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Two strangers (not quite any more) lay tangled in the bedsheets. It was raining, a steady patter, patter, patter on the glass, bouncing against overgrown fronds wrapping up the window sill. Arms and legs in a jumble, nothing sexual, but nothing unfamiliar either. Comfortable. Warm.
Maybe a little too warm. Amami was sweating. He didn’t care. Let him have this moment of heaven, just one moment longer, God, if you’re listening, he thought, let this last a moment longer .
If God was real, none of this would be happening in the first place.
He was too hot to sleep. Rantaro was warm-blooded by nature, opting for flowy clothes and minimal constriction. The sheets of inky hair draped across his chest, the bandages arms wrapped around his shoulder, the rather large individual practically laying on top of him at this point...they were radiating heat, in all honesty. The droll of rain lulled him in and out of existence, stuck in a limbo of the present. He was always stuck in limbo.
Glancing over, green eyes were lit with a red glow from the alarm clock. 4AM. He should be sleeping, but he couldn’t, not now. He had three more days of this, three more days before life as he knew it ended. The scripts would be put away, and everyone would move from dressing rooms to a soundstage.
And they would forget. They would all forget. Not him, not with his survivor perk, but maybe that would be worse? He’d know how things were. He’d know how they are. He’ll know what once was, and what was now “wasn’t.”
He’d know them, and Korekiyo Shinguuji would not. And that would be a hell in his own right.
Against his chest, he felt Korekiyo smile, a pleasant dream, apparently. Amami felt a smirk tug at his own lips. Rantaro was grateful he could be a sense of comfort in these times, God knows the anthropologist needed it. They’d been struggling ever since they were presented with their character sheet and background. Everyone was suspicious when they were handed what looked like a knock-off Nazi uniform. Still, the backstory Tsumugi wrote sealed the deal.
Since then, Korekiyo isolated themself from the others, avoiding meals and communal bonding. What was the point anymore? No one seemed to stop them, too absorbed in their own storylines and character building. Spending time with an apparent incestuous serial killer just wasn’t high on anyone’s priority list. What was the point of learning about others if it would all be wiped away?
And what a waste of a storyline on such a lily-livered pansy. Quiet and polite, albeit a little too meek for their own good-- why on Earth would they audition for a killing game in the first place?
Amami went out of his way to avoid bonding with the others, cautious of any false idealization of his behaviors in fifty-two. He was not proud of his actions. They’re the whole reason he was punished with another round of this nightmare. How anyone adored him, he could not understand. How could someone love him when he could not love himself?
Maybe the reason he even started talking to the anthropologist was that they didn’t care about him, because really, they didn’t. Not like everyone else, anyways. There were no watchful stares or girlish squeals or demands for autographs and hugs. It was nice to be human. Rantaro had not felt human in a long time.
They spoke about everything and nothing, all at once. The anthropologist’s voice had a distinct lyricism, melodic, and filled with an inquisitive spirit. Always learning. Always one step ahead. Amami could listen for hours, and he did. At first simple things. When the character storylines were announced, he listened to much more profound. Anything to help. Anything to keep them around. Anything to fall deeper, to feel himself entranced by amber. A honey-colored embrace.
Brushed hands became brushed arms became brushed sides became brushed faces became brushed lips. Brushed legs against brushed sheets. Brushed lovers. Brushed time.
Three days. He had three more days. Amami refused to call it love. How could he? How could he say something so doomed? Tsumugi would be beside herself, despair-inducing to a T. Had she’d known, she would write that into the plot. Had she been a better screenwriter, she might have already noticed.
And yet everyone reminded him of them. The way twilight fell to inky darkness, the way the first star broke through. The scent of roses. The scent of tea. The scent of sea salt and incense and warm breezes carrying them.
The oak tree outside the film studio, where they would climb to the top and hide, watching as the rest of their castmates looked around frantically for their missing costars. The books in the library. Their signature lipstick, soon to be coerced from their power, but not now, not yet, let them have a few more days reveling in the power of makeup. Warpaint , Korekiyo explained, to which Rantaro let out a little wheeze at something so cheesy. It wasn’t cheesy, not anymore. It was resistance. They were resistant.
Resistance was all they had.
Rantarou Amami was a selfish man. His actions were always so self-serving, even before his first killing game. Especially during. And maybe, maybe even now, playing into a fantasy that this could last forever. That time could freeze. That it would always be 4AM on a sticky summer night.
Yes he was a selfish, self-serving man. A bad one at that, having committed enough sins to last a lifetime, and surrounded by people who loved him for his crimes. Korekiyo made him feel like humanity might be beautiful. That was a hope to believe in, for now. Maybe this game would be alright.
In his heart he braced himself for otherwise.
Sighing, Amami’s hand wandered upward, landing itself in his...his something’s hair. Not a lover. They couldn’t be his lover. What would that mean to love in a time like this? Fingers wove themselves through inky locks, rendering it liquid in his hands.
What would it mean to love?
In their sleep, Korekiyo shifted. With a shake of the head, Rantaro craned his head down, planting a gentle kiss on their forehead. A sweaty night , he thought. It’s always you.