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“I stole your heart,”
God, he could just cry, eyes meeting his. Like pools of amber or gold or liquid sunlight.
“So now I’m satisfied.”
Saihara’s hand is warm in his, slender fingers wrapping gently between his. There’s a gentle smile curving his lips upward, the beginnings of laughter.
-
Ouma’s never found himself bothered by the conspicuous lack of clocks in the building. He never really wore a watch anyway, and aside from the morning and nighttime announcements, the lack of them barely crosses his mind at all.
He doesn’t need a clock to tell him that he’s running out of time.
-
Ouma can hear his heartbeat singing against his ribcage, a constant hum that nearly drowns out the ringing in his ears and the hum of machinery that haunts the hangar. Momota sits on the cold floor beside him, tongue poking out of his mouth as, ever-gentle, the self-styled hero works the crossbow bolt out of his back. There’s blood covering the astronaut’s hand that could be his or Ouma’s and both of them know neither of them will mention, but it smells coppery and rancid and it makes Ouma want to vomit and cry at once but he won’t do either. He can’t get away with that here - he could do it when he saw Amami’s corpse, because everyone else was too, and that worked for Akamatsu and Hoshi and Toujou and nobody really cried after that (but everyone cried for Gonta), but he’s not going to start bawling his eyes out in front of Momota fucking Kaito like he’s one of his sidekicks. He has enough self-respect for that.
Momota stands up, a bundle of white cloth, familiar, in his arms.
Ouma watches him retreat into the bathroom.
Everyone will cry for Momota Kaito.
-
“I don’t need to steal your life anymore.”
If it meant that he could see him smile again,
he won’t tell him that he’s watched him die.
a thousand fucking times
-
Ouma can’t bring himself to mourn when Amami’s corpse, kind eyes glazed and empty, greets them outside the dining room. He doesn’t cry when Saihara inspects the body, not when Toujou pushes his eyelids closed, not when the trial starts and accusations fling and Akamatsu dies for the second time.
When Iruma meets him on the rooftop, snow of her own creation drifting in his eyes, he doesn’t feel guilty as he signals Gonta.
-
Saihara’s golden eyes are wide and earnest, a sort of quiet fascination behind his irises as he tries to pick apart Ouma’s facade of secrecy. Every tease and jab is met with a fascinated, “I see,” or an awkward “If that’s what you want to think.”
Ouma could die in those eyes.
He grins slyly at the detective, a finger pressed to his lips.
“Oh, but you can’t tell anyone that you were here today. If you do, Saihara-chan might get put on a yakuza hitlist! Who’s gonna solve crime on the streets of Tokyo, if not you?! We’re all gonna die!”
Saihara winces, trying frantically to shush him. “Ah, I’m not that big of a deal, really...” he assures him, a shrug loose on his shoulders. “I don’t even live in Tokyo. My uncle’s home is in Kyoto.”
Ouma frowns.
“Seriously? Then who’s out there fighting crime? Taking bad guys to prison and good girls on dates? Are you just, like, some boring weirdo holed up in some old tatami shack? No way. My believe Saihara-chan can’t be that lame!”
Saihara smiles.
-
a thousand fucking times.
-
“Does Amami-nii-chan really think he can end this game by himself?”
Amami frowns, green hair falling over his eyes and hiding his expression behind the shadow of his brow. There’s an odd, uncomfortable expression twisting kind features, hardening the soft lines of his face.
“What are you talking about, Ouma-kun?” he says, confusion in the breath of his voice.
“My beloved Amami-chan has to trust us. Otherwise,” Ouma looks away, biting down hard on his thumbnail, “it’s just gonna get him killed.”
Amami smiles stiffly, standing up. The worn rings decorating his hands press into the palms of his hands.
“I,” he looks away, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, “just remembered that I have to be somewhere right now. Talk to you later, alright?”
-
because he is worth ouma’s entire life,
-
Amami stares down at him, green eyes filled with tears and a little bit of regret. He’s been careful, so careful that Ouma’s almost surprised (but not really, he didn’t expect any less from Amami).
The shotput in his hand is bloody, pink staining the survivor’s arm and dripping from carefully manicured nails.
The metal ball drops onto the floor, rolling to sit demurely in front of Ouma’s face. His vision swims nauseatingly, kaleidoscopic and blurry with blood. He feels like he’s going to vomit, it hurts so fucking bad. Fuck fuck fuck
-
and it’s so, so worth barely getting by,
-
fuck fuck fuck is it because it’s amami? is it?
Amami looks like he wants to cry, those eyes full of guilt. He’s not going to get through the class trial.
Ouma
twists
the corners of his mouth, painfully, into a smile.
he wants amami to survive.
-
Ouma inspects Angie’s body with faux boredom, prodding and poking at her arm.
“Woah.” he murmurs, turning her over gently once Saihara’s beside him to help.
Saihara frowns.
“Ouma-kun, that’s a little rude to say about Angie-san’s...”
oh, he’s gonna have to spell this one out too, isn’t he?
Ouma lifts Angie’s bangs, brushing his thumb across the scab formed on her forehead gently.
gotta make sure his voice is nice and loud.
“Huh? Are you seriously that blind? I mean,”
he turns
to look
Shinguuji
in the eyes.
“The blackened probably thought we wouldn’t notice this.”
there’s tape on the floor.
-
when he says ouma’s name, for what is never really the first time,
-
“Of course, it would be best to have a girl, as Angie-san was female,”
he levels those empty eyes with Ouma’s,
“But I believe the members of the student council would prefer to talk to her, indeed? So perhaps a boy will do.”
-
Ouma thinks if the reaper was as beautiful as Amami,
he’s okay with dying here.
-
Iruma leans carelessly back on her chair, tossing an apple between both hands. There’s a sly grin on her face, one that screams of false confidence and hope in his stupidity.
“So you should totally fucking convince everyone to come to the virtual world! And plus, we can meet up in there. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you - “
“Iruma-chan’s pretty fucking bold if she thinks I’d want to waste my time around her.”
She withers.
“I… well, if you put it like that...”
-
ouma can’t help but melt.
-
They’re running on borrowed time.
Ouma leans against Saihara playfully, sitting across from Akamatsu and Momota. Akamatsu is twitchy, drumming her nails, carefully painted (by amami?) against the dining room table.
“Hey, Saihara-chan, Akamatsu-chan,” he starts, biting his lip, “Can you meet me in my room in, like, twenty minutes? I want to introduce you to the demon my organisation worships.”
-
Iruma lifts the hammer, wide, pixelated eyes wet with pity.
-
he can’t look back. can’t regret his decision. he got what he asked for.
-
he doesn't have control. he can't say who lives or dies,
except himself.
he is no death god.
-
Akamatsu screams, covering her mouth in horror.
why can he still hear her no fuck this wasn’t supposed to work like this
Saihara’s hand is warm against his wrist, feeling for his pulse.
A whispered, “oh, he’s - “
haha.
prank! funny!
he isn’t. not anymore.
-
the choice was his.
-
Blood on his hands, on his back on his shoulder.
Momota’s hands are warm, rough with callouses but strong and kind. His chest heaves erratically as he lifts Ouma, bringing him to his chest like he is everything soft and kind in the world (he’s not).
He doesn’t want to die.
Ouma’s lips part.
a kiss on the hand. reverent.
kidding. he can’t reach anywhere else.
“that’s for saihara-chan.”
-
oh, let him be selfish.
-
Momota’s hand brushes over Ouma’s eyes.
-
let him die here.
-
In Toujou’s defense, she only shakes a little when she plunges his head underwater.
-
shirogane’s corpse sits on the floor of the girl’s bathroom.
if he leaves her in the secret passage
they’ll never find her.
they’ll never fucking find her.
-
momota closes his eyes.
-
"forgive me, saihara-chan."
-
what kind of life could he really hope to have?
-
i love you.