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The sun is streaming in, in through the window, and Kazuma is still not awake. It's not unheard of but it is unusual—that Naruhodo wakes up first at all, to say nothing of that Kazuma still doesn't rouse even as Naruhodo putters around the room. He's trying to keep quiet, you know, but the squeaking floorboards and ill-fitting dresser drawers having something else in mind.
Still. Still, Kazuma sleeps, and he sleeps. Naruhodo always watches—watches for the rise and fall of his chest, the twitch of his fingers, the flutter of his eyelids. Naruhodo's memorized the pattern by now—just where Kazuma's hand twitches, how it always comes after a particularly strong flutter of his eyelashes, reaching—chasing—something he'll never remember, that Naruhodo will never know.
And then there's Karuma. Perched in its stand, sunlight glancing off it—it's beautiful. Beautiful, still. Beautiful, always. Sometimes Naruhodo hates touching it—smearing his fingerprints across the hilt, tainting it, because that's Kazuma's soul. That's Kazuma's soul, and it's beautiful and it's broken and it still—it still—
"You'd think you'd be used to it by now."
Naruhodo startles—glances over his shoulder. Kazuma is holding himself up lazily by one elbow, peeking at Naruhodo, eyes all sleep-fogged. And Naruhodo says, "Of course not."
"Well, it's yours," Kazuma replies, simple and sharp, "so you should work on that, no?"
"But it's your—"
"Soul, yes," Kazuma agrees, "and you've taken care of it just fine. Haven't you?"
He'd like to think so. He'd like to think so. He'd like to think so, and maybe he did, but it's different, now. Of course there's a difference. It's one thing to hold Kazuma's soul when there's nothing left to be lost; it's another thing entirely to have it entrusted to him when Kazuma still—Kazuma still—
Because he'd like to think that he forgets. That he could forget. That he's forgotten. But he never does, not really. Because sometimes he wakes up before Kazuma, and Kazuma's body is heavy next to him, his feet cold where they press up next to Naruhodo's, and Naruhodo thinks, oh. So it's finally happened. Because this can't last forever, you know.
And it's in the little things. The little things. Always the little things, the reminder that this won't last, this won't last, you're on borrowed time. Shaking hands, dropped plates. Blurry memories, repeated conversations. And the headaches. Always the headaches. Always, always the headaches. So Kazuma's going to die again. He's going to die again soon. Won't he?
And then there's Karuma. Perched in its stand, sunlight glancing off it—it's beautiful. Beautiful, still. Beautiful, always. Sometimes Naruhodo needs to touch it—smearing his fingerprints across the hilt, tainting it, because that's Kazuma's soul. That's Kazuma's soul, and it's beautiful and it's broken and it still—it still—
"Of course," Naruhodo says. Because it's still here; because Kazuma's still here. Maybe not tomorrow. But they have today. They have today. They have today.