[ Aki reaches for him, and Denji wishes he could brush him and that brief stir of expectation inside of himself off. That hope he might drag him back down, insist that it's better to stay put. Heel, boy. Eyes up. Don't think too hard about this.
But the lurch never comes. His footing settles.
When he's inside his bedroom, it's hard not to stray from the course and immediately nosedive into the familiar comforts of his futon, which Nayuta has, of course, left unmade. Hasn't even taken a lint roller to it yet to get rid of all the dog hair sticking to the sheets, he notices as he passes by. That's fine. She's out walking the animals, which is something neither he nor Aki are really suited for at the moment, but something that needs doing, regardless. Plus, she's a kid, so she gets a free pass. That's how those things should work out.
Anyway, their apartment's small, so dust and clutter always collects pretty fast — like in that corner there, with Aki's box of things. He's been staring at it unfocusedly since he first walked in, keeps staring at it while he tosses his dirty laundry in the general direction of his hamper, some clothing articles not even making it inside. There were some nights where he'd look inside, not really rifling, but just peeking in to make sure it was all still there. And probably, secretly, to feel more connected to him. Besides, he could treat it like practice for whenever he'd find Aki again, to show him his things; they could pick through the remnants of Aki's life, put the pieces back together, and he'd be brave enough to ask what each thing meant to him. It'd be that easy, everything falling into place.
However, he doesn't think bravery is the thing that compels him to kneel beside it once he's all changed. He lifts the flap open with the back of his hand, reaches in to fish around for something to pull out and examine, it doesn't really matter what it is. It's a sword hilt that he grabs, and he lifts it. Obviously, there's no blade, just a jagged stump where one used to be — it always used to remind him of how Aki's amputated arm looked like. He tilts it in the light, thumbing the edge of the pommel. The second Aki's voice penetrates through the door, though, he panics, curses loudly as he drops the hilt with a metallic peal, akin to a bell ringing. ]
No. [ He says, forcefully, guiltily, like he's been caught in the act of a crime. Whatever, Denji scrambles to shove the hilt back into the box. What the hell's a thermometer? …Wait, is it that tongue poker thing? ] Er, maybe.
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But the lurch never comes. His footing settles.
When he's inside his bedroom, it's hard not to stray from the course and immediately nosedive into the familiar comforts of his futon, which Nayuta has, of course, left unmade. Hasn't even taken a lint roller to it yet to get rid of all the dog hair sticking to the sheets, he notices as he passes by. That's fine. She's out walking the animals, which is something neither he nor Aki are really suited for at the moment, but something that needs doing, regardless. Plus, she's a kid, so she gets a free pass. That's how those things should work out.
Anyway, their apartment's small, so dust and clutter always collects pretty fast — like in that corner there, with Aki's box of things. He's been staring at it unfocusedly since he first walked in, keeps staring at it while he tosses his dirty laundry in the general direction of his hamper, some clothing articles not even making it inside. There were some nights where he'd look inside, not really rifling, but just peeking in to make sure it was all still there. And probably, secretly, to feel more connected to him. Besides, he could treat it like practice for whenever he'd find Aki again, to show him his things; they could pick through the remnants of Aki's life, put the pieces back together, and he'd be brave enough to ask what each thing meant to him. It'd be that easy, everything falling into place.
However, he doesn't think bravery is the thing that compels him to kneel beside it once he's all changed. He lifts the flap open with the back of his hand, reaches in to fish around for something to pull out and examine, it doesn't really matter what it is. It's a sword hilt that he grabs, and he lifts it. Obviously, there's no blade, just a jagged stump where one used to be — it always used to remind him of how Aki's amputated arm looked like. He tilts it in the light, thumbing the edge of the pommel. The second Aki's voice penetrates through the door, though, he panics, curses loudly as he drops the hilt with a metallic peal, akin to a bell ringing. ]
No. [ He says, forcefully, guiltily, like he's been caught in the act of a crime. Whatever, Denji scrambles to shove the hilt back into the box. What the hell's a thermometer? …Wait, is it that tongue poker thing? ] Er, maybe.