The sheets are wrinkled and blue and remind him of water.
He guesses it might be around midnight, but his sense of time has always been distorted and just like underwater, time does not hold any power over him now. The dust whirls in the crumbling light coming from outside and the futility of the streetlight's effort in disturbing the perfect likeness of the depths of an ocean is almost making him laugh. Almost, because the silence shall be withheld in his sacred realm. The white drapes are soft and moving slowly in humid autumn breeze and he likes to think of them as waves, enclosing the borders of water kingdom. They even carry the same scent.
He feels like he belongs here. It is the same feeling he possesses while swimming. Belonging.
The golden fish that never seems to sleep is swimming in circles, like trapped in an infinite time loop that has made it imprisoned in the wavy world of glass, flickering lights and chlorine. It is not one of the First pair, although their ghosts might still be wandering in the half-empty glasses and leaking pipes of household, neither it is the Third, or the Fourth – the strange curse have befallen the bowl, because the fish do not seem to be blessed with long life in this place. Maybe if he would be able to caress them; his hands have the ability to bring things back to life. Without doubt, his touch is what they are missing –but they are fish, Haru, you cannot touch the fish – so he gets enough of it for all of them and when he notices the fish to swim slower and breath faster he buys a new one. He does not feel guilty. He maintains an order. Makoto being happy is the order.
The sheets beside him are being wrinkled too much and too quickly and he is reminded once again for his forgetfulness.
He forgets about Makoto's fears too often, as if in their connected minds, it would mean for Makoto to forget, too. It does not; it reminds itself in the solemn hours of late nights and early mornings, when the ocean comes to him in a form of dream matter and tries to pull him in with his black liquid pawns. Haru feels helpless. The dark falls upon the room and the walls are full of marching translucent shadows only Makoto can see and endlessly echoing screams only Makoto can hear. He feels sad, not because their minds are not connected after all, but because if it was the case, he could take all the apparitions away. Or bear them himself, in return for all Makoto does for him in the daylight.
He will wake up any minute now – he always wakes after a nightmare, curled up amidst the blanket crumpled from his tossing, fringe damp and skin as pale as the moonlight that never visits the room turned north. It does not happen often, though. Most of the nights he sleeps well and sound, his breath in the rhythm with the clock in the room – not with Haru's breath, unexpectedly to anyone but Haru, who knows the difference between the capacity of their lungs and is reminded of it every time he lays his head on Mako's broad chest – and the fish swims in exactly the same circles, in exactly the same tempo, unfazed by anything outside its bowl and its plastic plants and little glass stones on the bottom.
Haru does not sleep, he just wants to lie here, by his side, falling down the spiral of midnight madness while he spends hours counting freckles on his shoulder blades.
He knows Makoto is awake now. He can hear his changed breathing, can see his lips closed and his jaw tense and waits. Sometimes he falls asleep right away, forgetting his dream and wakes up late with black-rimmed eyes and longing for coffee. Sometimes they talk about unimportant things, last swimming training, new collection of swimsuits and the most recent prank Nagisa pulled on Rei. Makoto talks and he listens until the streetlights fade in the silver rays of morning slowly rising to life and then they both fall into the shallow slumber, never bothering to straighten the sheets or pick Mako's pillow up from the floor.
Makoto makes a move and he knows it will be the other sometimes. The shadows disappear, but their presence lingers in the heavy air foretelling weeks of rain and there is but one safe haven – the one in Haru's arms. There is no more danger, no more threat and even the goldfish seems happier when Haru wraps his arms around Mako's chest. Because Makoto always feels what Haru feels, he takes his pale, cold hands into his own. His hands are warmer than seawater in June and he mumbles thank you, Haru that would not even need to be said, because it is contained in every speck of dust and crease of drapes. Haru knows that the sense of belonging is mutual. Makoto might be terrified of ocean, but he will always be his shallow.
The sheets are wrinkled and blue and carry Makoto's scent and that is enough to lull him into sleep.