"Is there anybody out there who is lost and hurt and lonely too? Are they bleeding all your colors into one?"
It wasn't a physical pain…at least, he didn't think it was.
But it hurt.
Really bad.
A monster's hand gripped his heart. It squeezed with all of its might. His heart was on the verge of bursting.
Yamamoto wasn't one who usually felt pain.
It was excruciating.
He would be brushing his teeth when the pain jabbed through his body. A lightning rod. A fiery hot poker. Shards of ice. He would be working on homework when it hit. He would be drifting off to sleep when it struck.
And so he went to the one man who could help him out at such a time.
He wasn't surprised to find Shamal stumbling and drunk within his office. The older man held a bottle of vodka in one hand, and he sang incoherent words to himself as he walked the perimeter of the room, absently dragging his feet. It was hard to believe that the man in front of Yamamoto was known as the Trident Mosquito.
Yamamoto cleared his throat. "Doctor," he said.
Shamal continued on, showing no signs of even hearing Yamamoto.
"Doctor," Yamamoto said again. He rapped his knuckles against the wooden door.
"Whazzit that you whannt?"
"Do you have any medication?"
"What for, boy?"
What for? Good question. Yamamoto knew the obvious answer, the most rational one, but was it really the reason why he was here? "My shoulder," he said, and he grabbed the deltoid muscle, rubbing it gently as though it hurt. "I jammed it pretty good in practice today, and it's acting up…"
"Really?" Shamal drawled. He took a sip of the vodka. The sip stemmed into a long, greedy gulp. "Just for your shoulder?"
"My ribs, too…" He wasn't lying as he added the bones to the list. They hurt, as well. Not as bad as the seemingly gaping cavity in his chest.
There was a moment of silence. The older man studied Yamamoto, his eyes glinting with wise knowledge. They were sharp for a man in such an intoxicated state. Then Shamal shook his head in a quick, jerky motion. "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't treat guys."
He couldn't say he didn't see this coming. "Doctor," Yamamoto started.
The Trident Mosquito had already begun walking further back into his room. "No good, no good," he sang. "If you want me to examine you, then you'd better come back as a girl. Or better yet, bring pretty (y/n) around. She still owes me that breast-grab from before—"
Yamamoto's closed fist whacked the door, stopping Shamal from saying anything else. The man cut off. He slowly turned to face Yamamoto with an unreadable expression.
"Don't." It was hard to miss the desperation in Yamamoto's voice. "Don't bring her name up." With visible force, he brought his fist down to his side, and both men could see the trembling in his arm. "Please."
The silence was longer this time. It stretched out over a good minute or two.
Then Yamamoto curled an arm over his stomach as pain built up within his rib cage. It spiraled upward, lashing his insides like a whip, and it threatened to explode his heart.
Damn her, she knew how I felt, and at the same time, she didn't see it. She didn't realize…
I don't think I can…
(Y/n)…
Shamal had sobered up. He set the half-empty vodka bottle on the edge of his desk. "Takeshi," he said, and the raven-haired male looked up, squinting through the red sea of agony that blurred his vision. "This medicine you are asking for is to cure a broken heart, yes?"
"Not broken," Yamamoto ground out from behind clenched teeth. "Shredded. And, no. It's for my ribs and shoulder."
"Of course." Shamal chuckled. He waved his hand, motioning him to enter. "Come. I've got some painkillers that'll do just the job. But as a doctor, I can't allow you to have more than two at a time…"
"Two's perfect. Thanks."
"Yeah, yeah. Next time you come to visit me, grow yourself a pair of breasts. C cup."
"Whatever you say."