Chapter Text
It happened again.
He tried so hard, too. (Did he really? He didn't even know anymore at this point).
If he wanted to get everything out, he needed to be quick with it before someone walked in on him.
He reached for his hair tie — the one he usually uses to secure his violet hair before matches. The same violet hair that was slowly but surely losing its shine and the same tie he had been using since high school. The same one he keeps on replacing once it wears down and inevitably loses its elasticity. The same one that rides up his arms in his sleep, leaving red, angry indentations across his pale skin, which made him even more aware of his own flesh; how there is still too much fat covering his bones.
Too much to look at.
Too much to hold.
Too much to be wanted.
The red marks of shame almost mockingly greeting him every morning were a constant reminder of his failure.
Maybe the only constant in his life ever since entering this facility. It was the first thing he checked before even heaving his weary body up on his headrest.
Has the hair tie gotten looser on his wrist?
Or tighter?
Why is it so tight?
Is it tighter than usual?
Did he fail to get everything out?
He knew he should‘ve kept going. Should’ve pushed harder. Should’ve just endured and ignored his rapid heart beat from the strain he put his body through, the vertigo, the stabbing ache in his lower back from leaning over the toilet for too long out of fear that the food might drop all the way down his esophagus again, making all his efforts from the last heaves go to waste.
If he stopped now, it would all come back. The calories. The guilt. The weight.
One last round.
It‘s always “the last“ with him. He always tells himself that it would be.
He steadied himself, mentally preparing himself and coaxing his mind that it will all be over soon - that it will be worth it. Sticking them in for the first time is always the most challenging part. The part where he can't help but contemplate for a bit longer whether it's even worth it — where he goes over the calories of today, where he calculates, where he reflects, where he wonders whether he can just try to eat less tomorrow; where he ultimately convinces himself that he is the one in control.
But the answer was always the same: no, now. Get it out. Fix it.
He warms his fingers up under the backside of his tongue, expertly rolling them around to make them the same as his body temperature before he shoves.
Hard.
And shakes, and presses, and thrusts, his knuckles colliding with the back of his incisors and leaving red marks over the already bruised skin. With his other hand he pushes and twists and shakes as well, this time, though, against his lower stomach, trying to physically push the food up. His hand clenched into a trembling fist, pressed harshly into the soft of his lower abdomen — trying to squeeze the shame out of himself.
A violent heave gripped his core, and he lurched forward as the acidic sting of the first splash of bile forced its way up his throat, burning everything it touched along its way up.
The mess splashed into the white ceramic bowl with a horrible, wet sound. He yanked his hand out just in time to protect his fingers from the fate of getting coated in his own mess, only to shove them right back in again.
Only this time, it wasn’t just his dinner.
He stares at them in shock.
Petals.
White. Brittle. Fragile.
Floating in the churned-up vomit like confetti scattered over filth.
He froze.
He couldn’t help a silly, rather repulsive, really, observation forming in his mind; even his own bile was trying to look presentable to the outside, attempts to cover his shame and fears and all his feeling with something soft and delicate, before it, too, was inevitably buried beneath another wave of everything he couldn’t keep down.
At first, he thought these feelings would pass, that he‘s only feeling nauseous and uneasy all the time from being separated, no, abandoned, he bitterly corrects, from his treasure for the first time. He hadn't told anyone, not the medical staff, not his teammates and didn't let anyone notice either.
He doesn't remember — doesn't want to remember — the exact day or what exactly made him feel the way that he did. All he could recall was that it had been around the same week his treasure abandoned him to pursue greater heights, without him. The day they stoooed being “Nagi and Reo”.
That day, he found the unopened boxes of chocolates Ba-ya had sent. Chocolates which he never allowed himself to have before and dutifully distributed among his teammates. Recently, though, he had been too busy to sort through his packages and upon seeing the stash of piled up treats, he desperately sought comfort in the sickeningly sweet chocolates.
He tore through them like they were oxygen. Even if he was full, even if he felt sick, he couldn’t stop.Because at least the chocolate filled something, even if only for a moment.
The first time wasn't intentional. He didn't know he’d sat in the middle of torn wrappers, or how long it took him to devour everything, but it didn't take long for his body to signal him that it wasn't used to these big and unhealthy amounts of food.
He quickly got up and ran to the bathroom attached to his room. All he had to do was lean over. His body did the rest. It was painful, disgusting and made him feel weak in the knees. Yet, he couldn't help the wave of relief making its way through his body and easing his tense muscles, something he hadn’t felt in days.
Relief.
Not from the pain.
Not from the sickness.
But because he hadn’t ruined his body. Because he could still be perfect. Because he still had a chance to prove himself worthy of Nagi.
Then, what was meant to be a once-in-lifetime type of slip-up in his otherwise spotless life had turned into a dirty, hidden routine.
Something he quietly accepted into his life with open arms. It was the only thing that went his way, that never betrayed him, that allowed him to correct his mistakes and past deeds long after they had already been done. The one instance in his life he could control.
Of course, he knew better. He wasn't stupid. He knew who really controlled who here and was well-read enough to know what really was going on with him. It was just that he simply couldn't care less. It was just part of who he was now.
But now that it wasn't only food but also tiny, white petals that joined his shameful symphony in the shallow water of the, he halted his mindless routine to inspect the foreign textures.
Being who he was, he tried to rationalize it. He went through all the foods he ate today and tried to recall what it could be that he ate that presented itself to look like flower petals mixed in his beige mess.
Was I so out of it that I accidentally ate some plant?
He quickly discarded the thought when he realized where he was: in the standard Blue Lock issued and minimally furnitured depressing room of a mysterious facility in the middle of god knows where. There was no sign of life outside of sweaty teenage boys. Where would he find flowers?
As strange as it was, he didn't have time to dwell on the matter and soon forgot about it amidst his busy training schedule.
It wasn‘t until he felt a raw sensation fighting back against his efforts of trying to swallow what he thought to be results of his too intense sessions that occasionally caused random bursts of stomach acid to make their way up, until then, that he noticed that it wasn't any liquid or remains of undigested food.
Matter of fact, there wasn’t anything coming up, yet the itchy feeling didn't go away. It felt like there was something else in the back of his thorat. Something stuck. Something that was still not ready to come out. A raw, constant itch that wouldn’t go away.
No vomit. No food.
Just something there. Lodged. Growing.
It took another uncomfortable day of this feeling for him to find out what it was. No matter how hard he tried to get it out himself, or see what the hell it could be, it wouldn't budge.
Looking back, he couldn't help but scoff at his own efforts.
Of course it wouldn't budge.
It build over days until—
He was painfully awoken in the middle of the night from one of his rare dreamless slumbers by a mercilessly violent coughing fit, gasping and hacking, the taste of iron sharp on his tongue.
He coughed and coughed against his own wishes, each one worse than the last, stubbornly willing every muscle in his body to keep himself sat-upright and to just finally stop the coughing.
It felt like the air exiting his mouth wasn't air, but the roughest type of sandpaper known to mankind, manufactured by his number one nemesis, whose family he had brutally killed in all of his previous thousand lifetimes and who, in turn, wanted to take his revenge by killing him in the most painful way imaginable. It felt like his insides were clawing their way out.
Just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, something wet and slippery finally passed his lips, falling onto his white sheets.
His eyes widened in horror, the royal purple almost completely taken over by the black of his pupils.
It was a flower.
A full, blooming flower with a delicate, but nonetheless existent, trembling green stem, and… roots?
Unproportionally big roots. Thick and twisted, still slick with saliva and streaked with blood on top of his white sheets, dyeing them crimson.
He stared, paralyzed.
The root had been inside him. Buried.
He went to an elite school, only received the best of education throughout his life, had a private teacher and an adoring family who pushed him to always reach for and go beyond the impossible, and had always been a knowledgy hungry boy. Once he saw the entirety of the foreign object he violently and painfully coughed out, he knew it was game-over.
It carefully reached out to clasp the wet flower by its root, still red in the face and trying to catch his breath.
Is this why it didn’t come out? The fucking root somehow planted itself somewhere in his body? Unless he tried to rip his organs out along with it, it of course wouldn't come out.
Before he realized what was happening, his lips began trembling, quiet sobs burning their way up his weary throat and joining the unstoppable flow of tears in painting what probably was the world's most miserable painting in the world.