Chapter Text
The door slammed shut behind him.
Akito stalked across his room to his bed, glaring at nothing in particular. His ears were ringing, the sudden contrast between the previous chaos and the uneasy silence that now enveloped him making his skin crawl. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, hands balled into fists so tightly that Akito was convinced his nails would break through skin if he pressed any harder. He almost wanted to try.
Things hadn’t been this bad in a while. Akito wanted to get up and pace around his room, maybe kick a few things around just to piss the old bastard off, but his body was growing heavier by the second. He took a shuddering breath and rolled back onto his mattress. The adrenaline was steadily wearing off, and shit, that wasn’t good, because that means he’ll start thinking. He doesn’t want to think. He can’t think. Not now. The sudden quiet was still throwing him off, making his head spin, and he hated it. It was suffocating.
He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t. What was it? Akito didn’t know, but he did know that the air seemed to be getting thicker and uncomfortably warm, and his room smaller, and was he spinning? He felt like he was spinning. Something was stuck in his throat, and his heart was picking up its pace, and fuckfuckfuck I’m having a panic attack please not now please no and suddenly he couldn’t breathe and was gasping for air, fuck, please make it stop.
He slumped against his door, and that was strange because he didn’t quite remember getting up in the first place. Akito ran a trembling hand through his hair and sucked in a few unsteady breaths. He could hear footsteps and a door closing somewhere, but it felt far away. Everything felt so far away. His eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for something, anything to keep him grounded. Something to keep him tethered to his own body. They landed on something metallic lying about an arms length away. When did those get there? As if on autopilot, Akito mechanically reached out to pick them up. He examined the scissors that sat in his still trembling hand, and…
Oh.
He knew he shouldn’t. He remembers hearing, seeing how difficult it got. He remembers tearful blue-grey eyes, refusing to meet his own. He remembers the sick twist in his gut at seeing the stark contrast of red on pale skin.
But he can’t find it in himself to care.
He knew that he shouldn’t. But he was desperate. Akito was fucking desperate. He could feel the temperature of his room drop, and his body going numb, he could feel his emotions draining from his body, and no, I want to feel, I need to feel, I’m not letting my father take that away from me too-
Cut.
Akito hisses. He feels everything rushing back at once.
Cut.
It hurts. But it’s exactly what he needed.
Cut.
He deserves this. No one is going to care, except for maybe one person. He feels a twinge of guilt.
Cut.
He can’t stop. His breathing is evening out, slowly but surely. All he can focus on is the sharp stinging on his forearm and the thoughts whirring through his mind at an almost dizzying pace. Almost. Akito’s father didn’t notice him enough to realize when he’d first dyed that yellow stripe in his hair. He wouldn't notice this either. It was fine.
Ena wouldn’t notice either. Akito loved his sister dearly, but it was at times like these that he started to doubt it that feeling was reciprocated. He winces, not at the cool sting of the blade, but at the sting of Ena’s harsh words, telling him to get the fuck out, I’m busy, you’ll be fine. He does it again. And again.
And again.
Akito remembers his mother leaving, whisked away by a strange man, surely better than the man she was previously with. But why wasn’t Akito enough for her to stay?
Akito remembers his dad's cold discouragement, tearing Akito away from his art which he used to love so much. Wasn’t he good enough? Would he ever be?
Akito remembers the feeling of his fist connecting with soft skin. He remembers losing the only person who ever seemed to truly care about him. The only one who ever took the time to understand. He knew he had him back now, but what if he repeated those same mistakes that drove them apart? What if they didn’t make up this time?
He’s running out of room, he thinks distantly, but he doesn’t care. His arm is going numb. Blood coats the scissors and the floor surrounding him. But he doesn’t care. His mind begins to go quiet. Almost as quiet as his dim, uninviting room. He can practically feel the very furniture judging him for the mess he’s made of both himself and his surroundings.
Akito heaves a sigh and forces himself to his feet. He sways a little and steadies himself with his untouched arm. Slowly, he drags himself to his drawers and rummages around for a spare roll of bandages. They were intended for some edgy fashion idea he’d been throwing around lately, but they had a better use now. He sits back down on his bed and gazes absently down at his handiwork.
He could barely make out the pale skin of his forearm. There was too much blood. Akito wipes away some of the blood with a piece of the bandages and winces. Ouch. He could see the swollen, red surroundings of the many fine lines that now marred his skin. White hot guilt coils around his stomach and stays there. Akito ignores it. He begins wrapping the bandages over his wounds, not bothering to clean up properly. Once done, he mops up the small puddle of blood by his door with a few tissues and buries them in the trash, never to be seen again.
Akito collapses back onto his bed. He misses Touya, but he can’t bring himself to contact him right now. He’d feel horrible. He’s probably asleep right now, anyway. Akito's eyelids grow heavy. He doesn’t bother getting under the covers.
Akito allows his eyes to fall shut. As the last of his consciousness fades, he hopes that they don’t open again.