── We had some good times didn’t we? ♡‧₊ ⸝⸝
.✦ What of yours do they find after your death? ˎˊ˗
♡.ᐟ Characters: Kento, Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, Toji, Sukuna
☽☾ Fem. Reader intended ☽☾ angst ☽☾ hurt/no comfort ☽☾ major character death ☽☾ talks of self harm, depression, death, suicide ☽☾ a little graphic in imagery ☽☾
𝒦ento
Kento found your journals, your diaries, your unfinished drafts and book manuscripts you had wanted to finish writing and publish.
You had a special place in your room for them, a shrine dedicated — bedazzled and crowned, cherished like he had cherished you.
Now that he held them in his arms, they felt so light.
The pages had lost their shine, the words felt subdued, the covers looked bland. Cold to touch and lifeless. Like you had been in his arms—
He flipped through the pages, they were coarse on his fingertips, unlike your skin. Did you find them rough too, Kento wondered. He wished he could ask you one more time.
Kento was greedy, he wished for so many things. So many things for one last time.
The words were on the pages. In your variety of handwriting. Some fancy cursive looping that said you had taken your time writing them down, some in quick scrawls that said you had been preoccupied. His name popped up often in them, and why would it not? It was you who had written them, after all. More often than not, he saw the letters: K, E, N, T, O, surrounded with little hearts. All in reds. Sometimes glittery, occasionally maroon, few burgundies, random carmines.
Reds.
They bled the same shade you had drowned the bathtub in when he had found you. Bleeding out your precious ichor in the stingy white of the tub. He had seen the slashes on your arms, held you and cleaned them — but this time he had been far too late.
Maybe he had been ignorant too. Maybe he hadn’t seen it, like he hadn’t seen you past the mosaic blur of his tears clouding his sight to the sight of your body.
He had been too late.
Kento; another entry started with that word. Some loving combination you had carved out for him from your own being, and just the mere sight of that pedestal had him crumbling to the floor of the bedroom.
It felt so vast today, so humongous, so endless. How could he ever live here anymore without having you to hold his hand and you to hold him?
Kento’s shoulder shook as he thumbed through the diaries and journals and loose sheets of pages you wrote on. The ink bled because his tears fell on them and broke the restraint that held them on paper and from coming to life. But here he was, sobbing and begging you to come back, back to life in his arms, and your ink was bleeding on the tatami just as stark as you had been bleeding in Kento’s arms.
For the last time.
𝒮atoru
Satoru found your clothes.
Or rather, your clothes found him. Peeking from the closet. Not that he could avoid them, what with the closet being a shared space that had witnessed your combined debauchery on numerous occasions.
They had always felt warm to him. Warm on his back, when you had him pinned to the racks, your hands fisting his shirt, and his arms around your waist. Or warm when he would take them off you.
It was your cursed technique, you always argue — You always used to argue. Heat and temperature, and hot fire thrummed in your veins. But Satoru used to argue back. That it wasn’t just that. It was the sheer life running with the heady blood in your veins.
Now when he held the fabric — cottons, silk, nylon, wool — they were so cold.
He wanted to put them on you, to shake you and wake you up and tell you to don these clothes and give him a show because he wanted to see you decked out in colours he had picked for you because he knew you’d look gorgeous in them. It didn’t matter how you looked at that moment. You could be half asleep, drooling on his chest while he cuddled you, and you’d look divine. You could be knee deep in cursed corpses, blood on your hands and half-singed uniform and Satoru would still kneel to your beauty.
He would tell you that you were just as gorgeous even now, even lifeless, even silent and cold to his touch. Cold that you hated and held him stubbornly to remove. Cold that you said came from his infinity but really, he never needed that around you, so why complain? But he would never fight you on that. How could he? Why should he, rather, if he had been awarded with another proximity from you? How could he do anything but greedily covet that. So he would let you twist and turn him into a malleable couch, and settle close to him, arms interlocked while he stared at his favourite girl, looking positively angelic in his arms.
Shame that he could not tell you that right now.
With your body in the morgue and his last goodbye’s given away.
Satoru limped against your closet, burying his face into your clothes, drinking in the dying heat, as his tears drenched the precious fabric shamelessly.
Even on your deathbed, you looked exquisite to Satoru.
𝒮uguru
You always called him the connoisseur of brilliant scents.
Ironic, really.
Ironic that Suguru would have to come home to a scent that was floating away. Flickering out and snuffing away because he had been callous with the privilege.
Privilege of your company, privilege of your existence, your fragility.
One moment you had been beside him, filling his senses with the fragrance of lavender, roses, spices, life.
And the next moment… you were gone.
Gone like the wind that had knocked past him when Haibara and Kento told him — about the blasted mission, about how it has gone wrong, about the misevaluated curse, gone, gone, gone — gone like the anchor when Shoko had left his side to clean up your corpse, to give it this final respect in the parting, gone like the sanity when Satoru had got up to give Suguru the space he obviously needed.
But how could that space be anything but maddening if you were the foci he was orbiting around. You, who kept him grounded, you and his friends. But, how could he—
And then the scents were fading. From your room, from your closet, from your books, from your clothes.
It hadn’t even been a week.
Suguru stole your perfume bottles. He didn’t mind if people thought he was a creep for that. Nor did he care that he was losing it steadily. He should probably get help.
But then again, you never thought it prudent enough to ask for someone’s help in the mission, even if it meant you’d sacrifice your own body. So why should he?
He was never the bigger person of you two.
So, Suguru stole the bottles. Crystalline and embedded with shallow phrases, one that never encompassed his feelings for you. And he doused his entire room in it.
He didn’t care about the incoming throbbing headache. All he wanted was you back.
On his bed, on his sheets, among his clothes, on the shelves, on the torn pages, in between the commas, and the semi-colons — he wanted you back.
But Suguru had always been cursed, hadn’t he?
So, in his room, Suguru stayed hidden, drowning in a scent that would wither away too, just like you had.
𝒮hoko
Dr. Ieiri hadn’t been one for the philosophies of life. That had been her best friend’s job. To ponder on the miseries and agonies of life. Shoko always thought that beyond the pain, life was actually beautiful. If you had someone worth making it beautiful.
Well, someone alive who was worth making life beautiful.
After all, if you were dead and decaying on the operating table Shoko worked on… that wouldn’t be quite fair to life, no?
When you had been cremated, and crowned away in the graveyard, Shoko found your medicines.
It was mundane. The meds that didn’t harm you, but humanely, you needed to carry on with your life. Sometimes iron supplements, maybe some hormone balance pills, could be vitamins, a nutrient addition. It was all so human.
And she hated it.
Hated the bare sight of things that showed that you were just like every other person she had lost. Stowed away six feet under, even in all your ingenuity you were very mundane, very human, very normal, very alive — until you were not. Until your bones snapped, and your blood vessels burst. Until you became one with the thing that made you human. Death.
She wanted you to be invincible. Powerful. She held the tablets and crushed them and turned them into this poisonous blend as she cursed your humanity. Why couldn’t you have been like Satoru? Or Suguru, if being The Honoured One had been too much? Why couldn’t you have been someone the stupid curses couldn’t even touch? Why couldn’t you have been someone larger than life and the personification of forever?
Did you not know that she hated watching the people she shed her heart on die like the corpses she worked on?
Shoko poured the mixture in a tall glass of beer, and lit a cigarette to pop it between her lips. When the cocktail of pharmaceutical poison was done, she poured it down the drain.
Did that hurt, she wondered? Did you watch it from up there and lash at her for wasting precious supplements? Because Shoko felt the sting, aching and biting in her chest — maybe it was her heart. Oh, it hurts so bad. Sobs poured out of her.
Maybe once upon a time she could’ve counted her friends to comfort her… but traitors, the whole lot of them, for they had left her to join you in your death.
𝒯oji
Shiu told him, because he had been busy getting you flowers.
The same lilies crumbled under his feet as he ran to the hospital. To the news he refused to believe until he saw your face and —
Oh.
He saw it then, with the tears on little Tsumiki’s face, and baby Gumi’s confused wailing. And you. His angel. His silent angel.
Could angels die?
Toji wondered if he had ever asked his mother that. Could an angel die, mum? Could an angel die — he wanted to ask you but.
Back home, the walls taunted him. Fading with chipping away paints — the hostility floated in the settling flakes of whites, yelling at him for his stupidity. But he has promised you that he’d be good. That he’d take care of you, and his kids with honesty, and care. He’d abandon his bad habits, leave the bottle, throw away the old deadly contacts to live frugally, but really live.
He hadn’t expected a roadblock in the way. And seemingly, it turned out to be a mountain.
How was the dishonoured sorcerer killer supposed to brave this height? How was he supposed to shake this insurmountable peak when he was shaking himself?
You left him with bills.
Not unpaid, but rather, paid in full.
Bills after bills, loans paid, debts covered, nothing due. Was the exhaustion of this that killed you? Not even the hospital charges were left for him to cover. You had all of it done and cleared.
What was left for Toji then? You were gone, your sight was gone, your sounds were gone, your touch was gone, your taste, your scent — all gone.
What was Toji supposed to do?
𝒮ukuna
They said that the King never had a scarcity of anything. He had everything, the formidable King of Curses.
Fools, he’d say. He’d tell you while he touched your face, cradled them in his palm, and hoped that you wouldn’t be repulsed by the stench of lives he had taken coming from them. And then you’d comfort him, like he was a dog — maybe he was. Maybe he truly was meant to be a disciple at your feet.
That would explain why he was clutching your jewels in his far too big palms. Palms that had held you, now held your bloodied crystals and metals. Carved out of golds and silver and platinums in your weight so that he could bejewel you in them.
But here, there was the object; not the deity who deserved that.
Like a dog, too, Sukuna had been too greedy, too demanding.
And like a dog, yet again, he had been too wrapped up in the pleasures of your company that he forgot that he had enemies.
Sorcerers, enemy nations, kingdoms, and people out for blood. And fools — bastards, rather — who’d go not for him, but for his bleak sensitive spot, his jugular and aim at you. He’d win, always. Fight away the silly cretins with a single swish of his finger, but Ryomen Sukuna had gotten soft, you see.
You had dulled his edges, made him yearn not for a bloody battle, but for the taste of your skin on his tongue, and the touch of your jewels, your haori, your face on the tips of his fingers.
So here he was, watered down to a version he was afraid he did not hate as much. But that hatred was returning, because his vision remained clouded with your dead eyes, bloodied lips and limp body. Your hair streaked in blood. Blood, no one had the right to spill, not even him.
Sukuna begged apologies to your cold body, clutching it desperately and screaming out prayers to a god that didn’t exist. And when he knew the answer would never come, and your death would not be a cruel joke, he packed your accessories. Your hair pins, necklace, earrings, bracelets and gripped it so tightly it cut into his skin.
Perhaps it wasn’t too late for a massacre.
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