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Mikoto had grown pretty used to not knowing where he was, not knowing who he was. He was accustomed to memory loss, to identity loss, to just loss in general. He wasn't really fazed by people drifting past him, momentary connections that got cut off as soon as they met him. But even though he wasn't surprised by it anymore, he did get far too comfortable in his friendships these days. Sure, he was cautious. Sure, he tried to only talk to them for short amounts of time so that John couldn't come in and ruin everything. He wasn't doing it on purpose and Mikoto was well aware of that, it's just— He really wanted someone who he could trust to be alone with John. And he had a candidate who was pretty promising. He wasn't sure if they'd met before, but he was a little too shy to ask. He would later realize he will not exactly get the chance to.
Fuuta was a pretty average guy, to the average eye. To be fair, he didn't really have much of a reason to be extraordinary either. And, to be fair yet again, Mikoto himself was pretty normal, aside from the few things he kept behind closed doors. And yet, Mikoto had chosen Fuuta to place his complete trust into. He told him almost everything. As he said; He wasn't sure if Fuuta had met John before without either of them telling him, if he did, he didn't really care, and Mikoto wasn't in the mood to ask about it. If Fuuta wanted to complain, he would. He wasn't the type to keep his mouth shut and endure in silence, no— He'd groan about everything, constantly saying how this and that and the other thing were pissing him off. And John would probably piss him off, so that's that.
So that was Mikoto's candidate. Fuuta, twenty, pretty much just someone he randomly chose. He really did like Fuuta, though, despite how rude and harsh he could sound. He was a good guy.
Mikoto wasn't really remembering that, though.
The memories of the last day were a complete, incomprehensible blur. There was only one thing he did even more than his DID, and that was his addiction. He was so deeply ashamed of it, of the fact that he was dependent on something so badly that he needed to take, take and take just so he wouldn't start rolling on the floor and screaming in pain, that even the thought of asking for help sent him reeling into panic. Balancing university like this was especially hard, rushing into bathrooms so that he wouldn't end up breaking down in class, attempts of hiding his withdrawal symptoms under energy drinks and a forced, obvious fake-smile. Going to the same school as Fuuta was a redeeming quality, but, come on. Seeing your best friend, if he could call him that, every day, wasn't exactly going to save you from drug dependency. He knew that, but it did make him feel better.
He hadn't had an overdose this bad in months. In years. He'd only been hospotalized twice before, but those were false alarms. He was really feeling it this time. He didn't remember much — Most of his memories were obscured by the sweet euphoria the drug brought into his mind. What remained was this: That beautiful, familiar feeling of a high creeping into the corners of his brain, and then— Passing out on the floor, something, someone grabbing onto him, screaming into a phone. He was drifting in and out of consciousness by this point, so he couldn't really see who, but he had his assumptions and he had his hopes. Judging by his best friend's personality, he probably wouldn't care so much, but let him yearn. He really hoped it was Fuuta. He really did, because then, he would know about his addiction and he would help him and he wouldn't have to do the difficult and scary task of speaking up about it, ruining his image and becoming vulnerable. He just wanted to be saved by someone, for once.
He felt light coming back into his consciousness again. No, this isn't it, no… Not again…. He was waking up, and the throbbing in his head was back. His pain was back, his anxiety was back, his worries were back. Everything he had overdosed because of in the first place was back, and stronger, and worse. If he had been in his room, he would have reached over to his bedside table and taken a pill or two to make it stop, or to make it numb, at least. But as he tried to do so, he noticed his hand hit something cold and metal-like before feeling around only to find a railing and nothing more. The second thing he came to realize was that someone was holding onto his other hand, in a quite comforting manner. He heard voices — some that he knew, some that he didn't. He pulled his hand back to his chest, and opened his eyes.
The white of the hospital ceiling was almost painful to look at, so he began to squint. He heard a hopeful gasp from his side, then stifled laughter. The hand in his changed grip. He felt how sweaty the person's hand was. Whoever it is, they must have been.. upset, maybe, or a little mad that he would be so stupid, or— worried about him? Hope crept into his heart for a minute. What if it was— No, Mikoto, stop. He needed to quit with his stupid, ill-tasting dreams before he got addicted to those, too. Before he altered his reality even more to the point of being delusional, of being insane. He opened his eyes properly this time, releasing a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He scrambled to sit up. A gentle but firm hand pushed down on his chest before he could, though, and he heard a voice that made his heart skip several beats altogether.
"Stay down like that, Mikoto. I don't want you to hurt yourself." Fuuta! He couldn't help but smile a little, raising his hand to hold onto Fuuta's wrist still on his chest. Another thing that he had now come to realize is that he wasn't really able to speak. He had made the conclusion that he wasn't intubated, but his mouth felt numb and useless, so he resorted to the next best thing, apparently. Giggling. A lot of it. He couldn't stop laughing and even when he turned his head to side to muffle it into the pillow, it just wouldn't cease. Fuuta was here! In the hospital, with him! So he was the one holding his hand! He was sure he was also blushing, but whatever. Fuuta was already made aware of how he's a disgusting junkie, and he was holding his hand, so he had nothing to lose.
He tried to focus all of his little energy into speaking and managed to get something along the lines of 'Hello' out. Fuuta's grip on his hand tightened, and he took the hand on his chest away. "Mikoto." He cleared his throat. Mikoto couldn't wait for him to speak again, his voice so enticing to him he didn't even care that he was hospitalized for overdose. "Dude, I don't even know what to ask you— Are you okay? You looked pretty knocked-out to me in your dorm." His heart jumped again. Fuuta was the one who brought him into the ER! He was overjoyed. He did care about him. Okay, that was reassuring as hell about their friendship, which he constantly worried about due to a lot of factors — Especially John, honestly, but there were many other things as well, like his occasional clinginess and how Fuuta may not be rude in general, he might just dislike Mikoto, which has now been disproven.
Mikoto concentrated really hard on forming words. "I'm fine, Fuuta! S'alright, really.." He gave his best grin, and turned his face towards Fuuta. Their eyes finally met, and he just shook his head, his expression some hard-to-decipher mix of concern and relief. He has never, ever seen Fuuta like this before. Sure, he was cheering fairly often while playing video games or watching football matches, but he didn't display this soft emotion in front of Mikoto before. It was exciting, getting to be one of the only people Fuuta would allow himself to become all mushy with. He really wished he would have seen this side of him earlier, though getting to see it even now was way more than he bargained for. He wouldn't give it up for anything.
"Dude, shut up. You overdosed so bad you were turning blue. You're lucky I came in time." He sighed, and Mikoto looked up at him with a curious expression. "I mean, i'm lucky too. Don't think I haven't grown attached to ya, because I kind of have." Now that was going to make him pass out right there. He was admitting to having at attachment to him. He liked him, surely, surely he did. He wouldn't leave him now, no, because they both liked eachother, a lot— "Can you tell me what happened? I— Yeah, you don't have to, but y'know. I want to help. T'was horrifying, seeing you passed out like that. You weren't breathing." Suddenly, even though he could barely speak a few moments ago, Mikoto couldn't stop the words flowing out. He confessed to everything. The prescriptions, then the street drugs, then what he assumed was something laced with something else. He finished his rambling, gasping for air. He didn't even consider his next sentence. Fuuta probably knew anyway.
"John warned me not to take it." He nodded thoughtfully. "Hm. Maybe you should listen to him more often if he says sensible things like that." Mikoto mocked up an offended gasp. Fuuta chuckled. "How do you feel knowing he was right and if you just did what he said, you wouldn't have landed in a hospital?" "Pissed." They both burst out laughing. Fuuta was the first to calm down, staring off into the distance. "Seriously, Mikoto. Don't do it again." He bit his lip, as if he was contemplating saying what he was about to say, then just shook his head again. "I love you too much to let you die like that, dude." Now, Mikoto really tried his best not to look like the lovesick fool he is with the previous statements Fuuta had made. He was literally itching to just grab him by the collar and kiss him, but he resisted. But even he had his limits. Fuuta, by now, had released him to be able to rest his face in his palms, trying to duck away from Mikoto upon noticing he was just blankly staring.
It felt like adding gasoline to an open fire, but Mikoto really wanted to just give in to his impulses. He fiddled with the blanket, trying to tear his eyes off from Fuuta's lips. He had to remember. He was in a hosptial, because he was an addict, and what he needed the least at the moment was someone to obsess over. He felt an immense guilt staring to sprout up inside his chest. Was he being an asshole for not saying it back? Was he taking advantage of Fuuta, in some way? Was Fuuta just lying to him to make him leave him alone for once? The thoughts were here again, the excuses, the dread, everything, and god he needed to do something about it. He was about to just shut his eyes, shut Fuuta out like he always did when he was kind to him, brushing it off as not to drink it in, when he felt the mattress dip under someone's weight. Fuuta had one knee on the bed now, and he was sort of hovering over Mikoto.
Fuuta put his hands on Mikoto's cheeks and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. It was nothing of note. He's probably never kissed anyone, just like Mikoto. First time for everything. He slid his hands down from Mikoto's face to his shoulders and exhaled shakily. "Don't overthink it. I love you, and that's that. Get some rest." He stood up from the mattress and basically ran out of the room, leaving Mikoto alone in his bed, his face about as red as his friend(?)'s hair. You should get hospitalized more often, 'Koto. Might even get you laid. Mikoto's blissed out expression turned into one of exasperation. Oh come on, John. Do you have to butt in.