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If a memory were defined by ten thousand moments, he’d have ten thousand memories with Aoba to replace his past.
And yet – and yet. Those moments of his childhood continue to linger, endless and overwhelming in the way they haunt him in the still hours of the night. He wakes, covered in sweat and shame and fear and is pulled back into reality only by the sound of Aoba’s voice and the gentle grip of his hands as he cups his face and pulls him close against his chest. It’s okay, he says. You’re safe. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe.
And it is. At least for a while.
He falls back into a familiar routine, mornings easing into afternoons and bleeding into evenings. He dreads the late hours of the night. It’s not the dark that scares him, no. The dark has always been his friend. Ever since he can remember, the dark has been the one to listen to his cries and caress the wounds that the light could never fully reach. The dark was an intimate familiarity, and in it he found solace, long before he could ever dream of finding a similar comfort in Aoba.
What Noiz feared was his mind. Aoba freed him, and he’s eternally grateful. But he also freed the lost child that he had kept locked away from the world. The lost child that begged to be held by the ones who hurt him most.
It is more lately than ever that this child comes to visit him in his dreams.
Moments, he realises, have a cruel way of resurfacing.
How one deals with trauma is no different than wielding a double-edged sword. It’s a weapon in the direst of circumstances, one that strengthens and darkens the heart to ensure the will to survive. It proves reliable in coping against abuse. But as soon as that abuse is gone, as soon as freedom is less than a breath away, the trauma drags it far out of reach, and all that’s left is the untimely reality of what happened once upon a time.
And what a monstrous reality it is.
You shouldn’t have survived. You shouldn’t be alive. You shouldn’t have been saved. You shouldn’t. you. sh o ul d n t
It impairs and neglects a life of freedom and all that’s left to deal with is the leftover hurt of what was ignored in favour of trying to survive.
He stays close to Aoba, always maintaining some sort of brief contact.
He finds that he rarely needs more than a brush of fingers against his skin to believe in the reality that they share. To believe that this – now – is reality.
The nights build upon each other, one turning into two turning into ten. Ten thousand memories linger in the recesses of his brain, and he can’t bring himself to forget.
Restless and wary, he falls into a state of apathy. And suddenly he can’t feel again.
The physical pain is there. It always is now. But his emotions, stunted as they are, seem to recede further into that dark room of his mind. That dark room in which the child hides. Don’t leave me, he beckons. Don’t go. Please.
He notices that Aoba senses something off with him.
“Hey,” he calls one night, hands massaging into the deep tension of his shoulders as he works from his home office. Aoba’s presence is a surprise, but he doesn’t react. Gently, he takes Aoba’s hand into his, and removes it from his shoulder. A light squeeze, barely a touch, and he returns to work.
The papers are arranged in vicious disarray across his desk. Data files are open, scattered with no particular order to them, gazing back at him blankly from the monitor.
“Noiz . . .”
Aoba sounds exhausted. They both are. Drained from this . . . this state of mind that has taken Noiz prisoner in the last month. He’s trying. He really is. But the more he tries, the less he feels, and the less he finds himself able to connect with Aoba.
The less he even wants to.
He recalls a time when it was just them. Right after Scrap, right after the whole Oval Tower incident. Right after he brought Aoba to Germany with him, with a promise to protect their love under any cost. To keep Aoba at his side.
But now . . . now these ideals no longer hold the same meaning.
He turns in his chair, looking up at Aoba, who stares down at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“I can’t . . . “ he starts, throat dry and swollen. The room around him spins, and a heat gathers at his eyes, blurring the image of Aoba until all he sees is a shadow of what he once had.
Then everything goes dark, and it’s like he remembers how to breathe again.
He’s in the hospital again. The fluid beep of the heart monitor eases its way into his consciousness, and Noiz opens his eyes to Aoba sitting at his side, head drooping from fatigue. It’s a familiar scene. One which brings him more joy than grief – though now he’s unsure what to think. The circumstances are different, and they allude to further difficulties ahead. He’s not naïve. Whatever has been building up within him has begun to overflow, and he can only expect it to get worse from here.
He shifts up into a sitting position, grunting at the sharp pain in his head from the motion.
Aoba stirs, a sleep-heavy groan escaping his mouth. Suddenly he bolts upright, practically jumping out of his chair.
“Noiz!” He doesn’t bother to hide the tears, tugging at his hospital gown until they are flush against each other, and the only thing Noiz has room to feel is the erratic rhythm of Aoba’s heart.
He brings his arms around Aoba, mustering as much strength as he can to hold him in a loose embrace. “Shh,” he soothes, but it’s more for his own sake than for Aoba’s. His own cheeks feel damp, and he squeezes his eyes tighter, allowing the tears to spill over.
Aoba must feel the moisture gathering on his shirt because he pulls away, using the pads of his thumbs to wipe his face dry. They look at each other, seconds blending into minutes, and revel in the vulnerability shared between them. It’s been too long since they’ve just been near each other like this. Noiz feels his chest tighten again, regret at the last weeks of neglect building within him until apologies bubble from his throat. His voice is so raw he can’t even recognise it. He pulls Aoba close again, pressing occasional kisses to the side of his head amidst continued whispered apologies.
Aoba is the first to pull away, hands perpetually lingering somewhere on Noiz’s body, like some kind of reassurance. “I spoke with the doctor,” he says. His voice is quiet, but there are no traces of despair. That being said, there is no overflowing happiness in his tone either.
Noiz brings his hand to Aoba’s face, fingers tracing lightly over the angles of his jaw.
Aoba takes it as a cue to continue. “There is no definite diagnosis yet, and you are expected to make an appointment with a psychiatrist, but . . . ” he bites his lip, as if afraid to continue.
“But?”
Aoba looks away, eyes unfocused as they stare into the floor. “Given your . . . intense past . . .it’s no surprise, really.”
“What?”
Aoba looks him head on with his next words. “You have severe depression and PTSD, and chronic stress buildup that is contributing to all your symptoms.”
Oh.
He lays back down, needing a moment to take this all in. It’s not like he didn’t know. Well. In a sense, he didn’t. Otherwise he may have possibly sought help on his own, before everything fell awry. Still, it’s not so much unexpected as it is unsurprising. And hearing the diagnosis . . . it certainly places him at ease. Though he can’t say it’s not terrifying.
But it all makes sense. Slowly, piecing together the last month of wavering apathy and tension and self-deprecative recession into his former childhood mindset, he realises that it makes sense. And he’s relieved. Again, his eyes feel hot and damp, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide his face. Aoba is there with him, and he’s not leaving anytime soon. He made that abundantly clear. Through all the weeks of silent observation and desperate uncertainty, Aoba has made it obvious where he stands in all this.
A warm hand reaches for his, and Noiz takes it, holds it tightly, a new resolve growing deep within him.
He can do this. They can do this. Together.
Aoba squeezes his hand, looking at him with absolute trust and confidence.
If ten thousand moments make a memory, then they will just have to create ten thousand times more to drown out the noise of his past.