When Ulrich got back from practice, his side of the room was a Kiwi-shaped mess, and his roommate was sitting on his bed with something in his hands. Ulrich had frowned and shut the door hard in frustration, holding out his hand. Odd had given the diary back to him and said, simply, "I'm sorry."
Now, when they're lying in bed and Ulrich is going through soccer drills in his head, he misses a goal and thinks instead about his diary, newly decorated with teeth marks and sticky with Kiwi's spit. He'd thrown it under his bed after wiping it off on Odd's pillow. But Odd had looked guilty, quietly, the kind of guilty that he never looked over Kiwi's antics.
Ulrich sits up in his bed. "Odd?" he says.
"Keep them, I don't want your anchovies, I'll just take this croissant instead…" Odd mumbles.
"Odd," Ulrich says, louder. He throws his pillow at Odd's head and Odd sits up in a flash, his hands poised to attack. "It's me," Ulrich adds, and Odd slumps back onto his pillow and moans, "Aw, come on, why did you wake me up? I was dreaming." He throws the pillow back at Ulrich.
"Did you read my diary?"
Odd stills, and then turns his head toward Ulrich, frowning. "Yes," he admits, hesitantly, after a beat.
"Which part?" Everything in Ulrich's head feels like it's slowed down, like the moment before a return to the past when the world imperceptibly shifts and he knows his next moment will be in a different place in a different time. His muscles tense in anticipation.
"Your…" There's a carefulness to Odd's tone. "Your letter."
Ulrich makes himself lie down, in a series of thought-out, controlled movements. "The one for your parents," Odd continues, softly. "If you —if XANA…"
If I die, Ulrich thinks. The one I wrote to them to tell them not to miss me, if I die. He doesn't even feel like yelling at Odd, he realizes suddenly, he just feels tired. Really tired.
He can hear Odd shifting from his side of the room. "I worry about Kiwi," he admits, voice still soft. "He goes nuts when I just leave for class in the morning. If I was gone…"
The thought hits Ulrich so hard that for a moment he feels like his heart is going to explode, his chest squeezing tightly and painfully as he struggles for air. He starts to cough as air rushes back into his lungs, and Odd calls, a note of panic in his voice, "Hey! Ulrich! Ulrich!"
"I'm okay," Ulrich coughs out, but Odd's already there with his hands on his shoulders, looking at him in concern. His face burns with a sudden rush of embarrassment and he tries to brush Odd off; Odd just drops his hands and crawls over Ulrich's feet to lean against the wall behind his bed.
"I'm sorry I read your diary," he says. "That was a seriously uncool thing for me to do, good buddy."
"It was," Ulrich says, trying to hide how shaken he still feels in the annoyance. "And would you mind getting up? Your feet stink."
"Hey!" Odd protests, then shoves a foot in the direction of Ulrich's nose. "I would have you know that cream has been working wonders on my feet!"
Ulrich pretends to gag, holding his nose. "You're going to need an entire miracle for those."
Odd puts on his best mock-offended face, and Ulrich laughs. He tucks his hands behind his head and looks up at the ceiling, and then says, "hey, Odd. I'd… you know I'd look after Kiwi for you, right?"
Odd hums in agreement. "I know, good buddy." A pause. "I'd tell your parents," he gestures vaguely, "you know. Whatever."
"Thanks." Ulrich closes his eyes. "Give them the letter."
Odd doesn't reply, but after a few minutes Ulrich feels his weight shift off the bed. He opens his eyes and watches Odd slip back under his own covers, hands curling around his pillow, his face mashed into the fabric. It doesn't take too long before he starts to snore. Ulrich laughs to himself, and shuts his eyes again as the exhaustion comes rushing back.
It's okay, he thinks, we're all going to live. We always survive. The letter was a stupid thing to write.
It's hours later when he finally slips off into an uneasy sleep.
