Rooftops At Sunrise

25

[Content warning for: death of a character.]

They stop at a diner, whose walls are coated—for the most part—in wine-red leather tints, and its edges, with faded, golden studs.

The neon pink sign made up of lights that are stuck to the large, wooden frame hung up behind the bench Damian is seated on, is giving Aoi's eyes a hard time. Don't Give Up, it reads.

She sighs. Her upper body crumbles onto the wooden table before her chest. The clatter of silverware that fill the space populated by checkered tiles and crying infants makes the young woman's temples throb. And Aoi fears that the stress, the noise, and the tension residing in her shoulders, will not end well.

"So?" Damian asks her, as he waves his elongated spoon around, that he has ripped out of his tall milkshake like a prince would with an enchanted sword. "How's it looking?"

Aoi shakes her head from between her arms. "Not good," she mutters. "They weren't happy. I think they hate me now."

The young man scoffs. "Nonsense! What parent would hate their kid? I'm sure they're just weirded out. It's your first solo trip in a while, yeah?"

She laughs. "It's my first solo trip, ever, dude. I could barely even make it to the end of the block when I first got sick."

"Fuck, I'm sorry."

Aoi wonders why Damian often apologizes for things he isn't responsible for in the slightest. "It's okay. At least I'm operational now... more or less," she mutters.

Damian brings his silver spoon, along with a fragment of whipped cream, to his lips. He pauses, whilst being on the verge of swallowing the modest treat. "You, uh... don't mind if I eat in front of you, right?"

The young woman taps at the medical food to her left with the tip of her index finger. "I'm also going to eat soon, don't worry." She huffs. "Also, if anything," Aoi laughs, "I should order something and have you eat it on behalf of my poor body that cannot stomach it."

"What?" He snickers, then finally pops the cream into his mouth. "I'm like, your official food representative, or something, now?"

"Yeah! Exactly!" Aoi swings her arms in amusement. She smirks. "I'll order the whole menu, and live vicariously through your experience!"

Damian holds his belly. He makes a sound as if he is going to be sick. "Please, don't," he begs; his lip twitches. He frowns. "Lucas already fed me so many cakes last month, I couldn't handle your—literally—sweet deal, even if I wanted to."

"Well," Aoi shrugs. She ignores his terrible word-play. "Look on the bright side, at least you weren't starving."

Damian cringes, before he takes another short bite of his food. "Definitely not..."

A waitress comes by and stops at their table. She stares at the empty space in front of Aoi and furrows her brows. "Miss," the waitress clears her throat. She clutches her silver platter closer to her breast. "Would you like anything?" she asks Aoi. "A glass of water, perhaps?"

Aoi does not know how to explain to the young woman that, sometimes, if she is unlucky, she has the luck of finding out with dread, that her body does not tolerate certain brands of bland, old water.

She also doubts the waitress would believe her. Not many people do. Therefore, Aoi settles on saying that she is not hungry, and not thirsty, either. "But thank you for the thought, I appreciate it."

The waitress eyes Aoi's medical food with a brief flash of curiosity running through her gaze, before she excuses herself yet again—like she had when Damian had first ordered his strawberry milkshake—and goes to tend to the table next to theirs, where a tiny infant has finally decided to stop bawling and screaming, and has now fallen asleep instead, to the great relief of Aoi's ears.