Work Text:
The silver glint was tempting.
Shuichi laid, alone, the only light coming from his lamp. Clutched in his fingers, a small knife, an art tool. He borrowed it from Angie, after he expressed interest in cutting out pieces from the sketchbook she had gifted him once, windows into the next page. She had happily given to him, although she mentioned that it was for the art of the craft only.
For a girl who enjoyed the sacrifice that stained red for an entity she dedicated her life towards, she sure knew what else he could possibly desire one for and left him with a subtle warning. But, if that were true, then why would she trust him with it?
She sure was odd, but he appreciated her trust in him.
He just wishes that his determination was firmer. Maybe, just maybe, he’s overreacting. He needs help, as many would implore him. Shuichi wishes it were that simple. He wishes he had the will to get out of bed, talk to someone.
Not mull over everything on his own, in a room lit only by a pale lamp, silver in his fingers. But it was not simple. It never was. There was many things wrong with him, he knew. He knew full well that he was no saint, not a picture perfect child that everyone did not have to worry over.
Shuichi knew if his friends caught wind, they would try to prevent it. They were such wonderful friends, people that held him with tender hands and encouraging voices, people that would mourn if he just took a taste of the great beyond.
He knew, but it didn’t stop the swirls of thoughts that encased him anyways. Shuichi wasn’t stupid, he knew that if he took a taste, he’d never come back. It was like an addiction, but nothing that he could ever heal from, even if he regretted it.
So he doesn’t. Shuichi doesn’t, but he thinks about it. He makes scenarios, makes his own murder case in his rotting mush, how he imagines everyone to react, when they inevitably find out, when warm, loving hands meet the bitter cold.
Kaito would be the loudest, he presumes. He was his best friend, after all, and he could scream to the moon and let it hear his sorrows. Perhaps, afterwards, he would try to support the others, but he would hurt, knowing he couldn’t save him. Knowing that he didn’t work hard enough to prevent him from choosing a solace that the desolate find comfort in.
Kaede would be the same, mourning him. She may not be as loud, maybe, but certainly tears would fall, fall down and becoming a somber melody as she cries out her blues. She might write a song, just for him, play his melody that captures the heart of many, but only truly mean something within her soul, and all the souls that he’s touched.
Others, others would be quieter about it. He knows Kokichi well. He knows his loud exuberance, his dramatical lies and stories that he weaves, to keep him on his toes. He knows how he pretends he is never truly sad, or pretends to be sad but really he doesn’t care one iota. Shuichi knows him better, a little better than most, and he feels like Kokichi, maybe, perhaps he would feel what he truly is in his own private space. Never in public, never show he’s weak when he’s built himself up so highly. Or maybe he would collapse to his knees and look upon Shuichi, someone who could keep up with him, and for the first time not lie to himself.
But Shuichi would not be around to witness it. If he wanted it to become reality, he must leave it. Leave them, alone to deal with what comes after.
He twirls the small tool in his hand, the lamp glinting off the clean steel. Shuichi was no doctor, but he knew what a human body was, he knew where it bled the most, where even a small nick could very well leave him sleeping forever, where not even his own dreams could reach him.
Shuichi knew, and he was not surprised the thought didn’t scare him as it should initially. He realizes, seconds later, that it does, at least a little, but not as much as it should. Truly, definitely, he needs help, he needs someone to hold him, speak to him, help him.
But he doesn’t. He sits in his own pool of self-hate, staring upwards at a small, simple gadget, thinking about dying without actually making a move.
It would be easy. Point down, and go to sleep. Maybe it’ll hurt, but perhaps that’s his penance, for being so selfish, when he’s got so many people to back him up.
People who love him, who support him, who care. They care, but Shuichi was selfish. He was selfish, but he doesn’t say, because that too is selfishness.
His selfishness makes him reach out, though, try to feel less selfish, to direct this energy, in hopes that something will change. That he’ll stick around a little longer, because he knows him. He knows that he hates himself, but he doesn’t hate anyone else. Given time, he will see in their shoes, he’ll try his best to keep everyone happy, even if he was no good. Shuichi’s been told to love himself, but even if he tries, he finds faults.
He finds faults, and he’s given up, but he can at least hold himself up with the crutches made from others. Even if things happen, even if everything seems to be bad, he can stick around for someone else.
It just becomes a cycle, in the end. The more Shuichi uses, cares for others, the worse it would inevitably become when he walks the final tunnel, and the more he clings, desperate, to the rails of the train platform, that someone would keep him from stepping onto the next train.
But the train was beautiful. It beckons, free from the stress of being, of feeling, of knowing that even there was help, that he would never even find the courage to say hello.
The knife remains tempting.
Shuichi stares, and he cries. In the back of his head, he knows why.