Battle Royale:
An experiment conducted towards students nationwide. The students chosen for the experiment are isolated in an island for a designated period of time, and cannot leave until only one remains. All participants must wear a collar on their necks and this collar may be exploded according to the organizer's wishes. Each night there will be a designated forbidden place, to make the participants move about. If a participant is in a forbidden place for the night, his/her collar will explode.
elysium, that forbidden fruit
"So," Atobe says. Ryoma only looks at him dully.
This is the seventh day. By the seventh day, God had finished the work he had been doing; by the seventh day, Ryoma's fingernails were already dyed a dull red and his teammates were no more. He was alone in the island that God must have once created; his walkie-talkie was useless and cracked, a faint ripping sound coming from the speaker. He still holds onto it; with his dirt-encrusted hands, he grips at it as if it is a lifeline. He was alone; until he saw that the game was not over, not quite yet.
(Game end, Echizen. Fuji's last voice echoes in his ears, long after he is dead, Everyone's gone. Goodbye. He had heard Fuji take his last breath. He did not scream, for fear that there were others nearby. Besides him, Momoshiro's corpse was already cooling, his blood drying into a thick crust. He blinked; he was too thirsty to cry.)
Atobe had a pistol. Ryoma observes that with a flicker of his eyes and looks up again. Atobe does not move, and only chuckles when Ryoma grips his knife tighter and takes a step forward.
"Brat, I don't think you're stupid enough to think that I won't be faster than you," Atobe says. His voice is cracked too, but his face is clean; Ryoma still feels the blood cracks when he rubs his face. He controls his breathing.
"You killed Fuji-senpai," he tries to say.
Atobe smiles at that, but he does not raise his gun. Not yet, Ryoma thinks. "Are we going to do this?" he asks. "And you killed Mukahi. And Oshitari. Quite a lot of my team members, I should add." The smile grows exaggerated. It was revolting that Atobe still had a sense of humor. "You won't get far with that knife."
"I—we—" Ryoma says and coughs. He doubles over; Atobe takes a step forward, but Ryoma raises his knife and points it at Atobe.
"I will kill you," Ryoma says between coughs. "Fuck." He tumbles down and supports himself by his knees.
"You sound very intimidating." Atobe sounds bored. Finally, Ryoma hears the sound of footsteps. They come closer and closer, until Ryoma sees Atobe's feet from the corner of his eyes. He hears that familiar sound; the cocking of the gun, the unclipping of the safety pin.
He closes his eyes. Game end, Fuji-senpai. Goodbye.
"We played tennis together too," he says. He is conscious that he is breathing. All he has now is blackness. Through closed eyes he whispers his words, and the darkness around them is so still and quiet that Ryoma knows it is, indeed, the end.
The first day, he had crouched with Momoshiro and Kikumaru, hidden in the wild brushes as shots rang in the air. People around them were all still angry enough to shout; the smell of gunpowder and ashes filtered into his nose as they crawled under ground. They had not killed anyone, and by nightfall, Eiji's collar had exploded. Ryoma had vomited at the sight of Kimumaru's bloodied face.
But that was before he found a pistol under a dead corpse; he snatched it out of a calloused hand, and thought, tennis player. He wondered if they had played a match once together. Later, those things did not matter anymore, as the bullets went out, then the guns malfunctioned, and later, he only had his blunt knife to defend him.
"Did we?" Atobe's voice sounds so far now. "Maybe. Those things aren't very important anymore, you know."
Ryoma swallows. His hand is shaking. "You killed Tezuka buchou," he whispers. He feels something cool press his forehead and he smells metallic rust. He continues on, "I saw you. You killed him and Sanada too."
Atobe does not say anything. Ryoma opens his eyes.
Atobe is staring down at him with an unreadable expression. He has the gun aimed at Ryoma, the barrel brushing against his skin as Ryoma stares at the older boy's blank face, his hand holding a familiar gun. He thinks he should feel angry. He cannot.
"That's my gun," he says quietly. He leans closer towards the gun and feels Atobe's hand flinch a little.
Atobe pulls the trigger.
Nothing happens.
"Well," Atobe says with a self-deprecating smile, "That's that, then." He still does not lower the gun, and Ryoma can smell the remnants of the failed shotgun, the faint smoke of powder.
"You knew it was empty." Ryoma says, and cannot help it; he snorts a little. "Still a performer after all, monkey king."
Atobe crouches down, until they are at eye level of each other. His eyes are very blue, Ryoma notes. Ryoma can hear the smile in Atobe's words. "Your sense of humor is very vile, Echizen."
And now—the gun is set down on the ground. Ryoma does not take his eyes off Atobe's face as Atobe grapples his hand over to where Ryoma's hand is clutching his knife. Ryoma forgets to breathe as Atobe overlaps his hand over the knife; he holds Ryoma's hand with the knife, and smoothly takes it against his neck.
Atobe's eyes glint at him as he smirks, even with a knife poised at him. Ryoma's hand begins to shake, but Atobe's grip is firmer than his.
"You should have killed me," Ryoma says fiercely, "Back when you killed buchou. You should have killed me too, you fucker."
"But I didn't." Atobe talks to him as if this was all beneath him, as if this very act was tedious. It is now Atobe who closes his eyes slowly and steadies Ryoma's hand with the knife. Atobe's neck is so very pale still. "And now you can kill me now. Isn't that grand." Atobe pulls the knife closer to his pulse. Ryoma can see the small beat. "Come on, then. You were saying you wanted to kill me. Let's get it over with so you can go home."
Ryoma narrows his eyes and tries to free his hand, but Atobe does not let him. "That—that's not how it works," he tries to shout, but now Atobe blinks at him slowly. He finally shows his raw tiredness to him.
"This won't end until only one is left alive." Atobe addresses him as if he were a simpleton. "This is how it's going to end. This is how it works." Atobe meets his eyes. "Of course I know we played tennis together, brat. Don't be a sentimental idiot. It's why I'm letting you live."
But Tezuka, Ryoma wants to say, but Atobe must have read something in his eyes, because he shakes his head slightly and bares his teeth.
"Now," he whispers. He stretches his neck and waits.
Ryoma plunges.
He had killed enough to ensure a clean death. Atobe dies with his eyes open.
He thinks he knows the point of this experiment now; amidst that darkness and the announcement blaring his name, he holds Atobe's cold body and stares down at the boy who allowed him to live. A human soul was so easy to break and dismantle without a trace. Death had taught him this.
But, he thinks blindly, seeing the blood harden on Atobe's shoulder, weren't we too young for this, weren't we too young to know about the fragility of our own existence. He folds himself in half and buries his head against Atobe's shoulder. He waits for rescue or death.
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A/N: Huh, okay. I know I said I wasn't writing any more POT but this was…a drabble? (That I also wanted to do a multi-chapter on, but then I would go on killing everyone…so…..) I also wanted to do a version of this on Haikyuu with my pairings (headdesk), but I'm still more comfortable with my POT characterizations, urrghhhh. If anyone's into the Haikyuu fandom, let me know :P