have a drink to go with it.
Even if he'd come here for a conversation, he doesn't want to press. The topic they'd landed on is heavy, and the fact that Yue has responded at all means a lot to him. He's grateful for that. He sends that feeling to Yue as gently as he can, a little bundle of snowdrops offered in a gloved hand.
He holds the metaphorical flowers out for an awkward little moment. Yue doesn't respond. There's an uncertain beat where neither of them are sure what to do next.
Then -
He lied to me, Yue says. His voice is even, but brittle. About our last days together, about what I was meant to do and be. He -
It's strange, feeling their body react when he isn't the one having the feeling. They're not in Yue's form, and Yukito can't quite tell what Yue is feeling, but they react to the strength of it anyway. He feels their throat close, feels tears rise to their eyes, feels the furious way Yue resists all of this, walls of ice and iron forming between them. Yue puts up as much separation as he can without sending Yukito to sleep, and Yukito feels desperately numb for a moment, brought back to the surface after being plunged into icy waters and unable to comprehend the thin warmth of winter sun. He's disoriented, stunned, shocked out of their tears, but the tightness in their chest doesn't go away.
You were right, earlier. It isn't the same. Your life might have been a lie, Yue says, and now his voice isn't brittle, but bladed, shards of crystal held in the air with deadly intent. But you - you had another chance, after that. You had three years to build yourself something real.
What he left me with made my life a lie.
He tears down the walls.
At first it's just a blur. Memories, so many memories, thrown at him without regard for what they are or what he'll see, flashes of days and nights and books and dreams and duels and sunlight, starlight, moonlight. Yue is centuries old, has spent decades traveling the world with Clow and Kero and the cards, and for the first time Yukito realizes how very inhuman it is, to remember and remember and remember so much time. They're both lost in the flood of it, Yukito more than Yue, struggling to process the heavy tide of so, so many memories.
Then Yue regains a little control, and the things he shows Yukito are directed and clear.
And - oh, they're happy. The years Yue and Cerberus spent with their master are draped in gold and silver, lit in the brilliance of the golden hour and the sweet light of the full moon, cradled in the lovely dark. They were loved and cared for and taught and cherished, side by side in everything, cards and companions both. Archery, sorcery, lunar and solar magic, games and music, street fairs and grand banquets, bazaars and dances and festivals. Time spent lively and time spent quietly, in homes across many countries and continents. Whispered conversations, the stillness of countless libraries, warm baths and kitchen fires, moonlight spilling over black hair and silver feathers. Emotions, too - the bright flush of pride the first time he'd made something presentable to eat, composed satisfaction in his accuracy and strength, the warmth and power reflected between him and his aligned Cards, the rivalry and solid presence of his twin guardian Cerberus.
Threaded through it all is an undercurrent of love for his master and maker. Strong and sweet and supple as silk, essential as water, more natural to Yue than breath or starlight. He's never loved anyone more than this, and he never will; he knows this as certainly as he knows the phase of the moon and the strength of the sea. There could never be anyone else, in his eyes.
The moment Yukito understands that, Yue plunges them both into his memory of the end.
It hurts. After all that, it hurts. The happiness of centuries spent together is torn away and replaced with memories of seeing his beloved master sicken, no spells that could cure him, no doctor that knew what was wrong, centuries of magical warding against illness and disease brought down in a week or less. The desperate, sleepless search through the library for anything that might help, anything, anything - the exhaustion of his own magic fading with Clow's, the realization that summoning any cards would leave him even weaker, the deathly silence of just the three of them in the mansion, for the first time feeling alone when they were together, and then the crushing realization that very soon it wouldn't even be - it wouldn't -
And that was a lie, Yue says, vicious and wounded, a cornered animal showing its fangs while its blood seeps into the dirt all around. It was a lie. None of it happened, none of it was real, and his last moments with us were utter fiction implanted in our minds. He left us with lies. I have only the faintest grasp of my last true conversation with my master. He would not give me my own goodbye. Instead he chose to make me believe that he cradled my head against his chest on his deathbed and told me that I would finally be able to fulfill my purpose as the judge of the Cards' next master, that it was all right and this day had to come, told me he knew we did everything he could for him and that he was proud to have created such things as us, told me he -
He can't keep going.
It isn't the same, Yue says, bitterly, and Yukito notices their coffee has gone cold.
4. bedtime story
Talk to me?
The tentative question startles Yukito. It's something like the dead of night. He's not sure; he can't see his clock in the darkness, and he wouldn't have been able to make out the numbers without his glasses anyway. He'd been about to fall asleep when his other self reached out, like a touch of icy but uncertain fingers at his wrist, downy feathers brushing at his back.
He's surprised, and delighted, and a little bit lost for words. Yue hasn't ever asked for a conversation so directly before.
Of course! He's groggy, and he wonders if Yue can tell, but he's excited enough that he pushes through it easily. What should I - what do you want to talk about?
A little more hesitation. Then -
Anything. Everything. Like you used to, before.
Ohh. Yukito wonders if Yue had actually enjoyed when he talked about absolutely everything he did in a day. He's stopped the frantic chitchat now that they have the option of talking internally, rare as it is; it's been so nice to have this kind of connection that he hadn't thought of starting that up again. It was hard to come up with so much small talk, anyway.
Should I go back to doing that? All the time? he asks. If Yue wants to be talked to, Yukito will get so good at coming up with small talk, never mind how difficult it is.
No. There is no need. A hint of amusement drifts through his tone, like petals carried on the night wind. I am already aware of what you do, during the day. If you wish to narrate it to me again... A pause. Definitely amused, now. You may do as you please.
Yukito has to stifle a giggle before he answers. But you want me to talk like that now?
Yes.
Maybe he's pushing it by asking so many things about Yue, but if he's in a communicative mood, he wants to get at least one more answer out of him.
What makes it different, now?
Another pause. There's no amusement this time. Yukito holds his breath, hopes he hasn't overstepped, and only exhales when Yue answers.
It is the new moon, he says, a little reluctantly. These nights, I feel... weak. lesser. It is sometimes difficult for me. I am sheltered from it, now, hidden by you as I am, but I still feel its echoes.
Yukito feels something like a frown, and then the sensation of being looked over with a critical eye. I would be surprised if you were not also affected, Yue adds, and Yukito delights in the concern hidden in those words.
You're actually very caring, aren't you, Yue? he says, almost without meaning to, and Yue flares silver-bright with indignation.
You are mistaken. Do not presume to know me. The reply is immediate and snappish and not at all what someone who doesn't actually care would say. Yukito smiles. One beat passes, then two, and his smile only grows. Yue hasn't retreated, after saying that, and that means the entire world to him.
Yue would probably hate it if he said anything else about his feelings, though. He tries to hide his candy-bright happiness at Yue staying and focuses on what he asked of him instead. I'll talk to you. Anything works, right?
Yes.
There's another layer of hesitance there. Yukito frowns to himself, and wonders if he should dare to ask Yue for another answer, but he doesn't have to.
I am not accustomed to being alone on nights when the moon is dark, Yue says. It's fragile the way confessions always are. I would like to hear a voice.
Ohh.
"So like this?" he whispers aloud, and there's a soft rush of relief from Yue. Yukito isn't sure if he'd meant to share the feeling, not with how gently it brushed over his senses, a little wave greeting the shore after a low tide. It's a sweet feeling, and it gives him some confidence. He can do this.
"I don't want to just tell you about my day if you already know about it," Yukito muses. He fights down the awkwardness at talking out loud when no one's there. Yue is there, just not in person. (Someday he'd like to meet his other self.) "But anything that keeps me talking works, right?"
Yes.
He sits up, reaching for his glasses, casting around his room for ideas. (He understands now why people keep conversation pieces in their houses, although he can't imagine this specific situation ever coming up for anyone else.) Desk, school uniform, bookshelf...
"I could read to you?" Yukito offers.
Do not.
Yue's voice is icier than ever, at that.
"I'll think of something else," he says. He does his best not to wonder about books or why Yue doesn't want to be read to, and thinks of other ideas instead. What can he do to keep talking if he's not just going to recount his day? There isn't anything exciting coming up that he could talk about, and it isn't as if either of them keep up with sports or manga releases. He doubts that Yue will want to hear about the plot of the one Touya reads on his breaks sometimes. He doesn't know it well enough to tell to someone else, anyway; it involves traveling to different worlds and collecting feathers and cloning the main character at least twice, and it's all very confusing.
The thought of repeating stories at people does give him an idea, though. "I could tell you a bedtime story! One I don't have to read out of a book. Is that different enough?"
A bedtime story. There's a little derision in Yue's voice, hesitation, uncertainty if he's being made fun of.
"No, no, I mean it. Telling a story is the kind of thing where you can just keep talking, right? And it won't be about things you already know, if it's not one you've heard before."
There are likely children's tales that I do not know, Yue says, cautiously. Yukito runs through his memories of picture books and fairy tales. There are a lot that are too short for this kind of thing, and others that are too repetitive, and even more that he doesn't know well enough, but there has to be at least one thing that'll work.
"Have you heard the story about the little fox who went to buy himself mittens?" he asks, and when Yue indicates he hasn't Yukito lies back down, settles himself in, and begins.
"A cold, cold winter came in from the north, to the forest where a mother fox lived with her son..."
He isn't sure how far he gets. Actually, he isn't even sure if he finishes the story. He doesn't remember where he stopped or when he fell asleep. When he wakes, it's already morning, and he's seated front of the table. He's fully dressed for school, breakfast is laid out and warm in front of him, and there's a bento by his schoolbag. Judging from the size, it's two boxes' worth, neatly wrapped in a cloth patterned with white rabbits, a chopstick case tucked carefully under the decorative tie.
He hadn't known Yue could cook.
Thank you, he says, and Yue's answer is like the first touch of moonlight on fresh snow, soft and silver and sweetly mirrored.
Thank you.
5. breathe
Yukito likes to think he's good at keeping himself together. And he is! He really is. (Maybe he was made that way.) Aside from moments of magically-induced, existentially-threatening fatigue, he's good at hiding what he thinks or feels. He's always been that way. (For his whole existence, maybe.) He smiles a lot, and he keeps his voice light and playful, and that's how he always is, as much as he can be. (He was definitely made that way, wasn't he?) That's how he does things like get through a day with a crisis building in his throat and chest and heart without anyone noticing.
(Touya would have noticed, before he gave up his magic to save him. But he's tired all the time now, has been ever since that; has a hard time keeping up with his own schedule, has had to call out of work twice this month and turned down shifts a few more times on top of that, setting unprecedented records for accomplished part-timer Kinomoto Touya. These days he's easy to sneak up on and even easier to knock over - Nakuru has made that entirely evident the first week after everything changed. He doesn't know if Touya has gotten better with that since then, now that no one is constantly flinging themselves at him in the hallways or on the way home, but things are still different. Touya doesn't have his sixth sense anymore, might not have much of anything anymore, and that's Yukito's fault, isn't it?)
But he's good at holding it together. He even gets home without anyone saying anything. He stumbles over familiar streets, manages to open and close and lock the gate and the door, slips out of his shoes and into the house proper, and - and that's as far as he gets, really. Now that he's alone, he can't keep anything up anymore. His bag drops with a dull thump, and he might have already fallen to his knees, not even upright, face and glasses an inch from the floor.
(Was he made that way, too?)
Breathe. Breathe, Yukito. It'll be all right.
His chest feels constricted, tight, helplessly bound. He doesn't think he can move.
Breathe for me, Yue says, gentle and patient, a cool hand for a fever, a delicate touch of cold fingers on their sternum. Here. Breathe for me.
It feels like a little gasp of wind curling around his ankles as a door is opened to the winter chill. Dimly he realizes he must have started breathing again.
Upright, now.
He remembers what it's like to be on his feet. He sways a little, but he manages it.
There you are.
Yue guides him through the ritual of getting home this way, giving him simple directions one at a time, nudging his awareness at the relevant things to complete a thousand little tasks. Eventually he's changed out of his school uniform, put the blazer up to hang, set his schoolbag by his desk, and curled up on the futon, safely, tucked under the covers and still breathing.
It's fine. It should be fine. He's talked to Touya about this, hasn't he? And he'd reassured him about everything. That the tangle of false memories from before his first year of high school didn't mean everything that happened after they'd met wasn't real, that everything from then on mattered even if he decided the things from before didn't, and that it would never matter if he was human or not, as long as he was there. That the memories he didn't really have or the life he didn't live didn't matter as much as now and here.
He wants to believe it. In the daylight, he even does. But there are hours and days and weeks when the shadows of it build up, in the corners of the empty house and the edges of his vision; on evenings he loses completely and weekends he finds gone because things happened to the real people in his life. Whenever he finds himself dropped back in place, he tries to ground himself in now and here and real, all things that he is, all things that he knows he is, but there's only so much he can do when he knows the pieces of himself are held together by moonlight and lies, and sometimes it's so much it drowns everything else out, like today.
In a distant way, he wonders if it makes him more real to have existential crises, but this isn't really an existential crisis as much as a crisis about the facts of his reality. The things he thought he knew for certain, the grandparents he loved, the countryside town he lived in before Tomoeda and his familiarity with the house here - it's a fact that these things were invented wholesale for him, and when he was invented for Yue's sake, too, what does that make him?
You are as real as I am, Yue says. It startles him. He hadn't known he was sharing what he was thinking. He swipes away his tears, smiles into his palms, and starts to say something like I didn't mean to be so depressing, but Yue brushes that aside with a sweep of pure white wings.
Do not, Yue says, and it's gentle. That startles him, too, because it's not at all imperious the way Yukito has always imagined he might be, discussing this. Do not dismiss yourself and your pain this way. Turn the lens, instead. Is a newborn child not real, because it has no memory to speak of? Are you not made real every day, many times over, when those who know and love you call your name and take your hand? You and I were created, yes, out of whole cloth and moonlight, but we are no less for it.
His breath catches in his throat.
When once is never, when now is always, Yue says, voice soft and singsong with the recitation of poetry, when this is no longer me, and I am no longer this, you are and will be and have been loved. I can think of little else that makes anything more real.
He gives a little choked laugh, swiping tears away from his eyes again. It's ridiculous of him to doubt that he is, at least, loved. He knows, he knows, that Touya loves him like nothing else. What else should matter, in the face of something like that? But he's still fragile with the idea that he's always been an act, meant only to shelter and cage Yue, and even more with the idea that he's hurt Touya twice over, first by not being real the way Touya deserves, and second by taking his magic away from him. It isn't as if he can voice these doubts - even entertaining these thoughts makes them seem ridiculous, he's talked to people about this, he knows, he knows why they don't make sense - but it lurks there. Things went so much worse because of him. If Yue had been able to talk to Touya or Sakura about what to do with his magic, if Yue hadn't hesitated because Yukito loved and loves and loves Touya, if Yue could always be there to protect Sakura and not need to work his way around Yukito's life - if things had been different and not for the sake of the invented Yukito Tsukishiro - wouldn't things have been better?
He knows Yue can't read his mind, and makes sure he isn't sharing those thoughts, this time. But he can't hide the lingering distress in his mind as well as he can in the outside world, and of course Yue feels it.
Talk to me, Yue says, gently.
He can't think. He has to speak, instead.
"How can I take up space in your life?" he gasps, and he doesn't mean to, but he knows the terror he's been holding back is spilling over, now, inky black staining everything he can touch and then some. "I can't - I don't - it was yours first, wasn't it? Everything you felt, everything you remembered, that was all real. But - but I - "
He has to stop. He's crying again, but that isn't the only reason. He doesn't know where that thought will go if he lets it keep going, and he's scared of where it'll end, and he doesn't want to keep thinking it.
Whether it was only my life before doesn't matter. It's ours now. Yukito has no idea where Yue's solid conviction comes from, but it's steady as anything, and he clings to it with bare hands, with skin cracked from dry cold. You are here as much as I, and that means you have a right to our time as much as I do. You are allowed.
"I can't - I don't - our life? I've only ever been your false form," he says, a little hysterically. "I've never been anything else. I don't know how to be anything else. I don't know how to be real."
'You are yourself,' Yue soothes, 'and so remain, as I remain.' You may have a role to play in our existence, yes, but that role is not where you end. A little wry smile. As you so often try to tell me, when you say I should try to be more than a guardian, and allow myself to feel more than that. Allow yourself the same space, Yukito. You are your own true form.
Oh, it hurts. Reassurance hurts. He doesn't know why. He can't help sobbing at Yue's kindness, the way it burrows into his heart and aches there. He curls into himself, shaking, aware he's going to have to wash all the tears out of his clothes later and completely unable to stop anyway.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" He knows it's pointless to tear at it, and maybe even self-destructive to lash back at his other self when all he's being is nice and good and kind, but it's terrifying. "You don't have to be. You were here first! You - you don't - nothing is stopping you from living as yourself full-time. You don't have to share."
Doesn't it occur to you to ask why I do, then? Yue asks, and like every other moment in this conversation his voice is impossibly gentle. It makes Yukito start crying again.
You are not less than me because we are different, Yue says. It is not only a question of magical power. You spare me the horror of isolation, hiding alone in my true form, every moment I am not needed. You exist freely in a world that is - a world without - the impression of a sharp little breath, and Yue continues - a world much different from the one I am accustomed to. The people in your life are kind to me not only for my sake, but yours. You have built yourself your own life, your own love. Would it not be cruel to deny you what you, yourself, have created?
He doesn't try to stop crying, this time.
Yukito, Yue says. He waits for Yukito to lift his head in acknowledgement before he continues.
You have taken such gentle care of me, these past months. You have offered me nothing but kindness ever since you became aware of my existence.
Please. Allow me to do the same, for you.
Yukito cries.
+1.
"I'm going to write you a letter."
Yukito says this out loud, the way he used to, when they hadn't been in the habit of talking and when he hadn't known they could speak with each other internally. It's more than a little surprising. Unless Yue asks for a story on the new moon, Yukito doesn't speak aloud to address Yue anymore. They're long past needing to do that, now.
Yue is quiet. Yukito swallows.
"I'm - I want to do something. But I - it's - it's important, and it would affect both of us. I want to give you time to think about it, and to decide for yourself, without having to worry about my reactions, or containing your feelings about it. So I'm going to write you a letter."
Yue must know what it's about, or at least the vague shape of it. He'd been sharply awake the entire time Yukito had been talking to Mizuki, after all. It had been very obvious that Yue isn't human, the way he was coiled with tense poise and precise intent, attenuated to her like the harsh glint of moonlight on a cat's bared fangs. (She tends to have that effect on him. Yukito isn't sure if it's the shared affinity to moon magic, or if it's a shared affinity to something else.) The weight and pressure of Yue's focus had made it difficult to remain conscious. His other self hadn't been meaning to take over, and Yukito is certain that's the only reason he was able to stay himself. He's glad for it, because this is something he wants be deliberate about.
During that conversation, Yukito had very carefully avoided thinking about what exactly it is he wants to do. So even though Yue had been awake when Yukito asked if it might work, even though Yukito knows he's predictable enough that Yue probably knows what it is, it's important enough and so far directly undisclosed enough that he thinks it warrants a letter.
Yue is still good at hiding what he thinks from Yukito when he wants to be. He isn't surprised when all he feels in response is the rush of silk cloth as its wearer turns away, the breath of air fanning out a curtain and then leaving it to settle again as footsteps disappear. All right, Yue says, his voice already far away, and then he's gone. Yue is giving him space to write, he knows. His haste to leave betrays his curiosity.
He doesn't want to keep Yue waiting, but it's strange not to feel him awake. Yue's awareness hovering gently near his own, the soft weight of silk draped over his arm, the sensation of wings at his back - the little ghostly markers of his presence are all things Yukito has gotten used to, and drawn comfort from, and it's disorienting for them to be so completely gone. It's not like Yue's awake all the time, or always that close and paying attention, but he doesn't usually leave that suddenly or quickly anymore. In the days when he did, they'd been a lot more distant.
It brings a sad smile to his lips, thinking of how close they've become.
He takes a breath and lets it out as a sigh. He has a letter to write.
When he opens the desk drawer he's met with the same plain envelope he used to write to Yue. Disappointment sinks into his stomach. Had Yue chosen not to reply at all? It reminds him of the earliest days, when he'd left hopeful notes around the house and never once seen an answer. He closes his eyes. Maybe he should have known better than to think Yue would write back. If he never had before, maybe he should have been smarter about thinking he would now. Closeness doesn't have to mean changed habits, after all.
Even so, they have to have a conversation about this. Yue can always transform to have his own space to think. Maybe telling him about his idea and then asking him to do that would have been the smartest thing to begin with, and there was never any need for a letter. He could have done this normally, the way they talk about breakfast and snacks and books and tea, these days. He didn't have to make it complicated.
Did he?
(Maybe none of this is a good idea.)
He opens the envelope again anyway, because he's never been able to stop himself from hoping.
He's met with heady relief. There's another piece of paper tucked neatly inside the envelope. It's just a slip of paper, really, much smaller than what he used to explain his hopeful plan to Yue. It can't contain more than a few words, if that.
It doesn't take very much space to say no, but it can't take too much more to say yes, can it?
He unfolds the little paper. It trembles in his fingers.
"Do as you please," it says, in neat, precise letters. There's nothing more than that.
He hugs it to his chest. "Thank you," he whispers, and though he doesn't sense anything from Yue he imagines the cool touch of moon-kissed fingers on his cheek, the rustle of feathers as wings fold down into a protective cocoon, the sensation of sinking into a deep, dark lake while the moon shines above.
I'm glad we got along, Yue.