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[interior]

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[interior]

You're not meant to turn it off. You're meant to deal with it the same as every other poor fucker that doesn't have death as a tidy chapter closer.

[Unsaid, swallowed down deep for the truth Takeshi isn't ready to look at: Nami and I wouldn't let that happen. Don't you see that?]

If you're doing this, I'm holding the knife.

[rehandle]

[ We all have death as a tidy chapter closer he almost argues, until Takeshi's words pierce silence through his thoughts like the aftermath of an explosion.

What feels like an age but is only a second or two later, quieted, confused: ]

What?

[interior]

[He doesn't need to repeat himself. Stephen heard him just fine. But again, with certainty weighing every word,]

I said: if you're doing this, I'm holding the knife.

[rehandle]

Why?

[ He knows. Doesn't know. Needs to. ]

[interior]

So no one else can take it as a chance to punish you. So I know it isn't you punishing yourself.

[So he can know exactly how quick and clean it is, exactly what Stephen sees and hears and feels in that last moment. So no one else can have that, have Stephen's blood and heart in their hands.

If it's going to happen, it has to be him.]

[rehandle]

[ He doesn't like it. He doesn't. It was bad enough to inflict his death on them all, it isn't fair that Takeshi should have his blood on his hands just so Stephen can chase peace under the fragile guise of duty. But to deny him would hurt him too. And the fact that Stephen can't take the third option, just stay alive, is proof enough that afflictions of the mind are worse than marks on the body.

Deep breath in. Out. Choking down his protests before they can leave his thoughts. If he's doing this to him either way, he doesn't get to say no here. ]

Alright.

[ Sorry feels hollow when he isn't sorry enough not to cause the harm. When what he really feels is - ]

Thank you.

[interior]

[He doesn't want to be thanked for this.]

Just tell me when.

[He drops the line. Needs some space. Needs a drink.]