Chapter Text
Hiiro throws a punch into the bracing night air, panting with the effort and the lack of fulfillment it brings. Fighting with the air is better than fighting with a person, since there isn’t anyone around that he can justify hurting. He had once entertained the idea of a punching bag, but had worried it would be too much of a disturbance to his roommates. Still, the itch under his skin—for something to do, something to throw himself into wholeheartedly, without question or thought—
Well, that’s why he’s out here, exerting himself to the point of strain. He throws another punch that connects with nothing, only going to the fullest extent his arm could reach before his muscles protest with a sharp twinge that makes him feel almost ill. He kicks the air with enough force that he nearly falls over, but lands rather pitifully instead after losing his momentum. After landing on that forward foot, he spins around and lashes out with his other leg and the corresponding fist, his head pounding and the rush in his ears swirling as he stumbles and crashes into the cold concrete of the Seisoukan apartment roof.
The cold is the first thing he feels, followed immediately by a stinging in his knee and knuckles. The cement is relatively level, but it’s still rough under his bare hands, and he knows without looking that he’s drawn blood: he can feel the hot fluid seeping out through the folds in his skin, natural pathways for the red rivulets to flow.
This is all so fruitless. He’s come here to bring Rinne back, to destroy anything that got in the way of that goal—he needs his big brother, needs him to reestablish order and a sense of normalcy in their hometown and in Hiiro’s brain. Without the structure provided by Rinne’s presence and guidance, Hiiro feels like his mind is roaming free, spiraling out like a piece of dandelion fluff spinning on the wind until it gets stuck on something in its path. It feels dangerous, that he’s making decisions on his own; this isn’t how it’s supposed to be, he wasn’t prepared for this, he needs—
The image of his fists on the ground swims out of focus, and hot tears drip from his eyes, collecting on his lashes before falling to the concrete and leaving minute stains. He yells almost soundlessly, a wild low keening that comes from somewhere in his throat he doesn’t recognize. He should stop crying, he should pick himself up off the ground and go find Rinne—it’s past midnight, are you crazy?—he should be better, if he was better he would have brought Rinne home already, he would have swept in and convinced him with reason and they would have left, or he would've destroyed this false kingdom of idols with him, together they would have been done with this, this—
He screams again, angling his face into his shoulder to muffle the sound. After all, he doesn’t want to disturb anyone; it’s late, they’re all sleeping peacefully, and he doesn't deserve to rest until he’s fixed this. He slams his fist into the ground again, hoping the pain will shock him into clarity, or at least knock the tears loose from his weepy, pathetic eyes. He picks up his hand again and notices the dark stain on the concrete, puddling in between the grains of the surface. It’s too dark to see, but he knows it’s red. He punches the concrete again, feeling the jolt through his entire arm. His shoulder trembles, and then he curls up and falls onto his other side, feeling like a wounded animal—pathetic and helpless.
God. He’s just lying here. He’s lying on the roof, not moving, just shaking as he sobs and the tears roll sideways over his face. He’s uncomfortably aware of his entire body, agonizing over the way his legs fall limp on the cold roof, no longer supporting him, and the weight of his torso crushes his shoulder sideways into the concrete. He brings his still-clenched fist to his mouth and bites on it to stifle another sob, and gets a smear of blood and grit in his mouth. His other palm presses against the cool surface of the roof, and it serves to ground him slightly, but the unfamiliar city lights prick at his consciousness and swim in his blurry eyes.
He’d never seen so many lights in one place before coming to the city. He thinks back to when he’d first arrived: the concentration of buildings had increased gradually, but he nearly got hit by a car on the way to Ensemble Square, and he’d had to stop and take in his surroundings for real, and how different they were from what he was used to. Here in the city, all the buildings pressed up against each other like they were cold, and the people didn't look at each other, and there was unforgiving metal and hard surfaces everywhere. He’d run until he found a park, and there he spread out in the grass and stared up at the sky through the trees, trying to pretend he was back home and everything was alright and he wasn’t completely out of his depth.
Now, the lights—streetlights and office windows and the blinking lights of an “airport” in the distance that Aira had mentioned once—serve as something that, for the most part, don't move, so Hiiro can focus on them. His breath still comes thick and wet, and he swipes at his nose with the shoulder of his sleeve. Deep breaths, through the mouth because the alternative isn’t yet possible, in and out again, his head resting on the cold roof. He lets his other arm rest on the concrete, palm down so he doesn't scrape his knuckles unnecessarily (although, a small voice, deep down inside, suggests that the initial hurt hadn’t been necessary either). He rubs his fingers over the rough grit of the sidewalk and feels the texture against his skin, his cheek coming into contact with it as well.
It’s a few minutes later that he takes a deep breath and hears it come easier, clearer and less snot-filled. He takes another, reveling in the sharp, cold air washing over his teeth, tongue, and throat before traveling straight to his lungs. He should head back inside before he catches a cold, he knows, but he’s not sure he has the energy to move from this spot. After all, it’s late, and he’s expended that rush of near-manic energy that resulted in his current scrapes.
… He should really get a watch, like Aira keeps telling him to.
He doesn’t move, even though the hard concrete digs into his shoulder blades and makes his head ache. He’s slept here before, and besides, he has a strong constitution, or so he’s been told. He’s barely sure how well he even knows himself at this point.
He wakes up to his phone ringing (he’d forgotten he even had it with him, to be honest—it was just too much of a bother to use), specifically with that light jingly ringtone Aira had set for himself while showing Hiiro how stuff like that worked. Everyone has been worried, apparently.
Hiiro lays on his back and stares up at the clear blue morning sky, his phone held to his ear, and lets a small smile appear on his face.