Don't mind me...
WHO: Yoite {erasemeaway} and the GODDAMN BATHOUSE.
WHAT: Pestering Minding the sick boy
WHERE: The GODDAMN BATHOUSE.
WHEN: Afternoon-ish, day... whatever day it is now. e_e
It had been some time since Yoite slept in a real bed. The clinic cots were as comfortable as they could be, but it still was not the same as a bed in someone's home. So much he didn't remember... He remembered blood. A lot of it... And Neil. Kind Neil... He would know the gentle lull of that voice anywhere. What had he done?
The journal lay open on his side table. Yoite found that the sound of the gentle chatter read from the book helped him sleep. Occasionally a hand would brush his forehead to check for fever, or work medicine into his bloodstream. After days of hazy, near-dreams, Yoite finally awoke to the sounds of people declaring their heroism in loud, crass voices. Milky blue eyes slid open halfway, and then fluttered shut, scrunching into a flinch.
Blackened fingers explored the bed. His wrists were wrapped tightly with gauze and bandages. The bed was littered with... something soft. Furry. fuzzy... He thought perhaps it was his little black kitten that Clark had brought him, but it was too light, and squishy. Groping along them a moment, he found himself disinterested, and played with a frayed end of his bandage.
The noise made his head ache and his wounds sting. He murmured a few responses, when a young voice came through. Gentle and innocent. It reminded him of Miharu's voice. The door creaked and the teenager struggled to sit himself on his elbows.
WHAT: Pestering Minding the sick boy
WHERE: The GODDAMN BATHOUSE.
WHEN: Afternoon-ish, day... whatever day it is now. e_e
It had been some time since Yoite slept in a real bed. The clinic cots were as comfortable as they could be, but it still was not the same as a bed in someone's home. So much he didn't remember... He remembered blood. A lot of it... And Neil. Kind Neil... He would know the gentle lull of that voice anywhere. What had he done?
The journal lay open on his side table. Yoite found that the sound of the gentle chatter read from the book helped him sleep. Occasionally a hand would brush his forehead to check for fever, or work medicine into his bloodstream. After days of hazy, near-dreams, Yoite finally awoke to the sounds of people declaring their heroism in loud, crass voices. Milky blue eyes slid open halfway, and then fluttered shut, scrunching into a flinch.
Blackened fingers explored the bed. His wrists were wrapped tightly with gauze and bandages. The bed was littered with... something soft. Furry. fuzzy... He thought perhaps it was his little black kitten that Clark had brought him, but it was too light, and squishy. Groping along them a moment, he found himself disinterested, and played with a frayed end of his bandage.
The noise made his head ache and his wounds sting. He murmured a few responses, when a young voice came through. Gentle and innocent. It reminded him of Miharu's voice. The door creaked and the teenager struggled to sit himself on his elbows.