Something changed when he got in the shower, some air of...level-headedness was stripped away, leaving him shaking slightly in strong emotion. He didn't want to cry. He wanted too much, all at once, that he didn't know what it was that he wanted.
I want Aya. Here. Now.
He placed his palms flat on the shower wall and let the hot water beat rhythmically against his back. It was an interesting stance, with his legs slightly spread and his arms braced as if he were doing some sort of push-up.
Hanging his head slightly, he felt the water soaking into his hair, and dripping down over his closed eyes, and the heat from his body seemed to over-ride the sting of the water as he imagined Aya there, in the space between his arms. He leaned forward, resting the top of his bowed head against the tile, and imagined his face pressed against her shoulder, her skin warm and wet and his.
He didn't have much experience with sexual fantasies, but it wasn't hard for him to imagine the taste of warm water mixing with clean flesh, the particular feel of her breath against his cheek, coming harder and harder.
He shuddered as a trickle of water traced the curve of his lower back, and he remembered her hands on him, slow fingers seeming to follow curiously the line of his spine. He involuntarily pushed his hips forward, and wanted nothing more than to open his eyes and see her. However she wanted to be seen, just as long as she was there.
He wondered where she was.
( ) *
He lingered in the shower until the water ran cold. Then he lingered further. His skin was pale and tight with goosebumps by the time he managed to rouse himself enough out of his thoughts to get out.
The steam had already dissipated with the heat, so the mirror was clear. He rubbed the towel through his hair, and caught the image of himself out of the corner of his eyes. Staring down at a meticulously folded piece of dark cloth, sitting incongruously on the edge of the sink.
How contradictive, yet so very 'Aya'! To leave her things so haphazardously strewn about the room, then turn around and fold her dirty shirt so carefully. But leave it so clearly out of its place.
He didn't quite understand her mental paths, but he loved them all the same.
You are perfect, Aya. How could I ever let you go?
He didn't understand where that question came from, but it obviously showed where his fears lay. He pushed it all aside and refused to dwell on something that wasn't happening.
If there was a 'yet' deep in his subconscious, he steadfastly ignored it.
Draping the towel over his shoulder, he settled his fingertips on one neat fold, then shook it out. There were creases and wrinkles, and smoothing out a few he realized he had a couple mannerisms of his own that were contradictive. Like attempting to smooth out a shirt he was going to be dumping in the dirty clothes basket in the near-future.
His body shaking with the need to find her, to reassure himself that she was 'okay'. And the alternating caution flitting through his mind saying that he needed to back-off a little at this moment and give her the space to realize what exactly has changed between the two of them.
It would give her time to build up her walls once more, yes, he knew that. But it would also give her time to think. He couldn't keep her unbalanced and distracted forever.
Sighing at the emotional acknowledgment of exactly what kind of battle he had ahead of him, he took her shirt back out into the main room and dropped it in the basket.
( ) *
He went downstairs and did laundry until mid-morning, staying throughout the entire cycle to make sure no one stopped the machine before everything was dry, and piled everything in a wrinkling, musty mess on the dryer just to get there own things done quicker.
Not to mention, he was guarding. He had seen a neighbor on the floor below them once waiting for his turn while Aki finished pulling out their clothes. The boy had seemed inordinately interested in the sight of Aya's underthings peeking from the mix-match of masculine and feminine clothes. Since then the idea of leaving their things unattended had made his blood run cold.
Back upstairs, he dumped everything on the stripped bed, and began the tedious task of sorting and folding. A stack for his pants, and his shirts. One for her skirts, and another for her blouses. The sheets and covers shaken out and set to the side until he was ready to make the bed.
All the socks found their mates, which was rare, but pleasing. He didn't separate those, as they all got dumped into a corner of the same drawer.
He folded their underwear neatly, persistent in this, despite knowing that by tomorrow morning her side would a mess again. This was a habit she was likely never going to break, and he found himself not really caring. Maybe later something would grate on his nerves, but for the moment he still felt half-in-a-trance, and strangely indulgent.
He hardly noticed the atmospheric silence of the room as he completed his task. Though something twinged in the back of his mind as off. He wasn't used to being separated from Aya.
He paused in closing the top drawer, his eyes going sightless as his hands braced to push in.
Aya...Where are you?
Of course, no answer came, only a persistent strand of longing and unease looping tighter around his heart. He pushed the drawer in, returned to the bed, and took up the end of one sheet.
( ) *
The laundry was done. The apartment was clean and perfect. And now he had nothing to distract him from the fact that it was edging slowly towards late afternoon and he still hadn't seen here.
A persistent voice kept pushing him in the back, saying: 'Go, Now. Find her!'
Another held him back, saying, 'She needs time, don't over-crowd her!'
And still another sat worriedly in the back with the continuous mutter of 'where is she?'
All of them tied his hands with indecision.
There were too many 'what ifs' to torment him, so he barred them the best he could from his mind. He knew if he began on one, the rest would come tumbling after like an ever-increasing avalanche.
Ignoring it was proving just as difficult.
What if...
NO!
He pushed that thought right out of his mind, or tried to, as it clung persistently.
His knee bopped un-rhythmically, his fingers tapping along to his worry's erratic beat. Growing so tired of his own behaviour, he threw down his hand and got up again, pacing from the bed to the dresser, then back again. Keeping a tight, coiled circle, like a tiger in a cage that kept coming to the same restrictive bars, but didn't stop looking for a way out.
Time didn't change his certainty, but it was, however, increasing the fragmentation of his emotions.
And his worry.
tbc...