VIOLET SKY, takigawa chris yuu

━ chapter twenty-seven

act ii

how do we do this?
( carefully. )

chapter twenty-seven

❛sounds like you're just afraid of change❜

━━━━━━

Amara wakes to the sound of water running.

Groaning quietly, she turns, blinking the sleep out of her eyes to see the time on the clock. It's just about nine-thirty.

She sits up, rubbing her eye and yawning. The room is dim, save for the slivers of sunlight peeking through the curtains. The events of last night are, unfortunately, fresh in her mind, making her stomach churn with guilt; it doubles when she sees the plate with a bagel, a bowl of cereal, a milk carton, and a couple of spread cups of cream cheese and jelly on the dresser, obviously for her.

She sighs, pulling a knee to her chest and leaning her cheek on it. Supposedly the golden rule of relationships is not to go to bed angry. They sort of did that last night, though Chris was probably more angry than her.

They don't have arguments often, if at all. Rena says it's strange, that they're normal (not screaming matches or anything like that, but just issues in general), no matter what the media likes to say about relationships. Amara always reasoned that it's because their first argument was explosive, unpleasant for the both of them, making them more level-headed when it came to new issues. There shouldn't be any reason to argue when the fight against time is the only one they're currently facing — and losing.

She looks away from the dresser when the bathroom door opens, heart going into overdrive. Chris blinks, surprised, and she does her best not to stare at his bare chest, his sweats still on, hair still dry.

"Morning," he says, clearly hesitant.

She tugs on a piece of her hair nervously. "Morning." The question to talk stays lodged in her throat.

He shifts on his feet, cautiously resuming his path to his suitcase, unzipping it and pulling out a set of clothes — black swim trunks and a white t-shirt. She supposes they're not doing anything today and he wants a quick rinse; thinking longer about it makes her realize she needs a shower, too.

She stares at his back, unable to stop herself from admiring the shifting muscles as he zips the suitcase closed again.

It's hard to tell if he's upset with her. She could see why he would be. She was . . . rude last night.

Inhaling quickly, she tries to calm her pounding heart. It doesn't work, but as he stands, she swallows her pride and bites the bullet.

"Chris . . . can we, um, talk?"

Nodding, his face still passive, he comes over to her, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, folding his clothes in his lap. Tepid heat from the shower wafts into the room and she pushes the sheets off her legs.

"I'm . . . sorry for last night. I shouldn't have stepped out like that, no matter how I felt. And I shouldn't have been so dismissive of your concern about my concussion. I was just upset and it made my patience short. Not that I'm excusing it but you know."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair and leaning back on his palms. The position makes it harder for her not to notice his chest, her mouth drying.

"I shouldn't have pressed on it," he says at last, recapturing her attention. "About your concussion, I mean. I didn't realize how it might make you feel to have me pressing on it."