(Yami no Matsuei, its characters and settings, do not belong to me and are being used here without permission)

 

 

 

World Enough and Time



"So, how old are you anyway?" he asks me over a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee.

"Twenty-six."

"No you're not."

"I am. I've been that old for long enough. I think I'd know by now."

He lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed, and it's a little humbling. "Look, you can't act like age is just... something that happens to your body. It's about an accumulation of experiences, how long you've existed and the knowledge you've gained."

He's got a certain way of saying things like that, and it makes it sound like divine inspiration. Like an idea everyone knows exists, but no one has quite been able to shape into words before.

But I know I'm not one to criticize his naivete.

Time doesn't pass any faster for me than it would for him, despite what he thinks. A lot of things can happen in a hundred years, and a lot of things can unhappen. With a century unfurled behind them, the events of a single life begin to look small by comparison, like distant galaxies and novas.

Everything is transient, and nothing ever matters as much as it does in that single moment you first become aware of its existence.

"Hisoka, didn't anyone ever tell you it's not polite to ask someone his age?"

"That's women. You're not supposed to ask a woman her age."

"That's not true. It's a... universal rule."

"Look, you might as well just tell me," he says with a sigh. "It's not as though it matters anymore."

That's just like him. So much so, that I don't bother to correct him. It wouldn't do any good after all, and maybe... that's just like me.

If, in the end, everything fades; if civilizations fall and buildings crumble, if books turn to dust and people break down... If time tarnishes all your dreams like a silver ring, turned black with age until you can't even read the inscription anymore, then why do memories remain? What makes regret and remorse endure long past when the last light's been turned out, the last door closed on that old life?

And what use, then, is love? And how is it anymore meaningful or vital than anger or fear or lust?

He taps his foot irritably beneath the table. "If you don't tell me, I can just go look it up."

"But you won't, will you?"

"No..." he admits. "But that's just because I don't see what the big deal is. Damnit, Tsuzuki, stop smiling at me like that."

But he knows I can't help it. "Thank you, Hisoka."

It's not remembering the past that makes me weary, but rather imagining the future. Knowing that I still have miles to go before I sleep.

I think that there is only so far one person can adapt before something gives way in him. Before something that made him who he was falls away like a shedding of skin, shakes lose like a watch screw and is lost for good.

Maybe in the future, things really will change as much as people think. Maybe they won't be quite so ugly.

Maybe...

He shuffles the stack of manila folders in one corner of his desk. He's good at the paperwork part of this job. Better than I am.

"What time are we meeting tonight?" he says.

"Hmm?"

"You've finally got an excuse to have a good meal. You can't tell me you're going to pass it up."

"Oh..." I feel myself smile, and I'm relieved. "Oh, certainly not."

"Good. So how does seven sound?"

"Seven sounds fine."

"Down by the water...?" he prompts.

"Down by the water."

"Try to be on time this once." He shakes his head slightly. "Honestly, Tsuzuki, you'd be late for your own funeral."

 

 

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