A/N: This is an older piece.
NOTES: Akaya & Yanagi. Non-slash. Akaya POV. Sensitive material.
Wound Care
His beloved senpai once told him that one's emotional state during his tea preparation had heavy influence on the taste of the final product.
That was why, one should always be emotionally aware during the course of his tea preparation.
That was why, regardless of the other's stoic presentation, Akaya could consume the tea the other whisked and still understand his senpai's current mood.
That was why, he didn't dismiss the overwhelming bitterness that lingered upon his tongue as another irrelevant detail after he consumed the contents in the tea bowl.
The matcha his senpai used was of premium quality. Therefore, if it wasn't the matcha itself that produced the astringency, it had to be the emotions the other whisked into the frothy liquid.
"How was it, Akaya?" Came the usual question. His senpai posed it after each bowl of tea consumed.
Instead of praising the other on his refined skill like he normally does, he chose to remain silent this time.
Serious determination sharpened his sight as his eyes scanned his perfectly composed senpai before him.
Something lurked beneath that perfection.
He reached out then, carefully picking up the hand that rested neatly upon the other's lap. With his other hand, he pushed the sleeve of the kimono back, revealing the other's forearm.
What he discovered did not surprise him. After all, the contents of the tea already revealed such the truth to him.
His own name always served as a real irony to him. Kirihara Akaya. "Kiri" meant "cut," while "aka" meant "red." Red like blood.
He had always sustained cuts and bruises, and have been covered in dirt and blood in childhood. Then, he entered the tennis club in junior high and achieved victories by cutting his opponents with his shots and making them bleed.
His own name always served as a real irony to him, because it fit him so well. Yet, in the current situation, he found it even more ironic that his name would fit another just as perfectly.
Criss-crossing, deep and shallow, long and short cuts covered his senpai's arm; the scabs still glowed bright red.
With a cool voice contradicting the storm gathering up inside him, he asked, "What are these, Yanagi-senpai?"
"Gashes." The other answered plainly, as if speaking about something as natural as the weather.
Gashes. That meant something else for him. Those were the things that the boys in his class always joked about when they stereotyped "the emos." Those were the things that they would humorously demonstrate through holding a plastic knife to saw at their wrists in an exaggerating manner.
He had laughed when everyone else laughed. Yet, only till this day did he realize that when he did so, he also mocked the senpai he respected the most.
"Why did you do this?"
The other did not say anything at first.
It was until he grasped the other's hand, supporting it with both of his, and pleaded to the other with sincerity that the answer revealed itself to him.
The other told him about the one thing that set him apart from the rest of the world.
That one thing defied tradition. That one thing defied society's expectations. That one thing defied normality.
Thoughts of that single difference piled inside his mind, just as the pain that those repetitive thoughts built up inside his heart.
The other was overwhelmed.
The other needed to release the internal pain externally somehow before his mind crumbled and his heart collapsed.
Self-mutilation was the only solution he found.
He listened attentively to the other's succinct explanation. The other's revelation did not bother him.
Maybe, he thought, the other instinctively knew he wasn't going to overreact when he told him such things.
Or maybe, the other already knew he was also...
"Gay, huh?" He smirked carelessly. "Since you've just come out of the closet, then there's no point in me hiding…"
As he suspected, the other simply nodded in acceptance upon his own confession. Sometimes he wondered if there was anything that could surprise his keen senpai.
But that didn't matter now.
He had to talk his beloved senpai out of self-harm.
"Senpai, I know that you must be bothered by everyone's expectations of you, but you can't change who you are. Harming yourself won't change anything. Just like, I am who I am. If I must blame someone, I will blame those who created a monster like me."
He could tell the effect of his words on the other when the older teen showed the slightest expression of surprise. The other's usual role as his mentor now fell upon him.
Sometimes, life was just filled with such irony.
Taking his current role further, he continued, "You know, Yanagi-senpai, I'm glad you showed me who you are. I'm glad we're the same."
He squeezed the other's hand.
They were each other's support now.
Explanation:
This piece was inspired by a passage I read from my psych nursing textbook. There are higher degrees of suicide in adolescent homosexuals. And, after the Clementi case in Rutgers, I wanted to write this even more.
I apologize if it doesn't make much sense. I was attempting to dissect the pain of adolescent identity crisis and self-mutilation. But, there is still a big difference between knowing something from experience and perceiving something from a bystander POV.