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Geed—Riku—is gone, things are calm for the moment, and the commander is drunker than Haruki’s ever seen him. Actually, Haruki realizes as he’s stumbling under the weight of Hebikura leaning on him, this is the first time he’s ever seen the commander drunk. Like, he’s seen him drink, sometimes a lot, but never before has he been drunk. But he’d had a flask tonight, something he’d added to his own glass and not offered to share, and now he’s weaving on his feet and needs help getting back to his room.
“What did you drink, Commander?” It’s difficult to hold him; he doesn’t look like he should weigh so much.
“Nothing you need to worry about.” Hebikura’s only slurring a bit, which is impressive. “You wouldn’t like it.”
“That’s not why I—oh, your door is locked, right, can you unlock it?”
Hebikura digs his keys out of a pocket and presses them into Haruki’s hand. “Not steady enough. You do it.”
“Um, ok.”
Inside, Haruki gets Hebikura to the couch and then looks around as he tries to roll the ache out of his neck. STORAGE housing isn’t luxurious as a rule, but Hebikura’s rooms are bare. There’s the couch, a coffee table, a writing desk with a rickety chair and a small laptop—but no television, nowhere else to sit, no art on the walls. The only thing in the kitchen that looks used is the coffee press. The bedroom door is open, and through it Haruki can see a bed so neat that it might never have been slept in. No sign of life or personality except for a single dirty mug in the sink, on which is printed “DON’T TALK TO ME” in English.
That, and the sword lain across the writing desk behind the laptop. It’s shaped like a regular katana, but the hilt is heavily and strangely designed. Looking at it makes Haruki’s fingertips itch with how beautiful it is. “Commander, I didn’t know you did kendo. Or do you do iaido, maybe? That’s a really amazing—”
“Don’t touch it,” entirely unslurred, like the crack of a whip.
“I wasn’t going to,” Haruki says, startled, pulling his hand back. “It’s rude to touch someone else’s sword without permission. I’m going to get you some water.”
Hebikura laughs, and it’s a strange laugh, not one Haruki’s heard from him before. “Lights and darkness forbid you should be rude.”
What a weird phrase, Haruki thinks, but doesn’t say.
He looks for a clean cup, but there aren’t any others, so he just washes the one in the sink and fulls it with cold water. When he gets back to the couch, Hebikura is sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair. “Thank you, Haruki. You’ll have to sit on the coffee table, the desk chair’s on its last legs.”
“Um, sure? If you don’t mind?”
“I told you to, didn’t it?” Hebikura drains the mug in one pull as Haruki’s sitting, sets it down next to himself on the couch, and looks up at Haruki with a searching expression that’s only slightly unfocused by drunkenness. Finally he says, “Fuck, you’re young.”
“I, uh, I’m not that young, am I?”
“You are compared to me.”
“Commander, I mean, come on, you’re not that old, you’re only. Aren’t you only ten years older than me?”
“Oh, you have no idea.” Hebikura reaches up, slowly, and puts his hands on the sides of Haruki’s face as Haruki sits in frozen confusion. His thumbs smooth along Haruki’s cheekbones as they lock eyes. “You have your whole life ahead of you yet.”
“Um. Commander Hebikura? I’m really starting to worry, are you all right?”
“Fuck.” Hebikura blinks, blearily, but his hands are perfectly steady. “You even look like him, you know? He was just like you once. A few thousand years ago.”
“Wh…who? Wait, did you say thousand?”
Hebikura is leaning close enough for Haruki to smell his breath, and that should be unpleasant, but somehow it isn’t. He smells like…spices, almost, and smoke. Not liquor at all, and Haruki has to bite back the urge to ask again what he was drinking if it wasn’t alcoholic. “Young and full of ideals. Just like him.” An adjustment of grip, one thumb dragging over Haruki’s mouth in a way that makes Haruki’s face go warm. “Haruki, if I told you to stay here with me tonight, what would you do?”
“I. Um. Commander, I—” Haruki swallows hard. “Commander, you’re very drunk.”
And Hebikura lets go of him. “You’re right, of course. That’s true. I’m a drunk old man reaching for a taste of my youth.” He slumps back against the couch. “And as always I find myself back in the company of a good man with high ideals. It’s like a curse. Get me another cup of water and then get out of my rooms, I’ll be fine.”
Hesitant, and honestly a little shaken, Haruki takes the mug to the kitchen and fills it up. “You’re really not that old, Commander,” he says as he brings it back over. “You could, uh, you could always try calling…whoever you were talking about.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re young.” Hebikura drains the mug again, rubbing at the center of his chest as if it pains him. “Must be nice. And don’t try to think this doesn’t apply to you,” suddenly looking Haruki in the eyes again, but somehow it feels like he’s talking to someone else, “I’m older than you, too.” A pause, and he groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just get out.”
Haruki stammers out a “Good night,” and hurries out of the room, closing the door behind him just slow enough that it doesn’t quite slam.
“Well, that seemed like it was Ultra-uncomfortable,” Z says in the back of his head, sounding fairly uncomfortable himself. “Was…was he talking to me at the end there?”
“I’m sure that’s not it,” Haruki says, not feeling sure at all, “he was really drunk, maybe he was seeing double.”
“That’s probably it.” Z sounds dubious. “I just…it felt like he was talking to me.”