[team one] gray and gray
Welp. First post in the new round, but late (what else is new? Aside from being shuffled over to team one... <.<).
In the morning, the curtains drawn over the window filters the sunlight beginning to shine higher, giving the room a gray tint. Yuto carefully cracks an eye open, wary of what his head might do if he opens them even a millimeter wider, to keep an impending headache at bay. The serenity of the faint light is a blaring contrast to chaos that assaults his senses―stale air made worse by the smell of alcohol in various states of ingestion and digestion, among other things―and Yuto can't hold back the groan that escapes his throat, face scrunching grossly at the thought (the fact) that Yamada is dead. The fact that Yuto's slumped in bed next to where Yamada lays looking for all the world like he's asleep―the illusion broken by the pale gray of Yamada's skin, when blood no longer flows through his veins, and the absence of the up and down movement of his chest―oblivious to the utter mess the room has become.
"It's not fair," Yuto whines. He feels gross and looks the part, saltine tracks on his cheeks from dried up tears, hair sticking every which way on top of his head, and the biggest hangover smashing at his head with a sledgehammer.
He can almost hear Yamada's wry answer, "It never was," and Yuto shakes his head just a smidge. Yuto picks up the envelopes, letters addressed to him, that he somehow dropped on the floor as he fell in a drunken, fitful sleep. He begins to leaf through them again, one by one, but he already knows them by heart despite being blurred by a mix of his tears and the alcohol he'd tried to rinse off his sorrows with. Soon enough he rises to his feet, staying really still for a few seconds while the feeling returned to his legs, determined not to lose to gravity despite the massive hangover and the even bigger grief.
Tag, you're it. doctoggy. :3/
In the morning, the curtains drawn over the window filters the sunlight beginning to shine higher, giving the room a gray tint. Yuto carefully cracks an eye open, wary of what his head might do if he opens them even a millimeter wider, to keep an impending headache at bay. The serenity of the faint light is a blaring contrast to chaos that assaults his senses―stale air made worse by the smell of alcohol in various states of ingestion and digestion, among other things―and Yuto can't hold back the groan that escapes his throat, face scrunching grossly at the thought (the fact) that Yamada is dead. The fact that Yuto's slumped in bed next to where Yamada lays looking for all the world like he's asleep―the illusion broken by the pale gray of Yamada's skin, when blood no longer flows through his veins, and the absence of the up and down movement of his chest―oblivious to the utter mess the room has become.
"It's not fair," Yuto whines. He feels gross and looks the part, saltine tracks on his cheeks from dried up tears, hair sticking every which way on top of his head, and the biggest hangover smashing at his head with a sledgehammer.
He can almost hear Yamada's wry answer, "It never was," and Yuto shakes his head just a smidge. Yuto picks up the envelopes, letters addressed to him, that he somehow dropped on the floor as he fell in a drunken, fitful sleep. He begins to leaf through them again, one by one, but he already knows them by heart despite being blurred by a mix of his tears and the alcohol he'd tried to rinse off his sorrows with. Soon enough he rises to his feet, staying really still for a few seconds while the feeling returned to his legs, determined not to lose to gravity despite the massive hangover and the even bigger grief.
Tag, you're it. doctoggy. :3/