Work Text:
Antiseptic. The only thing he can smell is antiseptic from his freshly bleached bathroom, wafting into the rest of his room and as a result into his nose, all the way up into his brain until his insides are burning. The room is clean, and bland, and white, and just so bright it makes his head hurt and swirl with every breath when he inhales the chemicals.
He feels outside of his body… not real. As if his thoughts aren’t his own, unable to organize them. They’re all bouncing around in the confines of his brain, smacking from bone to bone against his skull. How long has he been here? He couldn’t even be bothered to try and guess. At some point he’d heard the others heading down the hall for breakfast… or maybe that was dinner? It could have only been minutes from then. It could have been hours. Time didn’t really exist, did it?
Just like him. He didn’t really exist.
There’s a set of knocks on his door, a familiar set. An even more familiar voice calls from the other side. “Saihara?” The boy in question only pulls his knees closer to his chest, eyes unfocused and staring ahead at the blank wall across from his bed. Saihara. It’s his name, the thing he’s been called his entire life, but it isn’t his. “Heyyy, are you gonna let me in or what? S-So mean… leaving me stranded out here all in the cold!” It probably is cold, if the air conditioning blasting in his room is anything to go off of. There are goosebumps covering his arms, the thin gray t-shirt doing absolutely nothing in terms of warmth. The nurses were evil for not allowing them to adjust the temperature. He’s gone numb by this point, and his limbs, specifically his feet, have fallen asleep. He’s not sure he could get up to open the door even if he wanted to.
He doesn’t want to, he reminds himself, tugging chapped skin on his bottom lip even with pain pricking him. He chews on the dead skin between his front teeth as blood starts to bloom on his lip. Saihara doesn’t want to see him, because Saihara is a coward. He’s a useless coward that’s just as bland and boring as the white walls closing in around him, surrounding him, suffocating him.
“Sai-ha-ra~” the voice calls again. “There’s no use trying to hide, you know! If you don’t open up, I’ll just force my way in!” When he receives no response, the impatient boy huffs. “I’m gonna go grab space boy and get him to ram down the door with his big thick skull!” More silence. There aren’t any footsteps in the hall running off to grab ‘space boy.’ Instead, there’s another soft sigh, and the metal lock of his door starts to clink until there’s a distinct click.
“Hey, Saihara,” he calls into the room, only cracking open the door by a sliver. “I’m coming in, ‘kay? You better not be naked!” He clears his throat. “If you don’t want me coming in here, say something now.”
Saihara opens his mouth, tries to say something because no, he doesn’t want him to come in— yes he does —but as always, his resolve fails him, and nothing comes out.
Weak.
The door creaks open. Eventually, the intruder slips past the threshold and quietly clicks it shut behind him. Saihara swallows the piece of chapped skin, swiping his tongue across his lips to get the blood that’s slowly starting to dry to his skin. The cold definitely isn’t helping.
“Saihara.” The voice pries him away from his staring contest with the wall. Standing there, so pale he’d nearly blend into the walls if not for the contrast of his ink-black hair, is none other than Ouma himself. Guilt twists in Saihara’s stomach just from looking at him.
“Why are you here?” he manages to croak out.
Ouma grins. “Why are you here?”
“This is my room.”
“Uh, yeah! I mean why are you sulking around here?”
“ ‘m not sulking, ” Saihara mutters, hiding his head between his knees. When Ouma peeks into his view of sight, it only takes half of a second before he’s being drenched from head to toe. Silver glints above him, slow in a steady descent, and he sees pink and more pink and more pink -
“Look at me.” Saihara shakes his head, eyes clenching shut. It only makes it worse, because now in the pitch-black void he sees the press and watches as a frail, sickly body is crushed underneath until all he can see is blood and pink pink pink pink everything is pink- “Saihara, look at me.” He’s beginning to feel every inch of his own skin, the anxiety tingling down to each nerve. He feels sick. He takes a breath and opens his eyes before he can fall too far into existentiality. He hadn’t even felt the bed dip, but the other is kneeling in front of him, grasping his arms. And when he finally meets his face…
Ouma smiles. God, Ouma. He just smiles, without a care in the world. “You think too loudly, you know? Look,” he pulls away a hand around Saihara’s legs, placing his own hand in his palm. “See? No press.” He demonstrates his point by turning his hand over as if showing off for him. Saihara swallows, then squeezes his hand.
It’s almost cruel. No- it is cruel. Because the pain, the suffering, the… death that their friends have gone through? There isn’t a single trace of it left. Physically, at least. Ouma’s body was atomized beyond recognition, he felt every single one of his bones snap while his lungs were impaled and he was burning from fire on the inside and ice on the out… yet he doesn’t have a scratch. Not a single scratch on his ghostly skin, whiter than paper. If you looked at him on the street, you wouldn’t know a thing. You wouldn’t be able to tell a single thing.
“Did you hit that pretty head of yours, Saihara?” Ouma murmurs, lacing their fingers and squeezing Saihara’s hand in return. “I could’ve sworn I remember telling you that what I did has nothing to do with what you did? C’mon, Shuichi,” hearing his name fall from Ouma’s tongue sends a chill up his spine. You did that on purpose, a distant part of his mind accuses. “I brought this upon myself. Not you. Not anyone else.”
Saihara starts shaking. He’s not sure if it’s from the emotions bubbling up in him and how he can feel warm, wet tears beginning to gather at the backs of his eyes or if it’s from the freezing air blasting through the room, though Ouma must assume that it’s the latter, because he sighs and maneuvers the blankets out from under them.
“Alright, c’mon.” Ouma shoves him down onto the bed so he’s flat on his back. The pricking needles in his feet make him wince before he can even think about feeling flustered. He stretches out his toes, not paying much mind to Ouma as he tugs at the sheets. “You’ve seriously got the self-preservation of a goldfish, you know that?”
“‘m sorry…”
“Shush, don’t apologize.” Ouma hesitates for the briefest moment, but he must decide between whatever dilemma he’s having because he eventually pulls the blankets over both of them, turning the taller towards him and snuggling up until he’s slotted between Saihara’s arms and nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck. Saihara shivers. With heavy reluctance, he wraps his limbs—legs and all—around him, tangling together until he’s squeezing Ouma tight against his chest. He buries his face in his hair, breathing in all of him, as much as his lungs can manage. He smells like cheap hospital shampoo, but it’s so so much better than the burning chemicals from his bathroom.
“I really wish you’d take care of yourself more, y’know…” He can feel Ouma’s mouth moving against his skin with every word, hot breath fanning over his neck. “You deserve only good things in life… and that’s not a lie.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you… doing this?” Ouma tenses in his arms, moves as if to try and pull away, but when he finds himself trapped in Saihara’s grasp, he shifts closer. Lips brush against his shoulder. He can’t tell if it’s on purpose or by accident, but either way he doesn’t mind. In fact, he finds himself wishing that Ouma is doing it on purpose.
“Because I’m selfish,” he finally murmurs, vibrating straight to Saihara’s bones. “And I was lonely.”
“That… that’s a lie.” Again, Ouma tenses, and fists ball into the back of his t-shirt. There’s a falter in his breath, but none in his voice when he cheerfully replies,
“Yep! You’re one-hundo percent right! Supreme L—I don’t get lonely!”
“No, you’re not selfish,” Saihara corrects his misunderstanding. He pulls Ouma closer. Their chests are moving in unison now, both with breathing and the beating of their hearts. Ouma’s lip trembles against his shoulder and hair tickles his jaw. “You wouldn’t have come here if you were. You wouldn’t be helping me.”
“Who said I was helping you? I’m just here to make fun of you.”
“You wouldn’t have shut down my self-deprecating thoughts if that was true. You would have let me entertain them, then played them up if that’s really what you were here for.”
“Have I ever had a reason for doing things?”
“I can’t always figure them out… but yes, you do.” Without any warning, it feels as though the roles have flipped. Now, Ouma is the one shaking and struggling to stay rooted. Saihara’s fingers play at the back of his neck, pressing and massaging right where his hair begins. He feels like he’s back in his body again. Not fully, but he’s able to recognize the movements he’s making again.
Somehow, the most confusing, complicated, undecipherable boy he’s ever known is just what he needed to help ground the unbound thoughts scrambling his mind. Almost forcing his brain to piece together and organize his words. “Thank you,” Saihara whispers, planting the faintest ghost of a kiss to his temple, right above his ear. Ouma shivers.
“Silly Saihara…” he snuggles into him, somehow tangling their legs further as he buries his face in Saihara’s chest. “I should be the one thanking you. ” No, that’s wrong, he thinks as his eyelids fall heavy. You do so much, Ouma… for everyone. For me.
Saihara wakes up in the morning, limbs stiff and aching either from being crushed or being bent in an uncomfortable position. He wonders for a moment why it feels so difficult to breathe, but a puff of air exhaling across his shoulder causes him to blink down, and he suddenly remembers it all. Letting a soft, endearing smile grace his lips, Saihara brushes hair from Ouma’s eye as he feels and watches the even rise and fall of his chest. There’s shuffling in the halls, presumably the others leaving for breakfast—if it even is morning. He really should take a look at a clock sometime soon… But still, he isn’t bothered enough to get up yet, so when Ouma begins to stir from the noise, Saihara lulls him back to sleep with light whispers and by running his fingers through his hair.
They deserved this peace. Finally, after everything, even if for just a moment.