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Satoru should have burned Suguru’s body, but in the end, Shoko had trusted him to make the right decision. In spite of everything that happened, she never blamed him entirely. She knew Satoru would disobey the direct orders when he had asked her to clean Suguru’s body. It was just her, Satoru, and Suguru in the autopsy room.
The ticking of the clock dragged on in the background, it was the only sound in the cramped morgue; minute by minute, it picked away at the fragile silence that grew between them. There wasn’t much to say as Satoru lay Suguru’s body on the autopsy table. Shoko couldn’t help but notice the blood stains on Satoru’s clothes, and how his hands shook as he lay Suguru face-up on the table.
Shoko had seen countless of her colleagues and allies laid on the cold table, their eyes staring blankly towards the ceiling. There was always something unfamiliar about the dead, the way their eyes looked past you, the way their bodies grew cold and stiff, even though a moment ago their voices had filled the room with warm laughter.
Sorcerers did not live long, nor did not die normal, peaceful deaths. Suguru might have been the most intact person that had made their way onto her autopsy table, and yet he was missing an arm and it was impossible to miss the gaping hole where his heart was supposed to be. It was the closest thing to mercy that could have been granted.
“Do you think you can…?” It was the first thing Satoru wanted to ask, but he already knew the answer.
“There’s only so much I can do, Satoru. I can’t bring back the dead.”
From the corner of her vision, Shoko noticed how the corners of Satoru’s lips twitched as she removed Suguru’s clothes. She stopped at the midriff.
“I’ll work my way down,” she explained like he had to justify every action. Swallowing the lump that had been growing in her throat, she avoided looking at Satoru. One of them had to hold it together. “I’ll start with the hair.”
She combed through it, taking her time, pretending that they had all the time in the world.
When they were in school, Shoko and Suguru would tease Satoru for his messy hair. It was wiry and thin and he hardly took care of it. He teased the two of them back, especially Suguru; but Shoko had caught Satoru combing his fingers slowly through Suguru’s hair when he thought she wasn’t looking.
It was dirty now and Shoko wanted to yell at him. She was taken back to that time when Suguru had started to fall away from the both of them. His hair grew oily and thin; she wondered if Satoru noticed.
Shoko combed through the grime and sweat and blood. Suguru smelled like death; a stench she recognised but refused to acknowledge. It did not suit Suguru. Suguru, who always smelled like sandalwood and tobacco – and coffee.
Satoru had closed their eyes. She brushed her hands over their eyelids. Any moment, she thought, Suguru would crack their eyes open, and they’d laugh it off like they did back then when the hurt got too bad to bear. Their lips were chapped and dry.
“Whoa,” Shoko said. She’d thought the classroom was unoccupied. The two of them were always sent on missions together, anyways.
Suguru was the one to shove Satoru away, but it was obvious from how red the both of them were, and how they’d just been head-to-head just a moment ago.
“Get a room, you two!” Shoko laughed. Suguru looked at her then hid their face in their hands, but Satoru seized the moment.
“You’re the one who came in without knocking!”
“Excuse me? I go here, too, y'know.” It was pointless bickering.
“You’re still here,” he drawled dramatically, "What, are ya feeling lonely?”
Shoko stood resolutely by the doorway, her takeout getting colder by the minute. Suguru looked between the two of them, perhaps afraid that they’d fight again.
“Shoko c’mere.” Satoru gestured for her, one arm still wrapped intently around Suguru.
She wouldn’t have trusted him, at any other time. Maybe she shouldn’t have. Satoru grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward until she was close enough for him to pull in. He kissed her. It was a strange feeling. He didn’t taste like how she’d imagined – she tasted like tobacco and coffee and sugar. He tasted like Suguru.
“Wow,” she said, “Ever learn about consent?”
“It wasn’t that bad!”
She rolled her eyes.
“Ask Suguru! They know I'm a good kisser.”
Maybe she just didn’t want to admit back then, but she wanted to kiss him again. And again. But Suguru was there and looking at her. Their face impassable, a vague shadow rested over their eyes. Anger? Jealousy? Desire? It was too late to really know for sure.
Normally, the process of burial involves the deceased’s loved ones bathing them. Wash the body, rid it of its impurities. Then a thin layer of make-up to make them look alive. And how could she forget–leave the window open to let the soul out.
Shoko wasn’t the superstitious type.
The school’s morgue didn’t have any windows. No wonder it got stuffy down here. The tortured souls have nowhere to run to. But deep down, in a part of her that she tried to conceal from everyone–including herself–she hoped that Suguru would stay and haunt her.
When Shoko moved to clean their hands, she flinched. She was intimately familiar with the decomposition process; the extremities were always the first to go cold. But still, she hadn’t expected them to be so cold. She cradled their only remaining hand in hers, feeling the coarse skin from a decade of unrelenting planning.
Just like old times, Shoko thought sheepishly to herself, wiping the dirt from underneath their nails. Shoko showed Suguru how to paint their nails without getting any of the nail polish past the cuticle, holding their hands in hers as Satoru babbled endlessly in the background.
Satoru left, carrying Suguru in his arms. If Shoko hadn’t been so jaded, she would have thought it looked romantic.
After they left, the stench of death lingered posthumously in the air.
Shoko had never expected Satoru to land himself on her autopsy table. What have you gotten yourself into, idiot! She wanted to yell at him.
What had she done to his body-sewed his two halves together and cracked his skull open so that he could be pranced around like a marionette. It was not her place to disobey orders, she did as she was told. It was Satoru’s idea after all. She had always trusted his judgement.
He was terribly silent now, and she regretted each time she’d told him to shut up.
There was no one there with her in the autopsy room this time – even that dreadful clock had ceased working ages ago and she never bothered changing the battery. And by the way Okkotsu had looked at her, she was glad that they had left her alone this time.
Wash the body, apply the powder, open the window. Incinerate.
Shoko scraped the dirt from beneath his fingernails. His hands were still warm, and it was wrong. She scrubbed the filth from his forearms – he’d hugged her and promised that everything was going to be okay.
Neither Suguru nor Satoru were ever the best at keeping promises.
She took the train to Okinawa after gathering Satoru’s remains. There was nothing left of Suguru after the incident, only traces of viscera that had once been in the shape of her friend. In their place, Shoko took the button that Suguru had discarded after their defection. When the real Suguru died, Satoru buried the metal button with them. He must have dug it up at some point, or nicked it from the imposter. Shoko couldn’t help but turn to her right, ready to ask, but there was no one left beside her.
Shoko sat in the middle, as she always did. The window seat belonged to Suguru because they were always lost in thought; Satoru took the aisle, because his long legs were restless; Shoko sat in the middle where she felt safe, tucked between the two people she trusted the most.