[ Every word – every single word, drawn from such a deep well of emotion, like Akira shares his pain as keenly as if it were his own – drives into Maruki's beleaguered, distorted heart. Knifepoint sharp and white hot, unerring in its aim. Again and again. And again. And again.
Being gutted like a fish in a dark alley not but a few hours ago hurt less than this.
It isn't like their confrontation in Leblanc at all. Maruki can't deflect, obfuscate, turn the tides of the conversation with his clever manipulations, pick up a calling card, wriggle free. He can't do anything at all, trapped by Akira's hands pressed over his own, honest and empathetic gaze locked on inexorably.
His mouth opens to form a rebuttal.
Nothing comes.
He can't breathe.
Letting go circles through his mind, impossible and anathema, a concept his body rejects like poison. He's never let go. He tells others they have the right to give up on impossible dreams or hurtful circumstances, start over to find their true happiness – and he has never. Will never. Can't ever. He found a niche area of study to obsess over and never let go. He found the one person to ever love him in spite of his many shortcomings and never let go. He found a purpose, a mission, an ideal and never let go. Maruki is so practiced at seeming relaxed, loose and easy with affable humor and quiet confidence, and it all belies years, decades of consistently held tension, digging his fingers into everything that's ever happened to him and never
letting
go.
A choked off, pathetic noise rises from the back of his throat when he tries once more to say something. He snaps his mouth shut to strangle it, grits his teeth, wills himself to breathe, think, speak, anything–
He will return to his true reality for a future that Akira has already lived. His ideal reality will be rejected. He will fight for it until there is nothing left of him. His world will crumble, and he won't be allowed to slip away with it. Akira will save him. Again, always, forever, in every reality, Akira will not let him die. Akira will deliver Maruki toward that promise of many tomorrows in a reality that he doesn't want to live in, hasn't wanted to live in since the cold of a February afternoon sank deep into his bones with each gunshot ringing through a rural home.
Maruki blinks.
When did tears pool enough in his eyes to spill over? They run hot tracks down his cheeks, and he can't remember the last time he allowed himself to cry. Is he even allowing himself now, or is it simply happening to him?
Heartbeat stuttering against his ribcage. He flexes his hands against the mug, feels Akira's fingers tight around them.
Another attempt at drawing breath. It shudders horribly, like a gasp, like a death rattle.
He looks at Akira, helpless, broken, furious, miserable, wretchedly mortified for all of it. Grief, like an anchor chained to his soul. He can't move. Hasn't been able to move in years, decades. One yesterday.
His head falls forward then, hair flopping down gracelessly as a bit of dampness splatters against the counter. ]
Sorry.
[ Small, soft, wavering. He tries to clear his throat, only succeeds in exhaling another awful noise he doesn't recognize. ]
I'm sorry. I'll be fine in a minute.
[ A lie so poor that for once, even Maruki doesn't believe it himself.
He shakes his head – another drop hits the tiled surface he can barely see through rapidly blurring vision.
The only concession he can allow himself, in this moment: Both of his thumbs unclasp from around the mug, wrench free to grip over Akira's fingers instead. Holding him there as Akira has held him. Nothing else comes. ]
rolls out covered in tears and blood, oh he was upon me alright
[Maruki's hands are warm, searing and soothing all at once.]
You're not. [He shakes his head, voice small and soft.] You're not, but you will be. It's going to be okay.
[In any other scenario, they would be words he wouldn't say unless he had full confidence he couldn't deliver that promise. Here, where he does not even have the power to control who comes and who goes, it's something he would take more care in saying so it doesn't become something shallow.
But he's seen Maruki's future. He knows he will hurt like this again, break apart and shatter amongst the stars, and at the end of it all he will be able to smile in the little slice of peace that he carves out for himself. Maruki will be okay, because he's seen the other side of this.
And if Akira shot a god to save a world before, he'll tear down the sky of another to make sure that "future" comes to pass. Whatever the cost.]
You don't need to apologize. [His back bows and shakes with the ache of that weight.] I'm the one who should be, when...
[I'm sorry if it's my fault that you're here.
I'm sorry I made you feel this, even if I know you need it.
I'm sorry that I'm too powerless to take away this pain for you right now.
Akira shakes his head, because he can't say any of that.]
I know it's hard. I know this hurts. [His hands wiggle under Maruki's, but not to break free. His thumbs squeeze between the spaces of his fingers, hook over Maruki's hand. Holding on, though he doesn't know whose sake it's for.] Take all the time you need. Say whatever you need to say. But...
[Akira waits enough to make sure he's caught his eye and he won't look away. His eyes are bright, somehow still dry, but it's only his own aversion to crying in front of someone that keeps it that way.]
I will not let this pain be in vain, Maruki. I promise you.
[I'll fight to see that tomorrow, so I can find out if we'll meet again.]
tell me what makes you hopeful tell me what makes you hurt.......
[ Maruki does meet his gaze. He doesn't look away. He hears every word, takes them all in, lets them coil tightly around his chest as if they alone could hold him together as his heart does its best to shake apart.
Say whatever you need to say, a kindness so rarely afforded to him by anyone at all, but what is there to say, really?
Perhaps the greatest indicator of the complete, total, all-encompassing trust Maruki has in Akira lies in the fact that he says nothing at all. Trying to put words to this bottomless well of sorrow that sits deep in his soul wouldn't begin to do it justice – and Akira already knows it, as intimately as if it were his own. He doesn't need to think or talk for perhaps the first time in his life. He only needs to feel.
He only needs to let himself feel.
It lasts for–
Well. It lasts.
There's no telling how long they stay like that. Maruki, head hanging down, glasses fogged and water-blurry, nearly silent even as his shoulders jump and his breath hitches. Akira, unfaltering, unwavering, stalwart as ever, the foundation that manages to keep him propped up no matter how badly he wants to collapse in on himself. He shouldn't have to do this. He does anyway.
At some point, Maruki snakes one of his hands free just to be able to remove his glasses. The heel of his palm pressed into one eye, then the other, the sleeve of Akira's pullover dampening.
When he brings it back down, he unwinds both of their grips from around the mug, tangles their hands together instead. It's not a case of one holding the other; it's a jumbled mass, a physical microcosm of the bond that exists between them, clumsy and clinging and intertwined so tightly that it's become Gordian.
I don't know what I've done to deserve a friend like you, Kurusu.
[ Strained and tight, but not weak. There's a conviction in his tone despite everything.
He picks his head up finally. Tips his chin up toward the ceiling and blinks a few times, forceful, as a breathless noise that might one day evolve into a laugh escapes. ]
Ah, I'm really going to owe you for life, huh...
[ And when he tilts his face back down to meet Akira's gaze again, there's a smile there. Soft, subdued, but genuine. ]
It doesn't matter to me if we return to separate realities, or whether or not we retain our memories of this place after we leave. I believe that there are some things that persist throughout someone's consciousness. Even if I don't remember this, I'll never truly forget it either.
[ Even if the specifics of this night leave him, the feeling never will. All the pain inherent in it, and all the care, too.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swear to my bones.mp3 - WOE, CRYRUKI BE UPON YE
Being gutted like a fish in a dark alley not but a few hours ago hurt less than this.
It isn't like their confrontation in Leblanc at all. Maruki can't deflect, obfuscate, turn the tides of the conversation with his clever manipulations, pick up a calling card, wriggle free. He can't do anything at all, trapped by Akira's hands pressed over his own, honest and empathetic gaze locked on inexorably.
His mouth opens to form a rebuttal.
Nothing comes.
He can't breathe.
Letting go circles through his mind, impossible and anathema, a concept his body rejects like poison. He's never let go. He tells others they have the right to give up on impossible dreams or hurtful circumstances, start over to find their true happiness – and he has never. Will never. Can't ever. He found a niche area of study to obsess over and never let go. He found the one person to ever love him in spite of his many shortcomings and never let go. He found a purpose, a mission, an ideal and never let go. Maruki is so practiced at seeming relaxed, loose and easy with affable humor and quiet confidence, and it all belies years, decades of consistently held tension, digging his fingers into everything that's ever happened to him and never
go.
A choked off, pathetic noise rises from the back of his throat when he tries once more to say something. He snaps his mouth shut to strangle it, grits his teeth, wills himself to breathe, think, speak, anything–
He will return to his true reality for a future that Akira has already lived. His ideal reality will be rejected. He will fight for it until there is nothing left of him. His world will crumble, and he won't be allowed to slip away with it. Akira will save him. Again, always, forever, in every reality, Akira will not let him die. Akira will deliver Maruki toward that promise of many tomorrows in a reality that he doesn't want to live in, hasn't wanted to live in since the cold of a February afternoon sank deep into his bones with each gunshot ringing through a rural home.
Maruki blinks.
When did tears pool enough in his eyes to spill over? They run hot tracks down his cheeks, and he can't remember the last time he allowed himself to cry. Is he even allowing himself now, or is it simply happening to him?
Heartbeat stuttering against his ribcage. He flexes his hands against the mug, feels Akira's fingers tight around them.
Another attempt at drawing breath. It shudders horribly, like a gasp, like a death rattle.
He looks at Akira, helpless, broken, furious, miserable, wretchedly mortified for all of it. Grief, like an anchor chained to his soul. He can't move. Hasn't been able to move in years, decades. One yesterday.
His head falls forward then, hair flopping down gracelessly as a bit of dampness splatters against the counter. ]
Sorry.
[ Small, soft, wavering. He tries to clear his throat, only succeeds in exhaling another awful noise he doesn't recognize. ]
I'm sorry. I'll be fine in a minute.
[ A lie so poor that for once, even Maruki doesn't believe it himself.
He shakes his head – another drop hits the tiled surface he can barely see through rapidly blurring vision.
The only concession he can allow himself, in this moment: Both of his thumbs unclasp from around the mug, wrench free to grip over Akira's fingers instead. Holding him there as Akira has held him. Nothing else comes. ]
rolls out covered in tears and blood, oh he was upon me alright
You're not. [He shakes his head, voice small and soft.] You're not, but you will be. It's going to be okay.
[In any other scenario, they would be words he wouldn't say unless he had full confidence he couldn't deliver that promise. Here, where he does not even have the power to control who comes and who goes, it's something he would take more care in saying so it doesn't become something shallow.
But he's seen Maruki's future. He knows he will hurt like this again, break apart and shatter amongst the stars, and at the end of it all he will be able to smile in the little slice of peace that he carves out for himself. Maruki will be okay, because he's seen the other side of this.
And if Akira shot a god to save a world before, he'll tear down the sky of another to make sure that "future" comes to pass. Whatever the cost.]
You don't need to apologize. [His back bows and shakes with the ache of that weight.] I'm the one who should be, when...
[I'm sorry if it's my fault that you're here.
I'm sorry I made you feel this, even if I know you need it.
I'm sorry that I'm too powerless to take away this pain for you right now.
Akira shakes his head, because he can't say any of that.]
I know it's hard. I know this hurts. [His hands wiggle under Maruki's, but not to break free. His thumbs squeeze between the spaces of his fingers, hook over Maruki's hand. Holding on, though he doesn't know whose sake it's for.] Take all the time you need. Say whatever you need to say. But...
[Akira waits enough to make sure he's caught his eye and he won't look away. His eyes are bright, somehow still dry, but it's only his own aversion to crying in front of someone that keeps it that way.]
I will not let this pain be in vain, Maruki. I promise you.
[I'll fight to see that tomorrow, so I can find out if we'll meet again.]
tell me what makes you hopeful tell me what makes you hurt.......
Say whatever you need to say, a kindness so rarely afforded to him by anyone at all, but what is there to say, really?
Perhaps the greatest indicator of the complete, total, all-encompassing trust Maruki has in Akira lies in the fact that he says nothing at all. Trying to put words to this bottomless well of sorrow that sits deep in his soul wouldn't begin to do it justice – and Akira already knows it, as intimately as if it were his own. He doesn't need to think or talk for perhaps the first time in his life. He only needs to feel.
He only needs to let himself feel.
It lasts for–
Well. It lasts.
There's no telling how long they stay like that. Maruki, head hanging down, glasses fogged and water-blurry, nearly silent even as his shoulders jump and his breath hitches. Akira, unfaltering, unwavering, stalwart as ever, the foundation that manages to keep him propped up no matter how badly he wants to collapse in on himself. He shouldn't have to do this. He does anyway.
At some point, Maruki snakes one of his hands free just to be able to remove his glasses. The heel of his palm pressed into one eye, then the other, the sleeve of Akira's pullover dampening.
When he brings it back down, he unwinds both of their grips from around the mug, tangles their hands together instead. It's not a case of one holding the other; it's a jumbled mass, a physical microcosm of the bond that exists between them, clumsy and clinging and intertwined so tightly that it's become Gordian.
Maruki won't be the first to let go. ]
I don't know what I've done to deserve a friend like you, Kurusu.
[ Strained and tight, but not weak. There's a conviction in his tone despite everything.
He picks his head up finally. Tips his chin up toward the ceiling and blinks a few times, forceful, as a breathless noise that might one day evolve into a laugh escapes. ]
Ah, I'm really going to owe you for life, huh...
[ And when he tilts his face back down to meet Akira's gaze again, there's a smile there. Soft, subdued, but genuine. ]
It doesn't matter to me if we return to separate realities, or whether or not we retain our memories of this place after we leave. I believe that there are some things that persist throughout someone's consciousness. Even if I don't remember this, I'll never truly forget it either.
[ Even if the specifics of this night leave him, the feeling never will. All the pain inherent in it, and all the care, too.
His hands squeeze tightly. ]
Thank you. So much.