Sinking Feeling
She finds a scrap of paper with a scorpion drawn on it taped to his door. It's a crude thing, this drawing; Ikuko will give Toya no high marks for his artwork. But when she pauses a moment to think about it, all desire to tease him for a poor artist (and a superstitious one at that) flies out of the window. This is superstition, and a very specific one at that. How many times have scorpion charms featured in the bottle manuscripts? How many times have they featured in the tales Ikuko and Toya wrought?
What sort of evil does he think he needs to ward against?
Frowning in disquiet, Ikuko presses Toya's bedroom door open and steps inside.
Despite it only being around eight in the evening, Toya has lain down in bed, the covers pulled up over his shoulders. The lamp is still on; from the doorway, Ikuko can see that his eyes are still open. He's not asleep, and doesn't seem to be trying to sleep. As Ikuko stands in the doorway, staring at him, the sound of his ragged breathing fills up her ears.
Her frown deepening, Ikuko strides across the room until she comes to stand in front of the bed, staring down at Toya. "So why have you drawn that picture on the door?" she asks without preamble, not bothering to get his attention. This isn't normal for Toya, not at all; Ikuko isn't sure that bothering with pleasantries will get her anywhere this evening.
Toya looks at her for what feels like an eternity before responding. His blue eyes are a touch out-of-focus, a touch bloodshot, and while Toya lifts his gaze to her, Ikuko never feels as though he is really seeing her. His eyes seem settled more on her lips, or maybe her nose—he certainly isn't making eye contact.
"Just in case," he says in a small voice, shifting his weight in bed so that the quilt falls further up his body, nearly to his chin.
"Just in case," Ikuko repeats. To her chagrin, she finds that she is capable of saying nothing more eloquent than that. Her wit has deserted her entirely; she has no eagerness to make quips or jibes or tease him. It seems… She can't really say what it seems like, except that it doesn't seem right to do so. And why might that be?
"Hey, Ikuko…"
Toya is looking her in the eye now, and the over-bright quality to them immediately catches Ikuko's attention. "Do you think I'll still be me when I wake up in the morning?" he asks shakily. One of his hands slips out from under the quilt, only to pull it even closer against him.
"Unless you have some reason to believe that you'll wake up looking differently, yes." That's a far cry from her usual quality of teasing, and at the complete lack of levity in her voice, it rings hollow. Ikuko wonders if his head must be aching.
But Toya doesn't even seem to hear her. A high-pitched, tremulous laugh escapes his lips, dying off in a sound that suspiciously resembles a sob. "Or maybe I'd be happier if I just went back to being Battler. I don't know, Ikuko."
Why does this room suddenly feel so cramped? Ikuko feels as though the room is shrinking to just her and him, all else falling away. She wants to leave the room, but forces herself to stay where she is. "What do you want me to tell you, Toya?" Ikuko asks in a too-even voice, watching the way the quilt (and his body beneath it) none-too-steadily rises and falls, the reflection of his uneven breathing.
There are definitely tears gathering in his eyes now. His lips are trembling—his whole body is trembling. Toya swallows hard. "I don't know."
"Then I don't know what to tell you," Ikuko replies, still sounding too calm and too toneless to her own ears. "Whatever your fears are, you should sleep."
"I guess…"
Thankful for the excuse, Ikuko quickly vacates the room.
Out in the hallway, she leans against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. Eyes narrowed, Ikuko's mind flies to a drawer in her bedroom, where a black book lies in the shadows, away from prying eyes. Long ago, she told Toya that this book was her diary in the hopes that telling him this would keep him from looking in it. To a point, that could actually be taken as the truth, but that diary is not a record of Ikuko's life; instead, it's all about Toya. All about him, as Ikuko has watched for any signs that he remembers who he once was.
Now, Ikuko is left to wonder things she doesn't want to contemplate. She holds the image in her mind, of Toya, lying trembling and teary-eyed in his bed, the quilt pulled up to his chin. She holds the image of his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his fears.
Should I have told him what I knew, at the beginning?
Ikuko tosses her head, her eyes screwed tightly shut. She struggles to catch her breath and calm herself, but knows that it will be a long time yet before she stops thinking about this.
