Declan only half-succeeded. He was the first thing Aoba saw, hovering at the table like he was. The plates of omurice were second, and the sight of them was just about a shot through the heart. Aoba looked from them, back to the Guardian, with an open look that did nothing to hide the awkward worry he was feeling.
There was still a muttering in the back of his thoughts, and even though it was just his brain he would swear there was pacing going on back there. It was so bizarre, how foggily doubled everything felt when he allowed it the attention. He’d even taken a dose of his medicine, at his reminder. It hadn’t silenced him, but he was quieter. Clearer, though. A distinct sound at a distance, rather than mumbling up close.
Can we at least try for a hug? came a thread of frustration, an almost shockingly simple request. Aoba wondered if it would even still be okay. They’d both—both, meaning Declan—needed them yesterday morning. Aoba had to admit he could really use one now, too, but wondered if he’d just have to settle for homemade breakfast.
“Cleaner, at least,” he answered, fumbling, knowing that he wanted to make things right again but uncertain of the procedure. If breakfast was already an overture, he had to match it somehow. He put the helmet down on a free spot on the table, fidgeting with his hands briefly, then deciding he’d lost the privilege to do anything but ask. “…Could I…have a hug for the rest?”
Could they just rewind everything to yesterday morning? Start over, try again? But if not…at least he’d know better where they stood, now.
no subject
There was still a muttering in the back of his thoughts, and even though it was just his brain he would swear there was pacing going on back there. It was so bizarre, how foggily doubled everything felt when he allowed it the attention. He’d even taken a dose of his medicine, at his reminder. It hadn’t silenced him, but he was quieter. Clearer, though. A distinct sound at a distance, rather than mumbling up close.
Can we at least try for a hug? came a thread of frustration, an almost shockingly simple request. Aoba wondered if it would even still be okay. They’d both—both, meaning Declan—needed them yesterday morning. Aoba had to admit he could really use one now, too, but wondered if he’d just have to settle for homemade breakfast.
“Cleaner, at least,” he answered, fumbling, knowing that he wanted to make things right again but uncertain of the procedure. If breakfast was already an overture, he had to match it somehow. He put the helmet down on a free spot on the table, fidgeting with his hands briefly, then deciding he’d lost the privilege to do anything but ask. “…Could I…have a hug for the rest?”
Could they just rewind everything to yesterday morning? Start over, try again? But if not…at least he’d know better where they stood, now.