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the food in front of him swirled in his stomach. it churned, he couldn't bring himself to take another bite of the buttered toast, the way it crashed against his insides, waves of nausea overcoming him, waves and wav
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he was sinking down
down
down
down
down
not quite settling
at the sea
floor…
he couldn't move a single muscle. good, exactly what he was aiming for. the ice had shot through him, and stopped his neurons, so he wouldn't have been able to survive even if he changed his mind, no matter how unlikely that would be. he would die no matter how many obstacles tried to stop him.
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es of disgust, falling down and settling nicely-or terribly-at the pit of his stomach.
he looked up and met eyes with Tobi, finishing up His second bowl of ramen.
there was something soft in how ravenously He ate. how gently He holds His chopsticks while shoveling food into His mouth at breakneck speed, the care with which He gazes upon the victim of His hunger, His gluttony.
that gaze. He always gives it right before He pounces, a harsh glare with so much warmth underneath. love, care-affection maybe? it was comforting.
His hunger. His gluttony
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fuchi was lying on air, soft, soft clouds sticking to his wet, cold skin.
cold
cold cold
cold cold cold
cold cold cold cold
the coldness enveloped him from the inside out, starting at his heart and spreading to his fingertips.
cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold
cold
he plucked a cloud from the bed he was laying on.
it was a yellow flower. glancing around, they all were. the bed of clouds was a vibrant yellow field, stretching far, far, far out. he wanted to run run run into the far far far, but he couldn't move his muscles. he had gotten exactly what he wished for.
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it was suffocating. he couldn't breath
his lungs filled with water
his chest was crushed
his hands were around his neck
a rope hung him from the ceiling
it hurt painfully, he tore at his throat, scratching, scratching, scratching trying to breath again
but the man had helped, the warm man, the man with the eyes…
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Tobi was sitting above fuchi on the yellow field, pressing His fists against his chest.
bom bum bum bom bum bum
ah. CPR.
and He had the gaze. the nails that clawed at His stomach, and the kindness pouring out of His eyes.
who the fuck does He think He is. to be so warm, so comforting, to erase the coldness deep deep inside him, and make him happy, to make fuchi want to live, to give him hesitation when he decided to walk into the ocean, what gives Him the right? what makes Him think He's allowed to make fuchi happy. what makes Him think He's allowed to be a place of comfort. what makes Him think He's allowed to make fuchi want to live.
who does He think He is, with the warmest, hungriest eyes fuchi has ever seen, to take away everything fuchi ever wanted.
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23:59
Battery: 8%
his thumbs trembled, unable to delete the video of Tobi holding his hand. the warmth that he had felt, as Tobi held on as if he was the only thing worth holding onto
he took to staring at the cold, cold waves that lapped over his feet, soon to crash against his insides, waves of nausea overcoming him, waves and wav
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Tobi put His bowl in the sink, eyeing fuchi's toast as He sat back down.
“You can have it.”
“You sure? have You eaten anything today?”
Tobi was being too kind. He was loving caring, affectionate, enough to turn down food just so fuchi of all people wouldn't starve. hungry, warm. who does He think He is, to give fuchi everything he ever wante
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00:00
Battery: 7%
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a single fly landed on the body hanging from the ceiling
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Tobi was helping fuchi walk away from the summery flowers, back home, in the dead of night, the only light from the moon and occasional streetlamp, the only warmth from the body half carrying him back. they had left the duffle coat back at the beach of flowers, the clouds of yellow
Tobi had dark creases under His eyes, and was shivering just as much as fuchi. He held his hand tight, squeezing with as much will as He could
-
after fuchi put his plate in the sink-having managed to eat the entire slice of toast himself-they sat on the couch, half watching the show that was on, half just to remind each other that the other was there.
Tobi slipped His finger between fuchi's.“hey, Buchi?”
“yeah?”
“your fingers are super cold.”
“then don't hold my hand”
“never.”
“wanna go flower picking tomorrow?” He asked.
“sure. why not.”