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chuuya, i believe that one of the last things we've ever done was arguing. (again.) because yet again, i had kicked in your wine cave. (well, the small space in the cupboard where i allowed your bottles to pile up.) "good wine needs to be drunk!", i yelled, with you and the two grams of ethanol in my blood as my only company. (we should've shared!) "on occasions!", you said back, with the sour tone your voice takes when i misbehave.
as a consequence, i didn't say 'i love you' that night.
it's been three days and four nights since i last heard it from you.
some will say it's normal, because you died three days and... ah, no, three nights ago.
three bullets, stuck in your chest. i would've understood it for everybody else. really.
but you? YOU? how could you allow this?
you didn't even let me the privilege of hearing your last words. gin got out of her silence to tell me you mentioned me, but she sunk back in on the next second.
i put the blame on you, because i wasn't there, and you still died. fucking agency and fucking workshifts, fucking people who don't answer the question that feels like it'll end up dissolving my throat; why?
who on earth had the nerve to take you away from me?
i was leaning above your coffin, maybe so i could think about it more, while gazing at you. i was ruining my hands little by little, just by clinging onto the wooden edge. my knuckles were whitened, but it was nothing compared to your skin. (if it had a bit more color to it, i'd want to kiss its every inch; but one can't kiss the dead, only consider it.)
there are roses around you. i'm counting them.
i hate the man who shoved some of the flowers in your wounds. (actually, forgive me! their sight was twisting my stomach.) it's sad, because your corpse is probably the worse vase ever. the petals' white doesn't contrast in the slightest with your skin.
your cold hand is intertwined with mine. i remember the feeling of your fingers against my bandages. those are brand new; just from yesterday! you were still in the morgue, and i wasn't so far away from joining you, agonizing because of everything i had drank, on the kitchen's floor. well, theoretically, my kitchen.
but i like to believe it was ours, given how often you'd come. (you'd even store your wine there.)
i'm not the only one staring at you. i'm at your right, and kouyou stands behind your head, leaning over you. she's fixing your thin hair, and it almost looks like her fingers are dancing on your icy skin. her glistering eyes make the emptiness of her nights quite obvious. she smiles at me, as if she knew everything i was thinking of with just a glance, before she left us.
if only your memory could stay locked in your coffin. (i know that tonight, i'll dream of your arms, like every other night since mori came to the agency to find me)
(i hated him.)
(with all of the half of a soul you left me.)
then, just like that, i got a rose out of my pocket, and brushed it behind your ear, messing a bit with your neat hairdo. its petals are red.
how red, you'll ask?
just red! like your cheeks when i tell you i love you, like my hands when you hold them too tight, like the stems of the roses i planted in your flesh
there are twenty-seven of them, including the three being in your chest
and now, i feel goddamn lonely.