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sticky, claustrophobic fingers paw at his skin, feeling as though they're brushing directly against his lungs as they draw a rattling breath with a whine attached at each end. the air clings and cloys, and fills his nostrils with the heat and salt of sweat. he kicks sluggishly at the blankets, his sleep addled brain not able to convey his desperation into his limbs. haise's fingers twist and clutch into the sheet beneath him, releasing and clinging to it alternately like a lifeline, like a kid learning to swim.
as his breathing slows, steadies, he becomes aware of the rest of the room. soft light from underneath the door — probably saiko looking for a snack. (his tired brain recalls that he left cookies on the counter for her.) the shape of his window, which is just barely illuminated. (it must be somewhere near four.) the sensation of sweat-damp sheets against his skin, unpleasant and almost enough to send him back into panic. a sickly rich flavor in his mouth. (god. god.)
haise scrambles out of his bed, his mind once again a hive of stinging hornets. his fingernails scrape against his tongue, and his nightmare comes back to him in fragments, while his memories slip through his clutching fingers to fill in the gaps. a sewer, a hundred pains in his side, a hand on his shoulder. a smile ( a smile you stole ). sweet and rich, with the tang of copper in its outmost edges, the flavor of his smile fills his mouth, and haise shudders to his knees in front of his bathroom sink. one hand grips the edge of the countertop so tightly his entire hand turns white, and the other shakes as it fumbles with the tap. ('you won't win there.') he shakes so much that half the water spills out of his cupped hands before it reaches his mouth. ('can you give it your all just one last time?')
a sob wracks his frame, and one handful of chlorine saturated water follows another into his mouth, and when it leaves, it doesn't take the awful sweetness with it. he flings the tiny pool of water in his hands against the mirror. haise drags his fingers roughly through his hair, tugging harder than he should at the strands, hoping in some twisted way that he can hurt himself half as much as it must hurt to have your face taken from you.
he sits down in front of the toilet and leans over it, sobbing. he opens his mouth wide and with a harsh exhale, shoves two fingers down his throat until he hits his gag reflex. the reaction is immediate, his entire body heaving violently from the base of his spine, through his stomach, and up his throat in a nauseous gush of vomit. his throat burns, his shoulders shake, and the inside of his mouth is coated with vile slime that tastes vaguely like pickle juice. his mind is so quiet.
haise sits against the cabinets under his sink in silence and lets the spasms shake themselves out of him.
once his breathing has returned to normal, and his limbs are back in his control, once he's washed the vomit out of his mouth with no resistance, and once he's stripped his bed of its soiled sheets, replacing them with new ones from his neatly stacked linen closet, he slips back under his covers. it's the first night like this in months, and sleep might not come before his alarm rings out in the hushed room, but at least he can be comfortable.
most nights, he sleeps peacefully in a house that belongs to him and the family he's found here. most nights are soft sheets that feel like comfort and smell like lavender, falling asleep to the sound of shirazu laughing with tooru (knowing that urie is with them, but won't give in to their antics). but sometimes when he dreams, he dreams of hide. strangely, awfully, he dreams of hide. it's not always nightmares, where he relives that night in the sewer, or where he meets a half-faced hide in a world he was never meant to be a part of — his world, now. more often he opens his eyes in a field of white flowers with hide smiling at him the way he used to. sometimes nothing more than a memory — replaying the day they met, or a day they went at anteiku just to talk. the soft warmth he woke with from those dreams hurt worse than forcing the taste of his skin out of his mouth with his fingers down his throat.
haise sighs and turns over onto his stomach, burying his head in the mound of pillows he sleeps with and forcing the image of a well-remembered smile that no longer exists out of his mind.
---
slipping out of his bedroom at six in the morning to a chorus of 'good morning's from four sleepy teenagers is a warm feeling. urie sits at the table, drinking coffee and scrolling through his phone, shirazu is sprawled across the couch, tooru is idly stacking straws into precarious shapes, and saiko is sitting across from urie, leaning her chin on her hand and looking half asleep still. her mumbled 'morning, maman' is a beat later than everyone else's, but haise is just glad to see her out of her room.
he ruffles her hair as he passes. "who wants breakfast before i head to the airport?"