He woke to the sound of sizzling eggs and low voices, and for a moment remembered that the reason he lived here was because it felt like home.

He'd slept well, he discovered...but, then, for some reason, he always slept well when Sai was with him. There was just something comforting about those arms surrounding him, and that scent that was specifically Sai's--like cedar chips and cinnamon--that sent him drifting into sleep almost effortlessly. He felt safe when Sai was holding him, and...loved. And, after so long without that feeling, there was nothing more comforting or gratifying than to feel it now.

Stretching his arms up over his head, Ryuuen pulled himself into a sitting position on the bed and yawned. As he moved, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bureau mirror, saw that--not only did his bangs seem to be attempting to imitate Houjun's--but, the rest of his hair had become so tangled and matted that it hung only to shoulder length in some places, while the rest dangled down to the middle of his back. He was just drawing himself up out of depths of the blankets to find his hairbrush when the pain hit.

It was sharp and unexpected, lancing up through his chest like claws, jolting through him with such intensity that for a long moment, he couldn't breathe at all. Next came the dizziness; he'd just been swinging his legs over the side of the bed, ready to plant his feet on the carpet, but now everything had begun to spin, sending the bedroom rocking back and forth like an out of control carnival ride--it was all he could do to clutch onto the bed post, keep himself from falling face-first to the floor. And then, finally, came the weakness. All strength drained from his arms, his legs, his body; the grip on the bed post held for long enough that the eventual collapse didn't jar him too badly--it didn't, he noticed dully, even make more than a muffled, practically-inaudible thump as he fell...

His knees hit first, the impact jolting briefly up his spine; and, then, his fingers slipped from the round of the bed post, and he slumped onto his right arm on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out, but there was no breath for it, and so for a long, frightening moment, he could do nothing but lie weakly on the floor, right arm crushed beneath his weight and left arm clinging to his side, and feel the pain. It spiraled outwards from his chest, tingling through every limb and hammering into his skull like a dizzying migraine--bright flashes of color swam in his vision, blurry with tears and quivering like heat waves, and for a moment he thought frantically that he was dying, that he couldn't breathe because he was having a heart attack like the doctor'd said and that in a moment even these splotches of color were going to fade because he was going to drift off into blackness and die and no one would know before it was too late because he couldn't find the breath to scream--

And then, suddenly, he could breathe again.

It drifted in slowly at first, wheezing and soft, as if nothing but the first tiny rift in a breaking dam--and then, gradually, the rest of whatever it was that was blocking his breath crumbled away, and the air flooded into his lungs in great gasping breaths. He coughed once, quietly, only vaguely aware of the fact that the pain was receding from his body, and tugged his arm out from beneath him; it was tingly with lack of blood flow, the fingers rubbery and limp, but he barely noticed.

I'm...I'm...alive...

I'm alive.

I'm...alive.

The pain was nearly gone, now; the breath flowed normally through his nostrils, down his windpipe, into his lungs and back out again. He was shaking badly, legs drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them, and despite the return of his breath and the tears trickling from his eyes, he wept soundlessly. Just outside the door, he could hear the pleasant melody of Miaka's laughter, the low, comforting bass of Sai's voice drifting up from beneath it. There were other voices, too--Taka, Genrou, and was that Houjun? All his friends were here, so close to him... Distantly, he could smell brewing coffee, the buttery smell of scrambled eggs, and behind him, sunlight streamed in through the window, bathing the room in a warm golden glow that was both comforting and pleasant.

A perfect, wonderful morning. His friends were here, he'd slept well, and from the scent of the air coming in through the screen, it was going to be another hot, beautiful July day. But...

He drew in a soft, sobbing breath, rolled on the floor a bit to try to get his feet beneath him.

But, the pain... Dr. Lovely had said that he should get to the hospital as soon as possible if something like this happened, that he should call an ambulance, get someone to drive him...that he shouldn't ignore his symptoms, that people had died from doing that...

His eyes squeezed shut, sent the last clinging tears draining down over his cheeks.

Instead of warm and fed and surrounded by friends, he could be sitting in a hospital gown with anti-septic in his nostrils; he could be shivering and scared and alone, left by himself for hours without thought or explanation, made to stare at frighteningly-graphic medical posters while he waited and waited and waited for someone to appear, to help him, to make things better like they were supposed to...

Or. Or, he could be here, having a normal breakfast and normal conversation and a normal morning--he could be with the people he loved. He could be home.

It's...it's nothing, anyway. It's over, now, just like all the other times, right? Just like all the other times. I was fine then; I'm fine, now. Yes. I'm fine. I'm okay. I'm -fine.-

There was no pain, now; the breath came easily. Slowly, carefully, Ryuuen crawled to his feet, crossed to the bureau, and lifted the brush from the varnished wood; a moment later, he was tugging it through the long violet waves of his hair like he did every morning, sorting through the tangles and combing it down so it fell neatly onto his shoulders. He changed into a cottony grey tank top and clean blue jeans, peeled off his socks and slid his feet into comfortable sandals, and then moved to the door.

As he reached for the door knob, a ghost of the pain twinged through him like a reminder, made him pause, clutch at his chest...and, then, it faded, and he pulled open the door, stepped outside, and greeted his friends.