Thin light fogged over long dead imitation-fish eyes. The glow flickering erratically as the characters on screen moved and spoke in silenced voices. With faces almost maddeningly flat, they seemed to scream at him with their wordless lips. Mizuta could never really watch TV, not with the sound on, barely with the subtitles. Always focused and waiting for the reverberating echo up through time to bring him back to his doorstep.
He never left the house in the rain.
Don't think about the rain man, just don't think about it. He's not coming back, don't worry about that. I know, you know. We know because that's why we're here now.
For a moment the chair enveloped him further, cushions reminiscent of the depression he'd sank into. Creeping up slowly around him, the water grew hotter without him ever noticing his descent, and by the time he did it was too late. The water burned him and in an attempt to flee he'd jumped straight into the fire – he'd confronted Midousuji.
And he knew he was useless.
The first year with that dainty little haircut was his right hand man. He'd shoved Mizuta away from the club room when he'd tried to settle things. They fought for a brief moment, Komari eventually pushing him down, explaining in slow words – as if to a young child – that he wouldn't be needed on the team anymore.
And it stung, especially coming from a first year. Mizuta was his elder, where was this kid's respect. He jumped up, shoved back hard and sent the boy nearly flying into the wall. The door slid open, a shadow with wide glass eyes slithered out, straight for his –
STOP
Hands fisted in his hair, form curling in on itself to ward off the memory. If he pretended to be harmless enough, the hunters would pass him by.
Minutes wound into tens of minutes, into hours spent slowly opening back up. The condition of a wounded pride relaxing like a muscle tensed too quickly, pinching painfully and refusing to ever let go.
What one does after losing someone who was never even your lover is an issue better left in the dark. He hadn't even "Lost" Midousuji. They were never lovers, barely friends. Midousuji was a sick child, Mizuta a used tissue. 55 cent, 1-ply scratchy, dollar store bought, used tissue.
A soft noise, between a keening and a moan passed his lips. He got up.
He was okay. He could get through this – or so he'd told himself for the past 3 years.