khr ain't mine.
Warning: dark story.
Hey there. I guess this story became my new place to vent, now that my other story Phoenix Tears is moving towards a completely different direction, and it can no longer become the container of my negativity- especially since I don't feel the same way as I did when I wrote that. It's just that things are going terribly with my life right now, and there's nowhere for my feelings to go. It doesn't really matter to anyone else but myself, I suppose.
If nothing else, maybe this is a holla from me to the future me, to let her know that I once felt like this- or maybe it's a signal flare to see if there are other people who felt like this? Though I might as well be shouting in the void, huh?
Chapter 3
Liquid courage
Tsunayoshi stared silently at the corpse of the jock as memories flooded into his mind, showing him the time when the two of them were middle schoolers. Yamamoto Takeshi had called him a savior for reaching out to him in the rooftop, but the boy had no idea that things were backward.
Dame-Tsuna. It was the moniker that stuck with the hopeless little boy who lived like he couldn't be left unsupervised. He meandered through his house and made it seem like it needed to be baby-proof for him to live without being a hazard to himself. Needless to say- if he couldn't manage his everyday life without ease, struggling through it, his academics, athletism and social life were a train wreck.
He was the example they'd contrast themselves against. There was really nothing going for the brunette- no matter what he tried, it was for nothing.
"Dame-Tsuna, just stop already. If you just stay still, we can manage just fine. Else, we'll have to clean after your mess- and I don't have the time or energy to do that."
Somehow... It was accepting the fact that he couldn't do much, that his potential amounted to nothing- that felt like it was slowly choking him. His surroundings were muting itself in his presence. Regardless of how beautiful people and the world could be, it meant nothing to a failure like him- someone who couldn't reach out to that part of the world, even if he sliced off his arms and javelin-threw it.
His eyes could burn in the humiliation of his existence, a failed experiment from Mother nature, or perhaps a scapegoat to bring comfort to other people- at least they knew of a person hitting rock bottom- crushing it and diving deep underground; and they'd never be him.
His focus and concentration wavered, as those voices- blending in with the disappointed looks and words of frustration from his peers- haunted and spun around him, making webs that he couldn't break through. He felt cracks in his face, he became a puppet in its truest form seeing that he could feel the foreign sensation of a loose and shabby smile. It was utterly alien in its presence, like seeing an absentee father.
Dame-Tsuna was a fool, an idiot, a doofus, a nincompoop, a nitwit, a madman, a reject, a naysayer, a nutcase, a hazard, trash, garbage, cancer, a nutjob, a little bitch, a fucker, a little shit... the list grew long and longer. Sometimes, he himself didn't know if it was he who gave him those names or was it from the others.
There were some basic activities which he was to follow, to be a basic human being, and to grace society by following some basic mannerisms and etiquette. Was it good to be so spontaneous that he couldn't say for certain that there were things he would definitely do in a day?
His classmates gave him the stinkeye for having the gall to stay in their close proximity, smelling like that, looking like that, acting like that. It was shameful. It was demotivating and brought the class morale down. The scorn in his teacher's eyes as he openly criticized such a student did nothing for Tsuna.
For he was the idiot who couldn't muster up the energy to act like a normal human being. All he could do was mesmerizingly stare at the boring, even and uniform pattern on the floor. He had absolutely no imagination- how could someone do the equivalent of watching paint dry?
His limbs weighed heavily down onto him- he desperately needed to lie down- he couldn't support himself physically, mentally or psychologically.
Then, his mother thought enough was enough- and sent him to therapy.
There he realized that regardless of the incentive offered to his company, there was no way anyone would be proactive in any form of relationship with him. He had quietly looked on the person, the psychologist in charge for him as he listed his problems- all that filth manifesting in dark, drudging slime. His every word made that dark, grimy, black slime leak like puke and they curled and seductively mingled with the air around him- poisoning it. It blinded his vision and corrupted the surrounding in its lust and desire to conquer.
He abruptly kept his mouth shut, to stop himself from bringing further havoc- and then regarding the pause as a prompt for him to speak, the psychologized advised. He advised that the lad had a lot to work upon- bewildering the patient. Just where on earth was he going to get the energy to fix himself?
There was a long list of suggestions being thrown at him as the doctor's eyes wandered towards his schedule. It was a planner stuck with post-its and schedules for various patients- other lost souls who came to this man in hopes of some sort of salvation. His words flew right of his mouth with graceful ease. These were situations he had been trained to handle- quick, simple and brisk; straight to the point.
Tsuna searched through the empty air, wondering if some of them hid themselves in there, or maybe there was going to be a delayed response. But there was nothing to come- but he wanted to hear something else, the silence was deafening, his questions that he had inserted in his long monologue- an epic in sound- seemed like a droning voice and it was embarrassingly long. It wasn't met with a response that satisfied him. It didn't contain the level of detail he subconsciously expected.
It felt awfully short, and they seemed to whisk away his breath and made his eyes burn. The doctor then pointed towards the clock, signaling that their session was to stop here for now. Tsuna felt like he tore his heart open to the professional, only to realize that in the long run, he was of no consequence to this doctor.
Perhaps, holistically speaking, he had saved countless people from their mental demons. But the truly troublesome ones needed more resources and more time to work upon. They could be somewhat ignored or sidestepped to give results. This doctor of the mind was ultimately, just another person. He had to pay bills, look out for himself and had to work for a living. His living just involved people's psychological problems. Why should he care if a patient was drowning from his interaction?
Maybe his suffering was just so well hidden under his supposed poker face. With more people than ever before on this planet, even if he broke down publically, people would simply label him as mentally unstable and move on. They'd scorn him for not fitting right in, for not cooperating with society, for being such high maintenance and being an absolute freak and a weakling. Tsuna felt that Hibari might need a newer class just for him because he was no match for the people he called as herbivores,
The faucets to his tear ducts were broken, and his throat felt oddly choked for days on end, and weeks clustered together.
Society didn't want anyone to quit on them, any physical manifestations of weakness were deplored upon- they were cowards, the whole lot of them. Yet Tsuna didn't know what to do if he couldn't live, why couldn't he choose death. The sneering faces and the look they'd give him if he survived, would stain his future- because you weren't allowed to compromise your own safety. Then they'd take your agency from you, and you'd have one less piece of yourself.
He had spoken on and on about himself- the one subject he didn't want to broach upon, feeling utterly selfish and egoistic. He was being self-centered, but for what, for whom? Like there was something worth talking about himself. Like there was something redeemable about himself. But there was nothing else to talk about to the person offering that service, was there?
For all the people who said that money made the world go round, he felt that he could use himself as the example that showed that regardless of what you offer them- unless you're blessed as that type of person- they wouldn't even give you a face to face or influence in the slightest.
He felt melodramatic in that his person was all that he could possess, especially since there were no buyers for all the offers that he had made so far. But he himself didn't want the defect in his possession. Regardless of what decorated his surroundings, nothing else was truly his. It was the stuff his parents had funded- and his classmates showed that even if he carved his name in them- nothing would be his.
He had lost so many of his possessions, saw many of them drowning in the school fountain, graffitied items- the survivors that lived through being borrowed from him sometime looked unrecognizable. His hands shivered at his foreign touch from the thoughts that said someone else merrily used them as they pleased.
He wanted to peel his skin for being the dirty pathogen that would infect everything and everyone. Misery plagued him, and misery was his only company.
If he could gain some form of entitlement, he needed to be worthy enough to be granted that. But when he tried to envision that future, it all seemed so bleak.
That was why, when he saw Yamamoto on the other side of the fence- with his eyes staying focused on his figure- a myriad of emotions whirled around him.
There was a sense of guilt that he might have been the primary cause for the other's state of mind.
There was a sense of sadness from the idea that such a bright being would get snuffed out- especially since the other had so much to live for and had so much potential.
Then there was a creeping sense of exhilaration- that they two, being such polar opposites, could share something common. That they both were longing for death, that they felt discarded and couldn't see through the fog.
Tsuna could find a companion in the other. If he died here, Tsuna would be alone again.
He felt alive for once, since there was a person who put him in their sight. Regardless of incentives, there was a person who cared, even if it was for his own needs and goals. Even if he didn't particularly care for the other, his eyes followed his being, his ears were hearing his words and Tsuna was given someone's time of the day; they were precious seconds.
So he clung on to the fool of a jock, and had such a tight grip that he didn't realize that his touch broke through skin- right through his soul and essence. He didn't even care anymore that if he had to keep something around- it was something that always required his initiative- something that was never a cooperative endeavor.
Tsuna always tango'd with death- he was enamored and they danced through many occasions. Even if circumstances changed, it's perfume stuck around him- since they such frequent companions.
It made sense that by lingering around Yamamoto Takeshi, the perfume's scent would fall onto the baseball jock. It permeated through the other's skin and made him reach his end in such a way, at such a young age.
When Tsuna saw his classmates rush towards the ceiling, making a commotion- a repeat of the unfortunate incident- he moved towards the disciplinary committee room and blatantly took the mattress right in front of the committee head, Hibari Kyoya.
The blood that pooled around the jock in the last run pulled on something deep within him.
"Yamamoto-kun's on the rooftop. He's going to jump."
The hostile look of the prefect immediately changed to that of alertness, but Tsuna didn't bother with any more pleasantries. He was not trained to have a good physique at this point of time.
Thus he began dragging the mattress towards the staircase, only to stumble headfirst from slipping the very top step. The mattress went down with him and had become the very first bed who had bedded a human- instead of the other way around.
Hibari looked unamused at the stumble, and he was very vocal about it-
"It seems that you'd die first instead of Yamamoto Takeshi. What a riot- the hero dying before arriving at the scene?"
He then took the mattress, snorting at the other.
"Didn't you want to save someone with the mattress? It looked like you planned on making it the killer for your death."
When Tsuna tried to salvage the situation, he tripped again into the mattress- making the prefect lose his grip, and riding it to the next floor.
Hibari looked miffed at the ruckus, but didn't want to deal with it anymore and wrapped the brunette into a sushi roll and moved them into the ground near the place of the commotion.
Tsuna was then finally free from being the metaphorical tuna filling in the sushi, absent-mindedly commented,
"Hibari-san, do you think one mattress is enough to absorb the impact of a person falling from 4-5 storeys?"
The other looked utterly pissed at the notion that this whole venture was absolutely useless, but just then,
Yamamoto's gravity-defying body flew right into the brunette's body- making him the primary body pillow- with the mattress only getting leftovers of what was it's primary purpose in this situation.
As Tsuna's lungs immediately protested at the sudden impact, the sight of the brunette giving out a moan of pain made the prefect vindictively satisfied.
Yamamoto looked at the crushed Sawada with bewilderment, only feeling more shocked at the nasty laugh the demon of Namimori was giving at that instant.
"I think my limbs are going to quit on me right now and I'm begging my spine to stay.
I've a feeling that your arm's not going to be able to keep you down, Yamamoto-kun. It's still hanging around after all.
Mine wants to leave me and break up immediately." Tsuna grumbled feeling like his limbs were dislocating and fractures were going to be imminent.
Yamamoto felt oddly comforted at that notion. Hibari's guffaws at the brunette's statements only added to that relief.
