A/N: I don't own the Nagatoro franchise.
Shininglegacy22, Ouchanrrul , and BlackDragon829: Thank you all for your support and feedback. You all wanted me to put this story up, so here it is.
WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS THEMES RELATED TO DEPRESSION, SUICIDE, AND POTENTIALLY MORE. I AM NOT MAKING A JOKE OUT OF THESE ISSUES, I JUST WANT TO TRY MY HAND AT WRITING A STORY THAT MAY MORE ACCURATELY FIT NAOTO'S LIFE.
PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE EASILY DISTURBED OR COULD POSSIBLY FIND THIS UNPLEASANT.
He was alone in the art room. Not that it was new; he was always alone. Of course, he had his parents, but they didn't know what he went through or how he felt, because he never told them. His mom and dad were always incredibly busy, and he didn't want to worry them with his seemingly trivial problems.
But the little, pent up thoughts kept to himself quickly grew until he found himself thinking more and more about how pathetic he was; how useless and unwanted he was by everyone he knew.
And the past few days had only proven his suspicions. Ever since those girls had seen his manga, the one thing he prided himself on, and tore him to pieces for it, he had lost almost all hope. To them, especially her, it may have been just another guy, just another day. But to him, it was as if his life's work had been ripped to shreds and lit ablaze right in front of him.
He should have been used to it. As far back as he could remember, he had been bullied for his interests in drawing over sports, cars, dinosaurs, and whatever things most boys liked.
Correction, he was used to it. But she somehow shattered his defenses and got him to cry. Twice. A high school boy, brought to tears on two occasions by a girl younger than him.
He was pathetic.
Which was why he was in the art room, alone and lonely. Not even that girl bothered to drop by and bother him, which only made him feel worse. She had her fun, and tossed him aside like an old, broken doll. He should have been glad it was over, but part of him desired so badly to be useful for something, anything, even just one more time.
But she, unlike him, had friends to hang out with instead of some loser who hardly anyone batted an eye at.
Which was why the cuts on his arm didn't hurt. He was simply to pained emotionally to feel anything physically. He could put on a happy face at home, say he was just tired and hide away in his room, but he could only wear a mask for so long before it started to fade away.
If anyone was around, they may have heard the sound of sharp metal slicing through skin as he dragged the razor along his wrist. There were plenty of towels in the art room, and the long sleeves of his school shirt always hid the cuts. So he cut away, unworrying about getting caught. When he had five red incisions on his lower arm, he washed them with soap and water despite the sting and rolled down his sleeves.
He walked home, alone.
The next day was just as bad as any other time he had an encounter with "Nagatoro". She relentlessly teased him for his tastes in manga and called him out for his dirty thoughts when she was the one to shove his mind into the gutter.
He put on his "brave" face as always and pushed through, feeling what was left of his self-esteem chip away with each snide remark sent his way.
Then she attacked him. She had brought up the topic of vampires and decided to remark on how his virginity would protect him from becoming some kind of ghoul if he was bitten. For whatever reason, something he said made her want to bite him. Despite his pleas and requests, she tackled him to the ground and began to unbutton his shirt. She almost did bite him, and would have if he hadn't had garlic breath from his lunch. Which was yet something else she had found a way to insult him on earlier.
He had nothing left. His esteem, his self-confidence, his interests and hobbies, not even his personal space was worth a damn to anyone.
What was worst was he just couldn't find it in himself to hate her. It was his fault for always being an easy target.
It was his fault for being so weak.
It was his fault for not being able to defend himself.
With each slide of the blade against his skin, red blood streaked down the sink and down the drain. He started wondering how much of his blood had been washed down over the course of his high school life.
Probably more than enough to be worrying. And a lot more was on the way.
A note had been left on his easel. It wasn't a reminder for him to do something in the morning, or a sheet for him to go over tomorrow.
It was his final goodbye.
The razor was once again placed on his wrist, but he turned it so the blade ran parallel to his forearm.
He pressed, and dragged up to the elbow.
It hurt, a lot. But he couldn't find it in himself to care. Hurt was something he had lived with for so long, it was only fitting that he felt it in the end as well. He didn't cry; that would mean she won. His knees grew weak and he fell to the floor, blood already pooled around him.
As his vision blurred, he could make out someone getting closer. A girl, by the looks and voice. A pretty one at that.
His guardian angel?
He could hear them trying to say something, shouting at him, but he couldn't make it out.
His eyes closed, and everything was dark. Everything was quiet. Everything was peaceful at last.
The next thing he knew, a bright light was burning through his eyes, even though they were shut.
Was he in heaven? Did heaven and hell actually exist?
A high-pitched, rhythmic beeping caught his ear. It was mechanical in origin, not angelic by any means.
He turned to the noise, where he saw not only the machine making the sound, but a woman who had fallen asleep against the bed he was in.
He was alive. Somehow, he had survived.
"Mom?" he weakly asked, and she bolted upright. She wrapped her arms tightly around him and pulled him close, sobbing into his hair.
She didn't stop for minutes. Maybe even half an hour. He was too tired to correctly register time.
When she finally stopped with a sniff, she told him he had a guest.
In walked the girl. "Nagatoro", if he remembered correctly. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, accompanied by running mascara and tear streaks dried onto her cheeks. It looked like she hadn't washer her hair or face for days.
She walked up to the bed, but kept her distance. She was quiet, contemplative. She tried to say something, but her voice was to shaky for her to get it out on her first try.
On the second attempt, it came out soft but clear. Something he had not heard in a long time.
"S-senpai. I-I'm...I'm sorry."
A/N: Sort of a clumsy ending, I guess. Don't worry, more happy one-shots are on the way, and I might try to do more tragic/dark one-shots if the feedback for this one is okay enough.
More so, I might reupload this with a different ending if you all want.
I hope you have a good day! See you all later! I have 1.5 stories almost done, but it may be a day or so before they're ready.