Child

A quiet moment.

Mark loves when it's quiet. City quiet, that is. Not when it's so quiet he can hear nothing at all; that kind of quiet is suffocating. It pushes itself past his eardrums and straight into his brain, filling his skull with wet sponge and weighing on his neck. Thankfully, it's never that quiet in the city. There is always something going on.

Mark is preparing some left-over fried chicken from his favorite place. He has learned, over the years, how to perfectly reheat it without losing all of its moisture. He keeps checking the timer on his microwave. He hears it humming, the plate spinning, the near-ish noise of a speeding car; his teeth grinding, his upstairs neighbor's shower running. He unclenches his jaw. He should remember to do that more frequently. The microwave beeps.

"Shit." He should've been paying more attention, the microwave is so loud at this time of night. He was paying attention, before. The beeping interrupted his zoned-out contentment. Whatever. The beeping stops.

He opens the microwave and is hit with the delicious smell of fried chicken. It surrounds him; he feels blood rushing to his cheeks. The chicken isn't exactly as gourmet as it once was, but it's just close enough that it's still satisfying. The sound of the microwave opening is incredibly loud, though, and it startles him (despite the countless times he's opened it before). He grabs the glassware with a potholder in hand and sets it on the closest counter. He gets his favorite plate, favorite condiments, favorite glass, favorite drink. An uncontainable smile breaks out of his face, happy zings spreading up through his temple, neck, shoulders, arms, palms. He takes a moment to shake and squirm and let out all the strong emotions he's feeling. Self-regulatory behaviors. He doesn't want to drop the chicken.

He gets all of his food ready and places it in front of his favorite seat: a particular couch seat in front of the TV (though he elects to keep the TV off; it would be too loud right now. Can't wake anyone else up). He puts in one of his earbuds and puts on his favorite YouTuber on his phone, low to medium volume. This earbud is uncomfortable in this ear, it's contorting the structure of his outer-ear in a way that hurts. He switches the earbud that he has in; much better.

Hastily, he picks up the first piece of chicken, gobbling up the tender meat and crunchy skin. He can't get enough! So, he picks up a second, then a third, then a fourth. Giddiness is spreading from his heart, filling his chest with cotton candy, tingling down to his ankles! He'd stomp if he wasn't worried about noise complaints. He keeps eating, and the feeling fills his ribs and envelops them in a warm embrace, continuing forward to diaphragm, his skin. His throat constricts, even. Before he knows it, the plate is empty. He's just glad he left some for tomorrow. And a little bit for Yuta, if he asks.

Yuta. He should be home soon-ish, but probably not soon enough for Mark to stay up for. He's going to stay up anyway, or at least he plans to. And if he falls asleep while waiting, that's nobody's business but his own.