αγάπη μου, my love

Notes - (?)xNanaba - Agape Songfic

“Psst. Hey. Hey...”

“He’s dead to the world, darling. It would really be best not to disturb him.”

“No, he has a right to know where he is. I have been taking care of him for nearly two days now; I know what I’m doing.”

My eyelids flutter open slowly and with difficulty. They still feel heavy, so, so heavy. My poor, tired head floats above airplane taxi level. I give a low, incoherent grunt.

“Oh! he’s awake!” a feminine voice gasped.

I try clearing my throat, but I only succeed with retching.

Charming.

“Oh, oh!” a different voice says this time- the voice I heard first. I feel a warm hand pressing gently on my chest, and I realize that I must have been unconscious for a while.

“You don’t feel too good, do you?” I try to focus on the face in front of me- I make out a pale, pointed chin, short bobbed blonde hair, and soft, sympathetic grey eyes. The woman’s eyes match her milk-and-water voice, and I can feel my head shaking out of its own accord.

“Poor thing,” I heard a voice behind the grey-eyed woman say. “Go on, Nanaba.”

I narrow my eyes quizzically, but the woman- Nanaba, probably- only smiles gently. “It’s okay. You’ve been out cold for a small while now.”

I am obliged to cock my head as if to say: how long?

She seems to have understood. “Two days and a night. The rain outside turned to snow the night you showed up, and now we’re caved in. It’s risen over a meter tall, and it was impossible to call the paramedics. My mother and I had to take care of you ourselves. I’m sorry.”

Her words eventually strike a note inside me, and I shake my head indignantly despite the sharp pain. “S-sorry? You saved my life-“

“Shh. Don’t talk. We haven’t done much anyway. You have a fever,” Nanaba sighs, “and I don’t know how to get your temperature down.”

My gratefulness is ineffable, and I still am quite shocked to hear her apology, but I manage to give Nanaba a smile.

She smiles in return, like we have a deal between us.

By the time I am able to walk on two feet again, my hunger for music is ravenous.

I do not tell Nanaba that. She stayed by my side, nursing me to health although it isn’t one of her sharpest virtues, and she poured out her life to me.

She works here, at the antique shop. She helps customers and takes care of the cashier while her mother does the business work. It’s also part of Nanaba’s duty to dust the antiques- “It’s not much fun, but at least Julianne does the dishes,” she laughed. She talks a lot, for hours at a time, even, but I say little- very little.

She tells me about her job, her dream of being able to become a famous chef (which I totally support, having tasted her stew), her preferences- everything, really. I am becoming accustomed to her soft mirthful laugh and her the way she tosses her blonde head back, her attentive grey eyes.

Nanaba is so honest with me, and I tell her nothing in return.

It’s obvious why she died, then.

I have never cried over her. I tell myself to stop mourning her, to forget she ever existed, but it is so hard when I have no chance to play music. Without the dulling notes of drugs, I am exposed to my pain, and it hurts like a fresh wound. Like she died yesterday.