Blood Lazarus

11 \ brother

"Every time I see you, the more I see Xion in you." Varen lowers his gaze and bangs his chest. His trembling heart returns a blow.

Asher winces at each impact till his eyes sting from the pathetic display and he grips Varen's fist.

"What you said at the café, about the blood..."

Varen pulls away, sighs, and runs a hand across his hair. "When Xion died from jaywalking, I sought ways to get him back. I found it in the occult. Necromancy. I got him back, everything was fine, then he killed everyone else and grew overprotective of me. No, possessive. We were supposed to move to Kuron together, the seven of us. His wrath destroyed our futures."

He turns to the painting, says it's Xion's magnum opus, and stares. Varen walks to it and strokes the damask dreamcatcher, the memories of the life he put behind him all resurfacing. A small smile twitches on his lips.

Asher tiptoes to his side and hugs him from behind. His sleeves are soaked once again.

"I killed my brother," Varen whispers. His head jerks a little. "I don't want you to be him, or surpass him."

"I won't." Asher tightens his grip.

We are different. I'm the successful one. I will be fine. I can never hurt my family and friends, you know, when I have a nagging conscience.

They fall sideways onto the bed.

"But I will kill my killer somehow," Asher adds as he lets go. "I won't be reckless, really."

Varen sighs. "It's late. You should head home. We will discuss this tomorrow."

Asher nods and walks to the threshold.

"Good night, Varen."

"Good night, mate."

Asher leaves the mansion and never looks back.

×

Morisaki Jun never expects himself to be awake and walking to a playground in the middle of the night. At a junction, he steps into a large puddle and stops. The reflection in the ripples pits his windswept brown hair and bleary eyes against the cold demeanour of the city, its shut windows, flickering streetlights and Argus-eyed greenery. This is the kind of night to be lost in, to let the pitter-patter on the umbrella dictate the waning of life and reality.

Jun crosses the road with a band of green light sliding down his clothes. He is bathed in vermilion when he reaches the playground and settles down on a rickety swing. Exhaling, he closes his umbrella and swings in the rain. As he propels himself forward, his head tilts a little to the side, glimpsing a figure in a yellow poncho in projectile motion.

"Dare desu ka?" His gentle voice punctures the tension.

As he arcs backward, the figure flutters forward, the poncho's hood dropping to reveal more than just a tiny smile obscured by long carmine hair. Levelling at a trough, she turns and winks.

"Blake Wang," Jun mutters. "Where have you been? Your family's worried sick."

"Can't an adult stay in a motel and play missionary?"

She leaps off the swing and faces him with a look of concern, as if some apparition has appeared behind him, ready to snatch him from the mortal realm. Registering that, Jun skids to a halt. She rips her poncho, tosses it onto the ground and presses her palms on the chains, taking him aback as he reclines.