connect; disconnect
Title: connect; disconnect
Pairing: Sho x Aiba (Sho x Nino, Sho x Jun, Sho x Ohno)
Word Count: 3400+
Rating: pg-13 for lang
Notes: Angst. Character death. AU. Um, one of the odder things I’ve written, probably. Blame finals lol? Un-edited.
Summary: Aiba's assigned to a man who wants to die.
connect; disconnect
When their eyes connect, the man moves forward.
Sho disconnects his gaze quickly, snapping his eyes toward the empty stool beside him. His coffee is lukewarm in his hands, and there’s a chocolate smudge on the table ledge. When his palm brushes the surface, he frowns, and for a second, Sho contemplates mourning his notes haphazardly strewn across the sticky tabletop.
But then the man reaches Sho's side. He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling and there's a spattering of light freckles on his nose. Sho blinks. The man wobbles as he sits down - the hind leg is rickety, Sho probably could’ve told him that - and then he’s looking at Sho again, biting his lip as his bangs fall into his eyes. The man takes a deep breath, the inhalation grating in Sho’s ears. He shivers.
“If it’s what you really want,” the man starts out hesitantly, fingers catching against Sho's sweater as he draws the syllables out, “I can help you die tomorrow.”
Sho stares. “Um, thanks?” He wonders if it would be really rude if he excused himself and left. He thinks his arm may be trembling as he brings his mug to his lips - and then grimaces because his coffee is cold and oh god, it tastes so disgusting, rotten even; still he forces it down his throat because he is stubborn like that. Mostly, a million thoughts cross his mind, from an obligatory who the fuck do you think you are to is it that obvious to shit shit shit shit shit.
“What do you. Who. Who are you?”
“I’m here to give you what you want,” the man says. “Aiba Masaki,” he hastily corrects himself as Sho abruptly stands up.
“Aiba-san,” Sho says, the syllables sit heavy on his tongue and it makes Sho nervous.
“Call me Masaki.” His voice scrapes the air so gently, high-pitched and round, like nothing Sho’s ever heard before. And slowly, though he probably shouldn’t, he sits back down.
“Aiba-san,” he repeats firmly, though inside he thinks, Masaki. “Why are you going to help me die?”
Masaki stares at the dull brass button on Sho’s sleeve. He looks so sad.
“Because you’ve been entertaining the thought for years,” Masaki says quietly. “Because you want to but don’t want to do it yourself. I. I have to give you what you want. So just...just let me, okay?”
Sho swallows. “And I’m supposed to just accept that, am I?” he asks bitterly. The man giggles, exhales nervous spikes of laughter.
“I see you haven’t denied wanting it though,” Masaki notes with a weary, crooked smile. Sho feels a little woozy. It may be because Masaki won’t look away, almond-shaped eyes so bright, and he grips the table’s edge in an attempt at appearing composed.
“You’re also not panicking,” Masaki muses, almost a hum under his breath. “Your profile indicated that you don’t take surprises well. You should be a bumbling mess by now, spilling any and all of your belongings, tripping your own feet, and being a general failure as a human being. You know those types.”
Sho snorts, and he decides not to tell Masaki about the rug burn on his shin from the night before and the apple shaped bruise on his bicep as he stumbled into the door frame that morning. Wait, what profile? Maybe it’s best not to ask. Maybe it doesn’t really matter. “Maybe I just grew out of it.”
“Can you ever grow out of failure?” Masaki wonders. Sho sees the knowing glint in Masaki’s eye, winces as the words cut as deep as their supposed to.
“Are you trying to scare me on purpose?” Sho huffs, attempting to change the subject as he wrings his hands under the table.
Masaki shakes his head slowly. “Only if you want me to.”
“I’m supposed to have dinner with my family soon,” Sho admits. They’re walking outside, and for spring it’s surprisingly chilly outside. He wraps his jacket closer around his body and steals a glance at the man beside him. Masaki’s feet dance clumsily in puddles along the sidewalk, but his eyes are carefully set on Sho. “Would you like to come?”
Masaki smiles, and Sho already know he’s going to decline. “I’ll walk with you to your place, but I don’t think I should go inside with you. Spend your last dinner with your parents in peace,” he says, and Sho shudders.
“Right,” he mutters. “I hope she makes spaghetti.”
“It’s your favorite,” Masaki says, as if he’s just remembered. Sho raises a brow and Masaki flushes. “Profile,” he mumbles.
“Right.”
His mother makes curry, which is not his favorite. Sho isn’t really too surprised, but then again, he doesn’t really care either. He sits down and prepares himself. The last time, Sho reminds. He sighs. Cue dinner.
It goes like clockwork.
They eat.
“How was work?” his mother asks.
“Fine,” Sho says.
“Pass the water,” his brother says.
Sho passes the water.
“Has there been any talk of a promotion?” his father asks.
“Not yet,” Sho says.
“Dear,” his mother hisses. She turns to Sho, “I don’t see why they won’t already. Isn’t it about time?”
“He hates his job, remember?” his brother points out.
“Nonsense,” his mother says sharply, even though they all know it’s true.
His father breathes through his nostrils. “At least you have a job,” he grits out.
“I know, father,” Sho says. “Thanks again.”
“Pass the napkins,” his brother says.
Sho passes the napkins.
They finish eating.
Sho clears his dishes and heads into the kitchen with his mother. She’s stiff, and when she turns to Sho, he almost feels bad.
“You know your father just wants what’s best for you,” she says. Sho nods, realizes that she’s said it so many times that he’s already memorized the inflections of her voice as she says each word.
“I know.”
His mother exhales, sudsy hand raking through graying hair. “Can’t you just…try a little harder?” It stings, but Sho should’ve expected it. “You had such potential,” she whispers, but all Sho hears is the past tense.
“I’m sorry, mother,” Sho says.
His mother purses her lips and turns back to the dishes. He grabs a couple of beers from the fridge and heads back out. Masaki’s sitting on the curb and whistling out of tune. He turns slowly as he hears Sho’s footfalls, smiles.
“How was dinner?” Masaki asks as they head toward the park.
“Same as usual,” Sho says, observing Masaki carefully. When Masaki frowns and kicks gravel into the curb, Sho sighs and wonders just what else exactly is in that profile. When Masaki turns to face him, his resigned expression makes him stop. Masaki looks as if he was expecting the question all along, like he knows Sho, and that's when something in Sho’s vision flashes.
“You know what?” Sho says in a low voice, and Masaki stares. “You’re right. I’m miserable and I’ve thought of death every day the past three years. Are you happy now? I get it, fuck.” Sho presses his fingers into his temples takes deep breaths so he can focus on not being so angry at admitting this. “Fuck you for reminding me,” he says dully. Masaki moves toward him but Sho tenses.
“Who are you?” Sho asks again, attempting to keep his tone even but failing. He clenches his teeth and the beer bottles rattle in his hand. Masaki silently takes the bottles from him and Sho stuffs his shaking hands in his pockets. “Why are you doing this? Tell me,” Sho grits through his teeth. This time, he wants an actual answer.
Masaki shuffles. “It’s my job,” he says simply, and Sho can feel the sadness thrum through each word. Still, that isn’t enough.
“What exactly is your job?” Sho seethes.
Masaki looks away. “It’s exactly as I’ve said,” he says, voice rising and it momentarily startles Sho. Anger doesn’t suit Masaki’s voice, not to Sho. “My job is to help you get whatever you want.” Sho opens his mouth and Masaki violently shakes his head. “Yeah, really. It’s really that simple, okay?”
And then Masaki lets out a strangled noise. “Only it’s not simple because all you want to do is to die.” Masaki clasps his hand over his mouth hastily and his eyes close. Sho stares, and he almost feels bad, but- “Why are you so unhappy?” he asks quietly, though Sho gets the feeling it’s more a rhetorical question than anything else.
Sho shrugs violently. “Shouldn’t you know?” he bites out, letting out a bark of a laugh. “What does my profile say?”
At that, Masaki’s hand falls from his mouth, fingers resting on the collar of his sweater. “Do you actually want to know?”
Does he really? Sho isn’t really sure, but he nods anyway.
Masaki pauses, looking him straight in the eye as he begins to speak.
“It says you’ve lived all your life trying to please your parents and you think you’ve never succeeded,” Masaki says softly, and at the pain in Masaki’s eyes Sho’s own squeeze shut. It feels like he’s reciting a recipe, or a factsheet, so logically cold. “When you were fourteen your father caught you with a boy’s hand down your pants. Your father never quite saw you as his son after that, no matter how hard you tried to make him love you again. You gave up everything, refused after that night to see the boy who was your best friend and the first you’ve ever loved, and you slaved away in your little private academy to get into Keio university.”
Masaki hesitates, and Sho scoffs, eyes still closed. He’s shaking a little, as everything he’s ever known gets painfully peeled away by Masaki’s scratchy voice. Sho’s forehead creases, and he’s almost tempted to open his eyes again. “What, that’s all it says? That’s some shitty profile.”
A small giggle. “Your profile also mentioned swearing as a sign of distress.”
A shuffle of feet, and Sho can hear Masaki move in front of him, the bottles clinking with each step.
“When you were at Keio,” he continues quietly, “an aspiring actor worked at the bar you often frequented with your classmates and you thought he was the most odd looking yet beautiful thing you’d ever seen. You never tried to talk to him because he was flamboyantly charming and so obviously everything your father disapproved and detested. You think of him as your first crush, you wanted him so badly. Just the sight of him made you giddy. The night he offered to buy you a drink and you turned him down was one of the biggest regrets of your life.”
Sho snorts, interrupting yet again. “Are you trying to tell me that my attraction to guys is the only reason I want to off myself? Because if that’s the case then that’s just too pathetic, even for me.” He tries to laugh but the sound gets caught somewhere in between his heart and his vocal cords. His eyes flutter open for a split second, just in time to see Masaki’s mouth quirk into an oddly set smile, before falling shut once more.
“During your third year you burned out, realized you hated economics, and nearly failed all your economics courses, but your father refused to let you change your degree so you stuck the last two years out. When you graduated, you tried to find a job and couldn’t get one. Despite your credentials, the economic crisis was too much even for you. Your father got you a job working under his friend’s newspaper and you’re not quite sure why but you hate it. You don’t have any friends at work and you’ve lost the few you made during your school years. You spend most of your time at that café or reading in your room. Your family doesn’t know what to do with you. Your father still refuses to acknowledge you unless he has to, and even your mother thinks you’ve failed-”
“Shit,” Sho mutters, and he feels Masaki freeze. He grasps blindly in front of him and buries his fists into Masaki’s jacket. “I’ve heard enough,” he rasps, finally opening his eyes to see Masaki’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears. Masaki nods.
Sho moves them to a park bench, and they both collapse. Pulls the bottle opener from his pocket and they huddle together on the creaky wooden park bench. And together, they drink.
He wonders what Masaki is thinking right now, if he knows why he asked him to stop. Because it’s not what Masaki had just said. It wasn’t because he had unraveled his history as if it were just a pair of shoelaces, though that certainly doesn’t help.
It’s because of where Masaki was heading, gunning towards memories that he’d rather not have spoken aloud so mechanically.
Still, he imagines what Masaki would’ve said.
Your first article is about a young artist with a small exhibition in town, Sho can hear him say, soft and trying hard to be detached. He buries his head in his arms at the thought, shudders when Masaki’s fingers wrap gently around Sho’s nape.
He’s small, tanned and so shy at first, Masaki would say, voice coarse around the edges, but he looked at you as if he knew you. He said you were beautiful, he said he wanted you, and he made you feel as if happiness was possible. You were so stupidly in love with him, and at the same time were so jealous of his life, hated that he was free to do what he loved and happy, so simply happy. You tried to forget your parents’ disapproval as you drowned in his affection but you never really could completely. Still, you thought you could be with him forever.
Masaki shudders then, and Sho takes another swig of his beer. Until the day he came to you with sad eyes, saying he moved on, found other people to paint, to love - your childhood best friend, you find out a month later - and it’s not your fault but it probably was, you’re not disillusioned. You’ll never get over him because you don’t know how to be happy, you haven’t been happy since you were fourteen. You suck at life.
Okay, the last part Masaki would probably not say, but Sho thinks it to himself anyway.
He imagines Masaki stiffening, just so, lips rounded and glistening. It’s the first time you realize you will never get what you want and it’s best to stop trying. It’s also the first time you think about death.
Masaki’s crying drags him from his musings, and Sho stares. If anyone should be crying, it should be him. Still, he wraps his arms around Masaki as his cheek digs into Masaki’s shoulder. He realizes belatedly that Masaki’s mumbling into his shoulder, something like I cry really easily, sorry.
“You’re acting as if you’re the one who wants to die,” Sho says, knuckles grazing Masaki’s collar in a pretend-punch. Masaki smells like hamburgers and vanilla, and the combination makes Sho’s stomach turn.
Masaki plays with the edge of Sho’s sleeve, voice small and muffled in Sho’s hair. “I know so much about you.”
“That’s really creepy,” Sho deadpans.
Masaki lets out a series of shy giggles, each staccato sound racing down Sho’s spine. When he calms down he nudges Sho and loosens himself from Sho’s grip. “I've read your profile over a million times." He pauses. "I was supposed to help you die last November,” he admits, and Sho looks at him.
“So why didn’t you?”
Masaki shakes his head, lifting his legs to curl his knees under his chin. “I kept hoping you would want something else. Even if you had wanted something more for just a split second, I would’ve done it and my job would’ve been done.” His voice is heavy, thoughtful. “And then you wouldn’t have to die.”
Sho bites his lip. “I really don’t want to go to work tomorrow,” he tries. And it’s true, he really doesn’t. “If you grant that, would that be okay?”
Masaki smiles tiredly, “Sure, I can make sure you won’t go to work tomorrow. But it’s not enough to complete my assignment. It’s still not what you want the most.” Masaki pulls himself slowly off the bench and turns to Sho, fingers cold as he grabs his hand and lifts him up. “You should go to bed,” he says. “You look a little out of it.”
Sho laughs weakly, “Yeah, well, I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I may actually die tomorrow.” Though now that he thinks about it, maybe he really should get some rest. This day has been truly bizarre, and he feels dizziness ache in the back of head, probably from all the excitement. He clutches his stomach as something rolls slowly. Anticipation, perhaps? “If this was all just a dream, I will be really pissed off,” Sho mutters, and Masaki snorts.
“If only it were,” he says.
Sho goes to bed thinking about death, and wakes up thinking about Masaki.
It lasts only a second though, as an immense pain shoots through his stomach and nearly cripples him. It hurts, his stomach roils and he forces himself to crawl to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet’s side.
“What on earth happened to you?” His mother asks worriedly, dabbing a wet towel on Sho’s head as he struggles to pull on his tie. “Sho, just call in sick today. You never do, they’ll understand.”
“He has a meeting with his editor today, he can’t miss it,” his father says, tone clipped, not even looking at them as he peruses the newspaper.
“Is it food poisoning or something?” His brother asks, patting Sho’s back carefully before pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Sho shakes his head weakly. “I don’t think so,” he croaks, “we all ate-”
And he looks at the steaming mug in his brother’s hands, remembers the sour coffee from the day before.
“Fuck,” Sho says, nearly banging his head against the table, “I had the grossest cup of coffee yesterday and I thought it was just because it was cold but. Maybe the milk. Fuck.”
“You’re going to miss your train,” his father says mildly as he flips the newspaper page.
Sho groans. “I know, I know.” He hurriedly grabs his coat and then, right before he’s about to leave the kitchen pauses. “You…” the words catch in his throat, but just in case. “You know I love you, right?”
His father raises a brow, clearly unimpressed, while his brother snorts. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he says.
“Hey,” Sho glares, and his mother squeezes his shoulder, handing him his briefcase. “Well. Bye anyway.”
He shifts on the balls of his feet, then groans as nausea rips through his body. “Well fuck you,” he mutters under his breath. The people on the platform look at him oddly, then notice the strain in Sho’s face as he wobbles to and fro. They give him a little more space after that.
Fuck you, Masaki, he repeats viciously inside his head. Because Masaki was nowhere to be found that morning, and it was just beginning to occur to his nauseatingly spinning mind that he must have dreamt the whole fucking thing up.
He feels a little betrayed, if he were honest with himself.
You were supposed to get me out of work, he thinks. And where the hell is that train? Then he feels stupid again, because Masaki is a figment of his depraved imagination and he all he has to show for it is a stomach that is threatening to rip him in two.
His stomach is turning but standing still makes him feel even more sick, so he slowly rocks back and forth in a pathetic attempt to soothe his protesting stomach. There's a dull murmur of voices around him as people tiredly wait for the train to arrive and at some point his eyes flutter shut to stem nausea.
It only feels like a second before there is a loud trill - the train is coming - and he jerks awake.
Lurches forward.
Someone’s screaming, and he trips right over his own feet, veering much too close to the landing edge. He imagines a raspy voice, ha, so there’s the failure your profile warned for, filled with a sad sort of warmth, and then there’s gravel pressed against his face as he lays bent on the tracks.
When he looks up at the crowd forming, all he can see is a pretty boy with mussed hair at the edge of the platform, lips wet and bright as their eyes connect.
Then disconnect.
Notes: The day before my last final, when I should’ve been studying, I wrote this. This may say more about my current mental state than I would like lolol. In other news LKAMDFLKASDF I AM DONE WITH THE SCHOOL YEAR SOMEONE PLEASE CELEBRATE WITH ME AND MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE AGAIN.
…I’m still not quite sure what this is, but if you got to the end, major props for you :) I’m sorry I killed Sho :(
Pairing: Sho x Aiba (Sho x Nino, Sho x Jun, Sho x Ohno)
Word Count: 3400+
Rating: pg-13 for lang
Notes: Angst. Character death. AU. Um, one of the odder things I’ve written, probably. Blame finals lol? Un-edited.
Summary: Aiba's assigned to a man who wants to die.
connect; disconnect
When their eyes connect, the man moves forward.
Sho disconnects his gaze quickly, snapping his eyes toward the empty stool beside him. His coffee is lukewarm in his hands, and there’s a chocolate smudge on the table ledge. When his palm brushes the surface, he frowns, and for a second, Sho contemplates mourning his notes haphazardly strewn across the sticky tabletop.
But then the man reaches Sho's side. He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling and there's a spattering of light freckles on his nose. Sho blinks. The man wobbles as he sits down - the hind leg is rickety, Sho probably could’ve told him that - and then he’s looking at Sho again, biting his lip as his bangs fall into his eyes. The man takes a deep breath, the inhalation grating in Sho’s ears. He shivers.
“If it’s what you really want,” the man starts out hesitantly, fingers catching against Sho's sweater as he draws the syllables out, “I can help you die tomorrow.”
Sho stares. “Um, thanks?” He wonders if it would be really rude if he excused himself and left. He thinks his arm may be trembling as he brings his mug to his lips - and then grimaces because his coffee is cold and oh god, it tastes so disgusting, rotten even; still he forces it down his throat because he is stubborn like that. Mostly, a million thoughts cross his mind, from an obligatory who the fuck do you think you are to is it that obvious to shit shit shit shit shit.
“What do you. Who. Who are you?”
“I’m here to give you what you want,” the man says. “Aiba Masaki,” he hastily corrects himself as Sho abruptly stands up.
“Aiba-san,” Sho says, the syllables sit heavy on his tongue and it makes Sho nervous.
“Call me Masaki.” His voice scrapes the air so gently, high-pitched and round, like nothing Sho’s ever heard before. And slowly, though he probably shouldn’t, he sits back down.
“Aiba-san,” he repeats firmly, though inside he thinks, Masaki. “Why are you going to help me die?”
Masaki stares at the dull brass button on Sho’s sleeve. He looks so sad.
“Because you’ve been entertaining the thought for years,” Masaki says quietly. “Because you want to but don’t want to do it yourself. I. I have to give you what you want. So just...just let me, okay?”
Sho swallows. “And I’m supposed to just accept that, am I?” he asks bitterly. The man giggles, exhales nervous spikes of laughter.
“I see you haven’t denied wanting it though,” Masaki notes with a weary, crooked smile. Sho feels a little woozy. It may be because Masaki won’t look away, almond-shaped eyes so bright, and he grips the table’s edge in an attempt at appearing composed.
“You’re also not panicking,” Masaki muses, almost a hum under his breath. “Your profile indicated that you don’t take surprises well. You should be a bumbling mess by now, spilling any and all of your belongings, tripping your own feet, and being a general failure as a human being. You know those types.”
Sho snorts, and he decides not to tell Masaki about the rug burn on his shin from the night before and the apple shaped bruise on his bicep as he stumbled into the door frame that morning. Wait, what profile? Maybe it’s best not to ask. Maybe it doesn’t really matter. “Maybe I just grew out of it.”
“Can you ever grow out of failure?” Masaki wonders. Sho sees the knowing glint in Masaki’s eye, winces as the words cut as deep as their supposed to.
“Are you trying to scare me on purpose?” Sho huffs, attempting to change the subject as he wrings his hands under the table.
Masaki shakes his head slowly. “Only if you want me to.”
“I’m supposed to have dinner with my family soon,” Sho admits. They’re walking outside, and for spring it’s surprisingly chilly outside. He wraps his jacket closer around his body and steals a glance at the man beside him. Masaki’s feet dance clumsily in puddles along the sidewalk, but his eyes are carefully set on Sho. “Would you like to come?”
Masaki smiles, and Sho already know he’s going to decline. “I’ll walk with you to your place, but I don’t think I should go inside with you. Spend your last dinner with your parents in peace,” he says, and Sho shudders.
“Right,” he mutters. “I hope she makes spaghetti.”
“It’s your favorite,” Masaki says, as if he’s just remembered. Sho raises a brow and Masaki flushes. “Profile,” he mumbles.
“Right.”
His mother makes curry, which is not his favorite. Sho isn’t really too surprised, but then again, he doesn’t really care either. He sits down and prepares himself. The last time, Sho reminds. He sighs. Cue dinner.
It goes like clockwork.
They eat.
“How was work?” his mother asks.
“Fine,” Sho says.
“Pass the water,” his brother says.
Sho passes the water.
“Has there been any talk of a promotion?” his father asks.
“Not yet,” Sho says.
“Dear,” his mother hisses. She turns to Sho, “I don’t see why they won’t already. Isn’t it about time?”
“He hates his job, remember?” his brother points out.
“Nonsense,” his mother says sharply, even though they all know it’s true.
His father breathes through his nostrils. “At least you have a job,” he grits out.
“I know, father,” Sho says. “Thanks again.”
“Pass the napkins,” his brother says.
Sho passes the napkins.
They finish eating.
Sho clears his dishes and heads into the kitchen with his mother. She’s stiff, and when she turns to Sho, he almost feels bad.
“You know your father just wants what’s best for you,” she says. Sho nods, realizes that she’s said it so many times that he’s already memorized the inflections of her voice as she says each word.
“I know.”
His mother exhales, sudsy hand raking through graying hair. “Can’t you just…try a little harder?” It stings, but Sho should’ve expected it. “You had such potential,” she whispers, but all Sho hears is the past tense.
“I’m sorry, mother,” Sho says.
His mother purses her lips and turns back to the dishes. He grabs a couple of beers from the fridge and heads back out. Masaki’s sitting on the curb and whistling out of tune. He turns slowly as he hears Sho’s footfalls, smiles.
“How was dinner?” Masaki asks as they head toward the park.
“Same as usual,” Sho says, observing Masaki carefully. When Masaki frowns and kicks gravel into the curb, Sho sighs and wonders just what else exactly is in that profile. When Masaki turns to face him, his resigned expression makes him stop. Masaki looks as if he was expecting the question all along, like he knows Sho, and that's when something in Sho’s vision flashes.
“You know what?” Sho says in a low voice, and Masaki stares. “You’re right. I’m miserable and I’ve thought of death every day the past three years. Are you happy now? I get it, fuck.” Sho presses his fingers into his temples takes deep breaths so he can focus on not being so angry at admitting this. “Fuck you for reminding me,” he says dully. Masaki moves toward him but Sho tenses.
“Who are you?” Sho asks again, attempting to keep his tone even but failing. He clenches his teeth and the beer bottles rattle in his hand. Masaki silently takes the bottles from him and Sho stuffs his shaking hands in his pockets. “Why are you doing this? Tell me,” Sho grits through his teeth. This time, he wants an actual answer.
Masaki shuffles. “It’s my job,” he says simply, and Sho can feel the sadness thrum through each word. Still, that isn’t enough.
“What exactly is your job?” Sho seethes.
Masaki looks away. “It’s exactly as I’ve said,” he says, voice rising and it momentarily startles Sho. Anger doesn’t suit Masaki’s voice, not to Sho. “My job is to help you get whatever you want.” Sho opens his mouth and Masaki violently shakes his head. “Yeah, really. It’s really that simple, okay?”
And then Masaki lets out a strangled noise. “Only it’s not simple because all you want to do is to die.” Masaki clasps his hand over his mouth hastily and his eyes close. Sho stares, and he almost feels bad, but- “Why are you so unhappy?” he asks quietly, though Sho gets the feeling it’s more a rhetorical question than anything else.
Sho shrugs violently. “Shouldn’t you know?” he bites out, letting out a bark of a laugh. “What does my profile say?”
At that, Masaki’s hand falls from his mouth, fingers resting on the collar of his sweater. “Do you actually want to know?”
Does he really? Sho isn’t really sure, but he nods anyway.
Masaki pauses, looking him straight in the eye as he begins to speak.
“It says you’ve lived all your life trying to please your parents and you think you’ve never succeeded,” Masaki says softly, and at the pain in Masaki’s eyes Sho’s own squeeze shut. It feels like he’s reciting a recipe, or a factsheet, so logically cold. “When you were fourteen your father caught you with a boy’s hand down your pants. Your father never quite saw you as his son after that, no matter how hard you tried to make him love you again. You gave up everything, refused after that night to see the boy who was your best friend and the first you’ve ever loved, and you slaved away in your little private academy to get into Keio university.”
Masaki hesitates, and Sho scoffs, eyes still closed. He’s shaking a little, as everything he’s ever known gets painfully peeled away by Masaki’s scratchy voice. Sho’s forehead creases, and he’s almost tempted to open his eyes again. “What, that’s all it says? That’s some shitty profile.”
A small giggle. “Your profile also mentioned swearing as a sign of distress.”
A shuffle of feet, and Sho can hear Masaki move in front of him, the bottles clinking with each step.
“When you were at Keio,” he continues quietly, “an aspiring actor worked at the bar you often frequented with your classmates and you thought he was the most odd looking yet beautiful thing you’d ever seen. You never tried to talk to him because he was flamboyantly charming and so obviously everything your father disapproved and detested. You think of him as your first crush, you wanted him so badly. Just the sight of him made you giddy. The night he offered to buy you a drink and you turned him down was one of the biggest regrets of your life.”
Sho snorts, interrupting yet again. “Are you trying to tell me that my attraction to guys is the only reason I want to off myself? Because if that’s the case then that’s just too pathetic, even for me.” He tries to laugh but the sound gets caught somewhere in between his heart and his vocal cords. His eyes flutter open for a split second, just in time to see Masaki’s mouth quirk into an oddly set smile, before falling shut once more.
“During your third year you burned out, realized you hated economics, and nearly failed all your economics courses, but your father refused to let you change your degree so you stuck the last two years out. When you graduated, you tried to find a job and couldn’t get one. Despite your credentials, the economic crisis was too much even for you. Your father got you a job working under his friend’s newspaper and you’re not quite sure why but you hate it. You don’t have any friends at work and you’ve lost the few you made during your school years. You spend most of your time at that café or reading in your room. Your family doesn’t know what to do with you. Your father still refuses to acknowledge you unless he has to, and even your mother thinks you’ve failed-”
“Shit,” Sho mutters, and he feels Masaki freeze. He grasps blindly in front of him and buries his fists into Masaki’s jacket. “I’ve heard enough,” he rasps, finally opening his eyes to see Masaki’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears. Masaki nods.
Sho moves them to a park bench, and they both collapse. Pulls the bottle opener from his pocket and they huddle together on the creaky wooden park bench. And together, they drink.
He wonders what Masaki is thinking right now, if he knows why he asked him to stop. Because it’s not what Masaki had just said. It wasn’t because he had unraveled his history as if it were just a pair of shoelaces, though that certainly doesn’t help.
It’s because of where Masaki was heading, gunning towards memories that he’d rather not have spoken aloud so mechanically.
Still, he imagines what Masaki would’ve said.
Your first article is about a young artist with a small exhibition in town, Sho can hear him say, soft and trying hard to be detached. He buries his head in his arms at the thought, shudders when Masaki’s fingers wrap gently around Sho’s nape.
He’s small, tanned and so shy at first, Masaki would say, voice coarse around the edges, but he looked at you as if he knew you. He said you were beautiful, he said he wanted you, and he made you feel as if happiness was possible. You were so stupidly in love with him, and at the same time were so jealous of his life, hated that he was free to do what he loved and happy, so simply happy. You tried to forget your parents’ disapproval as you drowned in his affection but you never really could completely. Still, you thought you could be with him forever.
Masaki shudders then, and Sho takes another swig of his beer. Until the day he came to you with sad eyes, saying he moved on, found other people to paint, to love - your childhood best friend, you find out a month later - and it’s not your fault but it probably was, you’re not disillusioned. You’ll never get over him because you don’t know how to be happy, you haven’t been happy since you were fourteen. You suck at life.
Okay, the last part Masaki would probably not say, but Sho thinks it to himself anyway.
He imagines Masaki stiffening, just so, lips rounded and glistening. It’s the first time you realize you will never get what you want and it’s best to stop trying. It’s also the first time you think about death.
Masaki’s crying drags him from his musings, and Sho stares. If anyone should be crying, it should be him. Still, he wraps his arms around Masaki as his cheek digs into Masaki’s shoulder. He realizes belatedly that Masaki’s mumbling into his shoulder, something like I cry really easily, sorry.
“You’re acting as if you’re the one who wants to die,” Sho says, knuckles grazing Masaki’s collar in a pretend-punch. Masaki smells like hamburgers and vanilla, and the combination makes Sho’s stomach turn.
Masaki plays with the edge of Sho’s sleeve, voice small and muffled in Sho’s hair. “I know so much about you.”
“That’s really creepy,” Sho deadpans.
Masaki lets out a series of shy giggles, each staccato sound racing down Sho’s spine. When he calms down he nudges Sho and loosens himself from Sho’s grip. “I've read your profile over a million times." He pauses. "I was supposed to help you die last November,” he admits, and Sho looks at him.
“So why didn’t you?”
Masaki shakes his head, lifting his legs to curl his knees under his chin. “I kept hoping you would want something else. Even if you had wanted something more for just a split second, I would’ve done it and my job would’ve been done.” His voice is heavy, thoughtful. “And then you wouldn’t have to die.”
Sho bites his lip. “I really don’t want to go to work tomorrow,” he tries. And it’s true, he really doesn’t. “If you grant that, would that be okay?”
Masaki smiles tiredly, “Sure, I can make sure you won’t go to work tomorrow. But it’s not enough to complete my assignment. It’s still not what you want the most.” Masaki pulls himself slowly off the bench and turns to Sho, fingers cold as he grabs his hand and lifts him up. “You should go to bed,” he says. “You look a little out of it.”
Sho laughs weakly, “Yeah, well, I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I may actually die tomorrow.” Though now that he thinks about it, maybe he really should get some rest. This day has been truly bizarre, and he feels dizziness ache in the back of head, probably from all the excitement. He clutches his stomach as something rolls slowly. Anticipation, perhaps? “If this was all just a dream, I will be really pissed off,” Sho mutters, and Masaki snorts.
“If only it were,” he says.
Sho goes to bed thinking about death, and wakes up thinking about Masaki.
It lasts only a second though, as an immense pain shoots through his stomach and nearly cripples him. It hurts, his stomach roils and he forces himself to crawl to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet’s side.
“What on earth happened to you?” His mother asks worriedly, dabbing a wet towel on Sho’s head as he struggles to pull on his tie. “Sho, just call in sick today. You never do, they’ll understand.”
“He has a meeting with his editor today, he can’t miss it,” his father says, tone clipped, not even looking at them as he peruses the newspaper.
“Is it food poisoning or something?” His brother asks, patting Sho’s back carefully before pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Sho shakes his head weakly. “I don’t think so,” he croaks, “we all ate-”
And he looks at the steaming mug in his brother’s hands, remembers the sour coffee from the day before.
“Fuck,” Sho says, nearly banging his head against the table, “I had the grossest cup of coffee yesterday and I thought it was just because it was cold but. Maybe the milk. Fuck.”
“You’re going to miss your train,” his father says mildly as he flips the newspaper page.
Sho groans. “I know, I know.” He hurriedly grabs his coat and then, right before he’s about to leave the kitchen pauses. “You…” the words catch in his throat, but just in case. “You know I love you, right?”
His father raises a brow, clearly unimpressed, while his brother snorts. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he says.
“Hey,” Sho glares, and his mother squeezes his shoulder, handing him his briefcase. “Well. Bye anyway.”
He shifts on the balls of his feet, then groans as nausea rips through his body. “Well fuck you,” he mutters under his breath. The people on the platform look at him oddly, then notice the strain in Sho’s face as he wobbles to and fro. They give him a little more space after that.
Fuck you, Masaki, he repeats viciously inside his head. Because Masaki was nowhere to be found that morning, and it was just beginning to occur to his nauseatingly spinning mind that he must have dreamt the whole fucking thing up.
He feels a little betrayed, if he were honest with himself.
You were supposed to get me out of work, he thinks. And where the hell is that train? Then he feels stupid again, because Masaki is a figment of his depraved imagination and he all he has to show for it is a stomach that is threatening to rip him in two.
His stomach is turning but standing still makes him feel even more sick, so he slowly rocks back and forth in a pathetic attempt to soothe his protesting stomach. There's a dull murmur of voices around him as people tiredly wait for the train to arrive and at some point his eyes flutter shut to stem nausea.
It only feels like a second before there is a loud trill - the train is coming - and he jerks awake.
Lurches forward.
Someone’s screaming, and he trips right over his own feet, veering much too close to the landing edge. He imagines a raspy voice, ha, so there’s the failure your profile warned for, filled with a sad sort of warmth, and then there’s gravel pressed against his face as he lays bent on the tracks.
When he looks up at the crowd forming, all he can see is a pretty boy with mussed hair at the edge of the platform, lips wet and bright as their eyes connect.
Then disconnect.
Notes: The day before my last final, when I should’ve been studying, I wrote this. This may say more about my current mental state than I would like lolol. In other news LKAMDFLKASDF I AM DONE WITH THE SCHOOL YEAR SOMEONE PLEASE CELEBRATE WITH ME AND MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE AGAIN.
…I’m still not quite sure what this is, but if you got to the end, major props for you :) I’m sorry I killed Sho :(