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Hitoshi is rotting.
It’s a good word for it, he thinks. Decay. Death, maybe, though he doesn’t think he wants to die anymore. More that being alive is so much that his ribs are being crushed under the weight, the dry, brittle things that they are.
Nothing is wrong, is the thing. Not any more than usual.
It’s just Hitoshi, this time.
Just Hitoshi and the voice in his mind that urges him to be smaller, to starve until his body consumes the blood in his veins and the marrow in his bones and leaves him with just a husk. When that happens, maybe he’ll deserve something. He doesn’t know what, anymore, just…
He knows, in the back of his mind, that he’s not supposed to be doing this. That there is someone in the next room and people just a text away, that he can ask, that he’s allowed. But the knowledge that taking up any space at all is a terrible crime keeps him weighted to the bed. Every so often, he scrolls aimlessly through his phone. Some of his friends are sending pictures to the group chat because it’s Saturday and they’re all hanging out together. Hitoshi doesn’t text, but then, no one texts him.
He wonders how long it will take them to find him, or the heaped collection of bones he’s become. How long to notice he’s missing.
His dad is sleeping in the next room. Hitoshi knows he’s supposed to talk, to call out, but he can’t. His voice has vanished somewhere inside of him. He’s not allowed.
Shouta is sleeping anyway. Long week. Late patrol. He might be up in time for dinner, if Hitoshi is lucky. He can’t decide if he wants to be lucky.
Idly he thinks that he can’t talk, but he might, maybe, be able to go there. To stand in the doorway. Just to see. Maybe Shouta is already awake, quietly reading or grading, and he won’t mind. It’s still a horrific waste of his dad’s time, but Hitoshi considers it.
He might do it, if he thought he could get out of bed.
He hasn’t been eating well, and his body knows it.
Hitoshi drifts, and stares, and rots.
Eventually, he hears movement in the hallway, a sleepy kind of shuffling. Something like hope stirs in the broken remains of his ribcage, but all he can do is stare at the door. He hears the footsteps retreat, toward the rest of the house. Walking away.
That’s fine. He’s busy, anyway. He’s starving.
“Hitoshi?” a voice calls. A pause, then it’s closer. “Hitoshi, you alright in here?”
Hitoshi just stares. His mouth is very dry, and he thinks he’s already consumed his capability for speech. There’s a knock.
“Can I come in?”
Yes, Hitoshi thinks, then no. Shame tastes like blood in his mouth.
Stupid. Selfish. He did this to himself, he doesn’t deserve to be fixed.
“If you can’t answer me, I have to open the door, kid.”
Hitoshi can’t answer, so a moment later the door slowly eases open, and Shouta pokes his head in. His face goes from worried to sad.
“Toshi, what’s going on?”
And Hitoshi would have said that all the liquid in his body was gone, evaporated and used up, but for some reason that question makes him crumple and cry. He drags his blanket up to cover his face, rolling to the side so Shouta doesn’t have to see. He’s sorry. He’s so sorry.
Careful footsteps approach the bed, but Shouta doesn’t touch him. Probably because Hitoshi’s broken, decaying body is too disgusting to be worthy of it.
“Have you eaten today?” Shouta asks gently.
Hitoshi just stares at the wall. No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t eaten. He’s trying to…
He doesn’t know. He just needs to starve.
“Okay,” Shouta says, as if he answered. “That’s alright. I’m not angry at you. Can you look at me, please?”
His fingers trail along Hitoshi’s spine, a soft, coaxing motion, and Hitoshi tugs on worn-down muscle and sinew and pulls his skeleton until he’s lying on his back, head tipped toward his dad.
“There you are,” Shouta murmurs, stroking through his hair. “Thank you, you’re doing very well. You haven’t gotten up at all, have you?”
Hitoshi couldn’t answer that if he wanted to, but at least it seems to be rhetorical.
“It’s six ‘o clock,” Shouta informs him. “I want to take you to the bathroom and to the kitchen. Is that okay? You don’t have to walk.”
Hitoshi sighs. Moving at all, no matter how little work he has to do, feels monumental. Impossible. He just wants to lay here until he’s nothing. Disturbing his bones seems cruel.
Still, it’s Shouta, so Hitoshi moves his chin down a little bit. It earns him a small smile.
“Alright. I’m going to pick you up, tell me if anything hurts or you want to stop.”
Nothing hurts, today, except the empty pit where Hitoshi’s stomach used to be. And he doesn’t have enough energy to want anything. He just leans his head on Shouta’s collarbone as he’s picked up, cradled gently against a broader chest and carried down the hall.
Shouta sets him on the toilet with practiced ease and stays close enough for Hitoshi to lean against his torso, which is appreciated because Hitoshi’s crumbling spinal column refuses to support him. His hands are wet but warm when he runs them through Hitoshi’s hair, and so is the cloth that he swipes over Hitoshi’s face. It feels nice, clearing up the bugs and dirt of a self-burial.
When they’re done in the bathroom, Shouta picks him up again. He sets him at a stool, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder as Hitoshi gets used to engaging muscles, holding his own head up.
“I’m going to grab some food,” Shouta says gently. “Sit tight, it’ll just be a minute.”
Then he’s gone and Hitoshi sways dangerously before picking himself back up. His head hurts. Sitting like this feels wrong. He’s supposed to be lying in bed. There’s too much light and none of it seems real.
“Dad,” he mumbles, eyes half-closed against the fuzzy colors in front of him. Is he tipping or is it everything else?
“Hitoshi? Oh, hang on, shit—”
He falls into something, and it bangs on his hip and his elbow and the knob of his ankle, but his head and shoulders are fine. More horizontal, it seems easier to open his eyes, like everything is spinning less.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, are you hurt?”
Hitoshi shakes his head once, a tiny motion. Shouta starts to help him back up, but he whines when the room dips again and clumsily clutches at his dad’s shirt.
“Okay, okay, shh, you want to stay here?”
Hitoshi makes another wordless noise, this time in agreement. Shouta lets him keep laying limply in his arms, but moves them both over to the wall, propping Hitoshi against it so he has a partial view of the kitchen.
“I still need to get food, so will you be alright here for another minute?”
It’s still too much sitting and the wall and floor—even carpeted—aren’t comfortable, but Hitoshi has been selfish enough already. He gives another half-nod, and Shouta goes back to the kitchen. He opens the fridge, stops, and glances back at Hitoshi. Definitely realizing Hitoshi didn’t eat the dinner he was left last night.
He’s sorry. Not sorry enough to do anything about it, but sorry, sorry, sorry, as he decomposes on the floor.
Shouta moves around the kitchen a bit more and finally comes back to crouch beside him, holding up a glass of water. Hitoshi reaches for it, tries to convince the thready tendons in his fingers to contract and grab, but Shouta gently pushes his hand back to his lap and holds the glass to his mouth.
Hitoshi eyes him warily. It’s not a lot of water, but it is enough to choke, and he’s unsure how his desert-dry body will react.
“Just a little,” Shouta promises. “We don’t want too much water on an empty stomach, anyway.”
Hitoshi opens his mouth, and sure enough, Shouta only helps him take a few slow sips before pulling the glass away. Then he holds up a cookie. Oatmeal. Hitoshi stares at it.
He loves oatmeal cookies. Where…where did this come from?
“There’s an older woman on my usual patrol route who keeps feeding me,” he explains. “I saved her grandson a few months back, so she won’t take no for an answer. I might’ve let her know you like these.”
Taking advantage of an old lady’s kindness, Hitoshi might’ve said on a better day, clicking his tongue and shaking his head in faux disapproval. And Shouta would shoot back…something. He doesn’t have the energy for the imaginary conversation.
Shouta breaks off a piece of the cookie, holding it out, and Hitoshi really realizes that he’s meant to eat it. He can’t eat it. He can’t, he doesn’t deserve it.
Starve, starve, starve.
“No,” he mumbles, barely more than a whisper.
“It’s not going to make you sick–” Shouta tries, but he’s already shaking his head. For once, that’s not the problem.
“Can’t. Not…not ‘llowed,” he manages. It’s not even right, but it’s all the language he can muster.
“Of course you’re allowed,” Shouta says patiently. “I got them just for you.”
“Not,” he whines. Of course Shouta doesn’t understand. Hitoshi is just being stupid, just…just stupid. He can’t even think of any other words.
“Starve,” falls out of his mouth, and he sees Shouta’s expression twist miserably before he schools it.
“Honey, I can’t let you do that. C’mon, just try a little bit for me.”
Hitoshi shakes his head and turns away to hide the frustrated tears springing to his eyes. He can’t, he’s gonna break his streak, he’s not supposed to—and Shouta doesn’t get it and Hitoshi can’t make him because his brain isn’t working.
He leans forward and then slams the back of his head into the wall. Maybe, maybe, if he crushes his skull and mixes the inside of his head around, it will fix him. And he will be better. And he won’t be so useless, so fucking stupid.
He manages to hit his head two more times before Shouta’s hand gets in the way, and then his dad tugs him to the side, into his lap. Hitoshi sobs, going to hit himself with his fist instead, but Shouta pulls his hands down and holds them there, gently. Even so, Hitoshi isn’t strong enough to free himself.
“Daddy,” he whimpers, the way he only does when he’s very, very upset. “Can’t, don’t want to, ‘m sorry ‘m sorry ‘m sorry–”
“Shh, sweetheart, you’re alright,” Shouta murmurs, rocking them back and forth. “You’re okay, I know, you don’t have to be sorry for anything.”
Hitoshi just sobs and twists around so he can hug Shouta properly. All at once he doesn’t feel like he’s rotting anymore. He feels real and alive and it’s so, so much, too much, too-
“‘s too big,” he whines, a revelation that he thinks Shouta already knows.
“That’s alright. It is a lot, isn’t it? It’s very big.”
Hitoshi hiccups and nods into his neck. “Bigger ‘an me, ‘m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry for being a little small, baby,” Shouta says. “You can be as small as you need to be, I’m not going anywhere.”
It takes a few more minutes for Hitoshi to cry himself out, and then he doesn’t want to sit on the floor anymore. He’s mostly sitting on Shouta, anyway, but still.
Two fingers find their way into his mouth. He mumbles around them, “Daddy?”
“Yeah, Toshi?”
“Mmm, go couch now.”
“Yeah? Okay. I’m gonna need you to hold on tight so I can carry some things, is that okay?”
Hitoshi considers this, then wraps his legs around Shouta’s waist and his free arm around his neck. “Mhm. Helps?”
“You can help if you want. That’s very sweet of you. Here.” Shouta presses a bag of grapes into the hand around his neck, and Hitoshi takes them with clumsy fingers.
Shouta gathers the rest of the food in one arm and moves them to the couch, settling on his back with Hitoshi on top of him, the food close at hand on the table. He taps Hitoshi’s hand when he’s done, the one stuffed in his mouth.
“Baby, that’s not clean.”
Hitoshi tugs his hand out with a small, sad noise. “So’ry, Daddy.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Shouta does something to the top of his head that feels suspiciously like a kiss. “Do you think you can eat a cookie now? I’ll get your chewie after.”
Hitoshi hums. His stomach really hurts. He does love oatmeal cookies. But there’s something-
“Not…s’posed to.” He frowns.
“Do you want to?” Shouta asks.
After a second, Hitoshi gives a shaky nod.
“Then it doesn’t matter. You can have a cookie, I promise.”
Hitoshi curls into the fetal position. His hands are trembling, and his voice is so, so small when he asks, “Gets mad?”
He doesn’t even know who he’s referring to. Shouta, or his bigger self, or someone else entirely.
“No one is going to be mad at you, Toshi. And if they are, I’ll handle it.”
He considers this for a moment, sitting with Shouta’s deep, exaggerated breaths and the hand running up and down his spine. It feels warm. It feels real. It feels safe.
“...Okay,” he decides. “Cookie. ‘ungry.”
“I know you’re hungry,” Shouta soothes, reaching over and grabbing the broken cookie from before. He offers Hitoshi the small piece. “Thank you for eating for me. You’re being so brave.”
Hitoshi doesn’t really think so, but he’s too preoccupied with examining the cookie chunk, making sure it’s safe, and then popping it in his mouth.
“‘s good,” he mumbles, turning big violet eyes to Shouta. “‘gain?”
Shouta smiles at him. “Of course.”
He gives Hitoshi the rest of the cookie, then another after that, before they take a break to sip some more water. Shouta makes them sit up a bit for that last part, and while they’re still mostly upright he grabs the bag of grapes. He frowns at it, then Hitoshi.
“Do you need me to cut these for you?” he asks softly.
“Leave?” Hitoshi asks worriedly.
“Yeah, I would have to leave for a minute. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it earlier.”
Hitoshi doesn’t want him to leave. He whimpers and snuggles closer, burying his face in Shouta’s chest.
Shouta wraps both arms around him, rubbing his back again. “Okay, okay, I hear you. I won’t leave. We’ll try something else–”
That’s not what he meant! He does want the grapes.
Hitoshi picks his head up, eyes shining. “Bite?”
Shouta frowns. “What do you mean by that?”
“Bite,” Hitoshi repeats, frustrated. He grabs the bag of grapes and fishes one out before Shouta can stop him, biting it neatly in half. “No leave.”
“Okay, I gotcha,” Shouta says with a little laugh. “You can definitely do that, just be careful, okay?”
“‘kay,” Hitoshi agrees, pushing the other half in his mouth. He takes another grape and presses it against Shouta’s lips. “Eats.”
“These are for you, Hitoshi, I’m fine.”
Hitoshi gives him a little glare. “Eats.”
Shouta laughs at him again, but he does accept the grape. Hitoshi settles back against his chest, pleased. He makes it through a handful of grapes (plus a few more that he feeds to Shouta), then some crackers, and finally Shouta offers him one more oatmeal cookie.
Hitoshi looks at it warily, then up at him. “Sick?”
“No, baby, three cookies won’t make you sick. It’s already been an hour since you started eating, anyway.”
Hitoshi still doesn’t like it. But he really likes the cookies. So he settles for breaking it in half and giving the other half to Shouta. He thinks he sees a flash of disappointment cross his dad’s face, but then he’s saying “Thank you, sweetheart,” and ruffling his hair, so Hitoshi thinks it’s alright. He nibbles the cookie slowly, giving his body time to decide if it wants to reject it.
“Fin’sh,” he mumbles when it’s finally gone, wriggling around so he can lay down again. “S’eepy.”
“Yeah, you had a hard day, didn’t you?” Shouta asks, petting his hair and down his back.
Hitoshi nods and puts his fingers in his mouth again.
“Hey, no, here.” Shouta pulls his hand away and twists under him, making him whine in protest.
A drawer rolls in the side table before he’s presenting Hitoshi with a chew attached to a cord. It’s just a simple one, purple and prism-shaped, but Hitoshi opens his mouth and accepts it easily. It is nicer than his fingers. This he can chew on without any hurts or calories. Hitoshi hums, pleased, and settles again. Shouta tucks the cord around his neck so it doesn't get lost in his nap.
“I’m sorry, Toshi. I wish I was there, earlier.”
“Didn’ wan’,” Hitoshi yawns.
“Yeah,” Shouta sighs, but it’s not a bad sigh, Hitoshi doesn’t think. “I still wish I could’ve helped.”
“Did help,” Hitoshi points out. “Now shh, ‘m sleep.”
He can feel the chest he’s laying on rumble with an almost inaudible laugh, but if Shouta says anything more, it doesn’t reach him as he floats into the dark.