003 [week sixteen || day six] - dream/re-arrival
[The sunlight filters into the room through Venetian blinds, alternating between a dying gold and absolute blackness. Two dark shadow silhouettes rest in companionable silence, offset by the muffled music seeping in from under the doorway; the neighbor always plays his Elvis record well into the evening. The sound of skin kissing paper, the turn of a page, and the smaller figure simultaneously shifts with movement. The room is comfortable. Cold enough to see one's breath obscuring the text, but the sunlight beats down as though to challenge the mild discomfort.
The sound of skin brushing skin, or perhaps nail brushing skin, and the plot is dragging your thoughts from the shiver traveling your spine.
The detective will soon reveal the evidence that will confirm the murderer's guilt and, in doing so, secure the prevalence of right. More importantly, the criminal will experience the enactment of the very same justice he hailed. All the same, you're torn between excitement and a heavy sort of depression; this will be the end. No further developments, no further challenges and, yes, even the criminal was fun to read, wrong or right.
Your knees press together and the friction of denim and flesh briefly sets off warmth, and then it's gone and you set the book down reluctantly. Despite these sensations, the knowledge of these movements, the visual persistently remains on the shift of shadow, sharp light battling with dark, winning some battles and yet giving way when the figures shift.
The taller silhouette abruptly shudders and a fit of phlegm-filled hacking slams against the surrounding environment, drawing you to attention, and the sounds, as much as you will deny it, hurt your upper spin. Set your heart racing. It doesn't show. You move, actions purposeful, and the soles of your feet kiss the frigid tile floor reluctantly; the dishes are all dirty, but the cups are fine - an upside to beer cans.
The shadow is still shaking, hard, coughing and occasionally hurling, and the sound of water beating into a cup seems to clash with the deafening sounds. You're calm. You are, but the beating of your heart seems to sync with the droll of Elvis, hacking, water on metal. And a sharp screech as it's switched off and you return to offer the cup.
Laughter.
Choked and dry. Chapped lips. Such sharp cheekbones and none of this is visible, no, but you know it as you watch the shadows interacting without word. So quiet and yet loud. It's enough to stop his heart and it's still beating so fast, with the laughter, cough and did you leave the water on?
Your hand goes to your chest absently, applying pressure and just. breathing. But it won't come; it's scratchy, your throat, and as much as you acknowledge the inhales, it's not enough. The shadows distort with a subtle streak of panic. You're considering going outside, inhaling air not filled with smoke and laughter.
The sounds are in your ears, echoing and shuddering, distorting, repeating and repeating and you're not at all calm. You recognize this and shut your eyes. It's starting to hurt less, but you're perhaps delirious. There are bells in place of the laughter, gentle and yet soul-jarring. And you open your eyes.
To red.
Flashing black and red, and your heart is fluttering quicker, crushing your ribs nearly and your throat's burning from the lack of oxygen. And that smirk.
You honestly don't recognize who it is, smirking down at you. Fingers dig into his shoulder and then you're feeling it all fade to a tingling numbness, the pain and deafening ringing - and then you remember his name.]
-- mh...!
[The man startles awake, hitomi set to audio, quickly forces the panic to subside because --]
Everyone, the shini- [Red. No, more importantly, the absence thereof. When he sits up, he's trembling somewhat, but it didn't reach his voice. A hand is subconsciously against his upper chest, tangled in white cloth, and L swallows. He recognizes this room. When his other hand brushes the hitomi, he lifts it and inhales slowly.] Kannagara again, mm?
The sound of skin brushing skin, or perhaps nail brushing skin, and the plot is dragging your thoughts from the shiver traveling your spine.
The detective will soon reveal the evidence that will confirm the murderer's guilt and, in doing so, secure the prevalence of right. More importantly, the criminal will experience the enactment of the very same justice he hailed. All the same, you're torn between excitement and a heavy sort of depression; this will be the end. No further developments, no further challenges and, yes, even the criminal was fun to read, wrong or right.
Your knees press together and the friction of denim and flesh briefly sets off warmth, and then it's gone and you set the book down reluctantly. Despite these sensations, the knowledge of these movements, the visual persistently remains on the shift of shadow, sharp light battling with dark, winning some battles and yet giving way when the figures shift.
The taller silhouette abruptly shudders and a fit of phlegm-filled hacking slams against the surrounding environment, drawing you to attention, and the sounds, as much as you will deny it, hurt your upper spin. Set your heart racing. It doesn't show. You move, actions purposeful, and the soles of your feet kiss the frigid tile floor reluctantly; the dishes are all dirty, but the cups are fine - an upside to beer cans.
The shadow is still shaking, hard, coughing and occasionally hurling, and the sound of water beating into a cup seems to clash with the deafening sounds. You're calm. You are, but the beating of your heart seems to sync with the droll of Elvis, hacking, water on metal. And a sharp screech as it's switched off and you return to offer the cup.
Laughter.
Choked and dry. Chapped lips. Such sharp cheekbones and none of this is visible, no, but you know it as you watch the shadows interacting without word. So quiet and yet loud. It's enough to stop his heart and it's still beating so fast, with the laughter, cough and did you leave the water on?
Your hand goes to your chest absently, applying pressure and just. breathing. But it won't come; it's scratchy, your throat, and as much as you acknowledge the inhales, it's not enough. The shadows distort with a subtle streak of panic. You're considering going outside, inhaling air not filled with smoke and laughter.
The sounds are in your ears, echoing and shuddering, distorting, repeating and repeating and you're not at all calm. You recognize this and shut your eyes. It's starting to hurt less, but you're perhaps delirious. There are bells in place of the laughter, gentle and yet soul-jarring. And you open your eyes.
To red.
Flashing black and red, and your heart is fluttering quicker, crushing your ribs nearly and your throat's burning from the lack of oxygen. And that smirk.
You honestly don't recognize who it is, smirking down at you. Fingers dig into his shoulder and then you're feeling it all fade to a tingling numbness, the pain and deafening ringing - and then you remember his name.]
-- mh...!
[The man startles awake, hitomi set to audio, quickly forces the panic to subside because --]
Everyone, the shini- [Red. No, more importantly, the absence thereof. When he sits up, he's trembling somewhat, but it didn't reach his voice. A hand is subconsciously against his upper chest, tangled in white cloth, and L swallows. He recognizes this room. When his other hand brushes the hitomi, he lifts it and inhales slowly.] Kannagara again, mm?