Disclaimer: I don't own The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya.

White Chrysanthemum

Posted December 25th, 2007

Itsuki was dead.

Not with tears and caskets and flowers the colour of snow, but he had buried his past with far more than six feet to separate them both. He had been reborn as Koizumi, the mysterious transfer student, and for everything that he had changed, the only thing missing was a skeleton-thin frame and a brand new face. Smiles could only go so far.

He hummed a song to himself, one of he cheesy tunes that so oft played during slideshows at a wake, and set a piece down on the playing board in front of him. Othello, losing again, because the dead were the unluckiest of them all. Itsuki, the dead Itsuki, the Itsuki that lived in the cold darkness of the Earth and breathed nothing but fading memories, would have given up long ago. But Kyon wanted to play and he couldn't end it all so soon. The dead had no free will either, it seemed.

Koizumi was smiling, hands folded serenely in his lap, and he realized that Kyon was staring at him intently. It must be his turn. He reached forward to place yet another marker on the table, but Suzumiya stopped him when she yanked the other boy out of his chair by his uniform tie. There was an exchange of words that he didn't bother to catch - the dead had no ears with which to listen - and then all he could hear was the quiet rhythm of the keyboard as his gaming opponent reluctantly followed the club Chief's orders.

The esper stood up from his seat at the table and picked up his bag, already heading towards the exist as he excused himself to leave. No one challenged him as he slipped out the door. He couldn't stand Suzumiya touching Kyon like that, although a bit more forcefully than Koizumi himself would have done, and he had convinced himself to leave before he resurrected the Itsuki that he had left behind so long ago. Ceremony, there had been a ceremony for that thing, dressed in black and silence all around, and still he couldn't forget or shake the urge. The mourning period should have been over.

Kyon didn't know what sacred sort of thing he was upsetting, digging for information the way he did and arousing feelings the way he did. He'd be better off taking a shovel to ground and burning incense along the way than looking for the truth, because Itsuki was dead and the dead have no tongues with which to speak. The dead have no secrets left to reveal.

Itsuki was dead, an unpleasant thing left to rot and be forgotten, and he didn't know why anyone would want to see someone long buried with tears and caskets and flowers the colour of snow.