So... Yeah, I just finished, so please pardon any typos that may or may not be there. Will try to update when I spot one!

Nightlyy; thank you for the compliment! Indeed, I do think Takaya is resourceful, to a degree. He would get wiped if he actually faced Makoto head on.

Also the name of his fic doesn't correspond to a god, but rather, something else. You'll see, I suppose, and it's not exactly a deal as the name would imply, either!

Well, this chapter is more confusing than anything I've written, and that is intentional. This is not written to be wholly understood on the first try :P It reflects Makoto's mental state, so... yeah?

Let's gooooo!

Chapter 2

Everything feels so strange.

He is oddly calm even like this – bleeding out with air trapped between sheets of liquid red that continues to flood his lung until breathing becomes an impossibility. He could feel his pulse races, his heart fighting with all of its might to keep him conscious, to keep him awake, just minutes or even mere seconds longer than he could – should.

And like this, he now understands why Takaya would refer to death as a deliverance; it frees you of pain, of suffering, of fear. He's scared of his own weakness, that he would cause one, that he would hurt those around him with what he does and doesn't do. But if he died, who would've cared? If he's dead, he won't be able to make a decision that could alter another's fate, couldn't condemn people around him to the doom that awaits, couldn't bring them down to the mud with him.

And that's okay. He's just so, so tired.

"Makoto, sweetie," A sweet voice rouses him, pulls him back from the comfortable dark into the world where everything burns with heat and cold that doesn't stop. His body forces him to gasp, expelling blood out of his chest and making him breathe, the air cold and rancid and pulling at every string in his body taut. "Please, don't do this to me. You can't die on me like this."

He doesn't respond (couldn't), his ribs cackles with every rise and fall of his chest, shallow and painful. He couldn't feel his left arm anymore, and a part of him recalls a bullet that has forced him down to the ground, the object of his demise that has also settled deep inside him, somewhere he couldn't reach, somewhere he couldn't feel.

He blinks, trying to adjust to something, and the first sight that greets him is the moon that inches ever closer, its dim light welcoming him, beckoning him forward. He wants to reach for it, welcomes it with open arms, leta it takes him away into a place that light couldn't reach—

"You're giving up like this?"

The voice is unmistakable, even in a haze like this; of a child, whose voice usually carries a certain air of haughtiness and childish curiosity, something that is absent at the moment. His eyes trail downward, away from his salvation, and to the boy in stripped pajamas sitting cross-legged beside him, his smile unseen, his lips set, his eyes pained.

"You are the reason everyone that you love is alive," Pharos says, sadness etched deep into his heart like an engraving on the stones, his shadow dancing lazily under the light of the cursed moon. "You saved them. You did not condemn your friends to a life of war and pain – you saved them from it. Are saving them from it. If you die now, what will happen?"

He doesn't respond, his exhale coming out long and deep, uninterrupted by the blood and bile that has already seeped into his throat and marking him, reminding him of the finality of his choice. He chooses to die for someone else's sake, for the sake of the girl he loves – something he has never done, something that he should've been able to do sooner, something he knows he should have done sooner.

"It's not your fault, Makoto," Pharos says again, desperate, his small hand finding his chest, tiny fingers spreading all over his heart as it drums his life away. Everything is a distance haze, and the cold of death has already made itself known at the edge of his mind, waiting for him. "None of it ever is. All you've ever done is saving people, and you're hurting yourself because of something that is in no way your fault."

Isn't it, though? He asks, not expecting an answer to be given. He feels a hand on his cheek, and turns to the other side. Yukari is crying (don't cry over me, please, I'm worth nothing to you), wiping away a trial of wetness on his face. There's blood – his, he should think – all over her shirt and hands, and she's holding onto a hand that he couldn't feel, interlacing their fingers together as if that would keep him here. But he's dying, bleeding out under the light of the Dark Hour, and he welcomes it.

This is what I deserve. I've done terrible things, allowing dark thoughts to fester for too long. I deserve all of this, and my death would prevent all of you from dying because of me.

"…This once," Pharos suddenly murmurs after beats of silence that seem to only grow as the dark, twisted maze of infinity spreads out all over Makoto like a blanket, ready to consume him whole. When he doesn't make any sort of movement to acknowledge those words, the boy says with more anger in him than what Makoto's ever seen. "This once, I won't listen to what you have to say. You are not allowed to give up like this, not when you're so loved and so cherished."

He barks out a laugh, only to gasp until everything becomes a blur of dark green fog of the Dark Hour. He feels the hand on his cheek trembles, voices of someone far away only managing to nudge the furthest corner of his mind, and then warmth of someone very dear envelopes him, terrified sobs of distress and fear burrowed deep into his skin. He only leans into the warmth as he feels Pharos pulls his hand away from his chest, leaving trails of cold behind.

"This once," Pharos says again, and Makoto glances to the side as he feels everything slows down to near-halt, the all-consuming hum of the void growing louder with each and every breath he could barely take on his own. The boy grimaces, hands balled into fists, as he utters his vow to no one to hear. "You are a friend, after all. And saving a friend is what I should do, even if—"

The words then grow distance, and before long, everything goes dark.

Memories collide into a ball of madness that penetrates his entire being.

He could feel nothing and everything, all at once, seconds merging into one another and into strips of pictures and voices and dreams and memories that never stops reeling, yanking him forward and pushing him back infinitely until he couldn't take it anymore.

He screams, he cries, he begs, for something or anything to make it stop. A part of him thinks he might've been suspended between the waking world and the oblivion of death, because death shouldn't be like this; it shouldn't be painful with nightmares and all the wrongs replayed in an infinite loop that drives his mind into the brink of insanity, it shouldn't be this cold and unforgivingly warped with his perception or the sense of self entirely foreign.

It shouldn't hurt, but it does and he wants to make it stop, stop, stop—

One moment he's pulled into voices and words and stabbing pain all over him, and something blocks his airway and stops him from screaming as the pain grows, the fire and ice settling deep inside his veins and flaying him alive like Hypnos did before—

—And in the next moment, the pain doesn't leave, but there's nothing to block his voice, so he screams until nothing makes sense anymore.

The void in between is filled with sludge that makes him sick and pulls him in all directions, as if to string him across the stars and fling his soul into the infinity beyond the edge of space itself. But in the void, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't cry, he couldn't think – nothing makes sense and everything hurts and for a moment, he thinks he's been sent to purgatory, to burn for an eternity for what he did—

"What the hell's going on!?" A voice pulls him forward again, but this time, he can't move. Pain flairs first and foremost at his arms and legs, and something binds him to something else that's both hard and soft, and his scream feels dry and hoarse and without volume— "Do something! Come on!"

"We're trying, we really do, but nothing works!" Another responds as he bawls and begs for it all to stop, for him to just die already – he thinks he's still alive against all odds, somehow – as he half curses Pharos for saving him and half wails at the stars and the darkness and the Velvet Room for someone to do something and put a stop to all of this, please—

"What the hell do you mean, nothing works!?"

"He doesn't respond to painkillers! I've given him all that I could think of! And—"

The arguing voices become background buzzes of nothingness that doesn't ease his soul as he is frozen and burnt and split open and torn apart, and when he attempts to find anything to cling onto – as if doing that would help with all of this – he feels something on his hand, warm and soft and so kind.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm here," Another voice whispers, gentle like a spring's wind, soft and calm and kind with a hint of pain and anger deep within. But even that touch hurts underneath, making his muscles and bones sing the tune of disaster as he tries to squirm away – anything to ease all this agony, even a little, because he couldn't take it anymore and he wants to just die and disappear— "Makoto, please—"

He couldn't find his tongue, nor could he find any of his senses except for the feeling of his skin and the maddening croon of something otherworldly in his ears. He curls his fingers, yanking at something until something else makes sense, and feels a tiniest pang of pain at his fingertips, something trivial but enough to distract him from the onslaught of senses that are breaking his mind and shattering it into pieces that could never be put together again.

"Hey. It's okay, it's okay—" The voice sobs, pulling his right hand – he thinks, maybe, he isn't too sure anymore – into the warmth that couldn't fight off the frigid cold. "Makoto, I'm here. Please, you're going to be okay. We're going to help you, alright?"

Lies, lies, lies, all of those words are lies and nothing will help, so just kill me already—

He feels something inside him twist, yanking him into the next moment forevermore. And soon, nothing but darkness and silence engulfs him.

Everything hurts.

He only remembers fragments of memories (or were all those voices and feelings mere imagination, a trick of his mind?) and pain and insanity that creep and crawl like a spider up his spine and into his head, sinking their decrepit claws into his flesh and pulling him back and forth as if all of this is some sort of a game that the gods are playing just to see when (or rather, how far) he will break.

And here – he could open his eyes, only to be greeted by darkness and the light of the moon that shines softly against the lightly-colored ceiling of a place he doesn't recognize. The pain is half-dulled under the heavy fog that has made its home in the pit of his stomach, and he could barely feel anything else except for the way air passes through his nose as he breathes, slow but unsteady.

His throat is parched, the feeling of sandpaper being rubbed across the inside of his mouth too much for him to even think of making a sound, and his fingers twitch over his chest, feeling something – a kind of fabric he's unfamiliar with, he thinks – under the pads of his fingers. He forces himself to blink again, his thought process slow and nonlinear, each thought split apart before being meshed together carelessly into one another, as a way for him to try to make sense of it all.

"—on't know?" A voice reverberates through the stale air, and he shifts his eyes around to try to find the origin, only for his vision to spin, everything spiraling down into a hole he's not willing to look into. He gasps, his chest burns and his lungs twisting themselves into shapes that disallow him even a single gulp of air. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

"As I said before, I couldn't find out why Takaya was even there," Another says, voice exasperate. Makoto tries to move, but he couldn't feel anything below his left shoulder. When his attempt to look fail, he puts his working hand on the arm, to feel it under his palm – but he couldn't feel whatever else he is supposed to. And everything just hurts and he just wants to die like he's supposed to. "But… I think he might've seen, or at least heard, about what Yuuki can do."

"You're suggesting he's targeted," A woman hisses back.

"…Yeah," A sigh. "We should have someone with him at all times—"

"—Which would've been a good idea, had yesterday not happened," The woman hisses back. Makoto groans, gripping his head as a splitting headache starts to form, bubbling like boiling lava inside his skull. So he hits it with his hand, just enough for the pain to ease, before he forces himself up against the ache and groan of his sinews and bones. "Akihiko, you've seen what happened—"

"I know, but do we have a choice?" The other groans, the sigh of defeated permeating through his sense like a knife. "I don't know if they'll try this again, and he's an important friend of ours. I'm not standing by and doing nothing—"

The voices soon grow distance, and he leans himself over the thing he's on (the bed, another part of him corrects, humming lowly against his ribs and causing pain to flare all over him) his hand trying to find an object or something to hold on to. He still isn't sure what had happened, what the hell is going on, his memories a jumbled, incoherent mess. But something is spurring him forward, making him move against the exhaustion in his limbs—

He then loses his balance, his only arm not strong enough to support him, and he falls, pulling all the lines and the equipment he hasn't seen before down with him.

It doesn't hurt much when he hits the ground, but his vision swims with vengeance, as if to reprimand him. He feels a sound escape his throat, and he curls up, trying to ground himself. He still isn't sure where he is, or why he's even alive, but he needs to think, think, think—

"Oh shit," The voice that has been so far away before is closer now, and he feels hands on his skin – hands that quickly burn and singe his flesh. He tries to shy away, but the grasps are firm and he couldn't do anything to get himself away. "Yuuki! It's okay. You're safe. Take it easy."

"Aki, hands off him," Another chides, and Makoto opens his eyes slightly, to see three sets of feet before him; a woman, and two men. "He's trying to squirm away from you. Hands off him."

"Oh, uh… yeah," The man murmurs, and the feeling of hands on his arm disappears, the taut muscles in his body relaxing minutely when the pressure is gone. "…He still looks so out of it, though."

"That would happen when you have every fuck kind of sedative in your system," The other man snorts, and he closes his eyes again, curling further until he could breathe normally. "…I'll call the doctors. Putting him back to sleep again seems like a better play, until whatever Takaya did to him wear off."

"If it does," The woman hums in half agreement and half resentment. "Just make sure he doesn't hurt himself, Shinjirou. I'll go get the doctors."

"Suit yourself."

And for the rest of the time that he remains awake, all he could feel is the everlasting cold that seeps and burrows into his skin, a distinct, shattered, disembodied voice echoing inside his skull with every breath—

I promise you, that I'll not allow you to come to harm ever again.

When he wakes up again, everything is clearer, and more painful.

He groans, fingers digging into something – a sheet, maybe – before he opens his eyes to the white light above him. He could hear his own breathing and someone else's, so he turns – ignoring the pain in his neck and the dull ache in his head – to see Yukari sleeping beside the bed, her hand holding onto his, one that he couldn't feel anymore.

"Yuka… ri…?" He rasps, his voice cracked and less than a whisper, the syllables barely separated from one another. He could taste blood in his mouth, the distinct scent of iron invading his nose the moment he takes another breath.

She stirs, eyes fluttering open. Upon seeing him, she jumps to her feet, hands pulling his unfeeling one towards her chest – and oh, he so wishes he could still feel, because her heartbeat would confirm to him that she's still alive and well, just has he's hoped – before mumbling out hastily. "Oh god! Makoto! Are you okay? Are you in pain?"

He decides to skip her question, instead replying with an inquiry of his own, his head still pounding in time with his heart. "Why…?"

"…Huh?"

"Why… am I… alive?" He murmurs, his eyes darting away, wakefulness finally taking control of his senses. He breathes again, a frown settling deep in his features. "Why—"

"Why are you asking why!?" She snaps, and he could see glister of tear at the corner of her eyes, forcing him to look away. Her voice breaks as she grabs at his shoulder – and burns him in the process – and buries her face into his chest. "Makoto, you deserve to live! Why are you asking why instead of how?"

"How did you—"

"The past week," She mumbles, and he could surmise that she must've referred to the time after he's shot. A part of him is mortified that it's been a week and he barely remember anything but the pain and the burn that wreck his entire being with unimaginable agony— "You've been delirious for the past week, and you keep saying that you deserved this, that you… you wanted to die…?"

It's as if she's asking for confirmation, something he knows would break her heart even more anyway. He reaches up a hand, as if to wipe her tears away, only to pulls it back down – no… he no longer has the right to offer her any comfort, only pain, because that's just who he is.

(Please, don't cry for me like this. I don't deserve your love. Please let me die already.)

When he doesn't say anything, doesn't respond to her statement, she pulls back, roughly wiping the tears away from her face before curling her fingers over his cheek. And even if it hurts, he leans into it, more out of instinct than anything. "Makoto, you don't deserve any of this. Please, don't do this to me. I beg you, please don't do this to me."

"…I'm sorry."

In the end, he couldn't bring himself to say anything more as she keeps crying until everything is gone.

When he wakes up again, he's alone.

The room is dark and cold, every appliance in the room gone dark, every light off. With nothing to stave the eerie green of the Dark Hour away, he's left in the unbreathable silence that engulfs him whole.

"To think I'd fail to kill you."

He isn't too surprised by the voice, malevolent and dark and twisted with desires far beyond what he could comprehend. He simply sits up, ignoring the aches and groans in his joints, offering the man nothing but wordlessness as he grips his unfeeling arm tight. He notices Yukari's purse on the counter, so he assumes she is here in the hospital, but probably out to do something or talk to someone.

(Or because she couldn't look at him and his darkness and his failures anymore, Makoto muses. But it's better this way. She doesn't need to see this.)

Takaya frowns, and Makoto notices Jin not too far away from him, the both of whom have their weapons of choices ready in their grasps. Then, "How did you survive?"

"…Don't know," He mumbles, turning to face the other two. Takaya whistles when the windless void grows colder in his marrows, but he ignores its sting as he looks away and at his shaking hand. "…Here to finish the job?"

"Indeed, I am," The man hums. "I've been trying to sneak in for a while, and it is quite difficult, in no small thanks to your friends vigilantly looking over you. Can they not see that you are waiting for death to be delivered?"

"Probably not," Makoto snorts, then flinches upon the pang of headache that starts to settle in again, one that grows stronger exponentially, one that makes the feeling of nails raking across his chest nothing more than an afterthought. He feels a moan rips out of him, and suppresses the rest by pushing his palm against his eye, as if it would help against the thrum of something deep and dark within him. "Do it."

"While I'd like nothing more than to enjoy our time together, I suppose I do not have that choice tonight, do I?" Takaya muses, a hand grabbing roughly at his sleeve and pulling him out of the bed, sending him sprawling on the ground once more. But the pain of the fall is subdued by the darkness that expands across his vision like the plague, and he grips his head and pulls at his hair, trying in vain to stop it from covering all of his senses.

"We should hurry, Takaya. They could come back any minute now," He hears Jin warns, and a foot connects to his stomach, making him cough and roll onto his back.

"I know, Jin," Takaya sighs, and this time, Makoto ravels at the sight of the silver barrel pointing at his head instead of anywhere else. "Then, goodnight—"

I will not allow you to kill him!

A voice that is not his own rips through his entire being, and pain blooms like fireworks, crackling across his nerves like wild sparks of thunder that rips and tears at his senses like a blood-starved beast. He cries and screams at the top of his lungs as something emerges from deep within him, tearing his head and splitting his chest open—

A primal roar resonates inside his skull, one of a monster more than a god, and he catches a glimpse of coffins and chains and hollowed eyes before another pang of pain rips through him. He chokes and cries his heart out, his body writhing uselessly as he hears sickening crunches and snaps of something hard being splintered like twigs, and when he could briefly see again—

—All that greets his vision now is the red of life being smeared across the floor, the visage of a god, of one that had torn its way through Orpheus months ago, bearing down at whatever remains of humans with oppressive air and anger that fills his core with dread and despair.

Goodnight, goodluck :P

So yeah... that just happened. It'll make sense later, I promise! See you next time, whenever that is!