AN: Just... "Whiskey Lullaby" happened, and then this happened. Sorry. Also oops I switched fandoms again.
A part of him was still waiting to wake up, for someone to laugh and tell him it was all just a horrible nightmare, that everything is okay. But he knows this is no dream. It's far worse than any nightmare he could have ever conjured up.
He remembers the fight, though not what it was about. He remembers leaving. He drove for hours, planning what to do next, what to say, where to go. He went back for his things, to say goodbye. But he never got the chance.
He remembers vividly what he walked into - the dark red painting the walls, the carpet, trailing into the bedroom. He remembers puddles that were starting to dry, and the overwhelming stench of it. He remembers the still body by the bed, remembers how he was still warm in his arms when he got there (but he was no longer breathing).
He remembers the ambulance, the attempts to revive him. He remembers the hospital waiting room, cold and sterile. He remembers the large youkai coming after him immediately, and the ensuing fight between brothers. He broke down then, laughing and laughing until he might have even been sobbing. He's not really sure, now. But they didn't fight after that.
He remembers the moment the nurse delivered the news. "I'm sorry, sir. He didn't make it." And suddenly the world crashed around him. He didn't cry then. But some of the others did. He was too numb - he felt like he'd died with the youkai they couldn't save.
He remembers the kids coming in - someone picked them up before they could see the hell he'd seen. They cried on him then. He might have cried, too - silent tears that rolled down his cheeks beyond his control - but he doesn't remember now.
He hasn't seen any of them since. Only Hakkai, once, when he came to bring him a bag he'd packed from the apartment. Before he'd left they'd half-heartedly tried to get him to stay with them, but he'd refused, and Hakkai hadn't pushed. The look in his eyes had been something akin to pity, but there was understanding in there, too - if anyone knew, it was Hakkai.
He wasn't sure where he was now, having been on autopilot for some time. A run-down motel somewhere, anywhere but the scene he'd walked into. It might have been weeks, or even only a couple days. Time had lost all meaning to him.
The only thing he'd been aware of since leaving the hospital was the note that was already well-worn, despite being so new. He'd traced the words endlessly, wishing he could unsee, wishing he could take back everything, and erase them entirely. 'I tried.'
Though sloppy, and short, the words told him all he needed to know. They were etched into his very soul, burned into his memory for a lifetime, though still he stared at them, wishing the world for them to change.
No matter how time passed, no matter what details started to fade, he couldn't forget - he was to blame. Someone had once told him cigarettes were like life, that his blackened lungs were his karma. But this shriveled more than just his lungs. It spread to his heart, his limbs, his whole body was blackened, and no amount of good karma could redeem it.
The life of his partner was heavy, and he couldn't carry it on his own. The price… too steep. And he had brought it on himself. There was no coming back from this. No way to ease the weight that was already crushing him. Had already crushed him.
He suspected his friends already knew. Sitting on top the pile of clothes in the bag had been a familiar silver glint. A bare remnant of willpower had kept him this long, let him etch the reality of what he'd done, what he was responsible for, into his very soul.
He was tired. And he was hurt. It was too much, too much to carry, too much to know. Kougaiji had killed himself. Had let himself bleed out on their floor, leaving him with the words - I tried.
Another trace of the words, and the last twigs holding him up snapped. He moved for the first time in days, scrawling two words on the notepad for those who would find him. Even at the end he couldn't tell them, couldn't see past the pain beating him down. But it wouldn't matter anymore. Not to him.
He left the notepad on the bedside table, almost smiling at the bitter familiarity of it. He kept the last words he'd gotten in his left hand. The tears finally finallystarted to fall as he put the gun to his head, a whispered apology on his lips, unheard by any whom it was meant for.
A deep breath, and he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
All that he left were the words - 'I failed.'