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When Shuichi wordlessly gets up and leaves the room, Rantaro doesn’t call any attention to it. He’s pretty sure that he’s the only one who notices, actually, but it’s not for any particular reason, only that as he edges out the door, Shuichi hugs the far wall with his back, and everyone else is so very focused on the task that they’ve been assigned. That doesn’t happen a lot. Kokichi and Miu are the most prone to causing distractions, of course, but just because they’re the loudest about it doesn’t mean that they’re the only ones who ever slack off. Tenko, Himiko, and Angie, Rantaro has noticed, are frequently caught gazing off into space, or else shamelessly talking about things that are entirely unrelated. Maki doesn’t seem to care much about appearances, and will often cross her arms across her chest and glare at nothing, and Kaito already knows most of the material, which means his thoughts wander off even when he doesn’t want them to.
Kaede’s head is always in the piano, and Tsumugi will have her phone out to read fanfiction under the desk, and Rantaro himself is admittedly very easily distracted. There’s a small number of especially focused students in their class, namely Kiibo, Gonta, Kiyo, Kirumi, Ryoma-- as well as, of course, Shuichi himself-- so again, it’s a pretty big surprised that everyone is so focused on the work today. Maybe it’s just the time of year, just after summer vacation is over, drawing closer and closer to practicals, that spurred the sudden wave of productivity. Even Kokichi is bent over the desk, though on second thought Rantaro isn’t sure if he’s actually working, or if he’s drawing dicks on the corner of Miu’s paper.
Anyway, Rantaro notices more than anything else the way Shuichi’s hand shakes on the door as he silently opens it and closes it behind himself. It might not even be a huge problem, just something indescribably small that Shuichi wants to step out for a moment because of, but-- well, there’s not much of a point in Rantaro studying because his talent is adventuring (or otherwise survival) and there’s no way a study guide can help him with his talent in the way that it might Kiyo or Gonta. His mind has been somewhere else all day, anyway, and there’s an obnoxious part of him that keeps insisting that if things were the other way around, and it was Rantaro out that door, Shuichi wouldn’t have even hesitated, and after the time that they’ve spent together, the conversations they’ve had, it’s so stupid that he’s even waited this long, so--
So, he gets out of his seat and exits the room. Admittedly he does so a lot louder than Shuichi did. He seems to lack the grace required to slip soundlessly into the hallway, maybe because when he does so usually, the room is always full of chatter behind him. As things are he catches a fleeting glance from Kaito as he shuts the door behind himself, a worried eyebrow crease, and dismisses it with a relaxed smile. The click of the door is satisfying behind him and Rantaro turns around, heaving an unnecessary sigh and reaching into his pocket to get his student handbook.
There are a number of places that Shuichi could be right now, but one of the most useful functions of their handbooks is the tracking function. For someone like Kokichi or Maki, it wouldn’t be helpful at all, because they figured out on day one how the handbooks track their locations, and took to leaving the damn things in their rooms because they don’t like other people knowing where they are. (Perfectly understandable but inconvenient in times like this.) Shuichi isn’t that kind of person, though, he doesn’t mind being found, to Rantaro’s knowledge, and he’s the sort to want to keep his valuables on his person at all times, because putting them to the side causes unnecessary worries and baseless fears revolving around the prospect of them getting stolen, or lost somehow.
(It’s entirely speculation, but Rantaro thinks it’s true; he knows Shuichi pretty well by now.)
Anyway, the detective is in the warehouse. Not that Rantaro is particularly surprised by this, as the warehouse is just out of the way enough that nobody would go there during class hours but close enough to their classroom that he can be there in back in seven or so minutes, an appropriate length of time to spend using the bathroom, but it seems like a pretty awful spot to hide, all things considered. If that is actually what Shuichi is doing, which, in general, Rantaro isn’t entirely sure. He might be jumping to unnecessary conclusions, and the moment of perceived weakness he picked up on at the door might’ve just been a result of Shuichi having to use the bathroom really bad.
He doesn’t think so, though, he really doesn’t. Besides, people who have to use the bathroom don’t typically head to the warehouse first, not for any reason that Rantaro can think of, at least. (Aside from that of the menstrual variety, but he didn’t think it was that kind of problem because Shuichi was walking comfortably, and, he doesn’t like to assume, but he’s pretty sure that Shuichi is cis. Not that it matters-- not to Rantaro, anyway-- but it’s still something to take into consideration.)
The warehouse door creaks when it opens, which sucks. There isn’t any immediate shifting or actually any movement at all when he steps in, though, and Rantaro isn’t initially sure what to make of it. For a minute he thinks he read the map incorrectly, or Shuichi took off while he was walking here, but then--
Shuichi is sitting, or hiding, rather, against a dusty box of sports equipment. Rantaro’s steps are solid but hesitant as he makes his way around to get a better look at him, knees hugging his chest but far from curling him into a ball. He could be playing hide and seek, really, if not for the silent tears that are streaking across his face. His expression is measured, closed off by all accounts, but it opens up a little bit when they make eye contact, and Rantaro suppresses a smile, because it’s not a very good time to be praising their relationship, considering the situation.
Carefully, without speaking, Rantaro sinks down to sit across from Shuichi, and stretches his legs out in front of himself, ignoring the tug on his hamstrings, instead opting to press closed fists into the cool, dusty tile of the warehouse and wait for Shuichi to break the silence.
It’s not awkward, but it’s definitely uncomfortable, partly because Rantaro knows that it’s tethered. There’s a tension to it, one that he doesn’t like. One that he’s willing to tolerate anyway, for the sake of letting Shuichi control the interaction, but that’s not really relevant. It’s stiff and high-energy in a way that’s difficult to achieve in such a dim room as the warehouse, but it manages. And Shuichi’s gaze is averted.
Softly, softly, Shuichi mumbles, “Shouldn’t you be studying for your practical?”
“Is that your way of telling me to hop on a plane?” Rantaro offers a smile, a teasing raise of his eyebrows and a look that he hopes is teasing rather than accusatory. Shuichi’s laugh is breathy but thin, and a moment later tears keep falling, and Rantaro feels like he’s invading the other boy’s privacy, somehow, by witnessing this. (He hates it, really truly hates it, after all, when other people see him crying.) “I have… other priorities.”
“Ah.” Shuichi curls one of his hands into a fist (more as a fidget, Rantaro thinks, than a gesture of irritation) and brings it down onto his bent knee. He hardly flinches upon impact. It’s a light hit, the sort of thing they’d give at the doctor’s office, checking your reflexes. When he does it again, his leg twitches, but his heel remains planted on the floor. “It’s, this is, ah, nothing.” He says stiffly, closing his eyes, but he opens them again after a moment when Rantaro doesn’t say anything. His grey eyes are wobby, and red tinted, and when they flicker over to Rantaro’s, the adventurer hopes he conveys an expression of utmost skepticism, because that’s how he’s feeling. “I know how it looks, but it really, isn’t, uhm, a big deal. Or a deal at all. It’s, nothing, that’s what it is.”
“When I cry over nothing,” Rantaro muses. “It’s usually because there’s something, and that something got to be so much that it was nothing that set me off.”
A nervous chuckle escapes Shuichi at that, but it’s a cross between a laugh and a flustered, emotional outtake of breath. “R-Right.” He replies, looking down, as though ashamed, and Rantaro watches more of his tears spill over and down his cheeks, dripping off his chin and getting absorbed in his jacket. “It’s-- I, haven’t reached much of a boiling point, though, I’m-- not all that stressed out. A-At least, not more than the average person would be during exam season.”
“Nothing’d be wrong with it if you had,” Rantaro tells him.
“I know that,” Shuichi utters, and his tone is a reddish orange, the first blossom of irritation over placidity. The crease between his eyebrow deepens, a chasm really, and Rantaro can see little dimples in his jaw from how tightly he’s clenching his back teeth. “But I’m not. There wouldn’t be a problem with it if I was, it’s just that I’m not. I’m sure I will be, later, when all of this goes away, but I’m alright at pinpointing my anxiety and this isn’t-- anxiety.” He’s frustrated, Rantaro identifies, and folds his tongue in his mouth so as not to speak. “It’s just stupid, I’m, being stupid, right now.”
“You’ve said that before,” Rantaro remarks faintly, thinking about another time that he saw Shuichi crying, a quieter, more intimate time than this is, and the detective deflates a bit, his shoulders dropping and his forehead too, knocking against his knee with a dull thud. “If you say it’s stupid, then maybe it is, but you’re still crying over it.”
After a sticky, prolonged silence, Shuichi’s voice mumbles, “I am,” and his shoulders slump even further. “If you’re wondering,”
“I’m not,” clarifies Rantaro; a lie.
“I was looking over a case file.” Shuichi continues, and Rantaro’s smile takes on a wry edge, because they both know him better than to believe what he just said. “An old one. A case I’ve already solved, that I solved months ago.” His voice is hiccupy despite the fact that he’s going strong, not stopping or restarting at all, aside from now, to suck in a shallow little breath and continue. “It’s your standard murder case, and my uncle hates giving them to me, but Hope’s Peak has a standard, and anyway if I’m going to parade around as the Ultimate Detective, then I’d better--”
“Shuichi,” Rantaro mumbles, frowning even though he knows he oughtn’t. He doesn’t have anything else to say, any real, well-formulated objections, but he wants to convey his displeasure regardless, let Shuichi know he disagrees.
The look he receives in response is irate, ticking like a tall clock and not a bomb, but the corner of Shuichi’s mouth twitches regardless. Bitter amusement. “--and it’s, it’s hardly a thing I should get riled up over, as-- as I deal with-- should get used to dealing, with, r-rather-- things like it, but it’s just, it’s hard, is all, and the victim was so young, and she didn’t choose to go like that, it just happened to her, and then I was thinking about it. About going and not choosing. And I get so-- so suicidal, when I’m episodic, you know, that, better than anyone, probably,” there’s a hysterical edge to Shuichi’s voice. “But I don’t really want to die, Rantaro.”
As much as Rantaro is tempted to intervene and soothe Shuichi’s nerves before he dissolves into tears again, he thinks that cutting the detective off would be a pretty terrible decision in general, but also invalidating as hell, so he sucks in his lips and presses down hard with his teeth, letting the discomfort bully him into keeping his silence.
“I don’t, but I’m going to, someday. I’m going to die, someday, and my uncle is going to die someday too, and he’s going to die before I do, isn’t he?” Shuichi lifts his face, his back ramrod straight against the box he’s leaning on, and his grey eyes fill like a tank. “There’s nothing that I can do about it, my uncle is going to die and all the things that I know about him will turn into a bittersweet recollection. Memories. A big folder of memories. And m-my aunt too, and everybody, Kaede and Kaito and Gonta and you and--”
“Hey, hey, Shuichi, slow down,” Rantaro interrupts, despite his inclination not to, because Shuichi genuinely looks like he’s about to start hyperventilating. “We’re sixteen, none of that’s going to happen for a long time.”
“You don’t know that.” Shuichi hisses. “Because the little girl in that case I was working, she was only seven, she was so little, and everyone probably thought she had all the time in the world, but she didn’t. And anything could happen, an accident-- w-we could get put into a horrible life-or-death situation a-a-and not even know how to handle it, and then one second it’ll be everyone but then it might be just me, or just Himiko, or just--”
“Shuichi, you’re going to drive yourself crazy,” Rantaro whispers.
“But I can’t stop thinking about it. I can push it to the edge of my mind and forget about it but it’s still there.” Shuichi clutches at one of his knees, holding it so hard that Rantaro can see his fingers digging into it, and so the adventurer scoots closer, grabbing his wrist and pulling it away, because he knows Shuichi and he knows the way that Shuichi copes and it’s not okay, it isn’t. “And I don’t want, I don’t want to die, Rantaro, I really don’t, because if I die then there’s nothing, and that’s so scary, and I don’t understand how people can just be o-okay with that, with there being nothing. And sometimes I want there to be nothing, I want it so bad, but it’s-- it’s an escape, that’s all it is, I could never actually-- I don’t want to--” he breaks off, tears spilling over again, and Rantaro watches him as he tries to formulate another sentence, coming up empty again and again and again.
“Shu,” Rantaro utters. Shuichi doesn’t respond, stares uncomprehendingly at the floor, and so Rantaro raises his volume a bit. “Shu, listen to me-- are you listening? Hey.” He reaches up to cup the side of Shuichi’s face, guiding it so that their eyes meet, and ignores the cool moisture underneath his fingers, focuses instead on the grey eyes he’s looking into, the ones that have, on separate occasions, been so secure and bright and cheerful. “You don’t know that it’s going to be nothing.”
Shuichi gives him an outright skeptical look, huffing out a laugh that’s probably a lot meaner than he intends for it to be. (Rantaro doesn’t take it personally.) “Are you going to try to convert me now, Rantaro?”
“I wouldn’t do something like that.” Rantaro allows a small smile, but this time Shuichi averts his gaze, forehead wrinkling like he feels bad for being snarky. “I’m not even religious, Shuichi. But I mean it when I say you don’t know that it’s going to be nothing. There might be something. And there’s no use panicking over what may or may not be the truth.”
“That’s not going to stop me, Rantaro, the possibility is, it’s--”
“Frightening enough.” Rantaro cuts in, firmly, and gently turns Shuichi’s face back so they’re making eye contact again. “But if you dwell on it, then you lose time with the people around you. It’s absolutely terrifying, the inevitability of it all, but the fact that you’re even here in the first place is wonderful too. Think about it, Shu, you could’ve been anywhere, in any time in history, and instead you’re here, with me, on a disgusting floor in a disgusting room,” it coaxes a bubbly laugh out of Shuichi’s mouth. “And you’re surrounded by people who you love so much that even the thought of them dying makes you have a panic attack.”
“...okay. Okay, you got me there, I--” Shuichi stops himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “I should be cherishing the time that I have rather than wasting it freaking out over things I don’t have any control over.” He presses his lips into a thin line and sucks in a breath. He shakes on the exhalation though, and Rantaro doesn’t think that the detective is entirely done crying yet. “I just-- I can’t even-- I don’t know how I’ll deal with it. When my uncle turns into a memory. Someone who might not have even been real. He taught me how to tie my shoelaces, Rantaro, I-- it could all be over in a second.”
“Yeah.” Rantaro releases Shuichi’s wrist, lifts his hand to cup the other side of his face, and presses a light kiss to his forehead. “But no matter what happens, he’ll have made an impact on your life. He’ll have loved you for as long as he knew you, and if there’s an afterlife, he’ll love you from there, too. And you’ll never stop loving him, which means that even if it feels like it for a while, he’s never truly going to be gone.” Rantaro feels it rather than sees it when the detective looks up at him, and so he tilts his gaze down, and sees that Shuichi’s eyes are swimming with tears again.
“I’m so stupid,” his voice is faint, soft, barely even there at all. “Nothing’s happened to him. He’s probably in the office, eating one too many donuts and annoying his secretary with puns. I-I could call him, right now, and he’d laugh at me but he’d listen, too, and it would be okay, but instead I’m crying over things that could happen.”
“Well, there are much worse things to cry over.” Rantaro allows, and then Shuichi laughs again, pulling away and wiping at his eyes. When he lowers his hands, his cheekbones are reddened, but no more tears form, nor do they spill over, and his smile is wobbly but real.
“I’m sorry.” Shuichi says, shaking his head. “This is such a dumb thing to be freaking out over, and you have so much worse things to be worrying about, and--”
“My family went on vacation to Hawaii when I was twelve,” Rantaro interrupts, abruptly. “And I started crying because our hotel room ended in my least favourite number. You’re not going to say that crying over death is stupid because it’s not. Even if,” he adds, more softly, and reaches out to touch the side of Shuichi’s face again. “You think for some reason that because you’re a detective, you should be used to it.” He switches the direction of his hand last minute and messes up Shuichi’s hair, grinning at the way the other boy lets out an annoyed yell and ducks away, swatting at him with both of his hands.
“Ah! Stop, stop, I hate that!” He protests, his face flushing, and Rantaro’s chest gives a contented squeeze. When Shuichi meets his gaze, glowering, he softens, and allows the adventurer’s hand to plant itself on the crown of his head. “Thank you. For, uhm, listening to me, I mean. And for-- for what you said.”
“Of course,” murmurs Rantaro, watching Shuichi fiddle with one of the buttons on his jacket, looking extremely apprehensive.
“I, ah, don’t want to ask anything else of you, but, uhm--”
“Shoot,” Rantaro says. “You’re absolutely nuts if you think I’m about to tell you no right now.”
“A-Alright, I just-- well, would you mind, staying here while I call my uncle? I know it’s a weird request, and I can do it myself it that would make you uncomfortable, but I just-- ah, I don’t know, you can forget that I even--”
“Shuichi.” Calmly, firmly, Rantaro cuts off Shuichi’s attempt to take back the request. “Call your uncle. I’ll stay right here as long as you need me to.”
Shuichi appraises him for a moment, his expression quiet but unreadable, and then breaks into a smile, softer and gentler and more real, arguably more real than any smile he’s given Rantaro before, that the adventurer can remember. “Thank you.” He whispers. “I--” he cuts off, and shakes his head, reaching into his pocket to pull out his cell phone.
Watching the other boy pull up his uncle’s contact, Rantaro wonders idly how contextual it really was; the promise that he’ll stay there, as long as Shuichi needs him to.