I'm not sure how this trigger warning thing works. Um, this story contains anxiety/panic attacks, mentioned use of drugs and drinking, and partial mutism, I think.

Pre-Chapter Notes:

- This entire story can be summarized with "gay babies". Then again, that's for all my stories.

- How this story came about: pixiv, Hatatan, and the complete and utter lack of AyaHata stories that don't involve Hatate either dying, or almost dying. I swear, check AO3's AyaHata tag some time.

- There are a lot of scene changes. Apologies if you don't like that.

She opens the door by a smidgen. Closes it. Opens it again. Closes it. Again.

She sinks down to the floor on her knees, forehead against the door, brown eyes staring at the floor blankly.

It's the first day of school. No – real school. Her mother stopped hiring teachers to home-school her and decided it was about time for her to start attending real high school. Or as real as high school can get. She knows it's only a matter of time before she starts shutting herself in again, hiding behind the public with a simple yellow cellphone. It's happened once. She doubts it won't happen again.

But the days in between the start and the eventual end scare her. They frighten her. She can't talk to others. Not vague signals. Not even nodding or shaking her head. Eye contact is a devil sent from hell to haunt her. When the first – 'and last' – day of kindergarten ended, she thought that people were all nuisances you were required to speak with to get higher up in success. She still thinks so.

But she has to do this. She has to. If only to make her mother happy, if only to make her stop drinking, stop taking all those drugs she knows are horrid for her health. Maybe if she does good, her mother will be happy, and then she'll stop…

She stands up, knees knocking together as she opens the door.

She closes it behind her, this time.

The school is only a five-minute's walk from her house. No problem. She totters on the street, taking care not to bump against anyone or look up from the pavement at all. She sticks to the very edge of the street, deep in the shadows where no one will see her, and eventually finds herself staring up at the large building.

She steels herself, checks to make sure everything is with her and everything she'll need can be quickly taken, and makes unsteady steps towards the gates.

There is a field, first. There are other students, too – several that she doesn't recognize from anywhere, not even with her cellphone. Hesitantly, she brings it out from her blouse pocket and flips it on, looking around to see if any of these people were in any sort of website she could gather information from.

Except for Facebook. She hates Facebook.

All the results lead back to Facebook, as she mostly expected. She snaps the screen shut and pockets the yellow checkered flip-phone back. No use stalling around now, she supposes. She'll have to get this done and over with to make sure she can survive for at least one day. When she gets back home, she promises herself she'll deal with even that stupid blue-white website to be prepared for anything the students might throw at her.

She gets a map. Her locker combination. A handbook, or some sort. Some books she missed out. Nothing special. Her locker number is 193, combination 8-9-2-6. There are two other lockers flanking her, she notices – the one of her left is a short, blue-haired pigtailed girl, and the one on her right has silver hair and looks a little like a dog, though she's not sure why. They seem to know each other well, and are happy their lockers are near each other, and chatter to each other cheerily behind her. She makes sure to listen in – vital information may be present there.

She learns their names are Nitori – the blue-haired one – and Momiji – the silver-haired one. Nitori's a little shy – Momiji's a little obedient. They're okay. They don't seem the type to be bothersome. She does find them a little annoying, though, talking behind her back like that, even though it's not technically in the way that's looked down upon. It still irks her somewhat, but she tries to ignore it as best as she can. Anyway, it doesn't concern her. She can tolerate it.

Her first class – after homeroom, anyway – is History. She loves history – she can do this. Just take notes and listen to the teacher without looking up or reciting. She can do that. This is okay. This is fine.

Please let it be fine.

Homeroom is strange.

She finds a seat at the very back row of the classroom, where most of the shadows gather and everyone ignores her. The nearest person is at least two seats away. This is perfect. She'll do fine. She hopes. If she hunkers down and doesn't gather attention, then everything will be okay. She'll get good grades. She always gets good grades. Just maybe not socially.

The homeroom teacher talks and talks about rules and regulations that need to be adhered to. She's fine. Though she's already read all of this in the handbook they gave her, she listens again anyway, just to make sure she won't violate any rules and get suspended. Or something. She's still not entirely sure how the school system works. She adds another thing on her list of things-to-do-once-she-gets-home; read the whole handbook. Preferably at least thrice, so she can get a good idea on how these sorts of things go.

Everything goes fine. Well, everything was going fine.

"Everyone, listen up. There's a new addition to the grading system now. Remember all those clubs you had to join and sit in a chair for an hour or two while counting down the minutes until the bell?"

Everyone – or mostly everyone – laughs or groans. Some did both. She's not sure how they did that, but she supposes that everyone in high school can do something like that.

"Guess what, joining these clubs actually gets you some extra credit points now! Cheer, guys. Cheer. This is great. Sort of. Joining a club gets you extra points in a certain subject, usually the one it's associated with. English clubs net you free points in English, so on and so forth. Of course, you do have to actually participate in the club – the president will take note of that. I'll give you all ten minutes to start advertising for your clubs, so go ahead!"

Almost immediately, the whole class erupts into chaos – students are flying this way and that, shoving flyers into others' faces and babbling excitedly about what their club is about. She flinches at the initial noise, but eventually relaxes when she realizes that nobody's going near her. This is alright, then – she doesn't need to join a club. Extra points would be good, but she would really rather not force herself to talk to others for some points in a subject she'd already be good in.

She flips her phone open. Three minutes have gone by. Seven more. If she can handle the ruckus for seven more minutes, she'll be fine. Sixty multiplied by seven. Four-hundred-twenty. Four-hundred-twenty seconds to go. Four-hundred-twenty multiplied by –

"A flip-phone? Man, get an iPhone. Those are so old."

She almost looks up. Almost. Instead, she shuts her phone and shoves it back in her pocket.

"Did you heaaar me? Hello, hello?" A hand waves in front of her face. Brown eyes blink in mild surprise, but she doesn't react. "Well, fine. I guess you can be that way. But at least you're not blind, right? Here!" The hand withdraws from her sight, but reappears a moment later with a flyer in hand. It's some sort of advertisement for the Newspaper Club. … What?

"Ta-da! The Newspaper Club! We handle the bimonthly paper that reports on all major incidents happening 'round campus. If you wanna join, or at least try out, all the details are in there." A finger, rough and callused, points at a block of text near the end of the paper. She can spy the name of a room and some dates, presumably dates for an audition. "Okay, then, um…"

The voice trails off, but the hand doesn't go away. She almost wants to look up, because the voice sounds like she's finished her speech, but then she isn't moving at all. Brown eyes flicker, her mouth opens – no. She closes it. Gently, shakily, she pushes the hand away and accepts the flyer, folding it neatly and placing it in her bag. (She pretends the momentary skin-to-skin contact doesn't send an electric current through her arm and spreads throughout her whole body.) When she looks back, the hand is still on her table.

"… Not gonna tell me your name…?" the voice asks. She blanches – she doesn't like telling her name to others now. It used to be something she was proud of. Not anymore. "Well, I'll tell you mine. Name's Aya. Aya Shameimaru – heard of me?"

The normal response would be a nod or a shake of the head. The only thing she does is shrink into her seat even more. Too much conversation – even if it was completely one-sided – made her a nervous, horrid wreck. The voice starts up again; "Guess not. Well, really, I'm begging ya – join the Newspaper Club, aight? I can't be the only one in the club. I'm good, I know, but I ain't that good at keeping a major club doing major stuff up all by myself. And hey! You know, you look like a girl who knows what she does. I'm about a hundred and twelve percent sure you can help out a whole lot. So join that club and I'll make sure you won't regret it!"

(There is something about this Aya's voice that makes her tremble. She's not sure whether it's from fright or something else.)

The hand disappears from her table. She almost misses it, but realizes she's not supposed to do that. She shouldn't get attached. She never gets attached, anyway. Aya Shameimaru is only another background character to ignore, to pass along the corridor – and eventually, the road to life – and never look back at, never smile at, never say 'hi' to. She is nothing, and never will be a something.

… is what she hopes, but her brown eyes are feeling moist and she doesn't know why.

Music Room 2 – September 4, 5:30 sharp. Don't miss it!

She's checked. She's absolutely sure she knows what she's doing it. She's gone through thirty-six and a half pages on Google, read every single post on every single timeline on every single Facebook account. She told her mother she'd come back home as early as she can, but she wasn't making any promises. She is totally, absolutely ready for what she is about to do.

But her legs are wobbling, brown eyes flickering, hands restless as they find something to do besides clutch the near-torn flyer. In the past five minutes, she has stood in front of the music room. In the past five minutes, her hands have adjusted her brunette pigtails three times. Right now, she's on her fourth.

She ties the purple ribbon so tight around her hair she feels almost constricted by her own accessory. Breathing out a deep sigh (of what, she's not sure – fear? Excitement? She hopes it's not anything she's thinking of), she turns the doorknob and pushes the door open with the softest of clicks.

She enters. Clack. Clack.

The music room is unremarkable. There are some tables, a large bulletin board with papers – most of them outdated, she notices – pinned to it, and most notably, large amounts of papers scattered everywhere. Some are in boxes piled up in the corner, some in neat, tied stacks, but most were strewn about in the room, giving the entire place a very messy look. It made her expectations drop terrifyingly low.

In the center of it all sits a student with short black hair, a curious red-white accessory pinning her bangs back, dressed in a black-white outfit, and scribbling on a piece of paper furiously. Her eyes – red, ruby red, so, so pretty – are focused entirely on the matter at hand, completely concentrated on that single scrap of paper. She almost admires the determination, but realizes that she ultimately just isn't fit for this club. She doesn't have the same drive, the same motivation this girl has, and she's horrible at trying to do such.

She moves to turn away. It's only when she's halfway back to the door that the girl's head snaps upwards.

She barely manages to catch sight of the most distinctive feature of the girl – her eyes – before her body slams itself against the door and cowers at the attention. She can't see, can't hear, can't breathe – those eyes on her pitiful, pathetic form, she doesn't deserve it, no –

"Whoa, whoa, hey! Are you alright?"

She thinks she can hear something scraping against wood. Probably a chair or some sort, but she honestly can't think straight anymore. The only thing that she can see is eyes on me, eyes on my arms, eyes on my legs, eyes everywhere, it hurts it hurts it hurts – she can't stop –

There is the lightest of touches on her shoulder. A finger. Rough. Calloused. A finger from a hand from a table –

She jerks back, stumbling over herself to get away from the contact. She hates it. Hates it hates it hates it. But she doesn't feel the initial reaction she usually gets, not the disgust, the hatred, the fear – no, she gets longing.

Her back bumps against a thin, wooden thing. It's most probably the leg of a table. Her eyes are stinging from being shut so tightly for such a long time, but she can barely care anymore. Why? Why? Why? Why? I hate it! I hate it, I hate it, I hate it hate it hate it why do I want it?

"Hey… hey, there, calm down. Calm down. It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Really."

The voice soothes her. Calms her, even, like the voice promises. But she can't bear the thought of being comforted by a mere voice, when the very thing she has feared for nearly her whole life has been human interaction. She can't take this. She can't. She can't. Why did she ever think she could do this? It's all a mistake. All of it. Stepping foot in the school campus and thinking she could last without having an attack was the worst mistake she had ever committed.

But she can feel it; her hackles lowering, her eyes blinking back tears, hands trembling instead of numb. She can feel the life drifting back down into her body. Her broken body – no. She stops. Shivers. But she doesn't cry.

She's learned a long time ago that crying didn't solve anything and never would.

Aya is, without a doubt, completely confused.

A girl she recognizes from her homeroom class steps in the club room and tries to exit when Aya sees her. She then promptly breaks down and looks like she's having a panic attack. The black-haired reporter had thought she should call an ambulance, or 911, or something, but all she did was go near the brunette girl and try to say hey, it's okay, even though you probably don't know me and don't care either. Ridiculous.

Still, it looks like the girl had calmed down enough to stop shaking and making strange whimpering noises. Honestly, that had scared Aya. It was a little unnerving to watch someone break down into pieces right before one's eyes, more so for her, as she's never actually seen anything like that.

Deciding it's probably safe enough to approach her, she asks, "Are you okay now?"

The girl trembles in response, but doesn't move or say anything to confirm or deny the question. Aya frowns. Wasn't this the girl who refused to say anything when she talked to her about joining the Newspaper Club?

"Hey, it's alright. Nothing's going to happen to you, okay? I'll, uh, protect you!"

That was really, really stupid, Aya thinks, but the brunette seems to take it very personally.

She had been curled up into a fetal position, legs to chest and face hidden by her knees, but when she hears that, she slowly uncurls until about half of her face is showing. They're brown, red-rimmed, and have a dark cloud of uncertainty and fear in them. But she doesn't say anything. Instead, her eyes do the talking for her. Aya can almost hear the word – "Really?"

"Y-Yeah, really! I promise, I won't let you be scared by anything again, alright? Just, uh, stick to me for a little. I won't hurt you, and I'll make sure nobody else will!"

This was a trap. A really, really clever trap, to be honest. Aya hopes the girl doesn't really believe her. However, the brunette lowers her face just a tiny bit, so only her brown eyes are shown among chocolate strands of hair. "I don't trust you. Who'll say you'll keep that promise?"

Though she's grasping at straws by this point, Aya tries hard – really, she does – to respond properly to the unspoken question. "I promise I'll keep my promise. And I promise I'll keep that promise that promised to protect you." She cracks a grin, in an effort to lighten the mood. Humor always works with these kinds of things, right? "I don't know what you're scared of… but it'll be just fine! Really, everything works out okay in the end, after all."

Instead of having the intended effect, the brunette's face only sinks lower and lower until nothing but her head remains above her knees. Aya tries in vain to keep her eyes from sinking lower. Without the girl's eyes to guide her, she can't find anything to say.

"… Nice panties," is what she blurts out thirty seconds in the silence.

Instantly, the girl's head shoots up, coloring a furious red incredibly quick. Her eyes are wide, surprised – "What?!"

"I mean, they're checkered, purple and white and black too, I think," Aya stammers, trying to back away from the brunette. "Uh, maybe wear some shorts… hu–"

The brunette does a pretty good job at covering it up, though, because she's standing up, still flushed red, and speeds out of the room with impressive stilt-walking. Aya almost laughs, but notices that what she'd said was really stupid and yeah, she should probably apologize.

Coughing back a snicker at the brunette's enraged look, she lays her hand atop the girl's shoulder. She realizes a second later that oh crap, that wasn't a good move, but sees that the brunette doesn't even notice it. Her brown eyes are staring daggers at Aya, but they're not the really angry kind, more like she's holding daggers and she's ready to let them fly. "What?"

"Um, sorry about that," Aya says, laughing nervously. She slowly, excruciatingly removes her hand from the brunette's shoulder, and blinks in surprise when the girl's eyes momentarily flicker with some sort of emotion she can't place. "I mean, I couldn't think of what to say. I guess it just… got out?"

"The only thing that's going to be going out is me," is what the reporter can imagine she'd say, when she turns on her heel and stalks back out of the room. She slams the door shut, but Aya's only charmed further.

'I said I'd protect her, didn't I?' she muses, a little disturbed as she walks back to her work table. 'I hope she doesn't remember that… I don't think I'm ever going to meet her again, anyway.'

… 'I never got her name!'

She's sure it had been a dream. A very, very realistic dream, and at the same time a very unrealistic one, too, but a dream.

She knows it isn't. She's just trying to fool herself that it is.

She walks back home, subconsciously pushing her skirt down every time she felt a draft, and makes sure there isn't anyone else on the road. There isn't, but she holds it down even then. It's embarrassing that she let some unknown girl see her underwear, but she supposes that she wasn't really thinking in the heat of the moment. And during an attack, too…

Her foot catches a pebble and she trips, but she steadies herself and continues walking on and pretending nothing happened. If even her thoughts were distracting her from the outside, then she's definitely going to have to research more. She can't think. She has to know. Before she knows it, she's flipped out her phone and scrolling through the news feed on Facebook.

Aya Shameimaru is the president of the Newspaper Club and is the only one in it. She writes, edits, prints, and distributes out everything by herself because she doesn't have anyone else to do it. Her major strength is her speed, which is how she manages to get everything done so quickly. She's social, but she doesn't have very many friends due to her gossipy nature.

'… Gossipy nature?' It certainly didn't seem that way just a few minutes ago, when the reporter had promised to protect her from anything that might frighten her. In fact, she had been honestly very caring and kind. It almost scared her, because nobody's ever been that nice to her in any period of time in her life. She can't remember the last time she smiled.

If she really is a gossipy sort of person who cared little for others' personal lives, she's sure Aya would write an entry about her having a panic attack in the music room for some reason. That, or she would write about the color of her panties. Or both. Most probably both.

But she could feel that Aya really isn't that sort of person, no matter how much she tried to imagine it. She could, theoretically, write an entry about that, but she'd have no proof to back it up. The only people who had witnessed the incident firsthand had been her and Aya, and the reporter hadn't taken a picture or anything. And it wasn't like she seemed like a very reliable source of information. Still…

Violet heels clack down the street as she speeds down the road, intent on preparing for the next day.

I have written a total of 14k words. Originally, it was going to be a oneshot, but I suppose splitting it into chapters would make for easier navigation. The next few parts should be up in a bit.

Slacker, 11/27/14