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ankababy · 22 days ago

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A Home (part 32)

Part 1 Part 31

Chishiya x reader x Niragi

For the first time, apart. Really apart.

AN: sorry for the long wait guys :( I dunno how much longer this will go on, I hope I can deliver new parts fast like I used to(not fast but definitely faster than what the fuck this was) I’ll be trying to squeeze time to write<3

The wind threading through the trees above made the leaves hiss. It smelled like grass and blood and sun-warmed rot. The sky peeked through the canopy in washed-out golds and silvers, but the world around you was still dim. Green. Wild.

Your cheek was pressed into the dirt. Your hands curled under your ribs. The bark of the tree you’d collapsed beside scraped against your shoulder like it had been holding you all night.

You blinked.

The light stung.

You blinked again, slower this time, and everything started sinking back in. Your fingers twitched. Your legs shifted in the tangled blanket of weeds and old grass. Your body hurt like it’d been struck by lightning and left to cook in the ashes. Your lips were cracked. There was dried blood on your jaw. Your shoulder… god. Your shoulder—

The gunshot. The scream. The smoke. Niragi. Chishiya. You. Running.

That drop in your stomach. That sudden, violent emptiness that slammed into your gut like a punch.

You clutched your chest out of instinct. Not because you were dying, but because you needed something to hold. Maybe a boob. Your heart was still there. Barely. Barely beating. Still bruised, still raw, still yours. You sat up slowly. Your legs ached. Knees torn. Hands scraped. The bullet wound on your arm had stopped bleeding, but it pulsed like it was angry with you. Like your body was mad for surviving.

You let out a breath.

One.

Then another.

You were still here.

The forest swayed gently around you. Birds, somewhere distant. The city, hidden behind the trees, was silent. No more screams. No more smoke. Just the aftermath.

Just you.

You looked down at yourself and saw what was left: the dirt under your nails, the blood smeared over your ribs. Everything hurt. You were hungry. You were thirsty. You were absolutely fucking done.

But you were alive.

Somehow.

Someway.

And that was terrifying. Because now you had to live with it all. The memory. The heartbreak. The manipulation. The betrayal. Chishiya’s eyes. Niragi’s hands. Hatter’s voice, now nothing but smoke in your mind.

You just breathed. Then you planted your palms into the dirt and shoved. Your arm screamed. Your knees buckled. The tree bark caught on your scraped shoulder as you pulled yourself up—but you did it anyway. You stood. Shaking, bloodied, hollow, but standing. You looked down at your knees—filthy, bloodstained, bruised. One of them had dried grass stuck to the scab. You didn’t bother brushing it off. You looked at your hands—swollen knuckles, one finger that might’ve been sprained. You flexed it. It hurt. Good. You touched your shoulder—not delicately, no. You grabbed it, pressed around the wound. It flared with fire, white-hot, dizzying. You gritted your teeth through it, biting down on the breath that wanted to scream.

That’s right.

Feel it.

Feel everything.

And then you started walking. Not fast—not yet. There was a limp in your step, the weight of your injuries dragging your stride down into something crooked. But you walked anyway. One foot after the other. You didn’t know where the fuck you were going. But the city rose in the distance, past the trees. You liked that.

Niragi’s girl. Chishiya’s muse. Hatter’s next Number One.

And you played along—god, you played so well, didn’t you? With your soft voice and therapist smile. With your “what do you need?” and “I’ll take care of it.” With your hands always busy saving, holding, healing. With your heart on the line every damn time.

Now they could burn with the Beach.

Now they could drown in their own games.

Let them rot in it.

Let them miss you.

Everything hurt. That wasn’t an exaggeration. Your shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat, raw and warm and sticky, your knees had stiffened overnight and now screamed with every movement. It was like your body was trying to keep you still, begging you to stop. To just sit back down under that tree and bleed quietly. Let it all settle in. Let the pain become something distant, something manageable. Something numb. But you didn’t stop. You dragged your body forward, hips locking awkwardly, ankle rolling more than once. A tree root caught the tip of your fucking pinky toe and nearly sent you face-first into the dirt again, but you caught yourself with a gasp. Your injured arm instinctively reached out and took most of the weight—and white heat flared up your shoulder like lightning.

You screamed. Short. Sharp. Animal. Your head dropped. Your hair curtained around your face, sticky with dried sweat and ash and the remnants of last night’s tears.

You wanted the pain.

You wanted it to sting.

The memory of Hatter. The way his voice dropped when he spoke to you alone. The vision of his blood. The smell of smoke. The way Chishiya didn’t come after you. The way Niragi had looked at you—rabid, but still… soft, like you were his last goddamn tether.

God.

You wanted to burn the whole city down.

And still… still… some ruined part of you whispered that you missed them.

That even after all this… they were yours.

That one of them had your soul, and the other your body, and both of them had your name stitched into the lining of their madness.

You hated them.

Like, genuinely hated them.

Not in the casual, teen movie “ugh I hate you but also I’m twirling my hair and waiting for you to kiss me against a locker” way. No. This was a rot-your-gut, make-you-sick, god-help-you-if-I-ever-see-you-again kind of hate. An “I fantasize about throwing you out a twenty-story window and watching you bounce” kind of hate.

You hated Niragi and the way he still looked at you like you were a cathedral and he was the final match. Like he’d burn with you smiling, laughing, asking if he made you pretty now. You hated how, even at his worst—especially at his worst—he made you feel like the only real thing in the universe.

You hated Chishiya, smug bastard that he was, with his dry voice and clever mouth and god-tier ability to know exactly how to twist a knife and make it look like science. Like emotion was beneath him. Like losing you was just an unfortunate equation gone wrong.

You hated that you loved them.

There it was. The bitter pill. The dirty little secret your brain kept on looping.

You missed them.

God. You missed them.

You were a genius, apparently. An emotional prodigy. Fuck. But you missed Chishiya’s cold little hums when you rambled too much, like he didn’t care but also didn’t want you to stop. You missed Niragi’s unhinged jokes and the way he threw his arm around you. You missed the stupid table in the security room. You missed the goddamn spinning chair. You missed Kuina’s laughter. You missed feeling like you were wanted, even if it came dressed in manipulation and control and a thousand tiny cuts. You missed the games they played with your mind—because at least they played. At least they looked at you.

And now?

Now they didn’t.

Now you were just walking through dirt and roots, your blood drying in flakes down your fingers, your muscles shaking, the world ahead nothing but forest and the worst-case scenario.

You hated them.

You missed them.

You wanted to scream into the treetops and kick rocks until your toes shattered and scream until your vocal cords snapped. You wanted to turn around, march back into the burning skeleton of the Beach, grab both of them by the collar and spit every word you were too kind to say when they could still hear your voice.

Instead, you tripped on a stone and nearly fell face-first into a patch of ferns.

“Great.” you muttered to no one, dragging yourself upright. “Why not just break my nose too? Let’s go for the high score.”

You were alone. You were so alone.

And that was the worst part of it all.

Because for one hot, burning second in this nightmare world, you’d felt held. By them. By their lies. Their tricks. Their kisses. Their ugly, obsessive, consuming devotion.

And now? The ghost of the girl they both almost loved enough to keep.

You could still feel Chishiya’s hands at your waist. Niragi’s voice in your ear.

You hated them.

You missed them.

You wanted to carve those names out of your brain with your fingernails and still—you’d probably cry if you saw them again.

Fuck.

Fuck everything.

Chishiya and Kuina were walking underground.

Each of their steps echoed like they were being haunted—which, frankly, they were. By you. Your voice. Your eyes. Your everything. You’d gotten under both their skins, and now they were walking this half-collapsed metro tunnel without that piece.

“So,” Kuina said finally. “how did you fuck it up?”

“I didn’t.”

Aha. There it was. The lie. Right on cue.

Chishiya said it like he hadn’t been staring down at you watching you cradle a wounded Tatta like the soft little angel you were. Like he hadn’t noticed your bleeding knees. Like he hadn’t felt something in his icebox ribcage snap and rattle loose.

“No?” Kuina asked, dry. “Because last time I checked, you two were alone. Then two minutes later, she was helping save Arisu while you stood and watched.”

He didn’t answer.

Which was his favorite trick.

Kuina slowed her pace, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Chishiya.”

“Hmm?”

Oh, perfect. The Hmm. The one word avoidance technique. Classic Chishiya move.

“I was gone for an hour.” she said. “One. Hour. What the hell happened?”

He looked ahead. Shrugged. “Nothing.”

NOTHING. Okay. Cool. Love that for him. Just the complete denial of the torching of every ounce of trust you’d handed him. Asshole.

Kuina scoffed. “You really suck, you know.”

Chishiya tilted his head slightly, as if considering this new information. “I’ve been told.”

Yeah, probably by the voices in his head every time he replayed that moment you walked away, screaming that you hated them, that you were done, that they were sick.

Kuina shoved her hands into her pockets. “I miss her.”

Still, he didn’t say anything. Not out loud.

“She loved you, you know.” Kuina added. “Weirdly. Like. You specifically.”

“I know.”

AND YET. And yet, he let you go. He let you walk out of the fire and disappear into that horrible, beautiful, godforsaken city with nothing but blood on your knees.

He stepped over a broken piece of tile. “It was better this way.”

Kuina stopped. “You think she’s better off alone? Bleeding? Running through the woods because both of you treated her like a piece on a chess board?”

“I didn’t treat her like that.”

Oh? Didn’t he? Really?

Because if Kuina remembered correctly—and she did—this was the same man who used silence as a love language and manipulation as foreplay. The same guy who had you making out with him, only to toss you under Niragi’s emotional bus tem minutes later like he didn’t care where it hit.

“You’re an idiot.” she said finally.

He nodded once. “Maybe.”

No “maybe” about it, king. Just say it with your chest: Hi, my name is Shuntaro Chishiya, and I fumbled the only person who ever actually gave a shit about me. There. Done. We all knew it.

Finally, Kuina murmured, “Do you think she’s okay?”

Chishiya didn’t answer. He just stared into the dark, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense.

He didn’t know.

But god, he hoped so.

Kuina was actually being kind by not saying anything else. Which was terrifying in itself. Because Kuina was never quiet unless she was either judging you silently or trying not to go for the jugular.

And Chishiya? King of shutting the fuck up? Yeah, he had nothing left to say. Because, what was there? He could’ve said: “I miss her.” But he didn’t. Because that would mean admitting it mattered. He could’ve said: “I regret it.” But that would mean confronting the exact moment he watched your face fall when you realized he was never really playing fair. He could’ve said: “I think I loved her.” But even he couldn’t lie that hard to himself. That wasn’t thinking. That was knowing. That was certain.

He loved you. Actively. Horribly. Desperately. And like the genius he was—he chose to keep it to himself until it exploded in his hands like everything else he touched.

It was all playing back in his head again now: You, standing in front of him in that security room, kissing him. You, looking between him. You, shouting at them. “You’re sick.” You, leaving. Bleeding. Crying. Real. And so, so done.

Kuina glanced over her shoulder at him. She didn’t have to say anything. He felt it anyway:

You’re hurting.

You deserve it.

You idiot.

Bravo, king. Standing ovation. Ten out of ten. He’d burned Niragi alive and it still didn’t fix anything. What a treat. Violence didn’t solve love. Who knew?

(You knew. You always knew.)

Kuina finally broke the silence with a breath. “If we find her, what are you gonna say?”

Chishiya stared into the dark. Then, softly, “I won’t.”

Yeah, maybe if you keep bottling it up, your heart will actually implode like that building you all left in flames.

Wouldn’t that be poetic?

Wouldn’t that be fair?

Niragi stood in the middle of the pharmacy. Well, more like leaned. Slouched. Propped against a metal rack of half-empty pill bottles, his breath shaking.

He looked like hell.

The pain was indescribable.

Every step felt like his nerves were screaming. Every movement peeled at the raw pieces of him, flayed him open like a fucking anatomy exhibit. His hands were cracked and oozing, shaking as he tore through the debris.

Antiseptic. Painkillers. Gauze. Anything.

The whole witch hunt aftermath was a blur. Fire. Screaming. Gunshots. You.

Always back to you.

Because even now—with half his skin hanging off like paper, with blood crusting in his eyes, with his lungs on fire every time he breathed—you were the thought that broke through the agony.

Fucking hell, what did that say about him?

What a joke.

You, with your stupid sweet voice and those big eyes that made him feel seen and known. You, who he’d screamed at and manipulated and loved with the kind of reckless obsession that made him ruin everything he touched. You, who walked away.

He dropped a bottle of something. Didn’t even read the label. Couldn’t focus. The skin on his cheek was half gone. His shoulder blistered in layers. His side was swollen from something—maybe a cracked rib, maybe a bullet, maybe the weight of what he lost. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t care.

He pulled open a drawer behind the counter with a cracked, blood-slick hand, fingers trembling. And he actually found it—a box of burn cream, mostly full. Jackpot.

You didn’t even look at him when Tatta dragged you away. You didn’t scream his name. Didn’t try to stop him. You didn’t cry for him.

You didn’t see him as a threat.

You didn’t see him as a lover.

You didn’t even see him as a person anymore.

He was just… something you had to get away from. A mistake to survive. An echo of a heartache you no longer had the energy to care about.

He sunk to the floor, finally. Knees buckling, back against the cabinet, that precious little box of cream in his lap.

Still, he would’ve forgiven you. If you walked in right now—bleeding, screaming, cursing him out—he’d say sorry. For real. Like he meant it.

Hell, he might even mean it.

The idea of you somewhere in this burning version of the world, walking on cut-up feet, injured, looking for safety without him—it gnawed at the last piece of him that hadn’t given up yet.

He touched his face. His fingers came back red and sticky. Not surprising.

It didn’t matter how much skin he lost—he knew the worst thing gone was you. You took whatever soul he had left with you.

He opened the burn cream and began to apply it, half-hissing, half-biting back whimpers. One hand pressed against his ribs, the other trembling, still working—a mess of instinct and survival. But really? All that kept him going, right now?

The possibility of seeing you again.

Even if you hated him.

Even if you never forgave him.

Even if the next time you saw him, you spit in his face.

That would be enough.

Because at least then, you’d look at him. At least then, he’d exist again—if only in your rage.

And Niragi—well, fuck it.

He’d take your hate over this nothingness any day.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until he tasted it.

It wasn’t even about you.

Not at first.

It was the pain.

Actual, unbearable pain.

His back was a roadmap of unbearable burns. His arms looked like they’d been through a meat grinder. His legs were bruised, charred, muscle torn in places he didn’t even know could tear. And his hands didn’t even feel like hands anymore. Every inch of him felt wrong. Every breath pulled at a rib or scraped over something broken inside. He tried to bandage the worst of it, but his fingers barely worked. They shook. They slipped. Gauze stuck to burns like velcro, and when he peeled it back, it took skin with it. The burn cream helped, but only in the way a paper umbrella helps in a monsoon.

So yeah. He cried.

Because it hurt like a bitch. Because for the first time, there wasn’t even adrenaline to mask it. No violence. No bullets. No fucked up satisfaction. Just this godawful, human sort of pain.

And god, if you were here… if you were here, you’d be kneeling in front of him by now. You’d have found clean water, not this questionable half-broken sink. You’d whisper something sweet, even as your hands trembled. You’d press a wet cloth to his burns and tell him to breathe. You’d kiss his forehead, maybe. Wipe the sweat from his brow. You’d laugh gently when he winced, telling him to stop being such a baby.

You’d know what to do.

You always did.

He was sobbing now, silent and small, hunched forward on the cold linoleum floor. His jaw was clenched tight, because he refused to make noise. He wouldn’t give the world that satisfaction. But his shoulders were shaking. His lip was trembling.

God, this hurt more than being set on fire. And he’d know.

He leaned his head back against the wall. It was cool. He let it hold the weight of him for a second.

The tears ran down his chin, his neck, soaking the dirty fabric of whatever was left of his pants. He was a disaster. He was a monster.

He was a boy with nowhere to go and no one left to want him.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand and flinched.

Pain. Again. Always.

He couldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t even sure what it was anymore—physical, emotional, existential. Pain didn’t have boundaries now. It didn’t separate itself into neat compartments. It was all one thing. One big, gnawing thing sitting in his chest, clawing at his insides and whispering your name.

You weren’t coming. Of course you weren’t. Why the hell would you? After everything he’d said. After everything he did.

The image of you just kept playing in his brain. You, standing between him and Chishiya, wide-eyed, terrified, yet still—still—looking at him like he was someone worth saving. God, even when he was screaming at you. Even when he had a gun. Even when he was full monster. And then it clicked.

You’d always thought he could be better.

That was your fucking flaw.

You had too much hope in people that didn’t deserve it. You gave too much. To him. And now?

Now you were gone.

Now you probably hated him.

Now he was sitting on the floor of a broken pharmacy, clutching a bloodied rag to his ribs, trying not to scream from the pain of fuckass-degree burns and the fact that he might’ve just ruined the only good thing that had ever looked him in the face without flinching.

He punched the linoleum. Weakly. Pathetic. It made the pain flare up in his knuckles and wrist, like a lightning bolt crawling straight up his arm, into his shoulder, his neck, his skull.

He’d scared you. Not just once. Repeatedly. Pushed you, shoved you emotionally into corners. Played with you like you were another one of his games, because that’s what he knew. That’s all he knew. And still, you’d stayed. Still, you’d looked at him like he was human.

Why?

He couldn’t even look at himself like that now.

Niragi tilted his head back again, forehead hitting the wall with a dull thunk, the pain reverberating through his skull. He wanted it to knock him out. To end it. Because fuck if this didn’t feel like dying.

Maybe it was.

Maybe this was what it felt like to be alive after the thing that made you human was already dead.

His chest heaved again. A sob, or a cough, or both. He didn’t care. His vision blurred again, water pooling up in the corners of his eyes until it overflowed, down his cheeks, into the angry red cracks of his neck. It stung. Everything stung. And he missed you. Like something had been torn from his ribs. Like he was incomplete now, like a blueprint missing a page, like a gun without bullets—still dangerous, still loud, but empty inside.

You would’ve made this okay.

You always did.

You always—

Fucking hell.

Niragi groaned, folding forward over himself again, curling like a child around his own pain, because that’s all he had left now. Pain and a handful of stolen ointments that probably wouldn’t do shit for the damage he’d done.

He wanted to die.

He really, truly did.

He just… wanted it to stop. The hurting. The remembering. The missing. The not knowing where you were. If you were okay. If someone else was holding your hand now, kissing your forehead, telling you you were safe.

Because it wasn’t him anymore.

It would never be him again.

The sob that came next was ugly. Choked. Animal.

He hated himself for it.

But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop picturing your hands on his skin, cool and careful, smoothing burn cream across his back. The way you’d murmur “Shh”. The way you always smelled good. The way you looked at him, like even his madness was still something soft to you.

You would’ve sat behind him on the cold floor, legs to either side of his burned body, a bowl of clean water in your lap. You’d have whispered, “This’ll sting,” like he deserved warning, and then you’d clean every raw patch of skin with that gentle touch of yours—so careful, so steady, like he was a glass sculpture instead of a man with a gun and a temper.

You would’ve stayed even when he told you to go.

You would’ve made a list of supplies on your arm in sharpie, walking from corner store to corner store, braving goddamn fire if you had to, just to find antiseptic that wouldn’t burn as much, some pain meds, even those stupid cooling bandages with cartoon characters on them if it meant he might smile. Hell, you might’ve teased him for it—“Do you want Hello Kitty or Power Rangers for your life threatening injury, babe?”—and he would’ve rolled his eyes, but let you do it anyway. Let you patch him up.

You would’ve held his wrist when he flinched. Not to stop him, but to remind him, I’m here. You would’ve murmured nonsense to distract him, like, “You’re not going to die from this, Niragi.” even if you weren’t so sure. You would’ve lied. For him. For his comfort. You would’ve stayed through the parts no one else could stand—through the blood and the biting and the sadistic things that always curled out of him like smoke. You would’ve endured it all. And you did. You would’ve brushed his hair out of his face when it stuck to his sweat-slicked forehead, kissed the side of his mouth where it cracked from the heat. You would’ve let him fall asleep with his head in your lap and your hand on his heart, counting the beats. Not because he was soft, but because you were.

But you’ll never do that again.

Not for him.

Not after what he did.

Now he can sit in his pathetic little pharmacy corner and cry about it. He can slap ointment on with shaking hands, get it in his cuts, scream about it, and then do it again. He can sleep alone, dream about your voice, and wake up to an empty room and the smell of his own rot. That’s what he gets. Because you’re not coming back. And even if you stumbled across him by accident, you wouldn’t kneel beside him anymore. You wouldn’t touch his face. You wouldn’t save him.

You’d walk past.

Maybe you’d look back. Maybe not.

But either way, you’d keep walking, because you finally learned what it feels like to be loved wrong. To pour yourself out for someone who drank it like poison and asked for more. And even your stubborn, bleeding heart has its limits.

So cry, asshole. Sob into your antiseptic wipes and dream about the girl who would’ve done anything for you.

The streets were empty.

Every step made your knees scream, and your shoulder felt like it had glass swimming in the muscle. But you kept going. What the hell else were you supposed to do? The city blurred past. Dead cars. Paper signs long since peeled off their tape. Storefronts with broken windows and looted shelves. You didn’t even look at the glass anymore—no use checking your reflection. You knew what you looked like. A mess. You didn’t know where your head was. You didn’t know where anything was. The air was hot with summer rot, and your thoughts were just as spoiled. Chishiya might be dead. So might Niragi.

Good.

Let them rot in some pile of ash or fall in a pit of their own god complexes. Let the fire eat them. Let the game take them. Let them finally know what it feels like to be powerless for once.

Fuck, no, not good.

No, it is good. Let him burn. Let both of them burn.

But—but what if Chishiya is really gone? What if Niragi died choking on his own firelit pride, alone, scared? What if their last thoughts were of you and how cruel you’d been? What if their last breaths were dry with regret and your name?

Why should you care? Why should you hurt? They played you. They bent your head into pretty shapes, pressed you between them. And you—weird little thing you are—loved them for it.

God, you loved them.

You wanted Niragi to hurt.

You wanted Chishiya to feel.

But did you want them dead?

Did you want them gone?

There it was. The stupid truth. You didn’t know if you hated them or missed them more. If you wanted to slap them or kiss them or leave them bleeding with all the things they never said to you.

And the worst part? You knew you weren’t done with them.

No matter what your mouth screamed or your fists clenched or how bloody your knees were from running away. They were still in you. Somewhere. Wormed into the softest corners of your soul. You could feel them with every step you took.

Let him burn. Let them both die screaming.

No—please, not like that.

No—fuck them.

No—please.

You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t know what you’d find. But you were alive. And they weren’t here. And maybe that was enough to hate everything just a little more today. There was no destination, not really. Just your feet pulling you forward through streets. You followed instinct. Or maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe it was pain with a compass. It didn’t matter.

Because eventually, you realized where you were going.

Your apartment.

You stopped dead in the middle of the cracked pavement, hand flying to your face like you could physically shove the thought back into your skull. But it was too late. It had already settled into your bones.

Your apartment.

The place where Chishiya used to stand in the kitchen, watching you cook with his arms crossed, pretending not to care while he secretly memorized how you moved. The place where Niragi would be the biggest asshole imaginable and would still get away with it because you let him. The place that held your toothbrush. Your pillow. Your perfume soaked into the walls.

Your knees nearly gave out again. You caught yourself with a sharp inhale, leaning against a broken street sign.

What kind of fucking masochist were you?

You were going back there?

Back to that?

You almost turned around. You should have turned around. But you didn’t. Because it was yours. Your space. Your home. You carved something out of this cruel world, and you filled it with warmth and laughter and too much heart, and just because those two infected it didn’t mean they got to own it.

No.

You’d walk in that door again and claim it back. You’d scrub their voices off the walls. You’d rip them out of the sheets, the curtains, the paint cracks. You’d sit in your bed, in your silence, and dare the memories to haunt you.

And maybe—maybe—you’d miss them anyway. Maybe you’d cry. Maybe you’d scream. But at least it’d be yours.

You pushed off the street sign and started walking again.

You were going home.

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