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Acceptance was a concept both familiar and foreign to Hajime.
He’d accepted that his life would be cut short due to his illness.
He’d accepted that his body wasn’t normal and never would be (even now, Hajime couldn’t really consider himself normal, not really).
He’d accepted that there was no point in trying to cure him.
That last one… that was the hardest truth to swallow. Hajime that knew his parents cared (or had cared) about him, but there was really no point in trying to help him. If anything, they were just trying make it easier for him. Hajime wondered what his parents would think of him if they could see him now.
Hajime couldn’t really consider his current companions friends. Technically, Hajime could ask them but Hajime knew it would come across as desperate. Besides, it seemed like the touchy-feely thing you didn’t bring up in gangs. Sometimes he wondered if they were just kids like him who’d been screwed over by life, who didn’t have anywhere else to go. He supposed that it wasn’t necessary for them be in friendly terms, anyway. The gang just needed some extra muscle, and, to his surprise, Hajime could pack a decent punch. He was all too aware of role in the group: he was the outsider, a stray. One that just happened to be useful. Hajime couldn’t remember the last time he’d been useful to anyone.
The first time he smoked a cigarette, Hajime felt as if he’d never get the taste of the nicotine of his mouth. The bitter aftertaste of it was worse than any medication. It had to one the worst feelings he’d ever had, which was saying something considering, well, everything that Hajime had gone through.
The second time, Hajime disregarded any attempt at saving face in front of them, allowing himself to cough and sputter. He supposed it was an improvement compared to the previous time (a very, very minor improvement), since Hajime now knew what to expect. This time though, the taste wasn’t the problem, it was the stares he got.
He hated the way their eyes burned into him like the flames of a cigarette. He hated how his stomach twisted at the first sign of judgment. Most of all, Hajime hated himself. Because, despite his every instinct, his every rational thought, his every cough that hurt like hell, Hajime kept smoking.
Any moment now, his newfound health could deteriorate and he could lose everything. Hajime’s mind would never let him forget that, even for a second. Maybe he was trying to make himself sick again? That way, at least Hajime would’ve felt as though he had some control over his body. In some way, it was like Hajime was preparing himself for the inevitable, when it all came crashing down.
Normalcy had never been an option for Hajime. For someone in his situation, this was as close as it would ever get. Unless, somehow, he got blessed with another stroke of luck.