Chapter Text
Fuck, it hurt.
Trudging along the pavement, Rocket clutched his arm tightly. Today was an absolute mess. Nothing went right. Bruised, beat, and battered, all Rocket wanted to do was go home and sleep. He knew better than to participate in matches, he knew how much his dad hated them, but some stubborn, idiotic part of him couldn't seem to stop. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was insecurity.
Maybe deep down it was pure, unbridled hatred for himself. He wasn't like his dad, he wasn't like anyone. Nobody was as bitter, or spiteful, or hateful as he was— and in some twisted way, this was his punishment. Or maybe it was proving himself, finally becoming something worth living under Zukas shadow. Whatever. Thinking about it made his head hurt.
Taking a deep breath, Rocket stood by the front door, heart beginning to pace as he anticipated the inevitable lecture his dad would give him. At least they weren't very long, that was something to be thankful for.
It was the same script everytime, something he could prepare for. 'I'm worried about you Rocket, This isnt okay.' Rocket rolled his eyes as he recited the usual lines. He was always stern, but never too angry. That made him feel better. His heart wasn't racing at all. Totally. Warm, humid air hit his face as he turned the handle, stepping inside. God, he hated warmth and the gross, sickly feeling it brought across his whole body.
As expected, Zuka's head perked up on the couch when he heard the door creak open, turning to face Rocket directly. Refusing to look up, Rocket simply shut the door, eyes glued to the ground.
"Where were you?" Grunting as he stood up, he began to head towards Rocket, expression unreadable.
"Out."
"Where?"
"With Sword." By technicality, it wasn't a lie—Sword was there.
"Do you take me to be an idiot?" Even though Rocket wasn't looking up, he could still feel Zuka's eyes boring into his soul, and that totally did not result in a shudder going down his back.
"You're hurt, Rocket. You know how I feel about you going out and doing stupid shit. Do you have any idea how worried this makes me? Makes everybody?" Those weren't his usual words. Why wasn't he saying his usual words?
"I'm tired of the same bullshit, Rocket. This isn't healthy."
"Then why do you let others go to matches, huh?" Before he could help himself, Rocket caught himself snapping back, hands trembling as he curled them into fists.
"You drive others all the time. Thats not fair!"
"Kid, those people are different stories. They aren't my son."
"What, afraid i'll surpass you? Afraid you'll become old news?" He was not shaking. He was not scared.
"Thats enough!" That was more than enough to shut Rocket up. It had been years since Zuka shouted at him. The last time he had was when Rocket was a teenager, back when they would fight every day over Rocket's inability to be normal. When he would lie, cheat, and make people bleed for fun. Back when all he knew was pure, unbridled rage.
Swallowing hard, Rocket hesitantly looked up into Zuka's eyes, which were tense and glistening with an emotion Rocket could not name.
"Cut the shit for two goddamn seconds. I can't keep doing this, Sword can't keep doing this. Do you know how many times Sword has come crying to me, asking if you're okay? Do you know how it feels to watch you blow yourself up, knowing you're gonna come out hurt?"
I can't keep doing this.
...Yeah, neither could he.
Wordlessly, Rocket stormed past Zuka, wiping his eyes messily with his bloodied sleeve. No, he wasn't crying. Rocket didn't cry.
Shutting his door with a loud slam, he practically crashed into his bed, clutching his pillow like a lifeline.
No bond was made to last, he knew that. Inevitably everybody would grow tired of him, leave him in the dust. He deserved it. Guilt shot through his lungs as he gasped for breath.
I can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing this.
Staring at his room, Rocket whined as a loud buzzing eminated from his brain. Shapes. Everything around him was static and shapes and he couldn't take it. His entire body felt numb, but yet his insides lit up like fire all the same. Nothing could ease this feeling, nothing was ever going to feel real ever again.
He felt himself stand up, fumbling for something in his drawer. He felt himself grip something cold. He felt the first slice, then the next, and the next. By the time he came to, he saw blood trickling down his arm. A disgusted feeling bubbled up in his stomach as he watched the blood pour down, dripping onto the carpet. At least his head wasn't buzzing anymore.
Lips tightening, he inspected further. Gods, these were deep. There wasn't really any way to excuse these. Sure, he could try to lie, but they were far too neat and purposeful for anybody to truly buy it. Thank god he usually wears jackets.
A sudden thought caused him to jolt. He could go further. He could go deeper, farther, and finally put an end to this miserable charade. Sure, inevitably people would be upset, but in the end it'd be happier, no? No longer would he drag people down. No longer would he screw up, again and again. Was it selfish? Was it selfish to want to give up? Would they hate him?
As his own arms held himself tight, Rocket dropped to the ground, head leaning against the dresser.
Why couldn't he stop? Why couldn't he stop being miserable for two seconds? He really, really tried his best. He didn't want to be this way. He went to therapy, he tried positive coping mechanisms. He would visit friends and do things that made him happy. Why was he still so broken?
Curling in on himself further, Rocket held out his mechanical arm, still clutching the sharp object.
Is it more selfish to stay?
As long as he was alive, he would loop around again and again, inevitably hurting the ones he loved the most. His best wouldn't ever be enough. Was he even trying his best?
His cheeks felt damp. He didn't want to do this anymore.
With shakey hands, Rocket swiped as hard and as fast as he could, blood bubbling to the surface at a rapid pace. Taking a sharp breath, he tried again. And again. And again. Each swipe grew weaker, and weaker, and he growled in desperation. This wasn't enough. Rocket slammed his hand onto his dresser, sobbing as his other clutched his shirt.
This was pointless. He didn't have the willpower to die.
He didn't know how long he sat there, hand clutching the blade as if it was a lifeline. After several minutes, maybe hours, there was a soft knock at the door.
Rocket didn't register it. All he could do was stare and stare and stare at nothing in particular. Nothing in his vision made sense. Noise was nothing but jarbled garbage. There was no willpower to try.
Vaguely, he registered the sound of a door opening, gray intruding his vision. He couldn't tell what it was. Someone was speaking.
At first, he allowed his brain to tune it out. But as it went on, Rockets curiosity got the best of him, and he squinted, straining to listen. Despite how hard he tried, he failed to grasp even a single word. Static continued to pour from his brain and out through his ears, numbing every sensation.
He, to some degree, felt something warm lift up his arm. Gods, he hated warm things.
They remained careful and steady for a moment or two, before gently lowering it back to the ground. The warmth returned a second later, gently cradling his head. It felt so far away. Everything did.
It took him awhile to realize he was slowly rocking back and forth, something his dad would do to soothe him when he was mid-breakdown. Realization dawned as he perked up ever so slightly, recognition flooding his senses.
Voice rough and low, Zuka spoke up.
"You with me, kid?"
Pressure quickly jammed in his throat as he attempted to speak, so Rocket nodded in return.
Rocket could feel his dad's stubble move as he spoke again.
"I didn't mean to hurt ya. I'm not angry, I'm just worried. Can you talk?"
A simple head shake. No.
"Thats fine. I just need you to listen. I love you, and I don't want to lose you to something stupid, thats all. I don't know what I'd do without you." Vunerability seeped into Zukas voice as he continued, "You mean everything to me, kid. You're all I have."
Hot tears began to well in Rocket's eyes again for the millionth time that night. All he could do was hold his dad tighter, hoping his message could come across. He loved him too.
An emotion-filled chuckle was let out from Zuka's chest as he gently rubbed Rocket's back.
After a few minutes, Rocket finally pulled away, red-rimmed eyes properly meeting Zuka's for the first time that night.
"Alright, kid. Let's get ya cleaned up." Grunting, Zuka stood up, knees popping underneath the pressure. "Ya need help getting up?"
A pause.
Hesitantly, Rocket nodded. Lowering his one hand, Zukas expression remained neutral, unjudgemental as Rocket gripped Zukas hand with his own, pulling himself up.
Maybe for a little things would be okay.