Work Text:
There is a place within my mind where no one can follow.
It is vast, a palace of intricate design, with corridors that stretch endlessly into nothingness. A masterpiece of architecture, each room carefully constructed, each wall fortified to keep the outside world at bay. No cracks, no imperfections—only the memories that belong here, the ones I have chosen to keep.
There are two wings. One is golden, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, where laughter lingers in the air like the scent of old books. This is where joy resides. The voices of those I once loved echo faintly, and when I sit upon the velvet chairs, I can almost pretend they are still with me.
The other wing is darker. The doors here are locked, the walls lined with chains, but the memories are strong enough to seep through the cracks. They do not need light; they burn on their own, fuelled by regret, by sorrow, by the past I cannot change.
Music plays in the halls, a melody I hum without realising. It is a necessary distraction. If I were to let the silence settle, the screams would rise from behind locked doors, demanding my attention.
This palace is mine alone. No one else belongs here. No one else should see the things I have built, the things I have buried.
And yet, today, when I walked through the endless halls, I found someone waiting for me.
Oda Sakunosuke stood in the grand corridor, just as I remembered him.
His coat was slightly unkempt, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. He looked at me the same way he always did—not with fear, not with admiration, just quiet understanding. It was infuriating, really, how easily he saw through me, how he never played along with the games I wove to keep people at a distance.
“…What are you doing here?” I asked, voice steady.
Oda tilted his head slightly. “That’s my question.”
I scoffed. “I built this place. It’s mine.”
His gaze flickered around the corridor. “So I’ve noticed.”
He walked past me, taking in the gilded paintings, the heavy chandeliers that lined the ceiling. He did not go toward the locked doors—he did not need to. He knew what was behind them.
I watched him carefully, waiting for him to say something, to comment on the ridiculousness of it all. But he did not. Instead, he turned toward me and said, “You don’t have to be alone here.”
I hated that. Hated how effortlessly he cut through the façade.
“This place isn’t meant for two,” I told him.
Oda gave me a small smile, the kind that was neither mocking nor pitying, just simple and sincere.
“Are you sure?”
And for the first time, the silence did not feel suffocating. The music played on, but it did not need to drown out anything. The screams behind locked doors remained where they were, but their presence was no longer unbearable.
For the first time, the palace I had built—this sanctuary, this prison—felt less like a cage and more like a chapel. A place where I was not alone.
“…You’re insufferable,” I muttered, but I did not ask him to leave.
Oda chuckled. “Yeah. I know.”
And so, we stayed.
Together.