Some days were worse than others.
Yoite remembered padding barefoot into the bathroom, head low, hat twisted helplessly between tired, gloved fingers as he tread the tiles; white, with lines of grey separating each of them. Cold. At least he assumed they were cold. His feet had started losing feeling in the pads of them, up the toes, nearly to his ankles. Sometimes he sat there in the bathroom, for hours, bottoms of his feet pushed forcefully into separate parts of the tiles, as if he could coax his skin into absorbing the temperature again, to feel just a shred of that cold that he strangely missed, so much.
They were dusty, splotched and blackened against the pristine white of the tiles. They'd been washed recently. He had horrible images, of his dirtiness mucking up the floors, the floors sucking up the tainted marks of his skin, staining the tiles just like his own marred flesh, unable to be cleaned again. There were some times where he hopped into the shower, quickly, not wanting to think too much about what kind of effect he was having on his surroundings.
He still had on his jacket, his turtleneck. The knitted, cream-colored material was pulled up flush with his chin as per usual, hiding away that harsh, ugly scar encircling his neck. Keep the shame in the box, save it for another day. Yoite's gloved fingers wrapped carefully around the neckline, knuckles flush with his jaw as he stood in that porcelain, stared down at his dusty, dirty feet and curled his toes inward as if he could make it all disappear.
The hat was left on the counter. He hated showers. He hated nakedness, he hated having to be faced with-- THAT. With all of THIS, a bombardment, all of his mistakes at once.
The spray of the water was cold, and he cried out when it splashed against the top of his head, flinched and nearly shrunk away, but the temperature was welcoming, in a way. Reminded him that he could still feel. His fingers stretched upwards towards the nozzle, icy cold tendrils snaking down his arms, down his sleeves, soaking through his jacket and his sweater alike. It delineated spit and swear all down his front, and his head sank forward, locks of thoroughly soaked hair stuck to his face.
By five minutes, he was trembling. By ten, it was full-out shaking, spasms so violent that he could hardly grip the faucet tight enough to turn the water off again, his limbs numb, his nose running, his eyes shut to the world. It was a fake kind of darkness, so it was comfortable, and his hands pressed blindly to the tile of the walls, slipping on the slick material. He couldn't feel them. He wasn't sure he was all attached anymore.
Eyes shut to the world, Yoite could pretend his body was not his own, and he could dream. Where there were beautiful beaches, where a clean and unmarred hand could slip into an equally pristine one, where he hadn't quite forgotten how to smile anymore and he could slowly begin to like this foreign person he hadn't quite bothered to get to know over these past few years. Yoite.
Yukimi was shouting when Yoite stepped into the other room again, palms slipping and sliding at the walls, falling to his knees when his balance failed him, when his hands couldn't find purchase against the solid surface beside him and he sunk downwards, spasmodically clutching for his arms. He couldn't tell because of the sound - he'd long since lost all hearing anymore, and so sorely missed things he took for granted, like music, the chatter of the evening news, the soft and wary sound of Miharu's words. It wasn't even the sight, reading any lips, as his eyes were still clamped shut to the world, as if he could keep it blocked out, forget just what was going on outside of him.
He felt vibrations of the floor, Yukimi storming out of the room. Yoite assumed it was going to be a mop, for the water he'd tracked across the floor. Instead, he was stripped of his jacket, his sweater, without a fight. He was covered in spare towels and wrapped with a thick comforter, strong hands clapping against his arms and rubbing them forcefully, to warm him. Yoite's eyes flickered open, batting at the determination in the other man's face.
"--and if you die on me, I'm going to kick your scrawny little ass," he was finishing his sentence, and when Yoite let out a soft sound of distress, a shuddering exhale just loud enough that Yukimi could hear, there were arms stretching around him, Yoite's face pressed into the safe warmth of Yukimi's chest as he was pulled into a tight embrace.
He was getting his shirt all wet. He could feel the rumbling of Yukimi's voice, in his chest, and knew he was probably informing Yoite of just that fact right now, as he brushed dripping wet strands of hair from his face.
"L-l-lemon--" Yoite stuttered out, and Yukimi grated out some reply. Yoite couldn't see his lips, could only wager guesses. 'In a minute, once I know you're not gonna collapse of hypothermia, you goddamn brat.' He was the only person who could ever make that kind of statement sound like a term of endearment.
It was up in the air as to whether he truly cared or not. Perhaps hospital bills were just very expensive. Perhaps Yukimi was just in for a large amount of trouble, were Yoite to die on his watch. ...Perhaps he just had a strong need to care for someone, and Yoite happened to be there. But his arms were strong and very there, very comforting, no matter what kind of ulterior motive Yukimi may have had.
Yoite collapsed there, eventually fell unconscious with his face still buried into Yukimi's t-shirt. He woke up nearly twelve hours later, practically swaddled in three rather sizable blankets, curled up on the very edge of the bed he'd been supplied with upon his moving into the house, the one that had hardly even gotten use, since, for his own reasons, Yoite found the floor much more suitable.
When he crawled from the room, from the far too-comfortable bed - literally crawled, his legs too weak to support him - Yukimi was already up and about, in the other room. Yoite slumped beside the couch. Yukimi set a steaming mug in front of him, as well as his menagerie of medications. "It's hot," Yukimi pointed out, unnecessarily. "Don't guzzle it down like last time."
He sat at his desk, like normal, perhaps with a few longer, more poignant pauses between his typing than there were on a regular occasion. They didn't talk about the night before.