❄︎ KokuDouma oneshots ❄︎

Criminals, Detectives

Alternate universe - Criminal, Detective
Warnings: Crime, Theft, Profanity, angst

THREE murders, two cases of breaking and entering, and four accounts of assault.

Had it been anyone else, they'd have been caught and detained by now, awaiting their sentence. This would have been done by now if it had been some random criminal, some motive or other, or if it had simply been anyone else than the form sprawled across Kokushibo's sofa at the present moment, glass of red wine in hand, grin just an ounce too much like a bearing of teeth to be convincing.

"...Douma." Kokushibo chides, glancing pointedly at him as he hangs his trench coat. Maybe years ago, the tone would have been more surprised, more caught off guard, more accusatory. Maybe years ago it would have sounded like a detective coming home to find the very criminal they were trying to catch lying on their sofa.

Now, though? Now it just sounds resigned. Same old song and dance, bi-weekly routine, and perhaps a touch of worry, but Kokushibo would sooner drop dead than admit it.

"Kokushibo!" singsongs Douma, swirling the wine in his glass. His famous hat is still perched on his head, and Kokushibo resists the urge to steal it from him, take it in as evidence. He would never, of course, but it's fun to imagine.

"How does the day find you?" Douma asks, knowing the answer.

"Tiring," answers Kokushibo truthfully, as he always does.

"Oh, and aren'r you curious? Going to ask me about my day?" teases the occupant of his couch, bringing the glass to their lips to hide a toothy grin.

"I know all about your day. I spent most of mine investigating what you did during yours." Kokushibo responds dryly, stepping over the discarded coat on his ground—it's Douma's, of course, because Kokushibo prefers the neat and orderly, which Douma is decidedly not.

"I'll tell you anyway—!"

"You murdered three people."

Douma quiets, humming in acknowledgement. His polychromatic eyes flit away and for a moment, just a moment, his grin dips at the edges, but it's back up in a second, this time broader and more artificial.

Kokushibo makes his way around his kitchen counter, pouring himself a glass of water, before traveling back to the living room to place his glass next to Douma's own on the coffee table.

"Do you want to tell me why?" murmured Kokushibo, glancing out of the corner of his eye toward the platinum blonde.

Douma's grin fades completely this time, and he sits up, shifting to face Kokushibo completely.

"No." he says, and really Kokushibo should have listened, but he's tired of hearing "no" from Douma.

"Tell me." Kokushibo commands, lifting his gaze to meet Douma's rainbow eyes.

If Douma is startled by his change in tone, he does a good job at hiding it.

"No." repeats Douma, firmer this time, like he is a child trying to tell an inanimate object to dance, getting upset and confused when it doesn't work.

"You've killed three people, Douma. Robbed them of their lives. As your partner, I think I deserve—" Kokushibo starts, brows furrowing as he reaches for Douma's hand, folded in his lap.

Douma snatches it away from him, eyes flashing.

"You're not my partner." He spits the last word out like venom.

Douma doesn't like to label what they are. It's a fact Kokushibo learned years ago, when they first started this dance, this eternal waltz of blow-for-blow, jab-for-jab, kiss-for-kiss: Douma doesn't like to be restricted by things like rules or labels; it's because of this that the two of them don't work very well.

Kokushibo is the embodiment of rules and order.

The two of them must be masochists, though, because if the ways they don't work are like thorns, the ways they do are like the roses.

Some days, Kokushibo fears that maybe those thorns will become so intense and overgrown, that their differences would be their downfall.

Or murder. Probably murder.

Sometimes Kokushibo wonders who will kill who, and privately settles these thoughts with the opinion that it will be Douma who kills him.

"Douma," says Kokushibo, because maybe he's tired of being the one who dies in their story, maybe he's tired of having to adjust, bend to Douma's whims, sacrifice for him. "Whether I'm your partner or not, I think I deserve to know why you killed these people."

Douma stares for a second, face uncharacteristically blank as he blinks in comprehension.

Finally, after what feels like hours, Douma's expression ripples into one Kokushibo doesn't think he's ever seen on him before: genuine irritation.

"You think wrong," Douma chirps, plastering his smile black on his face and fixing his tone, clasping his hands together.

Kokushibo hesitates, but something in him won't stop; it's hungry, it's devouring, it's consuming and maybe it's the reason Douma's recent recklessness—actions irritate him as much as they do.

"Douma, I care about you—" Kokushibo implores.

"Don't. It's a waste of breath." Douma interrupts. This time, a smile he's never seen before is on Douma's face. It's small, more somber somehow.

It feels like goodbye.

Douma stands, sweep his coat off the floor and dusts it off (like there was any dust on it anyway). Then, he strides to the door of Kokushibo's apartment.

He twists the knob, pulls open the door, and seems to pause in the door frame.

Kokushibo would ask him to turn back, to stay, but he's rooted to his spot on the couch and really all he can do is sit there and watch as Douma closes the door from his life to Kokushibo's, possibly forever.

In the door frame, Douma pauses. He turns his head back, makes eye contact, and tips his hat, that same small, sad smile playing on his lips.

"You were a wonderful grounding point in the whirlwind I call my life." he says, and his eyes glisten.

"You were... such a beautiful splash of color on a blank canvas." Kokushibo returns.

It isn't until Douma must be at least eight kilometers away that Kokushibo realizes tears have dripped down his cheeks, onto his hands clasped in his lap, onto the material of his pants.

That night, no more murders take place, and the next morning. a detective resigns from his position.

A/N - Shorter than what I want to be usual, sorry! And if it doesn't make sense, sorry for that too! I don't have a Beta reader and it's four in the morning. I'm very tired, might come back and edit it later to fix any mistakes