He was looking at me like I was about to shoot him.
His eyes laid on me with a puzzled expression in them, his whole figure - still only dressed with a pair of boxers and ruffled hair - motionless
A delicate hand came up to grab a hold on said hair to scratch the side of his head slightly in confusion and his only other motions were blinking and breathing. Like the deer in headlights - with the fine difference that my deer was about to open its mouth and say something I wasn't quite sure about whether I wanted to hear it or not.
My stomach growled and I suddenly started trembling, the nervousness taking over and I stumbled out of bed to reach the bathroom just in time to get a dead grip on the white porcelain bowl and stick my head halfway into it as I threw up.
Once, twice.
Tears shot into my eyes and hung lose on my lashes as my stomach cringed one last, painful time and finally fell silent. Flushing the toilet and sitting back, I gave an exhausted huff and opened my eyes again to find Akira rummaging in the closet.
He wordlessly handed me a pack of meds and a toothbrush before he, still silent, left the room. And me.
Sighing, I cramped my hand around the toothbrush and slowly stood up to get my job done and the bitter taste out of my mouth.
Finally getting into the brightly lit bedchamber again, I saw him standing by the window with his cup of coffee, looking out, the silver eyes following the motions of busy traffic outside.
I took the few steps of distance between us easily but nervous, slinging my arms around his waist, enjoying the feeling of his warm skin against mine. He didn't move.
"You say you love me...", he made a pause in which I closed my eyes, no, I screwed them shut tightly, "...and then go and throw up. Tell me what kind of love that is."
His voice was calm but throughout the usually light and swinging baritone timbre shot a strain of doubt and... fear? I slung my arms tighter around him, burying my face between his shoulder blades, inhaling the tart scent of his cologne and sex.
"I'm sorry, I..."
"Didn't mean it? I guessed that."
I swallowed.
The memories made my eyes sting with heat of oncoming tears and I shook them off with a quick move of my head. Looking around the room I sat in, now empty of any student or other sign of life, I opened my bag that stood next to my chair and pulled a handful of magazines out.
Hell, this was becoming kind of an addiction.
So far, within the last week - in which I hadn't heard a sign of him, which equals that he hated me now - I had bought each and every magazine that contained an article about him or his band. I was about to open the first magazine as the loud ring of my cellphone snapped me out of my daydreams.
