Wind. Weight. Rats. His own uncertain steps. Those are all reasons the bottles could move. Maybe not like that, not exactly, maybe not in a row, but shit like that happens. It's not impossible. He could just be unlucky. He could just be freaking out.
The music, though.
The music wasn't something that could just happen.
Halfway up the stairs, he stopped. Froze right in place, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Goosebumps ran up his arm, a cool sensation prickling on his skin that was - had to be - the same wind that made the bottles roll. Because, when he looked, there was no one there; it was just him, on the landing, in the dim light, his palms sweaty and the faint, faint music ringing in his ears. The crawling fear was an unwelcome visitor, lurching slowly up into his throat and into his brain, and he felt, for just a moment, that he didn't give a shit about sticking to the bet. He should just leave.
...but that'd be just what those assholes would want, wouldn't it?
Aomine clenched his jaw.
"You fuckers."
It'd be easy. Set up a phone and some portable speakers, play some stupid old-timey music, in one of the other rooms, and then record Aomine hauling ass out of the hospital. They could post it online later and he'd never live it down. The ace of the basketball team, running like a little baby.
Like hell he's running.
What he did instead was clench his fists, too, and stomp the rest of the way up the stairs. On the landing, he didn't take out his phone; rather, he turned his head this way and that, trying to find the source of the sound, and decided on the long hall to his right. It was as dark as the rest of the place, covered in cracks and scattered leaves, but it had to be stable, right? Especially if those dicks were hiding down there.
He started off, walking quickly, shoulders tight. "I know you fucks are back there. Did you really think I'd fall for this kind of corny bullshit?"
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Date: 2015-10-09 03:10 pm (UTC)The music, though.
The music wasn't something that could just happen.
Halfway up the stairs, he stopped. Froze right in place, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Goosebumps ran up his arm, a cool sensation prickling on his skin that was - had to be - the same wind that made the bottles roll. Because, when he looked, there was no one there; it was just him, on the landing, in the dim light, his palms sweaty and the faint, faint music ringing in his ears. The crawling fear was an unwelcome visitor, lurching slowly up into his throat and into his brain, and he felt, for just a moment, that he didn't give a shit about sticking to the bet. He should just leave.
...but that'd be just what those assholes would want, wouldn't it?
Aomine clenched his jaw.
"You fuckers."
It'd be easy. Set up a phone and some portable speakers, play some stupid old-timey music, in one of the other rooms, and then record Aomine hauling ass out of the hospital. They could post it online later and he'd never live it down. The ace of the basketball team, running like a little baby.
Like hell he's running.
What he did instead was clench his fists, too, and stomp the rest of the way up the stairs. On the landing, he didn't take out his phone; rather, he turned his head this way and that, trying to find the source of the sound, and decided on the long hall to his right. It was as dark as the rest of the place, covered in cracks and scattered leaves, but it had to be stable, right? Especially if those dicks were hiding down there.
He started off, walking quickly, shoulders tight. "I know you fucks are back there. Did you really think I'd fall for this kind of corny bullshit?"