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"Why can't I stand up?!"
Kisaki's entire body is arrested with agony, distorted and frozen colder than winter's solstice. The parts of him that don't feel frozen have no feeling at all: his right arm, his right leg, and few of the fingers on his left hand, though he can't name which ones in the haze of pain. The only warmth is the red hot spill of blood running down his face.
Again, he attempts to push himself up, but he can hardly feel (let alone move) either hand, and his ankles and knees are powerless. A pulse of harrowingly intense pain sears through his fingers and ankles, and he slips back down, his face harshly hitting the cold pavement. The fall is so quick and debilitating that he doesn’t even realize he cried in agony until he hears an echo.
How did this happen? Why can't I move?!
He can't so much as crane his neck to survey the chaos around him. His vision is confined to the pavement below him, trapped with nothing to watch but a growing puddle of crimson blood.
Tachibana Hinata : the girl I wanted to have.
The name suddenly enters his mind and echoes with his screams like a horrible reminder.
Is she here right now?
Tachibana and Mikey had arrived at the courtyard only minutes ago, so they were surely trying to catch up and would soon arrive to the scene.
The prospect of Tachibana Hinata approaching—worried and confused, afraid for Takemichi, and finding his broken, shattered self—was mortifying.
Wasn't this all supposed to be for her? But I’m so afraid of her learning what I have become!
And now, if she sees me like this, if I can't pick myself up in time, what will she think? Will she know I am as weak and defenseless as I was before I started all of this? Will she see that old weakness on top of all the darkness I've harboured since?
Panic apprehends him; he needs to run away—limping, even—to escape her pity and fury, even if it kills him. If he could just escape the confused, angry, pitiful gaze of Tachibana Hinata, who was fated to find a losing, evil fool—a Pierrot, an Icarus—he could still die with a bit of dignity, right?
Am I really dying right now?
All alone?
No.
Hanagaki Takemichi: the boy I wanted to be.
He's still here, right?
It's impossible to tell without calling out to him: only the sound of distant traffic is audible, and the hero isn't within his field of vision with his face planted in the pavement. Takemichi may have already fled the scene, though Kisaki doubts it. Or, at the very least, he wants to doubt it.
For reasons he can't explain, for feelings that make him wish he were already dead, he hopes Takemichi is still there, but he won't call out to him.
Are you satisfied, hero? Do you see what you've done to me? What I’ve been reduced to? I was supposed to be the dark hero, yet you've won so quickly. Now you can carry on being the caped hero I could never be.
A sharp, stabbing pain pulses through his back as he tries to push himself up from the ground to find Takemichi or escape. He collapses and screams in unbridled anguish.
Why did I insist on fighting this battle that I knew I couldn't win?
I was never going to have Tachibana's heart. I think I already knew that.
But I wanted to be a hero. I wanted to be somebody. I wanted to be…
How pathetic am I?
He needs to cry, but the tears don't come.
He recalls the time he spent toying with Chifuyu and Takemichi's plan to save the Shibas. A specific memory emerges: he and Hanma waiting for Toman's two biggest idiots in an empty parking lot. It wasn’t even that long ago: he can still remember that the winter wind was particularly crisp that afternoon, and that he had regretted not bringing gloves.
A blond boy and a cute pink-haired girl appeared in the distance, hand in hand.
"There's Takemitchy, I think," Hanma said, watching the boy from across the lot with bored eyes, "I don't know why he'd bring his girlfriend anywhere near our meetings."
Kisaki keenly watched the pair interact from afar: Tachibana's delightful smile, Takemichi's nervous smirk, their warm embrace, Tachibana grabbing her boyfriend by the face and speaking firmly to him, and her final departure with a wave. He could practically hear her say, "Bye-bye!" in her candy-sweet voice. Unsure how and where to place his jealousy, eyes blazing with envy and fury, he clenched his fists and grimaced.
"What a fool," he muttered when he abruptly noticed Hanma had been watching him watch the couple.
The memory comes as an intrusive thought.
If I really am dying, why am I recalling this of all things? Why not something happy?
I really am a fool, aren't I?
Life used to be so simple.
Tachibana and I used to walk home together.
"Bye-bye!" She would wave sweetly, with both hands, from the other side of the road at the intersection where their paths forked. “Have a good night!”
He would wave back meekly, but it was too small a gesture for her to notice from across the road. “Good night.”
That was years ago now. Back when he was still nervous and withdrawn enough to seem kind. Back when his hair was jet black and his clothes were ill-fitting and overly large because he was supposed to grow into them one day. He never had grown into those clothes; he simply bought more when he was "reborn" so people would take him seriously. There was probably still an oversized shirt or two lost in the back of his closet, and if there was, it was definitely still too big.
Tachibana Hinata only ever walked with and smiled at the boy wearing black hair and baggy clothes, though. And that boy was lost. Maybe she will recognize that lonely boy in him now, when she inevitably finds him in his dilapidated state, but she certainly won't smile for him ever again.
Now no one smiles for him, and no one ever will, because time is quickly running out.
Time is running out.
It isn't hard to notice. It's hard to accept. He had noticed it a long while ago. It's part of why he hated wasting time. He only ever had one life to accomplish everything he wanted.
Hanma Shuji .
The name barrels through his mind suddenly and sharply, like a kick to the head. A moment with Hanma was never a moment wasted.
Hanma Shuji.
Hanma Shuji.
Hanma Shuji.
It screeches in his mind like a broken record. It hurts. Everything hurts. But at the same time, there's no feeling at all. He considers attempting to push himself from the ground again, but he knows it will be in vain, so he spares himself the suffering of trying.
Hanma used to smile at me, too.
"Hanma Shuji, why do you insist on following me?" Kisaki had asked on a high rooftop one evening, the early winter breeze soothing against his face.
Hanma was seated beside him, taking in the view of an orange sunset. He paused, contemplating his answer long enough that Kisaki glanced in his direction, watching as the countenance of his supposed pawn shifted to a smile.
"Who knows?" he shrugged, "I'll tell you when you're on your deathbed."
"The hell is that?" Kisaki snickered, lightly kicking him.
Hanma laughed, too.
"I promise."
"Well, here I am, Hanma!" Kisaki calls out desperately, "I need you to tell me!"
The pool of blood spilling onto the concrete below saturates his entire field of vision.
"Please…"
A few seconds—no, maybe a minute—passes, and he realizes he had said nothing at all, that he can't speak even if he tries.
How long have I been here?
The world is quiet, only yielding a low static noise. He wonders if there is anything around to hear. If someone spoke, would he hear it?
Maybe Hanma is speaking to me now, but I just can't hear him. No, he's probably in an alley somewhere beating the shit out of Ryuguji Ken.
He's probably still trying to protect me.
The thought makes him want to cry even more; he wishes to drown himself in tears rather than in blood, but still, the tears don’t come and the blood continues to spill.
With his forehead pressed against the unforgiving pavement, staining his world red, there is nothing to see but darkness. He's not even sure he's looking at pavement anymore, as what he sees has become too deep, obscure, and abstract to even be real and solid. He wonders if this is what everyone sees when they're dying, if it's all blackness and obscurity, even for those who look up to the sky in their final moments.
He wonders if this is what Izana Kurokawa saw; if it's what Kakucho saw. If Emma saw this strange darkness just hours earlier. Baji, too.
He wonders if he will ever see any of them again. If he will ever see anyone again.
What will it be like if the grim reaper takes me away? What if he's the last person I ever see?
Will he speak any words?
Will he be lighthearted?
Will he be comforting?
No, because Hanma Shuji, the only person who wouldn’t give Kisaki hell right now, isn’t actually the grim reaper. It's all rumour and reputation. The real grim reaper is merciless and honest, especially to people like him, who could spend the rest of eternity doing good and still not deserve forgiveness.
Hanma Shuji is not the grim reaper, and he is not going to take Kisaki's hand to guide him to what comes next. And whatever does happen next, Kisaki doesn't trust that anyone but Hanma would willingly take care of him. It's scary. More than anything else, he wants to be with Hanma.
He wonders if this is how Izana felt when he took those bullets.
Everything aches. A sharp, sudden pain snaps up his spine, and the strange blackness before him becomes a sanguine cape. It's all too bright, and he thinks he sees sunlight again.
"I don't want to die," he fearfully admits.
He doesn't think he's audible until he hears his name in response.
"Kisaki…"
Hanma?
No.
It's Takemichi.
It must be Takemichi. Kisaki can't look up and check, but who else could have that voice? He wonders how his hero is looking at him. Does he look at him with victory? Pity? Disgust?
Is it possible that he looks at me with remorse?
Is Takemichi even looking at me right now?
Kisaki hopes that he is. Because if he is, then maybe, just maybe, he could…
"Save me."