Author's Note: I wrote this - whatever it is - at two in the morning so please forgive me if it makes no sense. I think it turned KarmaGisa-ish even though it wasn't my intention.
Takes place the night the moon was destroyed.
"THREE THINGS CAN'T
BE LONG HIDDEN
THE SUN, THE MOON,
AND THE TRUTH"
The curtains are open.
He stares intently out the window, head tilted upwards, carefully avoiding staring at the sea roofs. The stars glitter and seem dance across the sky like stage lights on dark velevet curtains.
His lips quirk into a half-smile.
The stars we see are dead – he read that somewhere. He laughs softly to himself at the thought of it. It's not the whole truth.
That's not the point, though. The stars are only a spectacle to him; small things to admire and study, and only because they frame the bigger picture.
The moon is whole.
He's recently developed a slightly unhealthy obsession with the night sky. The clouds ripple across it's surface. He knows he should stop – with this, and with his knack for returning home with bruised knuckles, and with his urge to fight and beat others senseless – but he doesn't. Shouldn'ts don't stop him.
He finds himself thinking too much when he stares at the moon. It's the only time of day that he realizes how fucking scary it is to think.
Maybe he's a masochist, but he likes it anyway.
He stares and stares until he starts to see the pictures in his mind.
A boy, with light blue hair that swept to his shoulders and bright, bright blue eyes that could rival the moon.
He was sitting next to him on a bench under a lamp post. They were an arm's length apart. He hadn't realized how much time had slipped – not even that it was already night time.
"The stars are out," the boy said, softly.
He felt a weird sensation because the boy was staring. The feeling was both happy and afraid. It was a paradox, and sent his mind into a whirlwind of emotions. His head started to hurt.
The boy smiles – it's his genuine one, and he relaxes a bit. "I can see them in your eyes."
He stares out his palms in present day. It's a thing of the past now. They are a thing of the past now.
Because he's fucking terrified of the aforementioned boy and doesn't know what to do about it.
He misses him, though.
He stares at the moon again. He's going to be moving to the E-class – whatever. Like he cares. Then it hits him, a bucket of ice-cold water to the face. Something he's tried to push away, a fact that staring at the moon seemed to bring back.
We'll meet again soon.
He wonders why the E-class is supposed to be the End class. It's not, at least, he doesn't think so. A class or a group will never, ever define you as an individual. It will influence you, yes, but in the end, even that is up to you. No matter what the circumstance, let yourself be the one pulling the strings.
His opinions mean nothing to his peers, – to his teachers, damn them – though.
He's messed up in the head, anyway.
(That's what they say. He won't admit it to himself, but it hurts somewhere. Not his pride or his heart, but somewhere.)
He turns his hands. His knuckles are bruised. He can't seem to remember why, but he wants to. He glares at the purple tinges, wondering.
He must've punched the wall again.
He looks up at the moon. His mind shifts.
"You're blatant disregard for your safety is terrifying," the blue-haired boy whispered, concern etched on his face and painted in his pretty blue eyes.
The boy reached to touch his hand, gently, but he felt a sharp stab of pain all the same, like he had knives for fingers. I'm turning as insane as people claim me to be aren't-
The boy looked hurt when he yanked his hands back immediately, gracelessly. He just wants to get away. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Must've punched the wall too hard, it hurts quite a lot even with simple touches, my bad…"
He tried to smile. He knew he failed.
When they drifted apart, he couldn't help but know that it was his fault.
Whatever. He doesn't care.
(At least, that's what he keeps telling himself, anyway. Even the stars seem to mock him, even the trees seem to know it's a lie.)
He snaps out of his trance – honestly, since when did he care about him so much? why did he care about him so much? – when he feels something.
He thinks it's dread.
It's the kind of feeling he gets every now and then when he's about to get roped into a fight – it meant: use your wit, get out of this situation, you're going to lose.
He stares at the moon for answers, and thinks he spotted a strange speck of yellow, but maybe he is messed up in the head after all.
Then, for some reason, his brain clicks to auto-pilot and he grips the edge of his desk, the wood nearly splintering. He continues to stare.
Something is going to happen.
A memory flashes. He's not surprised.
"I think," the blue-haired boy says, "that I like the moon as a crescent best."
He smiled slightly and hummed. "That so."
He nodded enthusiastically, blue eyes glittering with excitement. Adorable. "I think it's not too bright and not too dark. You can see the stars easier, don't you think?"
The boy took his wrist, and he's surprised that, for once, he feels no pain. It's almost comfortable. He's not scared. It's bliss. Ignorance, that is.
He guided his hand to point at a constellation. "See that? That's Orion."
He raises his head in present day, mercury eyes flashing, partly shrouded by red hair. He spots the constellation. He touches his wrist gently, stroking it with his thumb. Why did I ever think to leave hi-
The moon explodes.
He watches in utter shock and disbelief as it happens. What the fuck-
It's not possible – how how how – for that to just happen. What's going on? The questions spin in his head until he can't breathe, until he realizes that no, it's not an illusion and-
He grabs his phone and flicks through his contacts.
"Karma-kun!" yells a familiar voice at the other end.
"Nagisa-kun!" he shouts at the exact same time.
They're quiet for a beat, and Nagisa – the blue-haired boy – smiles. It's soft and gentle. He doesn't know how he can tell from the phone call. He can't see his face, but he knows. He can feel it. It's weird, but so is he.
He smiles back.
The call ends.
He drops his phone and draws the curtains shut and lies down in bed, his hands covering his eyes. He peeks in between the tiny gaps in his fingers (where Nagisa's hands used to fit perfectly) to watch the odd patterns the stars and moon were casting on his bedroom walls and ceiling.
The momentary panic fades.
He calculates about seventy percent of the moon missing – that's about one-third. In fact, he doesn't need to calculate. One glance and it clicks.
The questions begin to attack him again, and his chest tightens, his eyes squeeze shut–
–he kisses any thought of sleep good-bye.