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He holds out until he’s home.
The drive takes about 40 minutes - 40 minutes of staring straight ahead, of averting his eyes to the side of the road when another car approaches (“Don’t stare into their headlights, they’ll blind you in the dark. Wait until they pass.”), of his heavy limbs lifting mechanically to shift gears when he passes through a small town, just slightly above the speed limit.
It should have been a good day.
He got to see his mother - not the most common occurrence these days. He’d talked and played games with his sisters, and helped them make dinner. He’d said goodbye at a reasonable time (lots of hugs and kisses), then went out and met some of his old friends from high school.
Lots of laughter, even without drinking. (“Sorry, man, I still gotta drive. Not risking it.”)
Laughter and warmth. Familiar. (“It’s been so long!” and “let’s meet again soon!”)
It felt real, then.
Why doesn’t it, now?
He holds out until he’s home.
He can feel it building, clawing at his insides like something trapped and desperate. Out, out, let me out-
The closest parking spot is two streets away - typical. He walks a bit faster at night, head ducked low between his shoulders, collar up and hands in his pockets. It’s chilly.
The lock offers the same soft resistance it always does, refusing to let the key turn unless he tugs the door shut a little tighter. It’s an instinctual movement, one he’s gotten used to.
It creaks.
The apartment is dark, and he exhales in what might be relief. Or exhaustion.
Or loneliness.
He drops the keys in their usual spot, eyes closing momentarily in anticipation of the thump and jingle that means they’ve found their place.
Every move is calculated. Rehearsed.
Stale.
He toes off his shoes, pushing them aside with his left foot as he works off his jacket, tossing it onto the dresser in the hall.
He still can’t seem to let it go. Out.
He passes the kitchen, where he knows the sink is piled high with dirty dishes. Not now.
He passes the small living room (“the corner”, they call it, because it’s not really a room at all) with the couch piled high with clothes. Clean ones, mostly, but still. Not now.
He drops his bag by the door to his room, and as it flops to the floor, his shoulders drop too. Like what he’s putting down is way larger than the physical weight of it.
He still can’t cry.
He stands in the doorway, light streaming in onto the floor from behind him, his own body casting a long shadow over the mess of papers and clothes and waste.
(“Can I come in?”
“Ah - the place isn’t really presentable right now, sorry. I’d rather you wait here. Please.”)
He can’t seem to sort his thoughts. His eyes catch on a plastic bag, abandoned in a corner. An attempt to bring order.
Half its contents are spilling back out onto the floor.
“Hey, Haji - what’s that mean, ‘depression’?”
All he wants is to curl up and stop existing.
He manages a short huff of breath, as close to a bitter laugh as he can get.
What does anything mean, really?
“But - you’re always so happy!”
Am I?
Laughter, warmth, familiarity.
Am I?
He thinks, then, of what he would have liked to say. If things were different. If it hadn’t been his 12-year-old sister, asking these questions. (He wonders if it matters who it is, at all. Would he ever actually say more?)
He thinks of what he’s said until now, the extent to which he’s been letting it on.
I’ve been having bad days again. Crying, sometimes. I don’t know.
His hands curl into fists.
Sorry, I’m not doing so well today. Or… at all, really. No, don’t worry.
Is there really anything else he can say? Anything that would make sense, at all?
I can’t eat, I can’t sleep - I don’t like this.
“I’m sorry,” he says aloud to the empty room. He flinches at the sound of his own voice, thick and heavy and not familiar at all. “I haven’t been honest with you.”
He doesn’t realize how tightly his teeth are pressed together until he tries to open his mouth, to push out the words.
“The truth is… nothing feels real. I’m sad all the time. I’m lonely and nothing matters.”
But Haji - you can’t be depressed, you’re always laughing!
His fingernails break skin.
“...I’m not okay.”
And that’s when the tears come.
There are thousands of reasons, but they all lose meaning.
I shouldn’t be like this. There’s no reason to feel this way. This emptiness and loneliness - it’s not justified.
After all, he has everything. He has a job, an apartment, he’s on good terms with his family and friends.
You’re always so happy!
Not like Makki, who lost his job, grimaced and tipped back two shots before anyone else had even ordered drinks. (Not like Makki, who despite his own prospects offered advice to the others, who listened and laughed and got escorted home by Mattsun before he got into any trouble. Hajime sees them, in his mind’s eye, tangled up together, Makki’s face pressed into his boyfriend’s chest. He’ll cry about it, definitely. But he’s okay.)
Not like Kyoutani, who hasn’t spoken to his father in three years, who’s taken in his younger brother to get him out of a toxic house. (But he doesn’t look back.)
Not like Tooru, who seems to find enemies at every turn (but they fuel him. “I’ll beat you next time, just you wait”).
Tooru.
Hajime has nothing to complain about.
He bites his lip and slowly steps into his room, along the small path that he’s already cleared towards his bed, toes brushing against stray papers that were important in some life far away.
Who even cares?
Nothing in this room matters.
The thought comes again, like every day, and this time he’s not strong enough to push it away.
I don’t want to be here.
I don’t want to be anywhere.
He reaches the bed, and stops, staring down at the pile of blankets.
At a pair of eyes, glinting lightly in the glare of the hallway outside.
I care so much, but I can’t do this anymore.
I have nothing left to give. Nothing left to offer.
“...I’m empty,” he whispers, because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if Tooru knows. It doesn’t matter if he heard everything.
It doesn’t matter that he’s in the wrong room, the wrong bed, wrapped up in the wrong blankets, waiting for him.
Always, always waiting.
Nothing fucking matters anymore.
Hajime’s vision fogs up with tears.
Tooru sits up, blanket slipping off his shoulders. His expression is one that Hajime hoped he’d never see.
“Hajime,” he says, and he sounds like he wants to cry, too.
“Sorry,” Hajime says, because what else is there to say? He’s sorry. He’s sorry Tooru can’t fix this - he’s sorry he can’t fix it himself.
There is no ‘fixing.’
Nothing fucking matters.
At least there are still tears. It’s better than nothing, maybe.
Tooru shakes his head, and holds out his hands.
Hajime absolutely hates his expression.
“...please don’t look at me like that.”
Tooru bites his lip, arms sinking slightly. Hajime sighs, and it feels like the weight of the world. “...I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” Tooru insists.
Hajime is too tired to argue.
It’s too easy to reach out and take the hands offered to him. It’s too easy to be complacent, to lie down and pretend that the world doesn’t exist.
It used to work. It’s why Tooru tries it still, every time, without fail.
Hajime doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s pointless now. That they can’t hide under the covers and wish everyone else away.
This will still be there when they wake up. He’s accepted that this is a part of who his future self will be - something he will always have to carry, for as long as he lives.
But you’re so happy?
It’s so heavy .
“I love you,” Tooru tells him, when he’s wrapped his arms and legs around him and tucked Hajime’s head into the crook of his neck. “I love you, Hajime.”
You’re going to get hurt, when I give up.
He kills the thought as soon as he thinks it. Giving up is not an option.
It feels easier, every time he finds himself thinking it. Just giving up. Letting it all go.
I already hurt you every day. I should just-
Stop caring.
Stop trying.
Stop pretending.
He doesn’t have the strength to hold on, to squeeze back.
There’s only one thing that feels real, and that’s Tooru’s heart beating warm and strong (and maybe a little panicked) in his chest. His breathing is calming down slowly, still too fast, too scared.
I’m not okay.
“I want you to be okay,” Tooru whispers. “Can… can you tell me what you need?”
Another bitter sound, not quite a laugh, bursts out from Hajime’s throat. Tooru flinches. “...talk to me?”
What am I supposed to say?
He wants so desperately for Tooru to understand. “...there’s nothing to say.”
“...if you don’t know, we’ll find it,” Tooru says, and his confidence feels earth-shattering. (Hajime is behind glass, screaming, screaming-)
“Why bother?”
I have nothing to complain about.
This sadness is unreasonable. Stupid. Pointless.
Everywhere.
“...because you deserve to be happy.”
Tooru’s hands tighten on the back of Hajime’s shirt like it’s a lifeline. Suddenly, it feels like maybe it is. Maybe this touch is something like his last thread, something he can cling to.
Or maybe there’s threads everywhere, he just doesn’t know how to reach out.
“Tooru, I- ...I don’t think I can.”
Tooru squeezes him close, immediate, tight, sharp and real. “You’ll find it again. You will.”
Hajime lets out a wet laugh. “You don’t know that. No one knows that.”
And then, more quietly, the truth comes out.
“I hate this life. I hate everything. I hate that getting up feels like the sky is pushing down on my shoulders. I hate that every step feels like my shoes are filled with lead.” He sighs, long and heavy and shuddering. “God, I’m so tired.”
“You can rest,” Tooru whispers. “We can talk more tomorrow. We can figure this out. I promise.”
Hajime shakes his head. “What if I don’t want to?”
“You will.”
God, this argument is so exhausting.
“...I’m- I'm glad you believe that. But I need you to understand-”
“You don’t see it,” Tooru says, lips pressed up against Hajime’s hair. “I know.”
Hajime sighs again, sighs and wishes for patience.
“I’m not giving up on you,” Tooru says. “Not ever. Even if you have, I won’t.”
Oh, how you’re going to suffer when I-
“...don’t do this to yourself, Tooru. You deserve to be happy.”
“I am,” Tooru says simply. “With you.”
Hajime shakes his head, frustrated tears spilling over again.
“I’m worthle-”
“Never,” Tooru says, fierce and determined. “Not to me.”
It’s not enough.
Not now, and maybe not ever.
It’s not enough, because Tooru can’t cure him.
“I need help,” Hajime whispers, tiny and terrified.
Tooru pulls back, just enough so their gazes can meet.
“...whenever you’re ready.” His eyes say you don’t have to rush it.
For you, is what Hajime thinks. For you is what brings him back, what lets his fingers tighten around Tooru’s arm, making him gasp.
For you is dangerous, because nothing is permanent - but then again, neither is life?
For Tooru is as good a reason as any to want to change.
For the beginning, for the first step-
It’s enough.