Were their recovery to take place in a regular hospital, no member of the staff would permit them to do half the shit they were unapologetically doing, but, hey, their status as survivors makes the bunch of them basically... limitless. Hoshi gets his cigarettes and cat plushies, Shirogane (curse her, Shuichi thinks briefly, more out of weary habit than with previous fiery malice) has been spotted carrying an x-acto knife around, Kaito glued a small constellation of fluorescent stars to the ceiling of his room, and Shuichi himself—
Well. He's, after all, an adult. A survivor. A goddamn idol, against his own will. He's not a survivor, not a detective, not a shy boy in all girls school. He can cope with— he can choose to cope in ways that are less than healthy, in the end.
Three months after everyone has woken up, he talked one of the nurses into bringing him something, as he worded it awkwardly at the time, "not as innocent as a bottle of Fanta". (Turns out, Panta was a lie, too. Whatever. Fishing out the small truths amongst the ocean of lies stopped being fun — or, to be honest, heartbreaking — a long time ago). She only nodded at that. And the next day, instead of being forced to sit through a long talk with a doctor pretending to give even half of a fuck, Shuichi does discover a bottle of brandy tucked behind his pillow. It's not the cheapest kind, but not the fanciest, too. Perfectly average. How fitting.
Do I really look like a brandy kind of guy, Shuichi muses as he puts the liquor into the bedside cabinet, behind his books and spare pajamas. Then he looks at his reflection in the smudged window — the city outside buzzes as if the world didn't end a long time ago — and thinks numbly, I don't look like anyone. He's but an empty space.
Come the evening, this funny little orange moment between yet another ordinary day and boring night, and Shuichi silently closes the door to a random broom closet, sinks to the floor, then unscrews the bottle and drinks straight from it, thinking it'd look cool. It doesn't.
Figures. Nothing ever goes in his favor, even the smallest bullshit he pulls.
"Ew," he says when his coughing fit finally stops. Then takes another sip, hoping the fire in his throat will burn the memory of Kaede's back turned to him. Of her golden hair and golden grin, and the silence where her reassurance used to be.
And another, this one going for Shirogane's pleasant smile during the therapy sessions.
Next one, to Momota-kun and Amami-kun and Ouma-kun and—
And then Harukawa-san— no, Maki. Maki appears by his side without making a single sound. Shuichi blinks at her outstretched hand, then passes her the before realizing she may take it away from him, pour its contents into the sink, blab to a shrink—
That doesn't happen, though. Maki doesn't do anything mature or even bother showing (pretending?) that she cares. Just takes a swig, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then says,
"You should've told me about this... gift."
"F-forgive me," Shuichi mutters, looking down at his shaking fists. Maki sits beside him, her twin tails pooling on the floor as she leans against the wall. She's smirking — or, at least, that's what Shuichi thinks, that's the lie he chooses to tell himself. That's solely another layer of a soft, slick, sickly sweet poison between him and the harsh truth of the real world. The real world that, somehow, feels less authentic than the simulated one.
Another sip. Another dose of fire. Maybe that'll be that one to tip him over the edge and make his surroundings blurry, his thoughts tiredly wading through the drunken fog.
It's not. Shuichi breathes out through the fire-like aftertaste, idly tapping his knuckles against the pink (just a shade paler than Kaede's eyes when she still looked at him) tiles. Maki grabs his hand and holds on tight. Her skin, somehow, feels even colder.
They continue sharing their drink. And maybe they fall asleep on each other, maybe Maki wonders on the dichotomy between their memories and their feelings, maybe Shuichi does say out loudly that sometimes he misses the simulation, and maybe they share more than simply a bottle of an overly expensive alcohol. And maybe they get to know each other better. And maybe that's a lie too. Ouma-kun would be proud of them, so very proud — if he still existed.
But, in the end, despite all the white falsehoods and black truths and shades of gray, Shuichi still isn't sure if or when he will finally wake up for good.