Work Text:
Yamaguchi blinked his eyes once, then again, then again.
He stared. There were people shrouded around him, or at least he thought. People with minds, consciences, eyes to see, legs to walk and mouths to taste. They had faces too. Beautiful features as brushstrokes, working together to form harmonious paintings.
But that wasn’t what Tadashi saw.
Tadashi saw shapes.
Shapes contorted into flat, hyperbola stomachs, small triangular chins and shoulders. The shapes around him worked well together, puzzle pieces all in their correct places. Every single one he ogled at, they were all flawless.
So why weren’t his?
Tadashi’s shapes were disproportionate. Muddled, unfair, uncanny. The same went for the shapes that made his face. He had scratched and moulded them for so long—he couldn’t recognise his puzzle pieces. Why did his eyes fit too small, his lips place too thin and his acne too prominent?
Why weren’t his shapes like theirs? He was the only one it seemed, as he searched the room of gorgeous people, all in different shapes and yet just as perfect as the next. Tadashi wanted to be perfect too.
He had tried to take on so many forms, but he didn’t want to have to shape himself to love himself. It would be fake that way. He’d know that way. Know that eventually the soft curves he sharpened, the circles he melted away into triangles, would harden back. They always did.
And it hurt just as bad, every time he gave up. How the hardness of his gut would ache to be fed, the disgusting spots dotted around his face scream to be left alone.
All he knew was to compare. To size his body against the person next to him, ask the same useless questions. Do they know they look perfect just sitting there? Do they recognise the jealousy scrunching and burning inside of my gut?
No, of course not.
Tadashi wants his shapes to be perfect too.