Chapter Text
In a room bare of anything but the remains of a beaten soul, Shinjiro lays silently in his bed, trying to calm the beating of his exhausted heart. A warmth that he doesn’t deserve clings to his shoulder, to his hands. To his cheek. If he concentrates, he can still feel her soft caress, overflowing with so much tenderness it made him feel ashamed.
That face keeps popping up in his head, and in his restless slumber he deliriously thinks it feels a bit like a Hamaon about to knock him out cold, like the glimmering void just before Takeba, or someone else, can pull him out of it.
A month has already almost passed by, and along the progression of the moon they so intently watch, her smile gets brighter with every day they spend together by virtue of that stubborn mania of hers that burns through him effortlessly even when he’s unbearably cold, and convinces Shinjiro to keep indulging her in wasting her time with him. It’s not the best kept secret that deep down, his heart sings every time she chooses him.
Every moment with her it’s light, he realizes, as her laughter echoes like a tinkle in his head. But it also hurts, like a ray of sun ready to absolve all his sins, willing to take away his pain, just for the small price of etching itself permanently in his heart amidst it all with a sear, and maybe this could be his salvation. It could, but he doesn’t deserve it.
Still, that selfish, monstrous thing he calls heart refuses to listen as he stares at her across the room, enjoying one of the dishes he prepared for them next to an eager Akihiko (“You’ve never cooked for him before, you know. It’s his first time trying something of yours.” That thing beating ruthlessly inside of him supplies, like it’s any help). He watches them laugh together over nothing, and it’s like a knife twists around deep inside the most tender parts of him, barely missing Castor by an inch, sparking for a second what can only be hope.
But a cough interrupts his train of thought, pain traveling through his body as a funnest reminder of what he’s done. Of the unforgiving destiny looming over that ticks at him urgently. A definite confirmation of what he fears the most: that he doesn’t remember any of them.
“You should be by his side.” He remembers telling her, almost desperate. Not me, it’s what he doesn’t say, not mine.
It’s for the best, so he tries to ignore it even when everytime he closes his eyes he sees nothing but a blazing sun that somehow warms his aching joints. Ignores the persistent memory of a sweet, clumsy embrace, of a strong hand resting on his shoulder, every time it tries to come to him. He convinces himself that they can be happy together once he gets the hell out of their way, even if every one of their longing stares screams otherwise.
It's for the best, so he’s glad that he will drop dead any day now, really.
It’s for the best, so when he’s laid on the cold, bloody floor, and they’re looking down like two brilliant suns above him, all Shinjiro can do is burn, even as crystal tears wash over him and glide down his face.
“Don’t cry.” he manages to mutter around a mouthful of blood, and in one last silent bout of selfishness, he desperately hopes she can forgive him. He squeezes the hand intertwined with his with whatever’s left of his strength amongst a sea of pain. “Take care of them.”
Then, finally: Atonement.