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The sky was dull and gray when Hanma arrived at the cemetery.
He hadn’t planned to come. He never really did. The visits always felt like a mistake, but somehow his feet found their way here when his head wasn’t paying attention. It had been a year since Tenjiku fell apart, since Kisaki was left in the dirt, and Hanma still didn’t know what to do with the hole that had been carved into his chest.
He walked slowly with his hands deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched like someone twice his age. The wind bit at his neck. Still, he moved forward until he stood in front of the familiar headstone.
"Kisaki Tetta."
Simple. Cold. So final it made his stomach twist.
“It’s been a while, huh?” he muttered, standing above the grave.
No response, of course. Not that Hanma expected one.
He looked down at the offerings left by others. Some fresh flowers. A few notes folded in careful shapes.
Hanma didn’t bring anything.He didn’t believe in offerings.
Footsteps behind him made him stiffen, but he didn’t turn until the voice followed.
“Didn’t think I’d find you here.”
Hanma blinked, surprised but not completely. It was that day after all. “Kakucho,” he said, voice low. “You come to see Izana?”
Kakucho nodded, walking past him and kneeling beside the grave just one stone away.
Hanma stared at him; he looked different than the last time he had seen him, he looked thinner and more tired. He no longer had that light in his eyes that he once had. Not that Hanma looked any better.
And above all, he smoked now. Hanma remembered Kakucho as the most innocent and genuine of the group, who never smoked and never drank even if everyone around him did.
Hanma followed, lowering himself to sit in the space between the two even if the grass was cold and damp. He didn’t care.
For a few minutes, neither of them said anything.
“I thought I’d forget his voice by now,” Kakucho said eventually. His gaze was fixed on the stone, but he wasn’t really seeing it. “I haven’t. I still hear it sometimes.”
Hanma ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Kisaki used to talk in his sleep. Just nonsense. I still remember the way it sounded.”
Kakucho gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You two were close.”
Hanma shrugged. “Yeah, he was the only person I ever gave a shit about. Still is.”
That hung in the air between them for a while. Kakucho leaned back on his palms. “Izana thought he was invincible. Like he could burn everything down and still walk away clean.”
“He almost did.” Hanma chuckled, low and dark. “They both did.”
A gust of wind passed through, ruffling their hair. Hanma tugged his coat tighter. Kakucho didn’t move.
“You think they’d be pissed we’re here?” Hanma asked, voice lighter than it should have been.
Kakucho raised a brow. “Pissed? Maybe. But they were both obsessed with being remembered. They’d love this.”
Hanma snorted. “Fair point.”
He looked at Kakucho then, really looked at him. Dark circles under his eyes. A jaw clenched too tight. He was still grieving, same as Hanma. Maybe in a different way, but it was there, carved into his bones.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
Kakucho blinked. “Are you?”
Hanma cracked a grin. “Touché.”
Silence again. But this one felt softer. Shared.
“You know,” Hanma said after a while, “I always thought Kisaki would be the one to bury me.”
Kakucho didn’t laugh. But he didn’t look surprised, either. “Izana told me once that he didn’t expect to live past twenty. Said his story didn’t have a happy ending.”
Hanma tapped the side of his shoe against the base of Kisaki’s headstone. “Guess they both got what they expected.”
Kakucho finally looked at him. “And we’re the ones left cleaning up the mess.”
“We always were.”
Another pause. Then Hanma added, quieter, “It sucks, huh?”
Kakucho didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
They stayed there until the sky started to bleed orange and pink at the edges. Neither of them moved to leave. Not yet.
Hanma pulled out a cigarette and offered one to Kakucho, who took it with a quiet thanks. They smoked in silence, the smoke curling up and over the gravestones like incense.
“You ever think about what you’d say if they were still here?” Kakucho asked suddenly.
Hanma flicked ash onto the ground. “Every day.”
“Me too.”
They didn’t say what those words would be. That felt too heavy.
Instead, when the cigarettes burned down to their ends, they sat back, two silhouettes between the dead, and for the first time in a long time, Hanma didn’t feel like he was grieving alone.