Work Text:
— 🏁🔍 —
When Saihara Shuichi opened his eyes, all he saw was an unbroken, absolute expanse of pure white.
No windows. No furniture. He couldn't even locate the boundary where the walls met the floor. The only thing in the entire space with any distinguishable features was a wooden door set into the center of the room. Scrawled crookedly across its panel in black marker was a single line:
A room you can't leave until you cry.
"Well... this is certainly a rather peculiar situation," Saihara murmured under his breath, standing before the door.
Thrown at anyone else, a nonsensical scenario like this would probably trigger a flurry of panic, or the complete collapse of a materialist's worldview. But for Saihara, although he admittedly couldn't quite grasp the situation yet, it wasn't entirely beyond acceptance either.
After all, the moment he thought about who had been dragged into this place along with him, any absurd reality seemed to find some strange, twisted logic.
Besides, the condition for clearing this room was far too straightforward. All he had to do was cry, right?
Saihara quietly turned the thought over in his mind. He and Ouma had known each other for so long; it wasn't as if they'd never seen each other cry before.
A quick recap: he and Ouma Kokichi were childhood friends. From the age when they were still playing in the mud, their names had been inseparably bound together, spending over a decade in absolute, chaotic frenzy side by side.
Saihara had seen Ouma's fake, theatrical wailing countless times. He'd also seen the pitiful act Ouma put on whenever his pranks were exposed. As for himself, he'd shed tears over all sorts of trivial little things too.
And certain feelings, much like weeds in spring, had quietly taken root deep within both their hearts. The bittersweet ache and tentative probing of a mutual secret crush had threaded through practically their entire adolescence. That was, until the first semester of their second year of high school, when Ouma Kokichi suddenly confessed to him on a completely unremarkable walk home from school—in a half-joking, half-serious manner, yet gripping his wrist so tightly he absolutely would not let go.
The process couldn't exactly be called earth-shattering, but the outcome was a cause for celebration: they had naturally, smoothly gotten together.
So Saihara figured, since they were already in a relationship, just crying a little was no big deal.
Right now, he was busy assisting the police in investigating a tricky serial theft case. His mind was crammed full of clues related to that difficult case he'd been helping with lately, along with several on-site details that still needed verification... All his work was piled up at hand. He needed to get out of here, and fast. He had absolutely no spare time to play some escape room game in this strange white space.
Still... if it was Ouma, though.
Saihara's gaze slid slightly to the side. Knowing his boyfriend as well as he did, Ouma would most likely start spouting all sorts of teasing, flirtatious nonsense to divert his attention, trying to make him laugh until he cried, or just make him cry outright, right?
To put it bluntly, Ouma definitely just wanted to see him cry, purely to satisfy his own mischievous whims.
Saihara let out a resigned sigh, reached up out of habit to press down the brim of his cap, and then turned his head to look at Ouma, who had remained completely silent ever since a moment ago.
Something was off.
Ouma Kokichi was standing with his head slightly lowered right now, a few strands of short purple hair falling forward and conveniently obscuring most of his face. Because of the angle, Saihara couldn't make out his expression at all.
Saihara's instincts, sharp as ever, picked up on it: Ouma's current state seemed somewhat... not right. Under normal circumstances, faced with a mysterious room so full of glaringly obvious absurdity, wouldn't Ouma have long since launched into one of his high-spirited tirades, spouting baffling, nonsensical lies to stir up the atmosphere?
"Um... Ouma-kun? What's wrong?"
Saihara tried tentatively. Though he didn't think there was anything that could truly frighten Ouma, and even less did he think that this guy—who treated messing with people as his daily bread—would be intimidated by a mere white room, he also knew better than anyone that beneath Ouma's impenetrable facade lay a vulnerability he was unwilling to express to anyone.
Thinking this, Saihara took the initiative and stepped forward, drawing closer to Ouma's side. As the distance between them narrowed, Saihara turned slightly, his arm brushing against Ouma's shoulder.
— 🏁🔍 —
But strangely enough, Ouma's body was unnervingly cold.
Even through the two layers of their not-exactly-thin uniform fabric, Saihara could clearly feel a dense, heavy chill. He lowered his head, looking at Ouma with some concern. The teasing words he'd originally meant to lighten the mood circled at the tip of his tongue before he ultimately swallowed them back down.
"Being trapped here... is it making you anxious? It's okay, Ouma-kun. We'll definitely get out. As long as I cry—"
"Hey, Saihara-chan."
Ouma suddenly spoke, cutting him off without any warning.
"Let's just not leave, okay?"
"What?" Saihara froze, the question slipping out reflexively. For a moment, he even wondered if he'd misheard, or if Ouma was playing some new game of reverse psychology.
Ouma finally lifted his head. Meeting Saihara's stunned gaze, the corners of his mouth pulled upward by sheer force of habit into a wide, beaming smile. "Since we finally get to stay together like this, just the two of us, let's not leave, Saihara-chan."
He blinked, and his tone turned airy and light again. "Outside is not only mind-numbingly boring, but there are also all those weird, bizarre cases stealing Saihara-chan's attention away. Isn't it better to stay here? It's just the two of us here."
What the... Saihara looked at that familiar smiling face, and his taut nerves relaxed. He let out a quiet sigh of relief. So it's just that after all... he's feeling insecure.
He thought back to certain times in the past when Ouma would occasionally display this kind of uncharacteristic clinginess and dependence. Before they'd been trapped in this room, there had been moments—in the classroom after school, or on some rain-drenched evening—when Ouma would suddenly hold him tight, bury his head against his chest, and not say a single word. At those times, Ouma had looked as if he was terrified that Saihara would vanish the very second he let go.
Is it because I've been so busy investigating that theft case lately that I haven't really spent much time with him? Mm... that must be it. His sense of responsibility as a detective always made him prone to neglecting the people around him once he threw himself into work. After we get out of this room smoothly, I have to take the initiative and carve out more time to properly make it up to him.
With a touch of helplessness and guilt, Saihara continued, trying to soothe him. "Even after we get out, I'll still be with you. I'm sorry, Ouma-kun... I've been so wrapped up in investigating that case lately, I haven't been able to spend much time with you. Once I'm done with this stretch of work, I'll go anywhere you want to play, okay? I'll accompany you everywhere."
However, the cheer or playful pout Saihara had expected never came. After listening to this apology-laced reassurance, the smile on Ouma's face vanished without a trace. His expression turned utterly cold.
"I said, don't leave."
"Huh...? W-Why...?"
Saihara was startled by the sudden shift in Ouma's demeanor. In his memory, no matter how willful Ouma could be, he had rarely, if ever, used this kind of near-commanding tone with him.
But before he could process this anomaly any further, Ouma's hand shot out abruptly. He grabbed a fistful of Saihara's uniform collar and yanked downward without any explanation. Caught completely off guard, Saihara was dragged off balance by a strength that felt bizarrely, impossibly strong. He stumbled and bent forward, forced to bring his gaze level with Ouma's.
Because the distance between them was now so close, Saihara could clearly smell the faint scent of laundry detergent lingering on Ouma. And assaulting his senses even before the scent, was the bone-chilling, piercing cold radiating from Ouma's body.
"I finally, finally managed to accept the fact that you died, Saihara-chan..."
Ouma clutched Saihara's clothes desperately, his knuckles white from the sheer force of his grip. His head hung low, and his voice trembled. "Can't you just stay by my side forever? You idiot detective... Do you even know what ended up happening to you because you were investigating that case?"
"You got into a car accident on the way to the police station... A truck ran a red light and just slammed right into you. In the end, they couldn't save you. You just... just up and left me, like it was nothing. Do you get that, Saihara-chan?"
By the end, a sob he could no longer conceal had finally crept into Ouma's voice. The force in his hands weakened helplessly, loosening its grip. He pressed his forehead against Saihara's shoulder and continued mumbling to himself, stubbornly, "So, Saihara-chan... don't leave me... I finally, finally got to see you again. Whether this is a hallucination, or the world after death, just... don't go back anymore, okay...?"
Saihara was completely dumbfounded. Every single word out of Ouma's mouth was something he could understand, yet strung together, they formed a meaning he simply could not comprehend. What car accident? What 'they couldn't save you'... Wasn't he standing right here, perfectly fine?
But listening to those accusations—tearful yet producing no actual tears—pressing against his ears, Saihara felt a tight, suffocating heaviness in his chest. A towering wave of intense guilt, self-blame, and an aching sadness he couldn't put a name to surged over him, overwhelming.
He didn't know how to respond. He could only follow his instincts, reaching out both arms and gently embracing Ouma.
"I'm sorry, Ouma-kun. I didn't know... I—"
Saihara's comforting words jammed to a violent halt in his throat.
Because the moment he truly held Ouma in his arms—his own chest pressed against Ouma's chest, his own arms wrapped around Ouma's body—he discovered something utterly horrifying.
Ouma's body temperature wasn't just abnormally low for a living person. His chest held no rise and fall, no vibration at all. Saihara couldn't feel anything that even remotely resembled Ouma's heartbeat.
Yet Ouma himself seemed completely unaware of this. Or rather, his mind was in some extreme state of defense, refusing to register it at all. He was still desperately clinging to Saihara with everything he had, greedily clinging to the warmth that belonged solely to Saihara, clinging to Saihara's scent.
"Ouma-kun..." Saihara's voice began to tremble uncontrollably. His face had gone deathly pale.
"Why... can't I feel your heartbeat?"
This time, it was Ouma's turn to freeze.
His body went rigid. He stayed motionless, locked in that embrace. After a long, long while, he slowly, inch by inch, lifted his head and met Saihara's pale golden eyes—eyes brimming with shock and worry.
Saihara Shuichi, who by all logic should have been the one dead, carried the most vivid, living warmth from start to finish. That fiery heart of his was pounding violently, fiercely, out of sheer nervousness and fear.
Ouma Kokichi, who by all logic should have been the one who survived, had a body as cold as a frozen abyss—utterly devoid of life, without even a single heartbeat left to hold onto.
Perhaps, just perhaps, the one who had died was never Saihara at all.
— 🏁🔍 —
...
Blinding camera flashes. Passersby crowding around from who knows where. The shocked cries of the crowd. The sharp, piercing wail of police sirens drawing closer from a distance. Everything in his line of sight was tilted, askew. Several black skid marks scarred the road surface. The shattered screen of a phone still flickered stubbornly, cracks spreading like a spider's web. An unread message was still displayed on it.
Beside that broken phone lay a scattered bouquet of roses, slightly misshapen. Their red petals were crushed into the dust, bleeding a dark stain eerily similar to blood.
Back then... when was it again?
Ah. He remembered now. It was their fifth month officially together.
To Ouma Kokichi, a five-month dating anniversary was absolutely a milestone worth kicking up a huge fuss over. He had secretly saved up his allowance behind Saihara's back for a long, long time, all so that on this very day, he could prepare a little surprise—something his detective childhood friend and boyfriend, always so busy with various commissions, so pure-hearted he was like a block of wood, so maddeningly dense when it came to matters of romance, would absolutely never see coming.
So why did things end up turning out like that in the end?
Maybe it was because he'd gotten too used to Saihara's lectures. Over the more than ten years they'd been together, Saihara was always trailing behind Ouma, sternly yet helplessly thwarting every single one of his pranks. He was always nagging in his ear, telling him to follow the rules, to be a good person. Otherwise, he'd say, once he became a truly great detective in the future, he'd definitely catch Ouma with his own two hands.
Ouma remembered how he'd laughed himself sick at that, clinging to Saihara's shoulder without a shred of dignity, taunting him. "Being a good person doesn't suit my identity at all! And besides, in this world, good people are the easiest to fool, you know? Doesn't Saihara-chan get tricked by my super low-level lies all the time? You really never learn!"
Hearing this, Saihara's face would immediately flush with a thin layer of red. He always seemed to desperately want to retort with something serious, but because his nature was far too mild and gentle, even after racking his brain for words, he could only manage weak protests like "I-I did not..." That expression of his—clearly huffy and flustered, yet utterly powerless against him—was so adorable it was criminal. So adorable it made Ouma want to bully him with even more wicked methods, or, in a more direct fashion, make him shut up entirely.
Ouma hadn't been able to resist back then. He'd leaned right over and planted a kiss on Saihara's cheek. The result was, naturally, exactly as he'd anticipated. The great detective's rationality evaporated on the spot, his entire face flushing a deep, thorough red, unable to squeeze out a single word.
...And so, on that afternoon, Ouma Kokichi, clutching that bouquet of flowers he'd gone through so much trouble to buy, his head full of wicked plans to tease his lover, was humming a tune on his way home. Suddenly, he heard a sharp, frantic shout erupt from the crowd. "A thief! Stop that thief!"
A figure, face full of panic, clutching a snatched handbag, rushed past him, brushing his shoulder. He acted on pure reflex and chased after him.
In that moment, there was really nothing in his mind at all. He just suddenly realized, with a certain bitter sadness, that Saihara's utterly unconvincing lectures had long since, without him even noticing, been engraved deep into his heart.
He wanted to catch that bad guy. He wanted to return the stolen things to their owner. Then, when they met up tonight, he could act like a little kid who'd done something amazing and was deliberately fishing for praise. He'd shove his head right up to Saihara and tell him smugly, "See, Saihara-chan? I listened to you today and acted like a super, mega good person! So... for tonight's anniversary, can I ask for even more rewards?"
But good people don't get good endings, you idiot Saihara-chan.
And I... was never suited to be a good person in the first place.
— 🏁🔍 —
"So... that's how it is."
Ouma lowered his head again, burying his entire face against the curve of Saihara's neck and shoulder.
So the one who died... was me? Is that it?
...So that's how it is.
Tears fell silently at last. They slid from the corners of his eyes and soaked a small patch on the shoulder of Saihara's jacket. The fabric there, saturated by the cold tears, slowly deepened in color.
The uniform, pristine whiteness that had surrounded them on all sides began to fade and dissolve from the edges outward, over large areas. It wasn't just the walls. Even Saihara Shuichi—the one he was holding onto so desperately in his arms—was gradually, bit by bit, turning transparent.
Ouma was pulled out of that room. A cool breeze, carrying the scent of earth and green grass, swept past his ears. He realized he had, at some unknown point, been transported somewhere else entirely. He was now standing quietly, still and silent, in the middle of an extremely tranquil cemetery.
The sky had already gone completely dark. The night wind rustled lowly through the treetops, making a soft, sighing sound. A crescent moon, its edges slightly blurred, hung high in the night sky, casting down a few strands of cold, pale moonlight, not particularly bright.
Ouma stood where he was, a little lost. He looked ahead. Near a short tree not far away, he saw a freshly erected tombstone. On that black stone monument hung, silently, a black-and-white photograph of himself.
And beside that tombstone—the one bearing his own photograph—someone was curled up.
He was hugging his knees tightly to himself, his cap clutched against his chest. He had fallen asleep right there in front of the grave, utterly defenseless. His complexion looked terribly pale. Dried tear tracks still lingered at the corners of his eyes. His jacket was stained with the dampness of the night dew of the cemetery, making him appear somewhat disheveled.
That was his beloved. Saihara Shuichi.
END