[SUMMARIZED]Aftermath- Suegiku

Recovery

It's been a year.

A year has passed since Jōno's death.

His murder.

And Tetchō's recovering, he supposes.
He's trying to, at least.

There's not been a single person to replace Jōno's spot in the Hunting Dogs as one of the main three. Teruko, Tetchō, and Tachihara— those were the main three— and Tetchō wasn't going to let anyone take Jōno's spot.

He wouldn't let a new person take Jōno's old office. He would let them touch the earring he now wore on his ear. Tetchō wouldn't let them touch Jōno's sword, at all.

New applicants were accepted, surgeries done by the government, superhumans made.

But he wouldn't let anyone get as close to him as Jōno did. Never. He wouldn't allow it.

He was still relatively closed off— but not so closed off as to push them away intentionally.

Tetchō wouldn't let anyone be his official partner again— romantic, or work-wise.

He hated it whenever clueless people tried pickup lines on him— they were gross to him, now.

He could never replace Jōno in his heart— his body— his mind. Never.
Tetchō wouldn't allow it— he couldn't.

He would politely— or if he was in a really bad mood, backhandedly tell them off after that. And he'd tell him the only person he really ever loved was dead—
Leaving them shocked after.
Tetchō had always been blunt— extremely straightforward with people.

That's what made him eccentric, really.

..

He despised it whenever someone held his hand.

That was for Jōno.

This was a way of acceptance for him.

He'd been screaming less at night— Teruko had insisted he got help.

So he did.

The survivor's guilt was too much for him to bear alone. His ways of coping were extremely unhealthy— purposely pushing too hard on missions— being reckless.

Tetchō had always been a victim to this guilt— but it had never, ever been this bad before.

But he knew that if Jōno— if Saigiku were alive, he'd chastise him for it— for doing too much.
Maybe that's why he doesn't hurt himself like that anymore. He doesn't push himself like that— he doesn't rip at his hair— for it was something Jōno once admired— running his hands through it.

He doesn't drink at all anymore.
...

Jōno's face and voice are starting to come back to him.

Tetchō can see his face again— in those frames— those colorful photographs—
The drawings he works on.

They're no longer smudged—
No longer blurred—
No longer censored.

He can see Jōno's face— so lovingly slid into place in the frame by his dresser.

Tetchō doesn't let anyone touch them.
Even despite this acceptance—

He's overprotective over everything he's salvaged from Jōno.

He's finally been going on missions again with others— telling himself it would be selfish to be cold to others because of his own grief.

But he deserves to be able to hold that grief.
Such a strong facade— over such a weak mind.