Work Text:
Shuichi swears that it’s a Monday.
He’s certain of it, actually, because he remembers Kaede coming in with her weekend expedition haul like it was yesterday. And sure, maybe he’s found himself falling asleep here and there, and his head is pounding in a way that tells him he’s been working for too long, and there’s a feverish heat rolling around that seems stuck to his skin—but there’s no way he’d let an entire day go by him without even noticing… right?
Dark spots speckle his vision, and Shuichi leans back into his chair, joints crackling along with the old leather. His work room, which is essentially just a walk-in closet by the main shop room that’s been repurposed, barely has enough space for him to stretch. His eyes sweep from his cluttered desk to the singular bookcase they managed to fit in, absentmindedly looking over all the ancient reference books and other knick knacks that didn’t have a place in the repository. A hair clip from centuries ago, infused with floral magic and its owner long gone. A pair of dice enchanted to always roll a losing number. A bracelet cursed to bring the wearer a slight amount of bad luck. Essentially, lost items nobody wanted.
Or, perhaps a more apt description might be things Shuichi didn’t have the time to organize.
Ah, time. Shuichi wonders how long he’s been sitting here. The window that Himiko was kind enough to portal in is drawn, so he has no idea whether it’s even night or day; only that he’s been trying to analyze a compass that was in Kaede’s haul for what feels like forever. So far, the only thing he’s managed to glean is that it’s a few decades old, and that its owner must have been some sort of water sorceress. The cover is engraved gold, caked with dirt and littered with scratches.
But more importantly, Shuichi tries to untangle the memories attached to it—dips his fingers into the compass like it’s made out of ink, stains his hands with a bloody sort of pink as he grasps for threads. He blinks, sketchy holograms and vague superimposed images unfurling before him like a film reel being printed over his eyes.
The first thing he sees is the horizon— a clear, blue sky that meets calm ocean right where the sun sets. Then comes awareness of sand under bare feet. The sound of waves hitting the shore. He licks his lips experimentally, feeling the salt in the air.
The setting of a beach is familiar, as Shuichi lives in a little shack by the coastside, but the sand here is a normal tan. Back home, Shuichi has gotten used to black shores and jutting, harsh rocks that make leisurely swims almost impossible. Here—wherever here may be— is the exact opposite, with gentle winds and a comforting atmosphere.
A breath. Someone is here with him. A faceless figure, phasing in and out as if trying to find its own permanence. Against his will, his body— no, the owner of the compass’s body— begins walking, said compass in hand.
The person beside him speaks, at first unintelligible. And Shuichi is used to this: used to the details fading in and out, used to forgotten faces and names and words melting before his eyes. It’s his job, after all, to sift through these memories. To look for hidden details and clues amongst all the vague impressions left behind by people and figure out the truth. In this dream-like world, nothing is solid or real. He’s just living out the memories of unnamed strangers.
But then something twists, and with a sinking feeling the faux world around him warps a bit. Suddenly, the bodiless figure beside him begins to form bit by bit, and before he can stop it, it’s him who stands beside him instead.
A charming laugh. Dark hair tipped in purple, curling up by his ears. Large eyes the same color, and a black and white checkered bandana tied around his neck—
“Hey, Saihara-chan,” Kokichi Ouma intones. “When do you think we’ll reach home?”
And this is just a memory, he reminds himself. He’s not really there, and the person beside him isn’t supposed to be Kokichi, but it feels real as this Kokichi takes his hands, gaze wide and warm as he slots their fingers together. There’s a power thrumming just under Kokichi’s skin, arcing with red light, and he feels himself coming apart, the summer sun glaring down at the back of his neck—
He gasps for breath, rapidly blinking to try and rid the mirage before it can consume him. He finds himself still sitting on his chair in his tiny workroom, compass sitting innocently before him.
Once again, he’s managed to learn nothing new.
Feeling defeated, Shuichi rubs the bridge of his nose. At this rate, he’ll have nothing to show when Kaede comes back next weekend to deliver all the lost items he’s gathered back to their owners. He used to be efficient at this job—went into memories with a clinical sort of detachment, quick to pinpoint exact details, nimble fingers pulling on loose threads to unravel the world before him bit by bit.
He wonders, not for the first time, when it all changed. When the memories started to sour and twist, faceless figures being replaced, his own feelings mixing in and causing the scenes to veer off script. When he started to pull away and hide in his cabin by the shore, letting his friends do the delivery work while he stayed by himself, too afraid to go out into the world and let himself be touched by the memories of living things.
Sometimes, he thinks he could just disappear, and nobody would notice. How long would it take for his friends to realize? Would anyone even try to find him afterwards? He wonders where his own memories might go. Perhaps they’d melt into his work desk, into the wooden crevices of his floorboards. Maybe they’d disperse, like an untouchable, nebulous cloud in the air, slowly diffusing over the years.
Or maybe, there’d be no memories left at all. Maybe he’d disappear from everyone else’s memories too.
Shuichi jolts out of his thoughts when he hears the sudden creaking of wood. A visitor, he realizes... which is odd, because he doesn’t remember scheduling any meetings for today.
He waits for the footsteps to get closer, and soon enough, he hears the lock on his door becoming undone with a gentle click.
Ah, Shuichi realizes. It’s just him.
“Hey hey hey, Saihara-chan!” Kokichi Ouma trills, letting himself in with a flourish. He has his hair tied into a low ponytail, wearing a white, short sleeved hoodie with shorts: nothing like the way he was dressed in the memory. “Wooow, you look like shit today!”
“Thanks, Ouma-kun.” Shuichi sighs, rubbing at his temples and twisting his chair to properly face the other. “What brings you here today? I’m still working on my queue, so if you have something you want me to look over it might take a while. Although, I thought your expedition wasn’t for a while…?”
“Hm? No, my expedition with Momota was yesterday. We didn’t find much anyways,” Kokichi sighs out. “Not that I expected much. When there’s a fairy infestation to deal with, there’s rarely anything left behind in the aftermath… not to mention working with Momota-chan is always such a pain!”
“Oh.” Shuichi tilts his head. “Yesterday? Ah, but I thought you usually take weekends off.”
Kokichi goes silent at that, staring at him with an unreadable, neutral expression. Under his scrutinizing gaze, Shuichi feels hyper aware of his haggard appearance, suddenly; he doesn’t need a mirror to know that he has deep bags under his eyes, hair greasy in an unpleasant way. There’s a coffee stain on his navy T-shirt and his shorts are so old they’re fraying at the ends.
He flushes in embarrassment, staring at the floor as if it might save him.
“Saihara-chan,” Kokichi finally starts after a considerable silence, voice flat. “What day is it today?”
“U-uh,” Shuichi stutters. “It’s— it’s Monday, right?”
Once again, silence. Kokichi opens his mouth multiple times, as if struggling to find the words, before letting out a dramatic sigh and crossing his arms. “For someone who’s supposedly an expert in memory magic, you sure seem to be having trouble remembering some things!”
“You know that’s not how my magic works…”
“Not the point! It’s Wednesday, Saihara-chan. Wednesday. When’s the last time you ate? Showered? Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting here for two days without taking care of yourself.”
Shuichi chews on his lips, trying to think back to the past few— well, days, apparently. As prone as he is to losing his sense of time, he still finds himself blinking in disbelief. “...Are you sure it’s not Monday?” he tries again, wincing at Kokichi’s immediate frown.
“That’s it,” Kokichi declares, clapping his hands together. “Go take a shower. I’ll cook something up for you in the meantime. After that, you’re going to bed, got it?”
Before Shuichi can protest, he finds himself being dragged out of his room towards the bathroom with a forceful pull of his shirt sleeve. He watches, half embarrassed and half amused, as Kokichi then marches down to Shuichi’s bedroom as if he lives there. As if he belongs.
And in a way, Kokichi fits perfectly, Shuichi thinks; he’s not sure when it started but slowly, steadily, the other has been worming himself into Shuichi’s routine. He comes during random mornings while half-asleep, with a request to rummage through the Repository before he goes to work for the day. He comes during noontime too, with a variety of take-out containers, whining that he had ordered too much to eat by himself. He comes during the nights, tired after a day of dealing with monsters by the edge of town, falling asleep by the shitty couch in the main storeroom.
He comes like a sudden storm, abrupt and fierce, like torrential rain that disappears just as quickly as it appears. He's the lighting, a flash of illumination just before entropy hits—or maybe he’s the thunder afterwards, a shuddering explosion that reaches the depths of his skull in its reverberations. Maybe he’s both.
He comes as chaos, and Shuichi always finds himself wanting to untangle the deterioration that is Kokichi Ouma himself. To see what lies at his core.
Shuichi’s drawn out of his thoughts when that very Kokichi—dangerous, jeering, fatal— opens his closet, leisurely and nonchalant. “Jeez, I have to do everything around here, don’t I?” Kokichi sighs. “Hurry up! Or else I'm gonna get bored and eat all the food in your fridge, okay?”
Feeling too weak to do anything other than nod, Shuichi accepts Kokichi’s outstretched offer of spare pajamas and a towel and shuffles to the bathroom. He’s careful not to let his bare hands touch Kokichi’s, briefly thinking back to the warped memory of where they had held hands.
He’s dangerous, Shuichi reminds himself, remembering the way his own body had started to break apart. Chaos magic, in the way Kokichi wields it—to undo, to unwind, to coerce things apart with the persuasion of gentle lies—meant that every touch was a risky gamble.
They were both similar in that sense; Shuichi rarely touched things because the memories attached to objects, the memories attached to people, always felt like overwhelming white noise that could swallow him whole. He always wore gloves, except when working, to minimize any potential run-ins with unwanted strangers.
Kokichi, too, seemed to keep to himself, as a stray spark of magic going rogue could be catastrophic. He was the beginning of the butterfly effect: a mystery, an enigma, [someone] with a charming laugh and lilting smile that bordered the edges of manic, and while he didn't wear gloves like Shuichi he always made it a point to stay away from others.
Shuichi wonders briefly if Kokichi has ever intentionally tried to unravel a human being before, then quickly banishes the thought.
Some truths, he feels, are better left in the dark.
.❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。
Shuichi showers quickly, feeling somewhat better after washing days’ worth of grime away. His head still pounds with a nasty headache though, and it takes a moment of leaning against the cool mirror to collect himself.
He stares at his reflection, wiping away the flog to get a closer look at himself. His hair is getting longer, reaching down to just above his lips, strands flat and dull against his too-pale skin. His eyes seem sunken in, dark bags even more evident now that his usual make-up is washed way.
Ah, he can’t help but think. I really do look like shit.
With one last shuddering breath, Shuichi gets dressed, slips on his gloves, and leaves the bathroom.
He makes his way to the kitchen at the very back of his shack, finding that the table has already been set, a bowl of what appears to be soup laid out before him. Kokichi is seated to the right of where Shuichi usually sits—and he’s not sure when Kokichi learned where Shuichi likes to sit in the first place—wearing a sunny grin and an apron he’s never even seen before. For some reason, it has an illustration of well-defined abs painted on it. Shuichi crinkles his nose at the sight.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” he says, managing a weary smile as he takes a seat. The soup smells… not too bad, he thinks, gingerly stirring the liquid with a spoon.
“I’m actually a world renowned chef, you know. You should be grateful you get to taste my cooking!” Kokichi rolls his eyes at Shuichi’s raised eyebrows. “Buuut that’s a lie! I just found some canned soup you had and added a few spices.”
“A… few? “ Shuichi stares at what he’s identified as a leaf, wondering where it came from. He lives on a barren beachside shore, after all. “Is this edible?”
“Saihara-chan, it’s not my fault you live in the middle of nowhere and a solid thirty minutes away from any sort of decent takeout. Now eat, before I make you something worse.”
Begrudgingly, Shuichi lifts the soup to his mouth and sips—
—and flavor bursts in his mouth. He has to suppress violent coughs before swallowing, eyes watering as he adjusts. Kokichi hadn’t been kidding when he said he added a ‘few spices.’ Judging by the burning in his mouth, he can only assume that Kokichi put everything he could find in his spice cabinet.
“Well, how does it taste?” Kokichi asks, leaning in to gauge his reaction. Shuichi instinctively leans away in response, feeling flustered.
“It’s… not bad,” he manages to choke out, which is only a half lie, because as overwhelming as the flavor is, the warmth of the soup is comforting. He takes another sip.
“Well, as long as you’re eating I’m happy,” Kokichi says, voice bright. Silence lasts for perhaps a minute before Kokichi starts speaking again, rambling about his latest adventure with Kaito.
Shuichi listens politely, nodding at all the right points and chuckling every so often. The mindless conversation is… nice, he thinks while slowly eating, and there’s a warmth in his chest that’s not from the food. His head still feels lightheaded, but he’s definitely feeling much better than earlier.
He eats as much as he can—because while it’s not the perfect meal, it’s still something Kokichi made, and there’s a strange part of him that wants to cherish that—but only gets through about half the bowl before putting his spoon down.
“I think I’m done,” He admits softly, interrupting Kokichi mid-sentence.
“Ah? Hmm.” Kokichi tilts his head at Shuichi, as if having realized something. Suddenly, Kokichi leans in close again, to the point where Shuichi can see the eyelashes that frame Kokichi’s eyes, curled up against painted eyelids and irises that look a deep purple in the light. Shuichi swallows, feeling the magic humming just underneath Kokichi’s skin. Chaos, he reminds himself, but when Kokichi hovers the back of his hand over Shuichi’s forehead it’s deliberate and careful. HIs own eyes flutter shut from the proximity.
“You’ve got a temperature,” Kokichi says, tone disappointed. “You really have been overworking yourself too much, haven’t you?”
At a loss for words, all Shuichi can do is give a sheepish shrug. “I— uh, I’m sorry…?”
“If you’re really sorry, then you’ll take the next few days off to rest!” Kokichi declares, finally leaning away.
Shuichi fidgets with his fingers, biting his lips in thought. “But Akamatsu said she wanted the compass back by the weekend, and it’s already been—”
“If Akamatsu-chan heard you were sick,” Kokichi interrupts, voice low, “then you’d be dead where you stand, Saihara-chan. You and I both know that. Do you want me to call her right now and let her know that you managed to get a cold in the middle of summer?”
Shuichi blinks, letting himself imagine Kaede’s response.
“...Ah. Nevermind,” Shuichi says, a shudder running up his spine.
“That’s what I thought.” Satisfied, Kokichi gives him a cheeky grin. “Now, I know you have some of Shirogane-chan’s potions stored in the Repository. Take something for that temperature, then go to sleep.” He stands, motioning for Shuichi to do the same.
“Sleep? It’s midday, Ouma-kun.”
“So? You’re exhausted, and probably haven’t slept properly in the last forty-eight hours anyways. They say a sorcerer has to sleep eight hours a day, you know!”
“I think that’s the recommended amount for all people though…”
“Same difference, Saihara-chan. You’re still avoiding the topic.”
Shuichi swallows audibly, nervousness fluttering in his stomach like an electric impulse. He stares at the side of Kokichi’s face to avoid eye-contact. From here, the filtered sunlight hits his face in a way that makes him seem otherworldly. Beautiful, even. “I don’t want to sleep,” he manages to say, the admission heavy on his tongue.
At that, Kokichi raises an eyebrow. And Shuichi hasn’t even said anything specific, but there’s a flash of understanding, sternness melting into something else.
Kokichi’s voice is low, monotone. “So why can’t you sleep? And don’t lie. I can tell when you’re lying.”
A pause. Shuichi takes a shuddering breath. It feels both unnerving and freeing, being read so easily like this. “I— uh, I keep having n-nightmares,” he finally manages to choke out. “I think I’m being haunted.”
“By the memories?”
By you, Shuichi thinks.
Because Shuichi’s fingers have always been stained with memories, with the inky residue left behind by people. Always collecting the thoughts and feelings of everything he’s ever touched, he’s well acquainted with the evidence a human’s psyche leaves. If anything, Shuichi has become an expert in immersing himself in places he doesn't belong.
But he can never get used to Kokichi—erratic, unpredictable, addicting, always on the back of his mind like a ghost who won’t leave. These days Kokichi won’t stop seeping into his dreams, taking the place of strangers as his mind repeats the worst memories he’s ever had to sift through. It’s terrifying, how personal these nightmares can become once a faceless figure is replaced. It’s terrifying, how much he finds himself caring now it’s Kokichi.
And it’s always you, he thinks, finally meeting Kokichi’s eyes. “No,” he whispers instead.
Almost imperceptibly, something in Kokichi shifts. Softens. Becomes a little sweeter, as he leans forward, hand hovering just above his cheek. As if he wants to hold him, but is afraid to touch.
“Come to bed with me,” Shuichi murmurs, taking note of the flush splayed across the other’s cheeks.
When Kokichi smiles, it’s a little bittersweet. “I might shatter you, you know.” Chaos, Shuichi reminds himself again, thinks back to the dream where he crumbled away at a single touch.
“I trust that you won’t.”
Kokichi’s eyes widen at that, as if surprised. It’s Shuichi who moves this time, putting his hand against Kokichi’s and giving it the final push against his own cheek.
For someone so skilled in taking things apart, Kokichi’s bare touch is soft.
They’re both holding their breaths, and he can feel the arcing electricity pulsing, the raw energy emanating from skin, but after a few terse moments, nothing else happens. Again, Shuichi thinks of summer storms— but the kind that disappears before hitting the shore, dissipating like a release of breath.
The sky, for now, stays an innocent shade of fiction blue.
“Alright,” Kokichi breathes out. “Okay. If it helps, anything or you, Saihara-chan.”
With a hesitant smile and a rapidly beating pulse, Shuichi grabs onto Kokichi’s wrist and leads him into his room.
.❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。
As tired as he is, it takes a while for Shuichi to fall asleep.
The curtains are drawn, and even with a fan and the air-conditioner thrumming throughout the room, there’s a sticky sort of humidity in the air that makes it hard to breathe. Kokichi lies beside him, most likely pretending to sleep for Shuichi’s sake. His breaths are even and steady, and Shuichi does his best to focus on that sound to try and lull himself to sleep.
It approaches steadily; as his body sinks into his mattress he can feel his consciousness fading, can feel an approaching nightmare. There’s a flash of fear in his heart and he’s so tired of waking up sweaty and shaking, wants to keep himself awake to keep the nightmare at bay, but he’s also too tired to resist as he falls deeper into slumber.
Beside him, Kokichi lets out another breath, and—
The view of the countryside rolls alongside the window, with nothing but empty fields full of dead grass stretching on for what feels like forever. The sky seems never ending too; a vast stretch of pale blue, the sun nowhere in sight.
The entire scene rumbles, and Shuichi belatedly realizes he’s in a moving train. Or, well, not him—the original body of whoever this memory belongs to. Now that he’s taking the time to think about it, he feels too tall, too wide to be himself.
There’s a watch on his— this person’s wrist, ornate and gaudy and wrapped around an arm that’s far more hairy and muscular than his own. It reads a minute past noon.
Shuichi remembers this memory vaguely. It’s always been like this, with the more painful and emotionally impactful memories scarring his psyche, because even if it’s been years since he’s last touched the watch associated with this scene, it still repeats in his head like a looping movie. Every time he closes his eyes there’s a writhing mess of untouched trauma he’s gathered in his subconscious that’s not even his own.
Beside him, a voice speaks, barely discernible like a flickering light. “Man, can’t this thing move any faster?”
“I’d wish they’d at least turn on the air conditioning,” Not Shuichi speaks up. “It’s hot in here.”
Silence ensues between the two men, the sound of machinery and cicadas filling the air instead.
It doesn’t make sense. There shouldn’t be cicadas in this area, especially inside of a moving train. But he hears them anyways, a symbol of summer, the heat dripping down his back. He’s sweating. He really wishes they’d turn on that air conditioner.
The voice beside him mumbles again, and Not-Shuichi turns to answer, but then he sees red. Smoke.
Flames.
There’s a fire, roaring and burning and surrounding them at a speed that can only happen in dreams and non-reality. Details of the watch come rushing back to him, and he bites his lips in hopes that the pain will wake him up, but realizing the truth doesn’t stop the dream. Not me, he thinks again, desperate.
Still, the fire rises. Smoke is filling the air, and he’s coughing, it’s invading his lungs—
“Hey, Saihara-chan,” says the faceless figure beside him, very quickly contorting as the flames around them seem to cave in.
Purple tips. An easygoing smile. Scrunched up eyes with long lashes, strands of hair falling to frame his cheeks.
Now before him, Kokichi Ouma. Burning alive.
The person— no, Shuichi stops breathing.
“Why didn’t you save me?” Even through the thick fog, Shuichi can make out Kokichi’s pained expression easily. “It’ hurts,” he continues, and it hurts for Shuichi too, hurts that he can’t seem to grab him or hold him or try, all he ever wanted to do was help people but they never seem to leave him ALONE—
“I—!”
“Hey, shh, it’s alright now. It’s okay.”
Shuichi blinks, once, twice, and finds himself in a dark room. He’s lying on his back. Not on a train, not anywhere near an empty, rolling field of dead grass. He still feels hot, sweat soaked and heart racing, the smell of smoke lingering like a phantom memory.
Kokichi (and it’s the real Kokichi, he reminds himself) is hovering above him, eyes twisted with worry. It’s a strange expression to see on his usually guarded face.
“N-nightmare,” Shuichi stutters out in between his heaving breaths,feeling a hot wave of shame when tears begin pooling in the corners of his eyes. “I-it was the watch. From a while ago.”
“Wanna tell me about it? I’m a great listener, you see.” Kokichi hums, resting his ear against Shuichi’s chest. Strangely enough, the weight doesn’t feel constricting; in fact, it helps him feel secure and grounded to reality. Shakily, he tries to steady himself, and then considers Kokichi’s offer.
No. Yes. I don’t know.
(He’s afraid that if he speaks, the entire truth will come out all at once. That words will fall out of his mouth like a rising flood, like an ocean wave that crashes into the shore and drags everything under. That once he starts, he won’t be able to stop.
Some lies, he feels, are better left alone.)
“I was on a train. And it caught on fire. You—” he exhales, voice trembling. “Y-you were there too, at the end. Burning.”
Kokichi stares, unblinking, eyes wide as Shuichi bites his lips, unable to say more. Moonlight shines through the windows, and even now, in the sem-darkness, Shuichi is once again struck by Kokichi’s beauty. His heartbeat increases, and Kokichi must hear it too, because he gives a smug grin.
“Maaan, you must really like me if you’re dreaming about me like this!” Kokichi brushes a tear away from Shuichi’s cheek; he watches, entranced, as the droplet vibrates before bursting away. “Although, I do wish I could give you nicer dreams.”
Shuichi stays silent.
“But you know...” He trails off, and Kokichi’s voice dips lower, barely speaking as he leans in closer. “I think the real deal’s better than your silly little imagination, don’t you agree?”
When they kiss, Shuichi feels himself melt, and realization comes to him: Kokichi is both the lighting and the thunder, he is the entire storm, and Shuichi is the ocean that rises to try and touch the sky. It feels like a magnetic pull arcing through his body and like nothing at all, like a gentle ripple in the water. His mind stays blissfully blank but his body is desperate, longing leaking through in the way they hold each other.
Instinctually, he brings his bare hand to Kokichi’s cheek, and for a brief moment he freezes, bracing himself for an onslaught of unwanted memories. But maybe Kokichi is prepared, or maybe chaos sorcerers have a way to protect themselves from memory magic, because nothing happens except for the shudder that runs up his spine.
Intimacy isn’t something he’s used to, and even this, an innocent kiss, and innocent touch, feels like so much.
If Shuichi weren’t duty bound to stay by the ocean’s side, how often would he be able to hold someone? How many kisses could he let himself steal from Kokichi?
“I’m really tired, Ouma-kun.” Of having these dreams. Of being haunted. Of having to lie. He wishes he could say these things out loud. Wishes he could invite Kokichi to stay by his bedside always.
“Go back to sleep, Saihara-chan,” Kokichi whispers, brushing away a few loose strands of hair and smiling at him. “When you’re up I’ll have an amazing breakfast ready for you, okay? And then we can stay in and watch those shitty detective movies I know you’ve been hiding away somewhere. And I’ll read to you, and then we’ll get takeout for lunch because your fridge looked pretty empty when I last checked. And maybe things will be okay.”
His steady tone has Shuichi already drifting back to sleep. Kokichi smiles at him, before leaning in to kiss his forehead.
“Just think of those future happy memories, okay? And sleep tight, my beloved.”
He feels Kokichi move, once again laying beside him, wrapping himself around Shuichi’s side. To have this steady presence at his back, to feel Kokichi’s hair brushing against the nape of his neck, his chin now resting on Shuichi’s shoulder—it’s the kind of domestic he wants to have for forever.
Shuichi hears one last thing before finally falling asleep once more, Kokichi’s voice almost unintelligible from its softness.
“...I’ll be here for you, Saihara-chan. At the very least, I can promise you that.”
And for the first time in what feels like months, Shuichi finds himself at peace.