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His bedroom is a mess, and it’s unlike him. So very, very unlike him. The window is thrown open carelessly, but even the refreshing spring breeze is not enough to tempt Kiku Honda to leave his room—his own, personal, self-created hell. Lifting his head from his desk, he throws another scrunched-up piece of paper halfway across the room. It bounces off the rim of the bin uselessly, and hits the floor. Groaning, Kiku promptly plants his head back down. Black hair that was once shiny and neatly combed falls limply over his forehead and neck. The pen that once lay comfortably between slim, pale fingers slips from his grasp and rolls onto the desk. His face brushes the corner of an abandoned manuscript, but he pushes it away. It, too, flutters to the floor—right in the space underneath his desk. He’s definitely not going to be picking that up anytime soon.
No. Not now.
Ha, who was he kidding, thinking he could write a fully-fledged novel? He’s already buried under the debt of his countless student loans, not to mention the actual bulwark of his misery—schoolwork itself. His classes are brutal, sleep is a distant dream, and time has begun to shrink so far in on itself that Kiku cannot tell the difference between an hour and a minute anymore. Kiku laughs. His folded arms muffle the sound—high, and loud, and downright maniacal. Gosh, where did he get all that gusto from?
His fingers ache for sweet release. His legs feel cramped in the small space between his chair and the desk. He can barely even feel his feet anymore. Heck, when was the last time he actually ate something of real nutritional value?
And no, instant noodles do not count.
The door creaks open on its hinges just a crack. Immediately, Kiku perks up. Not out of anticipation. Not out of interest. Instead, his glare is laced with so much fury that Arthur Kirkland flinches when he steps through that open door. He flinches for all of a good second, before his face breaks into a scowl—and that second of vulnerability disappears into the back of Kiku’s mind. Hesitating, Arthur lingers in the doorway, foot halfway between the hall and Kiku’s room. “How are you doing?” The question does not match his expression, still so full of indignation. Typical Arthur.
He keeps on glaring, but lowers his face down until his mouth is embraced by his arms, swathed in a thick sweater. “How do you think?” is Kiku’s response. Whispered. Sulky, as if to say, pity me! I brought this misery upon myself.
It’s a miracle that he is heard. “You look like shit.” Arthur says, his tone an edge away from cheerful. That is unlike him. Has Francis decided to spare him today? Kiku supposes that is one thing he appreciates about Arthur Kirkland: his honesty. His unfaltering, unfiltered honesty. He doesn’t need it right now, doesn’t want it right now, but that is what he will get. Even if he decides to give up, the world will continue to spin, and spin, and spin on its sad little axis. Arthur will not change because he has had a bad day. Or two. Or twelve. Or twenty.
“I know.” replies Kiku. His glare recedes when Arthur leans against the doorframe. He looks comfortable in that ratty little dressing gown of his. He looks so comfortable that it makes Kiku see red. He looks more comfortable in that threadbare thing than Kiku is in his own room. Perhaps that’s because it is hot pink with unicorns plastered all over it. They came with matching fluffy slippers, which he also wears—though he shifts uncomfortably when Kiku regards them with a blank stare. And perhaps that’s because Kiku is one breath away from losing every single thread of control he has over his own emotions.
But back to Arthur’s stupid fucking dressing gown and slippers.
It is certainly a… choice. A choice. Yes. Just a choice, like how Kiku chose to write all those manuscripts, and then chose to throw them all away. Briefly, Arthur’s eyes flicker to them—green meeting muted, crumpled beige. He says nothing, merely nursing the side of his mug.
“I put the kettle on,” he says stiffly, crossing his arms. The tea sloshes over the side of the mug and drips down the side. Kiku can already feel the pulse throbbing at his temple. “do you want some tea? Perhaps that will help you with your… predicament.” The judgement goes unspoken. Silent, like how it has always been between them.
A faint smile graces Kiku’s lips, but it is quickly schooled back into casual indifference. “No. No, thank you.” He severely doubts even tea can help him now.
“Alright.” Arthur presses awkwardly, his face crumpling “I’ll be next door if… if you—” He is very clearly struggling to find the words. Ha. How utterly ironic.
“If I need you?” Kiku finishes.
“Yes.” Arthur nods, though the look on his face shows his confidence is false. He looks oddly pink, as though he is trying to match his dressing gown and his slippers. “If… if you need me.”
Before Kiku can reply, the door shuts behind him with a quick snap.
A peculiar boy, that Arthur Kirkland is.