[and then]
He does not quite remember regaining consciousness. One moment, he is forcing himself through the barrier; the next moment, he is on the ground somewhere, his forearms aflame with pain. That's surprising, he thinks. Not because he expected to escape without damage, but rather the fact that he is alive to feel that pain.
After a few moments, Ishida realizes that it is raining. The water falls softly, as a near-mist just barely cooler than his comfort level. Around him, the setting is awash with the familiar sounds of the Tokyo metropolis; he estimates that he is probably less than fifteen minutes away from his own prefecture. Good. His arms are not severely injured, but the cuts will require bandages and the rain is not helping. He feels dimly thankful that he is not a duck.
Step by step, he walks. He forces himself to secure memories in his mind at each movement. This step is for the first day he met Heine. That step is for Nishi's death. Many of them go to Ari and Al and Meer and Gojyo and -- he begins to lose track of names as he progresses. The mist sinks into his skin, and his knuckles seem a frozen bone-white as they clutch the small bag of possessions he brought with him. He becomes keenly aware of the shrinking distance between himself and the apartment; he is half-tempted to slow down. If Heine is really dead, then --
One step. Five. Fifty. A hundred. More than that. He takes the stairs up to his apartment with goodbyes in his head. Stupidly, he wonders whether he should have written notes rather than leaving his computer to post his final message. Maybe it doesn't matter anyway. Before reaching the door to his apartment, he stops -- stoops close to the doormat, to fish out his spare key.
It isn't there.
Ishida stares for a long moment. He considers implications in his head, most of which make his heart strain with a sudden wildness in his chest. Either this is not his home, the key has simply been lost, or -- maybe --
Hands shaking slightly, he turns the doorknob. It clicks open easily enough, and beyond it is warmth. Light. Someone is home.
He lets the bundle of sewing supplies fall to the floor with his shoes. "I'm home."
And from somewhere within, a familiar voice replies: "Welcome home."
After a few moments, Ishida realizes that it is raining. The water falls softly, as a near-mist just barely cooler than his comfort level. Around him, the setting is awash with the familiar sounds of the Tokyo metropolis; he estimates that he is probably less than fifteen minutes away from his own prefecture. Good. His arms are not severely injured, but the cuts will require bandages and the rain is not helping. He feels dimly thankful that he is not a duck.
Step by step, he walks. He forces himself to secure memories in his mind at each movement. This step is for the first day he met Heine. That step is for Nishi's death. Many of them go to Ari and Al and Meer and Gojyo and -- he begins to lose track of names as he progresses. The mist sinks into his skin, and his knuckles seem a frozen bone-white as they clutch the small bag of possessions he brought with him. He becomes keenly aware of the shrinking distance between himself and the apartment; he is half-tempted to slow down. If Heine is really dead, then --
One step. Five. Fifty. A hundred. More than that. He takes the stairs up to his apartment with goodbyes in his head. Stupidly, he wonders whether he should have written notes rather than leaving his computer to post his final message. Maybe it doesn't matter anyway. Before reaching the door to his apartment, he stops -- stoops close to the doormat, to fish out his spare key.
It isn't there.
Ishida stares for a long moment. He considers implications in his head, most of which make his heart strain with a sudden wildness in his chest. Either this is not his home, the key has simply been lost, or -- maybe --
Hands shaking slightly, he turns the doorknob. It clicks open easily enough, and beyond it is warmth. Light. Someone is home.
He lets the bundle of sewing supplies fall to the floor with his shoes. "I'm home."
And from somewhere within, a familiar voice replies: "Welcome home."