Dirty water dribbled down the window pane, the pull of stifled humid air weighty and thick as it mixed with gravity and pooled like a tepid pond on the off-white paint of the shutters. Limbs hung loosely among the unwashed bedsheets, limp and tired and stagnant in the room with absent light.
The pillowcase clung to his hair and forehead, heavy eyes clouded with faded grey and the fuzz of cotton. Unenthused fingers twirled the crumpled "do not remove" tag on the pillow peeking out from the seam, words blurred and unreadable in front of bloodshot tired eyes. The bed felt too big, too wide, too empty, but despite the open expanse of too much everything closed in severely like a desperate grip, encroaching on words unspoken and others spoken too loudly.
The window situated in the ceiling echoed with the pelt of raindrops, moonlight streaming in like a spotlight to capture every ache and gasp and sigh and barricade it in the room with dancing prison guard shadows.
A scratched photo lay face-down on the nightstand, teetering on the edge. The smallest disturbance would send it toppling to the floor and bring Bakugou back to a living reality he didn't want to face.
Faded strands of red hair shimmered against the cold and empty pillow, red meeting red like a vicious taunt of what he'd lost.
Any attempt at keeping himself occupied proved useless, his jaw clenched in near-permanent tension no matter where he went or what he did, his body a sinking anchor in the pressurized darkness of an ocean filled to the brim with life swimming circles around his journey down, down, down. He hated crowds - hated most people - but attempted to find comfort in the gentle brush of smiling strangers, an attempt to lose himself in the swift movement of humanity and become nobody and nothing and lost in the lights and sounds.
His hands felt sweaty in his worn-out pockets as he stood in the cool air of an alley people passed by without notice, the rancid smell of trash and old rain stinging his nose and lungs like a self-inflicted wound on his broken pride resembling the bent tin trashcan to his left. A dry sob escaped his cracked lips.
Going home felt like walking back into a bombardment of memories, an overpowering punch to the gut of smells and uncleaned fingerprints and visions of lost conversations. The shoe pile by the front door looked abnormally shallow without the pop of red to break the monotony of black and brown. Bakugou's damp socks slid across the wooden floor leaving pools of watered footprints as he tracked in the rain, as if to bring in some of the laughter captured in the moist air.
Shoulders shook and throat closed and everything blurred behind the cracking wall of saltwater threatening to spill down onto his cheeks. It was too much, too constricting as a barbell filled with screaming and tensed fists pulled him to his knees on the hard floor. Red eyes shut like the blink of a camera shutter to close out the harsh stream of moonlight as it swallowed his wretched cry like a mocking monster of the night as dust particles danced with the shadows of rain drops painting ghostly tears on his crumpled silhouette.
I'm sorry, Eijiro…