[Facing Suguru and the knowledge that he lives yet again does feel keenly like failure, but not simply because Satoru's death sentence did not stick — not merely because the most difficult decision of his life has been undone as though it never happened at all, insignificant in how easily it was washed away. His real failure lies in the after, the place and time he left behind, where Suguru's body walks and talks with Satoru in tow.
Once, this was something that Satoru would have confessed to Suguru, the only person who ever truly seemed to understand that despite Satoru's title as The Strongest, literally untouchable, he is still fallible. After all, how many times had Satoru returned after a difficult mission, worn down in the days before he could use his self-reverse, his head pounding from using his Six Eyes, only to pass out in Suguru's bed, a display of vulnerability he would afford no other? Hadn't there been a time when he looked Suguru in the eye and admitted, in an empty voice, I messed up?
But those days ended long before Satoru took Suguru's life.
This is, therefore, a worst case scenario: that Satoru screwed up bad enough to leave Suguru ripe for the taking, and now he must face the very person that he wronged. Killing Suguru, as difficult as it had been — as terrible as it stands to be all over again, should he be forced to repeat history — was an inevitability that Satoru had put off as long as possible. He knew it had to happen, and he knew it had to be at his hand. And hearing him speak and breathe now, among the living once more, will not become another tally on the list of Satoru's regrets, no matter how badly this too may end. Satoru only regrets his weaknesses: that he did not burn Suguru's body as he should have, and offer him the peace he deserved. That when he yelled out to Suguru's body, it responded because it remembered, and it knew.
So yes, Suguru is proof of Satoru's mistakes, but they no longer exist in a place when such feelings can be communicated. Satoru faces Suguru and pretends he can see his failings, and smiles in the face of them, acting as though they aren't there at all.]
It's no fun if I have to pick.
[It's nearly a whine, not unlike those he may have delivered in the past, on the heels of some meaningless video game loss.
But he hears that razor's edge hidden within Suguru's words, the near-taunt that hints toward a challenge, as though Satoru wouldn't have caught up to him eventually — as though he's only in Suguru's presence now by the grace of his patience. And he wonders, idly, how much Suguru knows — if he has seen his eyes. If he is aware that this train can mess with a sorcerer's techniques.
All the more reason for Satoru keep tabs on Suguru, to put aside the pain of memory as he had back when he look Suguru's life, and to incline his head toward floor beside him.]
How about a talk?
[As his reward — as an attempt at figuring out what this means for them both. As a way of avoiding getting up, so Satoru doesn't inadvertently give away his blindness.]
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Once, this was something that Satoru would have confessed to Suguru, the only person who ever truly seemed to understand that despite Satoru's title as The Strongest, literally untouchable, he is still fallible. After all, how many times had Satoru returned after a difficult mission, worn down in the days before he could use his self-reverse, his head pounding from using his Six Eyes, only to pass out in Suguru's bed, a display of vulnerability he would afford no other? Hadn't there been a time when he looked Suguru in the eye and admitted, in an empty voice, I messed up?
But those days ended long before Satoru took Suguru's life.
This is, therefore, a worst case scenario: that Satoru screwed up bad enough to leave Suguru ripe for the taking, and now he must face the very person that he wronged. Killing Suguru, as difficult as it had been — as terrible as it stands to be all over again, should he be forced to repeat history — was an inevitability that Satoru had put off as long as possible. He knew it had to happen, and he knew it had to be at his hand. And hearing him speak and breathe now, among the living once more, will not become another tally on the list of Satoru's regrets, no matter how badly this too may end. Satoru only regrets his weaknesses: that he did not burn Suguru's body as he should have, and offer him the peace he deserved. That when he yelled out to Suguru's body, it responded because it remembered, and it knew.
So yes, Suguru is proof of Satoru's mistakes, but they no longer exist in a place when such feelings can be communicated. Satoru faces Suguru and pretends he can see his failings, and smiles in the face of them, acting as though they aren't there at all.]
It's no fun if I have to pick.
[It's nearly a whine, not unlike those he may have delivered in the past, on the heels of some meaningless video game loss.
But he hears that razor's edge hidden within Suguru's words, the near-taunt that hints toward a challenge, as though Satoru wouldn't have caught up to him eventually — as though he's only in Suguru's presence now by the grace of his patience. And he wonders, idly, how much Suguru knows — if he has seen his eyes. If he is aware that this train can mess with a sorcerer's techniques.
All the more reason for Satoru keep tabs on Suguru, to put aside the pain of memory as he had back when he look Suguru's life, and to incline his head toward floor beside him.]
How about a talk?
[As his reward — as an attempt at figuring out what this means for them both. As a way of avoiding getting up, so Satoru doesn't inadvertently give away his blindness.]