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The thing that was Darumi that is Darumi looked into the grave containing Eito Aotsuki and felt a desire she couldn't name.
It was. Difficult, in general. The... distance between her and her body— what she knew was her and what she once was before— was fleeting and ephemeral. Maybe that's why she ate so many books. If she learned enough— took in enough and saw enough— she'd finally understand it all and make everyone happy, make the world happy, make Takumi...
The thing that was Darumi that is Darumi was here to fulfill that wish. The Ruby Tear was difficult. She couldn't get herself to make it. A block, blocking something in her, somewhere in her, someone in her, just wouldn't let it go— couldn't let it go— couldn't cry the cry that needed to be cried to let it out and do what she had to do in order to make things right. So she tried something else. It should work. It should definitely work. She was pretty sure it would, but if it would be enough, if it would... if...
Which led her out here, after darkness fell, in front of the body of a boy she barely knew.
She never met Eito. Not properly, anyhow. Back when she was the Darumi she was before she'd only seen brief glimpses of him locked in his cage, snowy white like a lonely scientist in an arctic base, surrounded by things that pretended to be things they actually weren't. He was weird. And cruel. And everybody loved to hate him just like they loved to hate Darumi.
And now he was dead because he stopped Sirei from killing her.
Apparently, he saw her.
Apparently, he loved her.
Apparently, he said she was the most beautiful person he'd seen in his entire life.
(The only person he'd seen in his entire life.)
But the Darumi she was before knew it couldn't be love. Not like Takumi. Never like Takumi. Eito saw the Darumi she is now, not the Darumi she was before. Takumi saw the Darumi she was before, not the Darumi she is now.
Darumi didn't know which she hungered for more. Was it wrong of her to want both? She didn't know. She just wanted everyone to be happy. She just wanted... she wanted... she...
Boys. Boys were always like that. They always focused on the superficial. Not the inside. Never Darumi. Never the real Darumi.
(Which one? Which boy? Which Darumi? She didn’t know. She just didn't.)
The explosion really messed him up. Eito was blown clean in half at the waist, putrifaction long-since melting the soft exposed organs of his abdomen. They didn't bother with a casket. They just left the two halves in approximate association under half a meter of dirt, still donning class armor. Not much for him. Not much for someone who died to save Darumi.
That was fine. She didn't need much.
She could make anything if she ate it. The memory of its consumption suffused inwards, every cell every molecule every atom ingrained into her very self. Or whatever she still was inside. She ate herself too and she was still her, or something like her. But she could remember everything she ate and it was all part of her now. Books and trash and love and hate and neglect and joy were all there and all singing and crying and weeping.
He wouldn't mind it. He'd be happy to be with Darumi. The most beautiful person he'd ever seen. The now Darumi. Not like Takumi's then Darumi. But the now Darumi still wanted Takumi too. It was so confusing.
Skin had shrunk. Clumps of scalp were torn away, caught against rocks during Eito's exhumation. Not an eye. They were mushy holes and filled with soil. Not the tongue. Too many maggots to be useful. Not the heart. That was too intimate. She didn't know Eito like that.
(Would Takumi give her his heart? Would Takumi call her the most beautiful person he'd seen in his entire life? Would Takumi die for her? Her own heart— or rather, the closest thing she had to one— clenched in an indescribable uncertainty.
She didn’t know the answer. She didn't know if she wanted to know.)
A finger. A finger would work. Should work. Keratin and tendon and nerve and skin and bone. A pinkie, left hand. Nothing important. Nothing special. Nobody cared about lefties and defects. Easy to be ignored. Easy to be missed entirely, on the off chance anyone cared enough to look.
Like anyone would. Hah. Hah. Hah.
It detached with little resistance. A quick twist and a yank and a pop, and off it came, pale and shrunken and gross and human. The nail looked longer. One of the books she'd eaten mentioned superstitions about that; how longer nails after death meant the corpse was secretly alive again. Undead, like a ghoul or a vampire.
She supposed that wasn't inaccurate. She was a monster making another monster, after all.
She held Eito's finger up to the light of the Artificial Satellite and watched its pale glow illuminate the digit. Everyone alive for day 100. Everyone alive to take them home. Everyone alive. All of them. That's what they promised. That's what he promised. That's what she promised.
She had to start somewhere. Darumi promised Takumi that she'd bring them back. She promised him, and she wanted and yearned and loved and hungered for it all the same.
She opened her mouth. She didn't need to do that now; she could just absorb Eito's flesh wherever she pleased and not bother with chewing.
But absorbing Eito felt wrong. It felt like a line she wasn't quite ready to cross. So when the rotting dusty dying dead Eito finger slipped past her lips and past her tongue and down her throat, she swallowed in a way she could pretend was human again.
The thing that is Darumi that was Darumi looked into the grave containing Eito Aotsuki and fed a desire she couldn't name.