Page 200 of Mercy Written in Blood

"No."

"Then why do you look frightened?"

Renji stared at their reflections.

"Because it was not."

The truth of it entered Haruki slowly. Pain had become familiar to Renji. Control had become safety. Joy asked something else. It arrived without permission and reminded him that he could still lose what caused it.

Haruki wanted to say something reassuring — that laughter demanded nothing, that this evening could remain small, that Haruki would not use the rare, unguarded moment to ask for more than Renji could give. All of it would have been partly false. The moment had changed something. Haruki felt it. Renji didtoo. So he said nothing. He stood beside him while coffee cooled on the table and the ruined books dried in the kitchen.

After a while, Renji's hand moved. His fingers touched the back of Haruki's wrist. Not holding. Confirming. Haruki turned his hand beneath Renji's and let their palms meet. Renji's gaze remained on the window. His face had gone quiet again. But Haruki had heard him laugh. Properly. Freely. For a few unguarded seconds, Haruki had seen the man beneath centuries of grief. He understood he had witnessed something rare. He did not yet understand how rare.

Renji's fingers closed around his. Then his expression shifted, the memory of joy unsettling him all over again. He lowered his gaze.

And went completely silent.

Chapter Seventeen

Who We Were

The journal contained Renji's handwriting. Not the handwriting he used now — this was looser, less precise, the characters leaning slightly to the right, written by someone who had not yet learned that permanence required control.

Renji stared at the page beneath the archive lamp. He knew the hand belonged to him. He did not remember writing a single word.

Across the table, Haruki remained silent. Professor Takeda had left them alone twenty minutes earlier after deciding, with unusual tact, that the latest translation required privacy. The university archive had closed for the night, though the security lights remained on beyond the glass wall. Rows of preservation cabinets disappeared into the dimness.

The journal rested between Renji and Haruki inside a protective cradle. Its binding had partially collapsed. Water damage darkened the lower edge of every page, and several sections had fused together and could not be separated without specialist treatment. What remained legible was enough. More than enough.

Haruki looked down at the translated sheet.

"You called him insufferable," he said.

Renji did not answer. Haruki read the line again.

"'Masato remains insufferable. He insists humans cannot distinguish plum wine from medicinal spirits, despite possessing no evidence beyond his own damaged palate.'"

"That does sound like me."

"It sounds exactly like you."

"I do not remember Masato."

Haruki's expression altered. The small amusement disappeared. Renji looked back at the original text. The entry had been dated using the old lunar calendar; Takeda had estimated it was written approximately thirty years before the fall of the Takahara household. Masato appeared in seven surviving entries — a human physician, older than Renji by twelve years, fond of plum wine, poor at cards, married to a woman named Emi, who apparently considered Renji too thin and sent food whenever he visited their home.

Renji remembered none of them. He knew their names only because his younger self had written them down.

Haruki turned the translated page. The next entry had been written six months later.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

"You haven't moved for ten minutes."

"I am reading."

"You've been looking at the same line."