"You've been awfully quiet lately, Kusuo-kun."
Akechi was used to light ringing in his head.
It was soft, and not intrusive as tinnitus often was, but he knew it wasn't natural. Maybe it was from the volume Saiki had enjoyed "yelling" at him when he wouldn't shut up, or from all the actual yelling he'd heard in his life, but it wavered, and every now and then, it made itself known.
He liked to think it was a sort of residue— if you could call it that— from the telepathy. It made it feel a little more magical; a little more unreal.
When Saiki heard it, muffled and shuffling through his head, he'd called him out on how silly it was. Akechi didn't care.
"Granted, you're always quiet," he spoke softly; nearly a whisper.
It was true. Mostly.
There were plenty of times where he'd heard a fellow student crack a joke or question the fact that Saiki never spoke. Sometimes, on a good day, he'd wonder too if he heard.
They were wrong anyway. They said these things when Saiki did speak. They simply weren't worthy of hearing it. There was a select group of people allowed to hear his voice, even if it was monotone and flat. It was a privilege, if anything.
Akechi enjoyed being "worthy" of hearing him speak.
It was mostly scolding, which used to annoy him. Not to a significant extent, of course. In fact, he found it kinda funny, when he'd do something so obviously in a mocking manner and Saiki would stare him down and answer in such a way that made him question whether or not he understood the intention behind it at all.
Now he missed the scolding. He thought the days were lonelier and quieter without it.
"I guess I'm just so used to it..." he trailed off, not fully grasping the point of whatever he was going to say.
It was bound to be a burden.
If not the countless drawbacks at least, the sense of responsibility. So many friends, yes, but also so many lives. In comparison to someone who could alter the world with a thought, people who were less blessed were much more fragile. Because of this, it was almost his responsibility to keep them safe.
It truly wasn't, and he'd been told that plenty of times, but it didn't change anything.
It's noble, he thinks. Unnecessary, if you wanted to be ruthless, but noble. Especially because he made it clear that it was unwanted. Akechi told him once that if it were truly unwanted, the responsibility, that he wouldn't take it on in the first place. This fact was ignored.
Somehow, the casual complaints only did a better job at showcasing how much it weighed on him.
He saved lives. He was practically a hero. Practically was enough for Akechi, because whether or not he distinctly fit the image, he believed in him as a force of good.
It was a calming notion; it kept him grounded. To know that if anything ever threatened a life, Saiki would fix things. He might've even found it amusing to see him with an insignia on his chest.
"I didn't think... you'd take it all away."
Maybe it's selfish to think this way.
To think that in the end, his hero, wasn't.
Saiki looks at Akechi, quiet and cold as always. His eyes were more open than before, maybe taking in all the color and joy and skin he could finally see. He looked tired. Was it hard to sleep in silence?
It seemed that Saiki was in a constant state of unrest. Akechi assumed it was the mental strain of having to take everything in— having to truly take everything in. Akechi could be heard from a mile away, which he hoped help to ease his nerves. It did, to some extent, for more reasons than one.
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.