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“...an you…er me…?” The guy asks. He’s vaguely aware that his hand is on his shoulder, keeping him upright where he’s slumped over on what he’s pretty sure is a toilet. He knows he ran off to the bathroom at some point.
“...ou know h…?” He says, now looking over at someone else. “...eems –ucked up… –on’t know… somebo…”
“Fushiguro?” A soft voice chimes in through the blackness, and he realizes he’s let his eyelids flutter shut. “Wake up.”
“M’not… ‘sleepn…” He grumbles, blinking slowly. The lights are too bright and overtake his vision immediately, vague, pixelated images his pupils caught before his brain melting into something recognizable.
“How much did you drink?” He hears, tilting his head in the direction it came from, which sends the world listing dangerously upwards, as if the room were about to start revolving around him like he’s in The Matrix.
“Fushiguro,” they repeat. “I need you to say awa… Fushiguro–”
“Mmph,” he complains. He must have closed his eyes again. Everything’s dark, save the floating shapes dancing in the blackness… And now the light?
Thumbs force his brows toward his hairline, and suddenly, he’s face to face with a concerned, racoonish stare.
“Do you know where you are?” Okkotsu asks, soft, yet with a distinct hint of warning. Everyone knows he’s not someone to be crossed, as sweet and gentle as he may seem.
“Dr’nk–” He replies, since that’s the only thing he can be sure about right now.
“We’ve been looking for you for half an hour,” he tells him. “You’re in the bathroom right now.”
“G’t out thn…” He manages to lift his hand a few inches out of his lap, intending to swing at him, but he just sways in place, muscles loose and failing.
“No,” Yuta says calmly. “Can you tell me how much you drank?”
“S’private–” Megumi insists. “B’throom’snot us both…”
He sees Okkotsu open his mouth to respond in slow motion, and maybe words do come out, but they’re drowned out by a splash, then distant coughing. It takes a moment to register that the stench of vomit is clogging up his own nostrils, emanating from the puddle on the floor, and the wetness down the front of his shirt. It’s already cold, since he’s been sick tonight before, he remembers.
“...et paper to…ls…” Yuta says, but he’s pretty sure he’s not talking to him. “...eeds water too…nd a bag…”
He wants to yell at him to get out of the splash zone, but the next retch is already rising, splattering into the mess below, and leaving sweaty nausea in its wake. He gags harshly, cool hands guiding him to lean forward, and the next wave hits crinkly plastic. The one after that resonates with the sound of liquid hitting liquid, and it makes him want to throw up again.
“Breathe,” Okkotsu intones as he pants. “I know, it doesn’t feel good–”
His shoulders contract up and back as his abs crush his intestines against his spine. The corners of his lips and chin recoil before he heaves, the back of his throat preparing. Saliva drips into the trash bag like a procession of notice.
He tastes tequila as it rushes over his tongue, reminding him that he is at a party because a certain upperclassman of theirs loves playing host and everyone needs to give in to their vices on occasion, especially in this profession. It’s been harder not to let loose, since everything happened, and while it’s been some time, he’s still not used to being the one to surpass his limits.
“Are you done?” Yuta asks, once he hasn’t brought anything up for at least an hour, but it could only have been thirty seconds. The motion of the universe is nonlinear, like it’s taken the form of a memory in real time.
“Fushiguro?” Right. There was a question.
He hums noncommittally, trying to remember what was said to him.
“We’re gonna take you home, okay?” Yuta sets the bag aside, replacing it with a damp washcloth, wiping his mouth for him with one hand as he pulls his phone from his pocket with the other.
“Itd–” Megumi procession vocalizes, a full sentence refusing to conglomerate in his larynx. “Itad- It’dori–”
“I’m texting him,” he says. “We need to get you to the car, and I don’t think you can walk.”
“Itadori–” He chokes out. “C’n y-you get him…?”
“I am,” Okkotsu assures him, typing. “I’m telling him where we are.”
“Is he… ok’y…” He mumbles. “M’not… I– I don’ feel good… is he…?”
“He’s fine,” Yuta replies, putting his phone away and turning his attention back to Megumi. “You drank too much, but you’ll be okay too.”
“I didn’ drink…” He argues weakly. “M’not… wh’tever…”
He reaches up to scrub his hand over his face, but it throws him off balance, and the next thing he knows, he’s falling against Okkotsu’s torso, nose buried in the fabric of his shirt.
There’s a click and the squeal of hinges, as he lightly pats him on the back, and a few seconds later, larger, warmer hands are supporting him by the shoulders and cupping his jaw, guiding him to focus his gaze on what’s now front and center in his vision.
Worry in the form of kind, amber irises fixates on him. Strands of overgrown pink hair stick up with static, illuminated by the white overhead light.
Yuji’s crouching in front of him, Okkotsu standing by.
He tries to speak, but a sharp noise rolls out instead, whiny and wet. He inhales loudly through his nose, snot catching in his throat and eliciting a stifled gag, as wetness rolls down his cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” Yuji asks softly, swiping the longer strands of hair out of his face.
He couldn’t explain himself if he wanted to, so he sobs harder instead, his body forcing the message to get across somehow.
“Okay, yeah, I get it.” Yuji wraps his arm around his back, planting his palm on Megumi’s side. “Let’s get you home.”
“M’sorry–” He coughs.
“It’s okay.” Yuta takes a hold of his other side as Yuji pulls him to his feet. He’s there to help with balance and not much else, since Yuji’s bearing most of his weight.
He hangs his head, letting them drag him out of the ensuite and into someone’s bedroom, where he was certainly never supposed to be.
“Thr’w up…” He remembers in the hall.
“Yeah, I know you did,” Yuji says. “You’re still wearing it.”
“S’rry–” He dry heaves.
“Hold on,” Yuta tells him, and they stop moving, though Megumi’s still infinitely traversing forward, free-falling toward the hardwood, somehow.
Footsteps patter away, then back, floorboards creaking.
“Here.” There’s a mini trash can in front of him now, urging him to vomit into it as seasickness surges, but he swallows convulsively instead.
“I’ll carry him down the stairs,” Yuji decides, and Megumi notices he’s moved again.
“Can you hold this?” Yuta asks.
He doesn’t respond, since he doubts the question is for him.
“Fushiguro?” Or not.
“Hm?” He barely manages to look up.
“Hold onto this,” Yuta instructs, pushing the bin into his grasp. “Just for a minute. I’m gonna go see if Maki’s down there.”
Megumi clings to it for dear life as everything tips sideways. Up is left, left is down, down is right, and right is up, which means up is down and left is right, and his entire foundational understanding of the world around him is gone once he loses his footing.
It doesn’t get any better when Yuji puts him down. The trash can hits the floor with a hollow thud, and if Yuji weren’t so sweet to hold him up, he’d be in the same position.
And he is, but it doesn’t hurt, since four strong arms are carefully lowering him.
He squirms, trying to figure out which way is away, so he can get the hell out of here, but a familiar grip tightens around his bicep.
“Megumi,” Maki barks. “Calm down.”
He’s hyperventilating, or rather, his respiration is shallow as if he was, and that feels like a terrible combination with his breath coming in slow, irregular intervals.
His vision is tunnelling with static, lips and nose tingling.
That’s when the music hits his ears, and the fact that there’s hot, sweaty bodies grinding back and forth over each other all around him, which was why he ran off in the first place. Shots can only do so much to numb you to the innately irritating presence of others.
“You drank too much,” she shouts, her clarity magical through all the noise. “You need to try and stand.”
“I’m here,” Yuji says. He’s right next to him, Megumi practically tucked into his side. “Just stay awake. We’ll help you.”
He nods as best he can in acquiescence.
Motion blur overrides all else, tinnitus crescendoing dramatically. All he sees, hears, and feels is static, erupting from the very depths of his soul and drowning out whatever his peers are saying to him, until he’s shivering, gagging over the bin Okkotsu carried for him, as he’s set down on what must be rotting porch steps, judging from how he’s getting splinters through his clothes.
He spits up a tiny rivulet of vodka-infused bile, concentrated enough to stick to his tongue and the backs of his teeth.
There’s a quiet “mustard leaf?” somewhere behind him, and Yuji’s suddenly uncapping a plastic water bottle.
“Rinse your mouth out,” he says, guiding it to Megumi’s lips. Cool liquid flows around his gums as he tips the thing for him, rubbing circles over his spine at the same time.
He remembers he’s supposed to spit right as he starts to swallow, so he ends up hacking, droplets spraying everywhere, leaving his throat burning.
He takes a ragged breath, a stray tear salty as it’s inadvertently sucked into his mouth.
He was crying. He forgot about that.
And he should’ve kept it that way, since now a strained wail is bursting from his chest as he doubles over, head in his knees.
“Did something happen?” Maki asks.
“I don’t know,” Yuji answers for him. “He seemed upset since I got to him.”
“He was okay before that– Not crying at least, just sick and out of it,” Yuta supplies. “Someone found him half passed out in the bathroom, but I don’t know if anything went down earlier.”
“M’fine,” Megumi interjects, gasping. “S’rry–”
“No, you’re on the verge of alcohol poisoning,” Maki says. “Let’s go, come on–”
She hooks one arm over her shoulders, while Yuji takes the other, lifting him again. Yuta holds the trash can in front of him, which is superfluous, since they’re outside.
Or they were, until a car door opened, and he was horizontal before he knew it, head in someone’s lap.
“Toge,” Maki calls over her shoulder. “Go find Nobara and tell her to get her ass out here in five minutes or we’re ditching her.”
“Ku’isaki?” He rasps into what he’s pretty sure is Yuji’s thigh.
“Yeah, she came with us too,” he replies, fingers carding through Megumi’s hair.
“Keep him on his side,” Maki says, climbing into the driver’s seat. “And don’t let him puke on my seats. The leather’s vintage.”
“Ay, ay, captain.” Yuji salutes her.
“Shut up.” Her eyeroll is audible.
“Here,” Yuta chimes in, passing back something crinkly. “Just in case.”
“Hm?” Megumi breathes. He tries to lift his head, but Yuji gently keeps him in place.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just breathe for now.”