It was with a drunkards practiced stagger that Yohji let himself in
It was with a drunkards practiced stagger that Yohji let himself in. He kept his steps perfectly irregular, made sure to hit against the wall at all the right intervals, in all the expected places. Anything else would wake them fully, would alert his housemates. The fallout from a night a fantastically hedonistic revelry was nothing new, was an expected source of mundane disdain. Were he to saunter home sober it would draw attention, raise questions.
And questions were what he wanted to avoid just now.
They were a reliably predictable bunch, his companions. He was the lush, the slob, the lazy ne'er-do-well. He played his part perfectly, slid expertly into their expectations.
And no one had to be bothered by the bleeding.
He was a clotheshorse. It was a perfect cover for torn and bloody shirts thrown off and away in the wee hours of the morning. He hogged the hot water, giving him time to clean out and bandage up knives he almost dodged, bullets he never saw coming.
He drank too much, most likely indulged in all manner of recreational drugs, which explained the glazed, almost concussed look that made sharp green eyes hazy, that made him stumble past the third step on the staircase and slump against the wall on the landing.
Aya would kill him, Omi would scold him, and Ken would slam a much-deserved punch into his face if they knew what he did at night, dressed to kill beneath the tube tops and glitter.
But it gave them downtime, when Manx gave him these little tasks over drinks at some bar or another. She knew where to find him, knew what drove him. After all, it was her job to manage each little idiosyncrasy, the collective neuroses of Weiss.
It gave them time to read, to watch TV, study for exams, hell they could work at writing classic haiku or dirty limericks if they wanted. It was time for something normal, something human. And it gave him time to sleep, scared off the guilt and the nightmares for at least a little bit.
To Yohji, it was worth every drop of blood that ruined the favorite shirt of the week, every scar that pattered his tan flesh. They didn't say a word, didn't ask a question.
After all, everyone knew there were fights at bars if one wasn't careful...