Makoto doesn't know. Even as he knocks, polite as always, on the bathroom door, he has no idea his best friend is dead. It's better that way, and Haru acknowledges that, but for a split second he imagines what would have happened if he hadn't felt the vibration of his friend's footsteps through the water, hadn't pushed himself up to the rim of the tub. Could Makoto have guessed the truth, watching and waiting in vain for bubbles to rise to the surface of the bath water? Could he have understood, realizing for the first time that Haru's eyes are as hollow as a drum and his heart as beatless as a broken cloak?
This is perhaps the most terrible fear Haru has, this idea that one day his friends will discover the truth about what's happened to him. He trusts them not to kill him, or at least not to stab him with a stake or smother him out with garlic (although whether or not that would really work Haru isn't sure), but their fear and his subsequent alienation from them would be one thing he's not sure he could survive. It's not something he'd admit, of course, but he needs his friends now more than ever-they're his foil, his armour, his defense against his loneliness and his pain. So even now, with Makoto being as softly insistent as ever, a small part of Haru just wants him to kick down the door and demand to know that Haru's alright. That's not too much to ask, is it?
But of course that's not what Makoto does. Instead he slides open the door just a sliver, makes sure Haru realizes he's there, and then hurries inside the steaming room. "We're going to be late for class, you know," he says, his voice without any indication that Haru needs to hurry. "Are you finished yet?"
Haru stares up at him with little more expression than a stool, distracted for the moment by the cooling breeze that flushes into the room through the open door. The bath hasn't made him warm, exactly, but warmer than normal, and the breeze returns him to the comfortable place he's more used too. This, needless to say, is lost to Makoto, so he just offers his hand as if Haru's silence had given him some sort of answer. Haru takes it, grips it tightly, and as he emerges from the water he concentrations on Makoto's heartbeat, the faint patter of it against his palm. The rhythmic sound is lulling, but hoping not to draw too much attention to his fascination, Haru lets go of Makoto's hand as soon as he's gotten back to his feet.
"Sorry," he says in half-apology, taking a towel off the nearby rack.
Makoto doesn't comment, but instead asks, "Do you always bathe in your swimsuit?"
Haru meets his eyes without flinching, trying to impose a sense of finality to the conversation without actually needing to respond. Makoto reads the response from the intensity of the glare, and smiles so off-handedly Haru can hardly hide his surprise.
Looking at the ground, he steps out of the tub and walks into the hallway. "I'll get my things," he says over his shoulder. "I'll meet you at the front door."
Makoto takes a moment to reply, but even without seeing his face, Haru knows he's still smiling.
School is short and fragmented today, with Haru zoning in and out of every class without exception. It's not so much boredom as it is exhaustion, an edge of weariness that follows him wherever he goes. Had he not been a vampire, Haru would have described the weight as depression, a heaviness that settled in his chest and cloaked all his thoughts with darkness. Being what he is, however, told him the truth of the matter; despite having taken a pill only a handful of hours ago, Haru is already suffering from withdrawl.
At lunch he sneaks an extra one into his sandwich, sliding the white tablet between his cheese and lettuce. The bitterness of the drug offsets the soup of other non-tastes his food inspires, and afterwards the relief that washes over him feels like a miracle.
"You look happy Haru-chan," Nagisa notes, stuffing his own face with a fistfull of munchies. "What're you thinking about?"
To realize his composure had slipped, even for a moment, overrides Haru's need to respond in a timely fashion to his friend's question. It's only when Makoto turns to watch him, out the cornor of his eye, that Haru regrets his his silence and quickly says, "swimming."
'Swimming', as vague as that may seem, is his fallback response to nearly everything, from what he felt like doing at any given moment to what he had done at any given point in the past. He's not entirely sure when this became the truth, but 'swimming' had nevertheless become this all-purpose answer for him, something that could always and is always a believable and acceptable response. Plus, Haru really did love swimming, even if he didn't actually swim as much as everyone seemed to think he did.
Thankfully, when class finally ends and Haru walks home with Makoto, the brunette doesn't bring up what happened at lunch. It's not exactly that something had happened, but the fact that he avoided questioning Haru is something worth celebrating. Instead he talks away about this and that and maybe something else; these little anecdotes, usually about his family, filled the awkward space in his and Haru's relationship which would otherwise have been filled with silence. Truthfully, Haru quite enjoyed listening to the sound of Makoto's voice, even if he didn't always pay full attention. It might have been the way Makoto talked, speaking without the need for a listener, or maybe the almost lyrical way he told his stories, like he was actually singing notes instead of pronouncing words. On the other hand, Haru's heightened senses sometimes blurred the world together, taking smells and sounds and feelings and colours and merging them into something chaotic, something beautiful. Not that he could exactly ask anyone about it, though.
When the pair reach the edge of the beach, the road ahead forking off into three different directions, Makoto pauses just long enough to say goodbye before continuing on his way. Haru watches him go for a short while, counting his friend's steps, already hating the fact that he missed the older's reassuring presence. Thus, making a mental note to call him later—he had mentioned something about not feeling well, maybe something he caught from his sister?—Haru makes his way back to his house, finding himself back at the fridge even before realizing that was where his feet were taking him.
Needlessly paranoid but nevertheless concerned, Haru pulls open the frost-laden door and reaches into the far back corner. The glass vial of his pills is still there, but he reminds himself of its presence by taking it into his hand, rolling it between his fingers as the cold of the freezer curls around his face. He fights his need for a few more minutes, telling himself again and again that he really shouldn't take another pill for at least four hours, but inevitably he finds himself powerless to the call of sweet, blissful relief. Prying out the cork, Haru spills the entirety of the vial's contents into his hands, hopeful that there would be at least two or three extra pills so he could take one as a nice boost.
To make a long story short, Haru is horrified to discover there isn't two or three extra pills in the vial, as he had assumed there would be.
There's none at all.
