Different Sorts of Light
In a world without light, it is Hirose, out of everyone, that will muse upon its meaning, particularly in relation with certain people he'd rather forget. And he still can't. Hirose/Taisuke
From a long time ago, he remembers that he had thought of Taisuke as brilliant. Not the normal sort of brilliance; the kind that was either academically gifted or inhumanly enchanting, but a whole sort of brilliance all by himself. Taisuke had a sort of dull brilliance, the kind that Hirose would think, off-handedly, you would notice in a particularly pretty antique.
'It needs a bit of polishing,' you would think, barely able to see your reflection in the item, 'and then it will look beautiful.'
And then - somehow or another, he never quite gets around to polishing said antique. And it's still noticeable, still very pretty, and still a little bit brilliant. It grows on you; Taisuke grows on you, Hirose would say.
Other people - Taisuke's friends, sister, teachers - will wish to clean up said antique. They want to bring out all its brilliance, all its lackluster glory, and in that, Hirose muses, perhaps they too will feel a little bit of that brilliance in themselves. But they're wrong, of course; the whole world is, when it comes down to ideas about brilliance.
And so, it was only natural to rid the world of them; of him, of everything. It makes sense, in the end, because there is no more sense to be made. And so he is - he must be -
All the same, Hirose wouldn't call himself right - though there's no one left that will prove him wrong - simply because he has no need to be 'right' or 'wrong' anymore.
Whereas other people would try to change Taisuke, try to harness his dull sort of glow, Hirose feels the need to extinguish it altogether.
Sweet, simple irony, that's really all it is. He is 'nothing' and Taisuke is 'something', and it is only natural for nothing to win out in the end. He hates him for existing; and he can't help but drawn in to the idea of Taisuke being unable to not exist.
And so - he does, even when his chest is no longer heaving, even when his fingers are no longer flitting, even when his words can no longer be repeated - Taisuke continues to exist.
In the safety of the next pallid mansion, in the silence of the forest, Hirose cannot rid himself of those eyes, that hair, that insipid smile. He drowns his world in darkness; drowns everyone and everything he knows in whatever happens to be darkness, and still, he is unable to extinguish that dull brilliance that is Taisuke. And he hears his name whispered, feels fingertips that are light to actually exist trace over his own hands, and find himself saying things that only - only - Taisuke would say.
And through that, his dull brilliance lives on.
(The world is not yet dark enough, even after the sun itself has been extinguished, he thinks.)