asunder

one

In a state of absence with all sense of being estranged, he floats. There isn't a thing to grasp; surroundings sway along in vertigo that moves in one--now in another direction. A beam of sunlight shines past the surface, obscuring the backdrop into a dark space of nothingness.

The warmth penetrates through the pressure he lies trapped in, caressing the growing numbness at the tips of his figure. Arms and legs, he had too many but so little thought of what to do with them. His head is heavy, brain thoroughly muddled by the subtle bliss of insensibility. Perception proceeds to escape him.

Consciousness floats just outside of his body. Through lidded eyes, he watches it waver amongst the suspended motion as it nears the surface. There isn't enough resolve to will his way through; mind and body feel as if they are asunder, suppressed, incapable of any action. He can only swim, mindlessly, and stare past the ray of light until he's blinded by its brilliance.

It protrudes past the clerestory window. A soft, subtle glow that suggests midday. He thrusts himself out further and leans back against the inner wall of the tub. There isn't an ounce of recollection in his mind as to when he got in, but the wrinkled skin at his fingertips urges that it might have been a while.

The water must have lost its heat at some point, too. It made the air feel unnaturally cool against his bare chest when dripping from the loose snowy strands on his head. A hand comes up slowly, plagued by the weighted numbness from the water, to smooth back his hair for the least bit of comfort. He rests there for a moment, heedless of the set of eyes watching from the doorway only a few steps away.

He only acknowledges the presence after it voices a simple, curt, "Yo."

It isn't as startling as he'd expected. The faceless voice--now revealed to have come from a pair of lips bearded by a gray goatee, and a notably narrow set of eyes hidden behind round tinted frames--belongs to none other than the hunched-over form of Giran himself. He stands there silently, mouth hanging open if he were to speak, before shaking his head dismissively.

"Nah, never mind. This ain't right. Get dressed, I'll tell 'ya after," he sighs.

The door clicks shut behind Giran. An awkward stream of silence pools in, one that can only disperse with his departure from the tub. There's a towel hanging from a wall hook that he rubs away dampness with before pulling on a clean set of clothes he finds resting at the edge of the sink.

There isn't a mirror for him to look through when fixing the disarray at his head, so he makes do with the wavering reflection he watches through the water. He doesn't know if it's any good, but he doesn't feel that he cares much about it. Either way, he makes sure to unclog the drain before pushing past the door and into the open space.

Giran had made himself comfortable on the sofa. A leg rests carelessly over the other, an arm slouched over the top as a hand guides a lit cigarette back to cracked lips. The ghost of a cloud disperses into the still air of the apartment. He steps closer but makes an effort to keep a considerable amount of space between them.

"So," the man starts, almost conversationally. "Did 'ya remember anything new?"

"... My name is Shouto. I'm around sixteen or seventeen. I take a bath every day and like to sleep in. That's everything you told me."

The boy's voice is low and gruff from the lack of use. His recitation comes along mechanically. Giran takes another drag from his cigarette and wonders if Shouto spent a good chunk of his morning practicing those words as if to give them any true meaning.

"Well, that ain't any good. Try to jog up that memory, kid. Don't 'ya wanna go back to 'yer old life? You know, hang out with some friends, eat 'yer mom's cooking?"