Makishima doesn't start talking until afterwards.
Slightly morbid philosophical conversations are hardly news, for them. Kogami has become accustomed to discussions about the intersection of intelligence and morality or the use of technology as a replacement for religion before he's finished his coffee in the morning and is awake enough to adequately participate. But Makishima makes excellent coffee, and always has it waiting when Kogami gets out of bed, and if his topics have been getting darker and darker, it's been slowly enough that Kogami can ignore the descent if he tries.
He's not thinking about it at all right now. He's still coming down from orgasmic bliss, the sheen of sweat across his skin cooling but not cold, just enough to leave him hazy and warm and comfortable enough lying in bed that even the addictive lure of a cigarette isn't enough to pull him upright just yet.
It's into this unthinking comfort that Makishima speaks, saying, "Do you ever think you were born in the wrong world?" with as much composure as if he were asking the time.
Kogami looks at the other sideways. Makishima is on his back, his silver-white hair spread out around him like a makeshift halo, head tipped to look out the window instead of at Kogami or up at the ceiling. The sun is slanting in at an angle, steep enough that the whole window is glowing blinding bright; Kogami can't stand to more than glance at it, for how badly it makes his eyes water.
"I haven't before now," Kogami says, careful to allow for the possibility of the idea in his mental space without crushing the concept. "Do you?"
"Yes," Makishima says without turning. He lifts his hand, like he's reaching to hold the sun in the palm of his hand, interposes his fingers between the light and his face. Kogami can see the way his skin goes pink and nearly translucent from the backlighting. "The world feels frail."
Kogami rolls over to bring his full attention to the other. Makishima's legs are pale across the top of the bed, his skin still sticky and waiting the heat of a shower to rinse clean. "Frail?"
"Yes." Makishima's hand stays up, but his head turns, his gold eyes turning towards Kogami's face. They look out-of-focus, dreamy with what Kogami would think was lingering pleasure if not for the topic of conversation. "Sometimes I think we're not meant to be lovers at all."
Kogami can feel the chill that runs down his spine like a physical touch, as if Makishima's words are forming ice out of the dry air around him. He forces a laugh but it sounds weak, a little shaky in his throat. "Are you trying to break up with me?"
"Not at all." Makishima's hand drops, his shoulders turn in one fluid motion. His fingers at Kogami's jaw are warm from the sunlight, fluttering light as feathers at the other's skin. "Our connection is inescapable." They trail down, skim over the line of Kogami's collarbone. Makishima's eyes follow the motion, draw into focus at the flutter of the other's pulse; Kogami can see his lips part unconsciously, like he's thinking about a kiss in some unconsidered back corner of his mind.
"I think you were meant to kill me," Makishima says. Kogami's breathing stalls, the frozen shock that runs through him too much to allow for even that instinctive rhythm, but Makishima goes on speaking like he hadn't reacted at all, trailing delicate fingertips across Kogami's chest as he goes on. "Perhaps we should have been enemies instead of lovers, two sides of a blood feud running too deep to remedy without the absolution of death." His eyelashes flutter, his throat works on a swallow. "Or I a criminal, a mastermind, you a force for violent justice and a revenge that only results in your corruption."
"Stop," Kogami says, but Makishima doesn't. His hand is trailing lower, palm pressing against Kogami's stomach while his words start to slur into the shape of poetry, the lilting tone he sometimes takes when he's reciting lines.
"Imagine, it'd be like a dance," and he's purring, now, pleasure audible on every word. "Perfectly matched, you and I, caught in an inexorable cycle that can only end with my blood on your hands to free you from the morality stifling your true self."
"Jesus," Kogami says, lifts a hand to press against Makishima's mouth. Gold eyes blink up into focus on his face, but there's no sign of apology in them. "Stop talking." His heart is pounding, horror cold in his veins and shivering under his skin, but Makishima's expression is soft and warm and that is far more chilling than any of his own personal reaction.
"Don't say things like that," he says, the words steady with sincerity on his tongue. "Don't."
Makishima blinks, nods. After a moment Kogami draws his hand back and the other licks his lips, takes a breath, but doesn't speak again. He doesn't resist, either, when Kogami pulls him in closer, presses the soft of Makishima's hair against his shoulder so he doesn't have to see the look in the other's eyes, the faraway glaze like he's looking right through the world at some other reality, somewhere he could be more real and less blown-glass fragile. It's uncanny, to feel like Kogami's Makishima might melt away one day, like he is fading away, drifting apart and away into some other state of existence where Kogami can't follow, and at least if he can't see that expression in the other's eyes he can pretend to ignore it for a little while. It never works completely - he can't truly forget, not with the bird-thin shape of Makishima's shoulders under his arms or the fragile heat of the other's breathing at his skin - but he can fool himself a little, at least.
He wishes, sometimes, that he were better at looking away from the truth.