Chapter Text
Lampposts are a strange thing to have planted in the middle of the street, Shinji decides that day. It's not that they're doing anything wrong by being where they are, standing rigid and tall with their shining black paint and buzzing flock of insects. In fact, he thinks they're doing a service, illuminating streets and all. However, despite all their importance, their dutiful purpose is not what they are destined to uphold on this day.
The afternoon is as indecisive as it is nice. As the breeze is biting, his hands do not feel comfortable free from the confines of his sleeves – yet, the sun's rays beat down on his scalp, so they don't quite feel at home in his pockets, either. In the end, he settles on picking loose balls of fabric off the front of his knit sweater. He's well aware that this looks a little odd as he toddles along the pavement toward home, but today is, in fact, one of seldom days in which he cannot bring himself to care. It's hard to catch a person such as Shinji being apathetic as to what people are thinking of him, but as he stares below at his shoelaces swinging forward and back, he chalks it up to be a fault of the quirky weather.
Within this crowd, it's hard to pick up on any noise, or anything at all for that matter, in particular. This is why, when in a cloud of hurried footsteps, Shinji does not expect a swift gust of wind on his left to ruffle him quite so thoroughly. He halts the ministrations to his sweater, and with a shiver, his head snaps upward. His eyes are first assaulted by the overwhelming rays of the sun, before they adjust and he finally registers the clustered crowd he is currently immersed in. Immediately his fingers grip each other out of expectant turmoil, and while he wishes that he had kept staring below at his hands toying with the loose threads of his shirt, he can't help but be distracted at the sight of an utterly amusing, floundering stranger amidst a crowd of equally buzzing people.
This stranger is flighty in everything he does. He's lanky, even in comparison to the shiny black lamppost he is currently standing next to, and he appears to be tripping over himself in order to avoid bumping hips with anyone walking by. If Shinji can say one thing, it's that he's, well, odd. Not in a bad way, necessarily. It's mostly his outfit: purple sneakers and a green jacket that's quite big on him, to the point that it reaches mid-thigh. Yeah. Pretty odd.
Shinji's fingers tie knots with each other as he blinks and watches this stranger bumble around. For a moment he thinks it's weird that the guy isn't moving along with the crowd, but then Shinji remembers that he's not moving, either, and in a usual fit of hypocrisy he feels a little sheepish. He looks down at the ground once more in preparation to continue his commute home, before he blinks at the glare of laminated, rectangular card-stock coupled with the startling fashion statement of messy white hair and a confident smile.
Shinji mumbles out an almost silent, noncommittal sound, peering down at the card that is staring back up at him from the ground.
What a weird looking person, he thinks, easing downward to grab and flick the card in between his index and middle finger.
Shinji then stands, and he stares at the card uselessly for approximately twenty seconds. Then, for another five seconds, the gears of his mind are at work. Hm.
He looks up at the stranger once again, and indeed, the resemblance between him and the face on the card was uncanny. White, messy hair being tossed around by the breeze, a hard trend to mistake. This also explains the lanky guy's tendency to dance around people and stare feverishly at the ground, gaze roving this way and that, obviously looking for something.
Shinji creeps forward, still enveloped in an uncomfortable cocoon of ornery crowd-goers. Holding the card gingerly between his two fingers, he approaches the lanky guy, who for the longest time doesn't even notice him.
“Um.” Shinji tries. He finds himself saying that a lot, these days.
The guy's attention snaps from the foot of a lamppost to Shinji, who is steadily feeling more and more reclusive at this sudden slope of social activity. He doesn't like talking to people out of nowhere like this. Especially weird people.
“Oh!” the white-haired guy gasps. A wide, flat smile splits his face and he reaches out for the card that obviously belongs to him, before Shinji, being the tactful and extremely socially adept person that he is, drops it on the ground again. An apparent case of butter-fingers, and to him, one of those moments in which he wants to crawl into a hole and die.
The frantic stranger doesn't seem to care, though, for as the flimsy piece of card-stock whistles behind him in the breeze, he simply darts for it as if it's a thief running away with his family fortune. His body whips around and he quickly bends to snatch the card, and it is at this precise moment that Shinji learns two things. One, lampposts are really, really weird, because they are often in the middle of the walkway where they are most inconvenient. Two, the sound that a human skull makes when it slams into a lamppost at remarkable speed is absolutely and undeniably ear-splitting. His hands curl close to each other as he clenches his jaw and half-closes one eye.
A minuscule, choked sound is heard over the crowd before the pale guy slides onto the ground, head still propped onto the shiny lamppost.
The crowd keeps moving around them, oblivious despite an obviously unconscious person and another who seems to be experiencing nervous convulsions. Shinji sweats profusely as he looks down at the guy in horror. He blinks, once, and then twice. His gaze then turns to the dandy sky once more.
Why me? he wonders to himself, before retrieving his mobile phone from its pocket shelter.
-
He just wants to go home and make some soup.
Shinji's nails tap wordless tunes into the rough plastic armrest of his current waiting chair as he stares up at a dotted white ceiling. He's never been very fond of waiting rooms, or the color white, for that matter. They make him feel like he's alone. Which, funnily enough, he is.
Really, though, he wants to make soup. He had been looking forward to it all day, enough that he hadn't paid any attention to today's happenings. This fact is not surprising, though, as it's rather like Shinji to think of slicing carrots when he should be paying attention to traffic signals and the weather.
Then, he realizes something. Does he really have any obligation to stick around? Once more, he blinks at the ceiling.
The weird guy had been alone. Of course, it was the right thing to do to call for help, and Shinji (with a few exceptions) generally tries to do the right thing. After hoping uselessly to coax the guy awake via tapping him on the shoulder, Shinji had sighed and dialed for a ride, as he knew that the nearest medical facility was at least a mile away. Now that the mysterious stranger is safely being cared for, Shinji doesn't really see why he needs to stick around. He could be at home making soup right now. Nibbling at his worn lip, he contemplates the idea. Out of habit, he feels around for his phone in his pocket. After pulling it out, he stares at its clock for about 30 seconds, eyelids slowly narrowing. Then, he sniffs. What is he waiting for?
Pocketing his phone once again, he stands on two feet, heading for the descending staircase.
-
It's when he's in his quiet room, stirring a sad-looking pot of soup on a portable stove, that he remembers something possibly vital, depending on how one looks at it. His hand stills on the ladle and his lips bunch up to form a thoughtful pout.
The guy's card is still lying around on the concrete of a busy walkway somewhere along his commute home. Shinji rubs his forehead with his sleeve, smearing around condensation from the rising steam. He doesn't want to go back outside tonight. It's dark, for one. He doubts he would even be able to find it in the nightly black blanket. Not only that, but he's never liked the feeling of leaving his room when everything outside is perhaps quieter.
In an attempt at distraction, he stirs the soup once again. Going out now would be pointless. If he's going to do anything, it's go out again tomorrow and look for it when he can actually see. But then, he thinks that it would get tossed around in the buzzing traffic of the usual morning commute.
Shinji cranes his neck to peer at the door. Then, he turns back to his soup. What is the right thing to do, he wonders. He crinkles his nose.
A tiny bubble pops in the pot, splashing outward and grazing his hand. Shinji yelps and frantically blows on the new burn.
-
Now sporting a plaster with little orange penguins on it, Shinji tramples around the pavement. It isn't long before he reaches the third lamppost along the line, and his stomach rumbles. He sighs and searches the ground near its jet black base, and glowers at nothing when he once again finds no laminated card.
He moves along to the next one, and again, there is nothing.
Then, another.
Another.
Finally he is at about his fourteenth lamppost and his last strand of patience when he sees something vaguely familiar shining on the ground. Filled with relief and joy, Shinji jogs to the item, picks it up, and pockets it as if it's a shiny new trophy.
-
“I brought someone in with me yesterday.”
The receptionist blows a bubble of bright pink gum before it pops across her face.
“You don't say.” she drawls after pulling the mass back into her mouth. Shinji blinks, mildly affronted.
“Yeah.”
Behind her fiery fringe, the receptionist crinkles her eyes the slightest bit. It's like her silent way of laughing at him.
“I'm gonna need a name.” she supplies, looking away from Shinji and to her computer monitor. She stares at it, and Shinji supposes it's not because she's busy, but rather because it's more comfortable than watching him juggle his words this place and that.
It then occurs rather suddenly that Shinji has no idea what the guy's name is. He stands silent for a few seconds, and the girl behind the counter turns to him once again, quirking an eyebrow.
“What's the hold-up?”
Shinji is about to confess that he doesn't know and make himself look even more heavy-headed, before he remembers the card nestled safely in his jacket pocket. Swiftly, he pulls it out, holding it close to his face to inspect what is written upon it.
“... Nagisa.” Shinji murmurs.
The receptionist does not say anything as she automatically inputs the information into her keyboard. Shinji fills his cheeks with air as he waits. He notices that the gum the receptionist is chewing is a near identical shade of pink to that of her scrubs.
She clicks her tongue.
“Door's right there actually, to your right. Should be all clear.”
Shinji nods and quietly thanks her, to which she snorts.
-
He feels like he's intruding. Shinji glares up at the door number that is only slightly higher than his face. He licks his lips. Does he just walk in? Does he knock? What does one even do in this kind of situation? His fist hovers near the door, before he drops it back to his side. Perhaps he could just slide the card under the door...
“Whoever you are, I can see your shadow from under the door. Please come in.”
Shinji jolts, hunching his shoulders and pinching his eyes shut for a split second. Embarrassing...
He sighs and does as he's told, but not before pushing the door when it was meant to be pulled. The very click of his shoes feels wrong as he steps into that stiff, white room. Shinji has never liked the hue of white. Which is why it feels so weird to simply look at the guy sitting up on the bed in the center of the room, whose pale hair rivals even the walls.
Shinji feels like a deer caught in the headlights as the guy... Nagisa, if he remembers correctly, blinks at him once, twice, and then three times. He runs a hand through his messy hair, and the silence runs for miles.
“Oh!” Shinji blurts. “Um, you were looking for this yesterday, so I went back to get it, eheh.” he fishes around in his pocket. “Here you go.”
Nagisa moves back slightly at the offered card, and Shinji feels like he belongs literally anywhere other than where he is at this moment in time. He always does things like this, as if he's programmed to do exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time, whether it be overstepping his boundaries or keeping quiet when he's told to speak. However, it would seem, that he's not the only person guilty of this fault.
Shinji feels the card being pulled from his hand. He prepares to duck his head in shame and leave the room, but his efforts are interrupted when he feels his hand being suddenly clamped by something. He's hardly aware of his arm being shaken. Is this what a handshake feels like? … Has he ever gotten a handshake before? Who even shakes hands anymore?
Shinji stares at the wall, catatonic.
“Thank you, you saved my life yesterday!” Nagisa beams. Shinji feels his eye twitch.
“It's just a card.”
“It's a very important card. I can't do anything without it.”
“Okay.”
Okay. Shinji mentally slaps himself, perhaps the most charismatic conversationalist ever, in the face.
After an oddly long handshake, Shinji finally turns in an arc straight to the door. He puts his hand on its handle, sighing through his nose.
“Uh, then, good luck, Nagisa-kun. Well, with the life that I guess I saved. Yeah.”
“Call me Kaworu.”
“Okay.” Mental slap.
“You too.”
“Okay.”
“What's your name?”
“Ikari.”
“Okay.” Kaworu parrots.
Shinji wants to laugh, but he doesn't. He turns the door knob.
“Ikari-kun?”
“Yes?”
“You have a very cute face.”