Between Insanity and Stupidity

You're stupid.

Or, maybe you're not stupid, being top in your class and getting straight A's and all, but that's not any better because if you're not stupid then you're insane.

Only insane people would do this, fussing over an idiot with a bleeding heart and no brain who's made it perfectly clear what you can do with your help, and having bloody near panic attacks when said idiot doesn't turn up in school and there's no answer from his home phone.

Watanuki, you decide, needs a cell phone. If it takes him the rest of his life to pay you back so much the better.

You skip school- you've never skipped school before, but you figure your perfect attendance record can take a few hits- and trot to the address you lifted out of the school records.

You bang on the door of the cheap apartment- bam, bam, and hitting something that solid that hard makes you feel a little better and less like pounding Watanuki's head in or pinning him down and crawling on top of him and- you bang your head against the door and that train of thought floats away. That's an awfully hard door for such a cheap apartment.

When it opens –finally, you think- Watanuki's looking all sleep-mussed and flushed and not at all like he should be out of bed at all, let alone trying to open a very solid door- and you push forward into the apartment, grabbing him by the waist and checking his temperature and kicking the door shut in one fluid movement.

You're boiling up, you say, forestalling all protests by half-dragging him to the room with a futon and dropping him down. You take off his shirt- no funny remarks, thank you- and walk into Watanuki's miserable excuse for a kitchen to boil water and fetch ice cubes.

There's something horribly familiar about this, but you ignore it and tell your brain to shut up because down that road lies madness, or at least paranoia. Instead you concentrate on returning his brain to relative lucidity so that he can wake up and listen to you harangue him properly.

Watanuki still doesn't say anything, just watches from beneath fever-hazed lids as you walk around waiting on him for once, reflecting quietly in your mind just how not-you this was, out of school and in his house, racking your brain for any sign that this will be something you can deal with.

Eventually, after you've made soup and force-fed it to him, he's recovered enough that he maintains he can spend the night alone, thank you and asks you what the hell you're doing here.

You were sick, you inform him.

You watch, amused, as he grapples with those words and what they mean and allow yourself a smirk when, finally, he says, I don't want to know.

Probably not, you agree,

You skipped school, he says, lining up the facts in his head. Just to come over?

I thought you didn't want to know, you needle him, brushing your fingers just under his fringe. Your fever's gone down.

He pretends he's not having a panic attack. You pretend that you've forgotten your fingers on his forehead. Voila, you are both in denial, and happy.

You're insane, he announces finally, turning his head away. You tap, once and sharp, a drop of pettiness before taking your hand away.

You're insane or you're stupid or somewhere in between, where common sense disappears and delusions fade, and all you can see is him blushing pink before you. You promise yourself, written in, as you imagine, words of fire on your soul, that this is all you will ever see.

-end-