Work Text:
Tap, tap, tap.
He tries again.
Tap, tap, tap.
This is long enough, right?
Tap, tap, tap.
The knife pierces his skin, deliberately by accident.
Saihara lets out a breath he'd been holding for far too long, stands up roughly, his chair screaming against the hard floor. His hand darts out to grab Ouma's, a reflex. "That's enough!" His words are too fast for someone usually so uncertain. The shakiness isn't new, however. He lets go (too soon) and hurriedly leaves the room. In the doorway, he adds, "Stay here, I'll be right back," as an afterthought.
Ouma watches the blood bead up on his finger, watches it fill up like a balloon before bursting into tiny streams, sinking into the cracks in his skin. It's a nice color, he thinks absentmindedly. Stark, vibrant, vivid against his light skin. Just like him against all these mindless fools (but that was a lie).
It stings, just a little, but it's not an unwelcome feeling. If anything, it's familiar - too much so - and Ouma wonders why that is. Wonders for the millionth time why he can't remember where the faint lines on his wrists come from. Wonders how he could forget something so important. He bites his lip.
The blood drips onto the desk in silence.
He had sort of expected this kind of result, but had hoped it wouldn't happen. It's not too late to salvage his original plan if he just escapes now, before Saihara can catch him off-guard and hold his hand again. He doesn't quite understand why, but he thinks if Saihara touches him again, he'll discover something he doesn't want to. He needs to get out, now. He's about to do it, but Saihara returns with a first-aid kit in hand and now he's trapped, can't run away like he always does. (It's not running away, he tells himself, like a mantra. It's not running away.)
(then what is it)
As Saihara fumbles with the gauze between Ouma's fingers, all he can think about is how gentle he is. He's rushing, of course, shaking as he rubs some ointment into the wound, but he's very careful. Very meticulous. As if he's scared he'll break something.
There's another, more haunting feeling, crawling up his spine. At first, he thinks it's déjà vu. But the feeling is not the same, because with déjà vu, it still seems like a dream, floaty and just out of reach. Saihara's touch is not like that. It's firm, concrete, it's real, and Ouma knows for a fact that he has felt this hand in his before. He must've spent a lot of time trying to memorize it, to engrave it in his heart. The curves in his fingers, the smoothness of his knuckles, the warmth of his skin. It just feels... right.
He laughs. Whoever he had been before must've been a real coward to be so scared of forgetting something as trivial as this. (He's a coward too. He's scared of losing this moment.) He's had so much fun playing with Saihara. Spitting out lies as naturally as he breathes, trying to get a rise out of him. Enjoying the way his pretty face switches from curiosity to disgust, and back again. Placing bets with himself on how many days it will take before Saihara finally gives up. (He showed up today, so he's losing.)
Ouma hates losing, so in a bout of desperate frustration, he chose this game. He'd frighten Saihara, cut his finger clean off, and laugh as the detective walked away. Point his other finger - "I told you so!" - at himself, because he would've proven at last that he truly was alone and Saihara could never understand him and everything up to now had been just another lie.
Unfortunately, Saihara can't lie like Ouma does. He can't lie about the warmth of his hand. And so, Ouma's plan fails.
He can't take this anymore. As soon as Saihara's done fixing the hurt on his hand (but not the hurt in his heart), Ouma snatches it away, tells Saihara this is their final game, and runs. He runs and runs, and even when he finally lays himself facedown on his bed, he wishes he could run further. Further away from Saihara. Further away from himself. He wishes he could take this heart - still racing with happiness, with fear - and crush it to bits, crush it until it bursts open and there's no trace of it, save the blood on his hands.
Instead, he sleeps. Ever since he woke up in this terrible killing game, he's been having the same dream. In it, he stands on a rooftop. In front of him is a single hand, outstretched. The person standing before him speaks, but all he can hear is his heartbeat, mercilessly pounding on his soul. Every time, his hand finds its way into the other.
This time, he turns around. Climbs the fence once more. Takes a breath, and -