"...H-Hamuko-san," Maruki’s voice breaks the silence—small, like it stumbled out on accident. He’s been quiet for a while now, save the occasional mumble or half-sentence that faded off before it meant anything.
His head lolls to the side, cheek smooshed lightly against his knees, peeking at her with one eye squinted open. "Can I—... can I ask something?" He pauses like he’s forgotten what it was. "Oh. No, I remember. Still there. Not a dream."
He blinks, long and slow, like he’s buffering. "When you... sacrificed yourself to Nyx..."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"...Did they know?"
His voice is barely a whisper now, dragged down with the weight of drunken sorrow. He doesn’t even clarify who “they” is—because he knows she knows. That’s the kind of question that only needs saying once.
"Not the ones like you," he continues, words mushy around the edges. "Not... SEES. Not the supernatural crowd. I mean the others. The ones you’d sit and eat lunch with. The ones who didn’t see shadows and keys and death... the ones you made promises to. Like, ‘let’s go to the beach this summer!’ Or... ‘I’ll help you with your college prep’ or... something... simple like that."
He lifts his hand, like he’s trying to gesture—but then it just flops lazily back onto the blanket.
“Did they get it?” he asks, voice breaking halfway through. “Or did they just wake up one day and you were gone? Was it like a ripple in water, or did it just... stop? Just... stop.”
He looks straight ahead now, and it’s clear he’s gone—not unconscious, but drifting deep inside a well of memories and thoughts that keep looping on themselves.
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His head lolls to the side, cheek smooshed lightly against his knees, peeking at her with one eye squinted open. "Can I—... can I ask something?" He pauses like he’s forgotten what it was. "Oh. No, I remember. Still there. Not a dream."
He blinks, long and slow, like he’s buffering. "When you... sacrificed yourself to Nyx..."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"...Did they know?"
His voice is barely a whisper now, dragged down with the weight of drunken sorrow. He doesn’t even clarify who “they” is—because he knows she knows. That’s the kind of question that only needs saying once.
"Not the ones like you," he continues, words mushy around the edges. "Not... SEES. Not the supernatural crowd. I mean the others. The ones you’d sit and eat lunch with. The ones who didn’t see shadows and keys and death... the ones you made promises to. Like, ‘let’s go to the beach this summer!’ Or... ‘I’ll help you with your college prep’ or... something... simple like that."
He lifts his hand, like he’s trying to gesture—but then it just flops lazily back onto the blanket.
“Did they get it?” he asks, voice breaking halfway through. “Or did they just wake up one day and you were gone? Was it like a ripple in water, or did it just... stop? Just... stop.”
He looks straight ahead now, and it’s clear he’s gone—not unconscious, but drifting deep inside a well of memories and thoughts that keep looping on themselves.