*Meritas here, once more. Just gotta say that this chapter was from the heart. That's all. Peace out and Deus vult*
Just like that, the volcano was on the brink of eruption all the time, inching closer and closer to a full-on eruption. Mark, being the 'smart' man he is, simply chose to be silent for the time being and quietly followed Himeko outside. His deal with Theresa had been sealed, and she was about to handle whatever paperwork was needed for his admission.
"I can't believe I have to babysit you now," she groaned, muttering some incoherent words that were probably curses aimed at him.
"Well, don't worry; I can kinda handle myself to a degree, alright?"
She scoffed, somehow unconvinced.
"Don't even think of doing anything out of line just because you're living with a beautiful woman, or else I will make your life hell."
Silence fell as Mark felt the gap between them somehow broaden. It was clear that he made a bad first impression, and truth be told, he was aware of it. Self-awareness was one of his blessings and curses.
The entire road to her place was just agonizing, feeling like the most painful period of his life. She was seething internally, despite having calmed down—at least a little.
The door to her home opened, revealing the same ravaged interior he saw in the manga. Empty bottles scattered everywhere, bottles of wine, cans of beer, the whole mile, and extra stuff, with wrappers tossed around. Himeko's cooking was far from an option, so he did expect her to eat takeaway like crazy—or instant noodles like he did in university.
She motioned around the room with a flick of her wrist, seemingly uninterested in him.
"Just don't go snooping around where you shouldn't. Get used to the couch, since that's where you'll be sleeping," she said firmly, moving out of sight, leaving him disoriented and alone. Still, Mark just let out a sigh, taking in the truth of the situation.
Without saying a thing, he walked a bit around the house, finding trash bags inside a random cupboard in the kitchen. With a hum, he took it and made his way back to the living. No sign of Himeko around, so he just assumed she went to her room.
"I guess I'm in for war," he muttered, staring at the bottles. They seemed to be looking his way, staring him down as if challenging his very being, forcing him to stand up against the giant that was laziness.
'I won't let it win, not this time.'
Thus, he began working, grabbing bottles and tossing them inside empty plastic sacks, filling them up to the brim in seconds. Each one he tied up rested against the wall, right by the door, clanking with every little movement, creating their own symphony of alcoholic tendencies and pain lingering on their bottom.
It was a good chance for him to simply ponder, not about himself, but about Himeko herself. With each bottle he picked up, he could feel more and more of her pain, his gaze lingering on the glass before it was hidden by the thin plastic foil.
'She's reached this point thanks to what her father had done, thanks to her wish to find the truth. Should I speak up? She wouldn't believe me, that's for sure. I might only cause more harm if I speak. Down the line, I guess I should tell her everything, but... only when the time is right.'
His steps around the room were quick, moving from the increasing pile of garbage to the scattered junk, picking it all up and packing it away. Still no sign of her, and the thought that maybe she was drinking in her room hit him. After all, what better way to handle the anger of having some random man tossed in your home than getting drunk and forgetting it all?
Time trickled by, moving by relentlessly. At some point, he ignored her advice and began cleaning up the other rooms as well, just looking everywhere except where he could hear sounds coming from—her room, dangerous ground for him to step on. Still, he was proud of the work done there, his tiny efforts maybe amounting to something long term.
'I just wish she'd stop drinking; alas, she has her reasons, but I'm pretty sure a busted liver wouldn't exactly help with her pain. Damned artificial stigmas, damned Otto or whoever it was that developed em at Schicksal. Damned Honkai in general, hell...'
With one smooth flick of his wrist, the sweat on his brow was no more, but the final boss of the cleaning process still loomed over him, watching from the shadows... the closet. It was the one place that Himeko had opened in the manga, and it led to her, Bronya, and Mei being stuck under a pile of trash she probably didn't need anymore.
His resolve pumped to the limits, a death wish written in his heart, he swung the door open, pushing back against the pile with all his might. His body met the cardboard box like a boulder rolling downhill until it struck a sturdy tree. Immovable object versus unstoppable force scenario, breaking the laws of physics.
"Come on, piece of shit!" he groaned, pushing the boxes back in just enough to grab them one by one and decrease the size of the pile. His torso was pushed in first, letting his arms move freely, albeit quickly, since boxes piled in the back threatened to come out with each one removed from the front.
He moved fast, grabbing and tossing them on the ground carefully to not break a thing. Before his eyes, the closet was freed from the shackles of trash, which he fought against valiantly. Just like the valkyries standing up to the Honkai, he fought the trash in the deadliest battle of his at the time.
"Phew, now to sort some of these things," he said calmly, fanning himself with quick motions, the heat already getting to him.
More and more garbage sacks piled up by the door, with whatever he managed to sort out, until the closet was once again filled, but in an orderly manner and only with important items Himeko would probably need again—or maybe not, but they were still usable, unlike the empty bottles and cans she somehow had piled there as well.
"Now to take it all out..."
His eyes fell as the pile built with his own hands looked down at him, mocking him just like the trash had done all day long. Fired up, he grabbed four garbage sacks in each hand, his fingers going numb thanks to the blood he didn't allow passage as the plastic dug into his flesh. The door already open, he just dashed out with the bags, making the trip a good couple of times, carrying out more than one would ever expect from a lady's place.
Each time he went outside, some people lounging nearby stared his way, growing more interested with each trip. He could swear that at some point they were making bets on how much trash he was going to take out by the end of it, and on his last trips, when he slapped his palms together and brushed off whatever had glued to them, someone from the side was cheering loudly as he collected money from the others.
'Great. I'm just a joke now. How fun.'
With words crushed under his lips, he looked up to the sky, noticing that the whole day had finally passed.
'I guess I have a couch waiting for me inside, don't I?'
Going back inside, the fatigue finally settled in, just a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, fueled more by the mental stress he was unaware of. Once inside, he made sure to close the door and lock it out of pure habit. Turning around, he heard a door open, and out came Himeko, stumbling from one leg to another, an empty bottle in hand.
She just eyed the clean room, then stared at him, a dumb expression on her face. One glance his way, then another around the place, and back at him. Like a cat following a laser pointer, she did the same motion for at least five minutes before speaking, her speech slurred.
"Did you do this, Mark?"
He nodded, letting out a tired sigh.
"Yes, I did. I cleaned up the place a little."
The sound of her taking a gulp of her wine was louder than expected.
"You should cut down your drinking, you know?" he said calmly, his voice calm. Still, she wasn't exactly having it.
"What do you know, huh?! You have no right to tell me what to do, especially not in my own home!"
She took another swig of her bottle, looking at him with hazy eyes, her lips a touch redder from the drink.
"At least you're a good boy and cleaned up the place. I didn't expect a man to actually do that much," she mumbled, her words barely translated by Mark's automatic drunken-talk filter.
With a heavy sigh, he walked closer to her, grabbing the bottle. Her grip instantly tightened around it, her gaze boring through him like a hot knife in butter.
"What do you think you're doing, huh?" she growled, trying to yank the bottle away, but her body was mush.
"I'm trying to stop you from killing yourself faster than you already are," he answered calmly, holding her gaze firmly. He was expecting slaps, or something along those lines, but she didn't do a thing. Taking advantage of the moment, he just pulled the bottle out of her grasp and settled it on the table, but not before taking a sip himself.
The wine was sweet, but perhaps sweeter was the thought of her lips on the bottle. His index rested on the top, moving in circles on the smooth surface. They both had fallen silent, with Himeko begrudgingly staring at him.
"What do you even know, huh?" she asked, still on the defensive. It was clear that the alcohol brought out a strange side of her, one that sometimes was cheerful, but in the other case threatened the lives of those around.
"What do I know?" he asked, closing his eyes. He was close to speaking his mind, to pouring his heart out in an attempt at calming her down, a simple swing at trying to get her to understand, of trying to stop her from further fighting, from ruining herself more. "Let's just say that I know you won't find solace in these damn bottles. They're nothing but painful reminders of an unfulfilled life, right? Reminders of pain, reminders of what you lost, reminders of..."
He sighed, looking back at her. The vulnerability she showed was subtle but present. Tense like a cat about to hiss, but with soft, glistering eyes. He took a step closer, putting a hand on her shoulder, speaking calmly.
"You're in pain, I know... it hurts like hell; that's as far as I can dare speak about it. Only you know what's in your heart, and I won't pry it out. I won't try to force you open and hear everything. That's for you to do with whom you wish to... be truthful with. I'm sure I don't deserve anyone's truth, for that would be hypocrisy."
To his surprise, she relaxed slightly into his touch, leaning a little closer. She stumbled slightly, catching herself by grabbing onto his shirt, staring up to meet his gaze.
"You know... maybe you're not as bad as I thought," she whispered, trying to stand on her own, but she still relied on him for support.
Mark's heart picked up, rattling like an old diesel engine on its last breath, about to explode and call it a day. His ribs felt brittle against each thump, cracking—at least in his mind. Still, he gathered himself. The woman was drunk, acting on pure instinct rather than anything else.
For a moment, she reached up, cupping his face, watching as his cheeks turned a soft shade of red under her touch.
"You play the tough guy, but deep down you're... soft."
She leaned in, trying to rid herself of the frustration that had built up by being lonely, the frustration that came with an unfulfilled dream of getting a man, of getting someone to build a life with. It all fell to ruin with the death of her father, the circumstances a secret she never learned about.
"No," he whispered, putting an index finger to her mouth. Her eyes widened slightly, but he wasted no time. No arguing, no talking back, no time for that kind of thing. He was afraid of his own restraint breaking, of giving in to that which he refused, afraid of lust, of taking advantage of her in such a vulnerable state. What she needed was care, not passion.
"Come on, I'll get you to bed," he mumbled, lifting her in his arms, carrying her with ease, his steps light. She just held on to him, a bit baffled, holding back colorful words, their shades lost on the softness of her lips.
"I hate you," she whispered, the words more of an attempt at keeping him out.
"I hate myself too, don't worry. I know I'm far from the man I should be. I should call things by name; I should grab fate by the balls and just show it who's the boss, but I'm scared."
He gently placed her on the bed, the soft squeak of her bed muffling her ragged breath. Mark just grabbed the blanket and tucked her in, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment.
"Sleep well, and..."
He sighed, shaking his head. His mind was empty, so he just glanced at her once again before leaving the room, finding his way to the couch. The bottle of wine, almost empty, was waiting for him, trying to lure him in. Instead of drinking it, he just grabbed it and, making his way to the sink, poured it all down the drain.
"This should teach you, damned liquid..."
He tossed the bottle in the trash, walking to the couch, where he lay down as comfortably as he could before sleep dragged him into its embrace, leaving the day of tomorrow hanging in the air like an unanswered prayer.