Chapter Text
Ohse stared into the dark hall, searching for any signs that his housemates were awake. Low, elegant music danced from Amahiko’s door. The sound, sending shivers down his spine, was almost enough to send Ohse right back into his room. He couldn’t risk being found out; the others would surely try to stop him. However, the music would be a good cover-up for any sounds he might make, even if it meant Amahiko could be conscious.
With light, delicate footsteps, Ohse creeped further into the hall. If he moved quickly and quietly enough, no one would realize what he was doing. They wouldn’t realize what he had done until the stench of his filthy, rotting body filled the house. Though, maybe even then they wouldn’t know. He was sure the smell of him already made it hard enough to breathe.
When he made it to the bottom of the stairs, he wasted no time in rushing towards the bathroom. What he so desperately craved was just barely out of his reach. He was so close he could almost taste it… But his hand stopped just short of the doorknob. Rikai’s room was only one door over behind him. Just that day–Ohse’s birthday–Rikai had scolded him for his decision to go nude. It was stupid, yes. Ohse deserved every harsh word, yes. Despite that, nothing ever stung more. Rikai made it very clear that he didn’t care anymore. If Ohse were gone, it wouldn’t matter to him. Why should it? Ohse was a disgusting, horrible excuse of a person. He was no better than the most disease-ridden vermin. Honestly, it was a good thing Rikai hated him now.
Even so, his chest panged.
The one person he wanted to please more than anyone would no longer bat an eye if he killed himself.
With newfound desperation, Ohse choked back his tears and snatched at the doorknob. His hands were slick with sweat, but he had no difficulty forcing the door open. Nothing would stop him. Nothing at all.
He didn’t even bother to flick on the light. His hands fumbled wildly at the countertop. Anticipation itched through every one of his veins. Soon, he found the peace he desired: a bottle of pills Iori had forgotten to store away. It felt small in his soaked palm. Smooth and inviting. It wouldn’t be much longer until no one would have to suffer his presence. Not much longer until they’d all be free of him.
As he turned to leave, the pills rattled wildly in their container, harsh to Ohse’s ears. A stark reminder that the decision he was making was permanent. The decision he had already come to countless times before, though never in this way. He had half the mind to shake the tiny bottle harder. He wanted to be miserable before he left. Needed to be.
But that would have to wait until he was back in his room. Someone could hear him now, the lower floor didn’t have Amahiko’s music, and who was he to wake them like that? If they saw him with the pills, who knew what would happen? It’d be a huge burden to them no matter what. He was already burdening them enough by existing, and now he planned to put himself down in a way that’d leave a mess behind. The nicest thing he could do for them was let them sleep.
So, his delicate footsteps returned as he slithered up the stairs. Silent as the falling snow. As careful as a mother ‘round her newborn.
Light trickled from the slit of his cracked bedroom door. For a moment, he wondered if this was what the gates of the afterlife would be like. Maybe they’d be soft and beautiful, casting his shadow gracefully behind him. Maybe they’d be sharp and violent, blinding him where he stood. For him, he figured it’d be the latter.
He’d find out before long. With the door shut tightly behind him and the lights off, he was finally free to save everyone. He could finally spare them from more pain.
With callused hands, he popped off the lid of the bottle. The noise seemed to echo around his repulsive room, mixing with the faint hum of music. A chill ran down his spine. He could almost feel himself shaking with excitement. Nobody was going to get in his way this time.
At that, he tossed his head back. His turquoise locks fell softly behind him, hanging loosely in the air.
He took a deep breath. The humid air felt rough against his throat. He tipped the bottle to his mouth. The pills fell one by one. He grabbed a cup. Paint-dirtied water sloshed inside. He brought the cup to his lips. The taste was nearly unbearable.
He swallowed.
The cup and bottle clattered to the floor.
Ohse lowered his head, shoulders slouching. A hefty sigh escaped him. In a few hours, he’d experience unimaginable pain. A few hours after that, he’d be gone. The thought of it sent serenity coursing through him–the only thing to bring him regret.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a knife glimmering in the darkness. The sight of it made him perk up. He wouldn’t allow himself to appreciate the serenity.
The knife fit comfortably in his hand. It was by no means anything fancy–just a simple kitchen knife he swiped when no one was looking. It’d be easy to take the whetted blade to his throat. It’d be much quicker than the pills he took, except that wasn’t what he needed.
Instead, he slumped onto his old sleeping bag. His bandages sat haphazardly beside him, unraveling like tangled vines. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d use them. Even if he was certain it’d be best if he let his wounds infect, he’d never forgive himself if he simply let them redden his clothes. Not even now. The stains would be a pain for Iori to clean.
Ohse slid up the sleeve of his sweater, shivering as the soft fabric drifted across his skin. The scars he wore were relatively healed as a result of a promise he made. They looked lovely now, permanently tainting his pale skin, but he hated that he allowed them to recover. All because of Rikai.
Rikai, who made him promise he’d never hurt himself again.
The promise was void if Rikai didn’t care.
So, Ohse held the knife to his scars. He winced as the freshly-sharpened blade sliced through his skin like warm butter. In the wake of his blade was a stream of red dew, budding softly at the edge of the cut. Ohse brought the knife down again. And again. And again.
His arm was alive with streaks of color; an abstract painting. He relished in the bittersweet pain. It was less than he deserved, but it would do.
Wiping the tangy blood from his knife as he set it aside, he scooped up the pristine bandages. He almost apologized for dirtying them. When he covered his wounds, he was careful to ensure they were too tight. Anything to bring himself more discomfort.
Far from satisfied, Ohse leaned back against the wall. He tried his hardest–and in vain–to keep his thoughts from jumping back to Rikai.
A deep, buried part of him longed to hear his voice one last time. He shouldn’t allow himself to want. But he could hardly help it. He wanted to hear Rikai speak to him softly; his voice full of care. He didn’t want to sit here thinking of that disgusted look on his face. He didn’t want his final memory of Rikai to be one of dissapointment.
Maybe Rikai would speak kindly as he laid him to rest.