Chapter Text
“It wasn’t your fault,” Takumi says.
”Nozomi and he… it can’t be…” Takumi says.
”I’m just glad we can bring you back, man…” Takumi says.
”Blaming yourself won’t accomplish anything,” Takumi says.
”We’ll work on the headstone… you rest for now,” Takumi says.
”We miss him too, but…” Takumi says.
”You made the right choice… a-absorbing his hemoanima,” Takumi says.
”He was an honorable man… He’s made a lot of sacrifices for us in the past…” Takumi says.
”I know it haunts you Aotsuki, but,” Takumi says.
”Sumino would’ve wanted you to use his power to go forward and survive,” Takumi says.
They all speak at Eito. Every single one speaks at him, grieving Takumi’s death at him. He doesn’t care about their disconsolate symphony. Everything they say is complete and utter nonsense— he has no grief, he doesn’t miss him, in fact, Eito can’t seem to escape him. Eito thought he died too, honestly. Humans dressed in black surround Eito as he lays broken and bleeding out in the dust, like he’s attending his own wake. If that’s what he gets for daring to take his chances offing the Takumi Sumino, then so be it. It’s not the first time Eito’s vividly imagined his own demise. The problem is, they’re human. Their voices are saccharine against his ears that have only ever beheld hideous, eldritch screams. Their grip on his body feels normal, not slimy and grotesque, but firm and helpful. Everywhere he looks with his blurry, bloody eyes, he sees the same redheaded boy. But one won’t look at him.
Twelve Takumis gather around him and two bodies lie lifelessly off in the distance— one intact, one drained and husk-like. No… there’s one more. Eito can see him in his mind’s eye. Through the fog of other Takumis, surrounding him like vultures come to pick his corpse clean, he can see a figure with his back turned to Eito. It looms over the corpses on the ground, back hunched in grief. The edges of it fray and glow, like the souls tucked into the armored pocket in their chests. He shines like a beacon, an abandoned lighthouse luring Eito’s broken vessel, drawing him in. The thirteenth Takumi.
The Takumi who was unnervingly kind to him. The Takumi who was patient with him, since day one. The Takumi who he slit the throat of, whose blood rushed into his veins, who he reveled in the bloody death of. Who said he knew Eito, right before he died. The real Takumi Sumino.
Eito’s head swims in a languid, primordial sea. He vaguely feels himself be lifted, picked at, bandaged, carried, cradled; he has no idea what this touch could be. Words fail him for the first time he can remember. A human being has never touched him before. There have never been human beings before. And now there are twelve, like God has taken every single rib from one side of Eito’s body and planted them in the garden of Eden. Eito has seen the birth of the human race with his own righteous eyes. This must be a divine revelation, he thinks hazily, blood loss starting to take over. He remembers praying for a moment like this.
He’s losing him. The ghost of Takumi with his back turned— the funeral march is leaving him behind. Eito tries to open his mouth to stop the mourners moving him further and further away, but nothing comes out. He can’t move. He feels like he’s being buried alive— body broken, air sucked from his lungs, clawing at the lid of his own coffin, begging Takumi to let him out. He's scared. He doesn't want to be alone. Eito yells out within his mind, screaming for the thirteenth Takumi to see him. Answer me.
The ghost turns his head. Eito feels a heavenly bliss wash over him. He heard me.
Eito passes out.
Eito’s eyes open, blurry and hazy, blinded by the white light of his own sterile room. The Takumi who appears over Eito is wearing a relieved expression. “Oh, finally…” he sighs, wiping his brow, “can you hear me? For the love of murder, it’s been days…”
The odd turn of phrase from the other man serves to remind Eito of the situation he’s in. This is not Takumi. Eito cannot remember the name of this one, the assassin masquerading as a doctor, a profession worse than an assassin in Eito’s opinion— that’s not important. They were all monsters before. He’s only used to recognizing them by those constant, putrid attributes that haunted his nightmares. Everyone had their own unique noxious smell, grating sound, pulsing form— it was horrible, but it was identifying, for all that was worth. Now the person in front of him looks like, well, Takumi, though not a Takumi Eito has ever witnessed before. But Eito knows now without a doubt, like it was information his brain always had locked away despite his inability to access it, that this is Takumi Sumino's true form. His look, his face, his expression, his voice, his smell, his— Eito grabs at his head suddenly.
”Ah ah, don’t—” Takumi grabs for him, trying to stop Eito from hurting himself, and Eito swats him away on instinct. “Whoa!” this Takumi recoils in surprise, putting his hands up as a show of innocence. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you, Aotsuki. I know you’re still trying to get your bearings, but you’re in your bed. You ended up on the brink of death due to shock, but physically you should be fine now…” the other man speaks calmly, gently, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal. Eito feels hate bubble up in his chest at being coddled, but when he looks at the face of the person there with him, Eito can’t actually get the feeling to boil over. Not seeing the monsters he’s used to, Eito finds himself oddly toothless against the human in front of him.
Eito releases his own hair, attempting to will the throbbing in his skull to dissipate. “Sorry,” is all he can eke out, throat feeling like someone is dragging steel over gravel.
”Mm…” Takumi hums, really studying Eito’s face for a moment. Eito is acutely aware this reaction isn’t in line with the persona he has been inventing for his entire time with the SDU. He decides he can worry about that later. “There’s nothing to apologize for. As long as you’re awake and lucid, I can give you some time alone…” Takumi rubs his chin thoughtfully for a second. “The others will definitely want to see you now that you’re up. Should I tell them you need some solitude?”
”Yes, please,” Eito manages, deciding he can no longer look at this version of Takumi. His head hurts. It really, really hurts. He sits up in bed, hunching over and covering his eyes with his hands.
”Got it,” Takumi nods gently and moves to get up from the desk chair. “Let someone know if you need anything, Aotsuki. Genuinely. Everyone is extremely worried, and well—” Takumi looks away, voice falling somber, “they need some good news right about now.” The silence in the room is deafening. This Takumi breaks it with his sharp smile, curving up in knife points at the corners of his mouth. “Not to mention, I have a lot of questions about the process of absorbing another human’s hemoanima, when you’re ready to talk about it…” he adds excitedly, voice dripping with unsaid horrors.
The horrors Eito is battling within his own head are enough to deal with at the moment. “…Leave.”
Takumi’s lively expression droops. Eito distantly wonders if that line was supposed to make him feel better. “Understood,” Takumi waves limply, and leaves without another word.
Even if the man is gone, Eito still needs to contend with the fact that he was talking to someone with a human face. He’s read about things like this before— humans experiencing divine revelations and having truths unknown to the mundane world laid out before them. Surely, that must be what’s happening to him. As a child with hope, desperate for an escape from the monsters around him, he obsessively poured over old world accounts of meeting God. If only there was one pure, divine being in this world, surely that entity would help Eito. Soon he realized it was not he who needed a revelation... rather, he was born to cast down judgment on the blight of humanity. Is this a test…? His righteous vision is being tainted with humans who look like humans, as a trial to prove his convictions—
Eito remembers the thirteenth, real Takumi from the scene of the crime and gets the sudden, rapturous urge to see him again. Did he follow Eito back to the school…? Surely he must have, if this is some sort of divine trial he’s watching over? Eito attempts to look around his room, wondering if he’ll be able to see him. Anticipation tightening in his chest, Eito grabs at his ribcage like he has faked a million times before, but without a shred of irony this time. He feels like his heart is trying to break out of his chest. His head hurts. His chest hurts. He wonders for a second if he shouldn’t have sent that creepy Takumi away. Perhaps Eito is dying after all. His vision blurs, everything in his room looks like it’s twisting sideways, flying against the wall, as a ghostly outline of red, blue, grey, and black looms over the foot of his bed.
”Tak—”
Eito passes out.
That night, Eito has a dream.
Eito is walking through what looks like the congregation hall of a church— a red trail of blood leads him between the pews and up the aisle to the altar. Dust dances in the light of his peripheral vision, gliding gracefully to the floor and becoming one with the red fluid. His shoes are wet with the stuff, sloppily ruining the pristine pools that gather at the edge of the dais. An intricate stained glass window watches over the room. The multicolored glass that decorates the frame feels more like an all-seeing eye than a window, carefully weighing his sins before the final jury. Eito towers over the altar, looking down at the mangled body of Takumi Sumino. He’s bloody, sliced up no doubt by Eito’s own scythe, muscle and tissues exposed to the open air. But he’s beautiful, Eito idly notes. He’s covered in gore, but his human form is beautiful. It’s like nothing Eito has ever seen, a shape he’s never witnessed in nature outside of looking in a mirror. But this is different. Eito has come to recognize his reflection as the shape of his soul— good or bad, whatever he was created to be in this hideous world, he at least knows he's set apart from those he reviles. But he’s never seen another one. He’s never seen another human soul. Eito is suddenly struck by an overwhelming, all-consuming wave of emotion. He regrets this. He looks upon this Takumi, and regrets killing him.
He regrets killing this human being.
Eito feels repulsed by his guilt, thrusting his hands to Takumi’s slit throat and pulling him up by the collar of his battle armor. The body in his hands swings limply as Eito shakes it— the victim of his outburst offering no response. His serrated flesh looks painful where it sits ripped to shreds at his neck, thick blood congealing at the edges. What an odd thought, that it looks painful. He can't think of a time he's ever empathized with someone's pain. Eito feels something wet on his face, unsure if Takumi’s blood is splashing on him, or if he’s crying. He doesn’t move to find out.
”What have you done to me…” Eito chokes out. Not a question, but a plea.
What have you done to me? echoes back to him.
Eito’s hands freeze, his whole body rooted in place as he stares down at the corpse in his grasp. Takumi is dead, he’s dead, yet the open eye sockets of the corpse are staring directly at him. Takumi’s mouth doesn’t move, his vocal chords are cut out, but he’s speaking. Eito remembers doing it— he remembers Nozomi going down easily, and Takumi lunging at him, fire and hatred and betrayal in the eyes that are now so cloudy and lifeless. Eito remembers feeling so fulfilled, like no other kill in his life would be more satisfying. Feeling his weapon slice through hideous Takumi as they fought, hearing the sounds Takumi made as the searing pain only Eito’s scythe could inflict spread through his body. The way Takumi’s blade pierced him in return, how that weapon when wielded with such ravenous intent could cut through to the deepest parts of Eito. And when he won, towering over the helpless, subjugated, shivering body of Takumi Sumino, his enemy, and the dust settled, and he, and he—
You absorbed me, Aotsuki.
”I took your power!” Eito screams, correcting him, his voice resounding off the chapel walls. The architecture meant for amplifying hymns only throws his desperation back at him. “I snuffed out your existence!”
Hemoanima seems to have other plans. Takumi’s voice doesn’t come from his body. It echoes from inside Eito’s own skull. For some reason, I’m still alive.
Eito bites his cheek so hard blood gushes into his mouth and seeps in between his teeth. He violently slams Takumi back down on the altar, the limp body snapping under the force of his rage. Takumi’s neck twists to the side, those glassy eyes staring off into the depths of the church. “How?! How?! I don’t want to be corrupted by you!” Eito wails, feeling more liquid drip down his cheeks. “Are you haunting me? Is this your way of punishing me?” Silence. Eito hears something clicking from inside his head— he realizes it’s his own teeth chattering.
…I wouldn’t have chosen this.
”Then who? Who subjected me to this?!” He needs someone to blame. “Why would… why would absorbing your hemoanima… taint my righteous eyes like this?!” He knows this isn’t true. This view he has now isn’t the tainted one. “Are you trying to guilt me? To goad me into some sick prostration at your feet, admitting I was wrong and you’re not all monsters?” Eito brings his trembling hands to his face, clawing at his chattering jaw. He’s not sure if he’s attempting to stop the incessant clicking, or to shut himself up. “You claimed to know me. You said you knew me. Takumi, what did you mean? What do you know about me? How do you know how to hurt me!?” Eito barks, yelling, commanding, pleading for an answer from Takumi.
I’ve killed you before. Doubt anyone’s ever bothered to find out what happens if you absorb someone’s hemoanima who has absorbed yours before. The voice sounds hollow within Eito’s own head. Resignation colors every word. Eito is trapped with this specter that can’t even humor the horror of his situation. I guess this is punishment for both of us.
”You’re terrible. You’re horrible,” Eito mumbles stupidly, digging his fingertips into his scalp like he can physically rip the tumor called “Takumi” out of his skull.
Hey, you mentioned your eyes were different, right? said tumor continues after a minute of silence.
Eito just glares at the corpse.
Does that mean you can… see me? Like, you can see me right?
”You’re a corpse,” Eito answers unhelpfully. He knows full well what Takumi means.
He swears he hears the ghost sigh. You’re always like this…
There it is again, the insinuation that this… human, whatever he is, knows Eito. Takumi had told them all he was a time traveler— whether Eito believed it or not at the time feels irrelevant now, as Takumi’s consciousness fusing with his blood confirms it in the most horrific way possible. Takumi has actually met Eito before, and from the way he speaks, knows way too much for Eito’s liking. Things Eito would never tell anyone. He feels his nerve ends light on fire as he thinks about what that actually means. Is there a timeline where he succeeded? Is that why Takumi seems to know that Eito sees their true, revolting forms? But if his plan was a success and he sabotaged the entire unit, no, the entire war, why was this Takumi so… patient with him? Eito thought it was a sign of weakness, when Takumi seemed not to question how or why Sirei disappeared. He thought it was naivety when Takumi offered to train with him, wanting to build rapport with him. He thought this creature just selfishly wanted to satisfy his disgusting human need for companionship, to take comfort in Eito, when Takumi wanted to sit in the library with him. He thought it was sheer stupidity, when Takumi felt safe going out with just Nozomi and Eito, deep into the ruins, where no one could hear them scream. But if Takumi knew, if this kind, bumbling Takumi knew him, knew what he was capable of, then why would he— why didn’t he hate— Eito grips his head even tighter, squeezing his skull so hard his eyes might pop right out of their sockets. Actually, at this point, he wishes they would.
Instead, Takumi’s voice joins the conversation. Or rather, what sounds like a light chuckle violently rips Eito from his spiraling mess. It’s funny, you really do monologue even in your own head.
”SHUT UP!” Eito’s rage swells before he can supervise his own actions. He slams his hand over the corpse’s mouth, feeling the maxilla fracture under his forefinger and thumb. “Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up—” Obviously, this will do nothing to silence the parasite living in his brain. His actions are completely out of control, completely illogical. He’s acting so, so stupid. Eito feels the white-hot sting of mortification travel up his spine, making his shoulders shake and his lip quiver. “D-don’t read my thoughts,” he sounds so pathetic. He hates this. He hates everything about this. The way he feels, the way he sounds, the way this remarkably human corpse feels under his palm— He hates this tainted version of himself. “You know nothing about me,” he seethes, but he sounds too desperate to be believed. “I don’t know who you met before but, that’s not me.”
Thick, putrid blood seeps down the side of the altar. That’s true, Takumi admits idly. The sincerity shocks Eito out of his rage and jumbles his emotions beyond comprehension.
”I would never… I would never allow someone as revolting as you, someone with a—” he sucks in a breath, running out of air, “a tainted, blackened soul like you, to g-get close to me,” Eito feels like his voice is getting further away from his body, echoing in the rafters and not in his head. “Thinking you know me, it disgusts me to my c-core, the idea that you—” the stained glass windows above the dais warp and twist, like a child’s kaleidoscope. “That, you, who looks like a repugnant monster—”
Do I really look that way to you, Aotsuki?
Eito loosens his death-grip on the corpse, snapping his hand away like he’s been burnt. Takumi’s head lulls lazily to the side. His skin is glass-like, translucent under the light of the stained glass, lifeless veins blue where they show through under the surface. Eito can follow them across Takumi’s face and into his bright red hair; rivers and tributaries disappearing into the horizon's vibrant sunset. His striking red and blue eyes haven’t lost their color, rather, the irises have begun to deteriorate into a galaxy— interstellar clouds of red birth stars of blue as the cells that created them slowly wither away. Eito gets lost in them. The rot is beautiful. Takumi is beautiful.
”No,” Eito whispers.
The boy in his head seems to have run out of energy too. The only other movement in the church besides Eito’s own shaking is the slow bloodletting of the corpse on the altar. Silence, passing in minutes, perhaps hours, stretches out in front of Eito. He slowly sinks to his knees, blood immediately soaking into his pants and creeping up the fabric. The altar in front of him is just high enough to place his head— so he does. Eito lays his head down, his silver hair mingling with the viscera. He expects nausea to immediately overtake him, but nothing happens. Somehow, this really isn’t the same gore he’s been revolted by his entire life. And so, Eito lays next to Takumi Sumino, the second human, attempting to grow closer to him in the only way he knows how.
Eito wakes up in the same empty, sterile room. His hands reflexively reach out, expecting to feel the cold stone of the altar under his fingertips. Obviously, it isn’t there. Unlike a regular dream, Eito feels as though he physically slept inside of it, rather than him falling asleep and simply witnessing one. He can still feel the blood on his hands, the wind in the church hall, and the hard stone cutting into his cheek as he fell asleep next to Takumi. Well, Takumi’s corpse. After that, waking up in his regular bed feels more like regaining consciousness after a kidnapping than waking up from a normal dream. Eito rubs his pounding temples. Should he even try it…?
”Takumi,” Eito calls out into the white expanse of his room, not quite a question, not quite a request.
Nothing answers him. Eito breathes a sigh of relief. What a stupid thing to do, what did he expect? Plus, he isn’t sure he can handle being knocked out cold again.
Attempting to regain some normalcy, Eito drags himself to his feet and washes his face. The cold water feels good on his skin, even if it reminds him of the blood he slept face-first in. He pointedly doesn’t look in the mirror. Like it’s the most normal choice in the world, Eito whips himself around and settles for vaguely smoothing down his hair while facing the wall. It’s not like the rest of the unit can judge a sick man for his appearance. And Eito is afraid of what the mirror might show him.
He’s hot, empty, and light-headed. Food. Eito needs to eat. Right, that Takumi he originally saw in his room said it’s been days. Surely getting some food in him will fix whatever’s wrong with his brain. His walk to the cafeteria is as uneventful as ever, and Eito is sure his breakfast will be as well. He silently prays none of the beasts will be there to ruin his appetite. His constitution is weak enough as it is… Eito isn’t sure he can stomach eating to recover from his injuries while seated next to sentient rot. He should really try to be in high spirits, though— even if he was wounded in the fight, Eito did take a great stride towards his goal. Nozomi and Takumi were such large players in the war effort. Without them around, Eito is surely on an easy path to derailing humanity’s selfish attempt at survival. He needs to focus on the future, he decides, putting some extra oomph into throwing the cafeteria doors open. Eito is closer to grasping his dream, his future— where he is able to use all of the power he just acquired from their late, all-powerful leader, take it to the satellite, and slaughter every last one of those revolting, repugnant, contemptible monsters—
No monsters stare back at him. Who is he kidding? It’s all Takumi Sumino.
”Mister Aotsuki!” a high-pitched Takumi calls out to him, the first to stand from the table and alert everyone. A cacophony of voices follow, all Takumi.
”Look who decided to wake up,” an identical Takumi says.
”Aotsuki! Good morning!” a Takumi with his jacket tied around his waist adds, waving his spoon excitedly.
”Good to see you up and moving. Can I take a look at you?” the weird Takumi he saw at his bedside says, but the question seems rhetorical. He’s already getting up to walk towards Eito.
Before he can even register it, the last Takumi in the room is rushing towards him. Eito instinctively flinches, but his overwhelming fatigue leaves him unable to dodge the oncoming attack. This Takumi is wearing much less clothing— he says something, Eito’s name? Is he crying…? He can’t even begin to process it before Takumi slams directly into him, encompassing Eito in a strangling bear hug.
”Uuu—” this Takumi sniffles, “you’re awake! We were so, so worried, y’know! I can’t take losing anymore of you guys!” All of Eito’s muscles tense until he’s as rigid as a plank of wood. He isn’t even sure how this is possible, Takumi doesn’t have any height or weight on him, there’s no reason he should be able to… No, if Eito thinks logically, this has to be the wrestler. There’s no other explanation for someone with this amount of strength and this lack of boundaries. He swings Eito around in his grasp, holding Eito firm to his nearly bare chest. Eito doesn’t think he could respond even if he wanted to. A human is hugging him. Eito is barely able to breathe. His vision is whiting out. “I’ve been wanting to thank you for— ueee-e, for what happened out there… You tried to protect my darling Nozomi, even when you,” he stops to start the waterworks again, sniveling to Eito, “had to do… something s-so horrible to your dear friend Sumino—”
Hearing his name finally gives Eito’s body the fight or flight adrenaline he needs. Eito holds his breath and yanks himself back, shoving at Takumi’s torso with all his might, like a cat violently escaping the veterinarian’s arms. Eito doesn’t want to be touched like this. He never has, even if this person— even if this person is a person, even if this looks like Takumi, he can’t— He manages to break the wrestler’s hold and stumble backwards onto the tile, knees buckling and dropping Eito like a sack of bricks. He crumples easily, curling into his own jacket like a shell as bile threatens at the back of his throat.
”Moko!” one of the Takumis runs towards them, putting himself between the assailant and Eito. “He just recovered, you can’t be so—”
”Oh my god, I am so sorry Aotsuki,” he blubbers, but Eito doesn’t really need an apology. It’s more like he needs to find a way to crawl out of his own body. “I wasn’t thinking, I just wanted to— I totally let theatrics take over…”
If the Takumis expect an answer, an explanation for Eito’s violent reaction, they sure aren’t going to get one. Eito can barely see, can barely think, the shattered edges of his worldview prick the skin over every inch of his body. His nerves feel like they’ve been lit on fire, an aura develops in his vision, his throat tightens painfully and— he’s vomiting.
The people who have gathered around him— gathered around the scene Eito’s making, step back unnerved. Eito barely manages to avoid throwing up on himself (like a child, his brain unhelpfully provides), twisting himself out of his protective position and coughing stomach acid onto the floor. It’s only acid, of course— he’s running on complete empty. He wishes he could run, he could find a reasonable way out of this, get out of the prying eyes of other people and be sick in peace like he’s used to. Instead, all of these not-monsters stare like he’s a train wreck they can’t tear their eyes from.
”Ah— Aotsuki d…”
”—et him some wat…”
”Eww?! Why is…”
”Hurk… Can w—”
Eito can’t process anything they’re saying as he dry-heaves and prays this will all be over soon, by whatever means cosmically necessary. His legs feel like cement. He doubts he could stand without immediately cracking his head open on the floor. Perhaps that would be preferable to having to parse through this mess. The cacophony of noise and bodies moves around him, not touching him thankfully, but tenuously keeping him boxed in— out of concern for Eito or themselves, he’s not sure. His throat is on fire, his face is drenched in sweat, he’s digging his nails into his own arms so hard he’s sure he’d be drawing blood if not for the fabric, tears leak out against his will from the corners of his eyes— and he’s brushing some of his soaked bangs out of his face, behind his ear.
You should get something to eat, Aotsuki.
Ah, it’s Takumi. The one in his head.
You’ll feel better if you do. Eito feels himself brush the rest of his hair out of his face with an odd tenderness, out of place compared to the way he was just clawing at his own skin. Someone put a water bottle next to you. Turn— Eito turns. Yeah, there we go.
Eito downs the water like a man dying of thirst, which honestly, he likely is. The cold water helps center him, and his vision unobstructed by his own curtain of ratty hair shows the rest of the Takumis not looming over him menacingly, but rather keeping a polite distance. Actually, they’re… helping him clean up? One of them left the room to get a mop and bucket… another, the one with his jacket off, is telling someone that Eito needs some space. Maybe it is concern he’s reading on their faces, not pity or disgust or disappointment or—
Come on, get up for me. Let’s make a sandwich.
Okay, Eito thinks, floating placid and lost in a cerebral sea. That sounds nice.