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The spectrum of light twinkles through a glass prism, scattering like dust through every crevice it can see. They're beautiful particles that reflect neon colors amidst the pitch-black darkness, gathering like a bulb in one place before blooming across everything it touches.
Its shattering was contained in its core, fissures that vein from the center of its heart. Like specks of blood that have splattered everywhere, its grotesque undoing pitifully sits in one place, a composition of still art for the mad, unable to keep its entrails in place. A dropped bouquet with trampled flowers under his shoes.
Yet the glow of fluorescent lamps only reflects the puddles like tar, its stench overwhelmingly metallic and… fresh.
His arm feels heavy and sore, but his chest is light, as if the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. Ironic, since the scales of righteousness point him to hell.
Despite it, Watarai's hand clutches the rusty pipe tightly, trembling so hard that his nails are digging into his palm, mixing his own blood with the corrosion.
Blinded by love, and blinded by his conviction.
He was merely protecting Hioki. That much is the truth.
Perhaps that's the weakness of someone who always seems to find the good in people, no matter what.
Watarai did try warning him. Hioki wasn't naive as to put himself in danger, but the kindness can only do so much. Like the response to fear—whether to run, or whether to fight.
Hioki chose to pacify, much to his own detriment.
But the world isn't as kind as he is. Insanity does not have its boundaries. In fact, it actively looks for ways to completely destroy those lines, or tangle them up in a pretty noose to keep the beauty of stagnancy in hardworking hands… if one may call it such.
A simple matter of a stalker. Not so simple in terms of dealing with them. Hioki had told Watarai time and time again that he would be fine.
In the end, Watarai learns that pacification, in fear, extends to anything.
"…He will never be able to bother you again."
The words were choked up like they were first filed through sandpaper. It's only then that Watarai realizes how parched he is. It's expected, since he had exhausted himself. He still stands unmoving, afraid, somehow, that if he moved his limbs, his strings would snap like a marionette doll's.
But he still managed to say it. Watarai had given Hioki the truth, and that's all that matters.
After all, there will be nothing left for him after this.
Blood will be hard to clean off a dirty alleyway. Bodies are hard to dispose of. Not to mention, there's no way he would be able to gather bone shards and brain matter with his bare hands, not when he prepared nothing. Simply the instincts of someone willing to protect what they love. It's a shame, though, that Watarai worked hard to get to the university he wanted to get into. The days he imagined with Hioki past the transition of falling cherry blossoms melt into the ugly corpse in between their feet.
The specks of blood reach even Hioki's school uniform. It looks so dark under the shadows, but the street lamp illuminates his pale face, starkly white against the grimy backdrop. His eyes are blown wide, lower lip trembling, entire body rigid as if unable to believe the scenery before him.
The tension in his face is palpable.
It hurts. Of course, it hurts. He never wants to affect Hioki in any way. Bile tickles the back of Watarai's throat, the suffocating stench of the blood and the image of the unrecognizable man by their feet suddenly proving to be way too much. He wills it down, because he does not wish to add to the mess.
Watarai licks his lips and breathes out deeply. The impact of the pipe to the skull still reverberates through his fingertips, like a tuning fork still vibrating and ringing harshly in his ears. He tries to find the words to reassure Hioki, but he knows that nothing will be enough to calm him down.
"I don't deserve you after all, Hioki," Watarai manages to get out.
Hioki merely stares at him. As if the world is on pause, the image of Hioki in front of him is plastered like a dream. He feels so unreal. He wants him to speak, to make this more tangible for him. But he knows both of them are afraid of breaking the illusion, dropping the glass bouquet in offering of his love.
Watarai's heart could never have been contained. The love he has for Hioki remained dormant until his chest was pried open with his confession, and it grows and grows and grows, unable to stop those vines from tangling and constricting Hioki's throat with the suffocating love that he doesn't have the will to name. Hioki was never meant to be chained by this love, and the realization of that moment pains him. He feels like he has broken Hioki's trust, even if he had felt entirely justified in his destruction.
For Hioki. He did this all for Hioki. His name echoes in his, reminding him of this purpose—why his heart beats. Watarai does not regret his decision, as long as it's for Hioki. He will bear the scrutiny, the punishment, the anguish, if it means keeping Hioki safe. He never knew just how much he was willing to sacrifice for Hioki.
But that doesn't matter now, does it? Watarai has made his decision. He leaves the rest of it all on Hioki.
"Watarai."
His eyes affix themselves on Hioki's pained face. His lips pull up, attempting a smile, leaving only a grimace. He anticipates Hioki's words, but his breath stops once Hioki moves, and he steps over the mangled body. Watarai steps back, as if seeing a ghost.
But Hioki looks up at him, eyes dripping with unbridled affection that has Watarai's heart pounding loudly in his chest, blood roaring in his ears.
He's scared. No, no, Hioki. No. Watarai wants to scream.
"…Will you be able to live without me?"
Even if Watarai will not wash his hands of this. Even if he is prepared to show his palms, stained with the blood of scum and the rust seeping its way into his wounds. Even if Hioki will hate him in the end.
"No."
Hioki's trembling fingertips lift and graze the blood on his face, and Watarai wants to cry.
The grimace on Hioki's face relaxes and he glows with a smile, cracked lips stretched and the apple of his cheeks faintly flushed red.
"Then it's fine."
Watarai drops to his knees in repentance, and the deafening clatter of the metal pipe shatters the quiet.
But he finds that it doesn't matter. His bloody arms wrap Hioki's torso as he pulls him into a tight embrace. Hioki returns the touch, stroking Watarai's hair and kissing the crown of his head. The cold blue tint of the street lamp feels like warm sunlight.
Their bubble, the closed world, the proof of his devotion. The only thing Watarai needs is Hioki's forgiveness.