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Shinso Hitoshi didn’t know how everything got so bad. He wasn’t new to this, of course not. It just never got this bad. Or maybe it had been bad for so long and he didn’t realize until now.
He wants to matter to the people around him. He wants to be a hero, of course he does. He just has other wants too. He knew of course that he shouldn’t have started this habit, that it would be bad but he could handle it. He does handle it. Are wants so bad?
He wanted to get into Class-1A, and he did, and no one told him it was selfish but he feels like it was. Does it make him a bad person for having wanted to up his chances of being a hero? He also gets to be taught under Aizawa-Sensei, which is cool. Is he selfish for taking up the seat of another potential hero? Logically, it’s just the way things are, and the way things have favored him by giving him the seat in the class. The chance to be side by side with the other students of Class-1A, to have an equal (is it equal?) chance. He has wants because he’s human. Why can’t Denki understand that? He’s human, and he has wants and needs, and he’s in control. It’s all in his control and Denki doesn’t have the right to take that control away from him.
“Oh god, Denks, just give it to me.” Hitoshi mumbles, his hand pulling on his own hair punishingly. It helps him think better as he leans against his own door. “Give me the fucking bag, Denks, or else.”
“No.” Denki says, standing his ground like the idiot thief he is. “You’re already high, just go to sleep.”
“Give it to me I swear to god Denki, you piece of shit!” Hitoshi knows he doesn’t look or sound particularly threatening. He doesn’t feel particularly threatening, but it’s one of the only things he can count on at this point. And Denki stands there so close, holding his little bag with the white powder along with the little tablets in it that he worked hard to get. He worked all on his own to get it, and Denki is trying to take it away like a thief. “Wipe that fucking pretentious grin off your goddamn face.” Denki isn’t actually grinning, but it feels like it. Denki must be on some goddamn power trip holding Hitoshi’s shit against him. And he thought they were friends.
“You’re gonna kill yourself with this, Hitoshi.” Denki says.
Hitoshi doesn’t care because Denki is wrong. He won’t kill himself. He just needs a fix, especially after what he went through to get it.
“I won’t, I won’t- fuck- Denki give me the bag, I swear- just give it to me! Fuck man, I need it- I won’t- please…” Maybe if he begs, Denki would understand. “I’m begging you, Denks, have a heart.
But Denki just looks at him with a pitiful look. Like Hitoshi is someone to be pitied.
“Your breath stinks.” Denki says. His voice is small.
“Give me the fucking bag!” Hitoshi switches from begging, and slams a fist against the wall causing Denki to flinch. “I swear to god.” He can feel bad about what he says tomorrow, but tonight he just needs time to himself. Himself and the little bag. Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow.
“I won’t. I won’t let you do this to yourself anymore. I’m gonna tell Aizawa-Sensei.”
And that. That gets Hitoshi’s blood boiling.
“The fuck are you saying Denks? You think you’re so good? So much better than me? I know you smoke, I can smell it on you all the fucking time, you’re a goddamn hypocrite.”
“Weed isn’t- it isn’t like this man. This shit will kill you.”
Hitoshi drops to his knees, partly because his legs feel like jelly and partly to try the next method. It worked to get him the flake, maybe it will help convince Denki to give in. He reaches for Denki’s belt.
“I swear, just give it to me. I can give you something in exchange, please. Just give it to me.” But Denki slaps his hands away and takes a step away from him. Like he’s nothing but a disgusting whore.
“H-Hitoshi. What were you about to do?”
Hitoshi rests his head against the wall and sits back on his ass. His head is swimming.
“Give it to me.” He slurs. His teeth are grinding against his own tongue and his hands are shaking. He just needs the bag. Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow he can apologize. Tomorrow he can wash his hands clean (some part of him knows he won’t).
“Hitoshi, don’t tell me that’s how you got this shit- I’m gonna fucking lose my mind here, Hitoshi.”
“I’ll be good I promise. This’ll be my last high, I swear. I’ll try to get clean tomorrow. I swear. I’ll try my hardest tomorrow, just let me have some for tonight.” Hitoshi doesn’t plan to get clean yet. When he wants to he will. Because he can whenever he wants, he just doesn’t want to stop yet. “Please Denki, I just need some to go to sleep. You can keep half, just give me some. Please.”
Denki grits his teeth. “There’s no saving you, is there? You’re gonna keep going till you kill yourself. I can’t save you, can I? You really don’t want to try.”
“You can save me by giving me the bag- man just give me the fucking bag. Please. Please Denki. I’ll get clean tomorrow. Promise.” He begs. “Don’t tell Aizawa-Sensei, okay? You won’t tell him right? It can stay just between us, cuz we’re friends, right? Everything that I just did can stay between us, right?”
Denki’s crying now, but his expression stays the same. He tosses the bag at Hitoshi’s feet like he’s feeding trash to a stray dog. Like he’s so much better than him. It doesn’t matter anymore, though. He quickly grabs the bag with the powder and tablets in case Denki tries to take it back, and stands with new energy. Denki starts walking away at a fast pace, not even sparing him another glance.
“Thank you-! Thank you, Denks, you really are a good friend. Thank you!” And Hitoshi shuts the door to his dorm with new passion. He feels hungrier, but not the food kind. Like when he had been starved for days by his foster parents, but instead of finding a protein bar like he had, he imagines he found a goddamn steak. A warm, home cooked steak.
He licks a finger as soon as the door is closed- and locked- then sticks it into the little bag, then smears it over his gums. He needs more, of course, that was just a taste. Hurrying to the bathroom, he quickly shuts and locks the door then sinks to the floor. With vigor, he empties three-fourths the contents onto the tile floor and pulls out a dollar bill, folding it just right. He makes three little lines, snorts them, then makes three more. He pops out three of the blue pills and swallows them dry after wiping his nose and returning to the next three lines. He should be fine for the night. He would make it through the night now, he was fine. He has a high tolerance, always has, so taking a few more shouldn’t hurt. He takes one more of the little blue pills, then sits back and wilts.
His muscles begin to relax, and so does he. He feels so good when the high hits, he just wants to sit there and stay in this moment forever. He could survive in this bathroom forever like this. He has water, a shower, and three more pills and some flake to last him till the morning. Everything was so painful minutes before, but he’s fine now. He’s more than fine. Everything is wonderful now. His back doesn’t hurt anymore where the keloid scars lay criss-crossed like a sick game of snakes and ladders. His mind is quiet and calm, but happy. He’s so happy. He wouldn’t trade this for the world.
His body is hot- too hot, so he peels off his hoodie and shirt, then lies against the cold tiles. Oh god, the cold tiles feel so good against his skin. See, when you listen to what your body wants, it feels good.
He laughs to himself, but forgets the joke.
The oxy and the flake combined gets the best high, he’s found. Warm and comforting, they heat him up so he can indulge in the pleasure of the cold bathroom tiles. Like a gift.
He likes the jittery feeling, and the shaky spasms that always take over his muscles, his legs especially. His nose is bleeding, but he’s not too worried. He can clean the blood tomorrow. He can clean tomorrow. He just needs to relax tonight. It’s a friday night anyways, so no class tomorrow either. He wipes a hand over his face, smearing the blood everywhere. Good thing he took off his jacket. The blood is such a dark red it almost looks black against the tiles. God, he couldn’t even count how many times he was on the bathroom floor bleeding in his life. This just happens to be the best way to enjoy it. He quickly turns his head to the side and pukes, feeling the sticky mess drip down his neck to the tiles.
“F’ck-” He can barely move his lips.
He doesn’t have the strength or the care to clean it up, so he chooses to ignore the mess.
The ceiling looks like beetles, swimming when he closes his eyes then opens them then closes them then opens them. Do beetles swim? They probably do, with how much it rains in Musutafu. He doesn’t know how to swim, but he could learn. He could learn tomorrow.
He could worry about everything tomorrow. He’s kind of thirsty, so he tries to push himself up on his shaking elbows after rolling over. It’s easier than he anticipated- standing up. But the second he’s up, he falls hard against the sink. He can’t even grip the sides of the sink on his way down, but it doesn’t hurt when he hits the tile floor. He’s fine. He laughs a bit to himself. He could get water tomorrow morning. Just has to wait till tomorrow.
It would be great to have music on, but he left his phone on the bed.
He could play music tomorrow.
He just has to make it to tomorrow.