Scattered light

The Sword Of Damocles

I was the one you always dreamed of,
You were the one I tried to draw.
How dare you say it's nothing to me?
Baby, you're the only light I ever saw.
We're going down,
And you can see it too.
We're going down,
And you know that we're doomed.
My dear,
We're slow dancing in a burning room.

- John Mayer

Chapter Text

That night Hinata doesn't stay over, and I do my best to chalk it up to him just being tired (regular tired, not 'I secretly hate my boyfriend' tired) because on a list of things guaranteed to make me overanalyze everything in my life this definitely makes the top five. So he wanted to sleep in his own bed by himself for the first time in a few weeks, what's wrong with that? It's probably because of the way he claims I steal the blankets when I roll over in the middle of the night, which I don't. No matter the reason, I have no reason to get upset. And I'm not; upset that is. It's an oddly freeing feeling. Of course I'd rather have him in my arms like I've grown so accustomed to, but I'm proud of myself for not losing my shit. I wonder if Hinata knows I can handle these things now. So he went home, and I went home, to our homes that are so close and yet separated by the width of a hallway that feels like a mile, doubled by each closed door, and that was okay.

This morning I woke up oddly refreshed, sleeping well again despite the change; and had my normal bowl of cereal before considering texting Hinata to see what he had planned for the day, but as I pick my phone up off the table it vibrates in my hand. I don't even have to check the name, my mind wandering briefly to the possibility of telekinesis as I slide the screen.

From: Hinata

I know this is short notice, but I'm going home for a few days to visit my mom while she's in town.

I'd be lying if I said my heart doesn't sink, that my blood doesn't run cold for an instant, but it is not nearly as debilitating as it could be. I don't respond, I just stand and make my way across the empty metaphorical miles between us, hoping that he hasn't left yet. I don't know what I'm planning, knowing full well that I can't take any more time off of work to accompany him (Ukai has pulled enough strings for me already); at best I just want to say goodbye.

He's walking out of his room with a deflated looking duffel bag in tow when I enter, hair messy and sticking up in more places than usual. He must be in a hurry to catch the train.

"Hey," I breathe when his eyes lock with mine and surprise flashes briefly behind them.

"Did I wake you?" He asks, setting the bag down to sign and pausing to run one hand through his unruly curls, fingers catching on a tangle. "I didn't think you'd be up yet."

He has charcoal smudged on his fingertips and exhaustion in his eyes, and I realize that his crumpled clothes and messy hair are due to a sleepless night instead of a hurried departure. He gets carried away with his art sometimes, he same way I do, and at that point sleep means nothing. The only thing that matters is getting the ink or paint or sound out of your veins any way possible. That tired look on his face, that slump of his shoulders, is something I understand on a cellular level.

"Yeah I've been up a little while. I came to see you off," I tell him. "When does your train leave?"

"Half an hour. The net one isn't for another four hours," he replies, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "I would have told you earlier if I could, mom just texted me less than an hour ago."

"Don't worry about it. Do you want me to walk you to the station?"

He glances toward the window, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and releasing it so quickly I almost don't see it before picking his bag back up. "Sure."