Chapter Twenty-One: December 18th
In a more, shall he say, logical retrospect, Makoto should have expected something like this to happen.
Maybe it was his own idiocy, thinking that being dragged to a party with Nagisa Hazuki of all people would end up well; but the real problem were the drinks he drank last night.
He supposes this all part of the typical high school experience anyway; it would've been weird if he had gone through high school without blacking out at least once. Moreover, this hangover is definitely reminding him why he doesn't drink that often in the first place. He tries to recall the fuzzy events of last night as he sits up in bed, his head spinning like an uneven top.
How did I even get home anyway? Is the first thought in his head as he rubs his temples.
He finally convinces himself to get out of bed after sitting there for an inordinate amount of time, his eyes screwed shut; no way in hell is he going to risk opening his eyes, or he will surely experience a massive wave of nausea.
When he finds the strength to stand, the blankets fall off his body and expose him to the draft in his home. Why did I think it was a good idea to sleep in my boxers in the middle of December? He wonders, heading into his ensuite bathroom to turn on the shower. He hopes the hot water would clear his head and wake him up some.
As the water heats up, he turns around and stares at himself in the mirror. His hair, for a lack of a better word, is a disheveled disaster and there are dark circles under his eyes. The weirdest thing, however, is the marks of red and purple, peppered along his upper body. What the hell?
He's all out of towels, so he has to go back through his room to retrieve one from the hall closet. He heads back through his room, still freezing and sore. Reaching his arms above his head to relieve some of the tension in his body, Makoto stretches out his shoulder muscles and hears his joints pop. He is so sore... not to mention, he can't shake the eerie feeling something that he can't remember happened last night.
"Are you going to shower first?"
The voice is soft, tentative - maybe even a hint of embarrassment? - and frighteningly familiar. Makoto freezes upon hearing it, his body locking up in fear. Turning ever-so slowly, he sees a figure sitting up on his bed, staring at him shyly. When their eyes lock, Makoto is swimming in the most vibrant of blues.
Haruka...?
Makoto manages to even out his erratic breathing after a moment and sputters out a thoughtful noise. "Uh..." He stammers, frozen in place when he comes to the realization that there is a half-naked guy in his bed. He feels his face warm up, and he mentally curses himself for blushing. "I-I was just waiting for the water to heat up," He says in a quiet voice. "But I don't mind waiting if you'd like to use it first."
Haruka nods slowly, the guarded expression he wears returning to his face. The blankets slip off his body as he gets out of Makoto's bed, revealing long legs and a lot more skin than Makoto had initially expected to see.
He quickly takes back his earlier statement: there is a completely naked guy in his bed.
Makoto immediately turns away, forcing himself to stare at anything except the lean muscle on Haruka's body. He fixates his gaze on a trinket sitting on his bookshelf - a silver swimming trophy he won back in fifth grade - and listens to the sound of Haruka's footsteps as he rushes into his bathroom. The door clicks shut and Makoto breathes a sigh of relief.
The relief, however, only lasts the briefest of seconds when it opens again and Makoto tenses up upon hearing his voice. "Makoto?"
"Y-yeah?" He squeaks in surprise.
"Do you have an extra towel I can borrow?" He asks abashedly, only his head poking through the open doorway. Makoto nods - he doesn't trust his voice at a time like this - and scurries off into the hall, glancing left and right furtively to check for possible family members. When the coast is clear, he grabs a fluffy towel from the linen closet and returns to his bedroom, where Haruka waits for him.
Entering the bathroom, Makoto hands Haruka the towel and takes in his appearance when the door opens a bit more; Haruka's hair is in a similar messy state and he has matching bruised marks on the side of his neck. What's also strange is he seems completely content with the temperature, alongside an underlying lack of humility, standing fully naked in front of Makoto and looking unfazed.
Makoto doesn't know if he can bear to look Haruka in the eye as he watches him curiously, but at the same time, it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to look down.
"You know, if you're going to stare like that, you might as well join me," Haruka suggests, his expression blank but a teasing tone apparent in his voice, laced between his words like a tantalizing poison.
Makoto immediately snaps out of his reverie and blushes, shaking his head. "I'm sorry!" He stutters out an apology. "I didn't mean to stare."
Suddenly, Haruka's hand lashes out and he slams the bathroom door loudly, leaving the two alone in the cramped ensuite.
"Makoto," His tone is completely different now. It's back to what Makoto's used to, but it doesn't make him feel any better. He's angry now, unwilling to compromise. Moving closer, he automatically sends Makoto back a step. Makoto's exposed back shivers when he hits the cool wood of the door, notices the cool bathroom tiles in the middle of December under his bare feet... and yet, all he can feel is incinerating heat.
"You don't remember anything from last night, do you?" Haruka demands.
"I- I-" Makoto tries to think up of an excuse on a whim, but Haruka doesn't buy it for a second. He's seen through his lies since day one, how would today be any different? His eyes screw shut as he tries to think of something, anything from last night to help him remember. He gets small snippets of blurred-out memories: the pounding of loud music in his head, the chill from being outside. When he gets the courage to open his eyes again, he see's Haruka's unwavering gaze, and he shakes his head. "I'm sorry."
Haruka blinks but doesn't move, staring up at Makoto. The bathroom fills with steam from the shower, fogs up the mirror, and clouds the space between them, making it increasingly difficult to breathe properly. Something in Haruka's presence changes and his arm moves closer. Expecting a punch to the face, Makoto cringes away, shrinking further down and trembling with hesitant anticipation at his touch.
However, as Haruka's fingers brush along his unshaven jawline and rest on his cheek, Makoto realizes what he's about to do is the exact opposite of a punch, but it still twists his stomach in knots.
A sweltering, indescribable heat burns in Makoto's stomach as Haruka presses his lips delicately to Makoto's, closing the space between them. It takes Makoto completely off guard, but his eyes flutter shut anyway.
Haruka kisses Makoto like he mapping out the edges of his lips, drawing it as if it were something he is sketching in that old leather sketchbook of his. Makoto's hands shake by his sides, feeling his heart constrict against his ribcage and threaten to burst.
What are you doing? His subconscious reminds him, but he chooses to ignore it.
Their lips part together and Makoto feels like all the oxygen has decided to leave his brain. Running on adrenaline, his hands finally move and wrap around Haruka, his fingers sliding on the skin of his back and tracing constellations wherever they touch.
He's clearly not thinking right, and perhaps there are remnants of last night's alcohol messing with his thought processing, but another part, the more reckless of him doesn't seem to care and he finds himself swept up in the moment. The world is so cold and Haruka is so hot, and when his fingers tangle his hair, Makoto didn't know if he'd ever want anything as badly as this.
Haruka's hands travel down and graze over the ridges in Makoto's stomach, tracing them as if to memorize every dip, every curve. He grinds his hips against Makoto's harshly, aching to seal the little distance between them, making Makoto gasp and their lips disconnect.
His hand remains around Haruka's waist in a pathetic attempt to keep him right where he is. Haruka glances at him with a teasing lust, a gaze so intense Makoto wishes he could turn away but he's locked in. There is something undeniably familiar about that stare, but Makoto doesn't get a chance to think about what it is, because the impatience in Haruka's expression is practically screaming at him. Your turn, he silently begs.
Makoto is too shocked to do anything, however, and the teasing smirk morphs into anger once again.
"And here I thought that would jog your memory," He mutters under his breath. When Makoto says nothing, too stunned to speak, his eyes narrow and he crosses his arms. "Now if you don't mind, I need to shower." Turning on his heel, he steps into the bath and pulls the shower curtain harshly, disappearing behind the vinyl.
Staring in shock at the ugly geometric print of the shower curtain, Makoto tries to sort out what just happened. After a moment of silence, he decides to slowly back out of his bathroom and shut the door, sliding down onto his bedroom floor and leaning against the wall that separates him and Haruka. His hands fly to his hair and grip at it in fear as he stares at the carpet, his mind swirling with thoughts of Haruka, Haruka, Haruka.
Haruka's kiss was a blissful curse, a shock back into reality and a free pass into dreamworld all wrapped up into one. Hesitantly raising his fingers to touch his lips, he recalls the way Haruka's touch had told a story of dancing and despair, singing bittersweet melodies and tying their souls together with kite strings.
Makoto is such a mess, sprawled out on his bedroom floor, completely unraveled.
And yet, strangely, as he plunges into an inescapable sea, he finds that he couldn't care less.
- - - -
The least Makoto can do is make Haruka breakfast in a sort-of apology for not remembering a thing from last night.
It's not like he's that great of a cook anyway - in fact, he's actually quite terrible. But Makoto needs something to focus on while the shower runs down the hall, so he puts on a shirt and heads to the kitchen, looking for something to make.
His gaze lands on a carton of eggs and he takes out four, deciding he'll make eggs and toast. Surely he can't screw that up, right? He cracks the eggs on a frying pan and cranks up the heat on the stovetop, mixing the eggs with cream cheese and a pinch of salt to create sweet scrambled eggs, putting on a kettle of water on the stove as well.
Absentmindedly pushing the half-cooked eggs on the pan with a spatula, Makoto strains his mind to recall the details of yesterday evening. It is like someone had taken an eraser and wiped away all memories after he crossed the threshold of the party. Though, as he pieced two and two together, it was a safe deduction to say he slept with Haruka last night.
His face colors when the realization sets in. Oh my god... He thinks, biting his lip. I really... seriously... slept with him.
The feeling that gnaws at his stomach isn't fear or hatred, in fact, the thought of sleeping with Haruka doesn't actually bother him that much at all; it's the fact that he can't remember that bothers him so much. Makoto may look dumb, but he caught that flash of anger in Haruka's eyes when he pushed him away. This wasn't Haruka's typical stubborn attitude... no, it wasn't just anger. There was genuine hurt. Betrayal. And it was all Makoto's fault.
"Damn it," He whispers to himself. Standing alone in his too-quiet felt like he was a sitting duck in the eye of a hurricane; any moment now a thunderstorm would wash over him and the hurricane's unforgiving winds would fight to blow him away.
He hears the shower nozzle being turned off, and his mind begins to wander. A sopping-wet Haruka heading back into his room, peeling his clothes off of Makoto's floor. Slipping those boxers over his hips, followed by the too-tight jeans that show off his legs. The v-neck sweater that falls just an inch below the exposed skin of his naval, and how his muscles would stretch under his tightly-wound skin as he pulled it on.
Makoto is startled by the smell of something burning and realizes just exactly what was running through his mind. Looking panickedly to his left, he sees the toast he was making has burnt and blackened. The eggs, too, are nearly overdone but he spreads them on two plates and decides to fetch something else, tossing out the burnt bread. He settles on the package of his croissants, bought by his mother from their local bakery, and slathers a thin layer of butter on the top before setting them on their small kitchen nook just as Haruka saunters into the kitchen, running a hand through his wet hair.
"Look, I have to-" Haruka excuses himself, his eyes trailing from Makoto to the plates. "What's this?" He asks accusatory. Not exactly the reaction Makoto expected, and he bites his lip.
"I made breakfast," Makoto says meekly, gesturing to the plates. "Sorry it's not much, my mother hasn't been to the store recently. Come on," He pulls out the chair for him, his smile pleading. "Sit."
Haruka turns up his nose stubbornly before taking a seat, defiantly glaring at the plate of eggs. Makoto sits as well, digging into his food and sneaking glances at Haruka, who doesn't seem to be eating much of his food. A bite of eggs here, a nibble of croissant there. He just looks annoyed, his jaw set and his fingers curled in a fist.
He doesn't say anything either, which makes Makoto feel incredibly uneasy. Worry bubbles up in him like a lab beaker filled with chemicals until he explodes, just as the kettle hisses like a train-whistle.
"That's the tea," Makoto babbles, shooting up from his chair. He scrambles back into the kitchen and digs through the cupboards, eyes eventually landing on a box of peach tea. He gets two mugs and fills them with the hot water, dunking the tea bags inside. He carries them back into the dining area carefully.
"I made peach tea, hope that's alright with you, it's all we ha-" Makoto announces when he sees where Haruka had been sitting, chair pushed in, food left barely touched. Makoto sets down the mugs and heads for the front door, seeing Haruka is just about to leave. "Where are you going?"
"I have work," Haruka says curtly, tugging on a jacket. His eyes fail to meet Makoto's, and he takes a step closer. His hand is on the doorknob, prepared to leave, when Makoto grabs his shoulder and whirls him around.
"Wait!" Makoto's voice is more desperate than he intends.
"What is it?" Haruka finally looks at him. Makoto feels like he's going to drown in blue.
"W-where exactly does this leave us?" Makoto whispers, knowing he has to ask but is also too afraid of the inevitable to hope for the answer he doesn't realize he needs.
Haruka pulls his shoulder from Makoto's hand angrily, turning his body away. A sigh passes by his lips as he turns the doorknob. He has given his answer before he even speaks.
"Try to remember what happened last night before you ask me something like that."
The door opens and closes, and before he knows it, Haruka is gone, like he had never even been there in the first place.
His mind goes blank and he stares in the foyer for a few minutes before his body moves on his own. Almost like he is being controlled by a puppeteer, Makoto trudges back into the kitchen and stares at the two plates of food, the steaming mugs of tea. He takes a sip of one and the hot drink burns his tongue; good. It serves as a wake-up call. He sits at the table and finishes off his own plate of food, his eyes never leaving Haruka's half-eaten eggs. When he finishes, Makoto clears the plates and dumps the waste into the garbage, wanting to remove all evidence of Haruka's visit.
When he returns to his bedroom, he takes in all the details, knowing within a day it would be like nothing ever happened. His bed is still unmade - as well in need of a wash - and the clothes littered on his floor were now gone. After throwing his sheets into the wash, Makoto strips off the clothes he had thrown on earlier and heads into the bathroom, turning on the shower once again.
As the room fills with steam and the water heats up, it comforts the chill that wracks his body. His mind swarms with the words Haruka said, hoping that they'd somehow magically make sense. Does Haruka even want Makoto to remember?
And if so, if he wanted Makoto to remember so badly, why didn't he just tell him?
The emotional games are starting to take their physical toll on Makoto, and his shoulders slouch as he sighs, about to step into the shower when something catches his eye: the glass on his mirror had already fogged up on the steam.
And written in a beautifully neat handwriting, were the words I warned you.
- - - -
A/N: so that happened