she was elusive. she was today. she was tomorrow.

[protential]

[The next time Hikaru opens his eyes, he's flat on his back and he's looking up at the ceiling. It's an unexpected ceiling. Not unfamiliar, but definitely not what he expected... Not the ceiling of his bedroom, as far as he can tell. He's done enough listless staring at his ceiling to know its subtle and identifying details. Anyway, he's looking up at the ceiling that doesn't belong to him and he feels like total shit. He feels sticky, as if he's covered in molasses, and a thick sheen of oil, just dripping off of him, just the shittiest feeling in the world. He feels sick. His stomach turns over when he tries to lift up his head, and then his head rewards him with a piercing sensation for the trouble. Flopping back down, he decides to start simple, back to basics, with a focus on breathing and not vomiting everywhere...

This bedroom is mostly quiet and darkened, except for the small lamp on the desk by the door. He's been shoved off to the side, on the guest futon, with a spare blanket covering half of him--he forces himself to swallow once, then twice, painfully. The taste of vomit is still too bitter and fresh. His head is starting to kill him, and every sound is louder than it has any right to be: the ticking of a wall clock, the scratch of Akira's pen over paper, the pages flipping over in her textbook. Hikaru doesn't protest. He's confused as all hell and his everything hurts real bad, but he doesn't speak up just yet. Little bits and pieces of what happened, and how he got here, are starting to come back to him.

At one point, Akira told him he had to be quiet. If he was going to throw up, he still had to be quiet or she'd be really mad at him. He didn't want to make her mad when that's all he ever seems to do anymore. So she told him he had to be quiet, and he was quiet, and she held on to him, steadying him, and she helped him get from the bathroom to her bedroom under the guise of darkness.]

...Akira?

[It comes out as a jumbled noise, quiet and apocalyptic, as twisted up as his insides. Still a valiant effort, he thinks.]

Comments

[ashlar]

[So it's the apocalypse. Akira's pen stops in the middle of a stroke, for one beat, and two, and then she begins to write again. But not before she says,] Shh. [It's not the vitriolic hiss it could be. It's just a statement. And it's for his benefit, did you know that? Could you even believe how much she wants to do for her oldest, only friend, Shindou Hikaru?

Not like she can call him that. Not like she can tell him all of it, or any.

Regardless, (except she can never disregard all that,) she makes a statement of a hiss at him, instead of a mean one, because it's best for him. If he tries to sit up or roll around or talk, he will vomit. She knows it because, in the night, he rolled onto his side and tried really hard to whisper at her. He said he was whispering quietly, so then could she not be angry with him, and... she helped him vomit into her trash can. Then he fell properly asleep while she tidied up the evidence. Whatever he was going to say--yes, it's best for her to shush him now, too.

Her shoulders weren't relaxed before, but they're tighter now, no doubt. There's a click to her jaw while she grinds her teeth, but she's determined to finish this question before she does anything else. She writes about Japanese history. She answers a question about war. Then it's only her, and Hikaru.

She doesn't yell at him for calling her what he did. Well, they both need to be quieter than that. Instead, she rises from her seat, stoops to her desk, and then turns to face him. She's holding a glass of water and a little package of towelettes. When she needs at the side of his futon (the guest futon, she reminds herself sternly), she offers the glass of water first.] Drink this, [she orders softly,] and don't you gulp it down. [She's watching him when he puts the glass to his lips--and when she offers the wet towelettes, she really looks like she wants to pat down his forehead and his chin herself--but, in the end, she shoves the package at him with her lips zipped into a bloodless, blushless line.]

Mother isn't gone just yet, so if you have to say anything at me, you need to whisper. [She's whispering, too. Her mother will leave for shopping in just a little while, at least.]

[protential]

[Humid nausea rolls over and through her oldest, stupidest friend, Shindou Hikaru. He whimpers--quietly, but he's whimpering in pain. It doesn't even help when he closes his eyes and tries not to do anything more than breathing. At some point, he loses track of his hands, cramped-feeling, slimy, and they don't come back to him until Akira is placing a glass of water into them. It takes a small miracle for Hikaru to sit up enough to get that water into his mouth. And if not for Akira's timely warning, he probably would drink too much of it at once, as parched as he is. He definitely had too much to drink last night. He wanted to have a good time, just get his mind off of things, whatever, but all he did was drink and drink and...

She takes away the mostly empty glass and replaces it with the wet towelettes. They're cold. So shocking and cold. They feel like a slice of deep space heaven. Hikaru stares at them like he doesn't recognize them, like he has no idea what to do with them, but they're no less amazing when he presses one to his cheek. Like that, he lies back down again, not even trying to wipe off his face. He looks up at Akira instead, past the edge of the towelette. He must have called her last night. He does remember calling her from the back hallway, totally ready to brag about what a great time he was having. You see, a friend of a friend of a friend of his was throwing a sick party and he just had to go because unlike some people he knows how to relax and live a little. He wasn't just going to spend another night feeling sorry for himself when there's nothing to feel sorry for.]

Akira...

[This time, his voice has more definition to it, but it's still lost in a fog. He's quiet and low to the ground, too. His throat shifts visibly with how much it hurts to swallow--the flavor, not texture. He's still looking up at her, licking at the stomach acid on his teeth. There's enough light to make an afterthought of a halo around her head. He feels weak and watery, staring at her. More importantly...

More importantly, he feels safe. Protected, and concealed. Taken care of. His parents would murder the shit out of him if they knew about the party, and the amount of drinking he did, but he already knows Akira's not gonna let anybody else find out. It would take more than wild horses to drag the truth out of her.

Thank you.

I love you.

Akira, I don't know what I'd do without you.]

Mm'head hurts, [is all he mumbles.]