Hero

"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.