[ There's not much more to say than that. A brief acknowledgment, and some time spent in equally brief, miserable recovery. Even if he can't see Akira's surprise, vision completely blocked off by the gauze, his silence often speaks for him. It makes sense that he'd be affected, anyway. They'd both seen Richie just the week before, probably filled his inbox with a few meaningless messages to kill time—or maybe it was more than that? New context frames old memories, shifting them so very slightly. Maybe Richie hadn't just been asking about white-on-white paintings just for the sake of it, and maybe he didn't just let them listen to his records to share a passion for old psychedelic rock, or crash on their couch for the occasional, free dinner and targets to jabber at.
Was he checking in on them? ...What good would it do to realize that posthumously—why is he thinking about it? He lets out a huff, instinctively trying to blink and getting nowhere. ]
Yes.
[ He reaches out in full, blind confidence, patting up Akira's arms until he finds his sleeves, bunching up fabric for support as he tries to stand. But he doesn't even make it onto his feet. He folds over in the middle, head hanging as his back heaves. The smog lends a new, helping hand, adding an unsettling rattle to each inhale, but it's nostalgic otherwise: a twisting sensation in his gut, the same one that'd toppled him once before in a disgusting, golden chamber with high, high ceilings. He can only ride his disbelief and bottle everything else for so long, and it's time it bottoms out. He swallows thickly around a rising lump in his throat, head swimming blindly, and he rests the crest of his head against Akira's collar without thinking.
no subject
Was he checking in on them? ...What good would it do to realize that posthumously—why is he thinking about it? He lets out a huff, instinctively trying to blink and getting nowhere. ]
Yes.
[ He reaches out in full, blind confidence, patting up Akira's arms until he finds his sleeves, bunching up fabric for support as he tries to stand. But he doesn't even make it onto his feet. He folds over in the middle, head hanging as his back heaves. The smog lends a new, helping hand, adding an unsettling rattle to each inhale, but it's nostalgic otherwise: a twisting sensation in his gut, the same one that'd toppled him once before in a disgusting, golden chamber with high, high ceilings. He can only ride his disbelief and bottle everything else for so long, and it's time it bottoms out. He swallows thickly around a rising lump in his throat, head swimming blindly, and he rests the crest of his head against Akira's collar without thinking.
He'd practically died in his arms. ]
I just... need a moment.