Fushimi collapses to his knees with a chocked sob that scratches it way free. He had only just managed to stumble into his allocated room when the pain in his chest had grown so intense that his outstretched hand had missed the cabinet and he had been sent forwards onto the carpet.
His hands are balled before him in the carpet and his glasses are sliding down his nose. He screws his eyes up to the moisture that is threatening to wet his lashes; he mentally scolds himself for getting into such a desperate state.
It's only Yata he tells himself, only Yata.
He begins to whisper to himself that everything is fine, that being ignored is fine, he doesn't need Yata in his life, and he can live without his former friend.
Fushimi cries out as his memories begin to flash quicker and quicker, and the tears slip down his cheeks. His tongue darts out and licks the salt from his lips and he only cries harder.
He was ignored in passing.
Yata had not even thrown Fushimi an off handed scowl; he had just ignored the man in blue as if he'd never seen him. And this stung.
Fushimi craved Yata's acknowledgement, he wanted to be seen by only him. It was addictive. He went out of his way to get a rise out of the shorter man just to see his eyes focused upon himself, he needed to know that Yata hated him, despised him- that way he was not invisible as he had been, his existence was acknowledged. He was there. Not even Mikoto could have torn Yata's glare from Fushimi's ecstatic grin.
Fushimi clicks his tongue and roughly pulls the glasses from his face; he tosses them away and scrubs at his eyes. Pushing his knuckles to wipe at the tears as a child would.
He remains upon the floor, hunched over with his hair falling into his now red rimmed eyes.
Time begins to drag and Fushimi closes his eyes to the dull resounding thud that plagues his mind.
He hadn't even realised that fatigue had washed over him until he finds himself upon his bed with a blanket thrown over him and a glass of water upon his nightstand. He blinks slowly before swiping at the glass with a thunderous expression but it remains where it was placed. His thoughts shift from confusion to anger at the object. Drawing a pale arm from beneath the blanket, he flicks the glass and it finally moves, the water ripples as the glass tips backwards to bounce across the carpet and wet the nightstand.
'Yata used to bring me water' Fushimi mutters into the blanket, 'he used to care'.
Fushimi rolls onto his side to face the wall, drawing the blanket tighter around his thin frame. His eyes droop shut and he yawns and quietly talks to the body placing a second blanket over his thin frame, 'don't let him forget me-please'.
'You need to sleep' Awashima replies softly as she gently pats the bed and leaves her comrade to rest.