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There is no blood on his hands when it happens.
There are no smears of red on his trembling fingers, even if it feels like there should be.
Of course there aren't.
No, it is a clean and tidy death. Or at least as tidy as it could've been, given the state of Suguru.
Suguru...
He isn't moving.
Of course he's not. He couldn't be, not after what Satoru has done.
He will never move again.
His expression is strangely serene; simply vacant, almost peaceful despite the gore. Almost the person he used to be. Almost—
There was no blood on Satoru's hands when it happened, but the blood is slick and horrible and purposeful against his skin afterwards, when he is sure his dragonfly is gone. When he is certain, he holds his Suguru tightly, desperately trying to close any and all distance they'd put up over the years; trying to fix something that he could never quite see.
Brilliant vermilion seeps into his clothes, but Satoru doesn't care.
The smell of iron is overwhelming, but Satoru doesn't care.
All of his senses are screaming, but Satoru does not care.
He buries his head in the hands that should've been stained, and, for the first time since Shinjuku, he cries.
The sensation of tears sliding down his face is so foreign now that his skin crawls, but he can't stop. He can't remember how. Even if he could, he wouldn't want to.
Suguru will have no funeral.
Satoru owes him these tears, at the least.
There is no noise save for the heartbeat pounding in his ears and the cacophony of thoughts, too fast and too hurtful to process entirely.
'I did this.'
What are you supposed to do when your best friend dies?
No, not just his best friend. Even if he wants to, he can't distance himself from the truth. Even after all their time apart.
What are you supposed to do when the one you cherish with the your whole being, from the tips of your fingers to the depths of your soul, dies?
What are you supposed to do when it's your fault?
There is no room for any "What else could I have done"s, no place for excuses.
Down to every last fiber of his being, every stitch of his soul, there isn't a single part of him that doesn't feel disgusted with himself.
'I did this.'
When the quiet tears finally stop, Suguru is completely cold. So, so cold. But Satoru holds him nonetheless, cradling him gently; as though he could wake up at any moment.
"I missed you, you know," he laughs humourlessly. "Despite everything, you're my one and only. Always."
There's no reason to say any of it.
There's no one there to listen.
But...
"I loved you so much, Sugu. So much."
The words stick to his throat like tar, but they need to be said. At least once, they have to be said.
"I still do. I always will. You deserved better. I'm sorry I couldn't give it to you. I—"
Maybe it's the way he's holding him; maybe it's just Satoru seeing what he wants to see, six eyes be damned.
But for a moment, it almost seems like Suguru is smiling.
Like he could wake up from a pleasant dream any second now.
"Sleep well, Suguru."