Record of Lorelei: Chapter 12

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The U-shaped part had been removed again. No matter how much it inconvenienced Rui, no matter how much he betrayed Mikami, Mikami’s conviction remained unshaken. If the part clearly endangered the pilot, then Mikami had to remove it every time, as an act of his unwavering dedication.

Why couldn’t Rui stop? Why couldn’t he understand that trading performance for safety, for survival, was unacceptable?

Mikami asked Rui directly. He offered to adjust the aircraft however Rui wanted, yet Rui said nothing. Not even a reason for his silence. When cornered, Rui simply clammed up. Perhaps he was used to being misunderstood, to the point that he didn’t mind going an entire day without speaking a word.

Mikami decided to think of the U-shaped part as a weed—something that sprouted without being planted. It grew, unwanted, in the garden Mikami cared for, spreading roots and harming the soil. All he could do was remove it every time it appeared. As long as it kept growing, he would keep pulling it out. At least it didn’t multiply—small mercies, compared to actual weeds.

That was the extent of it. Rui, for all his defiance and stubbornness, didn’t retaliate against Mikami after their recent quarrel. Nor did he turn to anyone else. As always, he simply spent his time alone.

Mikami, sitting on a bucket used as a chair, gazed at the barracks while positioned under the thick, overgrown plumeria tree. The shadow of the tree stretched over him as he watched. Under the eaves, Rui sat with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out on the ground.

He didn’t talk to anyone or laugh. All he did was sit up, lie back, drink some water now and then. Watching him, Mikami felt a pang of sadness sharp enough to ache in his chest. It only deepened when he saw Rui eating the dry, crumbly powder from dried sweet potatoes. Rui had once mentioned that he could hardly taste anything anymore. He could tell if something was sweet or salty, but an apple and a loquat tasted the same to him. When Mikami had described how delicious the mangoes someone brought back had been, Rui had simply said it tasted no different from an apple. Not that I remember what apples taste like, he had added.

Rui didn’t join card games or volleyball matches for a break. No one invited him. It was as though his life existed solely to wait for the next sortie order. Mikami thought about how harshly he had scolded Rui and felt a pang of guilt. He couldn’t bear to leave Rui like this.

The repair of Rui’s pocket watch continued. Mikami finished assembling the parts spread across his workbench, carefully wrapped the watch in a cloth, and tucked it into his pocket. When he stood, Rui remained fixed on the blazing white sunlight outside.

“Rui,” he called.

Mikami didn’t expect Rui to apologize. Pilots rarely did. Rui certainly wouldn’t go out of his way to explain himself. It was either Mikami would walk away or relent. On the matter of the U-shaped part, Mikami had no intention of compromising, but if a little frustration was all it took to abandon Rui, he would have left long ago—back when Rui had first struck him.

Rui glared at the ground, his expression sour. If even being addressed irritates him, this will take some doing, Mikami thought, bracing himself. But then Rui looked up, his gaze soft and cautious, as if Mikami’s silence had made him uneasy. His blue eyes shimmered, as though wet with unshed tears. His lips pressed tightly together in a hard line.

Mikami felt his breath catch. It was a mix of resignation and helpless sadness. Why does he look at me like this, so vulnerable and lost, and expect me to turn away?

＊ ＊ ＊

There’s a divide between the lives of pilots and mechanics, but it’s one everyone accepts. Pilots risk their lives in direct combat with the U.S. forces, their courage and sacrifices ensuring the survival of those behind them—the fleet at Truk, and even the homeland itself. Without them, none of it would stand. It’s understood that the grueling training and effort it takes to become a pilot deserve this level of compensation.

Unusually, Rui suggested going outside today. With some time left before dinner, Mikami decided to join him.

They found a spot under the trees where makeshift tables—little more than palm stumps with planks nailed on top—had been set up. Rui chose one and sat down on an empty tin case, gesturing for Mikami to take the seat across from him. From his pocket, Rui began pulling out cans of food.

Leftovers from the enhanced combat rations given to pilots after missions, no doubt. Rui piled three, then four cans onto the table: canned pineapple, ark clams, beef, simmered hijiki, hardtack, and canned mandarin oranges. Except for the hardtack, these were top-quality items mechanics rarely got to see. Rui’s pockets seemed endless; he even pulled out newspaper-wrapped seaweed rolls and dried grilled fish. It was astonishing how much he had managed to carry.

Rui started by opening a can of ark clams. He must like those, Mikami thought, watching. Then Rui opened a pineapple can, and then the mandarin oranges. Does he plan to eat all that at once? Perhaps he was just that hungry after a mission.

Rui poured half the mandarin oranges into a cup he had brought, added three pineapple rings from the can with chopsticks, and slid the remaining contents toward Mikami.

“Are you sure? You worked hard for these,” Mikami said.

Rui often shared his food. What he shared was always part of the pilots’ specialized rations—vitamin supplements, even small bottles of medicinal sake for aviation health. Rui would casually say, “I can’t eat all this,” and hand it over, even though some of the items were non-perishable and could have been saved for later.

Earlier that morning, Mikami had found a hole punched into his helmet—clearly the work of someone’s hammer. It wasn’t the first instance of such harassment. Rumors about "Mikami being favored by Rui" had been circulating, sparking these petty acts. Mikami suspected it came from either other mechanics or members of the same squad, but if they considered his working relationship with Rui as "favoritism," he would have liked to ask them what their reasoning was.

When Rui said, “Eat,” Mikami accepted the mixture of pineapple and mandarin oranges with a simple “Thank you.” Both fruits were slightly warm, but their tartness was refreshing. The syrup’s sweetness soothed his tired body.

“This tastes good enough to make putting up with harassment worth it,” Mikami remarked, watching Rui tear a broad leaf from a nearby tree to use as a makeshift plate for the dried fish.

Rui, who shared a barrack with Mikami, was aware of the harassment he faced. Mikami had already reassured Rui that the pocket watch he was repairing was safe—kept on him at all times to avoid mishaps.

Swatting away the inevitable flies drawn by the food, Rui sighed. “Let them talk. If they’re foolish enough to envy the ‘favor’ of an outcast, then they’re idiots. Me? I’ve long stopped caring.”

Rui seemed unbothered by the situation, his composure born of experience. Having endured so much ridicule for his appearance and voice, he had built an immunity to pettiness. Compared to what he’d faced, the harassment Mikami endured likely seemed no more than a buzzing fly.

"Well, being called your lover isn't the worst thing," Rui said.

Mikami knew Rui was important to him. He couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else working on the aircraft Rui flew. If the rumors deterred others from targeting Rui, knowing there was one more person ready to retaliate on his behalf, all the better. As for Mikami himself, he didn’t care what rumors circulated about him as long as they involved Rui.

Mikami took one of the two pieces of dried fish on the leaf in front of him and placed it back on Rui’s leaf. Two for Rui, one for himself.

“It’s not about manners. You’re too thin. Eat up.”

Though he accepted Rui’s generosity, it was obvious that Rui needed the nutrition more. Pilots had higher physical demands, and dried fish—far rarer and fresher than canned food—was valuable. Mikami couldn’t believe Rui wasn’t hungry.

Rui fixed him with an intense gaze.

“...You’ll still come tomorrow, right?”

Why did he ask that with such doubt? Mikami suddenly understood. “Wait, were you trying to bribe me with food?”

Was that why Rui had invited him out? Thinking he had to offer food to ensure Mikami stayed by his side? It was baffling. Couldn’t Rui have just suggested they talk or go for a walk? Mikami sighed. This is on me. This person probably has no idea how to invite someone. The furrow in Rui’s brow and the slight flush creeping over his face were proof enough. Rui’s fine skin betrayed even the smallest surge of blood.

“I rely on you, Mikami, but I have nothing to offer in return,” Rui admitted.

“I don’t need anything. I do this because I want to.”

Mikami didn’t need compensation for his work, nor for his care. He pondered how to convey this to Rui, only to hear him murmur so softly it was nearly inaudible:

“When I eat with you, I can taste it.”

A mixture of exasperation and affection rose up in Mikami. Without a word, he placed his last piece of dried fish back onto Rui’s leaf.

Rui was selfish, stubborn, and sometimes as sharp as broken glass. But occasionally, he was unbearably endearing. It was, truly, frustrating.

＊ ＊ ＊

"Should I consult Kido about this...?"

The roar of the Zero echoed as it disappeared into a narrow gap in the clouds. Mikami lowered the white maintenance cap he had been waving until the aircraft was out of sight, letting it drop limply by his thigh.

Rui still didn’t voice any complaints about the maintenance. He didn’t request custom modifications for his aircraft, either. His demeanor during boarding was impeccable, and he left the cockpit clean upon landing.

Yet, whenever given the chance, he still attempted to attach that U-shaped component. Today, Mikami had to cut it off moments before takeoff. If the task had delayed the sortie, he was prepared to face the consequences or punishment.

Recently, the number of friendly aircraft being shot down had increased sharply. Compared to the days when Rabaul was considered invincible, the percentage of losses was significantly higher. Mikami recalled a time when over 90% of aircraft returned safely; now, fewer than half made it back each time. For new recruits, the survival rate was a dismal 30%, and first-time pilots often didn’t even reach 20%.

There was no doubt that unimaginable aerial battles were raging above. Rui, now a veteran pilot, had honed his skills to a level where he was regarded as one of the elite among the younger aviators in the grueling southern theater. He must feel compelled to push himself to the limit. Mikami understood the pressure Rui was under: the need to excel, the need to avenge the indignities of the past, and the desire to die with a legacy under the southern skies. Rui had said as much. Mikami could grasp the logic, even if he knew it was flawed.

When Rui learned of Abukawa’s fate, Mikami had hoped it would change his perspective—that he’d stop wasting his life for the dead and seek a way to live instead. Mikami had pleaded with him: don’t die for ghosts, live for yourself.

And yet, Rui continued to betray Mikami’s earnest wishes, insisting on installing that component. Did Rui truly believe his sorties determined Japan’s fate in the war? If not, what justified sacrificing himself? Was it his blue eyes, his voice that wouldn’t come, or the shame of being the son of a man disgraced by false accusations of corruption?

Mikami couldn’t fathom the reasons behind Rui’s actions, no matter how he mulled over the possibilities.

“Let’s go, Mikami. We need to get the next squadron in the air,” said a colleague, clapping Mikami on the back.

Nodding, Mikami joined the other mechanics and headed toward the cluster of aircraft. Several planes sat on the runway, idling as they warmed up.

“...There aren’t many left,” someone murmured as they walked.

When Mikami first arrived in Rabaul, the hangars had been so packed with aircraft that they seemed ready to overflow. Now, that sight was a memory. Many planes were tucked among the underbrush to avoid air raids, but nearly half were grounded due to a lack of parts and materials. Most of the air fleet had already been pulled back to Truk Islands. Only a small number of volunteer pilots, Rui among them, had stayed behind.

Mikami felt a weight pressing down on him—a quiet but relentless force. We’re winning, right? They no longer had the momentum they once did, but if they kept fighting with persistence, victory had to be inevitable. It had to be.

His thoughts were interrupted by the upbeat voice of the deputy mechanic chief, cutting through the tension like a sunbeam. “Enjoy this little respite while you can! Soon, we’ll have brand-new planes flooding in from the mainland, and you’ll be too busy to catch your breath!”

“Yes, sir,” Mikami replied mechanically.

Everyone was eagerly anticipating the arrival of new aircraft—fresh reinforcements that could change the tide of battle. The rumored models included the Zero Model 62, the Ryuusei Kai, the Tenrai, the Shiden Kai, the Reppu, and the Saiun. Development was reportedly advancing in the technical arsenal, with promises that these aircraft would be deployed to Rabaul as soon as they were ready. Other secret weapons were also in the works, said to be destined for the southern front.

Once those planes arrived, everything would turn around. Mikami clung to that hope: We just have to hold on until then. Better planes meant better odds, and it would finally ease the painful anxiety of watching Rui’s Zero disappear into the sky.

Reaching the airstrip, Mikami and his colleagues joined another maintenance team already working on the warming planes. Their job was to assist with last-minute preparations and any miscellaneous tasks. Together, rotating between lead and support roles, they sent aircraft up into the sky.

After sending all the operational aircraft into the air, it was time to clean up. Mikami disassembled scaffolding, packed away jack stands and toolboxes, and sorted damaged parts to be stored in designated areas. Today, he was assigned to the runway crew, staying near the airstrip even after the main tasks were done. Although the squadron had just taken off, someone had to handle emergency responses for any aircraft that might return due to malfunctions. It was a tense responsibility. If a damaged plane returned, Mikami would need to help the pilot evacuate, ensure the engine was shut down safely, and clear the area of ground personnel if there was a risk of explosion or fire. His decisions could directly impact the safety and survival of the pilots.

For now, there was no sign of anyone returning. It seemed everyone was flying well today. Mikami reviewed the flight roster written on a rough, uneven sheet of paper. Even paper was scarce these days. Ground crews had taken to chopping down trees to produce nori glue for making coarse, hand-scooped paper. Since cooking the nori paste during daylight risked attracting air raids due to the smoke, the process was done at dawn or just before dusk, with great effort and constant relocation. Every scrap of paper was used to its limit—notes filled every corner, and when space ran out, the writing was erased with rubber and overwritten.

Mikami looked up at the sky. Once again, Rabaul was frustratingly clear, the kind of empty blue expanse where even clouds seemed to evaporate.

Every day, staring at this monotonous sky feels like an ache. He longed for Japan’s sky—soft, inviting, almost cool to the touch. Wispy cirrus clouds like lacework, feathery strokes of haze, the faint glow of an eastern sky at dawn. It had only been a few months, but how he missed it.

As his gaze wandered to the waves, he thought he heard distant thunder. Occasionally, a deep, resonating sound rolled in from the horizon, like a massive rod striking the earth. It wasn’t clear what it was, but today’s sound felt different—persistent, swelling, and filling the sky with a rumbling vibration that echoed across the sea.

Black specks appeared in the uniformly blue sky, small and sharp against the backdrop. The moment Mikami saw them, an icy dread crawled up his spine.

Aircraft. But their droning hum was not from Zeros. The heavy, buzzing roar was far deeper than the Sakai engines he was used to, like the menacing hum of hornets. They were in formation, heading toward the base. Had they taken out the intercept squadron that launched earlier? What happened to the Zeros? What about Rui?

“Enemy attack! Enemy attack!”

“Move! Retreat, now!”

The shouts of the ground crew broke Mikami’s trance. Snapping back to awareness, he grabbed the arm of a nearby mechanic working on a bomber tire and hauled him to his feet.

The deafening roar of enemy engines rapidly closed in. Mikami sprinted up a sandbag embankment and into the tall grass. As he dove into the cover of the shrubs, lines of tracer bullets tore through the air on either side of him.

“Don’t stop! Keep running!”

Voices yelled amidst the bursts of dust and debris kicked up by strafing runs. Finally, the air raid sirens began to wail, their delayed warning cutting through the chaos.

Every operational plane was already in the air. All that remained were grounded aircraft, unable to move. They needed to reach the bomb shelters carved into the rock walls for safety.

Is Rui safe? Mikami’s mind raced. The idea that Rui and his squadron could be overwhelmed by such a massive force was unthinkable.

“Mikami!”

A shout made him instinctively turn, but a strong hand yanked him forward, forcing him to keep running. In the distance, he saw a dive bomber being pushed across the tarmac by its ground crew. The engine was running, but it wouldn’t be able to launch in time.

“Get out of there!”

A man ahead of him shouted, his voice rising in desperation. Planes left on the ground were perfect targets for bombing runs. Staying near them was suicidal.

As if on cue, the sound of rushing air filled Mikami’s ears—low and whistling, like the howl of an icy wind. Dark, shimmering ovals began to fall from the sky above. Bombs.

"Get down!"

Mikami yelled as he threw himself to the ground. Not a second later, the deafening roar of an explosion shook the earth. Clutching at his ears, which rang sharply with pain, Mikami scrambled to his feet. As he looked up, a plume of red-black smoke billowed skyward. The bomb had landed on a bomber parked further down the lot. Its wings were mangled, and flames roared hungrily over its frame.

“Over here! Someone’s trapped! Get a pole!”

“I’m hurt! Help me!”

Cries of pain and panic cut through the chaos. Mikami bolted toward the voices.

A crowd had gathered near the wreckage, struggling to clear rubble.

“We need to move the bomber! Anyone available, lend a hand!”

“Forget it! Just run, you idiot!”

Even as someone shouted the warning, the second wave of bombs came. Instinctively, Mikami clamped his hands over his ears, opened his mouth to offset the pressure, and dropped to the ground. The blast wave roared past, blowing the flames from the burning bomber sideways. He felt the heat singe the hair on his head, a sharp sizzle close to his scalp. Dirt and debris rained down in clumps.

When the dust settled, Mikami saw the group still working frantically to pry apart the wreckage. He rushed over, grabbing one end of a makeshift lever to help. Together, they managed to free a man buried under a pile of debris. His lower legs twisted unnaturally, pointing in directions they shouldn’t.

“We’ll call for a medic!” one man shouted, already taking off at a sprint.

Mikami grabbed him by the arm. “No! We’ll carry him ourselves—it’s too dangerous here!”

As the tallest in the group, Mikami maneuvered himself under the injured man’s arm to lift him. The man was semi-conscious and limp, making it difficult to hoist him properly. The low, mocking drone of enemy planes passed overhead, so close it felt as though they were skimming the ground. Anti-aircraft guns mounted on the hills fired sporadically, their shots doing little to deter the relentless attack.

The entire island echoed with the cacophony of bombs. Every explosion sent tremors rippling through the ground, while shockwaves whipped the air in chaotic gusts. Fires from incendiary bombs repeatedly blocked their path. The bomb shelter was supposed to be nearby, but the constant detours made it feel impossibly distant.

“Hold on! We’re almost there!” Mikami urged.

He carried the man on his back while two others supported him from behind. There was no response from the injured man.

Ahead, medics with a stretcher came running, dispatched from the shelter. Someone must have alerted them.

The bombs kept falling, accompanied by their eerie whistling as they plummeted. The sound was sharp, like a wind instrument gone mad. So long as the whistling stayed distant, the bombs weren’t targeting their position. The entrance to the shelter was finally in sight.

Then came a terrifying, bone-deep crack, like the air itself had been torn apart.

Mikami’s heart seized as he instinctively looked up at the sky.

That sound… like thunder ripping through the atmosphere… it’s right above us.

＊ ＊ ＊

Rui was flying back to the base at full throttle. When flying in clear skies like these, the canopy reflected nothing but the vast emptiness of blue. The endless expanse gave the illusion of standing still, the speedometer seemed broken, and the feeling made him want to scream.

Toward the end of the aerial battle, as planes trailed smoke and pilots disengaged to head back in scattered groups, a signal came through: The base is under attack.

While they had been dutifully engaging enemy forces advancing from the south, a bomber squadron had circled in from the southwest to strike the base.

About fifty bombers, forty fighters—a medium-sized formation had carried out the raid. The casualties were unknown. The damage was unknown. The airstrike involved 250 kg bombs and incendiaries. A daylight attack, even under the guise of a surprise raid, was an insult to the Japanese military.

As New Britain Island came into view and Rui flew north along the coast, multiple plumes of smoke rose from the jungle near Simpson Harbor.

Circling above the base, he waited for landing clearance, which took an agonizingly long time to come. Likely, the runways had been bombed again.

Is Mikami safe?

Anxiously, Rui scanned the skies for the signal flare that would allow him to land. When he was finally cleared to land on the usual eastern airstrip instead of being diverted to the northern runway, it felt like a stroke of luck.

Upon landing, the damage was worse than Rui had imagined. Coconut palms lay toppled, flames roared in several places, and debris was scattered everywhere.

Mikami wasn’t there to greet him.

“Good work out there. Are you unharmed?”

A mechanic Rui didn’t recognize welcomed him as he climbed out of the Zero. Rui quickly pulled out his notebook and scribbled a question to show the man: What happened to Toyota’s team?

“I don’t know. Look around you—this is the situation we’re dealing with,” the man replied.

The chaos seemed to have thrown normal assignments into disarray. Mechanics who could still move were helping land planes, regardless of their usual responsibilities. Rui didn’t see a single familiar face.

Signing his name and unit on the clipboard handed to him, he removed his harness and handed over his kapok vest to a crewman before making his way into the jungle. Flames were rising near the spot where Mikami’s team usually worked. From above, he had seen dark craters punched into the spaces between the palm trees.

Breathing heavily, Rui ran through the smoky underbrush. Blood spattered a large rock; a severed arm, yellow fat visible beneath torn flesh, lay nearby. A helmet, riddled with holes, was half-buried in the dirt. In the distance, a soldier drenched in blood was being carried away on a stretcher. Others limped by, their legs wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Along the cliff wall, bodies were lined up.

Are those the dead?

“Mikami!” Rui called, though he knew it was futile. His voice couldn’t carry. He frantically scanned the area until he spotted a soldier wandering aimlessly with a bucket of water.

Rui ran up to him, grasping his hand to trace the kanji for Mikami on his palm.

“Mi...Mi-ka…?” The soldier’s confused expression mirrored his incomprehension. Rui’s trembling hand struggled to write legibly.

Maintenance. Toyota’s team.

Repeating the gestures, mouthing the words, Rui finally saw recognition dawn on the soldier’s face. He pointed toward the forest.

“The maintenance team should be over there, probably helping with the firefighting.”

Rui didn’t wait for the man to finish speaking. He sprinted in the direction the soldier had indicated.

Columns of smoke spiraled into the sky. Shouts echoed as firefighters with hoses ran in the same direction.

In the brush, a group of people worked feverishly. Large machines, likely vital for aircraft maintenance, were being loaded onto carts and wheeled away. Others doused flames trying to spread to the surrounding trees. Nearer to the action, some were using ropes and timber to pull equipment out of danger.

Rui scanned each face. Most were covered in soot, making it difficult to recognize anyone. His eyes settled on a tall man pulling a rope. The man’s movements were calm yet purposeful. The way he stood, leaning his weight on his right leg—it had to be Mikami.

“Mikami!”

Rui’s shout brought Mikami’s startled gaze toward him.

“Mikami!” Rui ran over, relief flooding him.

Mikami turned, his face dirty with soot and streaked with blood. His cheek bore a fresh cut, his sleeve was torn, and there was a gaping hole in his pants at the knee.

“Mikami…” Rui reached out, catching his breath as his gaze darted over Mikami, alive but battered. For the first time since landing, a knot of tension in Rui’s chest began to ease.

“Rui…!?”

Mikami, his face marked with disbelief, handed off the rope he had been holding and hurried over to Rui.

“What happened? I made sure your plane was fully serviced, didn’t I?”

Covered in grease and dust, Mikami looked like a soldier from the army. Blood still seeped from a fresh wound on his cheek, smearing and hardening with dirt down to his jawline. Sweat trickled through the grime, soaking into the collar of his shirt, which was stained with dark patches of blood.

Rui nodded and raised a hand to his own cheek. Mimicking him, Mikami touched his wound and gave a small, rueful smile as he looked at the blood on his hand.

“Oh, this.”

He gestured toward his face. “A bomb fell close by, and the shrapnel nicked me. But everyone was safe under the trench cover.”

Despite his tattered appearance, his clothing torn and bloodied, Mikami’s smile was as calm and open as a serene Japanese sky in May.

The tension that had gripped Rui’s heart since hearing about the air raid melted away, replaced by a sense of release so overwhelming it almost felt foolish. The icy pain in his chest had been for nothing.

“….”

Breathing heavily, Rui leaned forward and rested his forehead against Mikami’s shoulder with a dull thud.

I was terrified, Rui thought, the relief from the tension flooding through him. The moments between hearing about the raid and arriving at the base had been filled with suffocating anxiety. His heart had felt like it might burst, and every breath had burned in his chest. Now, with the weight of his fears dissolving, his knees trembled, threatening to give way beneath him.

“Were you worried about me?”

Mikami’s voice was gentle as he asked. Rui nodded, pressing his forehead into Mikami’s shoulder as if rubbing it in affirmation.

“Now you understand how I feel.”

Mikami whispered softly, his hand gently stroking Rui’s trembling back. Rui’s breathing hitched, and quiet sobs began to escape his lips. His body shook uncontrollably. The thought of losing Mikami had been unbearable.

“You understand now, don’t you? What it feels like for me to beg you to come back alive.”

Mikami’s tone was slightly teasing, almost as if in retaliation, though his arms around Rui were trembling just as much. Rui wanted to tell him he understood, but the words wouldn’t come. He didn’t want to admit defeat so easily. Live. Live. Live. Please, live. No matter what shape you return in, I just want to see you again.

Tears spilled down his cheeks, mingling with the sweat on his face. He couldn’t stop crying and didn’t even understand why it was so overwhelming.

“I’ll be here waiting,” Mikami whispered reassuringly into Rui’s ear. “No matter what, I’ll survive until you return.”

“Come back to me. Let me keep fixing your plane—again and again. You and the Zero.”

“You’re lumping me together with an airplane?” Rui managed to choke out in weak retaliation.

Mikami chuckled softly, the sound brushing through the space between them. “It doesn’t matter. You could be a demon or a plane, for all I care.”

Mikami tightened his arms around Rui gently. “As long as you come back here to me, that’s all that matters.”

His voice trembled, and as he spoke, Mikami buried his face in Rui’s sweat-soaked hair, closing his eyes.

“Give me your heart.”

“Mikami…”

“So that I can always stay by your side. Even just your heart—give it to me.”

This was a battlefield. They didn’t know if either of them would still be alive tomorrow. Their bodies were unreliable, fleeting.

Rui made a decision, one he never thought he’d make.

“Then, Mikami… you’ll belong to me alone.”

If their bodies were fleeting, he wanted to hold Mikami close now. To touch him, to feel his warmth and heartbeat. To swear, as birds do, that they were each other’s only one.

They called it a bond, a promise.

Rui had thought he would never have something like that in his life.

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