(you can pm me here or on plurk if you'd like to beforehand, but also if you'd just like to drop something at my doorstep with no preamble please do!!)
A countertop untouched from their last meal together - crumbs, stains. It's annoying. Akechi lays lethargic and territorial across the ice cold countertop anyway. His fingers dangle over the opposite edge, head resting on his arms. Maruki's talking. Cooking. Akechi thinks he whaps at his gloved hands with a napkin - plucks at his fingers with a pair of chopsticks. Maybe it’s the cold air from a perpetually open window nipping at his skin.
There's a muffled complaint about 'how this is no different than sitting on the counter' that Akechi barely hears, acknowledges with only a too slow blink Maruki would never see.
His eyes stay fixed on bright bright red - oshiruko, curry, any number of meals could have stained that spot. He’s here more often than he isn't these days - turns out, their homes aren't far apart. Maruki found him within days of their return. Akechi returned the favor by following him home from the shadows a week later.
The spot's stained. He’ll have to remember not leave his homework there anymore.
They speak about forgiveness on a couch meant for more than two. Barely broken in after years of neglect from its owner. Only now getting use from an unwanted visitor. They're bundled in blankets, warm cups of tea in their hands. Maruki makes a comment about the Roomba silently moving from room to room. ‘There’s nothing to clean’ met with ‘Because it’s always running’ in a tone that suggests Maruki really is an idiot.
There’s warmth against his shoulder, as if someone knocked into him. Akechi doesn’t acknowledge it with a look or otherwise. That phantom touch lingers and burns while Maruki rambles about mercy and torment. Akechi feels the latter as he raises the tea to his lips, lava burning the inside of his mouth, steam blinding his vision. Maruki looks like a ghost through the haze.
They speak about
anger.
In the dead of night, when Akechi can’t take it anymore. When a gun is brandished in a pitch black room meant for one, now housing two. There’s no end to the vile words that flow from his lips - topics meandering from one grievance to the next.
Akechi can’t see Maruki hidden in the shadows of his room, of Maruki’s room, of Akechi’s room and it doesn’t matter - he can feel it. He can hear it. Every smug reaction, every prod of why he’s mad when he’s always calm and Akechi feels calm in the throes of his righteous anger at the world, feels calm when his throat gets dry, scratchy and painful with every passing hour. Feels calm when the steel in his hand gets heavier with every passing second - as if a hand is forcing it down. Maybe it is. Maybe he is. It’s warm. Ice cold.
Akechi wakes up in a room - not his own, maybe Maruki’s, maybe someone else’s entirely. He can’t find his gun - wonders if he had it to begin with. His finger loops around an imaginary trigger anyway.
They speak of denial around a cafe table - Maruki doesn’t touch the food placed between them - he only ordered for Akechi’s sake.
The latte tastes like shit. Sticks to the inside of his throat, heavier than the weight of a gun only a few days ago, yesterday, a week ago. He can’t find the right words to respond, so he doesn’t. Only sips at the scraps of lukewarm beverage, eyes an untouched manju between them - it’s too sweet for his liking, must be the same for Maruki who doesn’t even attempt to reach across the table to pluck it apart. He must have ordered it when they walked into the shop - no one’s come by their table in hours. Akechi hasn’t looked up once in that time - incapable of meeting the gaze of someone lecturing him about this or that. It’s irritating. The words don’t register.
The voice fades into the tap, tap, tap of footsteps on the other side of a short barrier between cafe and world, the murmur of quieter conversations around them. Someone mentions the Detective Prince, but Akechi doesn’t feel like being that today. Offers a smile, a wave, allows a selfie at the table Maruki can’t be a part of.
Maruki has no family.
Akechi knew that.
They were alone.
Completely alone.
Maruki has no family, so Akechi isn’t trespassing when he uses a spare key to get into the home.
Maruki has a friend.
Akechi learns that-
When Shibusawa walks in with a box in hand. Akechi doesn’t bother introducing himself. Doesn’t need to. 'Why’s the Detective Prince here? There isn’t an investigation, right?’ But Akechi doesn’t feel like being that today. The air is cold. He stares at the stained countertop and-
Maruki had-
The tea scalds his tongue on a couch meant for more than its one occupant, an untouched blanket thrown across the arm from the last unwanted visitor to be here.
The television murmurs about forgiveness - residual commentary from the change of hearts that occurred only weeks ago, months ago. The woman’s voice familiar in mannerism and topic, though he can't place why.
The top of his mouth feels numb - the scalding liquid flows down his throat. He doesn’t wait for it to cool. It doesn't matter if he does.
Maruki was-
He can’t take it he can’t take it he can’t take it he can’t take it he can’t take it a trigger’s weight makes him feel like he can take it he can take it he can take it with ice cold steel pressed at a space above where the rim of glasses would sit if he wore them, right between the eyes because he can’t take it he can’t take it he can’t take it so he-
Wakes up in a room, not his own, maybe Maruki’s - signs of life taken off the walls, out of the cabinets. An unwashed worn futon remains beside the bed, so Akechi continues to lay there.
And when the unwashed, worn futon is shoved into a box, a trash bag, given to a neighbor - a fate Akechi never saw because one day it vanished-
He doesn’t come by anymore. Only shuts the window in one bedroom and tries to replace it with an open one in another.
Akechi's apartment doesn’t face the right direction. He can’t feel phantom fingers in his hair with each gust - only hears it. The air is stifling. Suffocating. He wonders if it’s possible to stop breathing through will alone. Has no one to ask such an absurd question to. The night’s spent staring up a pristine white wall, staring at a too white wall, staring a wall that may not be white at all because the longer he looks, the less color he sees and-
There’s only one photo of Maruki in Akechi’s phone.
It’s funny.
So funny.
Their memories, photos, a world removed from this one -
The cafe girl tags him on Instagram - an untouched manju, a near empty drink, a false smile of someone he didn’t want to be that day and only one chair around that small table.
He leaves a kaomoji in response. Mandatory. Required. He has to acknowledge it and-
His phone ding, ding, dings all day with reactions, comments to it. It makes him dizzy. He can't think.
There’s only a single photo of Maruki on Akechi’s phone that he deletes in a moment of anger, with steel against his head, a bagged up futon in his trash and-
There is no photo of Maruki left in his world. There is no photo of his mom left in reality. There are numerous photos of Masayoshi Shido still plastered up in storefronts and alleyways, far more of Akechi Goro whose 15 minutes of fame extend for as long as people own him.
He thinks it’s good that neither of them have a photo, suddenly.
Thinks it’s good his borrowed key stops working.
That his couch feels uncomfortable.
That steel becomes enjoyable.
That the cafe makes him sick to his stomach.
And he thinks it’s good that his sluggish eyes become difficult to open.
And he thinks it’s good when a wish is granted from what little remains of Maruki Takuto in the world and-
It’s mercy. It's forgiveness. It's agony. Akechi never wanted any of it. Can’t bring himself to care enough to fight it and-
He thinks it’s good when his vision blurs the few minutes he’s awake every day. It must be spring, maybe, because cobwebs look like curtains across his windowsill, at the corners of his bed, string across his ceiling as the only bit of decoration in a once pristine home.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
HAPPY BORTHDAY
[They speak about grief over a kitchen bar.
They speak about forgiveness on a couch meant for more than two. Barely broken in after years of neglect from its owner. Only now getting use from an unwanted visitor. They're bundled in blankets, warm cups of tea in their hands. Maruki makes a comment about the Roomba silently moving from room to room. ‘There’s nothing to clean’ met with ‘Because it’s always running’ in a tone that suggests Maruki really is an idiot.A countertop untouched from their last meal together - crumbs, stains. It's annoying. Akechi lays lethargic and territorial across the ice cold countertop anyway. His fingers dangle over the opposite edge, head resting on his arms. Maruki's talking. Cooking. Akechi thinks he whaps at his gloved hands with a napkin - plucks at his fingers with a pair of chopsticks. Maybe it’s the cold air from a perpetually open window nipping at his skin.
There's a muffled complaint about 'how this is no different than sitting on the counter' that Akechi barely hears, acknowledges with only a too slow blink Maruki would never see.
His eyes stay fixed on bright bright red - oshiruko, curry, any number of meals could have stained that spot. He’s here more often than he isn't these days - turns out, their homes aren't far apart. Maruki found him within days of their return. Akechi returned the favor by following him home from the shadows a week later.
The spot's stained. He’ll have to remember not leave his homework there anymore.
There’s warmth against his shoulder, as if someone knocked into him. Akechi doesn’t acknowledge it with a look or otherwise. That phantom touch lingers and burns while Maruki rambles about mercy and torment. Akechi feels the latter as he raises the tea to his lips, lava burning the inside of his mouth, steam blinding his vision. Maruki looks like a ghost through the haze.
anger.
They speak of denial around a cafe table - Maruki doesn’t touch the food placed between them - he only ordered for Akechi’s sake.In the dead of night, when Akechi can’t take it anymore. When a gun is brandished in a pitch black room meant for one, now housing two. There’s no end to the vile words that flow from his lips - topics meandering from one grievance to the next.
Akechi can’t see Maruki hidden in the shadows of his room, of Maruki’s room, of Akechi’s room and it doesn’t matter - he can feel it. He can hear it. Every smug reaction, every prod of why he’s mad when he’s always calm and Akechi feels calm in the throes of his righteous anger at the world, feels calm when his throat gets dry, scratchy and painful with every passing hour. Feels calm when the steel in his hand gets heavier with every passing second - as if a hand is forcing it down. Maybe it is. Maybe he is. It’s warm. Ice cold.
Akechi wakes up in a room - not his own, maybe Maruki’s, maybe someone else’s entirely. He can’t find his gun - wonders if he had it to begin with. His finger loops around an imaginary trigger anyway.
The latte tastes like shit. Sticks to the inside of his throat, heavier than the weight of a gun only a few days ago, yesterday, a week ago. He can’t find the right words to respond, so he doesn’t. Only sips at the scraps of lukewarm beverage, eyes an untouched manju between them - it’s too sweet for his liking, must be the same for Maruki who doesn’t even attempt to reach across the table to pluck it apart. He must have ordered it when they walked into the shop - no one’s come by their table in hours. Akechi hasn’t looked up once in that time - incapable of meeting the gaze of someone lecturing him about this or that. It’s irritating. The words don’t register.
The voice fades into the tap, tap, tap of footsteps on the other side of a short barrier between cafe and world, the murmur of quieter conversations around them. Someone mentions the Detective Prince, but Akechi doesn’t feel like being that today. Offers a smile, a wave, allows a selfie at the table Maruki can’t be a part of.
Maruki has no family.
Akechi knew that.
They were alone.Maruki has no family, so Akechi isn’t trespassing when he uses a spare key to get into the home.
Maruki has a friend.
Akechi learns that-
When Shibusawa walks in with a box in hand. Akechi doesn’t bother introducing himself. Doesn’t need to. 'Why’s the Detective Prince here? There isn’t an investigation, right?’ But Akechi doesn’t feel like being that today. The air is cold. He stares at the stained countertop and-Maruki had-
The tea scalds his tongue on a couch meant for more than its one occupant, an untouched blanket thrown across the arm from the last unwanted visitor to be here.
The television murmurs about forgiveness - residual commentary from the change of hearts that occurred only weeks ago, months ago. The woman’s voice familiar in mannerism and topic, though he can't place why.
The top of his mouth feels numb - the scalding liquid flows down his throat. He doesn’t wait for it to cool. It doesn't matter if he does.
Maruki was-
He can’t take it he can’t take it he can’t take it he can’t take it he can’t take it a trigger’s weight makes him feel like he can take it he can take it he can take it with ice cold steel pressed at a space above where the rim of glasses would sit if he wore them, right between the eyes because he can’t take it he can’t take it he can’t take it so he-
Wakes up in a room, not his own, maybe Maruki’s - signs of life taken off the walls, out of the cabinets. An unwashed worn futon remains beside the bed, so Akechi continues to lay there.
He doesn’t come by anymore. Only shuts the window in one bedroom and tries to replace it with an open one in another.
Akechi's apartment doesn’t face the right direction. He can’t feel phantom fingers in his hair with each gust - only hears it. The air is stifling. Suffocating. He wonders if it’s possible to stop breathing through will alone. Has no one to ask such an absurd question to. The night’s spent staring up a pristine white wall, staring at a too white wall, staring a wall that may not be white at all because the longer he looks, the less color he sees and-
There’s only one photo of Maruki in Akechi’s phone.
Their memories, photos, a world removed from this one -
The cafe girl tags him on Instagram - an untouched manju, a near empty drink, a false smile of someone he didn’t want to be that day and only one chair around that small table.He leaves a kaomoji in response. Mandatory. Required. He has to acknowledge it and-
His phone ding, ding, dings all day with reactions, comments to it. It makes him dizzy. He can't think.
There’s only a single photo of Maruki on Akechi’s phone that he deletes in a moment of anger, with steel against his head, a bagged up futon in his trash and-
There is no photo of Maruki left in his world. There is no photo of his mom left in reality. There are numerous photos of Masayoshi Shido still plastered up in storefronts and alleyways, far more of Akechi Goro whose 15 minutes of fame extend for as long as people own him.
He thinks it’s good that neither of them have a photo, suddenly.
Thinks it’s good his borrowed key stops working.
That his couch feels uncomfortable.
That steel becomes enjoyable.
That the cafe makes him sick to his stomach.
And he thinks it’s good that his sluggish eyes become difficult to open.
And he thinks it’s good when a wish is granted from what little remains of Maruki Takuto in the world and-
It’s mercy. It's forgiveness. It's agony. Akechi never wanted any of it. Can’t bring himself to care enough to fight it and-
He thinks it’s good when his vision blurs the few minutes he’s awake every day. It must be spring, maybe, because cobwebs look like curtains across his windowsill, at the corners of his bed, string across his ceiling as the only bit of decoration in a once pristine home.