Maruki blinked slowly as Hamuko reached into her obi, his tired eyes catching the fluid motion with a distant sort of curiosity. That small gesture—elegant, practiced—stirred something dormant in the fog of his mind.
Ah...
A flash of memory cut through the haze like a knife through old silk. Shibusawa. Five years ago. The taste of sake was sharper then, laced with pain and shared regret. To mourn the death of a dream—his research, his work, laughed out of academic halls. Maruki had begun to break apart in ways that never fully healed.
He rubbed at his eyes, trying to scrub away both the alcohol and the memory.
And then, she placed the gifts in his lap.
The small satchel made from that same stained cloth—and yet… it was lovely. Thoughtful. Reborn. Its golden ribbon shimmered faintly in the low light, and when she passed the second, an identical one for herself, his heart gave a quiet, involuntary tug.
Two matching bags.
His lips parted, a little breath catching in his throat.
"You... really made this? Even after I ruined the fabric?" he asked softly, brushing his thumb along the stitching. "You had enough to make two... And it looks wonderful."
Warmth spread through his chest, the kind that didn’t come from alcohol. He wasn’t just touched—he was genuinely moved. His fingers curled gently around the satchel, as if afraid it might slip away if he held it too carelessly.
Then came the second gift. A small token—simple, but meaningful. He accepted it carefully, gazing down at the object in his palm.
A memento from the fight with Fatalis.
His brows furrowed slightly, his mind stirring again despite the haze. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him—but something about this arrangement nagged at the edges of his mind.
"Hmm..." he said slowly, eyes flickering back to her. "I see." Igor gave these to be distributed. Then why isn't he getting this from Igor? He turned the token over between his fingers. And if it wasn't a reward given by the velvet attendants or otherwise, then someone else pitched the idea in. Maybe Igor would listen to her, given her positive outlook. Yet still, there was the main leader of the whole crusade.
"Drake..." he murmured to himself quietly and really it would be a surprise if Hamuko heard him at all.
His voice was lower, quiet, and flat in a way that betrayed his distaste. Of course. That Ren.
He wasn't sure how he was involved yet, just a feeling.
He looked down at the token again, lips pressing together as he tucked it away in the gifted satchel with a care that contrasted the tension just beneath his skin.
"Thank you, Hamuko-san," he said at last, softer now, steadied. "Really. These mean more than you probably know. And the bag—" he paused, fingers brushing over the gold ribbon again. "I’m going to keep this close. I’ll take good care of it."
There was no trace of his earlier bitterness now. Just genuine gratitude, and a quiet appreciation for the person in front of him.
"Matching bags...huh,” he murmured, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I haven’t had something like that since my school days. It’s nice."
no subject
Ah...
A flash of memory cut through the haze like a knife through old silk. Shibusawa. Five years ago. The taste of sake was sharper then, laced with pain and shared regret. To mourn the death of a dream—his research, his work, laughed out of academic halls.
Maruki had begun to break apart in ways that never fully healed.
He rubbed at his eyes, trying to scrub away both the alcohol and the memory.
And then, she placed the gifts in his lap.
The small satchel made from that same stained cloth—and yet… it was lovely. Thoughtful. Reborn. Its golden ribbon shimmered faintly in the low light, and when she passed the second, an identical one for herself, his heart gave a quiet, involuntary tug.
Two matching bags.
His lips parted, a little breath catching in his throat.
"You... really made this? Even after I ruined the fabric?" he asked softly, brushing his thumb along the stitching. "You had enough to make two... And it looks wonderful."
Warmth spread through his chest, the kind that didn’t come from alcohol. He wasn’t just touched—he was genuinely moved. His fingers curled gently around the satchel, as if afraid it might slip away if he held it too carelessly.
Then came the second gift. A small token—simple, but meaningful. He accepted it carefully, gazing down at the object in his palm.
A memento from the fight with Fatalis.
His brows furrowed slightly, his mind stirring again despite the haze. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him—but something about this arrangement nagged at the edges of his mind.
"Hmm..." he said slowly, eyes flickering back to her. "I see." Igor gave these to be distributed. Then why isn't he getting this from Igor? He turned the token over between his fingers. And if it wasn't a reward given by the velvet attendants or otherwise, then someone else pitched the idea in. Maybe Igor would listen to her, given her positive outlook.
Yet still, there was the main leader of the whole crusade.
"Drake..." he murmured to himself quietly and really it would be a surprise if Hamuko heard him at all.
His voice was lower, quiet, and flat in a way that betrayed his distaste. Of course. That Ren.
He wasn't sure how he was involved yet, just a feeling.
He looked down at the token again, lips pressing together as he tucked it away in the gifted satchel with a care that contrasted the tension just beneath his skin.
"Thank you, Hamuko-san," he said at last, softer now, steadied. "Really. These mean more than you probably know. And the bag—" he paused, fingers brushing over the gold ribbon again. "I’m going to keep this close. I’ll take good care of it."
There was no trace of his earlier bitterness now. Just genuine gratitude, and a quiet appreciation for the person in front of him.
"Matching bags...huh,” he murmured, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I haven’t had something like that since my school days. It’s nice."