Silence, Part 1
Disclaimer: Toei's, etc.
Author's Notes: I started this fic around 2007/2008 (though just recently finished it), and this is written in present tense, like a lot of my stuff from that time period (not all published). There may be some grammatical errors of tense, because I was still pretty new to writing in present tense. Apologies in advance.
This was also inspired by the book Speak. If you haven't read it, I definitely recommend it, it's a really great read. However, while inspired by the book, I promise this isn't just Speak with Digimon characters.
Prologue
It’s been three days.
Three days since he has become unable to speak, unable to utter a single word. Three days since his world shattered, shattered so irretrievably like splintered glass from a broken mirror.
He feels frozen.
No one notices.
This isn't as unusual as it sounds, really. He isn't an outcast, and he has plenty of friends, but left to his own devices he is a bit of a loner by nature, and on those rare occasions when he wants nothing more than to shutter himself off away from the world, his friends are usually amenable to leave well enough alone for a few days.
He spends the weekend holed up in his room. He doesn't go to school on Friday. Taichi phones, but he does not answer. Taichi knocks on his door, and he burrows deeper under the covers.
His dad spends most of the weekend working, and comes home late each night. They've been having a rough time at the station lately. He doesn't know the details. He doesn't really care.
His brother thinks he is sick.
He had looked in the mirror, once, and it is easy to understand why Takeru thinks this. He is pale, paler than usual, and there are dark circles under his eyes. The little sleep he's had has been filled with nightmares. He looks as if he is about to fall apart at any moment.
He doesn't know what to do. School is tomorrow. He has barely left his room all weekend, except for the times he's been to the bathroom to throw up. He also hasn't eaten all weekend, so after the first night it is mostly just dry heaving.
He feels weak. His body can't seem to stop trembling. He thinks he's become paralyzed. Paralyzed with emotions he can't even begin to think about.
He thinks about saying something, but words fail him. There really isn't anything to say. He can't quite remember what is wrong.
His dad comes home a bit early Sunday night. He stays in his room, huddled up in his bed, all the lights in his room off. He likes the dark. It feels safe. In the dark he can pretend. Pretend that everything is still fine, that he looks fine, and that nothing ever went terribly wrong that Thursday night.
In the dark, that Thursday night he can't quite remember does not exist.
His dad knocks on his door. "Yamato?" he says, and there is a hint of confusion and concern lacing his voice.
He ignores the knock, and does not answer. He hears his dad crack open his door, but he is lying still and silent, eyes closed, as he has done most of the weekend. A ray of light from the hallway washes over his face as his dad opens the door wider, and he tries not to flinch and wants to scream. Light is reality. He does not want reality.
"Yamato? Are you awake?" his dad asks softly, and still he does not answer. After a moment, the door shuts again, and he is left alone in the dark.
He does not sleep.
* * *
His dad leaves early Monday for work. Earlier than he would even need to get up for school. This time, his dad doesn't check on him.
He lays there under the covers until the room begins to lighten as the sun comes up outside, shining its cheerful rays through his window. Soon he is supposed to be getting up and preparing for school.
He considers it for a moment. Walking to his classroom like nothing had happened, sitting through classes and pretending to listen, having to fake normality with Taichi... The thought triggers his gag-reflex, and he jumps up and rushes for the bathroom.
When the dry-heaves are over, his chest and throat are sore and his legs are shaking. He worries he's going to collapse. He can't go to school today. Something's still wrong.
Somehow, he makes his way to the living room, where there are no windows and he can keep the lights off and sit in the darkness. He practically falls into the couch, and pulls off the blanket they keep folded over the back of it. He feels better hiding under blankets. He sits there for a long time and doesn't think about anything.
At some point, the phone starts ringing. He turns his head towards it and stares. He doesn't answer it. It stops after ten rings. In his bedroom, his cell starts ringing. It's Taichi. He'd set a special ringtone so he'd always know right away when Taichi called. He knows it's too early for school to be over. Taichi must have managed to wrangle a bathroom trip out of one of the teachers.
His phone stops. He closes his eyes and eventually falls into another nightmare.
* * *
The sound of the lock turning wakes him up. He shakes off the remnants of the nightmare and opens his eyes to see his dad step through the front door. Is it already that late?
"Yamato?" he asks in surprise. "What are you doing home?"
He considers this question and what it means. His dad did not expect him to be home. Did he expect him to be over at Takeru's or Taichi's? Did he have a band practise he had forgotten about? Was it still early enough in the day that he should be at school? He had no clock in here, and with no windows it was impossible to see whether there was still daylight out.
After a few moments of silence, it becomes clear to his dad that he is not going to answer. "Are you sick? Why aren't you in school?" he demands, and there is another mixture of concern and confusion in his voice.
Ah. It is still early then. He wants to counter with, Why aren't you at work? but even though he opens his mouth, the words don't come. He is still frozen. He says nothing.
His dad comes over to him and puts the back of his hand against his forehead. He knows that he does not have a fever, that he will not feel warm, but for whatever reason, perhaps because it is easier than getting angry at him, his dad decides he is sick anyway.
Taichi stops by after school. He knocks on the door and his dad answers it. He tells Taichi that Yamato is sick. Taichi looks past his dad to where he is lying silent on the couch, a lump in the dark still hiding under the covers and watching this exchange because it does not require thinking. He wants Taichi to go away, to shut the door against the intrusion of light from the hallway and the intrusion of privacy he would create by bombarding him with questions, were his dad to allow Taichi in.
Taichi tells his dad that he has brought Yamato's schoolwork, and if he could just leave it for him, then he would be on his way. His dad agrees, and Taichi kneels down and digs out a pile of books and papers from his bag and hands them over. He leans into the doorway a bit and says, "Hope you feel better, Yamato." Then Taichi tells his dad that he will bring by Yamato's school work every day while he is sick, if it's okay.
His dad says it's fine. He wants to disagree, but the words stick in his throat. His dad closes the door, and Taichi is gone. So is the light. He shudders, ever so slightly.
His dad comes over to him and feels his forehead again. He's not sure why, he didn't have a fever earlier and he doesn't know why his dad would think that would change. He's not sick.
He can't tell whether his dad is satisfied or not with what he finds, but eventually he takes his hand away and goes over to the chair in the corner and sinks down into it, grabbing the remote. He turns on a lamp and then clicks on the tv, already tuned in to a news station. He always wonders why his dad doesn't get sick of the tv, working at the tv station all the time, but he spends at least two hours a day watching television if he gets home early enough.
He doesn't really care about the tv, though. It is the lamp he is bothered by, and he stares at it and wonders if willpower is enough to make it turn off. It is very bright, and has mysteriously lacked a lampshade ever since Taichi came round one night three months ago. He still swears up and down that he doesn't know what happened to it.
The reporter drones on in the background, and he doesn't listen to a word of it, still focused on the lamp. Then one word filters in and catches his attention. He flinches, and his mind unfreezes. He jumps up and rushes to the bathroom again for another round of dry-heaving, startling his dad. He remembers. The events of Thursday become a solid reality again, the darkness doing nothing to chase them away and make them pretend.
On Tuesday he goes to school.
Silence
Taichi is talking to him. He tries to concentrate, tries to listen to what it is Taichi is saying. He looks at Taichi's face and watches his mouth move, forming words that form sentences that form paragraphs, but the only noise he hears is the faint rush of blood pounding through his ears.
He frowns, and stares more intently, thinking he'll better be able to hear. He isn't sure why he is at school today. Something is wrong, and he knows what it is, he knows, really, but somehow he can't quite remember, all the same.
"Are you listening?" Taichi says, and he blinks. The rush of blood is gone. He stares at his best friend.
He thinks over that phrase in his mind. He has never really given it much thought before. His best friend. Taichi is his best friend. It was not ever an outcome he had predicted when he had first got stuck with the noisy, boisterous kid in a strange world not his own, but somehow their friendship had developed, and stuck. He can't picture his life anymore without Taichi right there in it beside him. He and Taichi have been through a lot, have learned so much about each other in the years since they first met, have trusted each other with secrets they will never tell anyone else, not even their siblings. It has made them close. Best friends.
He wonders if he can trust Taichi with this secret, too, as he has trusted all of his awful other secrets. He offers a small smile to Taichi, who has apparently been trying to get his attention all of this time. "You really are my best friend, you know?" he says, and his voice is a bit soft and hoarse from not having spoken in four and a half days. And if the only thing he gets in return is a bewildered look and a half-mocking hand against his forehead to check for a possible lingering fever, then it is no small wonder, really.
He leaves his confused friend standing in the middle of the sidewalk and continues on his way home.
* * *
"Is there something wrong?"
It is later in the afternoon, and he had known that Taichi would not leave it alone for long, but the question is still unexpected, cutting unevenly across the silence of the room. He swallows, and looks at his friend. He wants to tell Taichi, knows that Taichi would not judge him, and would help him however best he could. "No," he says quietly.
Taichi looks at him, uneasy, abandoning all pretense of the homework that had been his excuse to get past Mr. Ishida's defenses. "It's just, you're so quiet lately, and you don't look very well..."
In contrast, he clings more stubbornly to his language textbook, using it as a shield to block Taichi's concern. He reads the next question in the review very carefully, and then neatly prints a line of characters on his paper. He can feel Taichi watching him. "I'm fine," he says, even though he is not fine at all. "I was sick," he adds, and at least this one is partial truth, for he had thrown up most of the weekend.
"You've been sick before, but you've never been this quiet," Taichi points out. "You've barely said anything all day, and when you have it's been in response to someone else. I'm just-"
"I'm fine," he says, and his voice rises slightly, insistently, and it's the first hint of real emotion he's shown since Thursday.
Taichi stares at him, holds up his hands, placating. "Alright, alright, you're fine," he says, and he knows that his friend is trying to be soothing, even though the words come out a bit condescending. "It's just-you can talk to me, you know? If there's something wrong-and I'm not saying there is!" he adds hastily, shifting nervously on the bed. "But if there ever were, I won't judge you or anything, I won't laugh at you or go out and tell everybody or... whatever."
He smiles, faintly. "I know, Taichi. Thanks. But I really am fine." He stares at the wrinkled bed covers bunched up under Taichi's feet, just for a moment, and has a brief flash of another set of covers, similarly bunched up underneath him. He feels suddenly sick and swallows, and turns back to his homework, hoping the feeling will pass.
They spend the rest of the afternoon doing their homework in silence. When Taichi leaves, he gives Yamato a sad sort of smile and a softly spoken bye, and Yamato wonders if keeping his silence is worth it.
* * *
He dreams of it in the night.
The live, loud and exhilarating, one adrenaline rush after another. The emotional high afterwards, all the excited energy and the band feeding off of each other with the joy of a job well done.
The afterparty.
Drinking and laughing with his bandmates and the fans. Stumbling into the bedroom, just trying to find the bathroom. Hearing the door lock behind him, realizing he wasn't alone. Being pinned down on the bed, unable to break free, staring up at the bright lights on the ceiling. Pretending it wasn't real, that it wasn't happening.
He wakes up gasping, a scream lodged in his throat, refusing to be let loose, much the same way it had that Thursday night. He doesn't sleep again for the rest of the night.
* * *
On Wednesday he opens his mouth on three separate occasions to tell Taichi. Somehow the words never come. Taichi doesn't notice.
Taichi does notice him not eating at lunch for the second day in a row, and he gives Yamato a concerned frown. He wants Taichi to think he's fine, so he eats a bit of the food Taichi offers him, and then promptly goes and throws it back up in the bathroom afterwards. Anything hitting his throat reminds him of Thursday, and the things that had been in his mouth then... Remembering it makes him throw up again.
He hears the door to the boy's restroom open then, and Taichi's voice echoes off the tile walls. "Yamato? You okay in here?"
He stands up, flushing the toilet and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "I'm fine," he says, opening the stall door. He's not fine, and he opens his mouth to tell Taichi this, but once again the words get stuck. So he remains silent, and follows Taichi back to their classroom.
* * *
He dreams again, and when he wakes up choking he looks at the clock. It glares 12:22 at him in annoying red.
It's Thursday.
* * *
He goes to school, even though he wants to stay home and hide. He can't believe it's been a week already. The day passes by him in a blur. Koushiro, Sora, and his bandmates have started asking after him along with Taichi, finally noticing that something's off with him.
He brushes them off with the same "I'm fine" that he gives Taichi.
His dad comes home from work that night, but he doesn't go for his tv like he normally does. Instead he calls Yamato into the living room, asking him to have a seat on the couch. He does so hesitantly, staring uncomfortably at the lamp. He still doesn't like particularly bright lights.
He hears his dad shifting about in his chair, and looks over. His dad looks uncomfortable and unsure, and Yamato knows that whatever his dad wants to talk about, it's nothing good.
"Alright Yamato, what's going on with you?" His dad finally manages to blurt something out.
He definitely does not want to have this conversation. He looks back at the lamp. He can't picture telling his dad about that Thursday night. He can't even manage to tell Taichi yet, even though he wants to. He's nowhere near ready for his dad to know. He doesn't know what to say.
His dad is looking at him, waiting for an answer. "Nothing's going on," he finally says, knowing how stupid of an answer that is.
Indeed, his dad agrees with him. "I'm not stupid, Yamato," he says quietly. "You hid in your room all last weekend, skipped two days of school despite not being physically ill, you haven't eaten in a week from what I can tell, you probably haven't slept in that long either, and you sit in the darkness far more than is healthy."
"I'm fine," he insists, somewhat feebly. He can't tell his dad. He just can't.
"You're not," his dad disagrees. "You're not fine, and I don't think you have been for a week now. I've left you alone, hoping you'd work out whatever was going on, talk to somebody, but so far you're not improving, and you can't continue going on this way. You need to eat and sleep, and you need to tell someone whatever is bothering you."
His dad is worried.
He doesn't really know how to reassure him. His dad has every right to be worried. It makes him feel guilty, but it doesn't change anything. The thought of trying to tell his dad makes him feel dizzy and sick.
"I'm fine," he repeats, and his dad just sighs and stares at him with sad eyes.
"Talk to someone soon," is all he says. "And please eat something tonight."
* * *
He tries, he really does. But the creamy soup is too warm and thick, and reminds him too much of what else had gone down his throat recently.
He throws it back up in the kitchen sink.
He can practically hear his dad's worried silence from the next room.
* * *
Another week passes. He still doesn't tell anyone, and he still dreams of it every night. He still hasn't managed to eat anything, either. It's definitely taking a toll on his body, and he's lost weight.
Taichi continuously stares at him with worried eyes, but he no longer asks what's wrong. He knows the only answer he'll get if he asks.
His dad threatens to stick him in the hospital if he doesn't eat something by the week's end.
Yamato doesn't know what to do about any of it.
* * *
Thursday morning he eats a cracker, and doesn't throw it up.
It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
* * *
Saturday morning he cuts himself.
It isn't on purpose. He's mindlessly washing dishes in the kitchen, and grabs the silverware to put it away. His hand wraps around the sharp end of a knife before he even realises.
The sting in his palm is the most he's felt in two weeks. He stares blankly at the little drops of blood welling up, and wonders.
He doesn't put that knife away with the others. Instead, he slides it in his dresser drawer under a pile of his boxers.
* * *
When he wakes up that night from yet another nightmare, choking on the phantom object in his mouth and crying the tears he couldn't that night two weeks ago, he remembers the knife.
This time when he cuts himself, it's on purpose.
* * *
"Are you ever going to tell someone what's wrong?"
He looks up, briefly meeting Taichi's eyes across the room. "I don't know what you mean," he says, looking back down at his homework. He knows perfectly well what Taichi means.
It's been a month now. A month of constant nightmares and weight loss and cutting himself. He's at least managing to eat now, but only just barely. Just enough to stay out of the hospital his dad's constantly threatening him with.
His arms have become a patchwork medley of marks, old and new. He just wants to feel, and to forget.
No one's questioned his sudden affinity for long sleeves in the warm weather, but he's caught his dad staring at them more than once, as if he knows what's hidden underneath but is afraid to ask and have it confirmed.
"I mean the fact that something's been wrong with you for weeks now, and you refuse to let anyone help you," Taichi says, and if that's a hint of bitterness seeping into his voice, well, Yamato can't really blame him.
He tries. He really does. He wants to tell Taichi, to have someone else know and help him escape the numb paralyzation that's become his daily life. He wants it more than anything. He even manages a word: "I..."
But he can't.
"You what?" Taichi asks, but he can only shake his head. The other two words are a solid lump in his throat.
He goes back to his homework, and after a moment Taichi sighs and does the same.
* * *
He dreams that night, not of the afterparty, but of trying to tell Taichi. In his dream he's standing in Taichi's room, blood dripping down his legs and his arms, completely naked, shouting those three words over and over, but even though Taichi's there and looking directly at him, he doesn't hear him. He stumbles toward Taichi, hands reaching out, begging for his friend to help him, but Taichi only looks at him, shaking his head. "You're fine," he says, and Yamato can only cry.
He wakes up crying, frantically whispering those three words aloud for the first time since it happened.
He sits up in bed, trembling, and wraps his arms around his too-thin frame, desperately rocking himself back and forth, wishing Taichi was there to comfort him.
A light goes on in the hallway, and he shudders. "Yamato?"
He stops whispering when he hears his dad's sleep-fogged voice, but he can't seem to stop crying or rocking himself.
"Yamato?" his dad repeats, looking into his room. When he catches sight of the state Yamato's in, he sighs softly and comes in, shutting the door so they're both in darkness once more. It didn't take his dad long to catch onto his sudden aversion of bright lights, though he has yet to understand the reason.
His dad sinks down onto the bed next to him, pulling him in close for a sideways hug, the only kind he tolerates anymore, as his dad quickly learned.
"Tell me what's wrong?" his dad requests quietly, his voice a soothing rumble in the dark.
He shakes his head, knowing his dad will feel the motion.
"Why not?"
"Can't," he whispers.
"Why can't you?"
"Just can't," he repeats, voice breaking slightly.
"Can you tell anyone else?"
He shakes his head again. Even though he wants to, he can't.
He hears his dad sigh, and wishes he'd tried harder to be quiet. He doesn't want to hurt his dad.
"Please tell someone soon," his dad says softly. "Before this ends up tearing you apart."
* * *
He gets held back after school the next day. Taichi tries to wait for him, but he shakes his head and waves him on.
He stands there silently, waiting while his teacher sizes him up.
“Mr. Ishida, can you explain your poor attention in my class these last couple of weeks?” his teacher finally asks.
“No, sir,” he replies softly. He tries to make the statement sound respectful.
“Is it a problem with the curriculum? Are you having trouble understanding the concepts we’re going over? All of your previous grades have been exemplary.”
“No, sir,” he repeats. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t find the class difficult. He just can’t concentrate anymore. He’s too caught up in trying to cope with what happened.
His teacher studies him for another moment. “Your other teachers have reported similar issues with you lately. Are you having problems at home?”
“No, sir.” He feels helpless. He can’t say what’s wrong. He can’t even think of a good excuse. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder to pay attention.”
His teacher gives him a firm look. “See that you do. If I don’t see improvement by next week, I’ll have to call in your father.”
“Yes, sir.” He waits to be dismissed, and tries not to run out the door when he is.
His arm itches.
* * *
It’s always an immense satisfaction watching the blood slowly drip down the side of his arm. He likes to watch it spatter in tiny drops on to the pristine white of the bathroom sink.
Eventually he bandages his arm up and cries.
* * *
Takeru comes over on the weekend for the first time since it happened. He doesn’t announce it or ask beforehand, and Yamato is pretty sure he does it that way on purpose. He’s been putting off his brother for a month now.
He doesn’t want to seem rude, so he doesn’t tell his brother to go away, even though that’s exactly what he wants.
They sit in the kitchen, Takeru at the table while he pretends to be normal, scrambling around for something to feed his hungry, growing brother.
He tries to ignore the rising urge to lunge desperately at the light switch and flip it off. The lights at school are bad enough, and stretch the limits of his tolerance daily. He tends to spend as little time as possible with the lights on at home.
“Yamato?”
He realises now that Takeru has been chatting away to him, and he hasn’t heard a word of it. He stares at his brother, not sure what to say.
Takeru sighs. “You know, Taichi said you were in a bad way, but I didn’t realise it was this bad...”
He looks away, annoyed that Taichi’s been talking about him, and to his brother of all people. “I’m fine.” It’s usually enough to get Taichi to shut up.
Takeru isn’t Taichi, however, and it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. “If the things Taichi has been telling me are true, you’re hardly fine. You look horrible. Taichi says you never pay attention to anyone anymore, you hardly speak, and you spend a lot of time staring obsessively at lights. Even dad’s remarked how you hardly eat or sleep anymore. We’re not stupid. We know something’s wrong. Why can’t you tell one of us?”
He wants to cry. His arm itches. His heart aches. He thinks he’s drowning. He’s desperately trying to hold his head above water, but keeps slipping under.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t know what else to say. He wants to tell Taichi. He’s tried, so many times. But no matter what, he never can. At this point, telling Takeru isn’t even a possibility.
He can’t really blame his brother when he leaves without another word, slamming the door in anger behind him.
But it’s easy to hate himself when all he feels is relief at his brother’s leaving.
* * *
He dreams in the night again. He’s at the afterparty, in the guest room, lying alone in the bed. He’s bleeding, from a place he never even knew was possible. His mouth and lips are smeared with white. There’s vomit on the pillow next to him. The lights are shining down brightly.
He isn’t crying.
Takeru is, though. He’s in the doorway, staring in horror at his brother’s battered body. He’s talking through his sobs. “Why can’t you tell one of us? We’re not stupid.” He repeats it over and over until Yamato wants to put his hands over his ears and scream.
Taichi’s there too, but he’s not looking at Yamato. Instead, he’s focused on Takeru, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, he’s fine,” he says scornfully.
He stares at the both of them. He’s trembling. Everything aches, and burns, and stings. He feels something trickling out between his thighs. It fills him with shame, and he hates himself.
“I’m not fine,” he says quietly, voice shaking. Neither of them seem to hear him. He repeats himself, slightly louder and slightly more desperate sounding.
They aren’t listening to him. He says it again, and again, wanting them to hear, wanting them to know. He understands. He isn’t fine. He isn’t.
Finally Taichi looks at him. But instead of reassurance, he just smiles. “Don’t be silly,” he says, and shakes his head. “Of course you’re fine.”
“No,” he insists. There’s a lump in his throat. He can feel the blood drying. “I’m not fine.”
He wakes up screaming it.
It doesn’t take long for his dad to run into his room, and by then he’s crying.
“I’m not fine,” he sobs, and his dad can only hold him tight.
* * *
He once again finds it difficult to eat for the next few days.
His dad notices, of course, but he doesn’t say anything. Just watches him with worried eyes, his silence saying more than words ever could.
* * *
On Thursday the band wants to hold their first practise since the live. He listens to them making plans to meet in band room 3 after school, and knows he won’t be there. Thinking about anything related to the band makes him feel sick.
He thinks that might actually be the worst thing about what happened to him.
“You’re free to come too, right, Yamato?” Kenji suddenly asks, turning to him.
He can only stare at them, not answering. It makes them glance at each other uneasily. He understands. They, too, know something is wrong, and are just as worried as his other friends. They’re also just as out of their depth, not knowing what is wrong or how to help him.
He doesn’t want to quit the band. But right now, he has no clue how he can stay in it when just the thought of a practise makes him want to throw up.
“Yamato?”
He realises he actually is about to be sick. He hurriedly excuses himself, and promptly locks himself in a bathroom stall.
When he is finished, he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer. He’s reminded of afterwards, hunched miserably over the toilet, shaking as he tried desperately to rid himself of everything that had been forced into him.
Nyusumi had eventually found him that way, and mistaken it for a hangover. He hates Ny just a little bit for not realizing what really happened that night. He knows it’s irrational. He feels it just the same, though.
* * *
Another night, another nightmare.
He wakes up choking again, but it’s quiet enough to not wake his father. His tears are silent.
He sits up in his bed, huddled up against the headboard, hugging himself tightly for a long time while he cries.
He doesn’t know how to make that Thursday night go away.
* * *
When he wakes up the next night, he doesn’t waste time with tears. His head is filled with too many bad images. Taichi telling him he’s fine, Takeru storming out, his bandmates staring at him, Ny helping him to the bed while he reassures him he’ll sleep it off and be fine in the morning.
It doesn’t take him long to retrieve the knife from its hiding place. He replays that night in his head as he makes quick, sharp slashes on his inner thigh.
Stumbling into Ny’s guest room, having had a bit too much to drink, just wanting a bathroom. Someone following him, locking the door.
His confusion as he’s forced down onto the bed, a stranger climbing on top of him, pinning his wrists. The stranger is so much stronger, and he fights but he’s drunk and can’t get himself coordinated.
The hand reaching down between his legs, groping him a bit before fumbling to undo his jeans. Fingers shoved into his mouth, forcing it open wide. He bites down, not liking it, but all that gets him is a hard blow to the head.
He feels disoriented.
Then... something being shoved into his mouth. Something warm, and hard, and big. It fills his mouth, stretches it wide open, knocking against the back of his throat, and he gags. He feels like he’s choking on it. He can’t breathe.
His hair is gripped tightly, and his head knocks repeatedly against the headboard as the stranger shoves rapidly in and out of his mouth, getting deep in his throat every time. He tries desperately to breathe through his nose.
His hands are free now, but he’s in too much pain and confusion to even attempt to fight anymore.
He continues to cut himself, remembering and hating.
Blood trickles down his thigh. Suddenly he’s not in his own bedroom anymore. He’s back there, and red and white are leaking out between his legs, trailing down his thighs and onto the clean bedsheets.
He moans, feeling every bit of the pain and shame and horror. Knowing what’s just happened to him, but not believing it.
This sort of thing doesn’t happen to boys.
part two
Author's Notes: I started this fic around 2007/2008 (though just recently finished it), and this is written in present tense, like a lot of my stuff from that time period (not all published). There may be some grammatical errors of tense, because I was still pretty new to writing in present tense. Apologies in advance.
This was also inspired by the book Speak. If you haven't read it, I definitely recommend it, it's a really great read. However, while inspired by the book, I promise this isn't just Speak with Digimon characters.
Prologue
It’s been three days.
Three days since he has become unable to speak, unable to utter a single word. Three days since his world shattered, shattered so irretrievably like splintered glass from a broken mirror.
He feels frozen.
No one notices.
This isn't as unusual as it sounds, really. He isn't an outcast, and he has plenty of friends, but left to his own devices he is a bit of a loner by nature, and on those rare occasions when he wants nothing more than to shutter himself off away from the world, his friends are usually amenable to leave well enough alone for a few days.
He spends the weekend holed up in his room. He doesn't go to school on Friday. Taichi phones, but he does not answer. Taichi knocks on his door, and he burrows deeper under the covers.
His dad spends most of the weekend working, and comes home late each night. They've been having a rough time at the station lately. He doesn't know the details. He doesn't really care.
His brother thinks he is sick.
He had looked in the mirror, once, and it is easy to understand why Takeru thinks this. He is pale, paler than usual, and there are dark circles under his eyes. The little sleep he's had has been filled with nightmares. He looks as if he is about to fall apart at any moment.
He doesn't know what to do. School is tomorrow. He has barely left his room all weekend, except for the times he's been to the bathroom to throw up. He also hasn't eaten all weekend, so after the first night it is mostly just dry heaving.
He feels weak. His body can't seem to stop trembling. He thinks he's become paralyzed. Paralyzed with emotions he can't even begin to think about.
He thinks about saying something, but words fail him. There really isn't anything to say. He can't quite remember what is wrong.
His dad comes home a bit early Sunday night. He stays in his room, huddled up in his bed, all the lights in his room off. He likes the dark. It feels safe. In the dark he can pretend. Pretend that everything is still fine, that he looks fine, and that nothing ever went terribly wrong that Thursday night.
In the dark, that Thursday night he can't quite remember does not exist.
His dad knocks on his door. "Yamato?" he says, and there is a hint of confusion and concern lacing his voice.
He ignores the knock, and does not answer. He hears his dad crack open his door, but he is lying still and silent, eyes closed, as he has done most of the weekend. A ray of light from the hallway washes over his face as his dad opens the door wider, and he tries not to flinch and wants to scream. Light is reality. He does not want reality.
"Yamato? Are you awake?" his dad asks softly, and still he does not answer. After a moment, the door shuts again, and he is left alone in the dark.
He does not sleep.
* * *
His dad leaves early Monday for work. Earlier than he would even need to get up for school. This time, his dad doesn't check on him.
He lays there under the covers until the room begins to lighten as the sun comes up outside, shining its cheerful rays through his window. Soon he is supposed to be getting up and preparing for school.
He considers it for a moment. Walking to his classroom like nothing had happened, sitting through classes and pretending to listen, having to fake normality with Taichi... The thought triggers his gag-reflex, and he jumps up and rushes for the bathroom.
When the dry-heaves are over, his chest and throat are sore and his legs are shaking. He worries he's going to collapse. He can't go to school today. Something's still wrong.
Somehow, he makes his way to the living room, where there are no windows and he can keep the lights off and sit in the darkness. He practically falls into the couch, and pulls off the blanket they keep folded over the back of it. He feels better hiding under blankets. He sits there for a long time and doesn't think about anything.
At some point, the phone starts ringing. He turns his head towards it and stares. He doesn't answer it. It stops after ten rings. In his bedroom, his cell starts ringing. It's Taichi. He'd set a special ringtone so he'd always know right away when Taichi called. He knows it's too early for school to be over. Taichi must have managed to wrangle a bathroom trip out of one of the teachers.
His phone stops. He closes his eyes and eventually falls into another nightmare.
* * *
The sound of the lock turning wakes him up. He shakes off the remnants of the nightmare and opens his eyes to see his dad step through the front door. Is it already that late?
"Yamato?" he asks in surprise. "What are you doing home?"
He considers this question and what it means. His dad did not expect him to be home. Did he expect him to be over at Takeru's or Taichi's? Did he have a band practise he had forgotten about? Was it still early enough in the day that he should be at school? He had no clock in here, and with no windows it was impossible to see whether there was still daylight out.
After a few moments of silence, it becomes clear to his dad that he is not going to answer. "Are you sick? Why aren't you in school?" he demands, and there is another mixture of concern and confusion in his voice.
Ah. It is still early then. He wants to counter with, Why aren't you at work? but even though he opens his mouth, the words don't come. He is still frozen. He says nothing.
His dad comes over to him and puts the back of his hand against his forehead. He knows that he does not have a fever, that he will not feel warm, but for whatever reason, perhaps because it is easier than getting angry at him, his dad decides he is sick anyway.
Taichi stops by after school. He knocks on the door and his dad answers it. He tells Taichi that Yamato is sick. Taichi looks past his dad to where he is lying silent on the couch, a lump in the dark still hiding under the covers and watching this exchange because it does not require thinking. He wants Taichi to go away, to shut the door against the intrusion of light from the hallway and the intrusion of privacy he would create by bombarding him with questions, were his dad to allow Taichi in.
Taichi tells his dad that he has brought Yamato's schoolwork, and if he could just leave it for him, then he would be on his way. His dad agrees, and Taichi kneels down and digs out a pile of books and papers from his bag and hands them over. He leans into the doorway a bit and says, "Hope you feel better, Yamato." Then Taichi tells his dad that he will bring by Yamato's school work every day while he is sick, if it's okay.
His dad says it's fine. He wants to disagree, but the words stick in his throat. His dad closes the door, and Taichi is gone. So is the light. He shudders, ever so slightly.
His dad comes over to him and feels his forehead again. He's not sure why, he didn't have a fever earlier and he doesn't know why his dad would think that would change. He's not sick.
He can't tell whether his dad is satisfied or not with what he finds, but eventually he takes his hand away and goes over to the chair in the corner and sinks down into it, grabbing the remote. He turns on a lamp and then clicks on the tv, already tuned in to a news station. He always wonders why his dad doesn't get sick of the tv, working at the tv station all the time, but he spends at least two hours a day watching television if he gets home early enough.
He doesn't really care about the tv, though. It is the lamp he is bothered by, and he stares at it and wonders if willpower is enough to make it turn off. It is very bright, and has mysteriously lacked a lampshade ever since Taichi came round one night three months ago. He still swears up and down that he doesn't know what happened to it.
The reporter drones on in the background, and he doesn't listen to a word of it, still focused on the lamp. Then one word filters in and catches his attention. He flinches, and his mind unfreezes. He jumps up and rushes to the bathroom again for another round of dry-heaving, startling his dad. He remembers. The events of Thursday become a solid reality again, the darkness doing nothing to chase them away and make them pretend.
On Tuesday he goes to school.
Silence
Taichi is talking to him. He tries to concentrate, tries to listen to what it is Taichi is saying. He looks at Taichi's face and watches his mouth move, forming words that form sentences that form paragraphs, but the only noise he hears is the faint rush of blood pounding through his ears.
He frowns, and stares more intently, thinking he'll better be able to hear. He isn't sure why he is at school today. Something is wrong, and he knows what it is, he knows, really, but somehow he can't quite remember, all the same.
"Are you listening?" Taichi says, and he blinks. The rush of blood is gone. He stares at his best friend.
He thinks over that phrase in his mind. He has never really given it much thought before. His best friend. Taichi is his best friend. It was not ever an outcome he had predicted when he had first got stuck with the noisy, boisterous kid in a strange world not his own, but somehow their friendship had developed, and stuck. He can't picture his life anymore without Taichi right there in it beside him. He and Taichi have been through a lot, have learned so much about each other in the years since they first met, have trusted each other with secrets they will never tell anyone else, not even their siblings. It has made them close. Best friends.
He wonders if he can trust Taichi with this secret, too, as he has trusted all of his awful other secrets. He offers a small smile to Taichi, who has apparently been trying to get his attention all of this time. "You really are my best friend, you know?" he says, and his voice is a bit soft and hoarse from not having spoken in four and a half days. And if the only thing he gets in return is a bewildered look and a half-mocking hand against his forehead to check for a possible lingering fever, then it is no small wonder, really.
He leaves his confused friend standing in the middle of the sidewalk and continues on his way home.
* * *
"Is there something wrong?"
It is later in the afternoon, and he had known that Taichi would not leave it alone for long, but the question is still unexpected, cutting unevenly across the silence of the room. He swallows, and looks at his friend. He wants to tell Taichi, knows that Taichi would not judge him, and would help him however best he could. "No," he says quietly.
Taichi looks at him, uneasy, abandoning all pretense of the homework that had been his excuse to get past Mr. Ishida's defenses. "It's just, you're so quiet lately, and you don't look very well..."
In contrast, he clings more stubbornly to his language textbook, using it as a shield to block Taichi's concern. He reads the next question in the review very carefully, and then neatly prints a line of characters on his paper. He can feel Taichi watching him. "I'm fine," he says, even though he is not fine at all. "I was sick," he adds, and at least this one is partial truth, for he had thrown up most of the weekend.
"You've been sick before, but you've never been this quiet," Taichi points out. "You've barely said anything all day, and when you have it's been in response to someone else. I'm just-"
"I'm fine," he says, and his voice rises slightly, insistently, and it's the first hint of real emotion he's shown since Thursday.
Taichi stares at him, holds up his hands, placating. "Alright, alright, you're fine," he says, and he knows that his friend is trying to be soothing, even though the words come out a bit condescending. "It's just-you can talk to me, you know? If there's something wrong-and I'm not saying there is!" he adds hastily, shifting nervously on the bed. "But if there ever were, I won't judge you or anything, I won't laugh at you or go out and tell everybody or... whatever."
He smiles, faintly. "I know, Taichi. Thanks. But I really am fine." He stares at the wrinkled bed covers bunched up under Taichi's feet, just for a moment, and has a brief flash of another set of covers, similarly bunched up underneath him. He feels suddenly sick and swallows, and turns back to his homework, hoping the feeling will pass.
They spend the rest of the afternoon doing their homework in silence. When Taichi leaves, he gives Yamato a sad sort of smile and a softly spoken bye, and Yamato wonders if keeping his silence is worth it.
* * *
He dreams of it in the night.
The live, loud and exhilarating, one adrenaline rush after another. The emotional high afterwards, all the excited energy and the band feeding off of each other with the joy of a job well done.
The afterparty.
Drinking and laughing with his bandmates and the fans. Stumbling into the bedroom, just trying to find the bathroom. Hearing the door lock behind him, realizing he wasn't alone. Being pinned down on the bed, unable to break free, staring up at the bright lights on the ceiling. Pretending it wasn't real, that it wasn't happening.
He wakes up gasping, a scream lodged in his throat, refusing to be let loose, much the same way it had that Thursday night. He doesn't sleep again for the rest of the night.
* * *
On Wednesday he opens his mouth on three separate occasions to tell Taichi. Somehow the words never come. Taichi doesn't notice.
Taichi does notice him not eating at lunch for the second day in a row, and he gives Yamato a concerned frown. He wants Taichi to think he's fine, so he eats a bit of the food Taichi offers him, and then promptly goes and throws it back up in the bathroom afterwards. Anything hitting his throat reminds him of Thursday, and the things that had been in his mouth then... Remembering it makes him throw up again.
He hears the door to the boy's restroom open then, and Taichi's voice echoes off the tile walls. "Yamato? You okay in here?"
He stands up, flushing the toilet and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "I'm fine," he says, opening the stall door. He's not fine, and he opens his mouth to tell Taichi this, but once again the words get stuck. So he remains silent, and follows Taichi back to their classroom.
* * *
He dreams again, and when he wakes up choking he looks at the clock. It glares 12:22 at him in annoying red.
It's Thursday.
* * *
He goes to school, even though he wants to stay home and hide. He can't believe it's been a week already. The day passes by him in a blur. Koushiro, Sora, and his bandmates have started asking after him along with Taichi, finally noticing that something's off with him.
He brushes them off with the same "I'm fine" that he gives Taichi.
His dad comes home from work that night, but he doesn't go for his tv like he normally does. Instead he calls Yamato into the living room, asking him to have a seat on the couch. He does so hesitantly, staring uncomfortably at the lamp. He still doesn't like particularly bright lights.
He hears his dad shifting about in his chair, and looks over. His dad looks uncomfortable and unsure, and Yamato knows that whatever his dad wants to talk about, it's nothing good.
"Alright Yamato, what's going on with you?" His dad finally manages to blurt something out.
He definitely does not want to have this conversation. He looks back at the lamp. He can't picture telling his dad about that Thursday night. He can't even manage to tell Taichi yet, even though he wants to. He's nowhere near ready for his dad to know. He doesn't know what to say.
His dad is looking at him, waiting for an answer. "Nothing's going on," he finally says, knowing how stupid of an answer that is.
Indeed, his dad agrees with him. "I'm not stupid, Yamato," he says quietly. "You hid in your room all last weekend, skipped two days of school despite not being physically ill, you haven't eaten in a week from what I can tell, you probably haven't slept in that long either, and you sit in the darkness far more than is healthy."
"I'm fine," he insists, somewhat feebly. He can't tell his dad. He just can't.
"You're not," his dad disagrees. "You're not fine, and I don't think you have been for a week now. I've left you alone, hoping you'd work out whatever was going on, talk to somebody, but so far you're not improving, and you can't continue going on this way. You need to eat and sleep, and you need to tell someone whatever is bothering you."
His dad is worried.
He doesn't really know how to reassure him. His dad has every right to be worried. It makes him feel guilty, but it doesn't change anything. The thought of trying to tell his dad makes him feel dizzy and sick.
"I'm fine," he repeats, and his dad just sighs and stares at him with sad eyes.
"Talk to someone soon," is all he says. "And please eat something tonight."
* * *
He tries, he really does. But the creamy soup is too warm and thick, and reminds him too much of what else had gone down his throat recently.
He throws it back up in the kitchen sink.
He can practically hear his dad's worried silence from the next room.
* * *
Another week passes. He still doesn't tell anyone, and he still dreams of it every night. He still hasn't managed to eat anything, either. It's definitely taking a toll on his body, and he's lost weight.
Taichi continuously stares at him with worried eyes, but he no longer asks what's wrong. He knows the only answer he'll get if he asks.
His dad threatens to stick him in the hospital if he doesn't eat something by the week's end.
Yamato doesn't know what to do about any of it.
* * *
Thursday morning he eats a cracker, and doesn't throw it up.
It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
* * *
Saturday morning he cuts himself.
It isn't on purpose. He's mindlessly washing dishes in the kitchen, and grabs the silverware to put it away. His hand wraps around the sharp end of a knife before he even realises.
The sting in his palm is the most he's felt in two weeks. He stares blankly at the little drops of blood welling up, and wonders.
He doesn't put that knife away with the others. Instead, he slides it in his dresser drawer under a pile of his boxers.
* * *
When he wakes up that night from yet another nightmare, choking on the phantom object in his mouth and crying the tears he couldn't that night two weeks ago, he remembers the knife.
This time when he cuts himself, it's on purpose.
* * *
"Are you ever going to tell someone what's wrong?"
He looks up, briefly meeting Taichi's eyes across the room. "I don't know what you mean," he says, looking back down at his homework. He knows perfectly well what Taichi means.
It's been a month now. A month of constant nightmares and weight loss and cutting himself. He's at least managing to eat now, but only just barely. Just enough to stay out of the hospital his dad's constantly threatening him with.
His arms have become a patchwork medley of marks, old and new. He just wants to feel, and to forget.
No one's questioned his sudden affinity for long sleeves in the warm weather, but he's caught his dad staring at them more than once, as if he knows what's hidden underneath but is afraid to ask and have it confirmed.
"I mean the fact that something's been wrong with you for weeks now, and you refuse to let anyone help you," Taichi says, and if that's a hint of bitterness seeping into his voice, well, Yamato can't really blame him.
He tries. He really does. He wants to tell Taichi, to have someone else know and help him escape the numb paralyzation that's become his daily life. He wants it more than anything. He even manages a word: "I..."
But he can't.
"You what?" Taichi asks, but he can only shake his head. The other two words are a solid lump in his throat.
He goes back to his homework, and after a moment Taichi sighs and does the same.
* * *
He dreams that night, not of the afterparty, but of trying to tell Taichi. In his dream he's standing in Taichi's room, blood dripping down his legs and his arms, completely naked, shouting those three words over and over, but even though Taichi's there and looking directly at him, he doesn't hear him. He stumbles toward Taichi, hands reaching out, begging for his friend to help him, but Taichi only looks at him, shaking his head. "You're fine," he says, and Yamato can only cry.
He wakes up crying, frantically whispering those three words aloud for the first time since it happened.
He sits up in bed, trembling, and wraps his arms around his too-thin frame, desperately rocking himself back and forth, wishing Taichi was there to comfort him.
A light goes on in the hallway, and he shudders. "Yamato?"
He stops whispering when he hears his dad's sleep-fogged voice, but he can't seem to stop crying or rocking himself.
"Yamato?" his dad repeats, looking into his room. When he catches sight of the state Yamato's in, he sighs softly and comes in, shutting the door so they're both in darkness once more. It didn't take his dad long to catch onto his sudden aversion of bright lights, though he has yet to understand the reason.
His dad sinks down onto the bed next to him, pulling him in close for a sideways hug, the only kind he tolerates anymore, as his dad quickly learned.
"Tell me what's wrong?" his dad requests quietly, his voice a soothing rumble in the dark.
He shakes his head, knowing his dad will feel the motion.
"Why not?"
"Can't," he whispers.
"Why can't you?"
"Just can't," he repeats, voice breaking slightly.
"Can you tell anyone else?"
He shakes his head again. Even though he wants to, he can't.
He hears his dad sigh, and wishes he'd tried harder to be quiet. He doesn't want to hurt his dad.
"Please tell someone soon," his dad says softly. "Before this ends up tearing you apart."
* * *
He gets held back after school the next day. Taichi tries to wait for him, but he shakes his head and waves him on.
He stands there silently, waiting while his teacher sizes him up.
“Mr. Ishida, can you explain your poor attention in my class these last couple of weeks?” his teacher finally asks.
“No, sir,” he replies softly. He tries to make the statement sound respectful.
“Is it a problem with the curriculum? Are you having trouble understanding the concepts we’re going over? All of your previous grades have been exemplary.”
“No, sir,” he repeats. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t find the class difficult. He just can’t concentrate anymore. He’s too caught up in trying to cope with what happened.
His teacher studies him for another moment. “Your other teachers have reported similar issues with you lately. Are you having problems at home?”
“No, sir.” He feels helpless. He can’t say what’s wrong. He can’t even think of a good excuse. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder to pay attention.”
His teacher gives him a firm look. “See that you do. If I don’t see improvement by next week, I’ll have to call in your father.”
“Yes, sir.” He waits to be dismissed, and tries not to run out the door when he is.
His arm itches.
* * *
It’s always an immense satisfaction watching the blood slowly drip down the side of his arm. He likes to watch it spatter in tiny drops on to the pristine white of the bathroom sink.
Eventually he bandages his arm up and cries.
* * *
Takeru comes over on the weekend for the first time since it happened. He doesn’t announce it or ask beforehand, and Yamato is pretty sure he does it that way on purpose. He’s been putting off his brother for a month now.
He doesn’t want to seem rude, so he doesn’t tell his brother to go away, even though that’s exactly what he wants.
They sit in the kitchen, Takeru at the table while he pretends to be normal, scrambling around for something to feed his hungry, growing brother.
He tries to ignore the rising urge to lunge desperately at the light switch and flip it off. The lights at school are bad enough, and stretch the limits of his tolerance daily. He tends to spend as little time as possible with the lights on at home.
“Yamato?”
He realises now that Takeru has been chatting away to him, and he hasn’t heard a word of it. He stares at his brother, not sure what to say.
Takeru sighs. “You know, Taichi said you were in a bad way, but I didn’t realise it was this bad...”
He looks away, annoyed that Taichi’s been talking about him, and to his brother of all people. “I’m fine.” It’s usually enough to get Taichi to shut up.
Takeru isn’t Taichi, however, and it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. “If the things Taichi has been telling me are true, you’re hardly fine. You look horrible. Taichi says you never pay attention to anyone anymore, you hardly speak, and you spend a lot of time staring obsessively at lights. Even dad’s remarked how you hardly eat or sleep anymore. We’re not stupid. We know something’s wrong. Why can’t you tell one of us?”
He wants to cry. His arm itches. His heart aches. He thinks he’s drowning. He’s desperately trying to hold his head above water, but keeps slipping under.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t know what else to say. He wants to tell Taichi. He’s tried, so many times. But no matter what, he never can. At this point, telling Takeru isn’t even a possibility.
He can’t really blame his brother when he leaves without another word, slamming the door in anger behind him.
But it’s easy to hate himself when all he feels is relief at his brother’s leaving.
* * *
He dreams in the night again. He’s at the afterparty, in the guest room, lying alone in the bed. He’s bleeding, from a place he never even knew was possible. His mouth and lips are smeared with white. There’s vomit on the pillow next to him. The lights are shining down brightly.
He isn’t crying.
Takeru is, though. He’s in the doorway, staring in horror at his brother’s battered body. He’s talking through his sobs. “Why can’t you tell one of us? We’re not stupid.” He repeats it over and over until Yamato wants to put his hands over his ears and scream.
Taichi’s there too, but he’s not looking at Yamato. Instead, he’s focused on Takeru, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, he’s fine,” he says scornfully.
He stares at the both of them. He’s trembling. Everything aches, and burns, and stings. He feels something trickling out between his thighs. It fills him with shame, and he hates himself.
“I’m not fine,” he says quietly, voice shaking. Neither of them seem to hear him. He repeats himself, slightly louder and slightly more desperate sounding.
They aren’t listening to him. He says it again, and again, wanting them to hear, wanting them to know. He understands. He isn’t fine. He isn’t.
Finally Taichi looks at him. But instead of reassurance, he just smiles. “Don’t be silly,” he says, and shakes his head. “Of course you’re fine.”
“No,” he insists. There’s a lump in his throat. He can feel the blood drying. “I’m not fine.”
He wakes up screaming it.
It doesn’t take long for his dad to run into his room, and by then he’s crying.
“I’m not fine,” he sobs, and his dad can only hold him tight.
* * *
He once again finds it difficult to eat for the next few days.
His dad notices, of course, but he doesn’t say anything. Just watches him with worried eyes, his silence saying more than words ever could.
* * *
On Thursday the band wants to hold their first practise since the live. He listens to them making plans to meet in band room 3 after school, and knows he won’t be there. Thinking about anything related to the band makes him feel sick.
He thinks that might actually be the worst thing about what happened to him.
“You’re free to come too, right, Yamato?” Kenji suddenly asks, turning to him.
He can only stare at them, not answering. It makes them glance at each other uneasily. He understands. They, too, know something is wrong, and are just as worried as his other friends. They’re also just as out of their depth, not knowing what is wrong or how to help him.
He doesn’t want to quit the band. But right now, he has no clue how he can stay in it when just the thought of a practise makes him want to throw up.
“Yamato?”
He realises he actually is about to be sick. He hurriedly excuses himself, and promptly locks himself in a bathroom stall.
When he is finished, he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer. He’s reminded of afterwards, hunched miserably over the toilet, shaking as he tried desperately to rid himself of everything that had been forced into him.
Nyusumi had eventually found him that way, and mistaken it for a hangover. He hates Ny just a little bit for not realizing what really happened that night. He knows it’s irrational. He feels it just the same, though.
* * *
Another night, another nightmare.
He wakes up choking again, but it’s quiet enough to not wake his father. His tears are silent.
He sits up in his bed, huddled up against the headboard, hugging himself tightly for a long time while he cries.
He doesn’t know how to make that Thursday night go away.
* * *
When he wakes up the next night, he doesn’t waste time with tears. His head is filled with too many bad images. Taichi telling him he’s fine, Takeru storming out, his bandmates staring at him, Ny helping him to the bed while he reassures him he’ll sleep it off and be fine in the morning.
It doesn’t take him long to retrieve the knife from its hiding place. He replays that night in his head as he makes quick, sharp slashes on his inner thigh.
Stumbling into Ny’s guest room, having had a bit too much to drink, just wanting a bathroom. Someone following him, locking the door.
His confusion as he’s forced down onto the bed, a stranger climbing on top of him, pinning his wrists. The stranger is so much stronger, and he fights but he’s drunk and can’t get himself coordinated.
The hand reaching down between his legs, groping him a bit before fumbling to undo his jeans. Fingers shoved into his mouth, forcing it open wide. He bites down, not liking it, but all that gets him is a hard blow to the head.
He feels disoriented.
Then... something being shoved into his mouth. Something warm, and hard, and big. It fills his mouth, stretches it wide open, knocking against the back of his throat, and he gags. He feels like he’s choking on it. He can’t breathe.
His hair is gripped tightly, and his head knocks repeatedly against the headboard as the stranger shoves rapidly in and out of his mouth, getting deep in his throat every time. He tries desperately to breathe through his nose.
His hands are free now, but he’s in too much pain and confusion to even attempt to fight anymore.
He continues to cut himself, remembering and hating.
Blood trickles down his thigh. Suddenly he’s not in his own bedroom anymore. He’s back there, and red and white are leaking out between his legs, trailing down his thighs and onto the clean bedsheets.
He moans, feeling every bit of the pain and shame and horror. Knowing what’s just happened to him, but not believing it.
This sort of thing doesn’t happen to boys.
part two