Eyes, more blue than the vast ocean outside his window, opened slowly. Reluctantly. Closed again. Opened long enough to skim phone alerts. A groan; twelve missed calls and fifty six messages, going back two weeks to when he'd last responded to any attempts at contact. He rolled back over, eyes closed again, feigning sleep. Waiting.
Three days passed, three more days of messages accumulated. Wednesday, he showered. Stood under water so hot it felt like liquefied Slugma. Stayed there for half an hour. Didn't wash his hair. He opened a window, felt the ocean breeze. He lay back down, just an hour. One more hour and he'd get up, clean up, face the world. The window was still open on Sunday.
More time passed. He stopped checking for messages. Then, those ocean eyes opened long enough to notice the window. It was closed.
Winter's coming, said a voice, one he'd known since childhood. It rained yesterday, the carpet was soaked.
He didn't respond.
I can only stay until tomorrow, I need to be back at the League. I've got leave in three weeks. I'm taking two months.
Still, he said nothing.
You're coming with me until then. Special permission. I'll pack for you if you don't do it.
He stared out the window, closed now, over the ocean to the League. Thanks. His voice was hoarse.
It's what I do, bro.