Work Text:
It still felt strange to Kokichi having a stable relationship with someone he actually admired rather than using someone as a means to whatever end he found himself at a given moment in his life. After years of shoving people away, he was starting to learn what it meant to care for somebody, anyone who wasn't himself; after years of telling yourself lies, you started to drown under the pressure you built around a false identity. Who even was the real version of him?
“It was supposed to keep me safe. What a joke…” Kokichi muttered to himself with an airy scoff, scrubbing his palms against the layers of grease caked on his cheeks, a mixture of going six days without a proper shower and baking from scratch. He had to fill his long days at home with anything that would distract him from the lingering thoughts trying to turn his affection for his boyfriend into skepticism.
He's growing tired of your bullshit excuses, y'know?
His head shook with a tight grimace, making himself dizzy in the process until he clung to the stove, his cracked knuckles from half-healed blisters flexing like soft pink embers dying from an abandoned fireplace.
He keeps coming home later each night, is he really working on cases?
“He's been working on a lead…”
Isn't he working alongside the great Kirigiri? Why wouldn't he go after someone who has their shit together?
“He wouldn't… He told me…”
Ah, but actions do tend to speak louder than words!
“...Please, stop.” Kokichi gave a faint plea to his inner monologue of self doubt; he was used to battling the intrusive thoughts, shoving them away with sarcastic rebuttals not unlike when he teased Shuichi, yet at this moment he was unequipped to take them on, his energy depleted from broken sleep and strange dreams mingling his history of trauma with the present contentness he was still adjusting to.
…He has walked in smelling like perfume once or twice. And why would that be?
Kokichi knew the logical answer was Kyoko giving the younger detective rides to and from work, possibly also from the two visiting each other's offices, yet his clouded judgment under the influence of insecurity made it difficult to accept the answer as reality. What if there waws more than what Shuichi told him after a hard day of work?
Gulping for air he didn't realize he was neglecting to inhale, Kokichi ripped himself from the oven and forced himself to focus on sorting through a nearby shelf filled with only a fraction of his cookbooks, grabbing a thick one with a dark blue spine, one that his boyfriend gifted him on a whim, and pried it open, flitting through the crisp pages with forceful flicks distorting the pages by unnoticeable centimeters, though the self-taught baker would notice each time he returned to the tome for guidance. Of course he would ruin even the most fragile objects given to him, he could never accept a gift without guilt whenever they were torn or frayed in some way.
You remember how it was in your parents house: Everything had to be in its place, or you'd be put in yours! Dear old dad made sure of it whenever you broke a dish or toy. That's what led you to find family elsewhere, isn't it?
“With D.I.C.E., yeah.”
How did that turn out, where are they now?
“We stay in touch…”
They go radio silent for months, and when they reach out it's meaningless pleasantries. Where did that sense of family go?
For that, Kokichi had no explanation, falling silent while he skimmed the contents of the baking recipes, waiting for one to call out to him instead of running together in endless measurements and ingredients. At least here, he had access to a well-stocked fridge and pantry, Shuichi usually diligent about restocking things long before they ran out.
“Let's see… Lemon bars sound right, maybe with coconut instead of shortbread.”
Satisfied with his choice, he began gathering the needed utensils with the tiniest skip in his step while his mind stayed steadfast on the dessert instead of endless hypothetical scenarios. Shuffling through the cupboard after resting the lemons on a cutting board, he brought down a container of coconut flakes and powdered sugar, rummaging around for an another topping he decided to add, scanning the assorted mixture of chocolate pieces, a sense of disappointment churning in his stomach while he searched again, triple and quadruple checking while the sinking sensation grew with intensity.
“We have to have white chocolate chips somewhere…” he muttered in irritation, stepping away to find his phone and text Shuichi about the issue at hand.
Hey, Sleuth, could ya give me a hint on where these are? Kinda need them…
For now, he'd distract himself with packing together the shredded coconut into a solid base for the lemon curd mixture he'd eventually concoct. Ten minutes turned to twenty for the crust to toast, getting lost in the repetitive swirl of the lemon filling on the stove top. When he pulled the separated crust from the oven's belly, he finally found a moment of brevity and scrolled to his texts where he watched Shuichi type, disappear, reappear, and repeat the cycle a few times before it stopped altogether, yet no message came.
“Come on, Gumshoos, don't leave your little Purrloin waiting…” he pouted, letting out a little mewl in protest.
Forcing himself away from his phone, Kokichi busied himself with adding the lemon curd onto the cooled crust and slid it back in, waiting around for another twelve minutes.
Setting the finished lemon bars to cool on the stove, he rinsed the remaining dishes and found himself with nothing to do anymore.
“Still nothing…” he grumbled, typing a follow up message before finding himself in the living room slumped in the hand-me-down recliner from one of Shuichi's clients, flicking through a selection of usual shows he turned to for comfort though none of them peaked his interest no matter how hard he tried to focus, his mind drifting in another direction.
Now he's ignoring you and you can't deny it!
“No, he has a busy schedule, I know this.”
Doesn't he know how it makes you feel when he keeps you waiting?
“Yeah, but-”
He must be doing it on purpose, then. He doesn't really care how important your one little hobby is, I bet he's irritated that you bothered him for something so trivial.
“He cares, though!”
Keep telling yourself what you want to hear, but you know this pattern. It happened with the countless others: Rantaro, Kaito, Kaede…
“You don't have to remind me, me.”
Apparently, I do. This perfect daydream of yours started as a nightmare, and it'll end just the same.
Kokichi shuddered, recounting how tireless his boyfriend worked to keep him safe when his intrusive thoughts were the worst, which they always were around the multiple anniversaries of disasters, keeping count of each one like some sick, self-depricating celebration that curtailed into destructive tendencies within his mind and out.
Not to mention, you're keeping another secret from him, yourself too. But, you can't ignore it forever, you fool.
“I'm not hiding anything!” he yelled at the empty air, gritting his teeth at the sharp pang in his temple.
He'd never fit into his skin no matter how uncomfortable the failing attempts made him; too confused to choose who he should even be, he ignored the suffocating sensations whenever he looked at himself in a mirror for too long. What did Shuichi even see in him while he was in the body his parents stuck him in with no regard for his safety?
They think you're a disgrace, why not embrace it?
“I… might as well? I've never been pretty enough to love someone back.”
It wasn't his first time being rejected, but the way it felt sent a white-hot chill coarsing through his veins, since this was the first time he resisted the urge to push someone away who was getting too close to meet the repressed version of himself even he was a stranger to. Hell, Shuichi was his first love, if he was being honest with himself, yet he still couldn't bring himself to admit how draining it made him to tolerate all of the masculine terms, how exhausted he was with keeping up yet another facade he was terrified to discard.
“What if… he leaves after I tell him?”
He was left alone with radio silence, his inner monologue aligned with the vague acknowledgement of the secret bubbling through the cracks in his mold. It was rare he got a reprieve from the murky depths of swirling sediment clouding his mind, so he expected breaching above the surface would bring him a breath of fresh air instead of leave him spluttering when he slammed into solid dams of poisoned memories; he was well adjusted to the ones slowly killing him every day, but he was bound to overdose on the cyanide laced recallings from living with his destructive, negligent father.
The fresh cigarette burns seared his exposed upper biceps following the shatter of a vodka bottle against the living room wall, flinching away from the older man who held him in a vice grip. Somehow, unlike the glowing embers on the end of those half smoked nubs, Kokichi would eventually amount to more than coals crushed into the carpet, though he would never turn into the diamond his long term boyfriend treasured him like. How could he when he was fractured beyond repair? If anything, he was a thin sheet of mica, flaking away with the faintest of touches, though he craved them, especially if it meant he was wiped away into nothing more than a pile of unrecognizable grains.
Flashforward, and he was a teenager who skulked along the halls while whispers trailed him like the smoke stains melded into his clothing, yet the insults blurred together by this point. Waste of space, mistake, and the occasional slur were monikers he held close to his chest just like he would his Supreme Leader persona later on. Not even the threats of having his knee caps broken by the Ultimate Baseball Player for the latest prank he pulled caused him any concern for caution, because at least it would reinforce how broken he felt; he was growing numb to the broken glass from his father's drunken rampages combing over the soft skin of his inner thighs, he needed to find a new release somewhere.
A few years later, he would find it in Kaito Momota, the obvious choice dictated by his upbringing: He was confident, self assured, and, to top it all off, a chain smoker. At first, their relationship was full of passion, Kokichi being deemed the astronaut's ‘shooting star’, always streaking across whatever distance kept them apart to be with Kaito until a familiar cycle came to claim the secure relationship he thought he had, the numerous discards driving him to a series of his own destructive tendencies before threatening suicide, inching ever so closer to committing the act, yet somehow he pulled away with only a close encounter and lasting trauma from being with him.
Remember how glad you were when you heard he was terminal? his intrusive thoughts sneered, At least he made our fights worth it. The last one he threw at you? The rage you showed was orgasmic!
He couldn't disagree, recounting how cathartic it was to let all of his frustrations out with a single string of insults and threats even if it had been the ammunition the Ultimate Astronaut was looking for to paint him as the maniac everyone already thought him to be; if they all called him cruel and cold, then why not lean into it?
Yet, those inhibitions waned when he and Shuichi went from being flirtatious friends to what they were now, though some of those habits still came creeping back in when he least expected it. His boyfriend never made him feel like an outcast for how he dealt with his feelings, only grounding him when he was more receptive and calm, resetting the fuse of his temper and extinguishing the flame about to detonate it all.
Doesn't look like he's coming to save you this time. He'd rather be with someone level-headed and not set on setting the world asunder.
“He's on his way home… Any moment now he'll walk through the door and…”
By hiding lovebites?
Trying to ignore the places his mind was taking him, Kokichi returned his attention to his phone and stared at the ‘seen’ messages he'd sent almost two hours ago, knocking over the final domino holding his sanity upright.
Frantic typing ensued, culminating in, ‘I know you've got scars of your own, detective, but… If you tell me this can't go on? Well, you’re going to regret not hiding the knives before leaving for work.’”
After he sent the threatening, ominous messaged, he found himself hovering on the threshold between the living room and kitchen, like his strings were being manipulated to prolong his suffering as a marionette who was always on the brink of learning how to be more human, but never assimilating with the accepted mannerisms.
You've never been able to go through it, what makes you think you'll succeed this time?
“Will you just shut the fuck up?!” Kokichi Groveland, his knees buckling with the effort while he gripped his scalp, thin streaks of blood staining the undersides of his fingers a light pink and trickling onto the off white linoleum.
Heaving a few sobs out, he collapsed in a pitiful heap on the tile, overcome with the realization that, once Shuichi opened the impending text, he would ruin yet another relationship, the only difference being he tried to make up for all the previous wrongdoings. Yet, he knew the futility of trying to be perfect, knew he'd never make up for all the harm he caused, so why couldn't he die quite as much as the lives he ruined in his wake?
Poor thing, can't even end your own suffering… Then again, the only thing you've ever excelled at is spreading misery. Is that why you won't commit, because you're wallowing in it yourself?
“...Stop it, or I’ll-”
His mind was an empty shell for the second time that afternoon when the screech of rusted hinges rang through the three bedroom apartment, quiet footballs signaling his partner finally returned home. Instead of being overjoyed by having company other than his destructive musings, the dread settled in knowing there was no salvaging the shattered remains of their bond when the detective told him to leave with a box of his belongings.
“Kichi, hon, where are you?” Shuichi’s soft, drained voice drifted through the family room, his steps growing closer.
“In here.”
The detective set what sounded like a plastic bag down on the table before he approached his boyfriend and crouched nearby, sucking in a breath, “Babe-”
“Just get on with it…”
Shuichi was silent for a moment, retrieving a hand towel draped over one of the cabinet doors and dabbing at the drying blood in the other's hair, “I'm sorry it got to this point… I was going to reply earlier, bit my phone died while I was typing. Kiibo was charging it, but I got called out to a crime scene.”
“...With Kyoko, I'm guessing?”
“No, she was out sick today. It was just me.”
Suspicious-
“I see… You didn't have any backup?”
“The precinct sent a few officers, naturally. The prosecutor came to the scene, but that's pretty standard with more complex cases,” he explained, encouraging Kokichi to sit, their knees bumping clumsily, “Anyway, I sent you a message when I got to the store, but you never answered. I hope it's not too late, but I got your chocolates.”
Astounded by his partner not being more hostile like he prepared for, Kokichi asked, “You're… not throwing me out after what I sent you?”
“I'll admit, it scared the shit out of me, but I'm just relieved you're not more hurt than I thought.”
“So…?”
“You're stuck with me for a little bit longer,” Shuichi reassured, placing a soft peck against his lover's temple before he lifted them both from the floor, “Let's get you cleaned up, then we can finish those lemon bars together, what d’you say?”
Kokichi sniffled, but nodded his approval and let his partner guide him to the bathroom.
Once the last traces of injury, aside from the forming scabs, were washed away with a warm washcloth, Kokichi followed his boyfriend halfheartedly to the oven, he remained silent while Shuichi went to work melting the white chocolate pieces and rewarming the abandoned tart desserts with the new addition, unphased by the scents mingling in the air around him. Reluctantly trapped in his own thoughts yet again, he found himself circling back to the secret he began to unearth for himself- no, itself- wincing at the question bubbling in its throat; some of the best liars only wanted the truth, and it was no exception to that rule, but it was still scared beyond belief to have its boyfriend potentially refuse to use such unorthodox terms when their relationship was already seen as such to many strangers and passerbys.
If not now, then I'll never bring it up….
“What's on your mind, hon?” the detective inquired, nudging his partner with another gentle touch.
Ugh, of course he's worried…
It was inclined to lie for the umpteenth time, for that was all Kokichi knew after decades of using it to survive hostile environments it would eventually contribute to. Everything was usually fine when it omitted the truth and withheld the worst parts of its antics, but claiming denial would only continue to get it so far.
“I've been thinking,” Kokichi started, cringing physically while the words trailed out, “I'd prefer if you called me ‘it/its/itself’ going forward.”
Shuichi was quiet for longer than the other liked, but when he spoke next, it settled some of the fear the Ultimate Supreme Leader's wore like a second skin, “Of course, whatever you want, Kichi.”
“...That's all? You're not going to argue that you can't use them?”
“It'll take me a minute to adjust, but… If that makes you comfortable, who am I to deny that?”
Wow, all of that internalized tension it kept obsessing over until its stomach twisted into impossible knots, though it would be lying if it didn't feel some long awaited relief with what most would consider a ridiculous request, “Well, good. I'd hate to add you back onto the list.”
“...I thought you got rid of that?”
“Old habits die hard, detective!” it winked, removing the tray with only a fleeting thought of sticking its head into the scorching metal stomach; it was a step in the right direction, though it would be a long road of recovery.