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It took a short while for his eyes to meet with those in the mirror, the slight buildup on the surface being just a bit too interesting to look away from. He didn’t want to look at himself.
Since the game had ended things had become significantly more mundane—anything was more mundane than a killing game after all—and although that had done wonders to ease the sense of pressure he had felt during it all, it had not at all helped his sense of security. Or lack thereof, if you really wanted to get picky.
Ouma’s fingernails dragged along the smooth faux-granite countertop, his hands curling up into loose fists. His gaze dragged left and right as he tried to look just ever so slightly past his eyes, wanting to look at himself as if he were someone else. There was just something about never being able to stray from his own pupils that was frustrating despite being impossible. It was a little easier on him to get frustrated over this than anything else, but ultimately it only added to the heaping pile thrown over his shoulders. It wasn’t fair for him to feel like this, he frequently reminded himself, and yet here he was yet again allowing everything to fester in an unsightly mass deep in his gut.
He flicked his eyes to the left once more, then slightly lower to study his skin; it was glaringly imperfect when he stood so close to the mirror like this. He knew it didn’t look so bad to anyone else but up this close it looked exactly how it felt under his fingers. It was slightly bumpy, his pores across his cheeks were just big enough to be noticeable, and every so often there was a stretch of warmth where he scratched at it. He didn’t realize he had been picking, and the realization only made him feel that much grosser. He looked back down away from the mirror as he picked dead skin out from under his fingernails, not bothering to hover his hand over the trash bin to catch it. He would clean the bathroom later, after all. Always later.
And then it was the skin around his fingernails that was the problem. Just a little too uneven, so he bit around each nail until it hurt or he couldn’t reach anything else. And then he was scratching around the nail to even out the stubborn pieces that didn’t quite bite down flat, which only made some areas worse. He cringed as a piece tore slightly too far, clenching his teeth beneath a tight frown. There had barely been anything left for him to bite off so it really was no wonder, not that he had any choice in whether or not he whittled his fingers down to bone.
Dissatisfied, Ouma reluctantly brought his eyes back up to the mirror to study his face once more. However it didn’t last much longer before he sunk cross legged right in front of the cabinet below the counter. He felt like he should’ve at least left the bathroom, but at the same time he didn’t think he had the willpower to take so much as a single step. He couldn’t even readjust his position once he was on the floor despite how the protruding bone on his ankle dug into the tile and sent pins and needles up his leg, let alone make it a few feet over to his bed. This wasn’t right at all. He felt as though he was watching himself getting puppetted around like a limp heap of flesh and yet he was stuck in the first person. Not quite disorienting, but definitely uncomfortable.
His eyes unfocused slowly as it felt like a pin began to push into his throat. He knew he wasn’t going to cry, but that little pin prick never meant pleasant things. Then, all too soon despite not being sure how long had passed, there was a knock across the room. He didn’t look up, felt like he couldn’t, and didn’t even make a sound. He didn’t like knowing that there was someone nearby but still they persisted against his better wishes. Three taps against the sliding door rattled it in its tracks, reminding him just how unsafe his room was. Anyone could break that thing down if they really wanted to, the lock was just courtesy.
“-ma?” was all he managed to hear. His room wasn’t very large but with the bathroom door half closed it was enough to obscure what he thought might be Amami’s voice. He hadn’t spoken to him in a few days, so he wasn’t sure why he would come around now of all times. The pinprick in his throat bloomed into an almost nauseous sensation on the surface near his adam’s apple as he internally cursed Amami for his perseverance. He drew in an uneven yet slow breath and then exhaled just as slowly. It only relieved the sensation for a moment, which he deemed not good enough. He did it again, and again, but it wasn’t calming at all. It was doing quite the opposite as it continued to fail on him, in fact.
“Ouma?” He was reminded of Amami’s presence once more as he raised his voice through the wood, but that didn’t help the fact that he couldn’t move or speak. The tightness in his throat felt like a proverbial lock and key over his words much like how his muscles twinged under his command and yet never quite moved. He could feel the scowl that never fully made it onto his face, but his features laid neutral despite it all.
Just as he was thinking to himself that Amami was just going to have to wait, he overheard the door sliding open hesitantly, quietly. It felt as though his spine was trying to jump out of his skin as his eyes remained fixed on a vague area of the floor, wondering momentarily just how he was about to go out. Amami surely had some pent up frustration in him somewhere that he had to let out, so maybe he would go for something painstakingly slow for the most satisfaction. And yet,
“There you are,” he heard as Amami stood over him, pulling the door the rest of the way open. The bathroom light spilled out into the darkness of his bedroom, causing Ouma’s eyes to twitch off to his right slightly, but not enough to actually look at the intruder. “I thought you might be asleep.”
There was a long pause as Amami’s gaze bore into the side of his head, but even that intense sensation wasn’t enough to make him budge. Ouma hadn’t given up and yet here he was, stiff as a board while simultaneously limp as a doll.
Finally the other man sat beside him, mimicking his posture so he could look at his face. They remained drowned in silence for a while longer until Amami eventually straightened back out and swallowed heavily. “Might as well be,” he commented with some kind of movement that was just outside of Ouma’s vision. “Me too.”
Ouma knew that he wasn’t going to kill him, but somehow that wasn’t putting a stop to the ever prominent train of thought that plagued him. He wondered idly if everyone felt that way before deciding that he didn’t particularly care about how they felt. “Can I touch you?”
His lips parted slightly and he was almost surprised at himself for moving, but no sound came out as he instead breathed in and out, nice and slow like before. Amami didn’t come any closer to him for a while, but as Ouma’s vision bounced in and out of double and single a few times he started to see that wavy mop of dusty green slip into view. Amami leaned over laggardly, perhaps not intentionally, and eventually bumped his head into Ouma’s shoulder. He bounced back quicker than any of his other movements had been, but after a lack of response he readjusted his position and ended up there again with more intent the second time around. It wasn’t pleasant nor unpleasant, which was good considering Ouma wouldn’t have been able to protest even if he wanted to.
The extra weight added onto his shoulder sent him teetering backwards after some undetermined amount of time. Although he wasn’t able to order his body to move it was still tense enough to keep upright against all odds, but not strong enough to prevent him from ultimately ending up on his back. His thin sleep shirt did nothing to stop the chilled stone from seeping into his bones, but thankfully for once Amami’s persistence did him a favour and offered the slightest respite of warmth through his right side. They were probably going to argue later after they woke up, something stupid he was sure about isolation versus privacy, but for now he used the only speck of energy he had left in his body to revel in this small comfort that was his company.
Even so, as Amami laid head atop his shoulder next to him on the cold bathroom tile Ouma couldn’t help but wish he had cleaned up a little. He hadn’t been expecting a visitor for the night.