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The second sip of booze always tastes better than the first. Mild but a barely there flush to your skin, a pleasant heat spreading through your body once you’ve reconciled breaking another promise to yourself, smooth slur of speech filtering everything wrong that makes up you. Honourable to chase in the company of others, shamed for going it alone-- but who’s to snitch?
It’s white noise to deaf ears in Hizashi’s world. If the world’s made just a little lighter, more easy to bear, knocking a couple of bottles over in his haste out the door; who can blame him? You can’t stand in shoes a size down.
“It’s okay,” finding himself muttering in the dark is perplexing, though not unfamiliar, as straining a smile is less of an effort than anything, Present Mic on the horizon, “It’s just the way we’re-- wired.”
He tries for a sound. Giggle. Snort. A chuckle. Guttural it is, pulling from the flesh of his throat when sobriety is all but a morning’s ride away. His hand falls flat over his knee. Presses into the joint.
Kneads, paws, gnaws. Soothing over transparent ache.
Hizashi had pressed himself against one of the kitchen cabinets in his tumble down to the floor, knees to his chest.
Hiccuping, he chances another snicker, regretting it when a wave of nausea rushes through him, a jolt of electricity. Oblivious-- the same sensation causes him to lean sideways. Glass shattering fills out into the room. Registering the sting in his arm is first place's loser as he sits back upright. A laugh leaves his throat. Something’s sticking inside of him.
“Owie,” he mumbles out.
Had they strapped a balloon to him? Filled it with helium? His voice is pitchy, lithe, blight etched into its paper written by someone using it not to bleed onto the table.
His arm hurts, but not the way it normally does.
It’s funny. Super funny.
How many drinks did he--? No, doesn’t matter. They’re his friends. Friends are good. Having a lot of friends is important, special. Won’t leave him the same way so many others have. They hurt him, but they don’t linger at the door.
His blood is disgusting. It drips down and down like flies to dung. They won’t leave if the blood stains their glass. Not that it can, rinsing away easily in the rain spilling out from the sink, but they still stay.
Click.
Hizashi tucks his knees against him further. Ignores the moist running down his arms onto the floor.
He’ll clean it later. He’ll clean it later. He’ll clean it later.
Turntable spinning, discs hitting a scratch, he keens to cross his arms and plant his head on top, letting the darkness swallow him. Closing his eyes is a nothingburger. Fuchsia dim red fills his vision regardless when he falls in. Doesn’t even have to let his eyelids droop.
He feels the blood before he hears his heartbeat. Smells the iron like a blood sniffing shark. It soaks into his hair, to his scalp; must be painting golden dreams red sunsets; but he’ll… he’ll clean it later. It’s a part of Present Mic’s image. He’ll get angry. He won’t be brought to the back to be shot dead, and if it is, it’ll be a blank, Mic’s way of telling a joke, but the glare will be there and seeing any look on his face that isn’t a grin hurts, especially in the mornings.
Okay. Woah, how many drinks did he--?
“Hizashi?”
The voice is distant, spoken as if it’s at the door. Faintly, he remembers the entrance door clicking open, and immediately curses himself.
He does not look up. Do not look up. Don’t do it.
Feet pad further into the room. Gentle hands seem to hover over his shoulders before latching on. As grounding as they are, it just makes him feel so-- floaty. “Hizashi, what--? Oh, fuck.”
Sniveling, he retreats further into himself. There’s more blood running down his arm. He can feel it exit the safety that is his face and hair.
“What the hell did you do?”
How can the voice ask him that? “I don’t know,” he blurts, snappishly and sheepish, muffled. Thump thump thump, his heartbeat rushes through his ears and out of his mouth like something useless. “I don’t know, I don’t-- dunno.”
Another thump. Had the voice fallen into a crouch? Maybe the floor’s just squeaky. Oh, cool. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
The draft down here is too nice for that. “Don’t want to.”
“Hizashi, you--”
He shakes his head. Rubs into his knees and where he’d tucked himself into his arms. “You’re going to leave.”
The voice does not respond.
Dazedly, the arms attached to him want to withdraw, pull away from safety and cling outward, stretch out. “I can do it… myself,” he clarifies.
Syllables seem strained when they’re brought out into the open. “Hizashi.”
He knows what they want.
“Hizashi. Look at me.”
Doesn’t matter that he’s an adult, fully grown. A child is what he feels. So be it. He shakes his head. “Don’t want to,” he repeats, drawling it out. “Don’t make me.”
DJs are great at freestyling. This person even more so.
“I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to,” they reassure, and oh, isn’t it a world of relief to hear it, despite knowing they must be lying, because why would they be talking to him otherwise, “But you can’t stay here.”
"Why not?" he mumbles. "It's fine down here."
Another thump. They've gone down to their knees, likely. Maybe? He doesn't know. "You're hurt."
Who cares? People see Present Mic get injured all the time. "So?"
A sound. It's not from him. The pressure from his shoulders climbs up. Hizashi can't help the whine gritted out.
"Now you're hurting me," he says, sluggishness betraying him as the last word breaks off when he bites his lip. Red heat pulses in his head like fireflies, but all he really wants to do is douse them in water. "I wanna go, home."
.
.
.
They pull away. But don't let go. Is that a thing?
"Come along, then. We'll..." they hesitate.
Reluctant, they continue, and Hizashi swears up and down that they sound almost sad, dropping just about an octave, "We'll go home. How does that sound?"
Humming, dawdling, he lowers his expectations. Lifts his head up in the slight tilt of his neck. Though blurry, familiar dark eyes meet his green.
"There you go," they praise.
Grey fabric is strung aside on their neck, fibers pointed up in a mimicry of goosebumps. They should be familiar to him, but they aren't. When he gets all riled up by the thrill, recognition never holds his hand, choosing to walk away at a snail's pace.
Running has never come naturally to him.
Maybe this time, he'll let himself chase.
Blood drags down his temple. Vision useless as it is, he can almost glimpse the exact moment the other's breath hitches and his mouth parts open slightly, eyes falling onto the wretched liquid. Though hesitation still arises, does it really matter? "...Shouta."
Dark eyes lock onto him. Look up and down. They don't say much, but even in the haze, a drunken Hizashi can witness what they stand for: "We're going home."