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His head hurts; right behind the eyelids, then everywhere, akin to a blade running across the skull until he's choking on blood pouring down his throat.
It's been that way for a while, he guesses. He's capable of ignoring it, thus it's not a big deal. Another scar, a proof of courage or madness, whatever people say about him as long as they keep on talking. Perhaps, if he hits himself hard enough, the pain will magically fuck off, defeated once for all.
In retrospect it is a 'Kiyoshi's level of stupid' idea, isn't it? Whatever.
Slamming a palm against the side of his head does bring something out; a long whine followed by a groan, arms raised into the air in defeat for a moment. Kiyoshi would be cool to have around right now, his voice is so loud it swallows everything in the way. It's akin to standing next to a speaker, the shaking bass vibrating against your skin.
He doesn't mind. Kiyoshi ain't there though. Shitty of him, not that Yasushi is in the mood to care. If anything, he can always start a riot on his own, walking into a convenience store with that shit-eating grin that people can't stand. How he craves to see their eyebrows do the annoyed thing, the thrill of an upcoming fight causing his blood to boil.
Ah, that'd be better if he knew where he is.
The sudden realization, closed shops without working hours on their doors, and narrow streets where you can't tell where you're from, hits him as hard as that bastard Shida did. Might be his fault! After all, Yasushi didn't feel that fucked up before their fight. Might as well have been thanks to the painkillers gotten from an old woman in their building though.
Not quite stolen. Merely—borrowed or whatever he has been doing since he's a kid; taking everything first so nobody can have the honor. Anyway, old ladies around there aren't to be messed with usually. It's just that showing up covered in blood in the hallway is apparently enough to warrant getting free meds.
That nightmare of a grumpy lady made him mop the whole staircase the following day. Which sucked, especially with Kiyoshi laughing at his face while he dragged his dirty shoes everywhere.
All he remembers is rage, blood pooling against bandages, how the mop felt menacing and heavy all of a sudden. Kiyoshi grabbed him by the shoulders, rough hands, pushing down until he was sitting, bile rising up his throat.
The way that damn bastard tugged the mop on his side, doing a half-assed job at cleaning, worried glances not so discreetly thrown at him from time to time.
Yasushi, one eye closed as he crouches down, isn't keen on remembering that. Or anything for that matter. The pounding isn't improving in the slightest, moments where he isn't certain of where the day starts or where it's meant to end, scenes missing without an explanation.
"Oyo~"
He almost crashes backward, saving himself from the embarrassment by slamming a palm against the concrete. Slouching not so far up, an unwanted guest grins lazily at him, hands shoved as far as possible into an ugly cardigan.
"The fuck you want?"
Names are a thing of the past—smothered underneath laughter and screams. He isn't sure or who is standing in front of him, beside the obvious; that's someone from Housen. They hang sometimes, both groups blending into one until they're something greater, beers in hands and unpredictable tales on their lips. Yasushi would love, just for once, if his brain could do basic math and add two and two together so he wouldn't feel as if he wasn't at any of these events.
He was. There are pictures, reminders on dirty clothes and cans piling up in the recycle bin. Yet, he—he signs, emptying his lungs, pressing a smile against his lips until they're painful at the edges.
"I said—"
"I heard you, don't be rude~" The rival, what else could he be, crouches in front of him, colored lenses slipping off his nose. "That's Housen's territory, surely you're aware, hm?"
"Oi, why should it matter? You're saying I ain't welcome?"
He's on the verge of laughing, of exploding into clenched fists and cruel kicks.
Yasushi can't remember when he crossed the line between Housen and Oya. He must have done so hours ago—what the fuck is wrong with him? Beyond what everyone knows; his shortcomings are filled with aggression and unhinged moves.
The guy is staring, more contemplative than resigned, he'd say.
Odajima, he remembers now. Not that he ever forgot. It's more—a temporary fog, going back and forth akin to waves licking sand endlessly. There are rules, pressure from themselves and the rest, about not growing close enough to feel trapped. Secrets and affairs, what else could he call them, where you won't say anything out loud, yet you're not hiding yourself completely either.
He has seen beginnings and endings, funerals where he had to bite the inside of his cheeks to refrain from laughing until he couldn't breathe, stolen kisses in hallways followed by rosy cheeks and disgusting affection. All these pieces can't seem to form anything making sense anymore, and he glances at his palm, rubbing dirt off against his pants.
"Nishikawa, right?"
"Unless I changed my name, yeah," he's grinning, still, although it's growing into uncanny valley per the second. There's a limit to being creepy, people told him. Teachers and parents—none stayed long enough to truly care anyway.
"That'd be Yokoyama then?~"
He's on the verge of throwing up, hand jolting forward to get a hold on the oversized cardigan. Oddly, Odajima allows it, leaning forward until his lips are almost brushing against his. That too, feels akin to a memory—something about makeovers and parties. He blinks the fog away, eyes watery for no acceptable reason, as fingers close on top of his.
"I'll never take Todo's name. Murayama would butcher it twice as much if I did. Wouldn't be fun~ You're not o-kay."
The way he talks is so uneven, one sentence akin to a whisper, the following loud and clear, Yasushi wants to rip him apart (it's too familiar). He can't—he imagines Kiyoshi's hand in his, bruised and unkind, and he hates the difference, how that asshole shouldn't take any chances.
Thus, in spite of a pounding headache, Yasushi slams his head against Odajima's with enough force to cause blunt trauma.
Exactly what he's looking for; a fight, any chance to get back on his feet and challenge a world which isn't making sense. What he gets though, is disbelief, and glasses slamming against the bridge of his nose.
"I'm doing amazing," shit, his voice slurred a bit.
He's back on his feet, hands wrapped around his arms as he can't even protest. That'll make kicking Odajima in the chest less bothersome, thus who is he to complain about his rival offering an obvious advantage for free?
"You're full of shit," the fellow menace tells him, pushing his glasses up with the back of his hand, "let's go to the hospital before you die on Housen grounds and start a bloody war or something."
"You'd like that—"
"Not quite. Sachio would never retire if that happened."
Don't get Yasushi wrong, he has countless sentences to throw as if they were punches. The thing is, it's hard to talk when he is basically dragged away by a noodle who can't even dress himself right.
The electronic display board is an eyesore. Leg bouncing against the floor, Yasushi considers bolting out—wouldn't be too difficult, as long as his name isn't called in the meantime. He filled a form absentmindedly, wondering who needs to know his medical history when he never kept track. He stares at his pants, loose threads hanging at the bottom.
Kiyoshi sews. Like, patching holes in their clothes, bringing back all these shirts with flowers or dragons imprinted on them. It's—a thing. Yasushi teases him for it, he does that with everything. Himself never bothered to learn, no patience nor care. He's great at leadership, which is a full-time position, and being so much of a nuisance most neighbors don't dare to say anything to them when they trash the place.
Outside of that aggravating old woman who lives alone in the flat next to theirs.
He'd rather be home, right now, than sitting next to a chatting asshole who keeps on filling the blanks with useless trivia.
"Why are you even here for?"
"To pick my prescription."
"That's in the other waiting room—"
"Oh, so you do know how hospitals work."
"Shut the fuck up!"
A nurse glares at them—at him mostly, and Yasushi wonders how it'd feel to scream at the top of his lungs, just because. He's been fidgeting with his phone, Line open and Kiyoshi's convo one click away. He can't contact him right now.
He should.
Not possible. He wouldn't be able to tell why, the reason for that dreadful feeling beneath his skull. What if he's fucked forever, forgetting and getting lost? Then no one will follow him—he'd lose minions and empty promises, wouldn't soar or be brighter than the rest.
Can't lose Kiyoshi.
"I'm keeping you company, isn't it grand?~ You should text him."
"As if. You'd text Todoroki?"
"Nah, Sachio or Shida probably though. Doroki would not text me either, even if he were dying or something. Very stubborn guy."
Makes two of us.
What if it had been later, the emergency room closed? He would have dragged his ass on the bus, what else to do?
Odajima is leaning back on the chair, hands pressed against plastic between his legs, somewhere between bored and captivated by the electronic display and its array of numbers.
"I don't give love counseling," Odajima sighs, "you have to figure all of that by yourself."
Yasushi has no idea what that loser is trying to say, thus he opts for a light punch into the noodle's ribs. That's a universal language.
People assume a lot; mostly that he's short, or rather that Kiyoshi is much taller, which isn't quite true. They're both slouching a bit, and if he needs he can tug the other down, ripping buttons off his shirt in the process. Then comes the violence, or maybe it's the first thing.
The doctor does feel that way too—he can't tell as she writes down scars and symptoms he's grown accustomed to. Tiny shards of victories and losses implanted deep underneath his skin. It itches sometimes, when the fog is one step ahead. It itches until his knuckles are purple or green, new bruises on top of old ones.
Anger flares against his chest without a warning, and all he can say is:
"So what if my brain's broken? Who gives a damn?"
Talking to adults—yeah he's one, has been for a couple of years by that point—is a chore beyond what's capable of handling. These unspoken rules make his skin crawl, fake politeness and pre-made sentences one must recite without fail to be accepted.
Checking boxes endlessly on forms isn't how he planned to spend his day, even less his whole life—he got injured worse before. Or rather, in different ways, some quite creative, with removed fingernails, the smell of a lighter burning against his tongue. He lost, and did worse upon crawling his way at the top, he survived.
Kiyoshi would echo that feeling, a moron who got stabbed by some random girl. That was absolutely hilarious, a testimony of how well they fit into Oya.
They don't though.
On the surface, during these huge fights where they're roaming streets as one, it doesn't show. Most of the time though, Yasushi wonders why they don't try to aim higher.
The doctor is holding her ridiculous chart of everything wrong with him, and he wants to toss it out the window.
"Your brain isn't broken, Mr. Nishikawa. Do you remember my name?"
He blinks, palm pressed against the tender scar on the side of his head. She told him—there was an annoying introduction minutes earlier, he's certain of it.
Nothing comes out though, his mind drawing a blank.
"Why should I?"
"Mr. Nishikawa, which day is it?"
"Like, the day of the week or the date?"
"Day of the week."
He swallows so harshly it leaves his throat sore.
"Tuesday?"
"Not quite. It's Thursday."
"Close enough."
She ain't impressed with him. A situation he's familiar with. He considers telling her it's all a joke he can't seem to stop playing over and over—except that words have gotten difficult lately. He fumbles on sentences, on other stuff too. Like the buttons of his shirts, or putting his earrings on.
It's shitty.
"Let's schedule an appointment for next week, Mr. Nishikawa."
"Only one," he relents, not believing she'll magically punch his brain back into center. He accepts the pamphlet she gives him anyway, alongside his ticket to pay the bill and instructions for the pharmacy inside the hospital.
"So, how did it go?"
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?"
"Let me check—nope, I'm all yours~"
He kicks Odajima in the shins as they sit next to each other in the following waiting room. That does nothing for his headache. Perhaps the painkillers will.
Although it'd be smarter to keep them in case of an emergency.
His current predicament might count as one though.
Odajima is carefree—as if he knew the place by heart, strolling from one desk to another, waiting rooms and tickets not bothering him in the slightest. It occurs, a tad late, to Yasushi, that the guy probably isn't just tagging along under a false pretense.
As he's called, not long after Odajima, he wonders why the fuck could be wrong with him. Bitching Disease doesn't sound real enough. He listens to the person in front of him explaining how the meds work, an instruction sheet slipped alongside the pills. Half of the words get eaten by that thing gnawing at his cognitive abilities, not that he cares.
He wants to get out.
Has to.
He has to pay his bill first—that'll be troublesome. He does carry enough cash, he guesses, and being a student at Oya High does offer insurance. Which did play a part in him and Kiyoshi wishing to join.
Fuck, he still hasn't texted him back. He's probably shouting at everyone and being upset.
Or maybe he doesn't care? That'd be worse. Yasushi would rather get punched than ignored.
The fresh air does wonders for his head, and he takes a deep breath, wallet lighter, as he leaves the hospital. He could, and should, forget about that follow-up appointment. What next, all of Housen will ambush him as soon as he's out? No way.
"Yasushi-shan," he hears behind him, and his first thought is to slam the plastic bag in his hand across Odajima's face, "did it go okay?"
Wouldn't be appropriate.
"Why you care?"
"As I told you, if you pass away around there, it'll be a disaster for Housen."
"Oh?"
He smirks, mimicking the act of falling backward before regaining his balance at the last second. It'd be interesting to cause another war, although he hasn't recovered from the previous one yet.
"So, your prescription—"
"Eye stuff. I have a condition, it's annoying."
"The sunglasses?"
"Yep, they're not only for show."
Odajima lowers them with a half-assed wink. Yasushi can't discern anything wrong enough to warrant a prescription. Same as his own case, beside a scar, he has nothing to prove his words.
"They're ugly, so they fit you."
"You're an expert in gross things thanks to your own face, so I'm taking it as a compliment."
"I'm going to kick your spine out of your body!"
"You're welcome to try, Yasushi-shan~"
The flat is kind of disgusting, magazines scattered around, mirrors fixed against the wall and not aligned. He steps into what must be his boyfriend's bag next to the door. Nothing important must be inside, so who cares. Boyfriend ain't a great word; carries too much weight, means so little. Fuck that.
An array of memories invades his senses as he throws jacket and shoes in the entryway to slam the door behind him. He doesn't feel quite at home, merely stuck in a place where he's less likely to be questioned. Hey, the roles are reversed from their childhood, Kiyoshi the cry-baby having to be dragged by his hand so he wouldn't fall behind. How many times did he end up with that idiot sleeping at his place so he wouldn't have to return to walls filled with cracks and impacts from life?
He nurses his cheek for a while, until it turns into prodding, pain spreading against his jaw as he grins; there has never been anything soft about him. Yasushi is a hurricane, twirling and devouring anything close enough.
All but Kiyoshi.
Odajima can throw a punch though.
As the familiar figure enters the dark room what feels like an eternity later, he wonders if his presence has been noticed.
Ah, definitely, considering how his boyfriend sits on the bed, leaning above him. Yasushi, letting out a strangled laugh—don't be caught where you don't belong—abandons the bruised skin to tug Kiyoshi down instead.
How he misses him when they are apart, nobody capable of offering the same adrenaline rush as this idiot who grabs his jaw roughly, probably wondering who dared to hit him like that.
Almost tenderly, Yasushi leans into the touch, before turning his head without a warning, sharp teeth sinking into flesh until the skin breaks. Warmth floods his mouth; how he craved this instant, energy building up against his body and begging to be released all day long.
"Asshole!"
"Don't shout," he smiles, blood on his lips and tongue. Doesn't it make him beautiful? Or completely out of control.
Whatever, Kiyoshi likes everything about him, Yasushi isn't giving him a choice~
That's his own twisted revolution. Kiyoshi wipes his bloody hand across his face, leaving a warm feeling on top of Yasushi's nose and cheeks.
Lovely.
He doesn't tell him. That's beyond what Yasushi is willing to admit out loud. They have sex, that's communication enough, he guesses. The following morning, as skilled hands run through his hair, braiding the side while he stares at his reflection in the mirror, Yasushi pretends to be bored.
He sighs, leaning against Kiyoshi's chest to piss him off so he'll give up. That fool won't though. He's too into that weird hairdressing shit; been since they were kids, stealing magazines and scissors to test random things out. Always so loud and brutal, passion shining through.
Yasushi doesn't mind as much as he pretends to.
He elbows his boyfriend' stomach, aiming for a scar not new any longer. He liked it better when it was fresh, a brush of his fingers enough for Kiyoshi to shiver, almost enamored by the violence surrounding them. Kiyoshi huffs, slamming his chin against the top of his head.
Yasushi laughs, carefree for a moment.
There is that second where they're safe, where they have outgrown brutal parents and unfair hits. Where it's only the two of them, for eternity and whatever tomorrow is meant to be.
Then, without a warning sign, Yasushi's mind gets frayed at the edges. It's the date he can't recall, or what's meant to happen today. He loses his footing in spite of sitting on the floor, mood taking a turn for the worst.
He inhales sharply, slamming a palm against the side of his head until his insides are ringing. He hears Kiyoshi's concerned tone, the kind only allowed away from prying eyes, only to ignore it completely.
"Oi, you're gonna hurt yourself."
He feels the wooden comb pressing against his hand when Kiyoshi grabs it, twisting until his wrist is aching for release. It helps though.
The pain is a catalyst, swallowing his uncanny thoughts to turn them into a goal, into survival. He chuckles, it sounds strained even to his ears. He has hurt himself before, self-inflicted hits, falls from too high.
It's as if his brain lacked common sense, or the wiring was all wrong; against Shida though, he wasn't laughing. At least not toward the end, when he bled through bandages.
Who cares?
Ah yes, he's supposed to see someone at the clinic next week—how many days away already? He can't tell right now.
"I don't need braids today."
"The fuck you do, I'm almost done so chill your ass—"
"Oh that's not what you were saying last night~"
"Shut the hell up for two minutes and let your man work."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say."
He presses a pill against the tip of his tongue, swallowing it alongside blueberry flavored soda. If it doesn't work in the long run, he can always turn to the Murayama way which is not having a brain at all apparently.
The past days have been less—awful. He wouldn't say better, as improvement feels meager when the pills only provide temporary relief. He has a reminder on his phone for the appointment at the clinic. Not that he is eager to talk to that pesky woman again.
She'll pry without fixing anything.
"Yasushi-shan."
"The fuck—" He blinks, sinking even more into the couch where has been sitting. It's a bit damp due to rain the evening prior, and the fact it shouldn't be on the roof, so nobody else bothered to claim it. Sneaking on people is supposed to be his thing.
Well, not really, as Yasushi does appreciate making a grand entrance. Still.
He glares at the moron dropping his weight on the couch, hands hidden underneath cardigan sleeves. Odajima is a nuisance, the odd one when he stands with his Housen buddies—not in an outsider sort of way. He does stand out though.
"Not with Yokoyama today either?"
"He went to grab lunch."
"Oyo? You didn't go with him?"
He hates his placid smile, how he sits with his knees against his chest akin to a child.
"Not hungry. That's my couch."
"Ah yes Oya High and its famous making out roof couch. Extremely romantic."
"That's not Housen territory. You dying here would suck for us—" He grins, switching his brutal tone to something sweet, "Wouldn't it?"
"Your memory isn't that fucked, neat."
Oh now, he does wish he could shove Odajima off the roof. Wouldn't do much for his headache, he laments, sinking further into his seat.
"It's weird coming there without Todoroki to hang out with. Takes the fun out of my visits~"
"Why bother, then?"
"Usually I don't. I wanted to see you though."
It takes only seconds for Yasushi to press his weight on the couch with his knee, turning around and standing as high as he can.
"Spare your pity—"
"It's not like that, geez," he watches Odajima lifting both hands, flapping them in the air in what he assumes to be surrender, "Oya ain't far from Doroki's place, and our last convo was weird. So—remember when I came there undercover and you and Kiyoshi dressed me up as a member of your faction?"
"Nope."
"Ah, that sucks. It was a fun day."
Yasushi has—a flash of a colorful shirt, and a fight. Nothing out of place from his everyday life enough to stand out. For a moment, he stays still, fist already clenched and ready to dislocate a jaw.
Then he hears Kiyoshi's voice calling out to him in the distance, the roof door slammed without care.
"Get the fuck out," he snarls.
Oddly, Odajima complies.
He almost throws up minutes after entering the clinic, out of place in that bright environment—the plastic chairs are so old they're discolored, old blue turning gray. He'd rather forget about the appointment, and everything. There's something tempting in destroying his mind beyond repair. Then he wouldn't care about the future or fleeting memories.
That'd mean breaking Kiyoshi's heart.
Ah, he's fine with doing that to his ribs, not sure about the heart. That's too fragile, hard to replace.
Odajima is picking at the chipped paint on his seat. He was there, standing in a button shirt and pants not quite fitting his frame, and a jacket hastily thrown on top.
Todoroki's clothing, for sure. Yasushi ain't convinced of the moral support Odajima claimed to provide.
He doesn't seem like the sort of guy to care about others. Yasushi can talk, he isn't exactly an expert in that department.
"Mr. Nishikawa?"
"You want me to come with you?"
"Yeah."
After all, he's there so—Fuck, he's getting soft over some blond asshole which wouldn't even fit that well in that faction.
(Who is he kidding, Odajima would be perfect.
Apparently he said that before.)
Yasushi wants to refute being a shitshow as the doctor starts to propose a long-term plan. Brain scan, mri (what's the difference between the two he has zero idea), constant monitoring, involving his family (his what) in the recovery process—nobody is bothering to give him the correct date, or to console him over mixing up right and left at every corner. It's only his head split open, hours where he was unconscious on the pavement until Kiyoshi found him, what's so dramatic about it?
His eyes are filled with burning tears, trapped by rage and his position. He's a calculated leader, not some child who can't stand a beating. He was, once. He couldn't stay that way, not when Kiyoshi was bawling and begging for someone to save him.
He became more than what he was meant to be, pretending it was for power rather than love.
Love sounds vulgar now, a word he can't let out without stuttering, a dirty secret which shouldn't be exposed. No way he's gonna admit his shortcomings to others, offer them a reason to discard him as they have wanted to do from the start.
He's the insane one, unpredictable and unwanted.
"What if I ignore it?"
"It's likely your state would worsen further. How much energy are you spending on keeping your composure, Mr. Nishikawa?"
He swears, calling her by a name which causes Odajima to wince slightly. She merely lifts her eyebrows, not impressed.
"I'm Mrs. Hattori, nothing else will be tolerated. Back to my question, how much energy are you wasting in hiding your condition to your peers? I understand your delicate position," she pushes her glasses up, eyes slowly tracing the path between the checklist on her lap and him," nonetheless, you cannot go on like this. I'd like to recommend you to my colleagues in the psychology department."
"I'd rather die, or cut my head open myself. Would be faster than you people prying—"
He chuckles, unsure of what's so hilarious. He enjoys those dark turns, ruining conversations for the sake of his image. Self-defense mechanisms feeling more like self-sabotage. "Mrs. Hattori~"
"What he's saying, I'm translating since he can't communicate, is that he'd rather stick to the physical aspect of his condition for now."
"I understood that much, thank you for your concern."
"You're welcome."
He's willing to relent for sticky notes, and reminders on his phone. Not for more than that. Mayhaps he's destined to forget what gravity feels like, plunging from the roof to his death on one particularly gloomy morning where fog will trick his mind. That'd be spectacular, not quite enough anyway.
He has several appointments lined up now, dots on his phone calendar he wants to erase one after another. There are enough cracks on his screen, fits of misplaced anger which aren't a problem until it's irreplaceable. Even then, he can bully someone into giving him a new one, always an earnest faction member in tow.
None akin to Kiyoshi.
He has ten missed texts on Line, again. Ugly stickers popping one after another, leaving him dizzy. The reality of the walk home hits him all at once, narrow streets and buses he keeps on missing. Overwhelmed by his own body, as if he were walking next to it, laughing at the pitiful show, he has to lean against the weird noodle.
"If you faint, I'll have to drag you by your feet back home," he grins, wrapping an arm against Yasushi' shoulders to keep him upright, "wouldn't work so well for your weird face."
"Look who's talking, four-eyes."
"My sunglasses don't count!"
"They definitely do!"
How they find themselves at Housen after that, Yasushi has no idea. His mind is a long blank, radio silence during most of the walk. He does accept the bag of chips Jinkawa (Jingawa? Jinkaga?) hands him, mostly because he needs something to keep his brain from imploding. Chips aren't his favorite, as he prefers sugar over salt.
Hard to complain when he's basically holding hostage the executives' couch by laying on it like a dead fish. Good, now it belongs to him. First step in his world domination plan. Oh, the chips are spicy. He makes a face without meaning to, shoving more into his mouth without bothering to sit upright for now.
He does appreciate Shida's obvious distress though. That guy is pacing around, throwing insults at him, their esteemed guest, and Yasushi is there for the show. And the chips, or perhaps once he's done Jin-something will offer another snack. He does have a fondness for the tiny pandas filled with chocolate which are often on sale at the grocery store.
"Did I do that? Wreck his brain?"
"We've all done our share in that fight," Odajima interjects, giving a disinterested shrug. Impressive from someone who is always tagging along for his medical appointments for no obvious reason, "might have been your fault, might not be. Either way, he's there."
"I don't wanna pay for his medical bills!"
"Nobody asked you, shithead," he sticks his tongue out, red from the chips on his tongue. It probably looks like blood—great, if he's capable of traumatizing that asshole further, he'll do it without any hesitation, "I ain't dying. Unless you're bored and wanna settle things?~"
"Considering your state, that'd feel like cheating."
"Oh?" He jolts up, blood rushing from his brain until he has a whole galaxy painted across his eyelids.
At least he's sitting, or else he isn't certain his legs would have remained steady. The bag of chips is empty, he drops it on the floor, tongue running against his palm until the red is all gone. He thrives on being uncanny, isn't it obvious? Shida snarls, and he grins until his jaw is begging him to chill.
"Try me~"
No one has the opportunity to do that, as the scene is interrupted by The Great Leader himself. Ueda needs a moment to take in the scene before his eyes, the stranger on his couch and Odajima waving with both hands at him.
"Hello there."
"Hi~"
"That dumbass got his head broken! And now I have to pay him for that."
"It's definitely not what anybody said except for you," Odajima replies, muffled laughter against the back of his sleeve.
"My head ain't broken—it's just not working, yep," he pops the word against his tongue, grin turning lazy.
Ueda, to his credit, merely sighs before sitting by his side on the couch for an explanation. Odajima is quick to fill in the blanks, leaving out uncomfortable parts on purpose. That's surprising, to see how calculating he's being while sounding carefree. Must be why he's a proper Housen executive. The whole conversation gives Yasushi a headache anyway.
"I see, thank you.
Nishikawa, I have no reason to refuse you to visit our clinic for your treatment for as long as you deem it necessary."
Concern isn't dripping in his voice, if anything he sounds kind without being overbearing. He wouldn't get the same treatment for the idiots at Oya High. They'd be planning his doom behind his back while faking being sweet.
"What about the bodyguard?"
"Come on, aren't we best buds?"
He stares at Odajima.
Odajima stares back.
They stick their tongue out at each other in unison.
"Brats," Shida mumbles, running a hand over his head before dragging himself and Jinkawa and the rest outside. That's for the best, Yasushi doesn't want to deal with him right now.
Once he's capable of handling himself in a proper fight, that'd be another story.
"Are you alright?"
"Why?"
"Are you alright?" Ueda repeats as if Yasushi had switched to a mocking tone seconds earlier.
He's reminded of Odajima—he can't remember when or how it came into the conversation. That's odd, how his brain runs in circles, hitting itself in its confusion. His eyes are still burning, fingers sticky from the chips.
Odajima asked. At some point. He went 'are you okay', and Yasushi laughed. He definitely did, no doubt allowed. Then, why is his fucking head so empty—
The first slam causes him to whimper, it's his own hand though. The second is silent, gritted teeth, and unwanted pressure back between his eyelids. He hits the scar once more, just in case it'll finally put himself together.
It doesn't, and he can't stop until his palm feels raw and breathing is a challenge. To be fair what also puts a direct end to the self-abuse are the hands on him.
He hates the contact—reminder of dark alleys and assholes with metal pipes and time to spare, hates how he wakes up disoriented, muffled screams which can't get out, the urge to kick Kiyoshi in his sleep only to tell himself it'll be worse. Maybe they sense it, that'd be odd though, for someone to take his feelings into account, if not to swallow him alive.
Soon, there is only a hand in his, squeezing in a steady rhythm he can focus on. It reminds him of a popular pop song he heard on the radio. He hears the sound of a bandage taken out of a wrapper, then being pressed against his hairline.
Ueda has a focused expression as he applies the colorful plaster against his skin. It won't stick for long, not that he appears to care. Then, the one holding his hand is—
Odajima is sitting on his other side, humming absentmindedly like he isn't gonna get his fingers broken one after another for such insolence. Yasushi opens his mouth, letting out a strangled sound as if there were blood stuck in his trachea. Was there, on that night? He couldn't breathe or move or—he doesn't even know what he's meant to feel, beyond that black hole sucking his heart in.
"I keep on—forgetting, and getting so fucking lost, I—" He chokes on thin air, tears betraying him, "I don't remember our conversations or—what the fuck is wrong with me?!"
His cheeks are burning, and he wants to rip his face apart, to take a new one where he'll get to stay strong. They're going to toss him aside, he's been there before.
Mother shoving out and locking the door without as much as an apology. All he got was to sleep outside at seven, unsure of where or when he had gotten so terrible that love wasn't even allowed any longer.
He tries to squeeze back the hand holding his, to cause enough damage to prove himself. Odajima doesn't relent his grip though. If anything, he gets closer, their shoulders brushing.
"I'm not leaving you~ aren't we friends?"
"Fuck you!"
"Yeah, maybe not that close."
"I—"
"Nishikawa, you're hurt. Not broken, or useless," he notices too late that Ueda is holding his smartphone. When did he even grab it from his pocket? Yasushi is a mess of bubbling tears and odd laughter which doesn't fit the situation.
That guy is completely wrong, he's broken.
He has always been messed up, terrible, a testimony of insanity one his teachers called him in middle school. He dropped out after that, only needing Kiyoshi.
Fuck, Kiyoshi.
He understands immediately what Ueda will do. Odajima has the face of an unrepentant traitor, the kind to tell his enemy who to call. He wants to rip their throats apart, to shout and beg for anyone but Kiyoshi.
They're only whole together, if he ain't capable of supporting both of them, Kiyoshi won't—he keeps on crying, tears pouring against his will, it simply refuses to stop, and he loathes that weak part of his heart. Or said heart perhaps.
"I hope you choke and die," he growls.
"Wah, such cruel words," Odajima doesn't care about the nails making his hand bleed apparently, "I didn't expect less from you, Yasushi-shan."
He tugs him close, which isn't difficult, Odajima has a pliable body—similar to a feline always getting out of his way to be an annoyance—only to sink his teeth straight into the hand holding his captive.
Payback is a bitch, isn't it?~ He marvels in the yelp, how the noodle finally relent his grip so he's free to storm out while slamming every door behind him. Except that doesn't quite happen—he's stuck on the couch, saliva against knuckles and no sense of direction left, Ueda's voice so soft and kind in the background.
Coming from someone who stormed through endless enemies with a bloody jacket on his shoulders, that's a contrast Yasushi finds laughable. He wouldn't know what being kind entails, even as a mockery—his only urge in front of something vulnerable is to shred it to pieces. That's where the fire inside of him burns brighter than anywhere else; in the midst of disaster, when he belongs due to misbehavior and a hint of horror. Broken bones and unhinged malice.
His sleeves are damp by the time Kiyoshi is surely on his way. He'd rather not see him tonight or ever again, vanishing without a trace, gone in a fight he wouldn't emerge from. The pressure inside his eyes is higher than it should be, they sting from effort and he keeps rubbing his eyelids without much success.
"Here~" He catches the small plastic vial thrown straight at his face. Artificial tears, hey? What for? He blinks away the remains of tears sticking to the corners of his eyes. "That'll make you feel less like a dead man, trust me on this."
"As if you were trustworthy, you backstabbing jerk."
He still uncaps the vial, pressing a droplet in each eye. His vision goes blurry for a while, although it is soothing. Yasushi isn't keen on offering compliments, even less motivated to be grateful, thus he opts to remain silent for a while.
It's suffocating, to not fill the silence to the brim with shouts and violence. He had people to shut him up as a kid, tape against lips, hand tugging his hair until his head collided with the wall. Bang bang. Come to think of it, his brain received damage long before stupid fights with people his age—he shouldn't wonder what the doctor's reaction would be to hearing that. It's not as hilarious as Yasushi makes it out to be.
"I could walk out."
"Would it be wise?"
What Hanaoka sees in Housen's leader, he has no idea. Some bullshit about ideals and leadership, for sure. Nothing he shares with either of them.
"I'm a living zombie by that point, what makes you think I have any brain cell left?"
"Hard to guess you had some in the first place~"
He gives Odajima the middle finger, ignoring his scandalized gasp. Fake ass bitch. Didn't even provide more snacks. Ueda offered water, it tasted sour for some reason. Crushing the bottle did improve his mood a bit.
Not enough to figure out what he's meant to tell Kiyoshi. That'd be comical if that dumbass got lost. He'd laugh himself to tears. That'd mean having some left though. He ain't too sure about that.
Familiar footsteps drag him forcefully from a future where he simply doesn't exist—that'd solve all his problems at once.
He braces himself like he does with everything, unable to figure out his footing when he isn't the aggressive one, whenever in a fight or in bed. Aren't these things the same? That desire to see someone crumbling underneath his hands, the thrill of loss or victory, bruises and stolen kisses.
He's too messed up for romance, he reminds himself when the assholes leave the room and it's only Kiyoshi and him. That scornful expression on his boyfriend's face.
"I'm tired of your bullshit."
He can't bear with the distress, that edge at the end of the sentence sending his brain into overdrive.
"Who isn't?"
They were kids when Yasushi took his heart, never intending on giving it back.
That's unfair, a cruel joke. He simply didn't have one to offer to Kiyoshi in return. He's that creature who has to ruin everything he touches, for a silver of entertainment.
He watches, pretending to laugh the whole commotion off, Kiyoshi getting on his knees in front of the couch—in different circumstances that'd be funnier. All he wants to do is run away to scream, or to punch that loser for coming.
How dares he love him more than anyone else ever could?! Him, that grotesque devil who grew up in Hell, surrounded by hatred and mindless violence. He's aware of Tsukasa's disgust, of how the other prides himself in being a decent human being.
Or so Yasushi guesses, as Tsukasa doesn't bring much amusement out of him lately. There was a time where they would stand on opposite sides, years where kindness wasn't the norm. Yasushi misses the simplicity of it, of how he would swing a metal pipe around himself without any care, unbothered by rules or alliances.
Kiyoshi's palms are sweaty, he hates that. Can't bear how he squishes his cheeks roughly, almost akin to a slap on both sides.
"What the fuck are you doing? You think hidin' from me will solve anythin'?!"
"Yeah!" His foot flies forward, kicking Kiyoshi in the chest. Wouldn't it be hilarious if they killed each other right there?
Kiyoshi doesn't back down, which is as much as you can expect from the other half of the YasuKiyo faction. If anything, he crawls closer, standing on his knees as hands find their way a bit higher, fingers pressing against his ears until Yasushi feels like he's drowning.
He always is—the pressure against his scar almost causes him to gag. He could vomit the horrors on his tongue—unleash the worst on Kiyoshi so him too would pack his bag and fucking abandon him.
Not that he ever had anybody close enough for that to happen.
He closes his eyes so strongly that dizziness spreads to his head as a whole. He'd rather be on a battlefield, wielding any kind of weapon to fend enemies off, laughing like a fool without a return address post-war.
Seldom could he vanish, not with Kiyoshi refusing to release him.
He abhors their love and all it represents; an array of shortcomings on his part, harsh sentences most wouldn't tolerate, constant violence running through his blood like it did for his parents. His hands find their way on top of Kiyoshi's.
If he keeps his eyes closed, will the moment remain worth remembering rather than another fight with no victor?
Eventually, he cracks one eye open, then the other. Kiyoshi is still there, frown on his face—no hatred nonetheless, merely an emotion Yasushi wasn't taught.
"I'm so fucked, you have no idea of what the past weeks have been like!"
"Yeah, because you couldn't be arsed to tell me anythin'!"
He wants to curl into himself and scream, something raw and unhealthy. Instead, all he can do is squeeze the hands like Odajima did to him earlier, praying it means love and not disgust. How is he meant to tell that stuff? He's only the resident monster, that's all they say behind his back. Anything but pity, he can deal with.
"My head injury is still messed up!" He blurts out, watching how Kiyoshi's face closes into silence in response. He can't stop himself from pouring any longer, gates wide open. "I forget everything, from faces to memories—it's a walking nightmare with no ending, and doctors want me to go through all these exams whose names I can't spell—You're thinking I'm a weakling, you're gonna leave and—"
"You don't believe I'm a real man, then?"
"What?"
He blinks away more tears, this shit ought to stop before he has to punch himself in the face. Kiyoshi's expression has gone from sour to beyond furious, worse than when he found a dead cockroach in his lunch at Oya High.
"Don't fuck with me! How could I ever leave the person I love? I'm not the kind of guy who runs away because his boyfriend had his head split open on the pavement. You know how worried I was that night? When I kept on pressing bandages to your head and they wouldn't stop being soaked in blood?"
"Heads bleed a lot—"
"You don't say!"
Kiyoshi's hands are cupping his cheeks now, pressing slightly more against the skin than they should.
"I thought I was gonna lose you! And you never wanted to talk about it. You went into laughter and revenge as soon as you were able to stand. Then that Housen asshole almost killed you. You realize you passed out on the way home, right? You were walking, and you fell—"
"Did I?"
Kiyoshi seems on the verge of tears himself by that point, it's disgusting. He moves his hands so they're resting on Kiyoshi's forearms. He knows nothing about comfort, only that his boyfriend shouldn't look so distraught on his behalf.
Not over some accident which doesn't matter any longer.
It does though.
That's the problem.
"You sound so fucking boring right now."
"I'm worried about you, the way you throw yourself into danger like a suicidal madman."
Yasushi sighs, staring at his shoes rather than the face judging him.
"That's my whole gimmick, evil plans and mindless attacks, it's yours too."
"Not like that!"
His chin is lifted a bit, so he can't avoid Kiyoshi's weird concern. He has insults on the tip of his tongue, hatred and anything to dissipate that uncanny mood between them. What he gets though, is a soft kiss against his lips.
"Not like that, please," Kiyoshi repeats, "I'll take care of you, so stop throwing yourself away."
"I loathe you," he shouldn't ruin that one good conversation, he has to, though, "I never asked for pity or love or whatever you're saying!"
"Too bad! I'm not taking my affection back. Ever!"
Another kiss, one he manages to return, avoiding to meet Kiyoshi's profound and genuine love. How could he, they have always been as one, yet Yasushi is nowhere as kind as his lover.
People wouldn't call Kiyoshi gentle or nice in the first place anyway.
Well, they can go fuck themselves for all that he cares.
"You're a fool, an absolute trash bag, I—"
"I love you more than the whole world."
"Liar."
He mimics throwing up, just to show the extent of his disgust towards the situation. Less problematic than admitting that sort of thing goes straight over his head.
"You're the most beautiful piece of shit I've ever met, Yasu. You don't get a say in my feelings."
"Neither you do with mine!"
"I completely do because you're dishonest to a fault. You get jealous and mad, clingy and intense, like very damn intense, without talking anything out. So it's my job. Like caring for you when you're hurt."
Ah, he's starting to run out of arguments by that point.
"What if I get worse and never heal? Then you'll—"
"Stay with you until the end, yeah!"
Who died and gave him that dipshit guardian angel? Can't be anyone he knows. Yasushi takes a deep breath, wondering how long he can keep on fighting Kiyoshi's loyal heart. How pitiful, to have someone willing to shield him from that messed up world. He shouldn't depend on his best friend, or anybody for that matter.
Exhausted from a long day, Yasushi lets his shoulders slump, losing the last remnants of his brave facade. It's almost a relief to lower himself off the couch and into Kiyoshi's arms.
Later, he'll complain and pretend that did not mean much. For now though, he's exhausted.
"I love you too, Yasu."
He shrugs, head buried against Kiyoshi' shoulder. As if he could say that back anyway.
Life goes on.
As silly as it may sound, Yasushi finds relief in that constant. Medical appointments are an obvious pain, although they end up sinking in his schedule without more drama than a couple of vicious fights. He listens to doctors and specialists talking about his condition, Odajima often around because apparently Yasushi has a friend who isn't afraid of him or disgusted by his personality.
Unbelievable.
He writes notes everywhere, on his phone or his forearm so he doesn't miss pieces of his day. Journaling absolutely sucks, if you ask him. It does bring some level of comfort. He finds himself struggling less as days go by, although people talk. They always will, that's Oya High for you. Gossip is everywhere students judging each other followed by that competitive desire to reach the top first.
Truth is, Yasushi doesn't change. He keeps on fighting and laughing, invading the radio room for shits and giggles once a month. If people whisper, students whose names and faces don't matter, point at him, well what else can he do except laugh back at them?
His balance is shit, which ain't stopping him from running towards walls at full speed putting all his weight in his legs to use the wall as leverage to kick someone. He forgets details, so Kiyoshi shouts them out so loud it drowns any doubt.
The first time they get into a conflict with another school—and by that let's understand since his accident—he's first in line to slaughter their opponents. Nothing more than lost kids who turned into feral adults with baseball bats and broken beer bottles as weapons.
He thrives on that, on the violence he's allowed to return freely.
Under a bridge, as trains run above them, he runs and punches to his heart's delight. On his arm, scribed in black, is a reminder to eat lunch after.
Rumors spread, they grow until they're a twisted whisper of reality. So he isn't taken aback when an especially vicious guy aims straight for the side of his head with his metal bat a couple of times. If he could dodge Shida right after his injury, that's not going to be challenging.
He did lose against Shida though.
As the bat brushes against his head, he's suddenly shoved back by an unwelcome assistance. He twists his neck to glare at Hanaoka and his concerned puppy face.
"You okay?"
"I was until you interrupted!"
The guy he's fighting makes another brutal attempt at separating Yasushi's head from his body, only to faceplant in front of him after a quick hit behind both knees.
"You're welcome," Tsukasa announces, unbothered. Close to Hanaoka as usual, urg how many people have a crush on that guy?
"Fuck you?!"
If looks could kill, Tsukasa would be long gone. Instead, Yasushi kicks the guy on the ground, right in the ribs. One hit then another.
And that's when Hanaoka tugs him back.
"Listen man, we know you have it covered. Just... Be careful."
"I'm careful!"
"You sure are." Tsukasa tosses him the baseball bat their enemy was holding second earlier. "Do your worst. You're good at that, after all."
"I can't stand you," he shouts as Tsukasa and Hanaoka walk away, taking down anyone in their path.
He does like the feeling of the baseball bat in his hand though. A bit against honor and all that shit. Who cares? Definitely not him.
"You should have heard the sound it made when I crushed that guy's knee. Hilarious. Like a bag of chips—" He grins while gesturing his hands wildly. If he were less self-centered, he'd avoid repeating the atrocities committed against himself on others. A problem for another day.
"So, crunch ?"
"Yep."
"Fascinating. Doroki would definitely call you noisy, it's kinda funny to me."
"Todoroki calls every fucking human being noisy. Even his own boyfriend."
"True. He's a gentleman."
Yuken grins, fingers twisted in the cardigan he's wearing. It's a new one all beige and truly warm. Fitting for Winter for sure. Yasushi has a hoodie which belongs to—ah, he ain't sure. He just saw it on the roof, all alone after a meeting. So he took it home with him. Wouldn't be the first time.
The front pocket had a lighter in it, and he loves playing with the object when bored. The flame is pretty.
He does appreciate the clicking sound also.
"So, what are you doing for Christmas? You two gotta celebrate like a real couple, right?"
What's a fake couple? Hm, Yasushi would say it's only real if you're willing to toss aside your pride for that person. Only for a while, of course.
"I suppose we have to. Doroki hasn't told me about any plans, but I'm fairly good at showing up unannounced at his place. He might be expecting that, now that I think about it."
"Sorta creepy."
Odajima isn't wearing his sunglasses today, something about the poor weather allowing him to do so. It's odd to see his face whole when they're not fighting.
"Or romantic, depends who you're asking. What about you?"
"We booked a KFC celebratory barrel. The whole deal with the side dish and cake."
As a kid, that was out of his budget. Now though, he has enough to get that gift for Kiyoshi and him. It's cool, isn't it? To share with someone you have feelings for. Yasushi isn't certain he gets what it means.
He does love Kiyoshi nonetheless. In his impulsive way, full of impossible cravings and demands.
"You need to book them so early nowadays, it's a commitment."
Yasushi shrugs, twirling the lighter between his fingers. They're sitting under the bridge, voices muffled by the constant rain crashing around. It's not the worst place to be, right now. He sure has seen less favorable times in the past. Remaining still for so long is a pain though.
"Yeah, Kiyoshi kept shouting about wanting to eat chicken, so who knows, maybe that'll shut him for a while."
Odajima ain't the type to avoid slandering his boyfriend. In fact, he does it better than anybody else, prying details apart for the sake of entertainment. As long as he's willing to fight to the death for his lover, Yasushi can't see why it'd be a bad mindset. Himself is exactly the same way, except worse.
"Your voice is starting to piss me off by the way, Yuken. Wanna settle whatever imaginary feud we've got?"
"I thought you would never ask. I won't go easy on you."
"Oh, you're capable of going hard? Since when?~"
"It was either be a good fighter or shave my head, and you know how I am."
They get up, exchanging banter for a moment, only them and the rain, bridge covered in tags hastily painted on top of each other by generations of fighters. They might not be at the top, always pushed into second places. That'd be a chore to control everything, to not destroy or ploy.
Leadership comes with a heart or a brain, rarely both, ask Murayama or Todokori, Fuijio and Tsukasa. Yasushi has neither at times, and he couldn't care less.
His left leg gives out as he attempts to rise from the couch, no warning coming along. Instead, Yasushi finds himself sitting on the rug, surprise painted on his face before he lets out a growl.
"I'm gonna toss that fucked up body off a window," he warns no one in particular. Rolling on his back on the rug. He went a bit overboard during his last fight; the doctor was on the verge of slapping herself with the tablet she always carries around. Yasushi is fairly proud of causing that level of nuisance.
To be fair, Odajima mostly avoided hitting him in the face, a kindness Yasushi did not partake in. He went for the eyes, punching both with absolute glee. Which might explain the busted lip and sore jaw he got. Whatever, the bruises are bound to fade, same for his brain. It's not quite a great day that's all.
He was disoriented on his way home from the clinic, sitting at the bus stop for twenty minutes until he gathered all the pieces of his brain. And here he is now, all clean and in pajamas (an old t-shirt with a glow in the dark dragon, and sweatpants, nothing with buttons or he'd cry) waiting for someone to return from KFC with their dinner.
If Kiyoshi eats the cake without him, he's gonna suffocate him with a pillow.
"I got the goods!"
As if the door slammed open and the sound of shoes being tossed in the entryway were not clear enough.
"I could have starved to death," he replies, deadpanning, as he places his hands over his chest.
"Why the fuck are you on the floor, dude? And you wouldn't have starved, I mean we've always managed not to—remember that time where we ate nothing but plain ramen cups for two weeks?"
"My insides will never forget."
Kiyoshi's coat hits him in the face, what a delight, when that bastard leans over him to check if he's faking having a messed up brain. He could tackle his boyfriend to the ground, that wouldn't be that complicated, a mere game of tug and push. Not more mischievous than another day, Yasushi raises his arms with a sigh.
It's only once Kiyoshi is done getting back onto his feet that he lets all his weight collide against his boyfriend. Critical hit, for sure.
"My bad~"
"You're a fucking nuisance, you know!"
"I sure am!"
He is still snickering for no damn reason, when Kiyoshi shoves him onto the couch, returning not long after without his coat.
The celebratory barrel is huge, Yasushi has to snap a picture, to show off a bit. The whole YasuKiyo faction should celebrate today, just because.
"There's even a handwritten note, can you believe that shit?"
"Yeah, my brain damage doesn't affect my eyesight, dumbass," he snarls back without thinking. Ah, it's fine to mock his condition, as long as it's with Kiyoshi.
The plate is absolutely magnificent, and they'll probably never use it. Maybe they'll get to sell it for a good price at some point. Or keep it as a memory. He takes another picture, hiding the fries gotten as an extra behind the barrel so it doesn't ruin the small cozy vibe he isn't familiar with.
An arm wraps around his shoulders, followed by a kiss against the purple bruise on his jaw. That stings. He elbows Kiyoshi, before snapping a picture of his disgruntled face.
Perfect, that's wallpaper worthy.
"You piece of shit, take a better pic of my gorgeous face!"
He complies, pressing their heads together with fake cuteness. That's gross, isn't it? Ah, he doesn't mind right now. It's Christmas after all.
If he distracts Kiyoshi enough, that means more chicken pieces for himself.
"Love you~"
The utter surprise on his boyfriend's face is a sight to behold. One which causes him to burst into hysterical laughter as he drops his phone between them.
"You should see your express—"
Hands slam against his shoulders, in an uncomfortable hold that he can't find threatening in the slightest. Not when Kiyoshi is all red and distraught.
"Say it seriously! Come on, if you wanna say that, don't be so careless."
"Oh? You care?"
"Obviously?!"
"Fine," he tries to stop his shoulders from shaking from laughing more than he should, "Yokoyama Kiyoshi, I love you. Now piss off so I can eat all the chicken."
The kiss he gets isn't bad at all. It's full of sappy emotions he can't stand, yet it's Kiyoshi so he can handle it.
"Why do you taste like fries? You ate some on the way back? You fucking traitor, I'm gonna murder you!"
"I was hungry! I waited in line for so long!"
"That's not my problem!"
Ah, he loves him.