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Chapter Text

He is one part of three. 

Kaworu is Shinji is Rei. 

They are one and apart. 

Together they are something like hope.

Shinji says, "You are you."

And that is what makes them separate, makes them human. 

***

His role is always the same in the story. 

He follows along the lines of the narrative, dancing over every act and outcome like fingers over the keys of a grand piano. 

There is a kind of certainty to every variation, a series of events that must happen, will happen , notes that shine too brightly in the abyss of possibilities to be left out.  

There will be changes, a different key, a higher or lower octave, a flow that runs like a river winding through the mountains, a pace that burns through time like a wick approaching doom, but some things will always be the same. 

It is, after all, the same melody, and he cannot change the song.

***    

His choice is always the same. 

Perhaps he could change this, perhaps this is one of those things he has the power to reach out and twist, molding it to his own will, rewriting the script or flying off into another symphony altogether. 

He could live, he could end the world, he could bring about what the lillin think is their true happiness, their greatest desire. 

This is what he is meant to do, he knows. This is how it is written. 

***

But he will always meet Shinji Ikari. 

And he will never not love him. 

***

His choice is always the same. 

He dies so that humanity can continue.

*** 

Humanity, he says now, because they have become something different than Lillith.  

Individual souls, sundered from each other. All so wonderfully, beautifully different.  

To be human is to die, to be human is to suffer, but to be human is to love. 

Finding oneself in the hearts of others, seeing oneself in another’s eyes, simply existing together, apart and whole, many and one. 

*** 

Love, he finds, has different meanings to humanity.

Sometimes it is the bliss of lips against lips, bodies folding into one, life blooming between. 

Sometimes it is an arm thrown around shoulders, or a hand intertwined with another. 

Sometimes it is a mother's kiss, or a father's embrace. 

It is as simple as a smile, as deep as pain, as casual as a handshake.  

Sometimes it is clenched teeth and sobbing and screaming, ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’

Love means suffering.

***

It is Shinji who teaches him what it means to love. 

In the quiet laughs shared over meals, in the careful, hesitant questions asked in the whispers of night, in the tear trails left beneath red eyes.

So fragile, so vibrant, all of it sparkling like light through delicate glasswork.  

It is love, he knows, when he sees Shinji smile, and his chest feels warm, and he thinks, ‘I want you to be happy.’ 

It is also love, he knows, when his chest starts to ache and tears start to bloom in his eyes and he starts to hurt, starts to suffer, for the sake of one outside himself.   

***

And so he dies, and the world continues, or it ends, and neither is truly his fault.

Because this has always been Shinji's story, and ultimately, Shinji must decide for himself what is to happen. 

And Kaworu is content to stand aside, play whatever part he's been given, if only to see Shinji happy.

***

"You wanted his happiness to make you happy," Kaji says and they both know that it is the truth.

Because Shinji is what makes Kaworu human. And Kaworu is just like Shinji, in so far as he craves a happy ending. 

***

Shinji smiles at him, says things that seem so wise for one so hurt and so broken. 

And it is a strange turn of events, because, for a moment it is Kaworu who feels sadness swirling like an ocean in his heart, threatening to consume his very being, heavy and weary and so, so tired.

And it is Shinji who reaches out to him, with a child's innocence, with the purest of love, offering him hope.

And for a while, they stand there, hand in hand, on the shoreline.

***

It is a lonely feeling when he first begins to let go of Shinji.

It is a sort of surrender, a release of hands, a relinquishing of the instrument to another master. 

Love, he finds, sometimes means goodbye and sometimes means parting ways.

Love sometimes means suffering. 

***

He stands while Shinji takes a seat at the piano, begins a solo, fingers dancing over black and white, his own performance bursting into existence, and there is no more need for a duet. 

Shinji does not need his comfort, his words, his support, right now. He is capable, confident in himself. He has grown and matured, and the only tears shed are those of Kaworu.

***

"Let's let him take it from here," Kaji says, resting a hand on his shoulder, nudging him gently. And Kaworu feels very young and very old and very tired all at once. 

He smiles all the same.

***

He takes Kaji up on his offer. 

They walk back together to the little house standing just beyond Kaji's field of growing things, watermelons and flowers. 

Kaworu takes a deep breath because the air thickens with the scent of life and soil, and it is too beautiful to pass unnoticed and unappreciated.  

"You're welcome here for as long as you like," Kaji tells him, voice just loud enough to carry over the birdsong and hissing cicadas. 

Here, there are no Evas. Here, humanity lives alongside nature. Here, life is simply lived, and deep down Kaworu hopes, promises , that he will try to as well.

Chapter Text

A part of him worries at first that Katsuragi will not be as welcoming as Kaji.

It would be understandable. 

They have never really gotten along well. She has always been suspicious of him, and for good reason. 

He isn't fully human, after all. And something about him will always be angelic. 

But their meeting here is no great thing. 

Kaji says, "We have a guest, Misato," a smirk on his lips and eyes sparkling with mischief.

Katsuragi, sprawled inelegantly over the couch, tilts her head back to give Kaworu an upside-down look-over. "Huh," she says, frowning, and then, "Nagisa," with the slightest nod of acknowledgment. 

For a moment, something flashes in her eyes, some remnant of the captain he once knew, before it dissolves altogether, leaving only a tired, detached sort of amusement. 

"Make yourself at home."

***

He learns to nurture things that rest in the bed of the earth, how to coax living things from the ground and encourage their growth. 

It is another beautiful thing that humanity does, tending to life forms other than their own. 

It reminds him, sometimes painfully, of Shinji.

***

He learns that hard work means sweat and aching muscles, blisters and roughened hands. 

It means firm pats on the back and hearty praise of 'good job,' from Kaji that warms Kaworu to his bones, making him smile until his face hurts.

He feels just like Shinji at these times, craving praise, craving love and acceptance from others. It is such a human emotion, such a human desire, bittersweet and beautiful.    

***

He attempts to ‘live for himself,’ as Kaji has told him to, as Shinji has told him to, finding things that make him happy because he likes them. 

Music is the first thing that comes to mind. He has always loved music. 

The piano is his instrument of choice, but the little house is crowded enough already with Kaji’s books and Katsuragi’s clutter, and even when Kaji suggests that they can move things around and save up a little, Kaworu turns him down. 

He doesn’t want to make things complicated, and he’s gone without a piano before.  

And so, he makes use of his voice, singing day and night, spinning old tunes and new tunes into the air. 

He greets the mornings with song. He sings when he’s elbow deep in dirt under the sun, and on sleepy afternoons while Kaji is attempting to cook and Katsuragi is sitting cross-legged on the floor, sipping a beer and watching him from the corner of her eye.

“You have a nice voice, Kaworu,” she says, quietly, a questioning quirk to her lips. 

He smiles at her, sits up a little straighter, and runs a hand through his tousled hair almost sheepily. “Thank you, Katsuragi.”

“Eh, you might as well call me Misato at this point.” She shrugs her shoulders and looks away, feigning indifference.   

“Misato, then.” 

***

In the morning, he finds a small stack of aged songbooks and a case containing a violin placed by his bedroll. 

A note with sprawling pink script is stuck to the top: I know it’s not a piano, but I thought you could use this.