Work Text:
By now, Haruka’s used to thinking about death.
It’s almost mundane, how the notion just crosses his mind from time to time, what used to be a frightening, cataclysmic possibility reduced to nothing more than a habitual nudge of half-formed musings.
Probably around the time he started high school is when the frantic noise began to fade into something more manageable; by now, redundancy and familiarity have long rubbed the edge off, but with his life’s recent developments, the sheer frequency of such thoughts has increased into an unfamiliar range.
Alighting that discomfort again. Digressing it back into more than just a background buzz, almost back into the panicked alarm it used to be all those years ago.
One day, Haruka’s sitting on his bed, struggling not to entertain these thoughts. It’s a weekday, and he has much homework to do, but he has been motionless for the past half-hour because he simply cannot move. He is forced to stagnancy, unable to do much else other than sit there and resist the urge.
(Urge to- to what? It is not any urge to action, he is sure of that, and yet despite his steadfast attempts to cling to himself, he hasn’t an inkling of what he is fighting against. Loss of rationality? Mutilation of his mind? As if his current one isn’t already a ravaged mess. And yet, even without any hint of reason, without any sense of purpose, of direction, Haruka still finds himself sitting there, breathing—in, out, in—gritting his teeth and holding on, holding on—)
A year ago, he would have eventually grown exhausted enough to lean over backwards and tug his tumbling thoughts down, down, down, until the pleasant calm of unconsciousness came up to claim him. A nap to tide things over, if only for that evening.
Or—he would have sought other methods to release the tension. This way left marks, left mistakes, but, well. The shame earned is more than deserved.
Now, though.
Now, Haruka gazes down at his clenched hands and remembers, suddenly, how they felt wrapped around another’s. Thinks of the rim of a hat and soft hair falling across shadowed eyes.
It’s not like the memory of Yamato, of his hands on Haruka’s own, suddenly imbues Haruka with a desire to live. But it does loosen his grip, enough to stop his nails from digging crescents into his palm, enough for him to fish out his phone from his pocket and raise his fingers to type out a simple google search.
how to stop wanting death
With some detached amusement, Haruka recognizes that this isn’t the most dignified of ideas. It’s quite pathetic, really. But hey, it’s surely not the worst of them. Far from it.
He hits enter.
The first thing that pops up is a phone number. A crisis line. He ignores it.
Next are various articles, well-intentioned but ultimately useless. Call this number; seek out professional help; talk to people you trust. Haruka dully scrolls through it all. He’s not planning to kill himself, really—just because he likes to fantasize about it often doesn’t mean he’ll actually do it. He knows he’s scared of commitment, after all, and is there any greater commitment than death?
He doesn’t need any of this urgent help, doesn’t need some permanent solution to a problem that hardly qualifies as one. He just needs a way to- to mitigate the sudden increase in deathly woes his thoughts like to traipse into, to lessen them just enough that they don’t interfere with his daily productivity. At least not to this extent.
He really does have a lot of homework.
Eventually, Haruka stumbles upon a site detailing “Ways to Stop Hating Yourself.” Which is—sure, whatever. There’s a trite introductory paragraph, full of platitudes—meaningless reassurances, how can this author spout such flowery lines about some reader they don’t even know—and then finally, some concrete ideas. Methods.
This one sounds a bit silly at first, but don’t knock it until you try it! Find a blank page in a notebook and write down all the things you like about yourself, no matter how small or insignificant they may seem.
Well, the author is right about one thing. It sounds fucking silly as hell.
But—it’s the first advice Haruka’s come across that seems manageable enough, and so. He decides to give it a chance. Pulls up the notes app on his phone and, tentatively, makes and titles a new entry.
Things I Like About Myself
When the note opens up the words stand, big and bold, stretched across the heading.
He bites his cheek. This is ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous. He shouldn’t have to drag himself through some half-baked self-improvement excercise just in order to stand up from his bed and do his work. He should be able to simply just—just do it. Will himself over to his desk. Focus on things that actually have a real impact on his life.
He should.
The humiliation of his situation licks at the edge of what he knows to be approaching mania. A tangled mess of whipping flames that are just beginning to smoke, to smother him in their gray smog.
He grips his phone a bit more tightly, accidentally turning the volume up high. Stop. Stop. Think. Practically.
He should be able to function like a normal human being, do normal human tasks as normal people do.
But is he going to?
He could, maybe, if he actually tried, if he was substantial enough as a person to set aside this charade of helplessness and realize there was, in fact, nothing stopping him from just—being better. Being normal.
But will he?
No, he won’t. Of course he won’t. And it’s not like he’s not already wasting time, sitting here and staring blankly at the walls like some deranged lunatic. Anything is better than nothing. Surely.
He turns the volume on his phone back down and sets his attention upon the screen. It’s dimmed sometime during his indecision, and he taps at it impatiently. The words flash to brightness again.
Things I Like About Myself
And wouldn’t it be even more pathetic, if after working himself up over whether or not he should indulge in this ultimately meaningless endeavor, he wasn’t even able to complete it in the first place?
Because he knows he wrote out this title, chose this combination of words to convey a particular meaning, and yet he stares at it and blinks and his mind blanks out.
It’s probably concerning, and again, not-normal, how quickly his thoughts can flip from spiraling noise into complete silence. A ringing expanse of lack, of nothing, and for a moment Haruka feels as though he himself isn’t really- isn’t really existant. The heavy weight of the phone in his hands suddenly feels strange, like a sensation he shouldn’t be able to perceive, and his vision flickers, depth-perception waning, until the scene before his eyes flattens into a paper-thin fake, ready to crumble and collapse at the slightest touch.
He doesn’t wants to see what lies behind it.
It’s this desire, sudden and alarming in intensity, that allows Haruka to snap back. To force his thoughts back into conscious perception, his senses back in line with reality. It’s just a list. Just a list. A list that fulfills a set of requirements. He can do this. Practical thinking.
Things I Like—
This is easy. Haruka, despite his attempts to convince himself of the latter, is still a person, after all. He has likes, and dislikes, and no particularly convoluted reason for any of them. He likes music, the way it fills his head and speaks the emotions he himself cannot. He likes his guitar, its shiny surface and smooth turquoise finish that he’s spent countless hours polishing, shining, feeling under his fingertips.
Simpler things, too. He likes Tokusatsu, no matter how childish it may seem. He likes ice cream—mint, specifically. That one bench in the park. Cool wind on his skin, through his hair.
So—Haruka likes plenty of things. As everyone does. If he had a character profile, those sections would be filled out adequately, reflecting whatever aspects of himself that they do. It’s this next part that is a bit more troubling.
—About Myself
It’s like one of those- those words. The ones that contradict with one another. What was it? Oxy-something. One of those. Because he’s aware that these two phrases are connected, are not phrases at all, are part of one whole clause, but he cannot relate them. If something is himself, after all, he cannot like it. It’s impossible. There is nothing about himself to be liked, least of all by the person that understands him the most intimately.
But the title stares back at him, uncaring of his internal crisis, body text still blank and cursor blinking steadily back at him. He will get nowhere like this.
So he rephrases it in his head. It’s not like this is graded on accuracy, after all, he just needs to get something down. It’s become a rule in his head, suddenly. He can’t get up before he gets at least one item down on this stupid list.
Things That Are Liked About Myself
The grammar is a bit awkward, strange, but Haruka frankly doesn’t give a shit. He needs to think, now. Think.
Nothing related to his personality. That’s been made clear, time and time again. Even before Kanata started messing around with his life, Haruka had never been able to make connections with others. Even acquaintances eventually grew sour and distant, only contacting him for homework help or a favor—friends were never even in the realm of possibility.
He’s always seen his classmates, hanging around with one another, in groups in the courtyard and after school, by the gates, and never has he been within their midst.
More than that, he’s been called rude and brash countless times—along with various other derivatives—by classmates, bandmates, even teachers. His own parents have chastised him on his mannerisms time and time again, waving their hands and raising their voices about how he should smile more, speak more softly, appear less angry all the time.
After Kanata started—well. It only got worse from there.
(Haruka’s quite aware that he never really reached out for any so-called friendships. Distanced himself from the idea, even. Too scared of rejection to even pursue it. But even that is a flaw of his own. It all leads back to his own failings.)
So—if not personality, then appearance. He’s heard others murmur about it before, about his fair skin and sharp eyes. Averted glances and blushing cheeks that fade to white pallor when he opens his mouth with whatever harsh jab he’s decided to speak into being that day.
But that train of thought leads again, to Kanata, to his whispered declarations of you’re so beautiful, my aniki—skin so smooth, so soft, I just want to—love the way you feel against—and Haruka presses a hand to his mouth, digs fingers into the flesh of his face, clenches his jaw and swallows down the rising nausea.
Not appearance, then.
He’s grasping at straws, now. If not personality, and not appearance, then what—what else—?
Suddenly, a memory.
…it’s nice.
An empty classroom. The wind beneath his feet. Hands clenched around a window frame. A voice at his back.
Your smile. It’s nice.
That’s it. Of course, that’s it. Haruka feels almost defeated as he dutifully types down what he should have known since the beginning.
My smile.
Stares for a moment. Deletes and rephrases it.
Yamato Tsubaki likes my smile.
Seeing it laid out, so plainly, just like that, is—Haruka feels the flush of embarassment climb up his face, hot from his cheeks to the corners of his eyes.
It’s odd and abnormal that he can’t think of anything positive about himself, he knows, that he has to rely on the probably offhand words of others to even fathom anything good related to his person, but even so, he cannot help the pleasant warmth that spreads through his body as his eyes linger on the words.
Yamato Tsubaki likes my smile.
It’s not much, really, but he’ll take it. It will do. He has no right to question the truthfulness of words intentionally said by others, and- and he doesn’t want to, anyways. Can’t bring himself to.
Haruka exits the tab, closes his phone.
For a moment, he thinks that he still can’t. Still can’t lift his legs and force his body into motion. But then he blinks and he’s at his desk, hands clenched around a pencil, looking down at that day’s worksheets. He’s already started on the first problem, it seems.
Stupid or not, it worked. Haruka will take what he can. He would be even more of a fool not to, when he already has so little.