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It was a contradiction; what stared back at her through digital pixels, the light bouncing harshly off his dark skin tone, his silver hair seemed to glow as it framed his face as he snaked an arm around another boy cut off the frame. The colours were dull in only the way that those cheap cameras could capture - you'd have to be wearing neon for any kind of vibrancy to shine through, and it was nostalgic in every way. It was a photo of friends, no doubt. He didn't seem the type to want family photos (perhaps when he was younger, perhaps). No, instead it was one with friends: arms linked around each other, smiling without a care in the world - even if they were cropped out of the image, everything screamed that personal photo that one would hide away in a box, breaking it out to look back on the good ol' days.
She'd half expected him to be done up in a tuxedo, hair brushed cleanly and drifting over his back, with that cold look he'd always worn. But his hair was shaggy, barely brushing his shoulders, and she could spot black studs poking through, all too obvious against those pale strands. He wore a red cap, and she could see he wore a short-sleeved camo hoodie, flimsy and loose and sagging down his slim frame, no doubt due to the hot weather of Cairo. She thinks, if she squints and looks closely, she could see a black line lying just under the green sleeve - a tattoo? She never would've thought he'd get one. Especially since...
The photograph was older than her, but not by much. She would have been 12 when it was taken. Unfamiliar was the face that stared at her. She never thought she'd see him this young, so used to seeing the grown man with fully-grown features: his sharp face, his hook nose and his deep-slate eyes. He was just a child, barely cusping teenage-hood.
She exhaled, the anxiety never leaving but building with each second that passed, and she fidgeted with her hair for a moment before turning to the next tab: 'thanks ami'
She hastily backspaced - 'are you sure this is him?'
'Yes, 100%' she got in reply. 'I thought the same when I found out Zoisite's, but it all points to him.'
'okay. thank you ami.'
'It was no issue.'
The groan that escaped her could not have been long enough. She turned back to the original tab, a PDF file stolen from the Cairo police. It was so simple, dot-points of a life lived, thirteen years condensed to the bare facts: name, weight, age.
Kamal Hafeez Amir Abdelaal
Male
13
5' 4"
75 lb
Silver hair
Hazel eyes
Alias: Mal
Phone unknown
Home address: █ █ █ █ █ █ █
Reason Wanted: Missing
***
She really shouldn’t care. He was someone she barely even knew, so she shouldn’t be hunched over the kitchen counter, staring into nothing as the Missing Person’s flyer stuck in her mind.
But, at some point, she did know him. An aspect of him, at least. He was the King of the West, presiding over what would be modern Africa and the Middle East. Try as he might to deny it, he was the flashiest of the four kings, only outmatched by the prince he protected. He always wore that dumb, angry look on his face - lips taught, eyes calculating, eyebrows drawn - because he didn’t want to give away any sentimentality, his stoicism a mask to hide away his affection towards his prince, his brothers-at-arms and his people. He’d trust that you’d know how he was feeling underneath, his actions gave it away whether it be how gently he’d hold on your shoulder or how grueling his training sessions could be. There was only one flower that he liked, Gazanias, and avoided wine like the plague as he hated the thought of not being in control of himself-
She’s thinking about it again. The future they have now, and she wonders how different things would be if he were around. Maybe they could have been good friends, confidants who shared the pressures of leadership, of making sure everyone was alright.
Then she remembers he’s a different person. The person she knew held a restrained smile that shone through the crinkles of his eyes. Tradition and culture were held high in his mind, a topic that she would disagree with him on, leading the two to have arguments with one another. He didn’t wear a grin on his face, joy clear for all to see. He didn’t go against the grain of his people, donning studs in his ears and tattooing his skin. But then she realizes that the same could be said for her.
Venus, the princess named after her home planet, wore sheer clothes that draped on the ground, bejewelled in pearl beads and topaz rings. Venus chased her desires and they lead her to Kunzite. It was in her blood, she was born Venusian. Minako loved to dress in all different styles, but she avoided the risque that Venus loved. Minako held restraint in times it mattered, she held perspective of things that mattered to her most.
Venus was a memory of a time long gone, Minako is the present. She supposes the same can be said for Kunzite. For Kamal.
It didn’t matter anymore. He was gone, destroyed by Metallia - she wanted the last laugh in the end. They never knew each other, not in the new life they were granted.
Still, she could mourn for the boy whose life was cut short too soon.
***
“Minaaa!” Usagi cried, bag in hand as she stepped through Minako’s apartment - it was light and airy, just like its owner. “Come on, we’re gonna be late!”
“I’m almost ready, just give me a moment!” Minako replied. Huffing, Usagi fell on a chair by the long dinner table, sagging as she fiddled with the straps of her satchel. A wonderful yellow caught her eye, streaked with a beautiful red that faded into a deep brown, its olive green leaves sprawled out like a firework. Usagi cooed at the sight, staring at the flowers in the glass vase.
“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go.” Coming out of the bathroom, dressed in her best, Minako nodded to the entrance as she made her leave.
“Yup, okay!” Usagi pranced after her. The door slid shut to the now lonely apartment. The place held no significance now, it was a space unoccupied, but soon its owner would be back with wonderful memories that’d leave her humming and laughing and dancing the night away, and then the place would be given meaning again. It was through the memory of the living that things are given meaning.