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He comes to her with knees scraped raw and eyes stretched wide in an attempt to imitate the innocence of a child they both know he can never fully embody despite the near-curdled inherent exuberance that yearns so desperately to be swaddled away safely in youth's shielding ignorance. A customary spike of worry speeds her pulse and tugs at her instinctual want to care and offer a helping hand, but she knows better by now; knows not to force help someone would not accept.
She doesn't offer a hand she knows he'll flinch from, rather extending a well-oiled greeting. "Hello, Ouma-kun. Do you need anything?"
Formalities begun, Ouma's quick to answer eagerly, "I'm hurt, Kae-chan," he dramatically clasps a hand over his all too bleeding heart and lets the churning silence stretch into a pause, "we're totally best friends, but you still act like we're nothing more than acquaintances with all your awkward politeness! Does our friendship really mean so little to you? Ah, you really are the worst!"
Kaede smiles, unable to do so any way but warmly as she watches him unevenly bounce on his heels. She allows him the soft giggle tickling at her throat with a half-amused roll of her eyes. No matter how many times Ouma appears at her doorway acting out over-dramatised line one after the next, Kaede can't help but welcome the change in hazy pace. "Don't even start when you could really do with trying out some manners yourself. Come on in then, best friend."
She doesn't ask why or how his knees came to be littered in blossoming bruises, skinless patches, and fresh cuts as Ouma hops up onto her kitchen table, she knows better by now. Hurriedly, she flips the switch of the electrical kettle on as she retrieves her meagre, yet upgraded due to Ouma's more messy visits, first aid supplies from an overhanging cupboard. The tilt of her head as she turns back to face him begs the question most had let slip unasked in Ouma's life; the worried, yet well-worn, glint in her eyes whispers softly in the yellowed light of the morning. “Are you alright?” it says, an edge of genuine concern giving the silent exchange a steely, weighted sense of realism. For all her desperate lies and kind deceptions, Kaede as she stands - unfiltered by a camera’s lens - still exudes a certain warmth one can't quite fully fake, yet is still questioned regardless.
Charity, then, a heinous little voice riddled with doubt snaps in Ouma’s ear. More lies to choke on. That's all anyone else will ever give you.
“Hey,” Both Kaede's voice and the sting of rubbing alcohol on raw flesh snap Ouma out of the seething cesspool of his tired thoughts. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” Ouma leans into the counter, away from her. Kaede chastises herself wordlessly; the words are awfully indulgent, said as much to steady herself as it is a poorly thought out attempt to reassure Ouma. The strokes of her swabbing at his knee roughen slightly.
That's right, Kaede's own thoughts chortle. Spew whatever saccharine insincerity comes to mind. Try your very best to mend others so you can disregard your own splitting seams, ever waiting to be stitched. Keep your head up, but you’ll never be able to bring yourself to the height of that pedestal you're placed upon. Kaede's grip on the antiseptic solvent in her left palm tightens, her fist clenching noticeably enough for Ouma's sharp eyes to lock onto the frustrated curl of her fingers. He says nothing.
The silence breathes its familiar intangibility into the air, only leaving the kettle’s low rumbling to echo throughout the expanse. Ouma revels in the partial silence. Kaede can’t stand the blurry clatter of jumbled noise the lack of the singular voiced tone to focus on brings.
The world is too loud, they can agree. Ouma's too weary to do anything other than content himself with wisely listening while letting it pass by. Kaede can only speak in hopes of filling the void that's always left waiting beneath the sound. Kaede keeps tending to Ouma's scrapes with the with the quick fingers of a pianist left with no melody to play.
“Is it alright to let the world swallow us? To silently fade into the back streets?” Kaede asks, addressing no particular ear, and wiping the last traces of the solvent from her fingers and onto her shirt sleeve.
“It sure beats the alternative. Blinded by camera flash after camera flash, set off by adoring fan after fan, all of whom were more than willing to let them snap our necks and toss the remains, living the glamorous life! A dream come true… Our dreams come true,” Ouma doesn't say, rather forcing a deadpan voice, because maybe it's what the both of them to hear and Ouma's oh-so tired of failing to be what the situation requires. “Stop being so dramatic, Kae-chan. A game you're forced to play is no fun, but we were never really forced, were we? No, we were overjoyed to be part of all the smoke and mirrors; to be playing. And we'll always still be playing.”
“Maybe so. But I’m done following dead dreams, so I guess it's alright to let them drag behind me hauntingly instead,” Kaede says.
“You try too hard, Kaede. We’re all cowards here; no point in trying to sound so cool about it,” Ouma says, voice flaked with mockery. But he uses her name. No alteration there of. Nothing attached. All its meaning’s been stripped away and rewritten now for ages, but it still hurts a little to hear used as something akin to a curse. She takes only the slightest bit of comfort in knowing it hurts worse to hear said as a prayer.
The kettle gurgles violently, as does Kaede's blood, her fists clenching defensively.
“I… Yeah,” Kaede vacantly trails off to Ouma's dangling feet, eyes having fallen to a downcast state. “I do tend to pick losing battles, but at least- at least I still fight them.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Ouma childishly sings in a high pitched drone.
The kettle boils a last bubble of angry sound before being cut off by a drawn out whistle.
Kaede exhales deeply, fists uncurling. There's no point in fighting battles that’ll hurt more than help. “Takes one to know one, Ou- Kokichi-kun.” She smiles, and the edges only just droop a little. She’ll fight to stand, and maybe help Ouma stumble along as she does, she decides, conviction set.
And if they fall, it will hardly be the only instance of people losing themselves in a made up act in their world, nor would it be the first time they fall victim to deceit’s welcoming distortion.