Work Text:
"Why do people keep living when they want to die?"
The muted tap, tap, tap of his fingers against the wood bar halted. The harsh scratch, scratch, scratch of her pen on the ad that had been shoved into her hands hours ago as they pushed through the bustling crowd to the cafe did not. She scribbled between obnoxiously colorful fonts screaming "hand-pulled noodles," "freshest seafood," and "selected as one of the top 100 ramen shops in Japan!" Too bad it was too late (or too early? what time was it?) for them to scout out a lunch special or two.
"Eh? Greed, probably. Same as everyone."
She didn't look over at him, choosing instead to continue her crisp writing. The deft motion was at odds with her lazy posture as she slumped over the bar, one elbow propped up and smudging the polished wood, her head lolling in her hand. "I'm serious."
"I know," he replied, his tone entirely too light to match hers. "Pursuit of money, power, influence. Isn't that what motivates everyone?"
She still didn't look over at him. "Even you?"
"Yes."
"Even the 'good guys?'"
"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "Even the 'good guys' need money and influence to do their good deeds, right?" He resumed drumming his fingers against the bar. It was good that they were the only two there at the moment, or else he might have become an annoyance. "Even when people believe their end goal is better than others', the means of achieving that result is the same."
Tap, tap, tap...
Scratch, scratch, scratch...
"Are those your motivations?"
"Eh?" He shifted on the barstool, turning to face her and subsequently knocking his knees against her leg. She didn't budge. He leaned forward, further into her space, his dark eyes narrowing in exaggerated suspicion. "What's with all the questions, huh? You a detective or something?"
"You know that I am," she replied, still as serious as before. Not even a twitch of her lip gave away any sense of the humor which he was normally able to draw out of her (however reluctantly). "Especially considering we've been part of the same agency for several years now."
"Ahh, I suppose that is true."
"You're deflecting."
"Ahh, you caught me! You must be a good detective."
He swiveled away from her and leaned forward to rest one arm on the bar, the other reaching up to comb his dark, curly hair back from his eyes.
A beat of silence that wasn't quite hesitancy passed between them.
"What do you believe your motivations are?" He asked.
"Laziness," she answered without hesitation. She drew a sharp, decisive line through whatever she was writing, as if contradicting herself. "Finding a way to kill myself sounds like too much trouble, especially since there is no guarantee I'd even be successful. So, I am here."
"You do have an all-or-nothing attitude, don't you? Well, it sounds like you'll just have to anger someone so badly they murder you."
She made a noncommittal hum. They lapsed back into silence.
Why did people choose to live when what they really wanted was to die? In a world where people killed, stole, and lied, where all your value was tied to the color of your skin and your gender and how those two lined up with the rest of the general population's, where all your value was tied to how much money you could make someone else, where any pleasure you could greedily clutch to your chest could be snatched away at any moment, why keep going?
What did he think about in the earliest hours of the morning when sleep eluded him for the second or third night? What, after sleep finally graced him with a few hours of its presence, were his first thoughts upon waking? Did those count as motivations? The literal things that dragged him out of bed or off the couch? What about atonement? What about repentance?
"Today was not a good day." He broke the silence, testing the waters of something he couldn't name.
"Tomorrow might be better," she said.
"What if it isn't?"
What if I'm disappointed again?
"Then the next day, maybe."
"Do you believe that?"
"I think so. I hope so."
Ah, there it was – the word he'd avoided thinking about. Not just a thought, but an action. A wish on a star while building a rocket. A defiance to the bloody heavens themselves.
But was it enough?
Abruptly, he realized that the silence had expanded, filling every nook and cranny of the cafe around them. It blanketed every polished table, sat in every booth, and on every barstool. It draped itself over the darkened light fixtures. It barricaded the door. It slipped behind the bar counter and pretended to make them a hot pot of tea. Stillness settled over his restless bones.
He looked to his friend beside him.
She had stopped writing, the pen dangling loosely between her fingers. She'd finally looked up, not at him but beyond, over his shoulder. Pale yellow light washed over half her face.
"The sun is coming up."
"Hm. So it is."
He turned toward the new morning.