Haze

The couches in the student council room are soft.

That is the only thing running through his mind when he opens the door. An empty room greets him reminding him that it's still early.

It's… different. Without the swishing papers, scribbling pencils and clinking teacups, the student council room feels different—lifeless.

But the couches are there. That's a start.

He stumbles over to one, and sinks into it. It's an inelegant way to sit, but a small voice remarks that the room is empty anyway, so it's fine.

He likes the small voice. His body is too heavy to seat properly.

Outside, the storm rages. The rain falling against the glass is hypnotic and soon he feels himself fall onto his side. It really is soft—softer than he remembers.

There's no pillow, but there were never any pillows.

We should get some pillows, he thinks and closes his eyes.

There is talking. There are two muffled voices, but they're not speaking to him. His body is warm and heavy, and he shifts the blanket—blanket? No, there was no blanket. Nor a pillow. Only a soft couch.

But there is a blanket on him—he's clutching it, even. There's a pillow too. It's thin but he knows it's there, because something on his forehead keeps his head on it.

…It's cold.

He stirs, willing the cold away, and at once the chatter ceases. There is a soft clinking, and a rustling, and then he hears another whisper—this one calls his name, so grudgingly he opens his eyes.

Light assaults his vision and slowly the colors transform into the familiar shapes of the furniture. The table, uncharacteristically littered with papers, stands out. There's also a pitcher. He's never seen it before.

"Sorry, did we wake you?"

A white figure moves in front of him, blocking out the other colors. The shape is familiar but it isn't until he turns his head upwards that he understands.

"Arima-san?" the voice that comes from his mouth is low and hoarse. He's not sure if it's his.

"Yeah, it's me. How do you feel?" Arima's voice matches his gentle smile, but his eyes are sharply forming answers.

The question replays in his mind. How does he feel? "Ill" and "pathetic" snarl in his head, but they don't reach his tongue. He presses his forearm into the couch to lift himself up. Immediately, there's a steadying hand on his shoulder, helping him sit.

The cold thing that kept his head on the pillow falls as moves, and he sees it's a damp cloth. Its cooling sensation lingers on his forehead.

Another white figure crosses his vision and kneels down to meet his eyes. There is a scowl on this face, but the worry in Kusatsu's eyes betray his displeasure.

"What were you thinking, coming here like this?" he demands.

It's a stupid question. The answer should be obvious.

"The couches are soft." It's obvious, yet Kusatsu is visibly taken aback.

There is a dry laugh. "Aren't they though?" Arima agrees, "Personally, I'd have preferred a bed, but to each, his own, right Akoya?"

Some part of him feels that Arima's humoring him, but he nods anyway.

"There are no pillows though," he laments, to which Arima chuckles and answers, "Yes, some pillows would be nice. What do you think, Kinshiro?"

"I… suppose?" A buzzing on the desk catches their attention and Kusatsu gets up to address it. While he talks on the phone, Arima reaches for the pitcher.

"Have some water," Arima urges pressing a cup into his hands. He realizes how dry his throat is, but only manages a few sips before his breath catches. Arima skillfully takes the cup away, while he coughs into the blanket.

Kusatsu approaches as the fit subsides. "Akoya, Your driver's here to pick you up." A moment later, he adds, "I called him earlier."

Arima helps him to his feet. The room lurches as he stands, but firm hands keep him from faltering as things straighten themselves out. "Can you walk? Want me to carry you?"

He can walk. He is lucid enough to know that being carried like a child would be unacceptable, though still considerably hazy enough to allow himself to accept Arima's support.

Kusatsu walks with them too, holding a bag that looks oddly out of place. There is conversation, but he finds himself unable to focus on anything other than moving forward.

The rain hasn't let up since earlier, but it doesn't touch him under the cover of the umbrella Arima holds over them. There are no guardrails on the steps, so their descent is slow and dizzying. He wants to curl up on the couch again, but going back strikes him as counterproductive.

His car sits at the end of the long stone path, the driver running up to them when he spots them. But it's still Arima supporting him the last few meters, right up to helping him inside the car. The door doesn't close right away.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a ride home?" the driver asks, "Please, allow me."

"Thank you, but we still have work to do," Kusatsu replies curtly.

"But you've come all this way—

"We're used to it," Arima says, "We left our things back there, so we'll have to go back regardless. Just get him home safely."

They look down at him with sympathetic eyes, which he returns with suspicion as the full weight of their words reach him. Why had they gone through all that trouble?

"Get some rest, alright," Arima tells him kindly, "It's not the same without you."

"Indeed," Kinshiro agrees, "Feel better, Akoya."

He thanks them, or at least he thinks he does, for the thick haze that blanketed him during the walk to the car misted his senses. As the car purrs to life, he lays down on the back seat, only one thought lingering in his mind.

The couches in the student council room were softer.

AN: Thanks for reading. I'm not really sure what to say about this fic... I just felt like writing it (and I really wanted to try out a different writing style.) And somewhere along the way I decided it had to be exactly 1000 words, so I feel quite accomplished on that front. (1000 words going by Microsoft Word's count, not FF's. ie: Not including the title or this authors note!)

...Admittedly, I started feeling a little hazy myself while writing this. Ehehe ^^"

So um, yeah, thanks for reading. Till next fic~