Work Text:
Well, tell me do you hate me?
Or do you wanna date me?
It’s kinda hard to tell
‘cause your eyes are looking crazy
It was still early, but Ken had been in the library for a while now, seated at one of the tables with a book opened in front of him. He hadn’t turned a page in a long time, the words blurring together as he stared at the pages, unfocused. He used to hate coming here because of the memories… but he didn’t care enough to mind it now.
He’d tossed Kazutoshi’s breakfast away before the cleaner could touch it and, as a result, they’d be able to meet here once Kazutoshi was done with his usual morning shower. That was supposed to be a routine, simple and predictable, a pattern that Ken usually found comfort in… but routine meant nothing anymore, not after so much time spent in this hell.
He should probably worry more; even without the drugged food, Kazutoshi wasn’t safe. He would never be safe, not while the fox was still walking freely through these halls, her mask hiding fangs ready to bite into the cleaner's pale throat. It was what usually happened, and Ken had seen it proven true too many times… yet there were days like this one where vigilance felt pointless and apathy made him not want to be the first one to strike. The hundreds of loops had worn his nerves thin and grounded down his urgency: What was there left to protect, when every victory was only temporary? If Kazutoshi died, Ken could always bring him back. He could do it again and again, as many times as needed, and the crime scene cleaner would always wake up in the brunette’s bed, completely unaware that he’d ever stopped breathing.
Lucky him.
Ken sighed and rose from his seat, closing his book before carrying it back to its shelf. From there he hid deeper into the library, strolling through the rows until he reached a corner far enough that no one would see him unless they were searching for him.
He took another book at random, his fingers brushing along the spine as he leaned against the nearest bookcase, flipping through the pages without really reading. His eyes dragged over the words without registering them, as if pretending that he cared would make him forget what his life had become.
Ken was halfway through rereading the same random paragraph when he heard footsteps – light, slow, and tapping softly against the floorboards of the library; he didn’t need to turn to know who it was. After so many weeks –or months– he had learned to recognize everyone’s footsteps by sound alone: Yanagi’s calm rhythm, Hayashi’s heavy march, Wada’s light stroll, Kazutoshi’s uneven gait… And Okazaki’s unhurried pace, her velvet paws hiding deadly claws.
Before the boy could open his mouth to speak, she was there; her hand caught his shoulder, spun him around, and next thing he knew, Ken's back hit the bookshelf with a muted thud that made the books tremble.
Then she kissed him.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss; her mouth pressed against his with the force of someone claiming what’s theirs, her tongue meeting his own as soon as he opened his mouth to gasp.
The book slipped from Ken’s hands and hit the floor with a thud that broke the stillness, and it broke the spell of surprise. He tried pushing her away, pressing his palms against her shoulders and trying to create distance, but she only leaned in harder. Her hands slid down his back, and her fingers traced lower until they found his hips; she squeezed them, and Ken felt her smile against his lips, satisfied. Then her hands moved again, lower still… and found his ass.
Ken bit down on her tongue hard.
Okazaki didn’t flinch.
All she did was draw back slightly and smile; that sharp, triumphant grin made the brunette feel like she was already two moves ahead of him, like all his reactions until now were all part of her plan. With a deliberate motion, she raised her hand and showed him a knife – his knife, that she must have stolen just now.
“Was the kiss really necessary?” he asked, more irritated than shaken. She could have asked about it, since Ken wouldn’t have minded showing it to her. After all, he had stabbed her with it many times already, and he wouldn’t have minded doing it once more…
“I can’t risk you stabbing me again, dear,” she said lightly, as if reading his mind. Her voice had that honeyed, almost playful cadence she used when she wanted to remind him she was dangerous, and that he should care about what she was doing. He didn’t.
“What do you want?” Ken asked, his eyes narrowing.
Okazaki tilted her head, still smiling, the knife glinting faintly in her hand as she made it twirl. It was then that Ken realized she wasn’t wearing any bandages today; what was the point in putting them on anyway, since that’d be a waste of her time? Still, it was always strange to see her bare hands and uncovered neck, and the brunette caught himself staring a second too long before turning away.
The air between them thickened, and Ken made the unpleasant realisation that even in this hidden, forgotten place, she had found a way to make him feel cornered.
“You know,” Okazaki said, her voice lilting through the quiet like the sound of a page being turned, “I think it’d be worth trying that again.”
Ken didn’t look at her. He bent over to pick up the book she’d knocked from his hands earlier, dusting the corner with his sleeve before sliding it back into its place on the shelf. “What, kissing?” he asked flatly, continuing to talk as he turned his back on her and made his way to another bookcase, one closer to the exit. “You did that already.”
“It doesn’t count if you don’t reciprocate, Ken,” she scoffed, as if he had just said something stupid. When the boy faced her again, she was already closing the distance between them, idly running a finger along the spines of the books she passed. “Maybe the setting wasn’t right,” she continued, eyes flicking to him. “Maybe what we need is to be outside the dorms for it to work…”
Ken grimaced, the expression twisting his mouth in disgust. For a moment, the thought alone made his stomach turn; he pictured Kazutoshi walking in, stopping dead in the doorway, confusion giving way to horror as he saw them. How heartbroken would he be, seeing them kiss? Even if Ken knew the crime scene cleaner wouldn’t remember any of it, his pulse gave a nervous twitch.
“I’m not kissing you in public,” the brunette sneered, not hiding the contempt he felt at her suggestion.
“It doesn’t have to be in public!” she sang back, as if amused by his disgust, close enough now that if she took another step forward, she’d be close enough to embrace him. “I’m sure it’ll work just fine if we stay hidden behind those bookcases…”
Ken rolled his eyes, his fingers brushing against a shelf until they found another book, giving him the perfect excuse to look anywhere but at her. “Anyone could walk in.”
And by anyone, he meant Kazutoshi. Not that the fox needed to know that…
“Who?” Okazaki countered easily, taking the last step she needed to be right next to the quiz show champion. “We know everyone’s schedule by heart. Nobody will come here, and you know it.”
Her voice was soft, and with how close she was, Ken could feel her breath against his skin; he exhaled through his nose, hard. He knew it was pointless trying to convince her to let it go; no matter what he did or said, she would keep pushing until he finally complied.
“Someone might spot us.”
There was a pause, and then Okazaki snapped her fingers, mock understanding flashing across her face. “Oh, I get it!” she exclaimed, smirking. “You planned a little rendezvous with the boytoy!”
The word sliced through the air as if designed to cut. Ken’s hand clenched around the spine of the book he held, knuckles whitening, and he finally looked at her: she’d found her opening and she knew it, the maddening grin distorting her face the proof of her success.
“Stop calling him that,” Ken warned, his voice dropping an octave as he glared at her.
“Stop getting flustered when I call him that,” she said lightly, “and I’ll stop.”
She tilted her head again, her eyes glinting with something predatory, not doubt delighted by the shift in his tone. Even if Ken could feel the anger crawling beneath his skin, he knew he couldn’t give her the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him. Instead, he turned away, forcing his breathing to even out, his fingers adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as though the small and mundane gesture could rebuild the barrier she was breaking each time she insulted Kazutoshi.
Okazaki moved too, the scrape of her shoes against the floorboards following him down the aisle. Ken didn’t look at her again, but his jaw was tight, and he forced his attention to the rows of books in front of him. He pulled one from the shelf and opened it, more so he’d have something to hold than to read. Maybe she’d get the memo – but even if she didn’t, he could at least pretend she wasn’t there.
“So, what do you think?” she murmured in his ear, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ken turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a humorless smirk. “You know, if you want to kiss me that badly, all you have to do is ask.”
Her expression shifted – first came a flicker of surprise, which was quickly replaced by a glint of delight again. “Can I kiss you?” she asked quickly, unable to hide the amusement in her tone.
“No.”
The single syllable was meant to sound like a door slamming shut, but given the fox’s answer was a laugh, the brunette knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.
“You’re no fun, Ken,” she sighed, and before he could move, she snatched the book from his hands and let it drop to the floor. The thud it made against the parquet was almost absurdly small, swallowed by the sound of the fox's giggles. She watched his expression closely, waiting for something – for anything.
Ken only rolled his eyes. “I’m not in the mood to entertain you,” he said in a dry voice. “We both know kissing isn’t going to fix… this. If you’re so starved for affection, I’m sure Watari will help you.”
Okazaki pressed a finger to her chin in mock reflection, as if considering the offer. “Hmm. I suppose I could do that…” Her gaze slid back to him, a sharp smile forming once again. “The only issue is that it’s not Watari I want to kiss right now.”
“And we don’t always get what we want,” Ken replied, tone stripped of everything but indifference. “Get lost.”
He pushed her shoulder then, the contact brief but enough to make his boundary clear. Ken crouched to pick up the fallen book; he told himself she would get bored soon, even if it was unlikely she would be now.
When he straightened, Okazaki hadn’t moved away. She was somehow closer now, far too close, and the faint tremor in her wrist caught his eyes just before the flash of metal did. The knife she held caught the light, its blade brushing his throat, and the book once again fell to the floor. Ken didn’t flinch; he only exhaled through his nose, the sound closer to resignation than fear, even when she pressed forward and the metal bit into his skin and drew blood.
“Do you think I care if you slit my throat?” Ken asked calmly, raising an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to die.”
The corner of Okazaki’s mouth curled, showing her teeth. “And here I thought you wouldn’t want your boytoy to find your carcass on the floor…”
The words hit their mark: she’d chosen them well, as always. This was never about the knife, and the threat of it was only a pretext for this other game she liked better: watching him navigate between irritation and indifference, testing how far she could push his buttons before he snapped and acted the way she wanted him to. This had been their game for months now, but Ken didn’t want to play today.
He gave her nothing; no scowl, no retort, just a faint tightening of his jaw as he answered her taunt: “Even if he appeared now and saw it, he won’t remember it.”
She wanted him angry, because anger was proof that he still cared – and care, in Okazaki’s world, was always used as leverage. It was Ken’s weakness… but it was also hers, when Watari was a participant.
“No,” she agreed softly, leaning closer and nuzzling against his jaw, “but you will never forget the horror on his face each time he sees you die.”
She paused for a bit, looking up so their eyes would meet. She kissed his jaw then, chuckling softly as she went on: “It’s pathetic, really, how betrayed he always looks when your limbs get twisted… Like he can’t believe he fell for a monster.”
Her words were meant to pierce, to see what kind of noise he’d make if she twisted deep enough into the open wound… But all Ken gave her was a dry laugh and an eye-roll, as though she was nothing more than some petulant child asking for attention.
There was a reason he avoided looking into Kazutoshi’s eyes during those executions.
Even after so many loops, he hadn’t found a way to numb himself from that look, from the disbelief and the anger and the betrayal in those red eyes of his. Kazutoshi would never understand that Ken did all this for him; he’d never understand that this game was started in his name, so Ken could avenge his death and retaliate against the most despicable person on this planet.
“Are you finished?” Ken asked, voice as neutral as he could manage.
“I’m not, actually.” Okazaki lowered the knife then, the blade tracing along his collarbone with almost tender precision, as if this was nothing more than a mockery of intimacy. She didn’t draw more blood, and Ken found himself feeling disappointed. He barely focused on her words, focusing instead on the thrill of maybe, just maybe, getting stabbed again. “There’s so much I could say about him… And you should know by now that you never win when I do that.”
She didn’t stab him, and Ken cursed under his breath. This was pointless; he had other plans today, and even if he could afford the time waste, he truly didn’t care enough to play along.
After all, he could win their game any other day.
“If I let you kiss me,” he started, his voice stripped of any emotion she could feed on, “will you leave?”
Her grin sharpened. “No, that won’t do… I want you to kiss me back. Or take the lead – your choice.”
He looked at her for a long moment, the silence between them stretching as Ken thought of his answer. He smiled then, the first time since Okazaki had appeared, and rephrased his latest question: “If I kiss you, will you leave?”
“Yes,” she answered, grinning as she realised that she’d won. He didn't care; she could have this win, and he'd make sure to take his revenge.
The knife was discarded then, dropped to the floor the same way the book had been moments earlier. Okazaki licked her lips, slow and expectant, and that was all it took for something to give. Ken reached forward before she could speak, his hand closing on the collar of her coat, and pulled her in until their mouths crashed together.
The kiss wasn’t gentle: it was rough, graceless, and so far from intimate that it was ridiculous they'd even be doing that. He pulled her closer still, until her body pressed into him, until he could no longer tell whose pulse he felt thudding against his chest. When Okazaki’s teeth caught his lip and the sting bloomed, he hummed despite himself, the taste of his own blood grounding him in a way nothing else could.
One hand anchored at the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair and forcing her closer, while his other hand still clutched her coat, his knuckles going white from how hard he was squeezing her collar. Okazaki met him with equal force, her own hands grinding his waist, tracing along his sides through the fabric of his suit. Then her palm slid lower, searching for something… and then they slipped under his suit, and the shock of her cold fingers against his skin sent a shiver racing up his spine. Or was it the fact that she was touching him? She wasn't allowed to touch him there.
Ken broke the kiss and shoved her backward with a violence that rattled the shelves. The impact sent books tumbling to the floor, thudding as they crashed into the wood all around them.
Okazaki only laughed, the low and ecstatic sound carrying too much hunger in it. Honest hunger. “You’re sexy when you’re angry.”
“Shut up,” Ken hissed.
“Make me.”
He did.
The second kiss was worse – or better, depending on who was judging. Harsher, louder, all teeth and frustration and heat. Okazaki made a noise against his mouth –was it a gasp or a moan?–when he yanked at her hair, and Ken swallowed every last one of them.
Her hands found his shoulders, then his neck, then higher, threading through his hair and holding him there as if she could drink the life out of him. Every sound she made seemed to tear another response from him: a rougher breath, a tighter grip, but never a sound that he couldn't stop. Her touch turned greedy, possessive; her fingernails dug into his back, and he was grateful for wearing so many layers. Ken pressed her harder against the shelves, his own hands answered in kind, sliding down her sides until they found her waist, squeezing hard enough to make her flinch. She whimpered, and the sound, half pain and half pleasure, twisted something inside Ken.
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
He thought, fleetingly, about how far he’d fallen; how low he’d let himself sink, kissing the one person he despised most in this entire world just to buy himself a moment of peace.
This should have disgusted him… And it did, somewhere beneath the surface. But for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t numb. The tremor in his chest, the sting of his lip, the harshness of her grip and of his own… all of it made him feel alive again.
Ken told himself this was only natural: after so much time trapped inside the same endlessly looping day, his mind and body had begun craving something –anything– that could remind him he was still made of flesh and nerves. Disgust, anger, desire… they were all the same now, all proof that he wasn’t completely empty.
He didn’t question why it was happening with Okazaki; the logic was simple, almost laughably so: it wasn’t about her, and this could have happened with anyone. Yanagi, Hiroaki, Hama… His body and mind only cared about what was happening, not with whom… But his mind betrayed him eventually, and he couldn’t help but imagine Kazutoshi being in Okazaki’s place.
Kazutoshi, with his back pressed against that same bookshelf, his red eyes flickering with defiance and something softer underneath. Ken pictured himself carrying Kazutoshi so they’d be face to face, imagining the sounds the smaller boy would make as they kissed… and the way his heart would hammer so fast he’d be seconds away from falling limp in Ken’s arms.
Before he realised it, a sound slipped past Ken's lips – low, rough, and unmistakable: a moan.
It startled him enough that his eyes flew open, and for a brief, awful second, he saw Kazutoshi’s face where Okazaki’s was… and then the illusion shattered. This was the wrong scent, the wrong shape, the wrong eyes staring back at him, silver and not crimson.
He broke away and Okazaki smiled, all teeth again, her lips swollen and glistening. She must be so proud of herself, thinking she got him to fucking moan… but it wasn’t her. It would never be her. She didn’t mean anything to him.
“Careful, Ken,” the fox purred. “If you keep this up, I might actually start believing you want me.”
Ken stepped back then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like the gesture could erase everything –the taste of her, the sound, the moment itself– that just happened. His chest still heaved from the adrenaline, but he forced his face to go blank again; he hoped the look he gave her was stripped of everything human. How could he ever want her? His heart, whatever was left of it anyway, was already spoken for.
The silence stretched again, thick and tense, but eventually Okazaki’s soft chuckle cut through it. She was thrilled, not by the kiss, but by what she’d drawn out of him: that small, humiliating indication of desire she would now be able to use against him anytime she wanted. It didn’t matter that he was thinking about someone else when that happened; he made a mistake, and the consequences would come someday.
He spoke before she could, his voice stripped of any warmth: “You got what you wanted. Now leave.”
Okazaki didn’t move, tilting her head like she hadn’t decided yet whether the game was over or not. Her eyes trailed over his face, searching for anything else she could use against him… But there was nothing there, Ken made sure of it.
Then, as if they were just resuming some half-forgotten conversation, she said lightly: “Oh, I forgot to tell you earlier! Kazutoshi won’t be able to come.”
Ken froze. His fists clenched at the mention of the name, ready to strike. He might not have his knife anymore, but she wasn’t a fighter by any means; the boy might have let her win that first game, but when it came to fighting? She never won, not unless she played dirty.
“I’m afraid,” she continued, her voice a phony of sympathy, “he unexpectedly fell in the stairway on his way to your date.”
For a moment, Ken’s mind went completely blank. He didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, the sound of his own pulse filling his head.
“What did you do?” The question came out loud; this was not pleading nor panic: it was anger, hot and lethal.
Okazaki’s smile only widened. “He fell in the stairway,” she repeated, sounding smug and proud of herself in the worst way. Ken wanted to tear through that smug façade and see whether this was another one of her twisted games… but he couldn’t. His mind wouldn’t let him risk it, and when he finally reacted, he didn’t think.
He moved.
Ken left the library running, each step faster than the last. Somewhere behind him, Okazaki laughed – the sound so faint and detached he might have imagined it.
The last thing Ken registered was the sound of gunshots and the pain blooming in his back.