May 9th, 2018
"Um."
Kuroo Tetsurou dropped his water bottle in the hallway, ogling the metaphorical excavation site that his dorm had become. A small team of forensics and police officers had overturned the entire place, none of them acknowledging his presence at the doorway.
At least, until, the leader—a sharp-eyed man with frown lines on his forehead—turned his way. "You're Musashi's son."
"That's my dad's name, yes," Kuroo confirmed before picking the bottle up and tugging his earphones out. "And you're...?"
"Prosecutor Karasuda." Karasuda flashed the badge on his lapel.
"Right. And do you have a warrant?"
Annoyance gleamed in his flinty gaze. "Yes, we do, actually. Would you like to come take a look?"
"No, I'm good. Who signed off on it?"
"Justice Terano Maki." Karasuda raised a brow at him. "The university is already aware of our presence. Your roommate, Kunimi-san, is downstairs with one of my subordinates, answering questions."
Kuroo, who had been half-expecting Kunimi to still be asleep on the mattress despite the noise, nodded slowly. "Right... And do you need me to answer some questions, too?"
"Tch. You have the arrogance of your father. If it would not trouble you, I'd like you to stay out here. Someone will come see you soon."
Who shat in his cereal? God. Kuroo made a great show of contemplating his options just to further piss him off. "What if I, like, leave?" He raised his hands in mock-surrender when Karasuda glared hard enough to set him on fire. "Kidding, kidding. I'll be a good boy."
Witnessing law enforcement officers scouring through his shared room was not what Kuroo imagined his morning would be like. He supposed he should have been getting used to having unusual starts to his day by now. The next time he took an early morning jog, he would expect a mariachi band upon his return.
They didn't get much from him. It wasn't like Kuroo knew much, anyway—he was virtually a stranger to his roommates, and he could not say much of Goshiki's character or any unusual behavior he may have exhibited in the days leading up to the hostage situation. In the end, Prosecutor Karasuda and his team seized most of Goshiki's belongings as well as something underneath Kindaichi's bed. Case files, they seemed to be. For whatever reason—courtesy, perhaps—they did their best to restore the room back to its original state. By the time they were finished, almost all traces of Goshiki been cleared, like he had never even lived here in the first place.
Watching the pale sunlight hit the floor from the window next to his and Kindaichi's bunk bed just served to remind him how... desolate this place had become. Which, logically, was silly. It was just a rented dorm. Countless others had lived here before them.
Still, though, it was like seeing the downfall of an empire, or the end of a peaceful era.
Karasuda left him with a business card before disappearing down the hall and into the elevator. "In case you want to call," he said genially.
Kuroo huffed, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Prosecutor Karasuda... He'd heard of him before. His tactics were rather callous, but at least he could be counted on in pursuing a conviction like a starving dog would a slab of meat.
"A product of his time," Kuroo's father, Musashi, had best described him as.
From what little Kuroo had seen of the man, it didn't seem to be any exaggeration. He's like the personification of sour milk. Blech. Kuroo tossed the card on the kitchen counter. He was boiling water on the stove for some poached eggs when he realized something. Oh. Am I gonna be eating alone today? That's no fun. Eating alone was just too sad. Eating alone knowing what had happened to his roommates was even sadder, and he didn't want to dwell on it. The May Festival was in ten days, at least. Maybe that would lift the mood. For now, though, he just wanted someone to talk to.
So he called Kenma, his best friend since childhood. "Yo. Wanna come over?"
"Can't," Kenma replied. "I have an online meeting with some TV9 streamers today. We're discussing next week's charity stream."
Kuroo watched the water boil. "Oh, come on. Can't you just ditch?"
"I know what I do may not constitute as a real job in the eyes of society, but I'm not exactly going to be socializing with some clout-chasing internet shitheads for the sheer fun of it."
"TV9 is the worst," said Kuroo, just to appease him. "YooTube is superior."
"And don't you forget it. Oh, Min-T just joined the Tiscord call. Hey, Min. Kuro, I'm gonna hang up now. Hm? Oh, Min, not you, you're all good. What? No, he is not single, and no, his voice is not hot."
"Min-T thinks I'm hot?"
"Goodbye, Kuro."
Kuroo laughed as he hung up, putting his phone back into the back pocket of his sweatpants. Never change, Kenma.
He was finishing up his hearty breakfast of Eggs Benedict when the door opened, and he looked up to see Kunimi come in. The younger man looked like he had just been through hell, and Kuroo couldn't blame him. He pulled out a stool at the kitchen counter for Kunimi, patting it invitingly, but the latter pointedly ignored it in favor of diving back into bed.
Sighing, Kuroo placed his plate in the sink and squatted next to Kunimi's mattress. "I dunno how to break it to you, but you're gonna have to eat sooner or later."
Kunimi pulled his blanket over his head like a petulant child.
Poor guy. His best friend got shot on national television.
And wasn't that the truth? A news helicopter had captured the exact moment Goshiki had fired at Shō, only for his aim to be skewed when Sakusa tackled him against the railing. The bullet trajectory had led to a new target, instead—one Kindaichi Yuutarou, whose only crime had been standing at the wrong place at the wrong time. The video had gone viral on the internet in the hours following, and now #HeroManKindaichi was gaining a frightening amount of traction on Tweeter. That and #guygetsnoscoped, but the former tweet had a much larger discussion circle attached to it.
Kuroo sat cross-legged on the floor, wracking his brain on how to get Kunimi up to at least eat and drink some water.
Kunimi lifted his head to blink wearily at him. "I already ate," he rasped.
"You did?"
"Cup ramen at the downstairs convenience store."
At least the guy asking questions bought him food. Food that hardly counted as real food, but Kuroo let it slide this time. "I'll get you a glass of water, then," he offered, starting to stand.
Kunimi grunted.
When Kuroo returned with a cup of water, Kunimi seemed to have fallen asleep. Either that or he was feigning sleep. Kuroo couldn't really tell with him—he was too good an actor. Not wanting to wake him, he left the water on the bedside table before standing back and observing Kunimi rest with his hands on his hips.
His phone rang.
He picked up, grinning. "Hey, honey. Really? Right now? It's literally nine in the morning." Kuroo clicked his tongue. "I would've expected better from Tsukki. What? Lev spiked his drink? Goddammit. Yep. Yep. I'll be there in a bit."
After he hung up, he spread his arms out and hollered at the ceiling, "Am I destined to be everyone's parent today?!"
May 13th, 2018
Sakusa Kiyoomi had a morning routine that he followed down to the last second. His body clock never failed him. He woke up at precisely six-thirty every morning—including weekends—brushed his teeth immediately after, took a shower immediately after that, and—
He stopped at the doorway to the bathroom. "What are you doing?"
Atsumu, who had been fogging up the mirror with his breath to draw random things, turned. "Mornin', Omi-kun. Just exercisin' a little artistic creativism."
"C-creativism?" That was not a word. Creativism was not a fucking word.
"Mmhm." Atsumu squeezed too much toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "Oh, whoops. Eh." He stuck it in his mouth and began to brush languidly, eyes at half-mast.
Sakusa's fist clenched by his side. "That cost me eight-hundred yen."
Atsumu cocked a brow, removing the toothbrush from his mouth and seemingly unbothered by the slick, foamy beard that had formed on his chin. "Yikes. No wonder you're so crabby. Next time, just get the one-fifty yen tube."
He pushed down his rising anger. Remember. He is a guest. More importantly, he's also a witness. This isn't forever. This isn't forever. You can do this. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Great."
"If I may ask, though, why are you here? There's another bathroom closer to your room."
"Yeah," said Atsumu, spitting into the sink. Gods. He turned on the tap, water splashing everywhere as he washed his mouth. "But I like this one better."
"This one's mine."
"This whole house is yours."
Sakusa narrowed his eyes. "Miya. Please go back to where you came from."
"Kobe?"
"No! To your own bathroom!" That mirror would be the first thing to be disinfected. The sink would be next, then the toilet if Atsumu had gotten to it already. Sakusa sighed, rubbing his eye. It was way too early in the morning for this. "Please," he tacked on, woodenly. "I'd appreciate it greatly."
"Hmm..." Atsumu dried off his cheeks and chin with one of Sakusa's face towels. He'd have to disinfect that, too. His lips quirked up, almost viciously. "Say, Omi-kun, you're a bit out there, ain'tcha?"
"Get out of my bathroom," Sakusa deadpanned.
"Alright, alright." Atsumu gathered up his toiletries, presumably to deliver them back to his bathroom. "Since I feel bad, want me to make breakfast for ya?"
He sounded genuine enough, but there was no way Sakusa was going to let him into his kitchen. "Don't. I'll do it."
"No, really, I insist."
"I also insist," Sakusa said. "That I make breakfast."
Thoughtfully, Atsumu frowned. Then he suggested, "How 'bout we both do it, then?"
"What?"
"Breakfast."
"You're my guest. I can't impose on you like this—"
"Don't be so uptight," Atsumu said, breezily. "Come on, Omi-kun, it'll be faster if we work together."
Reluctantly, Sakusa relented. There was truth in his words—it would be more efficient and less time-consuming if they were to combine their skills in the kitchen. His main grievance, however, was the prospect of Atsumu dirtying his kitchen like he had with the bathroom. I'm going to need to disinfect the whole house after he leaves, he thought rather sourly, standing aside to let Atsumu through the door.
Once he had freshened up and changed into one of his favorite turtleneck sweaters and some comfortable trousers, they met each other in the kitchen. Atsumu, who was still wearing the shirt and shorts he had worn to bed last night, had already started, using chopsticks to poke a fried egg around in a pan.
"What do you feel like?" Sakusa asked, keeping a respectable distance from the other man. Atsumu had not showered in the morning. At least he had brushed his teeth and washed his face, though. "Rice or noodles?"
Atsumu grinned boyishly. "Ah... Got any fish, instead? I'm craving sashimi."
"I don't eat raw foods."
"It's not raw. Well, I mean, it is, but it won't kill ya."
Sakusa's brow crumpled. "I refuse."
The blond sighed. "Thought ya might say that. Noodles, then."
As Sakusa stir-fried some noodles with soy sauce and onions in a small wok, his thoughts drifted to everywhere and nowhere. There was something mind-numbing about the state of domesticity he had currently found himself in, his body working on autopilot as he cooked. On the other side of the kitchen, Atsumu was using the cutting board to chop up some fresh vegetables.
"Nice place ya got," Atsumu said, probably for the sake of conversation.
"Hm?" Sakusa's mind was still fuzzed. "Oh, yes."
"Way too big for one person, though. Doesn't it get lonely?"
"Sometimes," Sakusa admitted. "But it's not usually a problem."
"Did somebody else use to live here?"
Sakusa's arm, which had been moving about in his frying, stilled. Stilled, then started again. He turned the heat down. "It's always been just me. Occasionally, my mother visits."
Thankfully, Atsumu had the sense not to inquire about his father. Perhaps it had something to do with his relationship with his own father. Sakusa didn't know which was worse—an abusive father or a dead one. Would not know unless he experienced both sides of the coin.
His father, Junji, hadn't been perfect. No, his flaws had run deep, but he had never shouted at his wife, let alone lay a hand on her.
"Ah." Atsumu stopped cutting before resuming, depositing cucumbers into a small bowl. "Do... Do ya see her often?"
"Not really. We live vastly different lives. My job doesn't normally let me take breaks. Now is just an exception."
"I haven't seen mine since I was thirteen," Atsumu told him, eyes glazed over with unhappy nostalgia. "Dunno what I'd do if I ever saw her again, though. I don't know whether to hate her or not."
Atsumu's relationship with his mother was equally as—if not more so—complicated as the one with his father. Truthfully, Sakusa didn't think he'd know how to feel if he were in Atsumu's shoes, either, so he stayed silent. The topic of parents in this house was controversial at worst, and tentatively touchy at best. He could say with a large amount of certainty, though, that Atsumu hated his father. Sakusa didn't blame him. He hated Atsumu's father, too.
There was a sort of... frailty to Atsumu, which didn't suit him at all. Sakusa didn't like how it looked on him. Atsumu was more the kind to throw everything away in a gamble and crash and burn and laugh while he did it. And, maybe, once upon a time, he'd been just like that. Yes, he'd been just like that—if Atsumu were a star, he would've finished his supernova by now turned into a neutron star.
Atsumu the neutron star. The lackluster, final product of one of the universe's greatest phenomenons.
Sakusa flipped the wok, noodles falling into a long plate he had placed on the counter earlier. He pushed it aside, set the wok into the sink, and put on the kettle. He had a few packets of instant miso soup in his pantry that would sustain them for today.
At his station, Atsumu had finished cutting up the vegetables, using the knife to scrape the last bits of carrot and cucumber off the cutting board and into their bowls.
"Maybe she'll come visit soon," Sakusa suddenly said, making Atsumu turn to him curiously. "My mother, Miya," he clarified.
"Oh, seriously? I wanna meet the lady who birthed a son like you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Atsumu shrugged. "Nothin'. Don't get me wrong—it ain't an insult. But it ain't a compliment, either. It just is."
"Hmm..." Sakusa brought his noodles and two bowls of miso soup over to the kitchen table before taking a seat. Atsumu had already laid out chopsticks and spoons. "I think she'd like you. Maybe," he added as an afterthought, before Atsumu's head could get too big.
"No surprise there," Atsumu said, sitting opposite him. "Everybody likes me."
Airily, Sakusa waved him off. "Yes, I'm sure."
They ate in relative silence, the only sound the clinking of their eating utensils and the dull, barely audible thuds of their thumbnails against their phone screens. Sakusa was checking today's horoscope—a habit he had learned from Midorima and one he hadn't been able to break ever since. He tutted in displeasure—Scorpio was third last on the luck rankings today. Out of curiosity, he checked Libra's—Atsumu's. Fourth from the top. Not great, but certainly not straight-up awful like his. Today's lucky item for Libra was a bath towel. Atsumu had already soiled one of Sakusa's expensive face towels this morning with his scent.
He was definitely going out today. He needed to buy Atsumu some toiletries that he didn't have some sort of attachment to.
It would be a good distraction, as well, before he visited Kindaichi in the hospital again.
His usual quality of sleep had taken a hit from the nightmares.
Sakusa did not dream of monsters or ghosts or shadows flickering in the dark. He dreamed of humans and weakness and the inevitable decay of justice. Because justice was a construct of mankind, and all constructs of mankind would eventually stagnate and rot or twist into something terrible and unrecognizable. Either time and translation would be its downfall, or man's inhumanity to man.
There will always be crime. Always. Justice is the notion of putting bandages over bullet holes.
But it was the only thing they had.
And he had learned that the hard way.
"Right," Sakusa started after he had finished his meal, pushing his plate aside. His belly was warm with soup. "I'm going out to run some errands today. Would you like to come along or stay here?" He didn't know which option he preferred, really—while he was eager to enjoy peace and quiet by himself, doing so would mean that Atsumu had the whole house to himself, and Sakusa wasn't sure if he was comfortable with that idea.
Not to mention, the last time he was alone, he tried to kill himself.
He would not be forgetting that memory anytime soon—the one of Atsumu sprawled on the moldy carpet of his old apartment, pills scattered across the floor. Carpet? Had the floor been carpet? Or just planks? Maybe he was forgetting after all. But he did remember one thing vividly—Atsumu. Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu—just a whisper away from the kind embrace of death.
Without waiting for answer, Sakusa swiftly made up his mind. "Go get changed. I'll start the car."
"Wha—?! Actually, y'know what, fine. I was gonna say yes anyway."
"Sure."
"Enough of the sarcasm, Omi-Omi, it's unbecomin' of ya."
Sakusa snorted. An ugly, gross snort, but he didn't care at this point. Atsumu wasn't some member of high society he had been trained from birth to impress. He was just a nobody, and that fact brought greater comfort to Sakusa than he expected.
Sometimes, it was better to be a nobody than a somebody—in the same vein, it was better to be a blissful idiot than a despairing genius. But Sakusa was not a true genius—he was just unrelenting. Neither a happy-go-lucky idiot or a genius too smart for his own good, as most people were.
Most people.
Sakusa Kiyoomi was like most people, and yet he did not feel even the slightest shred of a sense of belonging in this society.
It didn't matter, though.
Goshiki's outstretched hand.
Sakusa blinked, and it was gone.
Atsumu had already left the table to change into something more suitable for going out. Sighing through his nose, Sakusa cleaned up.
You can't run forever, a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like a blend between Midorima and Goshiki taunted.
No. No, he couldn't could he?
But I'm not running. I'm just taking a stroll in the park.
Heavens knew when he would get back home, though. The park, self-contained, was just too lovely to part from.
The university cracked down on Yang Risa a few days after the hostage situation. The girl was hauled out the campus, spitting and kicking and shrieking, and Kuroo could safely say that he felt absolutely no pity for her as he witnessed the ugly sight. Oishi Ryoka, who had her arm snaked around his, used her free hand to lower her sunglasses, an eyebrow cocked.
I'm judging you, said her countenance.
Kuroo stifled a laugh.
They were on a date today, and on the university campus of all places. Oishi, who was used to interacting in very different social circles, didn't mind. She hadn't forgotten her roots. Never would.
"I'm guessing you're off the hook, then?" she said, wryly, as Risa was handed over to the police. A few students were filming.
"The deans weren't pleased with my tweet," Kuroo replied. "Breaking confidentiality and all. But considering how it might have saved some lives that day, they let me off the hook, and even did me a favor."
"Oh?" Oishi's interest was piqued. "And what's that?"
"Letting me stay in the student dorm they put me in to make sure I didn't run off somewhere."
"What?" She frowned. "Why would you want that? I can't exactly fuck you senseless in a student dorm."
Kuroo almost choked on his iced coffee. "There's something a bit more pressing than our sex life in there!"
"Even if I let you top?"
"Yes, and his name is Kunimi Akira."
"Should I be jealous?"
"Maybe," Kuroo said, archly, before sobering up. "In all seriousness, though, I'm worried for him. So I'm gonna stay with him a bit longer. Just to keep an eye on him."
Oishi shook her head. "You're too kind for your own good." Then she reached up to pinch his cheek, making him wince. "But I like that about you."
On the moral compass, they were probably polar opposites. Kuroo was an honest, upstanding citizen, and Oishi lived a life surrounded by debauchery disguised in finery.
Kuroo leaned in to kiss her.
Kunimi was back in the morning. He didn't say it out loud, but Kindaichi was glad—Kunimi's presence was... calming.
Especially after how he had totally chickened out from listening to Kageyama's interrogation last night.
"How do you feel?" Kunimi asked, a tremor in his voice as he sat down at Kindaichi's bedside.
"It's a dull ache," said Kindaichi. "I've been given painkillers, but not morphine."
"Damn." Kunimi bit his lip. "I got news this morning."
News? Of what? Had something else happened? Maybe something to do with the Hirakawa conglomerate? He hadn't checked the news since last night, but Daizen ought to have put something out by now. Kindaichi waited, patiently, for Kunimi to continue.
"Goshiki's parents are putting together a funeral service," Kunimi said, at last, and Kindaichi's heart plummeted. "Back in Sendai."
Kindaichi swallowed. "When?" 'Are we allowed to come?' was his second, unvoiced question. And the third: 'What will he be remembered as?' Followed by: 'A criminal? Or just Goshiki?'
"Ten days from now." Kunimi wrung his hands. "I'm not sure if you'll be discharged by then."
"I might be." Kindaichi tried to sound confident. "You know, it's really not that bad. I just won't be able to use my arm for a while." His gaze drifted over to Kunimi's right shoulder and lingered there. "Um... About your shoulder—I, uh... Did it hurt?" He winced. Of course it had hurt! What was he saying?
There was the briefest flicker of amusement in Kunimi's dark eyes. "Yes, yes it did. You bit me, you fool."
Another wince. "I know."
"If Mamoru hadn't been there, we would've been dead meat. The both of us."
"I know. I... I don't know what the hell I was thinking—It was like I'd been possessed." It sounded like he was making excuses, but it was the truth. Even now, with all his memories back, his recollection of that night was not as clear as he would have liked.
"Kindaichi, it's okay. Everything's over now." Kunimi paused, then backtracked to amend, "Well, not really, but... We'll get there. There are still things to sort out, but we can do it. We'll do it together, remember?"
Kindaichi smiled wearily. "Of course."
Inwardly, his fears were starting to surface. Fears of facing Goshiki's family, of the possibility that the funeral might be open-casket, and he would see Goshiki's eyes closed and lips parted in death. Goshiki stitched back together and smelling of formaldehyde from the forensics lab.
"We were invited," Kunimi told him, confirming his second question without Kindaichi even having to ask it. "I... I'm not sure if I want to go, though. He and I weren't on the best terms. Or any terms at all, really." He looked away, as if he were ashamed of this. "Sorry."
"I thought you might say that." Kindaichi used his good hand to scratch his cheek. "Is there any way I can get you to change your mind?"
Kunimi pondered on this. "... If you go, I'll go," he said, finally. "Oh, and, um... Yahaba was invited, too."
Yahaba. God, Yahaba. His former roommate hadn't even crossed Kindaichi's mind in the past twenty-four hours, but, all of a sudden, Kindaichi missed him with a force equivalent to love. Yahaba's absence was more prominent than ever now that they had lost Goshiki, too.
"Obviously, he can't come," Kunimi went on. "I don't have any idea where he is at the moment. I've tried to get in contact with his parents, but they won't pick up the phone."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
They lapsed into silence, Kindaichi using his thumb to scratch an itch on his pointer finger.
"Did you listen to it?" Kunimi broke the silence.
"No," Kindaichi said, feebly. "But I'll do it tonight." I swear I will. "Then I can lend it to you, if you want."
"I—"
Knuckles rapping on the door, then a creak.
"Pardon the intrusion." Sakusa stepped inside, looking the same as ever. It was strange not seeing him in a suit, but Kindaichi was beginning to get used to his casual clothes. It made him look years younger, like his actual age.
Kindaichi brightened. "Sakusa!"
"Hey," Kunimi intoned, scooting his chair aside to make way for the prosecutor.
"How are you?" Sakusa asked without preamble, getting seated beside Kunimi.
"The doctor says that everything's going well," Kindaichi relayed to him, more enthusiastic than before. He wasn't afraid to admit it—he'd missed having Sakusa around, even though it hadn't been that long since they last saw each other. From the way the corner of his eyes lifted, he knew that he was smiling in equal parts relief and gratitude.
Another man—a blond—poked his head inside. "Can I come in, too?"
Miya Atsumu, realized Kindaichi. He nodded. "Yeah, get in here." It was hard not to do a double-take right in his bed as he saw Atsumu amble in. The man had been in a coma the last time he had seen him, dead to the world.
"So," mused Atsumu, folding his arms across his chest as he regarded Kindaichi. His jacket was hastily thrown on over his shirt and his jeans were dull and faded. Quite the opposite of Sakusa. "You're the hero everyone's been talking about."
"Miya," warned Sakusa.
"I'm no one's hero," Kindaichi said, vehemently.
"Yer right about that. Trust me when I say I know media vultures better than anyone." Atsumu scowled, though it wasn't directed at Kindaichi. "I see they've gotten their filthy claws into you, too."
"People will sell their own mother for a scoop these days," Kunimi opined scathingly.
At that, Atsumu guffawed. "Hah! Ain't that the truth. I'm Miya Atsumu, by the way."
"Kunimi Akira."
"Kindaichi Yuutarou."
They turned to Sakusa, who shrugged. "You guys already know who I am."
"Don't mind him," Atsumu said, mostly to Kunimi. "He's always broodin' up a storm."
Sakusa shot him a withering stare. "Just because I choose not to waste my breath on—"
The door was kicked open.
Kindaichi nearly fell out of his bed. "What the hell?!"
"Number Three, no!" A face that Kindaichi had seen only once in the Public Prosecutor's Office appeared at the doorway, pulling the starched collar of her beefy subordinate back into the hall. "You can't get fined for destruction of property again! Otherwise I'll be the one getting indicted!"
"Chinen?" Sakusa found his voice first. It was colored by bemusement. His brow rose as three muscular men in maid dresses stepped inside with her. "And company, of course." Somehow, he managed to make company sound like clowns.
"Sakusa-san!" Chinen clearly hadn't been expecting him. "I am so, so sorry for the disturbance. Number Three here tends to get a little enthusiastic when it comes to the questioning process."
The aforementioned Number Three, who looked like an unholy cross between an effeminate teenage boy and someone's father from the Edo Period, rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. The bald European man standing beside him whacked him upside the head, tutting.
"Ah." Sakusa's confusion disappeared. "You're here for Kindaichi. Would you listen if I asked you to be gentle with him?"
Something about the way he phrased it made Atsumu smirk. Kindaichi's brain was too addled by painkillers to comprehend why.
Chinen straightened, her brow lowering. "I am a professional, Sakusa. I would never try to harm or threaten a witness or a victim. I deeply apologize if that is the impression you have gotten from us."
"Hmm, well," Sakusa turned away from her, "I can't exactly stop you from doing your job. You and Karasuda are working the case, right?"
"Correct. How did you know? You're still, well, you know. Not around."
"I have eyes and ears in the office."
"Ah. Okazaki."
Sakusa didn't deign her affirmation. "We'll be out of your hair, then. Come on, Miya."
"Wait," Chinen stopped them before they could leave, "Miya-san, is it alright if you come down to my office this afternoon? I would like to speak to you as well. I've been dying to, in fact."
"Oh, sure." Atsumu nodded. "I was wonderin' when you'd ask me."
The conversation faded into the background, and Kindaichi turned to Kunimi. Their hands were together, Kunimi's thumb rubbing slow, gentle circles on the back of Kindaichi's palm. His friend was close by, but his eyes were far away, gazing out the window and beyond the skyline. Kindaichi wondered what he was thinking of. Of what had happened, probably. Of what had happened, and what was still to come.
So many things had changed in just a mere six years. No, Kindaichi corrected himself, things already started changing before that. And yet, they were still together. Maybe it was naive thinking, but Kindaichi wanted to believe—wanted to believe that their friendship had withstood the tests and hardship that life had thrown their way, battered and beaten as it was.
"You okay?" Kunimi asked, returning back to earth.
"I'll be fine," promised Kindaichi, and he meant it. As long as they were together, he would be fine.
May 14th, 2018
It was five minutes past midnight. He should have been asleep by now, but Kindaichi was wide awake and staring up at the dark ceiling. A nurse had come in to turn off the lights an hour ago.
Kindaichi shifted. It was tiresome, having to lie on his back to sleep. With his injury, he wasn't able to turn over on his side.
His eyes strayed to a square object on his right. His laptop, charging on his nightstand. And on top of it, a plastic-encased disc. Resigning himself to his fate, Kindaichi maneuvered the laptop onto his lap, using his right hand to unplug it and insert the disc inside it. His forearm ached by the end of it, but the pain would go away soon enough.
There were no accompanying visuals. It came up as an MP3 file.
Without his earphones, he put the volume to one-hundred percent, knowing full well how quiet the sound was on his computer.
The darkness a comforting shroud around his shoulders, Kindaichi pressed play and began to listen.
A/N: Some events for the future are set up AKA Sakusa backstory and SakuAtsu roommates cont. and Goshiki's funeral (and a little something else related to him).
