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ryuseitai have practice that day.
it’s not uncommon for them to show up to practice, not entirely aware of what they’ll be practicing for. chiaki always emails them in advance, but none of their members ever check their inboxes. their leader had never faulted them for it, always filling them in with the same amount of gusto he likely emailed them with too.
they’re in line to perform a large sentai show for a son of a rich family. it’s not what they’re used to, yet it is at the same time. it’s new, yet so familiar. chiaki, shinobu, tetora, and even kanata, seemed so excited as they rushed to get into position.
midori can only watch them from afar.
it’s not as if he isn’t practicing with them. he is. they wouldn’t let him just stand away and not join in, because they were a team - because he’s ryusei green. they love him, and he loves them far too much to leave him out.
(so, why can’t he say it)
at the same time, midori can’t say he’s really there. he can only watch on with something that feels like vague curiosity as tetora tries a stunt under chiaki’s strict supervision. he finds himself watching the way shinobu stares at himself in the mirror, trying to perfect one of the key dance moves that they’ll be expected to perform. he takes the hand that kanata offers him with ease, intent on teaching midori how to move his body, “like you’re weightless in the ocean~”
he joins in, but he’s also left merely watching everyone practice in front of him.
(and, midori is left thinking about it)
there’s something that midori’s always lacked, and it’s when he’s with ryuseitai that that emptiness inside of him becomes more obvious. he sees it in the way chiaki debriefs them about jobs he’s found for them, in the way kanata teaches them how to do more complicated moves, in the way tetora excitedly shows them moves he’s taken from martial arts, in the way shinobu tells them about his ninja programmes.
the smiles they show him throughout practice are bright and, above all, kind.
his hands shake as he listens to chiaki’s commands, his palms cold as words go in one ear, and out through the other. he follows their movements in the mirror, before catching a glimpse of his own expression in the reflection.
he smiles. it feels hollow.
as they leave the practice room, their session over for the day, chiaki claps his shoulder with a grin. he tells him in complete earnest that midori did well for the day, and that he’ll help him out with the moves he’s finding difficult during their next practice session. he shakes off chiaki’s hand, mumbling something or other about how embarrassing chiaki was being.
(he wished he could’ve just told him about it)
sometimes, midori doesn’t want to be alive anymore.
well, that sounded more harsh than it was. midori didn’t want to die, per say, but existing as himself, existing in general was too much. it was as if breathing oxygen was too much for him sometimes, forcing him to realize that he was human and here on earth, alongside all of these other people who had so much that he couldn’t begin to ascertain, whilst he felt like an empty husk amongst them, an empty pit living out a life sentence in the prison cell that was the body of takamine midori.
sometimes, he wished he could free himself from his body and his mind. maybe find refuge in existing as someone else, someone who just less…takamine midori.
it would be so easy, if it were possible. he’d close his eyes, and reawaken as someone else. someone that actually fit into ryuseitai, and as an idol. someone that could communicate with others without his entire body breaking out into a cold, uncomfortable sweat. someone that could exist without his jumbled, fucked up mind.
to say that he wanted to die wouldn’t be correct…not entirely.
in his first year, his desire to ‘die’ was practically attributed to midori. everyone knew that takamine midori was depressed. everyone knew that takamine midori hadn’t intended to become an idol. everyone knew that takamine midori was out of his element in ryuseitai. it was normal that he wanted to ‘die.’
he was in his second year now. he didn’t want to ‘die’, nor did he want to die. midori simply wanted to stop existing, and maybe disappear in the process.
things would be easier if he stopped existing, right? all of the angry, bad thoughts that constantly filled his mind would stop, just like that. he had things, people, he’d miss, but he’d be rid of all of the bad that had plagued him for so, so long. he’d thank himself. in due time, the others would understand too.
or so, midori had resorted to telling himself.
“ah…this is why i love crashing on your bed the most.” tetora let out a hum, making himself cozy atop midori’s bed. there’s a sense of familiarity as he pulls his laptop out of his bag, setting it down in front of himself. “i used to wonder, like, how does he sleep with all these plushies crowding his bed? but…i totally getcha now. you have the most comfortable bed ever, dude.”
“...i don’t sleep with all of them on my bed. they alternate turns.”
it was a habit that midori had picked up as a child. it was, perhaps, the only bit of control and continuity he still felt he had in his life. tetora didn’t need to know that though.
“haha, i know. the fact you’re able to remember which plushies you slept with last is, like, amazin’ in itself.” tetora’s smile was honest, nonplussed and non-judgemental. patting the space beside him, he beckons midori to sit beside him.
“thanks…i think.”
browsing through tetora’s laptop for ideas regarding their live was easy enough. he was close enough to tetora that his silence was never questioned, nor fussed over. tetora spoke enough for the two of them most of the time, pointing at costumes and sharing his grand visions with midori until he was almost blue in the face.
“we should take a break here.” midori spoke up, an hour into their research. tetora gave him a nod, stretching a little as he did so. “...i should’ve brought us drinks beforehand. well, whatever. i’ll get us something, so is there anything you want to eat or drink?”
tetora doesn’t answer him immediately. instead, he moves his hand to the side, before emerging with one of midori’s beloved plushies in his hand and-
“i dunno. what do you think, umecchan?”
it’s one of midori’s oldest plushies. a stuffed bear, clad with a top-hat and a bow tie, the redness from it fading overtime. his brother had bought it for him on a junior high trip to osaka.
he had only told tetora the bear’s name once.
“hmm…what’s that?” the stuffed bear was no longer in tetora’s hand. it sat in his lap, his hands carefully holding the stuffed bear in place. he pretends to listen to it intently, nodding along as he shoots midori a confident smile. “osu! just soda’s alright with me. ah…but make it grape. umecchan’s seems like he’d drink wine…but we aren’t old enough for that…yet.”
it was at a moment like this that midori was reminded why existing was so painful.
if he were to stop existing, to disappear completely, he’d never get to experience this again. he would never get to see tetora do the silliest of things in order to bring a smile to midori’s face. he would never get to hear tetora’s cheeky, unabashed laughter again. he would never get to feel the warmth of tetora, shinobu, kanata, chiaki, anyone beside him again.
he could feel tears beginning to build up in his eyes the more he thought about it.
(‘it’ being the very thing on the tip of his tongue)
(tetora had said yet, as if expecting to go out drinking with midori and shinobu when they reached 20 together)
tetora was gentle in putting umecchan back with his friends amongst midori’s plushie pile. he had even remembered that midori liked his stuffed toys to be in the same order he placed them in.
his hands shook.
“...just a grape soda, right?”
“yeah. ah, i’m good with any snacks too!” tetora had turned, now facing him with wide, bright eyes, “but nothing too big. i wanna get dinner with you after this, so we’ve gotta save some stomach room, right?”
“yeah. y-yeah, sure.” midori nods, his breath hitching in his throat. “i’ll be going now then.”
tetora waves him off, promising to ‘hold down the fort’ whilst he’s gone.
midori loves ryuseitai.
despite everything, he loves his members more than anything in the entire world.
he can’t tell if that’s the worst part or not. the fact he loves them, or the fact he knows they love him as well.
it was impossible for midori to say that there was no-one that cares about him, because his members showed him in their own, distinct ways that he means something to them. throughout his first-year at yumenosaki, he had been touched so much by their kindness, that he couldn’t even pretend to be alone anymore.
his members were the very reason that he still wakes up every morning, brushing his teeth and showering, before bothering to show up at yumenosaki. his members were the reason he has so much sentai shows and old idol performances saved into their own personalized folder into his phone, just for them.
his members were the very reason he finds himself crying whenever it crosses his mind.
because, if he were to do it, then midori would never get to see his members again. no more sengoku shinobu in his life, nagumo tetora, shinkai kanata, morisawa chiaki. he would never see them again, hear them again, touch them again. he wouldn’t be able to do anything with them ever again.
it didn’t mean that he didn’t think about it. he did. he did all the time, regardless.
it was just that he felt bad about thinking about it in a serious manner.
his stomach turned whenever he pictured it, because what always followed was the imagined responses of his members in its aftermath. he had never been good with tears. when he’d spotted chiaki crying before his and kanata’s graduation, he had done what he’d always done - ran away. thinking about what it’d be like if it was him that directly caused those types of tears to fall from any of his members…midori felt ill.
he loves them. he knows he does. if there is anything that midori has been certain of, it’s that.
at the same time, that love isn’t enough. it’s not enough to keep him breathing, existing as if he belongs in this world, around people as kind-hearted and genuine as them.
he still feels bad about it though.
midori catches himself staring at his reflection in his phone.
he’s grown to hate the person staring back at him. ‘the person’, he thinks, isn’t him. it’s not takamine midori.
was there such a thing as the person people referred to as takamine midori anymore?
takamine midori is a quiet, but passionate person. he can be depressed at times. he can be downright grumpy if he’s made to do something he doesn’t care about. he’ll do anything if he’s nagged about it enough times, because he doesn’t like making too much of a fuss. he likes cute things. he loves cute things a lot.
his line of sight travels to the plushies sat on his bed. he hadn’t gotten a chance to swap them out yet, even though he’d usually have done it…two days ago. it was the first time that he had missed partaking in his habit.
yet…
it doesn’t bother midori at all. he stares at his plushies with a sense of apathy, watching as they stare back at him, lifelessly.
what was the point of rearranging and sorting through his plushies to begin with?
at first, it had given him a sense of purpose…that, and his plushies were amongst his favorite things in the world. they were all he had, at one point, before ryuseitai forced their way into his life. every single one of them had a name that midori had either remembered, or gone to painstaking lengths to find names for them.
he stares at the plushies. they stare back at him.
midori feels nothing.
he should replace them.
(he won’t.)
is there any point in mulling over something that won’t matter once you’re dead?
he thinks about his friends and family trying to continue his tradition after he’s gone, under the thought of it being what midori would’ve wanted. he quickly abandons this line of thinking, as tears begin to well up in the corners of his eyes.
it’s then that his phone lights up with a message from chiaki, reminding him that they have practice at noon tomorrow. he wipes his tears as he responds to chiaki’s mismatched message, reassuring him that he hadn’t forgotten. chiaki praises him for being so ‘on the ball!’ for a senpai, he’s such a dork. a passionate dork. ryuseitai had always…always been like that.
he turns his phone off, as tears start to form in his eyes yet again.
stupid. it was a stupid line of thought.
(his plushies do not get rearranged that evening, or the next one either)
what even is it anyway?
midori knows. he’s always known. but to know it, and to actually acknowledge what it is are two very different things.
it was unspoken. people rarely wanted to acknowledge it out loud, because it made it so much more real.
most of the time, midori wanted to stop existing. he wanted to disappear without a trace, without anyone left to mourn or miss him.
(the second part would never be possible though because they love him as much as he loves them)
the thought of death had crossed his mind a lot as a second-year student. he would watch his friends in class out of morbid curiosity, seeing them take down notes earnestly, daydream, or ignore sensei completely to tap away on their phones. midori would daydream as well, but he couldn’t imagine anyone else in the room thinking about what he was.
he fantasized about his own death from time to time. midori couldn’t imagine himself doing, well…’it’, for real…but the thought remained in his mind. it became normal.
it wasn’t normal though. he knew that.
it wasn’t normal to fantasize about your own death. it wasn’t normal to fantasize about how your friends and family would react to the news of your death. it wasn’t normal to think about how long you might have left until that day came, what milestones you won’t be able to reach, what events you’ll still have to attend within that short span of limited time.
it wasn’t normal to think about it…’it’ being…the very topic that had become normal in midori’s mind.
(yet it was all he could think about, every waking moment)
the first person he let ‘it’ slip to was subaru.
he hadn’t intended to let ‘it’ slip so easily, but midori was tired. he was tired of having to hide ‘it’, waiting around for someone to notice a crack in his mannerisms, his words, anything. it was as if he was playing hide and seek. he needed to hide ‘it’ in order to win (win what? he didn’t know), but he also wanted ‘it’ to be found out so that the game would finally end.
(and then what, midori couldn’t say)
basketball practice had just finished. mao was cleaning the gym and aira was taking a shower, so that just left him and subaru alone in the locker room.
“-and then hokke told me that he doesn’t trust me to be able to carry trickstar in an escape room. sure, i’m not ukki or anything…escape rooms seem like they’d be his sort of thing…but i could still hypothetically carry us, no?”
“you…really make me wonder if the rest of you in trickstar are alright, akehoshi-senpai.” he was almost done getting changed, so indulging subaru in conversation wasn’t much for him. “why do you think yuuki-senpai would be into escape rooms?”
subaru blinks at him, not even having to think about it as his answer came out.
“because it’s ukki, y’know? he seems like he’d be good at that sort of thing…code-cracking, finding secrets…everything like that. people have some pretty unique hobbies once you get to know them,” subaru notes, pulling his school blazer back on before adding, “like you, takamin!”
“huh?”
“yeah! with your stuffed toy collecting hobby.” in any normal situation, he would have corrected subaru immediately about the difference between stuffed toys and plushies, but midori couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. “it’s not weird, but i wouldn’t have expected it from you when i first met you…if that makes sense.”
“...oh. i guess it makes sense.”
subaru being subaru, of course, continues to speak his mind out loud, until bringing it back to the topic of midori’s hobby.
“-i guess people have a favorite thing too. you have a favorite stuffed toy, right, takamin?”
midori used to be able to produce a list of his top-5 favorite plushies at will. he hated ranking all of them, because feeling as if you were unloved and left out must’ve been scary, even for a plushie.
he was drawing a blank as he thought about it now.
the interest he had in the hobbies and topics precious to him had dwindled overtime. what was the point in having any interest in anything when you weren’t intending on existing for much longer? it was pointless. (midori still felt guilty for thinking like that.)
“...not really. i don’t really like plushies anymore.”
the words fell out of his mouth quicker than he could actually think them through.
he had done it. he had just admitted to no longer caring about the very thing that once categorized him as, well…him. takamine midori would not be takamine midori if he didn’t adore cute things, and mascot plushies were at the top of that list of cute things. even when he was at his most depressed in his first-year, those very same mascots were always there to cheer him up.
(now, they existed only to invalidate his very existence)
he glances up at subaru, masking the immediate horror that rushes through him at confessing such a thing so thoughtlessly.
the thought of subaru finding out, pulling him up on it, and being the first person to force midori into spilling his wretched guts out - it scares him. it makes him feel ill. it makes him want to cry. it makes him want to scream, and tell subaru every little thing that’s plagued his mind and body since ‘it’ became more real.
(he wants to tell him about ‘it’)
(but he also wants to run away and never return to yumenosaki, or the ES buildings, or japan, even)
subaru’s brow furrows, as he takes in midori’s words. he looks understandably confused for a moment, having to mull over the sentence once, twice, just to fully understand what has just come out of midori’s mouth.
his adoration of cute plushies is one of the few things that made midori himself. subaru knew that. to start disliking them would be entirely out of character for him.
it would indicate that something was well and truly wrong with him.
subaru parts his lips, opening his mouth as if readying himself to speak. midori feels every emotion at once, and nothing at all, both at the same time. midori is ready. he also isn’t prepared at all.
he watches as a resigned look settles over subaru’s face as he finally speaks.
“oh.” is all he says, before starting back up immediately, with a smile, “i guess it’s pretty easy to fall out of love with things, huh? there’s a lot i used to be into when i was younger, but then i just kinda got bored of it all. it’s easy to find other stuff to get into though. basketball’s pretty good, right?”
and, just like that, midori’s mind goes blank.
subaru continues to ramble on, not having realized that midori isn’t listening anymore.
(he didn’t ask about ‘it’, he didn’t ask, he didn’t ask, he didn’t ask)
he feels his hands beginning to tremble with the realization that he’s slipping right before people’s eyes, but no-one has realized a thing. it’s a good thing. yet, it’s also a fact that makes him feel so, so ill.
he wasn’t intensely close to subaru, but he had still thought (hoped) that he might’ve said something to him, anything.
(is ‘it’ the sort of thing people would even want to talk about)
aira exits the shower shortly after, bringing their conversation to a close as mao returns. the new leader of the basketball club suggests they all walk back to the dorms together, since they’re all here. mao and aira are equally as oblivious to his plight as subaru.
he wonders what he’d do if he was watching someone in the same position as him.
if someone he was friends with earnestly told him that they didn’t want to exist anymore, what would he do? if it was a fan…or, god forbid, another member of ryuseitai?
he wants to say he’d listen to them, in the same way he’d want to be listened to. to sit down with them, and let them talk, and talk, and talk, until all of their tears and/or shouts were all out in the open.
instead, he knows he would probably just freeze up.
(because no-one ever, ever, talks about ‘it’ in real life)
midori wrote a list.
it was on a particularly bad evening. his bad thoughts, however frequent and normal they had become, were fumbling around his mind without end. he’d written them all down in a list format because…well, did he need a reason? (he didn’t have one.)
the list was a fail safe, in a way. if the time ever did come, and ‘it’ became reality, then the people he loves wouldn’t be left wondering about the massive why that always seems to pop up with ‘it.’
his list had even come in parts, addressed to the people he cared about the most. his family, his members, his friends, and even a small nod to ryuseitai’s fans. the words were carefully handpicked from the countless, countless times he’d rehearsed such a list in his head, though now that he’d put it into tangible words…they all looked so incoherent.
he had scribbled it all down within his notebook. it almost felt offensive to write such vulgar, horrible thoughts down on such cute stationary. he was the one in the wrong, not his adorable, innocent mascot idols.
midori ripped out the pages because of that, stuffing the pages back within his notebook unevenly to hide them away. he couldn’t throw them out, because he had roommates that did make a habit of cleaning their entire dorm room.
(because if anyone were to find his list and find out about ‘it’, what would he do)
he had reread the list over and over again, until the tears that’d formed whilst writing them dried up. his cheeks were damp, his hands were no longer shaking, and he could recite several parts of his list from memory.
there was a lot more he could say and write within his list, he figured. the moment he thought he was done, more thoughts (apologies, justifications, pleas) popped up.
now that he’d written it down, he felt ill. he felt disgusting. he felt free. he felt guilty.
(but, he felt something, which was enough to fill that emptiness for even a short amount of time)
as the guilt threatened to crush him, his stomach queasy and his brain flashing through images of everyone he listed crying, crying because of him, midori had gotten up. he stuffed his notebook back into his practice bag, before taking refuge in their dorm room’s bathroom to deal with the rest of his guilt.
he hid away and cried, silently, and pathetically.
ryuseitai continue to practice, almost daily.
he still isn’t able to tell any of them about ‘it.’ even when the words are on the tip of his tongue.
he has a panic attack on the day of their performance. thankfully, it isn’t anything big, nor noticeable, as he shrugs it off as a lack of sleep. the rest of his members buy his excuse with ease, reassuring him that he’ll be fine on stage, it isn’t anything he isn’t used to.
he knows that they’re referring to their sentai performance, but he can’t help but connect it to his panic attack instead.
they’re right, though. their live goes off without a hitch. he performs as if he’s on auto-mode, watching himself from afar go through the motions of singing, dancing, and acting alongside the rest of his group. he sees the light in their eyes, the days of endless practice clearly paying off as they perform with ease.
he watches himself perform, but he doesn’t perform like everyone else. he’s there, and yet, he really isn’t.
(midori hasn’t been there for a while now)
and yet, everyone continues to sing. they continue to perform, to dance, and to sing to the crowd of children and adults watching them with renewed fondness and adoration in their eyes.
(he wonders if he’s ever been there at all)
when they step off stage, midori’s heart feels as if it’ll beat out of his chest. his body feels heavy with a level of dread and fear that he’s never experienced this badly before. it overtakes him like a wave, threatening to drown him underneath it, and wash him away.
kanata places a hand on his shoulder, forcing midori to look at him.
“midori.” he hums, the hand on his shoulder falling down to midori’s hand. it’s sweaty. it’s still trembling. “you seem like you need a ‘break.’ come, come.” he guides midori to their dressing room, sitting him down, before going back to fetch the rest of ryuseitai. there’s no knowing concern in kanata’s words - it’s just his usual disposition. midori knows that.
he stares down at his hands, watching them tremble as he places them on his lap. he balls them into fists, ignoring the dull sting of his nails digging into his palms.
(it reminds him that he still exists)
he closes his eyes, forcing himself to try and suppress the tears threatening to gather at the corners of his eyes.
he clenches, and then releases.
(he wishes he didn’t)
chiaki insists that they celebrate their performance a little. it’s their first time doing something so high-end and exclusive, afterall. it’s a silly idea, but it’s the exact sort of thing chiaki would suggest.
midori watches as shinobu shows off a new move to kanata. it looks complicated, as the other second-year boy flings his shurikens in a way that has kanata going “ooh” and “aah.” tetora joins them, his eyes practically sparkling as he compliments shinobu’s skills. he’s grown so much since he first joined ryuseitai.
they’ve all grown so much.
is everyone growing, apart from him?
he joins in their ‘celebration’, if you can even call it that. chiaki and kanata bought snacks, so they eat, and they chat. midori finds himself mostly spacing out as his unit mates talk around him, only joining in when they prompt answers from him.
as he watches them all talk, it dawns on him just how happy they all look.
his mind wanders.
(he doesn’t belong here)
(he’s never belonged anywhere)
he continues to sit and listen to his unit mates, until the thoughts overtaking his mind far outweigh his ability to latch onto what kanata is saying to tetora, as he wraps his arm around the tiger boy’s shoulder. shinobu and chiaki laugh at the sight, but midori doesn’t know what’s so funny, because he’s missed it.
“it’s late…” he mumbles when the conversation has long-since moved on. chiaki stands in front of him, nodding along to midori’s words as he places his hand on midori’s shoulder. it’s such a chiaki-like action, that midori finds himself wanting to cry for a brief moment.
“time sure does fly by when you’re having fun, huh!” chiaki laughs, before smiling warmly at midori, “if you’re heading back to the dorms, want me to tell the others? we can all walk back together.”
midori shakes his head. he’s overstayed his welcome.
“it’s fine. i can get back safely on my own.” as he says this, midori makes quick work of grabbing his practice bag. “...thanks though, morisawa-senpai.”
he continues to walk past chiaki, waving goodbye at the rest of ryuseitai-
“wait, takamine!”
chiaki stops him at the door, holding out his hand to midori. it takes midori a moment to acknowledge why he’s been stopped, and his blood runs cold when he does realize.
“you dropped this! at least…it looks like yours?” chiaki has his notebook in his hand, holding it out to midori with his usual kind, nonplussed smile. “i can’t imagine anyone else with such a cute design on it if not you.” he chuckles, continuing to hold it out for midori to grab.
chiaki has no idea what that notebook holds inside of it.
(he thinks of the notes inside of it, pushed in so well that midori can’t even see them peaking out anymore)
chiaki continues to smile at him. it’s innocent. it’s kind. it’s caring.
it makes him feel so, so ill.
“...thanks, senpai.” he grabs the notebook, stuffing it back into his bag. it feels slightly lighter, but so does midori’s entire body. he doesn’t feel real as he offers chiaki an attempt at a smile, waving him goodbye before turning on his heels to leave.
it’s silly, he thinks, as he practically speedwalks back to the dorms.
he wonders how the rest of ryuseitai are faring back in the practice room. are they getting ready to leave? are they still celebrating without him? are they thinking about him at all?
they all seemed to be having fun when he was there though. he wouldn’t be surprised if they were all still celebrating there.
(‘there’)
they deserve to be happy, midori knew. he hoped they were still celebrating without him, enjoying their evening in a way that midori didn’t think he could anymore.
midori can’t remember what it feels like to be there like everyone else anymore.
he’s outside, having a late-night walk to clear his mind when he gets the phone call.
midori hadn’t been one for late-night walks before, but there’s something calming about walking around, knowing no-one else will be around. he’s told his roommates about it, and they’re so outside of each other’s business, that he knows it doesn’t raise any red flags at all.
the phone rings in his pocket, and he answers without looking at the caller’s name.
“-wait until he- oh thank fuck, midori-kun?”
it’s tetora.
(and he sounds completely terrified.)
there’s a distinct tremble in tetora’s voice, one that midori doesn’t think he’s ever heard from his fellow second-year in the time they’ve known each other. he saw him cry when they had that brawl outside of the café, but tetora was angry then. the tremors in tetora’s voice are coming from somewhere else, something else as the cause.
“tetora-kun? what is it?”
he can’t remember the last time tetora phoned him. he can’t remember the last time anyone phoned him, especially not this late.
“...midori-kun.” tetora’s voice is louder now, desperately trying to keep his voice level and steady as he continues, slower this time, “where are you right now?”
“i’m…outside?” he responds, confusion seeping through his tone. he doesn’t bother to mask his concern, immediately asking tetora, “what’s happened?”
“outside where? wait…ignore that. can you come back to our practice room?” tetora asks, before adding a quiet, “...please?”
tetora has never used such a quiet tone with him before, but he’s also never flat out begged. it’s so unlike him. it’s not how tetora usually acts at all.
unless.
“sure…” midori manages out. he nods to himself, absent-mindedly. he takes his phone in hand, preparing to hang up and turn around, heading back to the ES building, but tetora stops him with a fumbled, “w-wait. stay on with me. don’t hang up, i mean…please.”
tetora was one of the most outspoken members of ryuseitai, and their second-year class in general. he was bright, earnest, and always determined above all. he was one of midori’s best friends.
and he sounds so small over the phone, so terrified and so not tetora-like, that it spills over to midori like an overfilled glass of water that he hasn’t had the energy to turn the tap off. he feels cold, the anxiety and dread flowing to the rest of his body (his arms, his legs, his stomach), his grasp on his phone dwindles.
there’s no way.
“tetora-kun, you have to tell me what’s wrong first.” he asks.
midori doesn’t feel real. he stands in place, legs trembling as if he’s mere moments from buckling underneath his own weight. his heart thumps in his chest, heavy and uncomfortable, reminding him that he is real, and very much alive.
“when you get here. just…can you come here, midori-kun?” he stills sounds petrified, his voice beginning to shudder and shake in the same way his own does in front of fans.
“are you hurt? are…are you alright?” tetora’s response isn’t immediate, and fucking dammit, midori feels as if he’ll throw up right then and there because the silence is killing him.
he hears another voice in the background alongside tetora, before the other boy responds again.
“y-yeah. yeah, i’m alright. it’s nothing like that, i promise. please, just hurry back here.”
tetora reassures him that he’s safe, yet that does nothing to quell the anxiety wracking through midori’s entire frame. he gives another nod, continuing to walk back in the direction of the ES building, because it’s all he can do.
he doesn’t hang up. tetora continues to talk between the silence, asking for confirmation that if midori is on his way back (‘yes’), if he wants tetora to meet him outside (‘no’), if late-night walks are a regular habit of his (‘yes’). he says a lot, but he also says nothing at all. midori’s responses are curt, shifting into small hums of acknowledgement after a while.
(tetora seems fine with this, as long as midori is still providing him responses then it’s fine)
when he reaches the ES building, his body continues to move on autopilot. he scans his pass, walking through the dimly lit halls. it’s late, but the building is always open to whoever has access to it.
it’s only once midori reaches the ES practice room that he pauses.
the dread that’s overtaken his senses increases tenfold. his blood runs cold, familiar sickness pooling in his stomach as the door knob feels like ice underneath his palm.
he remembers rushing out of the practice room. he’d been so quick to leave, that he’d ended up dropping his notebook. he hadn’t checked it after chiaki handed it to him, the shame already eating him up.
his notebook felt lighter when chiaki handed it to him.
he thinks of ripped out notebook pages, decorated with cute mascots, stuffed haphazardly into a fixed-in notebook.
there’s no way.
they couldn’t have…
unless.
(shit.)
midori wants to run away. his feet remain rooted to the ground.
(shit! shit, shit, shit, shit, shit-)
the door knob shifts in his grasp, and the practice room door opens up without him needing to do anything at all. he’s met with shinobu on the other side, though he doesn’t allow for the taller boy to see his expression before he pulls midori into the practice room with him.
the door closes behind them. tetora and shinobu are the only other people in the practice room with him.
tetora’s eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks blotchy and coated with tear stains. shinobu stands beside him, looking even worse for wear - the ninja boy is still crying, tears rolling down his cheeks inaudibly. his bitten lips tremble.
he wonders how he must look in their eyes, on the contrary.
“i left some of my shurikens here, so tetora-kun was helping me find them.” shinobu starts. his voice wobbles as he speaks, yet he tries to look at midori as he does so. “i…didn’t really want to come here alone, so he offered to help me and…”
he trails off. tetora continues.
“we…we found your note, midori-kun.”
it’s a short, simple sentence, affirming what midori had thought (prayed not) to be real. yet, it’s enough to have him spiraling on the spot.
they found it.
they knew about ‘it.’
(and shit, how is he supposed to feel)
he wants the ground to swallow him whole in that moment. he awaits for a hole to open up in the universe directly beneath his feet. he envisions it all. it does not happen.
midori wants this to all be a sick nightmare, forced upon him as he wakes up with vague panic back in the safety of his dorm room.
neither of these things happen.
he is forced to realize that this is, indeed, happening, and holy fuck, he can’t breathe anymore.
shinobu is the first to approach him, helping midori to the floor as he tries to rub gentle circles into the taller boy’s back. his movements are awkward, and his hand is still wet with his own tears…but it’s so unmistakably sengoku shinobu-like, that midori can’t help but to fall apart underneath his touch.
tetora joins them, crouching at midori’s other side. despite their raspy voices, and the clear elephant in the room (‘it’), they both whisper words of comfort to a trembling midori.
“it’s okay. breathe with us, midori-kun. you remember those breathing exercises shinkai-dono taught us, right?”
he does, just barely.
“...i’m not going to ask you if you’re okay, because i’m not that stupid,” tetora starts, taking midori’s hand and pulling it away from where it held his knees together, “but you need to breathe. breathe with us, midori-kun.”
(he can’t breathe, he doesn’t want to breathe, because if he stopped breathing then it would solve all of his problems-)
shinobu and tetora’s hands on his trembling frame reminds him that he is still alive, and still here. he is crouched on the practice room floor. there are tears rolling down his cheeks, getting his tracksuit bottoms wet. he thinks he’s going to die.
and yet, he breathes.
it hurts, but it’s the only thing he can do as he slumps over on the ground. it feels like the world is collapsing around him, and that everything he’s ever known is falling apart, because shinobu and tetora know about ‘it’ and they know that he doesn’t want to be here anymore-
he breathes.
even if things would be so much easier for him if he didn’t, but that’s not an option right now. or anymore. he doesn’t know. it feels like the world spites him for even daring to want to die. the world is caving in on him, and laughing at him as it did so.
(if the world were to end in that moment, midori thinks he’d be alright with it.)
yet, he continues to breathe.
it’s only after he’s calmed down and is able to pull himself back up onto his feet, that midori finally speaks.
“i don’t know what you want me to say.”
the words come out cold, exhausted from his breakdown. the words don’t sound like his, and his voice sounds so unlike midori. he’s tired, and he wants to go home, but he knows that isn’t an option anymore.
he wants to go home and let ‘it’ consume him.
he wants to go home and die.
(and what if he had been brave enough to tell everyone before it got this far)
“y-you, that’s all you-” tetora’s mad. he watches him clench his fists, balling them so tightly that he’s almost certain to mark up his own palms. it’s not the first time that he’s seen tetora angry, in general or at him, but given the situation, he expects the other boy to blow up at him. midori looks away, but tetora doesn’t say anything more.
shinobu’s probably stopped him.
midori wished he hadn’t. he deserved whatever spite or anger tetora was preparing to throw his way.
instead, he listens as tetora takes a deep breath in, and then out, steeling himself in front of midori before he speaks again.
“...how long?” a pause, before tetora’s voice begins to waver again. it’s just like it had been over the phone, but so, so much worse. “how long have you…felt like this?”
it’s a question that midori’s never truly considered before. he’s always felt out of place, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, always surrounded by people more talented than him, more kind than him, more alive than he could ever be. he’s always known that he could never live up to anyone’s expectations of him.
(but there are people out there who love him regardless of that)
even so.
“i don’t know.” he answers honestly. he’s always felt like this, but he doesn’t know when ‘it’ shifted from a mere concept in his mind, to an actual viable (and inevitable) choice to him. “it’s just…always been like that.”
there’s a beat of silence after he says that. the silence is even more suffocating than the pair of them speaking at him.
shinobu speaks up from beside him, sniffling a little as he asks, “why didn’t you tell us anything?”
the ninja boy is crying still, yet shinobu does not move away from his side. both him and tetora surround him, enclosing midori between them, as if terrified that the moment they step aside, he’ll be gone. maybe for good, this time.
this is all too suffocating for him.
he wants to run away, sprint back to his dorm room and hide beneath the covers. he’d enclose himself underneath his sheets until the morning came, whilst praying for death to come and take him prisoner in his sleep throughout the night. he’d only get up around noon, after one of his dormmates (likely mitsuru, but tsumugi and ibara were wild cards) would nudge his slumped over blanket-form in mere curiosity, asking him to go to lunch with him.
no, that wouldn’t be enough. he’d have to run all the way back home to where his parents were. he’d never have to acknowledge ‘it’ again, and he could live the rest of his miserable life as a hermit, entirely unnoticed and invisible to the world that only seemed to reject him from its warmth. he could die like that. invisible. alone. unable to burden anyone with his existence any longer.
tetora is still stood in front of him, trying to catch his gaze as the pair of them wait for midori to say something, anything.
he feels himself start to tear up again. it’s silly. it’s stupid. he shouldn’t be crying at a time like this. what right does he, of all people, have to cry over this, when it’s all his own fault?
midori knows he should be honest though. he loves ryuseitai. ryuseitai loves him. he loves tetora and shinobu with every fibre of his being. he wills himself to meet tetora’s gaze, his hands beginning to shudder and shake again as he tells himself to be honest, you owe it to be honest to them.
why didn’t he tell them anything?
he can think of so many reasons, yet they all fall apart and break away as quickly as shattering glass.
(they’re both stood beside him, waiting so patiently for him, but midori can’t talk, can’t focus)
midori opens his mouth, desperately trying to form words, but nothing comes out. it feels like he’s being strangled, his throat closing in on itself until he can’t see tetora properly in front of himself anymore. he’s a blur of colors in midori’s line of sight, as the first tear rolls off of his eyelashes to land unceremoniously on his shirt.
it’s stupid. he has no right to cry about this.
“midori-kun.”
shinobu’s hands are smaller than his, and slightly rough from his ninja training. he wipes away midori’s tears from his place beside him.
when he blinks, tetora and shinobu are standing in front of him, helping to lower him back to the floor. shinobu has stopped crying, and looks almost apologetic for asking midori the question in the first place. moreover…he looks so sad. him and tetora both.
(and he had done that)
“i’m sorry.” midori eventually manages to get out, his voice raw and just as exhausted as the boy himself felt. his gaze returns to the ground, watching the irregular tremors of his hands as tetora and shinobu both enclose him in their warmth.
it felt wrong to apologize to them. he hated seeing tetora and shinobu cry, knowing it was all because of him.
he’d known, though. he’d always known that, if they had known, they’d react just like that. yet, it wasn’t enough to keep him from thinking about ‘it.’
can he really apologize when he had no intention of ever telling them about it?
can he really apologize when the thought of wanting to change and get better had never even crossed his mind?
(but he wishes it had because tetora and shinobu look absolutely shattered and it’s all his fault, and he’s so fucking sorry)
is he really sorry if it wouldn’t have stopped him from going through with it?
(with ‘it’)
can someone ever truly be sorry for killing themselves?
“i…i’m sorry.” he repeats, to no-one in particular. the singular two-worded phrase is all that he’s able to say, as every other thought bouncing in his mind fazes away the moment he tries to put it into words. “i’m so fucking sorry.”
tetora and shinobu don’t leave his side. their words of comfort turn to mush when they reach midori’s ears, but they’re still trying, despite everything.
he loves ryuseitai. ryuseitai love him.
speaking of ryuseitai-
his eyes widen, as he stares up at tetora and shinobu in abject horror. it’s only the three of them in the room (thank god), but he’s reminded that ryuseitai is not a three-membered group. tetora and shinobu both meet his gaze, the pair of them looking nothing short of concerned for him.
“d-did…” words continue to fail him, as he closes his eyes, opens them back up again just to stutter out, “morisawa-senpai, and shinkai-senpai…d-did you…?”
“no. n-not yet, i mean.” tetora answers, immediately picking up on midori’s question. he’s oddly calm as he speaks, a forced maturity within their current situation. “we need to, but shinobu-kun and i, we didn’t wanna catch you off guard so…we didn’t contact them yet.” shinobu backs this up with a small nod, mumbling something about contacting them out of complete fear if midori hadn’t picked up his phone.
it’s an action that midori both understands, and does not understand at the same time.
he’s not sure what he would’ve done if midori and kanata had both been waiting for him when he’d arrived at the practice room. chiaki wouldn’t even wait for midori to start speaking, instead pulling him into a tight embrace the moment he stepped foot into the practice room - “i’m so glad you’re okay…i’m so, so glad, takamine…” he’d hold it together as best as he could for the rest of ryuseitai’s sake, taking it upon himself to talk to midori, but chiaki’s sadness would be unmissable behind those usually bright, life-filled brown eyes.
he reimagines picking up the phone, only to have kanata be on the other side of it instead of tetora. chiaki would insist that he could do it, but ultimately, would give up the phone to kanata after being unable to hold his tears back after finding out midori isn’t to be found in his dorm room. he winces at the thought of kanata’s voice, unusually serious and level, asking him, begging him to come to the practice room - “i am ‘worried’ about you, midori. it’s too ‘late’ for you to be out alone. won’t you let me see that you’re safe in person?”
neither of those things happen, yet he can imagine them so, so vividly.
what will chiaki and kanata think once they do find out?
will they be angry at him? or, will they look just as sad as tetora and shinobu still do?
(he doesn’t want to be here to find that out)
(he knows he has to, though.)
he doesn’t realize that he’s started to cry again until shinobu is grasping his hands. “it’s okay. we…we won’t phone morisawa-dono until you’re ready, de gozaru.” tetora nods. the two of them are beyond sympathetic towards him, even though he doesn’t deserve it.
he doesn’t deserve their sympathy, their pity, or their kindness. midori had made them both cry. he had made the two people who mean so much to him cry, and yet they were still being so kind to him because…what? he’s unhappy, he’s ungrateful, and he was so willing to die without telling them anything? didn’t they, of all people, deserve to know?
he hadn’t done anything like his note suggested, yet this somehow felt even worse than if he had.
that note.
he wishes they had never found it.
tetora and shinobu wouldn’t have been sat here with him, both trying to hold it together for his sake. chiaki and kanata wouldn’t be pending a phone call that night. nobody would’ve had to know.
know what, exactly?
midori has no reason to feel like this. he has loving parents, and a loving brother. he’s in a group that he adores, with members who adore him. he has friends that enjoy his company. he has plenty of fans and people who look up to him. despite all that, why can’t he feel it? why can’t he feel anything?
if he’d hung up on tetora, there would’ve been nothing that him or shinobu could’ve done. they wouldn’t have been able to ring chiaki or kanata in time to seek him out.
he could’ve continued his walk, finding himself lost and away from everything. maybe he’d have ended up near a busy highway, one that people aren’t supposed to traverse on foot there, until he found a gaggle of cars speeding through the roads, fast enough that they wouldn’t have noticed him stepping out in front of them in time.
nobody would’ve known. they wouldn’t have been able to stop him, either.
(they still wouldn’t be able to, even now. he could try and make a run for it if he really wanted to, and they wouldn’t be able to stop him)
the moment that thought crosses midori’s mind, he feels ill.
he can’t think like that.not now, not here. he glances up at shinobu, still clasping onto his hands so gently, as if midori will break underneath him if he isn’t careful. his hands are rough as they always are, yet they’re so warm, so familiar and so inviting, as it takes every part of midori not to let go of them out of sheer guilt that he’ll only wreck the ninja boy even more.
tetora sits with him too, his right hand holding onto midori’s side with the same amount of care. in his left hand sits his phone, gripped tightly in his fingers as chiaki’s contact information illuminates the screen.
they’ll have to talk to chiaki and kanata tonight. he knows this.
this practice room will be his tomb, and the place where he is reborn. he’s spent so long in this room, watching his unitmates practice whilst he watches from the outside looking in.
he loves ryuseitai. ryuseitai love him.
love isn’t enough of a reason to live. he knows this better than anyone else.
and yet, it might be enough to get him through tonight, at the very least. he knows that he’ll have to talk to chiaki and kanata. tetora and shinobu deserved to know. so do they. he loves them. they love him. he knows how they’ll react, but he ought to do this, if nothing else.
he can’t promise change, but he can promise that much. midori figures he owes it to them, despite everything.
he can do this, he thinks. he doesn’t know how he’ll be able to live after this, or whether he’ll be able to live at all. he can’t say he’s been living for a while now. he can’t find himself, because he has been nowhere for so, so long.
tetora and shinobu stay by his side. he mumbles out something about phoning chiaki. he has to do this. he tells them that it’s okay now. tetora’s dial-up tone fills the silent practice room, as he listens to the phone ring once, twice, and a third time before-
“mhm…nagumo? is everything alright?”
and, he continues to breathe.