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When Makishima opens his eyes, he finds himself lying in a bed.
It takes a few moments before he remembers where he is, who he is, or how he ended up there. There’s a dull ache in his head that has unfortunately grown too familiar, accompanied by how he seems to be unable to piece together a coherent thought amidst the pain. Once his eyes grow used to the bit of dim light peeking into the room from the gap between the curtains, little by little he registers that he’s in his bed in his room in his single-occupant apartment.
The next question for him to solve is, he doesn’t remember falling asleep, nor does he remember getting into bed.
Had he been drinking? Either that, or perhaps he had gotten into yet another fight with yet another shoddy set of people he had been trailing, and earned himself yet another concussion- one that was bad enough to knock some of his memories off his head, apparently.
When he attempts to move though, tries to sit up from his position on the bed, he feels an immediate stab-like pain right across his chest.
The pain comes so abruptly, that he has to support the weight of the upper half of his body with his arm, grasping tightly into the sheets under him. He tries to breathe- heave in, heave out, and every attempt amplifies the tightness on his chest that he has no other choice to lie back down. As if practiced, as if this is simply another day’s occurrence to him, he stills himself, tries to limit his own movement as much as possible, eyes drilling into the nothingness of the ceiling over his head, hoping it will soon bring his thoughts back into focus and his lungs to do what they’re supposed to do.
It takes another minute or two, but he finally feels a little more in one piece, a little more put together. Memories and thoughts start flooding back into his mind, and they bring him back to where he was earlier that day.
He had been following a lead (albeit not one that was too reliable), about a certain pair of individuals who were said to run for the next Governmental election. In most cases, topics such as political disputes and embarrassingly conspicuous corruption plots would not interest him enough to warrant a personal investigation. Inspector Tsunemori would’ve cared though, and would’ve had her oh so very capable team to look into the case. At the moment though, Makishima Shogo had little option to not care, not just because it would definitely bring forth information that would most likely be beneficial for Tsunemori and whatever it was she was scheming from inside her cozy little prison cell, but also for him to give himself a slightly better chance to come up with an even remotely viable plan to take down Sibyl himself, if that is even still possible, in his current predicament.
Much unfortunate for him, one of the said pair individuals happens to be the former reigning champion of the Humans Versus Mechanics (HVM) Championship- a competition ring enforced by the great Sibyl which has people fist-fighting robots to earn the prestigious title of champion. At one glance, it looks just like any other competitive sport, just like boxing or martial arts, and humans have always historically enjoyed watching other humans clash in a passionate match to show off their years worth of training and effort. Makishima doesn’t exclude himself from such populace, as he too, spent many years training to be stronger, faster, enough to take down whoever gets in his way should it come to it, and he does (or used to, at least) enjoy watching a bit of sports every now and then.
But nothing would ever be as simple and clean-cut when the Oracle was involved, would it? Naturally, the prime, almost god-like existence called the Sibyl system would not allow something so normal and human to be how it was meant to be; a one-to-one contest with nothing but the contestant’s will and skills, skin-to-skin, fist-to-fist, a combat of pure, raw, unfiltered strength in claiming the throne. No, Sibyl once again had to make its godly, absolute power known to the citizens. You simply cannot win the championship with hard work and determination, no, you simply do not have a chance unless you’re doped up by a dedicated pharmaceutical company you’d most likely never heard of in your life, assigned by Sibyl, of course, and even with that, your chances would still be low to nil unless you were genetically designed before you were even born to become a combat athlete.
It’s wrong, it’s inhumane. It’s perverse.
It’s disgusting.
But of course, just like everything else in Makishima Shogo’s life, it doesn’t matter what he thinks of it. All he has is facts, cold hard facts that will not betray him, and the fact he has in hand at the moment is that the former champion of the H.M.V. is planning to round his gears up and have a go at the Governmental election.
Funny, Makishima thinks, that some people still think it will matter, that human voices and actions still matter, when at the end of the day, nothing one does will ever overturn what the great Sibyl decides for them--
He stops himself.
Pathetic. He feels pathetic. Every now and then he catches himself slipping down a slippery slope, and for a few, short moments, he finds himself utterly believing that there is, genuinely, no winning against the system.
At times like these, he almost misses the person he was, eight years ago, when he used to believe in a chance of a better world, when he used to put his own life, body and soul, for that sole, very purpose, before he had grown tired of that very world, before Kougami Shinya killed him and failed…
Kougami Shinya…
Kougami Shinya would look down at this current miserable state of his and scoff in disgust, possibly laughing at himself for ever thinking Makishima Shogo was a threat. Tsunemori Akane would, perhaps, throw him a fleeting look of pity, a slightly kinder gesture on the surface, far more cruel in reality, before she would also turn away, because he was no longer of use to her.
And he would deserve every single second of it.
He hears the door to his room creak open and it’s almost enough to make him flinch, suddenly disrupted from his self-pitying session. For a moment, he’d almost forgotten about the dull pain on his head and the heavy sensation on his chest, and he’s almost halfway out of his bed by instinct, to fight or defend himself, depending on who the intruder is.
He can feel his heart skip a beat and suddenly his chest hurts again, when he sees Kougami Shinya walk through the door, a characteristic frown already on his face when he finds Makishima already one foot out of his bed.
“You can go back to bed now,” Kougami sighs, approaching the bed in leisurely steps, though it doesn’t seem to help Makishima lower his guard down. The former notices it and throws Makishima a judgmental look. “What, you want to fight me? In that state?”
Of course Makishima knows, that if he is to fight Kougami right then right now when he can’t even take one, long proper breath without feeling like his lungs are about to collapse, he will put up the shortest, most humiliating fight of all times. As much as his self-pity would probably enjoy that, he decides to spare himself from even more pain for the moment, and finally sits back down on the bed.
Kougami seems oddly satisfied with the gesture, and walks to the side of the bed, putting down a glass of water and a small bowl of soup on the small bedside table.
“Eat something,” it sounds more like a command than anything. “It’ll help. I had to run to the store to make something even remotely edible, you know? That fridge of yours gets more and more pathetic every day. How are you still alive?”
It almost sounds like Kougami cares, as if he would not be the first one to throw his fists in the air and celebrate if Makishima croaked and died right at that moment. Kougami Shinya does not care about him, or his well-being, or his stupid fridge, he reminds himself. Information is what he needs and Makishima just happens to be one of his most important sources of information for the time being. So Kougami can’t afford to let him die just yet. At least for the time being, he reminds himself, again.
“I told you to come over by 8 PM.” Makishima then remembers he had sent Kougami a text earlier that day, yet his response comes more direct, harsher than he probably intended. He’s tired and in pain and the inside of his head is noisy and he can’t pull himself together enough to put on a show. “You shouldn’t make it a habit to make yourself comfortable here.”
Does he really mind? Makishima asks himself. If he were to be honest, he would probably not mind the company so much. Kougami mostly kept to himself and when he did decide to speak, he made quite the interesting conversation partner. At times, Makishima finds himself hoping he could have an opportunity to speak with the man more leisurely- not about potential corruptions or money laundering or international-scale frauds, but about the weather and newly-released books and the days and cultures Kougami had seen outside the filthy, filthy Sibyl-governed Japan.
He knows, though, he knows very well that those were not meant for him. Those were meant for his family and friends at the Bureau, at the Ministry. Those were meant for people like Tsunemori Akane and Ginoza Nobuchika who’d always looked at him with warmth and respect, whom Kougami had looked back at with fondness and care.
He doesn’t belong anywhere near that warmth, near him.
He’s simply a pawn, not even enough to be the criminal mastermind they all once feared and looked out for. A pawn. Nothing more, nothing less.
He realizes, amidst the brief silence, that Kougami is looking at him, shooting a look that’s not enough to be a frown, more like puzzled, laced with barely concealed concern.
“... It’s almost midnight, Makishima.”
Makishima throws him almost an identical look, words escaping his lips.
“..... Oh.”
“Yeah.” Kougami sighs again, crossing his arms and leans his back against the wall next to the bedside table. “I came at around eight, just like you asked, and you were passed out cold on the couch.”
“Oh…” Makishima repeats, unable to think of a more creative comeback.
Both men momentarily remain silent, as if each is waiting for the other to speak. When the silence continues, it’s Kougami who decides to break it, and he sounds even less pleased than before.
“... I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into this time…” Makishima doesn’t even need to look at Kougami to know the latter’s frown is back between his brows. “But you’ve really got to take better care of your wounds. One sad little ice pack won’t do shit on a nasty bruise right on the chest like that.”
“... I know.” Makishima replies, quickly, as if he hadn’t given the response any thought, as if he knew he didn’t need to.
“Thanks for the help. I’ll take care of it from here. Anyway…” He shifts from where he sits on the bed, propping himself up to a more proper posture as he finally wills himself to look at Kougami again. “Hyper Transport. What you came here for.”
“Eat first.” Kougami shrugs in response, though the commanding tone in his voice hasn’t gone away. “I’m not in a rush. We’ve got all night.”
“The sooner I tell you what I know, the sooner you can leave.”
“You’re kicking me out? Heh.” As if making his point, Kougami takes one easy stroll before sitting down on the side of the bed, turning his head just enough to make direct eye contact with the pale-haired man; a challenge. “That’s unusual.”
“What is unusual is you acting as if you actually want to be here, Kougami Shinya.”
“I didn’t take you as someone who’d make a fuss out of something so trivial.” Kougami responds, as quick as following it up with a dismissive shrug.
Makishima though, clearly, for one reason or another, isn’t quite in his usual mood for witty comebacks. In fact, to Kougami’s surprise, the man almost seems disinterested in getting under his skin, like he usually loves to do more than anything.
He almost, almost looks genuinely distressed, and Kougami isn’t sure if he could attribute it to his injuries or exhaustion.
“... Well you don’t know me at all, do you? All you’ve ever wanted was to kill me.”
There’s some truth in that, Kougami admits. His years and years of desperate trailing over Makishima’s next to non-existent footsteps, zero trace in society and countless days and nights of pondering and pondering that perhaps he may have gone absolutely insane hadn’t told him much at all about who Makishima Shogo was. He was equally a sadist as much as he was lonely, equally a blood-craving maniac as much as he was a dramatic with a little too much penchant for literature, and equally quick on his feet and fists as much as he was emotionless; as if looking right into his eyes was like opening a brand new book and finding no words were written on the pages.
There was one time Kougami thought he saw real, raw emotions coming out from the man though, and that was when the barrel of Kougami’s gun was pointed right at the back of his head. Even when he couldn’t see his face, that was, perhaps, the only time he felt, heard, emotions seeping out from Makishima Shogo, gave him the briefest momentary realization that Makishima Shogo may have just been another human; flesh and blood just like him.
His finger was already on the trigger though, and the shot already rang in his ears when he came to that conclusion.
It was too late.
At least, he thought it was, for the last eight years.
And now the very man he thought may have been a human, at his very last moments, was sitting on the bed, all pale skin and hurt a little too obvious in golden eyes that had turned dull, like pieces of gemstones that had gone unpolished for too long.
Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps Kougami does know nothing about Makishima Shogo.
“... I thought we’ve established that I’m not out to kill you at the moment.” Kougami finally decides to retort. Truly, he wasn’t expecting to get into an argument with the other man when he walked in the apartment. At least, not about whatever it is in Makishima’s mind that’s currently plaguing him- whatever it is that’s definitely not Hyper Transport or the some type of illegal money lending that he claimed the company was involved in.
Whatever it is, Kougami isn’t exactly interested to know about the details (not that Makishima will tell him if he asks), but the hours are late and he’s also had a long day of chasing dead leads and going through stacks of paperwork, and truly, even he isn’t in the mood to antagonize Makishima just for the hell of it (it’s a game he knows he’ll lose, or at the very least, he’ll be the one ending up exhausted in and out or it may just piss off the both of them enough that it leads to another physical altercation).
Yeah, he isn’t in the mood for it.
“But if you’re so eager to have me leave, then I’ll do just that for now.” Instead, Kougami settles with it, the most pragmatic course of action he can take, given the circumstances, or so he thinks. “Get some rest and clear your head. I’ll come back tomorrow morning.”
He stands up, and he half expects Makishima to tell him to do exactly that. But instead, what he finds is the latter averting his gaze from him, to a distant spot somewhere on the wall in the opposite of where he sits. There’s an odd look in those yellow orbs of his, as if he’s thinking of anything and everything, yet shutting down at the same time. Almost as if, suddenly, Kougami isn’t even in the room with him, and Kougami isn’t sure if it’s a dismissal or Makishima’s changed his mind and this is some form of a silent invitation to stay.
“... You dressed up my wound?”
It’s what Kougami next hears coming from his companion. He supposes, perhaps, Makishima does want him to stay after all.
He sighs, and hopes whatever it was that took Makishima on a tantrum was short-lived and will not make a comeback for the rest of the night.
“You made it clear you’re awfully terrible at looking after yourself.” Kougami wonders if the other will throw him some kind of rebuttal at the accusation, but seeing Makishima not even try, he then wonders if he’d also expected it. “I just made do with whatever you had lying around, which wasn’t much, honestly… You might want to get that checked out when you can.”
At this point, he says it more as a courtesy, because he already knows that Makishima will never bother to get his injuries checked by a professional. He continues to wonder for a brief moment though, if Makishima even has that option available to him. He supposes he can’t afford to go to an actual hospital, lest he’ll get scanned and the Bureau will immediately get alerted of his whereabouts. Has he been dealing with back alleyway doctors in these past years then? That would explain a lot of his current behavior….
He has to stop himself. He isn’t sure why he’s trying to look deep into Makishima’s antics, and what his life has been like out here. It shouldn’t be his business. It really shouldn’t.
“How much did you see?”
Kougami’s brows raise involuntarily at the unexpected question. He expected Makishima to gift him a half-hearted thank you. Either that, or that the man would completely switch gears and dive right back into talking about Hyper Transport. It came so unexpectedly that Kougami has to think of what Makishima could actually mean by that.
He comes to a conclusion that he’s almost certain about, though with a price of certain things once again failing to add up to what he had always profiled Makishima Shogo to be.
“... I didn’t think about it much, the bruises on your chest were, frankly, horrible enough that I almost didn’t think about anything else.” He’s not lying when he says that, not completely, he’s had more than enough experience to know that sort of bruising and swelling would not come from a street brawl with a bunch of amateur thugs. No, those were precise, meticulously targeted to hurt and knock the opponent down. If Kougami had to guess, it’s even possible that the other party could’ve been a professional fighter- some kind of a martial artist or a boxer, and there were possibly more than one of them.
It brings him back to the question, who on earth was Makishima fighting this time?
“I’ll pay homage to our little game, and give you an answer for an answer.”
Once again, it is as if Makishima is still the hallucination in his head, the manifestation of all his internal thoughts and worries and crooked desires, the shadow that followed him in his lonesome that had grudgingly become a part of him without him realizing- as if he still lives in his head and heart and knows exactly what he’s thinking and feeling.
But this Makishima Shogo is real, he has to remind himself. This Makishima Shogo is flesh and blood, no matter how battered and utterly exhausted he looks. This isn’t the idealized version of Makishima he had in his head, that would cause others no harm, that would cause no one but Kougami anguish- anguish that Kougami truly deserved.
“I was following another lead to a certain, former champion of the HVM.” Makishima continues, ignoring the conflict within Kougami that’s a little too obvious from the way his brows furrow and the corner of his mouth tighten. “I got myself into a bit of a trouble when I unfortunately ran into his bodyguards on my way out.”
That answers Kougami’s question, and he, once again, has to remind himself that what Makishima chooses to investigate is not, should not be his business. If he ever comes up with something worthwhile, he will come to Kougami, just as much he will report it to Tsunemori. That’s how it has been, that’s what Kougami chooses to believe, at least for now.
Yet, in the back of his mind, there’s the tiniest voice he tries to ignore, that voices the wish for the pale-haired man to be a little more careful, a little more mindful of himself, when venturing into these territories.
‘Ignore it,’ he tells himself, repeats it again and again. ‘It’s not your business.’
“I’m certain I’m on to something, but I will inform you when I do have something solid to present, as always.”
‘As always,’ Kougami repeats in his mind. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
Makishima then looks at him, meets him right in the eyes this time, waiting, expecting. Kougami knows he wants an answer, for some odd reason that Kougami can’t fully comprehend just yet, and it’s obvious that if he notices Kougami still anxiously running thoughts in his mind, he has no interest in probing into it.
Almost as if, in the short span of minutes, he had closed off whatever emotions that were threatening to burst out any second, that almost pushed him into an almost childish tantrum. Kougami finds the lack of emotions in the man’s response even more unsettling.
“... I saw two prominent scars that are similar to your--”
Kougami stops as soon as he starts, he realizes he hasn’t thought of how he should word it.
Makishima though, in contrast to the way he insists for an answer, seems to not care in the slightest.
“My head wound.” he offers, making it a little easier for the other man. Kougami tries not to stare right after Makishima says it, but does notice the way the said wound peek out from under pure white fringes, every time Makishima moves his head into specific angles.
“... Yes.” Kougami nods. “One spanning down the middle of your chest.”
“And the other?”
Kougami wonders if this is another sick game of his, as he runs through multiple, possible explanations on why Makishima would be so interested in hearing him describe the gory details of the past wounds Kougami had seen across his body. Some kind of twisted voyeurism? Does it give Makishima some depraved sense of satisfaction to know that Kougami has glimpsed into marred skin and protruding bones? Does it feed his perversion to know that Kougami has laid hands on those same skin and bones?
It would’ve been easy, if it were the case; a classic profile of a deranged narcissistic, and it would’ve fit Kougami’s profile of Makishima Shogo- if only it were true, if only this was eight years ago.
“... The one on your left chest.” Kougami says, then pauses, re-thinks it again before realizing there is simply no other way to say it. “The one I gave you.”
Makishima is still looking at him, and Kougami could swear he could see the more familiar glint resurfacing in those dull eyes, as if those were exactly the words he wanted to hear, as if the confirmation brought him the strangest sense of joy, and just like that, once again Kougami loses track of who Makishima Shogo is supposed to be.
“That’s right.” Makishima says, in return, the tightness in his voice is slowly dissipating and somehow, somehow, he sounds a little more relaxed.
Slowly, he leans towards one side of the bed, and reaches out for the bowl of soup that Kougami had left there. He gingerly picks the bowl up, briefly examining the content, and looks mildly pleased.
“I’ll have this, then.”
“... You want me to warm it up?”
Kougami offers, clearly still a little bewildered over the unusual exchange they just had. Is Makishima going to just move on from that conversation, as if it never happened?
“No need,” he replies, as he takes the spoon from the table and tastes a good spoonful of the soup. He tilts his head a few times, left, right, left, and it seems he decides the taste is to his liking. “You cook pretty good.”
“... ‘s nothing.” Kougami murmurs, contemplates if he should voice his dissatisfaction, if it’s even worth it.
Makishima doesn’t offer more commentary after that, and chooses to savor the soup leisurely, humming in quiet delight every now and then.
After a few minutes of silence, Kougami decides he should take it as another invitation.
“... You said your body didn’t survive, out there in the wheat field.”
“That I did.” Makishima replies, the content in his voice unchanging.
“... Yet that scar…” He pauses himself, thinks again. “This can only be the same body as that day.”
“My heart and lungs may have been replaced, and my brain may have been taken out, turned inside out, poked and probed from every angle possible before it was crammed back in there.” He says it so easily as he swallows another spoonful of soup, so easily, as if the image isn’t making Kougami’s stomach turn. “But you’re correct. On the outside, at least, it’s the same body.”
Perhaps Kougami brought it to himself, but he’s slowly realizing that he’s not quite enjoying talking about Makishima’s body as if it’s some kind of a fixer-upper drone that can always be taken apart and put back together as one pleases, even if Makishima doesn’t seem to mind.
“You should’ve killed me, Kougami Shinya.”
Once again, he says it so, so easily, as if every word, every syllable isn’t giving Kougami an unpleasant tightness in his throat, as if he’s strangling, choking him, as if, somehow, it was his fault that Makishima Shogo is still alive, as if he was the one who messed up, and this is the ghost of his past mistake coming back to haunt him, and it’s no longer a hallucination that he can simply close his eyes and turn away from. As if he’s the bad person for not killing him.
As if he could’ve known. Makishima Shogo should’ve died that day, on his feet, in that wheat field. He should’ve died as the gunshot rang loudly in his ears and the sun fell over their heads. He should’ve died as the light of the day sunk and the horizon turned a painful, mourning shade of violet. He should’ve died. Kougami had all the intention to let him bleed and die beneath him. He should’ve died. He should’ve.
He didn’t die.
“Perhaps this is a just punishment,” Makishima says, the way his voice, his face, remains monotonous as always, as emotionless as always, the way he reminds Kougami so much of the Makishima Shogo from eight years ago makes his skin crawl and turns the tightness in his throat unbearable.
Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe.
“Perhaps it’s some kind of divine intervention, so that we could once again meet and you could have the satisfaction of watching me suffer. And for me to have no choice but to live with the grotesque reminder of who I used to be, of what I’m left with now.”
Makishima laughs, a laugh so carefree, it’s almost serene, and it makes Kougami want to throw up.
The pale man puts the bowl back on the table, and he looks at Kougami once more, smile plastered on his lips.
“But you can still fix it, Kougami Shinya.”
Kougami tries to hold his stare, tries to show Makishima that this is but something from the past, that this doesn’t matter, that he cannot taunt him.
…..He stops himself, again.
It’s not just something from the past, is it?
He does want Makishima Shogo dead, does he not?
“You don’t need me,” Makishima once again, ignores Kougami’s apparent internal struggles and continues as he pleases, as he does, as he always does. “Nor does Inspector Tsunemori need me. You have a wealthy source of information and connections in your disposal. Even if I’m not here, you’ll easily find a bunch of desperate nobodies who’d sell you any information with the right price.”
He’s right. He hates when Makishima is right.
“The only reason I’m still alive is because this is both your and Tsunemori’s way to punish me, to watch me scramble for my life on the edge of depravity like I’m nothing but an insect. Because that’s what I deserve. Because that’s what you think fits me.”
Kougami opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again, he has a rebuttal, a defense, he has to, because that can’t be right, that can’t be who he and Tsunemori are, can it?
… Can it?
“... It’s alright, though.” Makishima’s dismissal comes almost as fast as his accusation, and Kougami can’t tell if it makes anything even remotely better. “I would have done the same, if the roles were reserved. As much as humans wish to believe they are in the right, and that they are inherently good , there’s a seed of evil in each of us, and we can’t always control how much it will grow and consume us. Humans, in their rawest nature, gain a sense of satisfaction in believing they are better off than others. Schadenfreude .”
Makishima’s smile grows, just a little bit, and it looks so genuine it’s making Kougami sick. He closes his eyes, puts his hand over his chest- heart- over the scar Kougami knows is there under his shirt, because of course he knows, he was the one who put it there- a permanent mark that never left, that came back to haunt him, that will also plague Makishima Shogo to his grave.
“You can kill me, right here, right now, but you won’t. I know you won’t. I shall continue playing this game, and I hope it makes you feel a little better, makes your heart feel a little lighter. Knowing that fulfills my purpose.”
“Makishima…”
Truly, Kougami thinks, what is there for him to say? That he’s wrong? That he doesn’t, in fact, wish to see Makishima suffer, to pay for all the heinous deeds he did in the past? Is this not exactly what he wanted, to see him struggle for his life, wishing he were dead, wishing everything was over? That would be too easy, would it not? Why should he give Makishima Shogo a choice, when he had given so many people none? Sasayama Mitsuru did not wish to die, yet he had no choice, did he? Nor did Funahara Yuki, nor did Masaoka Tomomi.
This is exactly, exactly what Makishima Shogo deserves.
Perhaps, in one way or another, Kougami Shinya had turned weak over the years; too soft and pliant, too used to the gentle voice talking in his ears, wishing for him to live, reminding him to stay true to himself, to not fall to evil, to not become like him …
It haunts him, rings in his head like the gunshot over a sea of wheat, feels sticky and unpleasant and gross in his skin like the blood under the sole of his shoes.
This is who he is, after all…
Makishima hands him a piece of paper, and it’s just then Kougami realizes he’s been too occupied with his own thoughts, and that his heart is racing way too fast that its beats ring in his ears. He hasn’t even noticed, until then, that cold sweat is trailing down the back of his neck, its touch chilly and unwelcome and serves no help in calming his frantic state.
“One week from now,” Makishima says, tone calm and untouched, once again, as if none of the words exchanged ever happened, once again, as if they were just two men conducting a business transaction, proper the way it should be. “Two new Inspectors will be joining Division One. The date coincides with a transport drone scheduled to land, carrying immigrant passengers as well as cargo. It’s the biggest transport drone ever made in Japan, so it ought to attract curious citizens and it will be broadcasted live everywhere on social media.”
Seeing that his companion isn’t showing signs to respond, Makishima puts down the paper on the bed next to where Kougami is sitting, and continues.
“A big shot from the Finance Department of Hyper Transport will be on board this transport drone, so I want you to pay close attention to this event, from when it lands until disembarkment is complete. I advise trailing the man too, if your resource allows.”
‘Resource allows,’ as if Makishima doesn’t know whatever information Kougami gathers from him is supposed to be under the table, that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is not supposed to catch wind of their reunion, that Kougami is taking leads from the man currently at the top of Sibyl’s hit list.
Toying with him, at a time like this? After all that he said to him? After everything?
Is he toying with him? Is he even supposed to believe him now? Is this bogus lead crafted only to put Kougami in trouble?
He glances at Makishima, whose eyes are still fixated on him, unchanging, still, drilling holes into his head, and for once ever since their accursed, blasphemous, abominable reunion that was despicably tied by fate, Kougami feels genuine fear- an unexplainable fear that makes his blood run cold and his fingertips numb.
Makishima Shogo is not going to hurt him, he has no reason to, nothing about the man sitting across him right now tells him that he’s in danger.
And yet…
And yet…….
Kougami grabs the piece of paper, crumples it in his fist as he quickly stands up, lest the chill in his blood take over and he starts freezing in his place, all in his broken, incongruous glory, for Makishima’s eyes to savor.
He’s sure Makishima will find it beautiful.
His steps take him out from the room much faster than he anticipates, and he feels Makishima’s gaze following him right until the door slams behind his back. He breathes, he can breathe now, just a little, as if he’s held his breath all this time, and his chest hurts and he feels sicker by the minute.
Perhaps, this is the punishment he deserves. For killing Makishima Shogo and dared to seek him out in his dreams when he closed his eyes at night. For cursing at and spitting on Makishima Shogo’s grave- the grave that he’d never seen, the grave that he didn’t know if it even existed, and still relished in the comfort of knowing that he’d never be truly alone. For telling himself, over and over again, that the world was a better place because Makishima Shogo was dead, because he’d killed him, only to chase the touch of his ghostly fingers and to hear low hums of lullabies, every time he’d gotten himself too deep into a fight, in war and combat, every time he laid on his deathbed.
Perhaps this is the just punishment for someone so full of hypocrisy, for someone so depraved, for a liar like him. Perhaps he deserves every second of it.
He pushes his back against the old wooden door- the only surface separating him from Makishima, no longer unbreakable, no longer as wide as oceans or as surreal as realms of the living and the dead.
He slides down, sits on the floor and buries his face into his knees. He feels like a little boy again, just like how he’d feel when his mom would scold him for skipping on chores and put him in timeout. He hasn’t felt that way for at least a good twenty five years and the reminder hurts.
A part of him entertains the idea of breaking back into that room, to put his hands around Makishima’s neck and squeeze, squeeze and squeeze until Makishima returns into nothing but a pleasant dream in his slumbers. A part of him thinks of a world where he breaks back into that room, and tells Makishima that he’s got all of it wrong, and that he should take better care of himself, and that he better finish the goddamn soup.
He doesn’t know anymore.
And perhaps fate is as kind to Makishima Shogo as much as it is to Kougami Shinya.