"I wondered what you'd have on the side with a plate of Deep Fried Anxiety. Pickles? Coleslaw? Potato-strychnine mash?"
- Robin McKinley, Sunshine
-ooo-
The sound of the hotel door closing behind him - incredibly loud in the otherwise silent corridor - made him flinch even though he'd known it was coming.
The carpet beneath his feet is dark and thick and expensive, covered in vague ascetically pleasing interlocking circles and lines, that contrast sharply with the pale walls and tall windows that bracket each room. Bright sunlight cuts across the carpet in sharp, slanting shapes, washing the carpet a deep dark wherever it touches. The hotel is new enough, but he can already see where the carpet has begun to fade in uneven patches here and there to match the passage of the sun.
The entire building is a breathtaking waste of space, utterly inefficient, peppered throughout with a series of bizarre design choices that are utterly impractical and doom the entire venture to failure.
Down the hall, a door opened and a child dashed out into the hall, running full tilt to slam into the wall by the elevator, gleefully pressing the button again and again as his mother shuts the door behind them and hurried to catch up, hitching her purse up higher on her shoulder.
He forces himself to step away from his door, to turn woodenly away from the hall away from the passengers awaiting the elevator's inevitable arrival towards the at the end of the hall stairs, counting his steps as he goes.
It's more habit than desire so he thinks, perhaps, that doing so should provide him at the least the comfort of the familiar, but it doesn't.
It requires twenty-two steps to move from his door to the stairwell.
Another two long strides to cross the landing to the stairs, easily covered before the heavy door falls shut behind him with a click and thud that echoes even over the sharp clip of his footfalls against the steps.
His room is located on the fourteenth floor.
He has told himself on numerous occasions that the descent from his room to the parking area below is a reasonable amount of exercise. That making that trek three times a week or more makes up for all the strict training regiment he's all but abandoned in the aftermath of all that happened.
He knows this is a lie.
Yet his sword remains propped in the corner near the door gathering dust.
Sometimes he stares at it for minutes at a time in an attempt to gather the will to pick it up once more.
It remains untouched.
Someone had cleaned the blood off the scabbard and hilt before it had been placed with the rest of his belongings at the hospital.
He's not sure who would bother.
He has no idea if the blood has been cleaned from the blade itself or if it had been left to rust.
"You know why."
He couldn't ever quite remember what it felt like.
To say those words.
Not really.
So much about that long, long night is buried beneath the memory of what came after when the reality of those righteous moments had been swallowed by regret, consumed by the weight of grief for actions he could never take back, but most of all for the part of him that still, still didn't regret what he had done.
That nasty, mean, horrifying portion of his soul that still howled for blood, for vengeance for the girl he loved and the boy he'd thought he'd known so well and - perhaps most of all - for the idealistic, trusting fool he'd been to be so blinded by his own desires that he'd failed everyone and everything he'd ever truly cared for by not noticing sooner.
On bad days, he could hear those words over and over in the back of his head, an endless loop that haunted his waking hours as much as what little sleep he managed to get each night.
Sometimes he allowed his gaze to linger too long on that sword wondering...
But whenever he dared to reach for the hilt...
Not to use it, no, never that, but just to check, to see...
He can't.
Can't breathe.
Can't swallow.
Can't see past the darkness rising up to close around him making the sword and the hotel room they occupy seem a distant, unlikely reality overwhelmed by the stench of blood and smoke, the feel of steel sliding home, the hiss of blood meeting superheated metal, the choking gasp blowing warm against his face, that wet cough, the splat of blood against tile and the bitter metallic taste of despair on his tongue.
Eventually he would come back to himself, slowly, body aching, drenched in sweat, choking on nothing, trying to drag oxygen into lungs that hurt for the lack.
Sometimes, in those moments, with his fingers and forehead pressed to the carpet, he thinks about the way the blade sounds as it sings free of the scabbard and he's glad he can't bring himself to touch it.
He's not altogether certain he can be trusted.
If he's honest, the sword has very little to do with why he makes a point of taking the stairs each time he leaves the hotel even when, like now, he's running far too late to be wasting time in such a way.
He'd taken the elevator once.
And now every time he thinks about attempting it again he sees that old woman peering down at him kindly asking if there was someone she could call for him or if he wanted her to go get help.
He'd gone to meet Sakakura reeking of fear and sweat and he'd been so certain he would notice.
That he would say something.
But he hadn't.
He'd been shaking as he drove back to the hotel afterwards, unable to decide whether he was glad or disappointed.
Whether it had been inattention or discretion that had kept from uncomfortable questions or the familiar brush of a hand against his shoulder.
"Where is your dignity, Kyosuke?" His mother had asked, glaring at him over the rim of her glass.
Her grip had been unsteady, her eyes shot red in the corners and shadowed dark from late or sleepless nights.
He'd had years to resign himself to his mother's disappointment and yet it still stung his pride every time she dismissed his accomplishments, his ambitions, as less than what she expected. He continued through the kitchen without faltering, drawing a glass free from the cabinet and answering her question calmly, "The Future Foundation is an international organization with branches all over the world. An education that allows me a boarder perspective can only aide me in my ambitions. I will be overseeing the completion of the establishment of this newest facility, it is not a small job and there is no shame in it. It will prove precisely the stepping stone I need to continue my assent to the top of the organization."
"The only part of the Future Foundation that truly matters is the Academy. That's where the true power is. You can not possibly believe you'll be able to wrest power from Kirigiri's hands from thousands of miles away do you?"
His fingers tightened against his glass as he filled it from the tap, lifted it to his lips, and drank it down in slow, measured gulps as she continued, her own drink giving her words just the barest hint of slur, "If you had simply listened to me and made some connections that were actually worthwhile during your time there, you wouldn't need to go to such lengths to gain power, you would already have it."
"I am satisfied with my choices, mother," he replied, setting the glass in the sink and turning on his heel, leaving the room and the woman within behind.
They hadn't spoken again.
Not even when he packed the last of his belongings and the movers came to take them away.
Not when he left that house for the last time with Sakakura's arm slung across his shoulders and Yukizome's hand tucked into the curve of his elbow.
As they'd gotten into his car, he'd thought he could feel her eyes on him, but when he turned to look there had been only the shift of white curtains to bring that chapter of his life to a close.
They hadn't spoken again, but he had never doubted his course.
It had been easy to be confident when he had those who believed in him absolutely and supported him without question to depend on.
It hadn't mattered in the least to him that that support and belief had not come from his family home.
He wasn't certain when his mother had died.
Only that it had been sometime during the first year of Despair when he'd been waging a war in filthy alleys and burned-out buildings, streets blocked by the remains of cars abandoned and bodies of those left to rot in the smoke-filled ruins of the city.
If she hadn't passed away that year, he might never have known how close an eye the Foundation kept on Hope's Peak graduates. It had been an assistant from the Tokyo branch that had called him to informed him of her passing.
There'd been no further details than that.
He still wasn't certain whether she'd died fighting or in her bed, a casualty of despair or drink.
It seemed impossible to imagine she might have been felled by disease or fate.
There had only been a strange almost comforting numbness that had come with the knowledge that she was gone.
The Future Foundation had seen to the arrangements, he'd been told.
He'd never followed up about it.
Somehow there had never seemed to be time even after the worst of the fighting had resolved, even though as a dutiful son he knew he should.
There had still been Despair to eradicate.
He wondered sometimes - very late at night as he lay upon the rumpled sheets of his rented bed watching shadows move across the wall - whether her restless spirit had laid a curse upon him.
It seemed possible in the depths of night, listening to the thumps and occasional murmur of voices from the hall or adjoining rooms, but with the light of dawn came the certainty that there were no restless spirits and no curses, only himself and his own failures.
Which was somehow both comforting and horrible at once.
His mother would have found the idea of her only son cowering in the face of an elevator humiliating.
Though she might have also found some satisfaction in the knowledge that she had been right in her disapproval of him and his choices.
Still, even if it were cowardly, taking the stairs allowed him to avoid the constant parade of strangers he might otherwise have met in the hall or lobby, those inattentive few who might jostle against him as they struggled with luggage and loud, unruly children.
It wasn't quite that he disliked them, but where once he might have smiled at them or politely offered assistance, the idea of doing so now... filled him with dread.
Just leaving his room is daunting enough without the added complication of whether it might be better to offer assistance or ignore those he meets along the way.
Neither option ever feels completely correct and a small part of him seems to worry endlessly about the possibility even though his habits rarely allow such choices to present themselves.
The stairs, fortunately, are typically empty but for the occasional child or athlete seeking to prove something by racing up or down past him.
It's easy to ignore them, however, when he has something to occupy his mind, even if that something is as mundane a task as counting steps.
It's simple, straightforward task, but it's one that keeps him focused on the present that gives his mind no time to wander to the what ifs and might have beens that occupy his thoughts within the walls of his hotel room, the silence of his car. In the stairwell, it's a simple matter to keep his momentum, to step quickly from one stair to the next, counting them in his head as he passes from stairs to landing and back again.
Round and round, over and over, gaining speed as he goes, moving faster and faster until he finally reaches the bottom floor at such a brisk walk that it's almost a run and he slams into the door at the base of the stairs, panting as he shoves it aside and spills out into the brisk winter air of the garage.
He can't quite catch his breath, but it doesn't matter, it never matters, because the momentum is enough to propel him forward across the parking garage. The sound of his footsteps almost lost beneath the hum of generators and the distant cacophony of other cars, of engines revving and dying some undeterminable distance away.
It kept him moving breathless through the sixteen long strides to his assigned space and if it feels as if he's wading through water, hip-high and getting deeper with each new step, it's a simple enough matter to ignore it, to focus on the count and disregard the tightness in his chest, the reluctance that is beginning to make itself known in the brief hesitation of the last few steps.
It's almost a surprise when - between one step and the next - he arrives at his destination, his hands landing to catch himself against the familiar cool of metal, the family shape of well-traveled dents and scratches.
They hadn't always been there.
When they'd returned to Japan, not long before Enoshima had broadcast her twisted game for all the world to see, he'd retrieved it from the long-term parking garage where he'd left it and discovered those dents, scratches. Found the back windows broken, glass strewn across the seats and the floor.
The glove compartment left open, dusty papers trailing out like a ragged tongue, mocking him.
At the time, he'd considered it fortunate that it had not been more badly damaged. After all, many of the cars they'd passed on their way into the garage had been burnt out or overturned.
Perhaps the rioters had tired by the time they'd reached the lower levels, he would never know for certain.
He'd had the windows repaired, fitted with glass more suited to the times in which they lived than the fragile factory standard, but he'd left all those scratches and dents as they were. There hadn't seemed much point to fixing cosmetic damage when the car had been in rather poor shape to begin with and was likely to be in even worse shape by the time they'd finally quelled the riots and retaken their home.
It simply seemed… impractical.
Perhaps he had thought when everything was said and done he would address those issues.
Or perhaps he had thought he'd simply rid himself of it, trade it in for something newer, faster, pristine.
Or perhaps he simply hadn't thought anything about it at all.
His hands were always shaking by the time he slips the keys into the lock and twists.
Today was no exception to that rule.
The lock clicked and the knob popped up.
"Seriously?" Sakakura had asked from somewhere behind him.
He couldn't help smiling.
He could practically feel his baleful, disapproving glare as he surveyed the dented car with its chipped blue paint and rusty antenna and found it desperately wanting, "This thing's basically a motorized roller skate, you know that, right?"
"It's fuel efficient," he replied easily, pulling the door open and bending down to peer inside the interior.
"It's a death trap is what it is. You could get hit by a freaking golf cart and this thing would probably crumple like a tin can."
"Nonsense," he laughed, turning back to smile at him. "I checked and it has a perfectly decent safety rating. Besides it isn't as if I'll even be spending all that much time in it. After we graduate it'll spend as much time in storage as out of it, you know. I just need something to get me from here to there and back again while I'm in Japan. "
"Assuming it can even manage that much," Sakakura grumbled, turning to Yukizome in search of support. "Please tell him he needs to get something safer, would ya? He might actually listen to sense if it's coming from you."
"Hm, I think it's cozy," she commented thoughtfully, her chest pressing briefly against his arm as she sidled closer to peer around his shoulder into the interior.
He could feel the warmth of her body even through his jacket.
He'd stood abruptly, ducking back and turning away as the burn of embarrassment scurried across his cheeks. Sakakura smirked at him knowingly while Yukizome continued to poke about the interior, apparently oblivious to his obvious distress.
"Aw, but look at it! It's even missing the lid for the console storage. Kyosuke, I think it's sweet that you want to give the ugliest car at the lot a home," she called back to them, flashing them a quick smile before returning to her inspection.
"Munakata Kyosuke, champion of the unloved and unwanted strikes again," Sakakura snorted, shaking his head as he clapped a hand down against his shoulder, firm but gentle. "I should have known."
He coughed to hide the beginnings of a smile against the back of his hand, "Funny, I don't recall ever championing anything that wasn't worthwhile."
And it was Sakakura's turn to flush and look away, always so easily embarrassed by simple truths.
A fact that he'd always been grateful for in the face of Yukizome's ability to cheerfully brazen out any given situation without the faintest hint of shame. It had always made him feel a little better to know that he wasn't the only member of their little group who was easily flustered.
"Take us for a ride, Kyosuke!" Yukizome demanded suddenly, calling his attention back to her just in time to see her hike up her skirt and scramble into the backseat.
His face burning face flared hotter as he shifted his gaze away once more. He was only vaguely aware of Sakakura's grip squeezing one last show of support against his shoulder before releasing him entirely and ambling around to jerk open the passenger side door. "Might as well," he called as the door squealed a heady protest against the sudden demand which made him laugh as he ducked down to adjust the seat. "Since you're dead set on buying this hunk of junk, we might as well start getting used to it."
"It's not so bad," Yukizome commented, patting the headrests and smiling brightly as he eased himself into the driver's seat. "It'll look like a whole different car once I've finished cleaning it up."
"Make sure you don't do too good a job," Sakakura grimaced as he folded his long legs in against the dashboard and shut the door behind him. "Pretty the grime is all that's holding it together."
"Don't be mean," she replied, clicking her tongue.
"It ain't mean if it's true."
"So, where are we going, Kyosuke?" She asked, leaning forward to wind her arms around his shoulders, breath warm against his ear.
She'd always asked that.
Always done that.
"Nowhere until you sit back and fasten your seatbelt," he'd replied each time, cheeks warm and lips turned up in smile.
"Does that mean we can stay like this if I don't?"
"Nah, pretty sure the dealership fella would come and kick us all out eventually," Sakakura had offered that first day, rolling down the window and leaning an arm out into the warm, spring air. "Let's get this show on the road already. Assuming this junker even starts."
"You're no fun," Yukizome had sighed, falling back into her seat, the sound of worn nylon winding out and a buckle clicking into place signaling her reluctant compliance with his request.
The car leapt to life at the turn of the key just as it had that day and every day after.
It settled into a rumbling idle as he dropped his hand to the gear shift and turned to offer Sakakura a satisfied smile, "See? Perfectly serviceable."
Sakakura snorted, the hint of a smile playing across his lips, "Sure, until you leave the parking lot and the muffler falls off."
In his mind, he could still hear their laughter echoing in the silence of the present.
He swallowed and opened his eyes to find himself alone once more.
Sometimes he thought about getting a new car.
Of driving the current one into the ocean, letting it and his memories sink beneath the surface until there was only darkness.
It was an idle, meaningless thought.
But it stayed with him as he put the car in reverse and backed out of the space.
The silence around him seemed deafening even after he'd turned on the radio in an attempt to drown it out.
-ooo-
He was going to be late.
No, perhaps he was already late.
It had taken him longer than usual to leave and now he was stalled in this place, in this moment, and he was going to be late.
He was going to make the wrong choice.
Everything was going to be ruined.
To fall apart around him.
Their relationship was hanging by a single fraying thread.
He could feel it.
And once the thread had broken there would be no fixing it.
Nothing he could do would make it right.
He needed to make the correct choice.
There was a correct choice to be made. There was always a right choice and a wrong choice.
And making the right choice used to come as naturally as breathing.
He never second guessed himself, never doubted, always been confident in the path he chose, the road he walked.
That was his talent.
Or at least that's what he'd thought.
He'd spent so much time thinking about it that first year.
What a talent like Ultimate Student Council President truly meant.
And he'd decided finally that it was simply a convenient label for a very specific set of skills. For the drive to lead, the confidence to make decisions, the wisdom to make the decisions that were the best for everyone and the perseverance to see them through.
It was what had made him who he was, that was what had made people wish to follow where he led.
He could do this.
Even if... even if he wasn't quite the same.
He could still... it was still his talent.
It was still who he was.
There was a right choice to be made here.
He just… he just needed to think, to consider all the options and choose the correct one with confidence.
It was just….
It was so warm.
The sweat sliding down the back of his neck to stain the collar of his shirt was frigid, slippery trails of ice across his overheated skin.
Every breath seemed like a chore, scalding his throat and lungs.
He might be ill.
He might be running a fever.
Perhaps he should just... go back. Call Sakakura and tell him that he wasn't feeling well, that he couldn't make it.
Only...
That might be enough.
He'd invited him.
He'd be disappointed.
It must have been so difficult to reach out, to offer, if he disappointed him now...
He darted a tongue over dry, cracking lips and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breath, breath, breath through the growing sense of dread.
He could do this.
He was still...
But the heat just made it... so difficult to think, to consider his options, made it impossible to make an informed choice.
There were just so many options.
Light or dark.
Cheap or expensive.
Import or domestic.
Had there always been so many different types of beer?
So many options?
He opened his eyes again, staring through eyes gone blurry at the shelves, at those dark bottles with their cheerful boxes and labels lined up across them neat and tidy, taunting him. The sheer variety available felt like a punishment.
Around him people bustled about their business, murmuring irritable apologies when they tread too close and ended up jostling him this way and that as he stood frozen in the face of far too many options for what should have been a relatively simple choice.
Maybe this had all been a mistake.
Maybe he should have just turned down Sakakura's invitation.
It wasn't as if there wouldn't be other times, other fights.
But, no, no, he'd wanted to do this.
He'd been glad for the invitation. Glad that things were going well enough that Sakakura felt comfortable inviting him into his home.
It had seemed like a good sign.
Like their relationship was on the mend.
How could he possibly have turned down such an overture? Especially when he could so plainly see what it had cost Sakakura to make it? Seen the way his fist clenched against the edge of the table, the way his leg had bounced beneath, tapping out a morse code of anxiety as he waited for an answer like a guilty man awaiting a verdict.
No, accepting the invitation… it hadn't been a mistake.
He just… he just needed to get there.
Everything would be fine once he arrived at Sakakura's apartment.
He'd answer the door and smile at him, relieved because he'd thought maybe he wouldn't show.
He always looked that way now.
Always.
Even when he was on time, even when his eagerness to see him brought him to his door minutes early… he still always looked as if he were surprised to find him there.
He'd scowl to cover it up, offer that same tired argument about not wanting to impose, about being able to make his own way, but in those few brief moments between when he opened the door and when their eyes met… he could see the tension easing from his shoulders, see the furrow of his brow smoothing with relief.
No, this wasn't a mistake.
But maybe beer was the wrong thing to bring.
Had he ever even asked Sakakura what he liked to drink?
If he liked to drink at all?
Was he even supposed to bring anything in the first place?
Was it weird that he was bringing something?
Or would it be weird if he didn't?
He was certain there was some accepted social convention for these situations, but he wasn't certain what it was.
He'd never bothered to learn.
He'd had Chikusa.
She'd always...
He shoved his trembling hands in his pockets.
She... she would have known what to bring.
Would have known how to fix things between them.
Would have managed in the space of minutes what he hadn't been able to do given months.
Sometimes it seemed as if she knew everything he did not.
Everything.
"Where'd you learn to do this?" He asked, more to have something to occupy his mind while she knelt between his splayed out legs with his bloodied hand cradled in her lap as she cleaned and sealed the wound.
"Ah, one of my students had a talent for nursing, but she lacked self-confidence so I had her teach me a few things. She loved helping others so much and it's really come in handy, hasn't it?"
She smiled up at him, fingers pressing in a little too hard against his palm, unshed tears glistening in the fading sunlight that streamed in through the broken windows of the building they were currently holed up in, "They were such good kids, Kousuke. Why couldn't I save them?"
"It's not your fault," he murmured, uninjured hand settling against her hair as she lunged forward to bury her face against his chest, her shoulders already shaking with silent sobs. "You did everything you could for them."
She turned her face up to him, minutes or hours later - cheeks damp and blotchy - and offered him a watery smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, "Thank you, Kousuke. You're always so kind to me."
And he smiled, pained, because he'd done nothing to earn her thanks. He could not heal the rift losing them had left in her heart, could not stop blaming himself for putting her in harm's way for his own selfish reasons. The best he was able to offer her in moments like those was a tense embrace and that same weak, ill-conceived promise to eliminate Despair.
A promise he still intended to keep, whatever the cost.
But for all his efforts, Despair was still running rampant, the once lively streets of Tokyo overrun by terrors that drove people into the cold embrace of death or despair in droves. Hope was a flickering candle in the wind-blown darkness always on the verge of being snuffed out by a world rife with chaos and horror. They fought, strived to shore it up, to create it anew, but the ceaseless battle, the loss of subordinates and coworkers, teammates and friends, the worry that at any moment Yukizome and Sakakura might be ripped from him by a cruel turn of fate….
Every day was a struggle.
Even for him.
"Kousuke?"
He glanced up, startled, he'd been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't seen her move, hadn't seen her close the distance between them, hadn't seen her rise from her knees or felt her slide her arms around his neck, bring her face so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath across his lips, smell the fruit she'd eaten when they'd stopped to rest earlier, see where those overripe berries had stained her lips red.
He could smell the sweet scent of her shampoo mingled with the more familiar tang of sweat, dust and ash.
Her hair fell around them as she leaned forward.
Leaned closer and closer still until her forehead touched down against his own.
Until her smile seemed to consume the world, brilliant as hope in the darkness of the night closing in around them.
"May I kiss you, Kousuke?" She asked, voice soft as a secret.
They were at war.
He was covered in blood and dirt, the grime of days of living rough as they moved through the city reclaiming the streets one by one fighting towards Hope's Peak, towards whatever fresh horrors awaited them there, to salvage what they could from the wreckage, to reclaim the survivors who were even now fighting to cling to hope against overwhelming odds.
They'd lost so much.
He couldn't bear to have this when he didn't know if he'd be able to keep it.
Before he had a chance to answer, her lips brushed against his, just the barest touch, there and gone again in the blink of an eye and then she was leaning back, still smiling as if nothing had happened, as if he'd dreamed the whole encounter, as if they hadn't just had their first kiss is a demolished arcade in the middle of a war zone.
As if it had meant nothing at all.
"Maybe next time," she'd commented, her smile slipping into something wistful, almost sad.
He had almost pulled her close just to banish the sadness from her face, but he hadn't.
The moment had passed and his hand had fallen away, landing loose and open against the ground as she sat back, stood up, moved away as Sakakura slipped into the room - quiet as a ghost with shadows like bruises beneath his eyes - his mouth turned down in a grimace.
She'd greeted him with a smile and he'd responded with the briefest of nods as he moved past her into the room, coming to a stop near where he sat.
"If you're all patched up then it's time to go," he offered, gaze trained somewhere over his shoulder. "We still have a lot of ground to cover before dawn."
He was getting used to Sakakura avoiding his gaze, growing accustomed to the subtle rejection of every effort he'd made to bridge the distance between them in the long months since the disaster at Hope's Peak.
Some nights as they all lay beside one another - sleeping in shifts in burned out buildings or abandoned houses, hidden beneath whatever cover they could find - he found himself staring down at them and thinking how he might remove the burden of guilt from their shoulders and place it on his own.
But no solution ever presented itself and the gap between them seemed to grow ever wider with each passing day, the cliff crumbling away beneath his feet as he retreats back from the edge again and again even as Yukizome clings to them both, trying to bridge the gap with earnest effort and forced cheer, failing again and again.
And in those moments he thinks back to that darkened room at Hope's Peak - to the first time he'd pretended not to notice Sakakura wasn't being entirely honest with him - and everything aches.
Sakakura offered him his hand, still looking past him, still carrying the weight of all that had happened like some great burden he can not bear to share and he does he what he has always done. He forces himself to smile, to take Sakakura's hand and allow him to pull him to his feet.
The ache of the distance between them was a wound that never quite healed before it was broken open anew.
And he had wondered vaguely whether when he finally eradicates Despair, if that will fix whatever it was that had broken between them.
And now, standing in the middle of a brightly lit convenience store choking on his own inadaquecies, he has his answer.
Before that long horrible night, he wouldn't have hesitated to pick something at random, confident that Sakakura wouldn't mind or complain, but now….
Now choosing the right beer seemed crucial - absolutely critical - as if the entire weight of the future of his relationship with Sakakura somehow rested solely upon this one innocuous choice.
And he knew it was silly.
That it wasn't true, that Sakakura wouldn't care at all.
He knew that he just needed to pick something.
Anything.
Or nothing.
He just… needed to make a decision.
Just close his eyes and grab whatever he set his hand to.
Just needed to do something.
Anything to break this pathetic standoff with his own indecision.
He was going to be late.
It had taken him far too long to get out the door and far too long to get the car started and far too long to arrive at the convenience store a few blocks and now he'd now spent far too long stalled in the aisles.
He was going to be late.
Was probably already late.
And that was worse, wasn't it?
Worse to show up late than empty-handed?
Wasn't it?
And yet….
And yet.
He couldn't seem to force himself to choose, to step beyond this moment, paralyzed by that inescapable fear that had clenched around his chest like a vise.
Just pick something.
Anything.
Anything.
He flexed trembling fingers, swallowing hard as he lifted one wrist to examine his watch.
Half past noon.
Late.
He was already late.
Somehow the five minutes he'd meant to spend in the store had turned into so much more.
People were looking very carefully around him, gazes darting to the bottles, the floor, the ceiling, anywhere at all to avoid looking directly at the strange man loitering in the middle of the aisle.
It was difficult to breathe.
He was going to ruin everything.
Again.
He needed to call him.
To explain.
To apologize.
His hands were shaking so badly that he fumbles and drops his phone pulling it from his pocket.
The clatter as it hits the tile floor is like a shotgun blast and he's on his knees scrambling for it before it even occurs to him to do otherwise.
Everything is too loud, too close, the tiles sway beneath him as he slaps his fingers down against them, trapping the phone before it can slide away, clutching it as he sits back against the shelves behind him.
Bottles clank menacingly at the impact and his mouth is so dry it's difficult to swallow.
People are stepping around him as if he isn't there, as if they don't see him at all and he isn't certain whether he should be grateful or angry or… anything at all.
He wasn't always this way.
With them it had been easy to be confident, to be self-assured... to be himself.
Being loved by them had made everything easier.
Even if he'd never seen that when it would have made a difference.
That person he used to be seems like a distant memory of another life, little more than a stranger, a reality he can no longer fathom.
Would she even recognize the person he is now?
A failure stymied by drink options and terrified by the possibility of losing more than he already had.
The ringing trill of the phone - once he finally managed to dial his number - seemed to go on for a very long time as he sat on the floor with his back against all those colorful labels and his head against his knees.
When the line finally clicks over into open space, Sakakura's voice is gruff and hesitant, "Hey."
Was that his fault too?
Was he just as responsible for Sakakura's doubts as he was for his own?
Probably.
"Hey," he murmured back, ice in his gut.
"Something come up?" He asked, cautiously, as if he were dreading what his answer might be.
There'd been no missed calls.
He'd been waiting for him.
Waiting patiently for him to make the next move, whatever it might be, ready to face whatever came.
The least he could do in the face of that was try.
"What kind of beer do you drink?" He blurts out, amazed that his voice sounds steady when he feels anything but.
"Eh?" The surprised burst of laughter brings the beginnings of a smile to his face, steals the tremble from his fingers, steadies the breath in his lungs. "What kind of question is that? Where are you?"
"Convenience store. It seemed rude to show up empty-handed, but I realized I have no idea what you drink. Or if you actually drink at all. Do you? Drink? Beer, that is. Obviously I'm aware that you drink water and the like."
What was he even doing?
He sounded like an idiot.
Fortunately Sakakura seemed willing to take the awkwardness in stride, laughter still coloring his words with affection, "Sure. Stopped taking the pain meds a while back so a couple beers won't kill me. I'm not particular - you know that - so you can just get whatever you like."
He did know that.
He did.
But he...
His fingers ached from how hard he was gripping the phone.
There was a moment of crackling silence over the line and then Sakakura was chuckling again, "Shit. You've never had a beer in your life, have you?"
"Is it that obvious?" He replied, relieved to have a reason, a ready excuse offered to him.
It was even true, even if it wasn't the reason for his current difficulties.
"Only to someone who knows you. Where'd you stop?"
"The place on the corner near your complex, I was…" he trails off, grasping for an excuse for his tardiness when his tongue refuses to form an apology.
"Want me to come meet you? I could help you pick something."
"Please."
And he can only hope that word doesn't sound half as desperate as it feels.
"I'll be there in five. The fight doesn't really get started for another half an hour so we've got some time. You wanna order something in for lunch? Are you hungry?"
He's never hungry anymore.
Sometimes he thinks he is, but the feeling fades the moment food arrives.
When they're together he smiles and forces himself to choke it down, but it all tastes the same.
"We could get pizza. There's a decent place I order from sometimes."
"Okay," he manages as he pushes slowly, unsteadily, back to his feet.
It's easier to breathe with Sakakura's voice in his ear rattling off topping options as if he isn't going to tell him to get whatever he wants in the end anyway, so he lets him continue.
Listening to his voice makes it easier to pretend that everything is fine.
That he's fine.
To straighten his jacket and dust off his pants as he waits for him to appear at the door.
Minutes pass and he can hear that he's breathing a little harder, probably out the door and on his way.
Walking quickly or maybe even jogging.
Seems dangerous.
He should probably let him go, but he can't quite bring himself to offer.
He's pretty sure only half the promised amount of time has passed when he hears the swish of the automatic doors over the line accompanied by a breathless, "There you are."
He pressed the button to end the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket as he looked up to meet Sakakura's gaze across the little store.
He was panting and pushing his hand back through hair shaken loose from the ponytail at the nape of his neck, his phone already tucked away out of sight.
His smile was warm, awkward, relieved, as if he hadn't been certain he would find him there at all.
The pressure in his chest eased a bit even though the people around him were still very obviously not looking his way.
"Sorry," he called as he jogged towards him, either not noticing or not caring about the other customers. "I'd have been here sooner, but it takes me a little while to get out the door these days."
His face was flushed red and he knew even before he saw them that his sneakers would be untied, the laces tucked into the sides to make it less obvious.
He tries not to look.
It seems he's always trying not to look too closely.
To see the truths of their lives.
Of what he'd made of them.
He knew he should wave it off, that he should be the one to apologize for being late, being hopeless, but the moment to do so passes in an instant and he finds himself smiling instead, warm and welcoming and he wishes there was at least a hint of apology in it, but he knows there's not.
He is a terrible friend.
He wishes simply knowing that was enough to change it.
"Nothing to be sorry for," he managed as Sakakura fell in beside him, shoulder nudging against his own. He gestured vaguely to the rows of colorful packaging, "Preference?"
Even as he says it Sakakura is already reaching forward to snag a case from the shelf seemingly at random which he holds up for inspection. "This one look alright?"
He blinked once, twice, before finally replying with a hesitant, "Yes?"
Sakakura's grin is wide and he offers it to him to hold before snagging a second case with his now free hand, "Good, because you're gonna have to help me drink it."
"Alright," he agrees, nodding quickly and earning another shoulder bump before Sakakura meanders off towards the register.
Nothing has really changed.
His chest still feels tight and his throat still feels dry, but as he follows Sakakura out of the store with a paper sac filled with warm beer in his arms, he still somehow feels better than he's felt in years.