Hero

Saiki's hands absentmindedly roams the open pages of the book he was holding. The dry, nearly sharp feel of paper was something typically avoided, but it seemed to silently fascinate him. Without the thin latex, his hands often wandered to objects and around his own clothes. Akechi guessed it was nice to finally feel.

Imitation is the highest form of flattery, and Akechi circled his finger on the surface of the table instead. Cold and smooth, but the school library was always cold.

"I mean... Maybe I shouldn't have- Ah..." He got nervous quickly, though it didn't stop him from talking. "I guess I just miss it."

Saiki looks away and back to his book, annoyed, angry, embarrassed— anything, really, because he didn't say anything and Akechi doesn't know what to think.

"There are so many things I got used to. Even though very few of them affected me, I suppose your sarcastic quips were almost background noise at some point."

Akechi smiles, but doesn't laugh, still keeping his voice down should anyone need to actually study.

"Y'know, I wonder how your other friends are doing. I mean, I doubt they notice too much of a difference, other than your now-"

Timid? Antsy? Sensitive?

"Well." It's a good thing he stopped himself. "You're more easily frightened than ever. But that's to be expected, no?"

He looks at him again, as though expecting an answer. His own breathing sounds louder than it should.

"It's so different. Having you like this, I mean."

Now he's certain Saiki's annoyed to some extent.

He scoffs, slowly flipping the page, twirling it around slightly before allowing it to fall into place. His shoulders slump, more than they had with his aloof posture, and he leans into himself.

It's not a bad thing, he thinks about saying, but that would be wrong. There should be no implication that it was ever a bad thing, even if he's different.

Even if he's not a hero anymore.

"I think even if our conversations were one-sided, they were still something that sort of formed a habit in me. Especially because we discussed the same topics rather frequently. Your books, or my books, or some piece of media, if not simply a restaurant review."

He was reminiscing about two weeks ago. Pathetic, kind of.

"They were a bit bland, but they passed the time. And you..."

Saiki finally looks at him again, hand lingering on the edge of the pages, his fingers gently tapping a simple rhythm. He could've been hanging on his every word or bored out of his mind, but Akechi wouldn't know.

"You're so different. So much quieter, somehow. Ah, but I said that already, didn't I...? A bit like how you were when we were young, but still more..."

Distant...?

"Quiet. Hmm. The best word I can think of to describe you right now is quiet." He sighs. "How uncreative of me."

And Akechi has looked at his own book, still closed, while Saiki still looked, waiting for more... something. He knew that couldn't be it, at least.

"But still..."

You're still my hero.

"Even if now, you can't do so many of the things you used to be able to..."

I don't care that you've changed.

"And even if," he says, gently waving a hand, "You're not the brilliant supernova of a human as you once were..."

They both lean a little closer; to hear or simply for the hell of it.

"You're still you. You're still Kusuo-kun."

And I still love you.

Akechi was grateful now, for the lack of telepathy, to keep things calm. He was tempted to lean onto his side, but stayed put. He can't recall if he ever succeeded at this, but he knows if he were to try it in public, he'd never hear the end of it. Even without a voice, he'd probably find a way to scold him.

"Whatever," Saiki muttered. It was hardly audible, but surprising nonetheless. "So what."

His voice separate from telepathy sounded about the same, if not slightly raspy, but was filled with emotion. What kind of emotion was still a foggy detail, but the delivery was more human than anything Akechi'd ever heard from him.

Human. Huh.

"Read your book."

Now, his words were distinctly lined with deflection of some sort. Maybe out of embarrassment, or subtle disbelief.

He was almost smiling, if Akechi squinted hard enough. It wasn't his usual frown, or a completely straight face. There was room for error; for falter, and he could see it. It was unusual, for sure, but greatly pleasing.

It reminded him of his strange smirk he sported from time to time back when they were in first grade. Awkward, but some of the most intense expressions he'd show. Only further proof that he'd never changed— not in a way that was important. Even if things stayed the same forever, and he were to die the same as any other...

You're still my hero, Kusuo-kun.

And nothing could ever change that.