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"Haise, again."
His crossbreed stirs on the floor, slumped against it with an air of finality that Arima does not like. "But I can't, I can't..."
There was a time and a place, Arima thinks, when he would have extinguished any subordinate of his who said that. Number 240, with his elbows braced against the cold ground, should have been no different. But there is something in those eyes, something when he looks up at Arima with a thread of determination despite the exhaustion painted clear across his face, that makes him think, makes him hope -
Maybe -
"Again," Arima repeats.
-
The first time he sees Taishi after he leaves high school in the 13th ward, Taishi is tugging at the stiff collar of a CCG Academy uniform amid a sea of similarly-dressed cadets. Arima passes him, wearing dress whites with a fresh award pinned to his chest beside the rank 2 badge. He has to resist the urge to smile because they're at a funeral, but he really does want to. Taishi has grown even taller than before, and he's stopped bleaching his hair. The combination of dark roots and a comb-over give him the appearance of a half-iced cake, but Arima won't mention it.
The investigator being honored died a hero, saving his subordinates from an SS ranked ghoul. His assistant captain gives a stirring speech before they lay him to rest, emotional words about honor and devotion and duty. Very Gilbert and Sullivan, Arima thinks. But weren't they all?
Taishi finds him later, standing among the gravestones. "Hey," he says.
"Taishi." Arima raises a hand in greeting. "Why are you here?"
"Shiraishi taught a couple classes at the Academy. I was in his course last year, with a few other cadets, so we came to remember him." Taishi stares at the stone, unseeing - Arima knows this because it's not even Shiraishi's grave that they're standing in front of. Shiraishi is buried three rows down, his plot surrounded by his family and colleagues, his little daughter clinging to her mother's hand with snot dripping down her puffy face. His son stands by their side, fists clenched and hair covering his eyes, so that no one will see the grief on his face. Survived by his loving wife and two children, the inscription reads, probably.
"He was a pretty good instructor," says Taishi. "I'll miss him a lot. He died too soon."
Shiraishi was a shit instructor, Arima remembers. He was a hard-ass when it came to his subordinates, a slob with paperwork, and more often than not had to be carried out of bars and lifted off sidewalks at three in the morning. But no one spoke ill of the dead, and now that Shiraishi was encased in a cold pine box underground, he was everyone's angel. Now that he was gone, he was loved.
"Maybe it'll be us next time," Arima says. "Who knows?"
-
He's not dressed for this, but neither of them are. Sasaki is still in his prisoner's outfit, cheap blue cotton pooling over his arms as he tries to raise his head up. He paws at the ground like a dog, and perhaps he really is trying to dig his way out. They paint a pretty picture; a gentleman in his morning coat, supervising his pet in the garden.
But Arima didn't come here to be some silent statue, some alabaster idol to be worshipped. Arima's suits, though they appear restrictive, are tailored for movement. The seams in his jacket are sewn to accommodate the sudden, violent contortions that come with battle. He came here to fight.
He stares at the unmoving figure on the ground, and is gripped by a rush of frustration - Arima didn't pick this one out of the multiplying corpses on a whim. He heard the creature before he saw it, a somber presence marked by soft footsteps trailing wetness, audible despite the rain falling all around. And when Kaneki Ken screamed and lost himself, when scarlet threads exploded from the small of his back and lashed great scars into the stone latticework making up V14 - only then did Arima allow himself to think, "He might be the one to give me what I want."
-
Hirako finds him after an operation, knocking with his briefcase tucked under his arm. Arima looks up, with confusion at first, because this is so unlike Hirako. Hirako Take has never sought him out willingly, though he comes when called, like that Shiba Inu he's so fond of. Hirako has loyalty but no love; it's a combination that might be water torture for any other man, but Hirako can bow his head and take it.
"Arima," he starts, because between them they dropped honorifics a long time ago. "You left this in the break room."
He slides a thin volume across Arima's desk.
"Oh, thanks," Arima says, surprise coloring his words. "I borrowed this from the Bureau Director. It would've been unfortunate if I had lost it."
"I didn't know that Director Washuu lent books," Hirako says.
"He usually doesn't, but I got lost at last month's end-of-year party and wandered into the library on accident. They keep an excellent collection of foreign literature."
"Do they?"
"Well, I borrowed the translated version in the end. I'm quite fond of this section," Arima says, cracking the book open with practiced fingers. "Here, line 41. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs - he's a very lyrical poet, Keats, and the descriptions are quite fascinating. Are you sure you wouldn't like to read it?"
Hirako shakes his head. "No," he says. "I'm not really the kind of person who appreciates poetry."
Arima watches him leave, and lets his finger trace down the page, down to the next stanza.
"Darkling I listen, and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath..."
-
"Again," he repeats.
"I can't anymore, Arima..." Sasaki whimpers from the floor.
"Stand, Haise," Arima says. "Or else, you will never..."
Kill me.
Kill me, like I killed the ghouls escaping V14. Kill me, like I killed your friends. Wrap your red thread around my throat and tighten it. Or reach for me, and claw with your fingers until flesh is rendered ribbons under your nails. Then discard me atop my mountain of bodies, so I can reign among the corpses like I deserve. I know you can, because I've seen you tear your eyes out with those hands. I know you can, because you hate me, because I've made you hate me.
Kill me, the way you want - the way you want. Please.
When Sasaki moves again his shoulders rise first, invisible puppeteers pulling at the joints in his limbs. How appropriate, Arima realizes. Both of them, actors with roles chosen by powers unseen, dancing a frenzied tango across a common stage. Both bound by this warped birdcage called a world.
Perhaps Sasaki will get him out.
Sasaki struggles to his feet, and Arima thinks, good.