#man does this. does any of this even read. someone make sure shirahama stays in the pit i’ve gotta go

[dirtbra1n]

I hate being busy with things I don’t care about I should just start talking and hope something sticks. let’s go atmosphere that always goes well for me. haha lightbulb just happened So shirahama gets caged in some half-way isolated corner of the school. miyano looks him right in the face with no recognition in his eyes. he gets asked if he wants to walk home together. shirahama feels the world tilting beneath his feet, sees what he lost at the core of the earth, tastes blood crawling unnaturally up his throat. he declines the offer. so what now?

well first of all miyano—he doesn’t flinch at the rejection, shirahama did say this time, he did imply that there’d be a next time, that’s his fault that’s his bad he’s so fucking bad at this—miyano says something like, See you, then, not that he could super hear over the blood roaring in his ears, and this is totally a threat to shirahama through no fault of miyano’s, because to be seen tomorrow is actually kind of the last thing he wants. and also all he wants. to see miyano tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and for every day’s tomorrow forever. Who said that. he doesn’t want to be seen tomorrow because—there’s a lot of reasons for this. remind him to come back to this later. put a—put a pin in it, or something. (guilt. guilt, and he doesn’t want to be here tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or for every day’s tomorrow forever. he wants to not be here, is what he wants, and he wants miyano to also not be here. to be wherever he is, as a matter of fact. Shut up.)

first of all, miyano turns and leaves, shadow casting long and inkier than it might normally, and he disappears beyond one of the walls making up the impractical niche he’d been backed into. shirahama listens to his footfalls until he can’t anymore, which isn’t long, because the blood in his ears has, to say less, not gone anywhere. to say more: waves crashing on deck send him rushing against concussive surfaces; the wood screams and groans, splits down the middle; turbulent waters silence him where his mind cannot by sheer force of noise alone.

shirahama falls against the wall and folds in on weak legs, second of all, and he shudders for breath like he’s never done it before.

maybe sixth of all, he gets back to the dorms. long since dark. it’s empty and all, muted, the occasional light dimly casting shadows to be spooked by. seventh of all he dumps his bag in a seat at the table, and he’ll call it, generously, eighth, that he sits there until he wakes up gasping and coughing, his body caving in on itself, crumbling from weakened integrity. he stops counting. wasn’t very good at it to begin with.