[ It feels strange, in a sense. Seeing everyone again in a place that isn't his dreams. He'd gotten used to life at the manor enough, but there are times when he still expects to hear the faint sounds of dorm life. Of Akihiko getting up too damn early in the morning, of Makoto barely shuffling past, of Iori's loud yawning as he drags his feet. Of Koromaru lightly scratching at his door, and Aigis' rapid knocking with her monotone requests for assistance.
...It's not like he'd been there long. Hell, he'd been at the manor longer, at this point. He hears other things, instead. Tsukinaga's singing. Akira's banter with Kurapika as they walk past. Totsuka's guitar ringing from somewhere, anywhere.
...It's a frightening thought, if he dares to dwell, that he's known these people more already than most. Except for Aki. Except for Mitsuru.
The lines begin to blur. The edges of the vision fade with black blotches, like ink staining it out. It comes in time with the barest visions of the other him's eyes closing, every beat blurring and tearing the hallucination to pieces.
When the last thing they see is the red-stained hand slip from Akihiko's grip, there's a pause.
And then it disappears. No sounds, the figures disappearing into the ripples like they were never there in the first place, the eerie green tint going with it.
Because what else can someone who's gone remember?
The forest itself seems still, to punctuate how the question seems to have rattled Shinjiro. He doesn't speak for a long time, at war with himself as the seconds tick by with nothing but the steady fall of snow to accompany them.
He doesn't want to talk anymore. Doesn't want to think about it anymore. Feels the need to go back to the manor and find himself a damn cigarette for the first time in months, raid the cupboard for liquor he's never touched, and sit in the disconnected emptiness of his room for a while. He's never been the type to drown his sorrows, but in the moment, he can understand the feeling. ]
...I don't know.
[ Partially a truth, partially a lie. ]
That's not something most people have to think about. [ The breath feels shallow in his lungs. He's not a child; this sort of thing shouldn't bother him. And yet, being forced to face everything he's been running from, he feels like there's too much water in the air for him to breathe. ] When you're gone, it doesn't matter. It's over. That's how it was supposed to be.
[ How it should be, like he said. But that's not how it is, now. He walks. He talks. He breathes. He still has the nightmares, the insomnia, the cough in his lungs. ]
And even if it does...what's the damn point? [ A grit of the teeth. ] It's already happened. I couldn't change it, even if I wanted to. And I don't even know if there's a point to fixing anything here. Even if-
[ Even if- ]
...Even if I was gonna live. But I don't even know if I am.
continued cw for suicidal disc
...It's not like he'd been there long. Hell, he'd been at the manor longer, at this point. He hears other things, instead. Tsukinaga's singing. Akira's banter with Kurapika as they walk past. Totsuka's guitar ringing from somewhere, anywhere.
...It's a frightening thought, if he dares to dwell, that he's known these people more already than most. Except for Aki. Except for Mitsuru.
The lines begin to blur. The edges of the vision fade with black blotches, like ink staining it out. It comes in time with the barest visions of the other him's eyes closing, every beat blurring and tearing the hallucination to pieces.
When the last thing they see is the red-stained hand slip from Akihiko's grip, there's a pause.
And then it disappears. No sounds, the figures disappearing into the ripples like they were never there in the first place, the eerie green tint going with it.
Because what else can someone who's gone remember?
The forest itself seems still, to punctuate how the question seems to have rattled Shinjiro. He doesn't speak for a long time, at war with himself as the seconds tick by with nothing but the steady fall of snow to accompany them.
He doesn't want to talk anymore. Doesn't want to think about it anymore. Feels the need to go back to the manor and find himself a damn cigarette for the first time in months, raid the cupboard for liquor he's never touched, and sit in the disconnected emptiness of his room for a while. He's never been the type to drown his sorrows, but in the moment, he can understand the feeling. ]
...I don't know.
[ Partially a truth, partially a lie. ]
That's not something most people have to think about. [ The breath feels shallow in his lungs. He's not a child; this sort of thing shouldn't bother him. And yet, being forced to face everything he's been running from, he feels like there's too much water in the air for him to breathe. ] When you're gone, it doesn't matter. It's over. That's how it was supposed to be.
[ How it should be, like he said. But that's not how it is, now. He walks. He talks. He breathes. He still has the nightmares, the insomnia, the cough in his lungs. ]
And even if it does...what's the damn point? [ A grit of the teeth. ] It's already happened. I couldn't change it, even if I wanted to. And I don't even know if there's a point to fixing anything here. Even if-
[ Even if- ]
...Even if I was gonna live. But I don't even know if I am.