A/N: The chapter where Sakusa almost commits arson.
Why do you smile in death, Komori?
It was just a dream. A nightmare. Yet, he looked so real, so vivid as the life was drained from his eyes, his entire torso bodied between twisted metal.
Komori's mouth—bloodied and bruised—moved, but Sakusa couldn't read his lips.
Why do you smile in death?
January 13, 2013
He was caught in a storm. Torn from the ground and hurled into the sky, skin flayed open by razor-like winds and ice-heavy clouds. Sakusa bled in silence, eyes wide and staring into nothing as he held Komori's portrait against his chest.
Uncle Tateo screamed as black smoke puffed from the chimney of the cremation chamber, falling forward on the grass and sobbing violently into his hands.
Ashes in the wind.
Like snow.
Slippery road conditions.
The frame of the picture crackled as Sakusa squeezed it, his entire body shaking. He was only vaguely aware of his mother standing next to him, chin tilted to the sky as she bawled without restraint, the toll of losing her husband and her sister in such a short amount of time crushing her into the earth. Her hair was oily and tangled, no longer held up by the neat bun she usually had it in.
"Tomoka!" Tateo wailed, gripping the grass with all of his might. "Tomokaaaaa!"
His blood rushed around his ears, and Sakusa stumbled.
Something warm landed on his hand. He looked down.
A single teardrop on his paper-white skin greeted him.
His bottom lip trembled.
Finally, his knees buckled beneath him, and he almost squashed the portrait between the ground and his torso as he landed, a terrible scream tearing from his throat. All the tears he hadn't shed for his father burst forth from the dam he hadn't been able to find for Junji. Sakusa hugged Komori's picture tightly, tears sliding down his cheeks, pooling at his chin, and falling into dead grass.
"Motoya...!"
Sakusa's strangled cry for the dead had Uncle Tateo howling again, but he could barely hear him in the wake of his grief. Grief. What had he been doing all this time? Deluding himself into thinking that he had any modicum of strength left in him. He would be weak forever if it meant that Komori was still here to support him through his journey.
Please, come back! His throat hurt. You've always been here for me. Don't leave me alone, Motoya!
Why hadn't he cherished him more?
Every disparaging thing he had ever said about him, every scoff that he aimed his way, every eye-roll that he had deemed the only appropriate response to an admittedly clever thing he had said—
"I thought he'd be with us for longer."
"Everything dies eventually, Komori."
"I know. But I just wanted more time with him."
I get it now. Sakusa squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears did not cease. Would never cease. I finally get it now.
Death. Loss.
It hurts... It hurts so much! It was beyond logic, beyond reason. It was a knife to the chest and a punch to the gut—it was all feeling without any rational or intelligent thought behind it.
How could he have ever sneered at Noriko's sorrow? How could he have ever watched those who had attended Oikawa's funerals with unsympathetic eyes?
Motoya, forgive me. Please, please, please forgive me. I'm sorry for not understanding sooner. Be angry at me, and hate me forever, but just be here. I don't need you to like me, I just need you to be alive.
Motoya, please.
Please come back.
Don't leave me.
January 21st, 2013
Listlessly, Sakusa lay in bed, eyes fixed on the white walls of his room. He didn't know what time it was, only that it was sometime in the afternoon. His mother had called the school again, telling them he was still sick. The past seven days had been one giant blur of confusion and an illness that made his heart ache so painfully that his body was fold into itself.
His room was a disgusting mess.
Instant noodle cups on the floor and chip packets on the top of his clothes drawer. Half-finished drink bottles stacked on the nightstand and a pile of clothes in the corner.
Everything reeked.
He couldn't remember the last time he had showered. He didn't even have the energy to get himself out of bed most days.
His bladder hurt.
He needed to piss.
Sakusa blinked blearily at the sunlight filtering through the blinds, his eyes feeling swollen and heavy. He made no move to get up. There was no thought going on his mind. He was simply existing—existing in his own filth.
His phone chimed with concerned text messages and voicemails and missed calls from friends. He wanted to silence it but it was too far away—a whole arm's length away, in the middle of his circle of water bottles.
His mom would try to get him to eat real food by leaving a tray of it outside his room. But he had locked his door, and the food always went untouched. He would wait until late at night or early in the morning to use the bathroom, so she wouldn't see him.
Sometimes, she begged. She cried and begged and clawed at the wood of the door.
But Sakusa remained curled up on his mattress.
He shifted, a hoarse wince sounding from the back of his throat as he felt something in his neck crick.
It was pathetic.
He was pathetic.
Motoya, he thought dimly, What would you say if you saw me like this? Would you tell me off? You'd say something, right? Let me hear your voice again.
The only sound in the room was the whir of his fan.
There was a thud. Sakusa's gaze shifted to his door. Mom? Is that you? Are you going to cry again? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm making you cry so much.
Another thud.
His heart leaped to his throat. Motoya...?
Then the door swung open, the knob falling to the ground—broken beyond repair—with a loud crash. Sakusa startled in bed, legs tangling around the sea of blankets as Shiko stepped in with a sturdy rolling pin in one hand. There was a scuff mark on it from where she had smashed it into the knob. Her chest heaved. At first, Sakusa thought she was going to beat him over the head with it for putting her through so much stress on top of everything else. Cautiously, he sat up, his bladder feeling fuller than ever and ready to burst.
Shiko's expression crumpled. She dropped the pin, hiccuping softly and bringing a hand to her face. The other ran through her hair, her loosely-done bun falling out of place. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders, knotted and unwashed and flat against the back of her head. She didn't say a word—she didn't have to.
Realization dawning on him, the muscles in his face tightened. Then, freely, he began to cry as well. His eyes were already hurting from the constant abuse of tears, but he didn't care anymore. His mother had broken the lock to his room, and the knob with it. She had gone through the trouble of telling the school administrators every day that he was unwell. She had cooked him food—food he hadn't even bothered to eat because he was just so damn fucking pathetic. Even after all she had been through, Shiko still had the strength to look after him.
He didn't want to be like this anymore.
But how could he ever live again? Like he used to?
For now, Sakusa merely wept. He cried until his chest ached and his shoulders twitched. A moment later, Shiko had him in his arms, pulling him in close so that he could press his nose against the curve where her neck met her shoulder. She cradled him, like he was not her nearly-adult son but the newborn he had been on the night of November 20th, 1995. Sakusa clutched her tightly, almost choking on a sob.
Shiko was here.
For him.
His mother loved him.
She loved him so much.
He could feel it in the way she held him, the way she passed her fingers through his hair—his father's hair—the way she let him just cry. He could feel it in the way her heart beat against his, thrumming with life and love and telling him I'm still here for you.
"I'm sorry, mom," he apologized, over and over again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"I'm here," she said, her voice breaking. "I'm here, Kiyoomi, I'm here."
March 15th, 2013
His grades had been affected by his spotty attendance, but not as much as he had thought. After that day, Sakusa had gone back to school. Not immediately. First, he had cleaned up his room, then cleaned up himself. His mother had done the same, and they had spent the rest of the day watching television together.
But now he was back, and in time to be watching his seniors graduate from the crowd. Parents dabbed at their eyes as they watched their children receive their well-earned diplomas on stage, grinning like they had just won the lottery.
It was lonely for him, without Komori by his side. He knew he would only be lonelier in the future now that Iizuna and the majority of his teammates had officially graduated.
He didn't want to stay. Shiko, who had been waiting outside for him, led him to the car.
"Come on," she murmured. "Let's go home. Or is there anywhere else you want to go?"
Sakusa shrugged. His gakuran jacket was stifling. "Not really." There were only places to go if there were people to see. And Sakusa didn't have any people to see. Not anymore. "But I..." He hesitated. "I'm quitting the team."
"Oh." Shiko unlocked the car. "But you love volleyball so much."
They got inside and buckled their seat-belts.
"I do," Sakusa admitted. "But I won't have time for it as a third year. I'm going to do an elective—Legal Studies. To prepare me for the future."
There was a gentle smile on his mother's face. "I should've known."
When they got home, he needed something to do. His mother started on tonight's soup, and Sakusa set his focus on unpacking the rest of their boxes, which were collecting dust near the entrance. There were only a few, most of their belongings either having been sold, donated, or already unpacked, and Sakusa knew what was inside. He had been dreading this moment, but he knew he had to get it over with fast, like ripping off a bandage.
He opened them up.
Case files. His father's life's work. Some trinkets he had owned, as well as letters of appreciation he had been delivered during the course of his career.
He wasn't perfect. Sakusa rolled up his sleeves. But he had a strong sense of justice, and he was my father. He didn't know when he had come to accept this. But all that mattered was that he had, and he rested easier for it.
If only his younger self could see him now. He would be disgusted, probably. Sakusa had always been prone to offended by weakness and forgiveness and jealousy and vitriol. How silly and unfortunate he had been, having grown too clever before having the chance to grow wise.
It had grown dark outside and dinner was almost ready when Sakusa finished skimming through his father's case files, though the last one gave him pause. Putting the others aside for now, Sakusa flipped the folder open.
The murder of Oikawa Tooru. The case that had been Junji's downfall. He arched an eyebrow as he went through the case. It was so... perfect. So set in stone. All the evidence submitted lined up. Fingerprints, murder weapon, lack of alibi... No, wait. Not everything had been submitted on the first day of the trial. Not everything had even been submitted. A phone call from Iwaizumi's unnamed underclassman that had been deemed irrelevant and rejected by the presiding judge—Judge Terano Maki.
What? Aunt Terano was the presiding judge for that case?!
This was prior to her promotion to Justice of the Supreme Court. He hadn't even known that she had done a stint as a judge. Tucking that bit of information away, he continued.
Iwaizumi had received several character testimonies—from his father, mother, and brother. Some teammates as well, but not all. Only two, actually. Matsukawa and Yuda, who were both eighteen and thus had their names uncensored. There was a list of suspects slotted inside as well.
It was ultimately the late-submitted DNA evidence—signed off by the distinguished Dr. Miyazawa Kazuhito—that had done Iwaizumi in. The prosecution—Prosecutor Karasuda—had been the one to snatch Junji's victory from him.
Sakusa shelved every single case in his bedroom except the Oikawa one, which he threw haphazardly on the nightstand. He was a bit at a loss as to what to do with the rest of his father's possessions, but made the decision to shove them into a space in his closet in the end.
"Kiyoomi!" his mother shouted. "Dinner's ready!"
"I'm coming," he called back, taking one last look at the Oikawa case. It was funny—just this one case had destroyed his family. If he had known that it was the beginning of the end... No. Everything would have come out eventually at some point. Not taking it would have just prolonged everything. The fact weighed heavily on his shoulders.
He was tucking into his meal when the house phone rang. Shiko went over to pick it up. "Hello? Sakusa Shiko speaking."
Sakusa didn't really like phone calls now.
He hoped this one would not deliver bad news.
All of the color drained from Shiko's cheeks. "What? Tateo-san..."
Uncle Tateo? Sakusa lifted his head at the mention of him. He had not seen his uncle since Komori's funeral. Briefly, he wondered how he was doing. Terribly, most likely. We should invite him over sometime, so he won't be too lonely.
"I see," Shiko was saying into the phone, her voice taut. "Yes. Yes, of course we'll attend. But... Are you sure? It'll be expensive and tiresome... Okay. Alright. Have you found a willing prosecutor yet?"
When Shiko finished the call with Tateo, she sat back down, and a pensive silence befell them.
"Well?" Sakusa prompted, at last.
Shiko took a deep breath. "Your uncle... He's pressing charges against the truck driver who crashed into the car."
Sakusa's eyes widened. Originally, it was the driver who had rear-ended Komori and Tomoka who had been charged. The truck driver had gotten off without any punishment after extensive review. "This... That's great! After all, he was the one who killed them!" It was an effort not to work himself up into a frenzy. Yes, the driver had gotten punished, but it wasn't enough. Where was the rest of the justice?
"I suppose," Shiko said, uncertain. Worriedly, she looked out the window. There was a light snowfall. Despite it being March, it was still cold out and frosty. The weathermen of Japan predicted that it would only stop toward the last days of the month.
"We have to win," Sakusa said solemnly. "For Komori. And Aunt Tomoka."
She relaxed. "Yes. We must."
March 23rd, 2013
It was quiet at the courthouse today. This was not the case that attracted a lot of media attention, and Sakusa was glad about that. He was wearing a coat over a black turtleneck sweater, the ends of his dark pants tucked into his shoes. Shiko was wearing red—red shawl, red skirt, and red shoes. She stood out like a sore thumb among the sea of black and gray. Like blood on snow.
And Uncle Tateo—
He looks awful. Sakusa's brow creased in pity. Tateo was clearly nursing a hangover; his tie was loose and his shirt untucked. There was a five o'clock shadow on his face.
"Tateo-san," Shiko gasped, rushing over from where they stood at the bottom of the stairs to clean him up. She pushed his tie up, tucked in his shirt for him, and straightened his blazer. Nothing could be done about his gaunt mien, but it was the best Shiko could do for him.
"Thanks," muttered Tateo, ducking his head in shame. "God, this is... I can't believe this is the only thing left I can do for them."
His mother's eyes were brimming with sorrow. "I'm sorry, Tateo-san."
Tateo peered around her to meet Sakusa's eyes. "Hello, Kiyoomi. I'm glad you came today."
"Uncle Tateo," Sakusa returned the greeting, "Of course I came."
It was a somber scene. The three of them exchanged glances before ascending the steps, scrubbing the bottom of their shoes on the mat before heading into the courthouse lobby. There were not many people today, but the people Sakusa did see made him freeze.
"Shintaro?" he uttered, his voice nary above a whisper.
Midorima Mahiro and his son turned their way at the same time, as if they had both heard Sakusa breathe Midorima's name. Midorima blinked, the only display of surprise that Sakusa's presence would glean from him.
"What are they doing here?" Shiko frowned. "Don't tell me..."
The truck driver, a scruffy fellow who had very obviously cleaned up hastily before coming to court, avoided Tateo's burning gaze. Tateo bared his teeth, and Sakusa had to grab him by the wrist to stop him from beating up the defendant. "Don't, uncle. We'll settle this in court."
Mahiro nodded at them. I'm sorry we have to meet like this, he seemed to say.
Shiko nodded back, stiffly. Yes. So am I.
After Junji had died, the relationship between the Midorima and the Sakusa family had faded into nothing.
They entered the courtroom. Sakusa and Shiko got a seat in the front row of the public gallery, while Tateo sat down with the prosecutor, talking in low voices about the case. On the defending side of the court, Mahiro and his client also got seated.
Midorima was sitting down somewhere behind Sakusa and his mother.
One last spectator entered before the doors were closed.
"Sorry I'm late." Sakusa tensed at Noriko's murmur to Midorima.
Of course. He had almost forgotten—almost—who Midorima had married. Strange, how it was only two years ago that they had wedded.
The hearing commenced.
It had begun to snow.
Uncle Tateo broke down at the bottom of the stairs, wet patches appearing on the fabric above his knees as he sank into the snow. White as a ghost, Shiko consoled him wordlessly, crouching beside his hunched form. "Motoya," he sobbed. "Tomoka. Oh, Tomoka, Motoya..."
Sakusa stood in the middle row of the stairs as his uncle warbled, lips bloodless. We... lost. We lost. How? How could we have lost? He killed them. He. Killed. Them. Frantically, he glanced around for an answer, and found one in the shape of Midorima Mahiro and his son and daughter-in-law. "You," he spat venomously, making them turn his way. "You did this."
"I did," Mahiro agreed, stolid. "And I'm not sorry I had to." With that, he continued on his way, as if his family's despair meant nothing to him. It made Sakusa's blood boil, made him want to grab Mahiro by his starched collar and shake him.
"How could you? How could you do this—?!"
"Dad," Midorima interrupted. "Go ahead. Noriko, you too. I'll talk to him."
'I'll talk to him'. Sakusa nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. As if he were some misbehaving child. But no, it ran deeper than that. This was not a stolen toy in kindergarten. This was a miscarriage of justice. "You're right. We do need to talk."
"We'll wait in the car," Mahiro declared. "Don't be long, son."
"I won't."
Sakusa smiled, cruelly. "That's not up to you to decide."
Midorima ignored the jab, leading the way down the stairs and to the snow-dusted concrete clearing.
"I'll be back in a minute," Sakusa murmured to his mother, who gave him an imperceptible nod.
"Well?" Midorima said when Sakusa joined him. Here, his mother and Uncle Tateo were specks in the distance. "What is it?"
"You know perfectly well what I want," he snapped, fist curling by his side. He pulled his scarf further away from his mouth.
"I don't. Not really. Please, enlighten me."
"Three months of community service. Your father got him sentenced to three months of community-fucking-service."
"It was a fair sentence," Midorima stated, carefully. Did he really believe that? "The truck driver was not to blame for the deaths of your cousin and aunt."
"Bullshit! He was! It was the impact from the truck colliding into the car that killed them! Or do you not remember the police report?" Sakusa grit his teeth. "Don't you dare paint this story another way."
"I'm not denying that it was the impact that killed them. But what led to them dying was the driver who rear-ended them on the road. His tires lacked friction, and he has been duly punished to the greatest extent of the law. I'm not sure what more you want, Kiyoomi."
"I want justice."
Midorima closed his eyes before opening them, resolute. "Justice has been served."
"He'd been drinking!" Sakusa hissed. "He even admitted to it! How can you say it wasn't his fault?"
"One beer," Midorima stipulated. "He had one beer, and his blood alcohol level was less than 0.03g. A test found he was almost completely sober when he was driving on the 319. You know this."
"And our witness? She said she saw him drink three."
"She is not credible. She admitted to being drunk at the time she allegedly witnessed that."
"It was a bar! Of course she was drunk!"
"Which significantly lowered her credibility. That's my entire point." Midorima pushed his glasses up his nose, eyebrows knitted in a deep frown. "Kiyoomi... It's over. Justice has been served. This was the best outcome if you look at it objectively. It may not feel like it to you, but it's true. The driver and his family will be able to live the rest of their lives in peace instead of falling into despair." Thinking that they were done, he turned and started toward the car park.
How can you say that? How can you say that?! Where is our justice? "Is that all justice is to you? Some… Some parcel that can be passed around as you please?!" demanded Sakusa, marching up to Midorima and pulling him back the wrist. "Well?! Answer me!" Midorima snatched his hand away, leaving footprints in the snow as he stalked down the winding path. "I said answer me!"
"My father does not owe your family justice!" shouted Midorima, whirling back around. "Or do you think that it was fair for that man to go to jail, and for his family to suffer because of his mistakes?!" The mistake of being at the wrong place at the wrong time was the implication.
"I'll only ever be happy if they live in misery for the rest of their fucking lives!" Sakusa screamed, panting.
"I wasn't expecting you to be happy, but god. You're disgusting." Midorima glared at him. "It doesn't matter how long you have, it seems. To me, you'll always be the same selfish, stuck-up little brat you were when I met you. I pity you... Sakusa."
He saw red. "Don't you dare...! Don't you dare say that! Don't ever pity me, Midorima, don't ever! Pity! Me!"
Justice for Komori. That was the only thing he had had left, and Mahiro had stolen it from right under their noses. Was that what a lawyer did? Lawyers, who were supposed to plead for mercy? What about my mercy? My closure? Is that really too much to ask for?
"Then grow up. Grow up, Sakusa, and open your eyes. Justice isn't as black and white as you think it is."
It was a punch to the gut. Sakusa let out a trembling breath. "Then what is it?"
Midorima began to walk away again, showing his back to him.
This time, Sakusa was rooted to the spot. "Midorima! Get back here! If you know so much, then tell me! Tell me justice truly is to you! Oi! Midorima! Midorima!"
What right do they have? What right do they have to strip away justice?
Midorima disappeared into the white fog, the snowfall covering his footprints.
The sound of the kitchen tap turning on. Water gushing out. The blade of Shiko's knife hitting the cutting board as she sliced up carrots for tonight's curry. Sakusa sat at the dinner table, television six feet away and noisy in the living room.
Uncle Tateo was passed out from emotional exhaustion on the couch, the cushions sinking beneath his weight.
He couldn't stand it.
Justice was the last thing Tateo and Sakusa and Shiko could have possibly offered Komori and Tomoka. But they had been denied—denied of their last offerings for the dead.
Denied by that filthy, filthy lawyer and his son.
They did this. They sullied the name of justice. How dare they... How dare they!
Sakusa slammed his palm on the table before standing up, making Shiko almost drop the knife with alarm.
"Kiyoomi?" she said, warily, ceasing her chopping.
"I'll be back," Sakusa snapped, pulling winter coat over his black hoodie. He stuffed his feet into his sneakers, grabbed his hat and mask, and stormed out of the apartment. He knew where Midorima's family now lived. Had discovered it when Shiko went to reunite with Marumi soon after Junji's funeral. And since Mahiro had drove his son and daughter-in-law to court, basic reasoning told him that they would be having a family dinner tonight.
He couldn't feel his fingers as he lifted up the garage door—theirs was number three in a series of garages, all for the tenants. His mother's homely little vehicle was inside, and he skirted around to dig around the back shelves.
Finally, he found it.
A three-quarter full can of gasoline. Fighting down the bile rising in his throat, Sakusa grabbed it and a half-squashed box of matches. He kicked the latch of the garage door, wincing when it came crashing down.
If the law would not give him justice, he would just have to take it for himself.
What was there left in life for him, anyway? The people who had truly mattered to him were now gone and ashes and dead. Dead, dead, dead.
"Death is the only certainty in life."
Yes, Sakusa agreed darkly, it was.
He would not become a lawyer. He would never become a lawyer. Lawyers were scum, lawyers stood in the way between the good people and justice—
Sakusa found himself standing on the Midorima's front lawn. Even through the flurry of snowfall that beat against his cheeks and turned them red and ruddy like apples—Komori had loved apples; apples and apple pie—he could see the house had its lights on.
He was shivering.
From the cold?
Yes, it had to be.
He'd walked all the way here with a hardened heart and a blackened soul. He would not back down now. He would... not...
He could see them. All of them, sitting at the dinner table with laughter in their eyes and smiles on their lips. Midorima reached across the table to pass Noriko some gravy, and Mahiro said something which made Marumi swirl the wine in her glass and flutter her eyelashes. They were not the dolls he had seen them as when he was a child. They were breathing and living—living. Alive.
"No," he muttered, dropping the gasoline can into the snow and gripping his head. "No, no, no... Don't let them fool you. They're monsters."
They're human.
"No, they're monsters. They took away the last fucking thing I had."
Humanity will stomp each other into the ground and kneel to help each other up. It is dangerous to mistake humans for monsters.
With one trembling hand, he lit a match, holding it up in front of him. He envisioned the house blowing up, fire roaring through the woodwork and the masonry. "This isn't fair," he started to cry, tears feeling like they were freezing to his skin. "This isn't fair."
Why did Midorima get to have this? Why did Midorima get to have dinner with his family, perfectly at peace with the fact that his father had decimated the little hope another family had had?
And why can't I take it away from them? All it would have taken was a ring of gasoline around the property and a single match. Why can't I do it? His hand shook even more violently, and the flame was snuffed out. How can I... take this away from them?
This isn't justice.
All he wanted was them to feel even half the pain he had felt.
And wasn't that how it started? If he didn't kill himself right after this, he would be prosecuted and people would suffer—people would always suffer and—
Mom.
Sakusa crumpled the match in one gloved hand, staring out into space. Golden light from the windows edged his vision.
He picked up the can of gasoline—
I'm sorry.
—and went home.
"Oh, you're back!" Shiko brushed the snow off Sakusa's coat as he entered. "You must be freezing. Where did you go?"
"Just for a walk," Sakusa said, meekly. He couldn't look her in the eye.
He had failed.
Failed to exact justice.
Justice that wouldn't have been justice, he told himself.
If he had gone through with it, he wouldn't have been able to face her at all.
None the wiser, Shiko embraced him. "I'm sorry for what happened today, Kiyoomi."
The clink of a spoon. Uncle Tateo was already eating his curry at the table.
"No," whispered Sakusa, his shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry."
"Kiyoomi? Are you... crying?" Shiko reached up to brush a tear away from his nose.
Shame burning through his entire body, Sakusa stepped away from her, hiding his eyes. "I," he gasped, "I'm sorry. I... I just miss them so much. God." He could apologize to her forever but it would never be enough. What am I crying for? Stop... Stop! Haven't I cried enough? But he couldn't stop. Would it ever stop? He didn't know. How could I even have thought of that? It would have destroyed mom. I'm the only one she has left. The realization hit him even harder, and an embarrassing keening noise emerged from his mouth.
"Shh, shh," she cooed, raspy. She moved in to hug him again and he didn't stop her. "Don't cry, Kiyoomi, don't cry... I'm here. Mama's here."
He breathed in her scent—home and comfort—feeling like an infant again. Weak and vulnerable and everything he told himself he would never be. But today, he allowed it, burying his face in his mother's shoulder. His tears stained her shirt.
That night, Sakusa sat at his study desk, mindlessly going through some math equations he would need to know for his third year.
There was a knock on the door. "Can I come in?"
The lock and the knob were still broken. "Yes." Sakusa whirled in his chair, removing his reading glasses. He'd been long-sighted since childhood, though that didn't normally interfere with his day-to-day life.
Shiko swept into the room, bare-faced as she usually was and wearing a nightgown. She sat on his bed, patting the spot beside her. Sakusa closed his textbook and took a seat next to her.
"I'm afraid I haven't been honest with you," she confessed. "About your father."
Sakusa regarded her. "Oh."
"I think it's time you know."
He said nothing.
She continued, "Your father's suicide was not out of the blue. I'm sure you have that figured out by now. But what you probably don't know is..." She lowered her troubled gaze. "He had a history of it. Your father had battled depression and opioid addiction ever since college. Continued to battle it through the course of his career. Even after you were born... Sometimes, he would become so overwhelmed between work and looking after you and going cold turkey that he saw nothing but the rope. Tunnel vision. Whenever I caught him trying to kill himself, I'd throw you into your room and lock the door. I didn't want you to see. I'd often forget to turn on the light for you. I know how much you feared the dark as a child, and..." A single tear fell from her eye, and she blinked, as if she were surprised. "I regret it so much. But I could never tell you. In your eyes... Your father was an ethereal hero. How could I take that away from you? So I'm sorry, Kiyoomi."
His mouth grew dry.
"I hate you, mama! Hate you, hate you, hate you!"
"I know, darling, I know. I know you hate me. Mama hates herself, too."
I was the worst. Sakusa chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Thank you. For telling me."
His mother had had it so hard.
But even so, she had never given up on him. Not even once.
Sakusa dropped his head to the side, resting his cheek on her narrow shoulder. "Mom. I'm going to work hard in school from now on. I'm going to become a prosecutor—so I can help people get the justice they deserve. I'm not going to be like dad. Lawyers are—"
"Perfectly respectable," Shiko interrupted, sharply. "Do not look down upon your father's profession. Or have you forgotten the gratitude that the innocents and their families have shown him? In a way, the goal of a lawyer and a prosecutor is one and the same—to deliver justice." She combed her fingers through his hair. "And that is a fine and noble goal. Justice in this world isn't something we often come across. But when we see the opportunity for it to prevail, we must seize it. Lawyers do that in their own way, just as prosecutors have their own methods."
Sakusa stirred.
Justice in this world isn't something we often come across. But when we see the opportunity for it to prevail, we must seize it.
He liked that.
"I guess," he conceded. "Dad... He did do a lot of good things, didn't he?"
"Yes. He did. He was not always the best husband or the best father... But at heart, he was a good man. And that is all that matters to me. He fell to his demons and trusted the wrong people, but he helped so many more people along the way. They will be forever grateful to him. You have no idea, Kiyoomi, how much power his actions held. And he used it to spread kindness and fairness. So less people would have to be bitter for the rest of their lives." Shiko kissed him on the cheek and stood. "It's very late now. Go to bed, my dear. You can study in the morning."
"Alright," Sakusa stretched, yawning, "I will."
She turned the lights off.
Goodnight, mom.
Goodnight, Aunt Tomoka.
Goodnight... Motoya.
For the first time in months, Sakusa slept soundly.
March 2014 — December 2017
Sakusa Kiyoomi graduated as the second top student in his year. Math and physics had been his downfall, but he was awarded a scholarship from the University of Tokyo's law department for coming first in the entire country for Legal Studies.
In the spring of 2014, he entered university as a freshman.
Sakusa Kiyoomi did not relent. There was nothing he couldn't achieve with the amount of effort and dedication he put into each task. Day after day, it was a tedious monotony of attending classes, doing assignments, and studying late into the night with a fruit bowl on his study desk.
He knew his mother worried for him.
Sometimes, she stood outside his broken door like a shadow.
"Kiyoomi," she said one night, from the doorway. "You should go to bed. It's already two o'clock in the morning."
"I'll go in half an hour," he promised, not looking up from his notes. His hand moved automatically, and the words seared themselves into his brain.
"Kiyoomi."
"I mean it."
Shiko sighed. "I'll come check on you after."
"Mm."
While his classmates let their prestigious degrees do the speaking, Sakusa preferred to speak for his degree. As two-thirty in the morning neared, he packed away his things, brushed his teeth for the second time that night, and got into bed. I'm a candidate for early graduation, he reminded himself, pulling the blankets over his shoulder. This won't be forever.
His teachers called him a genius.
Sakusa disagreed. It was not prodigy-levels of intellect that hummed in his marrow—it was the drive of spite and hunger and all things primal. He would become the best prosecutor in Japan. He would throw criminals in jail. He would protect the innocent from harm. No, he could not clean up society in the way he cleaned up his room, but if it meant that people could live in more peace than before, then it was worth it. Justice was not the absolute solution. Sakusa had come to learn that nothing, in this human world, was absolute. Justice was innately flawed—when one put a murderer in jail, his family would suffer. When one let a murderer go, the victim's family would suffer (was it inhuman to measure suffering, or rather inherently human?). But that did not mean it did not exist, and was not worth pursuing. This broken ideal that the prosecutors and lawyers of Japan all subscribed to—that the citizens of their nation clung to as their blankets of hope and security—he would just have to run with it. Because as long as humanity existed, he would protect it with the cracked shield they called justice.
He accelerated through the courses. He was in graduate school by the time he was twenty. Before he turned twenty-one, he took and passed the National Bar Exam. The university deans shook his hand and his name was printed across the country's newspapers.
Midorima congratulated him and revealed that he, too, would be moving up in the world of justice very soon, but Sakusa paid him no mind.
They instated Midorima as Chief Prosecutor on the same day Sakusa graduated from university. The youngest Chief Prosecutor in the history of Japan—his wife even more impressive as the youngest Prosecutor-General.
Owl-face, Sakusa thought sourly, and came up with a rather brazen nickname for her: The Owl-face of Miyagi. He would have made it a song, too, if he had had the time. But one cold case solved with police academy hopeful Sawamura Daichi later, and he was licensed to practice law without supervision from his seniors.
His name took Japan by storm. The son of a disgraced, nearly-forgotten lawyer, now establishing himself as one of the greatest and youngest prosecutors of all time. Cases came his way—he won them all, not a single loss to his name.
Just like his father, people said. Just like his father, only he's working for the other side.
But so what if I am? Very rarely do people who pass through the system end up being innocent. And Sakusa could tell them apart the way Junji once had. Those who were innocent and those who were guilty. I'm covering more ground than my father ever did.
He did not only work as a prosecutor.
Sometimes, circumstances called for him to defend.
Okazaki Hana burst into tears when she was acquitted of a crime she did not commit, makeup running. Eternally grateful, just as all of Junji's past clients had been, and Sakusa knew that the duty of a lawyer was still one to be admired, especially in the face of adversary.
She wouldn't leave him alone.
Sakusa could have filed a restraining order.
But, instead, he hired her as his secretary.
Case after case, day after day...
He fell back into comfortable monotony.
May, 2015
"You're suing them?" Shiko seemed flabbergasted, but Sakusa continued typing away on his computer, reading glasses perched on his nose.
"Every last one of them," Sakusa promised, gravely. "For defamation."
"I don't want this to be a repeat of that case—"
"It won't be. Because this time, I know exactly how to win."
By the time he was done with them, three companies filed for bankruptcy. Several more paid their compensations without issue, and gave out formal apologies to the Sakusa family, and any article ever written about Junji was subsequently erased. Some had been archived, of course, but it was the best they could do.
In the future, people would ask—What happened to Sakusa Junji?
And Sakusa Kiyoomi would sleep knowing that he had done his best to guard the answer.
April 7th, 2018
"I'm here because of this."
Sakusa eyed the note in the sandwich bag before putting on a pair of disposable gloves. Kindaichi Yuutarou, with his horrendous undercut and his coffee breath, was looking at him—looking at him so earnestly. Tentatively, he removed the paper from its bag and unfolded it, his heart pounding between his ears as he read the lines.
I will hide
I will run
I am the one
Who killed
Oikawa-san
Don't look at me with horror
I see it in your gaze
They are like knives
That rip my soul apart
Please
Please
Don't let me drown
Sanzu River that reflects in your eyes
Like afternoon sun
In the backdrop, Kindaichi was still speaking. "Oikawa-san was my friend and my senior. Six years ago, he was murdered. I came to you because I want him to finally rest in peace. And he can't do that if his best friend is in prison, and the true killer walks free. Please, Sakusa-san."
Murdered... Murdered. Oikawa Tooru had been murdered, and the case had left him and his family in ruins. They never had gotten justice. If Kindaichi hadn't shown up today, Sakusa had an inkling he might have lost sight of why he signed up for this in the first place. To make up for all the hurt and the powerlessness and the injustice he had faced. That they had all faced.
Everything was starting to come full circle.
"Hey," Sakusa said at last, stilted. "This better not be some fucking prank." Kindaichi blinked. "I'll get this tested. My father had an entire list of suspects."
Kindaichi looked like he was about to cry. "Thank you," he managed, swallowing.
"Now, unless you have anything else to show me, leave. Be back here tomorrow by nine o'clock. And do not be late." He didn't want to waste a single moment.
"Yessir!"
A lead. I can't believe it, Sakusa stared at the paper, After all these years... He smiled. Finally.
A/N: The last section is chapter 2, basically! Merry Christmas, everyone! It's the 25th over here in Australia, though it's still Eve in a number of other timezones, I imagine. Still, take this as a present, I suppose!
