Chapter Text
the burnt toast theory states that if you burn your toast in the morning, the time you waste making a second one saves you from a car crash later on. perhaps, in this scenario, the car crash was saving isagi from another, deadlier car crash.
that’s the entirety of the silver lining he could extricate from this situation, lying on the concrete with his ears ringing. he stares in abject horror at the sinister shard of glass lodged in his thigh. perhaps his first thought should be relief, that he’s not dead. but all he feels is dread. the same dread he felt when he saw itoshi rin the first time, the feeling of his chances slimming. but that dread for rin had a twinge of inspiration mixed in, which wasn’t present here, because the unbeatable opponent in this case was fate, and lady luck was well and truly unbeatable.
he knows before the doctor tells him, he knows before he reaches the ambulance. he won’t be able to play. his parents are okay, the truck had t-boned specifically the backseat–save for a small cut on his mother’s forehead. they’re hysterical with worry, and he wishes his throat would work so he could tell them to shut up. it didn’t matter. it didn’t matter if he could walk, if he could run. he would never play again.
the hospital is freezing. his hand is draped over the edge of the bed, ears still ringing. he clutches his mother’s hand, more to pacify her than reassure himself. he’s drowsy, unable to respond much as his father tells him stories like he’s a baby. it’s sweet, but unhelpful. although the physical numbness is mostly localized to his right leg, the mental numbness is all consuming. it feels as if his leg is asleep, and the thought almost makes him chuckle. his mind automatically drifts to books and movies where they always say: it almost looks like he’s sleeping. his leg is a dead man, in that sense, lifeless and unmoving.
his mother strokes his hair gently. “baby, you have to get up. they’re bringing food, okay? are you feeling up to that?” he hears her voice vaguely through the tinnitus, sitting up. the hospital food is honestly not that bad. he doesn’t have many dietary restrictions, so his mom mainly orders sweet things from the cafe for him. like chocolate cake could fix this. could reattach every severed nerve, miraculously heal the muscle. it’s mush in his mouth, lost in the cotton that seems to fill every crevice of isagi’s systems lately. he thanks his mother and the nurse regardless, determined to act like himself.
his leg often feels like a separate entity. there is a part of his thoughts that he has designated to the leg, that cold and damaged loop of give up. by day 3, he is his leg, and they are both damaged. day 4, his leg is the majority, but isagi does have a voice, and he uses it to thank his mother for the chocolate cake. by day 5, his ears have mutinied and gained independence. their voice, the tinnitus, is too loud for him to hear the leg as much. small wins.
day 6. isagi wakes up at 4 am as usual and stares at the ceiling. his mother went home for the night, his dad is at work. they must have asked a hundred times if he’s okay alone, even though his mom would definitely be here by 8 or 9 am. he’s decided today he’s in charge, not any of his rebellious body parts. he grabs a magazine off the side table and stares at it. he doesn’t read, doesn’t even care for the contents, just glad to have finally willed himself to do something other than sit up and eat. 6 am comes and the nurse steps in, knowing he probably wants the washroom. they go through the very humiliating song and dance of this tiny woman helping him up to piss and then back down, and then she says something unexpected.
“you have a visitor. should i let him know you’re awake, or are you planning to go back to sleep?” isagi just nods, and she somehow figures what he means. she lets the man in. isagi feels like the past (8 days ago, to be exact) just slapped him in the face. jinpachi ego, in the flesh and cold, cold blood. his expression is oddly sympathetic. “how are you holding up? i’m sorry, i know it’s early.”
“uh, i’m doing…as badly as expected, i suppose. did my parents tell you?” ego nods. “they said the damage is permanent. it’s a shame, i thought you had great potential..” rub salt on it, why don’t you? isagi nods dumbly. “well, are you checking on me? that’s…uh…sweet of you.” “that i am, but also…i didn’t want to tell the team anything without your permission. should i go ahead and tell them what happened?”
isagi sucks in a breath. he hadn’t considered that. he could picture them in his mind, all those crazy egotistical freaks feeling sorry for him. bachira would lose it. rin would decline to comment but feel bad. the thought disgusted him. he wanted them to feel as if he had a hand in leaving, he wanted them to move on thoughtlessly or even with anger. he did not want pity. “would you lie for me?” ego nods again, wordlessly. it feels like this entire conversation has just been nodding. “tell them i had a breakdown, will you? i threw a tantrum or something, and just…refused to return?” “are you sure?” “i don’t know how to explain why, but i’d feel better knowing they think badly of me.”
ego most certainly makes a face. “i don’t want pity.” isagi clarifies, and the older man’s face clears. “i expected nothing less from an egoist of your calibre, isagi yoichi.” as he turns to leave, he looks back one last time. “put that fire to some use, will you? nobody can waste your potential but you.” isagi almost laughs. there’s no fire. he’d love to waste his potential, in fact. like spite, like spitting in the face of losers like ego who thought everything was by choice. who thought dreams were built by hand, who failed to consider the carelessness of a truck driver.