"I'm fine," he says, voice rougher than he wants it to be. As if to prove his point, he tries to stand a little straighter, lift his chin up, pull back his shoulders, meets grey with grey and tries to be just as neutral as the color. He feels like a cat trying to pretend it's bigger and tougher than it is by arching its back. But he knows how to pretend like he'd made steel, for a little while until the fur settles.
"None of that was ever up to me," he says, taking a step back, away from the proximity, pulling Aki's arm carefully away from his shoulder. "It asn't for me to decide."
Of course he had thought about what would happen if he died. Who it'd affect. Because if it had been just about him, then things probably wouldn't have mattered. If he lived or died, no one would be around to care. But he always knew there'd be at least one that would take it hard. So he had thought about it enough. Especially in the darker hours of two years ago when he wondered what the hell he was supposed to do. He had wanted to forget more than he wanted to die. If he had wanted to die more than anything else, he could think of a thousand faster ways to go. Dying wasn't all that hard.
But he had figured dying and dying soon would be the inevitable conclusion. He accepted it, because that was justice. So he had tried to make things easier. Because a wound that wasn't deep would hurt less and would heal quicker. For the most part, it wouldn't be a problem. No one knew him. Fuuka might blame herself, but in the end, he had only spent a month in her memories. She would forget him. A month was nothing in the span of years she had left in her. The others were the same. Mitsuru would bear responsibility because that was her way, but she'd move on because she was practical. All that left was Aki. He couldn't erase fourteen years. But he could step back and out of his life it was for the best. It was what needed to be done, and had he possessed more iron in his blood he would have done it properly and skipped town and never came back. But he always makes mistakes.
And in the end, what happened to him was out of his hands. He had left it up to Ken that night. He didn't ask Takaya to try and murder the both of them. Never expected to have to deal with having bullets sunk into his chest. And once that happens, ain't much you can do about it except die. He hadn't had a choice. The bullets had cut things short. He could have stood there and done nothing. Maybe he'd still be alive, but the kid wouldn't be. If Ken had died, Shinjiro knows he couldn't have forgiven himself for that. Better him than Ken, and the kid had gotten what he wanted without having to kill, even if he felt a bit more regretful about it now. If that's what Aki was trying to say. ...He didn't know.
He shrugs. "I wasn't gonna be around for much longer anyway." With the pills. And at least he had done something decent for once. It was better than dying like a starved stray. "So it didn't matter. The longer I'd've been around, the worse it would've been."
You don't understand this/ I think you never did/ Silently I search for a reason to exist
"None of that was ever up to me," he says, taking a step back, away from the proximity, pulling Aki's arm carefully away from his shoulder. "It asn't for me to decide."
Of course he had thought about what would happen if he died. Who it'd affect. Because if it had been just about him, then things probably wouldn't have mattered. If he lived or died, no one would be around to care. But he always knew there'd be at least one that would take it hard. So he had thought about it enough. Especially in the darker hours of two years ago when he wondered what the hell he was supposed to do. He had wanted to forget more than he wanted to die. If he had wanted to die more than anything else, he could think of a thousand faster ways to go. Dying wasn't all that hard.
But he had figured dying and dying soon would be the inevitable conclusion. He accepted it, because that was justice. So he had tried to make things easier. Because a wound that wasn't deep would hurt less and would heal quicker. For the most part, it wouldn't be a problem. No one knew him. Fuuka might blame herself, but in the end, he had only spent a month in her memories. She would forget him. A month was nothing in the span of years she had left in her. The others were the same. Mitsuru would bear responsibility because that was her way, but she'd move on because she was practical. All that left was Aki. He couldn't erase fourteen years. But he could step back and out of his life it was for the best. It was what needed to be done, and had he possessed more iron in his blood he would have done it properly and skipped town and never came back. But he always makes mistakes.
And in the end, what happened to him was out of his hands. He had left it up to Ken that night. He didn't ask Takaya to try and murder the both of them. Never expected to have to deal with having bullets sunk into his chest. And once that happens, ain't much you can do about it except die. He hadn't had a choice. The bullets had cut things short. He could have stood there and done nothing. Maybe he'd still be alive, but the kid wouldn't be. If Ken had died, Shinjiro knows he couldn't have forgiven himself for that. Better him than Ken, and the kid had gotten what he wanted without having to kill, even if he felt a bit more regretful about it now. If that's what Aki was trying to say. ...He didn't know.
He shrugs. "I wasn't gonna be around for much longer anyway." With the pills. And at least he had done something decent for once. It was better than dying like a starved stray. "So it didn't matter. The longer I'd've been around, the worse it would've been."
Like Takaya said.