Reunion (Sinclair/Yi Sang fanfic)

Also available on Tumblr and on Ao3 once it's back...
I wrote this for November 1st since it was their day (11/1)

Content : SPOILERS FOR CANTO 9

Certain Sinclair/Certain Yi Sang, non-canon compliant (probably), I had like 5 tabs open about the Smoke War, Implied past Demian/Sinclair, Demian mention if you squint, english is not my first language have mercy, I wrote straight BULLSHIT, Wrote this instead of sleeping, start with angst ends with fluff

1k words!

Special thanks to Satone who accompagnied me during this writing.

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Sieben, Sechs, Elf, Funf, Neun and Zwanzig miles today,

Vier, Elf, Siebzehn, zweiunddreißig the day before.

There is no discharge in the Smoke War.

Smoke. Blue Smoke. Blue Smoke everywhere. No matter where your eyes could glance at, if even it was possible to properly look somewhere admist all that smoke that would cover everything in it's course.

Blue used to be the color of everything beautiful in the world.

The sky, a place without any limits, without any master to claim it, where birds could fly away for hours. Spread their perfect wings. Sometimes, he wish he could fly too.

The sea, though blue isn't it's actual color, you can see it only when the water absorbs the light made by the sun.

And a scarf, that used to belong to an old friend and even if it's hard to admit for him. He does miss that old friend. Way more than he should.

And now, he comes to think that this infected color can only bring disgust and fear. It has now being years since the Second Smoke War started, enough years to the point where Sinclair cannot count it anymore with his scars covered fingers.

Years now that, without fail, when clouds of blue smoke rosed over the air, and he felt overwhelmed by that numbling sensation of the fog. Devouring his mind, penetrating every crevices of his lungs without anytime to wear the gas mask -someone that he cannot remember the face gave him- that already worned out, craved with has many battle scars as him. Where he could hear cries, screams. People fighting and clashing against each other, yielding his halberd, spilling liters and liters of blood from persons he never knew the name, with unreadable expression on their faces. He could no longer call them humans.

His ears burdening with the vibrating motors of airborne forces omnipresent in the sky, replacing the birds that, years Sinclair cannot remember clearly, would take over that blue heaven he loved to view with his old companions of the Bus.

One old companion, in particular, that he yearns so much. He can deny many things, the blood on his hands that won't go no matter how much polluated water he uses, his rough, coarse skin marked by his ennemies forever like he was but a tree with the sole purpose of carrying the initials of past lovers. But not this. Everytime the thought crosses his mind, he ends up reminiscing of the past. The memories where his co-workers, friends, family, he corrected himself, almost family, would support him into facing his traumas and deepest ugliest fears.

Those memories were his only way to get back on his feet and look ahead across this everlasting blue smoke. Yet the more he tries and remembers, the more foggy and blurry their faces ends up, like the blue smoke wasn't only swallowing his hope for a better future, but also them.

He can't reject the idea of how much he wishes to see them, him, again. As ridiculous as it's sounds, he imagined that day many times. He would dream up of how they looked like now, what he should say, what they would say. He even made provisions to make a somewhat improvised buffet where they could talk about what happened after Limbus Company dissolved and what each of the sinners has become. Except the food he neatly kept just in case would always end up spoiled before being used as how he perfectly depicted it in his mind. So he would eat it in this putrid state to make sure they don't go to waste, he doesn't have the luxury to worry about the taste of a moldy bread across his tongue. Not anymore.

It was only after finishing a mission that he could take off that suffocating gas mask used to protect him. Even after being back in one of the Abraxas Chariot's improvised post, the air wasn't as much breathable as when it was on the battlefields but he learned how to accept it. He needs to be tough or he won't survive the horde of distorsions coming for his neck at the slightest weakness he shows.

The base wasn't much better than the outside, it was full of soldiers without any hopes on their eyes. Some were missing limbs, dozens of bloodied bandages replacing it. Their clothes stained with now dry blood, turning into a foul brown color. Sinclair could even hear whimpers and sobs coming from nursing tents, where it was possible to distinct soldiers silhouettes that barely survived an attack. He himself went to those tents many times, to the point where he could recognise the doctors identity only by their moving shapes, comforting them.

His boots echoing in the hallway in perfect sync with his pulse, today he were to make a report to his superior on N Corp whereabouts. Except he felt a presence behind him. He payed it no mind, he would have been way more worried if he was the only person here. The thing is,

"Emil...?"

They sounded familiar. It was a hesitant, almost strangled voice that called him. At the sound of his first name being used instead of the regular 'Sinclair', he turned to the person. Only to stay stucked at the vision in-front of him. For a second, he thought he inhaled so much Smoke that he was hallucinating. He could not detach his eyes at the man before him, the one he dreamt of almost every night. Whom he regretted not having a photo to place in front of his heart, that he would caress during his worst moment.

"Yi Sang?" He placed a foot toward him, at the complete opposite of his main direction.

"Why, " He lacked words, it was like suddenly nothing made sense.

He placed a second, "How.." his entire script that he rehearsed over and over again crumbled to the ground.

It was very hard for him to describe what he was feeling at the moment, it was like a bitter-sweet sensation overwhelming his senses that he didn't know how to keep contain. As such, his steps grow more erratic, plunging himself at Yi sang. Hugging him as tight as possible, putting his face at the crook of his neck while inhaling his scent. He smelled like the earth after the rain.

Placing his hands on his face instead, he properly looked at him. Yi Sang changed a lot, just like him. He observed that his hair wasn't as flat as it's used to, now it was more fluffy and a bit more longer. His eyebags too were now more prominent, did he lose weight?

"I thought," Sinclair's thumb caressed his cheek like it was the most precious thing on earth. "This only happened in my deepest fantasies".

Yi Sang hands lost themselves into the long golden hair of his..lover. Noting that it was now longer to the point of being kept in a ponytail, he wondered how he would look like without it. He retraced with his finger the scar taking the whole space of his left cheek.

"If that is okay with you," Yi sang said in a melancholic voice. "May I?"

Without any seconds wasted, their lips crashed against each other. The taste wasn't anything like the first time they kissed, on the bus, tragically different from the warm, smooth and marshmallow-ish texture. Sinclair remembers making sure that they both kissed after brushing their teeth to make sure that everything was perfect. Even if he felt like dying because of his hard beating heart in his chest, with the blood rosing from his head, giving a burning sensation to his cheeks.

Now it felt rough, like sandpaper and harsh. Their lips full of biting marks from stress and panic, those were the lips of someone surviving a war, torned-up and chapped. Where the only semblance of humidity they could get was from their tears running down their faces.

Even after breaking up, Yi Sang's lips still formed a half kiss, his eyes yearning for another. It wasn't the first time Sinclair kissed anyone, but every single one of them were awkward and shy, where he didn't know what he was doing, only replicating what he read in the romance books his older sister used to keep in her bookshelf that he borrowed without permission, illuminated by the warm light of his flashlight beneath the covers of his teen years room.

The second was more softer, more delicate and less desperate, his gloved hands never leaving their rightful locations like ribbons perfectly wrapped into his once long lost lover. His arms tainted with the black consequences of fighting the smoke everyday, clinging to him like the haunting cries of his comrades, pulled only Yi sang closer and closer to him. Like he could fly away at any moment from him.