Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

April, 1996 – Mountains of Japan

The van jolted over another pothole, the hiss of its tires swallowed by the relentless drum of rain. Yoichi sat rigid in the back seat, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, the cold bite of the handcuffs digging into his wrists. Outside, the world was nothing but streaks of gray— rain on the window blurring the streetlights into smudges of light.

The engine’s hum droned in the background, a hollow reminder of how far he’d fallen. Each jolt of the van echoed in his chest, his mind replaying the moment he failed—the critical pass, the coach’s glare, the crushing disapproval from the crowd. The rain wasn’t just outside; it was inside him, pounding against his ribcage, drowning him in a suffocating storm he couldn’t escape.

He swallowed hard, the metallic taste of fear sharp on his tongue. This wasn’t just a van ride. It was a descent.

The rain, heavy and relentless, streaked across the window, blurring the outside world until it seemed as though the entire universe was nothing but a wash of gray.

He had always been good at blocking things out. The noise, the expectations, the constant pressure to be the best. But now, with nothing but the dull thrum of the engine in the background, it was impossible to escape the thoughts that crowded his mind.

He didn’t belong here. Not in this van, not at this facility, and not in his own skin.

The decision had been made for him—his performance on the field had faltered, his drive slipping away like sand through his fingers. One match, one moment of weakness, and suddenly he was no longer the prodigy everyone had cheered for, but a liability—a shadow of his former self. He thought back to the scenes that haunted him in the sleepless nights before this very moment: the echoing cheers from the stands, the bright lights shining down like a spotlight on his every move.

Yet, even then, buried beneath the excitement had been a gnawing doubt, the flickering memory of the slip-up that changed everything. He could still see the ball rolling past him, the critical pass he missed during the finals—the moment when the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for him to shine. Instead, he faltered. The dreaded sound of disapproval from the crowd, the coach’s disappointed stare, and his teammates' subdued expressions played on a loop in his mind. He held onto every harsh whisper, every unkind comment, weaving them together into a tapestry of failure that suffocated him.

“There’s no room for mistakes.” he remembered his coach saying, and that reminder echoed painfully through his thoughts. He had lived to prove himself but now felt the weight of inadequacy settling on his shoulders like a shroud. He felt the urge to scream, the frustration rising in him like a tidal wave that could no longer be contained.

The van’s slow creaking halt dragged him from his spiral of self-loathing as it neared the facility’s entrance, the imposing white walls rising in front of him like the gates to a prison. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. He had been told it would be a temporary stay, just long enough to “get him back on track.” But something about the sterile, lifeless building felt permanent. Outside, the rain hammered down like the relentless judgement he felt. He wasn’t sure if he felt relief or dread.

Maybe both.

The weight of his failure seemed to seep into his very skin, mingling with the confusion and anger roiling inside him. He suddenly understood—this wasn’t just a temporary setback; it was a crossroads, and he stood at the edge of a chasm that threatened to swallow him whole. Would he ever regain the confidence he shattered that day on the field? Or was this endless cycle of doubt the new normal for him?

The door of the van creaked open, a groan that echoed the unease thrumming through Isagi's chest. A solitary figure emerged, wrapped in the sterile white of a hospital uniform, her approach deliberate and detached, each step a reminder of the gravity of his situation. “Isagi Yoichi.” the nurse announced, her voice a blend of authority and indifference, as though acknowledging his existence was little more than a bureaucratic necessity.

As she motioned for him to follow, dread coiled tightly in his gut. This was no longer just about a game; it was about facing the demons that had crept into his mind, relentless and unyielding. He didn’t move. His legs felt like they were made of lead, and his chest constricted with a mix of anxiety and anger. But there was nowhere to go.

Reluctantly, he unbuckled his belt and stepped out into the cold, rain-soaked night. The facility loomed like a monolith against the rain-soaked sky, its stark white exterior glowing faintly under the harsh floodlights. As Yoichi stepped out of the van, the cold air hit him like a slap.

A cold hand grasped his elbow, pulling him forward.

“This way.” the nurse said, her voice indifferent as she led him into the sterile interior of the facility.

He had been told it was a place for recovery, for people like him who were struggling, who had lost their way. But something about the place made his skin crawl.

The doors opened with a soft creak, and the nurse beckoned him inside. Yoichi followed, his steps slow, hesitant, as if every movement in his body was weighed down by the knowledge that this was where he was meant to be now. A place for people who had broken, for people who couldn’t be fixed in the real world.

Inside, everything was stark.

The walls were an unforgiving shade of white, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead, the sound digging into his skull. The floors, sterile and polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflected the absence of life, creating an unsettling sense of disorientation. A faint, droning hum of machines punctuated the air, interspersed with the occasional beep of a distant monitor, underscoring the uninviting atmosphere. It felt empty, like a vacuum where time stood still.

There was no life, no warmth to cradle the weary spirits of those trapped within these cold, clinical spaces, only an oppressive sterility that isolated and numbed. The air was heavy with the scent of antiseptic, sharp and stinging against the senses, further amplifying the disconnection from the outside world. It was a place designed to contain, to fix, yet all it succeeded in doing was amplifying the sense of despair, as if hope had been scrubbed away along with the imperfections of reality.

He followed the nurse through long, silent hallways, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. Every door they passed felt like another layer of his own freedom slipping away— it was almost comical how the pavement reflected his hunched reflection, small and fragile, beneath the shadow of the nurse leading him. If he was in his “right mind” he would probably start jumping up and down to send the reflection away.

The room they stopped at was no better. A metal plaque reading 104 hung on the door like a prisoner’s number. She opened it without a word, stepping aside to allow him entry. “This is your room.” she said, her tone distant, almost mechanical. Inside, the space was suffocatingly bare.

It was nothing like the room where he’d been in before—no banners of success, no trophies. Just a small, impersonal space designed to remind you that you were nobody. “Get in.” the nurse ordered, her eyes flicking over him once more.

And Yoichi stepped inside, the nurse got close enough to remove his handcuffs before she turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her. The room was small, minimalist. A bed, a desk, a chair. No personal touches. No comfort. Just the bare minimum to exist. He felt like a specimen in a lab, not a person, not a human being.

It felt… suffocating. There was no escape here, no way out of this prison he had found himself in. He wasn’t sure if the walls felt closer now because of the pills or because of what he had just been through. But he had no choice. He had to survive.

But he wasn’t sure if he knew how anymore.

For a long time, Isagi just stood there, staring at the empty bed. The silence pressed in on him, thick and suffocating, wrapping around him like a shroud. Isagi's chest tightened as he leaned back against the cool seat, his heart racing with the palpable emptiness that filled the van. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as the oppressive quiet seemed to choke him. The distant hum of the engine faded into the background, eclipsed by the barrage of thoughts that swirled chaotically in his mind—thoughts he couldn’t escape, thoughts that refused to be silenced.

He stared at the empty walls, his fists clenching and unclenching. This wasn’t recovery. This wasn’t healing.

This was erasure.

It was only then that he noticed the faint hum coming from somewhere down the hallway. It was unsettling. He couldn’t place it—like the hum of a machine, or maybe something more sinister. He took a few steps forward, fingers brushing against the cool wood of the desk. He didn’t want to touch anything. Didn’t want to settle in. This place wasn’t his home, not by a long shot.

And yet, he knew he’d be here for a while.

But in truth, it had all started long before that match. Long before the weight of expectations pressed down on his chest like an unrelenting tide.

Yoichi had never been able to escape the pressure—the constant demand for more, for perfection, for validation. It was the world that had shaped him this way. His worth had always been tied to what he could achieve, to what others saw in him. It had made him a fighter, but it had also twisted him into someone who couldn’t find a solid ground to stand on.

He was too much—too sensitive, too impulsive, too consumed by the opinions of others, by the mistakes he made. It wasn’t just the game that broke him; it was everything. Every passing glance, every half-formed expectation from coaches and teammates, from his family. It was the crushing belief that his value was in what he could do, not in who he was. He had always been a machine to them, not a person.

The loneliness of that thought had settled deep in his bones. He had tried to reach out, tried to let someone see the real him, but every word he spoke felt hollow. It was as if no one could look past the athlete—the boy who could score, who could deliver, who could be everything for everyone. But there was no room for his vulnerability in their eyes, no space for his breaking heart.

And so, he had learned to silence the noise. The constant hum of fear that he wasn’t enough, the ache of knowing he was alone in the fight. But it wasn’t enough to quiet the storm.

One night, after the exhaustion of trying to keep everything together had become too much, Yoichi had found himself at the edge again. This time, it wasn’t the thought of failure on the field that had brought him to the brink—it was the crushing weight of it all, the impossibility of ever being what they needed him to be. The noise inside his head had gotten too loud, too overwhelming.

It was never about wanting to die, not really. It was the thought of silence, of escaping the endless cycle of striving and falling short. He just wanted the pain to stop. The unbearable pressure to be perfect. The hollow feeling that had consumed him for so long.

He had gone to the bathroom, staring at the cold tile floor as he opened the medicine cabinet. The pills, the cocktail—he had researched it, he knew what it took. He hadn’t planned it. It wasn’t premeditated. It was the culmination of everything he had kept buried, the weight of his emotions finally pulling him under.

He’d swallowed them one by one, each pill a promise to himself that it would all be over soon. The numbness was already starting to creep in when he slid down the edge of the bathtub, his head spinning, his body heavy and unresponsive. The darkness had started to close in around him, and he hadn’t been sure if it was sleep or something deeper, more final.

But in those last moments, just as everything blurred into nothingness, he had heard a sound—a distant voice, maybe. He wasn’t sure. He had tried to speak, tried to fight it, but his body betrayed him, weighed down by the poison of his own making.

He had faded in and out, his mind a haze of thoughts that didn’t make sense, until suddenly, there were hands on him.

The door had burst open, and his parents had found him there, slumped in the tub, pale and unresponsive, the pills scattered on the floor around him.

“Yoichi!” his mother had screamed, her voice slicing through the fog in his mind like a shard of glass, raw and desperate. He had barely registered her face, her panic, the desperate way she had shaken him.

The world spun around him, a chaotic blur of color and noise, as her grip trembled against him, shaking him into awareness. He recalled the clammy chill of the bathroom tiles beneath him, the acrid scent of failure mingling with the sharp, sterile tang of reality that clung to the air.

With each heartbeat, he could feel his own lifeblood pulsing against the suffocating silence, a stark reminder that he was still there, still breathing, yet so painfully disconnected from everything that mattered. The cold sting of sirens wailed in the distance, beckoning him back from the edge as darkness loomed beyond the fragile light of his fleeting consciousness.

Everything had felt so far away as they rushed him to the hospital, the cold sting of reality cutting through the haze of sleep and confusion. The IV in his arm, the rushed voices of doctors and nurses, the sterile smell of the emergency room—it had all felt distant. It was like he was watching himself from outside his body, floating above it all, unable to reach back.

When he finally awoke, everything had felt different. He wasn’t sure if it was the fear, the relief, or something darker that had settled in his chest. The realization that even after everything, even after he had tried to escape, he was still here. Still alive. Still broken.

But in that moment, when the fog had cleared enough for him to understand what had happened, Yoichi had known one thing for sure: he wasn’t done. Not yet.

He didn’t want to be saved, not really. But the world had a funny way of forcing you to face things you weren’t ready for. And as he lay in that hospital bed, the faint hum of the machines keeping him tethered to reality, he realized that the escape he had sought wasn’t freedom. It had been the opposite.

There was no peace in running away.

Only more silence.

The next few days felt like a blur. The hospital room was aseptic, the walls white and cold, and Yoichi had no memory of the events that had led to him being there. He only remembered the quiet, the pills, the dark heaviness pressing against him. Everything else seemed to be a distant echo, like the world had gone mute.

His parents had been there. His mother’s eyes red from crying, her voice trembling as she spoke to the nurses, too scared to look at him directly. His father, usually so composed, had sat at the edge of the bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. But there had been no words between them. There was nothing to say.

It wasn’t that they didn’t care. Yoichi knew they did— his mother’s hands never left his side, always soft, always afraid. His father’s stern voice was always present, always a reminder of who he was supposed to be. But it was as though they couldn’t truly see him anymore. Not as Yoichi. Not as their son. They saw a failure. They saw someone broken. Someone they couldn’t fix.

And that was the part that hurt the most—the realization that even his family, the people who were supposed to understand, couldn’t. That he wasn’t even sure if he understood what was happening to him anymore.

The hospital visit was brief, just long enough for the doctors to monitor him, long enough for him to get the help he “needed.” There had been talk of therapy, of outpatient care, but the truth was, Yoichi felt empty. The words didn’t mean anything. The efforts didn’t feel real. Nothing seemed to change the fact that he was still the same person who couldn’t stop falling apart.

As the days dragged on, Yoichi found himself sinking deeper into the same suffocating hole. His mind wouldn’t let go of the chaos that had overtaken him. He would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything that had built up—the expectations, the pressure, the relentless sense of being watched, of being judged, of never being good enough. His emotions were like waves crashing against him, each one more violent than the last, each one pulling him further from the shore. He couldn’t find the ground beneath his feet.

When he was finally released, the nurse had handed him a prescription for antidepressants, her voice gentle but distant, like she was talking to someone who was already a ghost. It didn’t feel like a way forward, but more like a way to numb the pain. She spoke about “recovery,” but Yoichi wasn’t sure if he wanted to recover. What would that even mean? To go back to being the athlete, the person everyone wanted him to be?

The room was dimly lit, the pale glow of the overhead light casting long shadows against the walls. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper, a scent that seemed to cling to everything in this place. Yoichi sat across from the therapist, his hands, stiff and trembling, were clasped tightly in his lap handcuffed like an animal, but his eyes—his eyes burned with a wildness that he couldn’t shake.

His body was heavy, as if it didn’t belong to him, and his mind was sluggish, shrouded by the antidepressants. They were supposed to help, but they only left him feeling numb, disconnected, and restless. His eyes felt heavy, the drugs coursing through his system weighed down his thoughts, leaving him adrift in a haze. The harsh glare of the overhead light filled the room, casting ominous shadows on the sterile walls that seemed to close in on Yoichi as he sat across from the therapist. His hands trembled, betraying the inner turmoil that raged within him, while his eyes burned with a wildness that he struggled to contain. The clinical space felt suffocating, amplifying the heaviness that weighed down his body.

The faint scent of antiseptic and old paper lingered in the air, adding to the oppressive atmosphere of the room. Yoichi's stiff posture and clenched fists spoke of the inner battle he waged against himself, against the demons that threatened to overwhelm him. Despite the therapist's gentle presence, he remained lost in a haze of medication that only served to deepen his sense of disconnection from reality.

As he struggled to find his voice, Yoichi's eyes betrayed the desperation that consumed him. The weight of his own thoughts, the burden of his emotions, bore down on him relentlessly, leaving him feeling adrift, lost in a sea of unspoken feelings. The walls seemed to echo the silence that enveloped him as he grappled with the overwhelming sense of emptiness that gnawed at his soul.

The therapist’s chair creaked slightly as she shifted, her pen poised over a notepad, a middle-aged woman with glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose, sat patiently on the other side of the desk. She had that look in her eyes— the one that was both gentle and cold —as if she could see the puzzle pieces of him he didn’t know how to see and yet couldn’t put together. She had been trying to get him to talk for the last ten minutes, asking soft questions, offering her understanding, but Yoichi wasn’t interested in any of it.

He didn’t care about her gentle words.

He didn’t care about the process.

Not anymore.

She had asked him, again, about what had led him to the hospital.

The overdose. The pills.

“So, Yoichi,” she began again, her tone even, “can you tell me what happened the night of your attempt?” She looked at him with a calm, patient expression, her voice soft and measured as she asked ‘The Question’.

The words hit him like a slap, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. She finally got to the point. His mouth felt dry, his throat tight, like the air in the room had thickened, suffocating him.

Her words hung in the air, sharp and surgical. Yoichi flinched, his throat tightening as if the very air had turned against him. His chest burned, a rising tide of anger clawing its way out. “What do you think happened?” he snapped, his voice hoarse. “I swallowed a bunch and blacked out. Isn’t that enough?”

His laugh was short and harsh, a discordant note slicing through the sterile calm of the room. It was the kind of laugh that echoed like shattered glass, jarring and unsettling, filling the air with an uncomfortable tension. It felt like a damning confession, a reflection of the chaos roiling beneath his surface, as if his inner turmoil was a storm raging just out of sight, ready to swallow him whole.

He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, feeling the dampness from the sweat that clung to his skin, his body buzzing with the side effects of whatever the hospital staff gave him before coming to this godforsaken office. It made him feel dizzy, like the room was spinning just slightly out of his control.

“It wasn’t like… what you think.” he said, his voice hoarse, trembling with an edge of agitation. “It wasn’t about… wanting to die, okay? It wasn’t like that.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at her, the rawness in his chest threatening to spill out, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

He paused, swallowing hard, the words tangled in his throat. His mind was racing, too fast to keep up with. It was like trying to fit all the words in the cells, words so long and complicated whose meaning was unknown.

“I just… I needed to stop feeling it…” he continued, his voice growing more erratic, more raw. “…everything is just too much, you know? It’s like… I… I-I can’t keep doing this. Every time I think I can take a break, there’s more. I can never get away from it. The noise, the… the pressure. It’s fucking suffocating.”

His hands were shaking now, not from the cold, but from the anger bubbling up inside him— anger at himself, at everything, at the world that demanded so much from him. The heat surged in his chest, spreading like wildfire, igniting every nerve ending. His heart raced, pounding against his ribcage, each beat a frantic reminder of his seething frustration.

Breath quickened, coming in shallow gasps as the oppressive weight of his emotions bore down on him. The room felt tighter, closing in around him as he fought to contain the storm swirling within. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together as the tension coiled tighter, ready to snap.

The therapist said nothing, just listened. Her pen moved gently across the page, as though marking the moments of his unraveling.

The woman didn’t react immediately; her eyes softened with understanding, and she leaned in slightly, a silent invitation for him to share. Her shoulders relaxed, and she subtly adjusted her position, positioning her hands on her lap, open and unthreatening.

She took a slow, deliberate breath, steadying herself, as though she were crafting a bridge between his anguish and her safe space as she adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Why, Yoichi?” she said, her voice almost a whisper, infused with empathy. “Why did you want to stop feeling? I need you to tell me, what was that pain like?”

Yoichi leaned back in his chair, his fingers digging into the armrests as if trying to keep himself from collapsing inward. His heart was thundering in his chest, his breathing ragged. The ‘candies‘, as his mother called them, made it harder to think about what was proper to say, but he still couldn’t stop what was rising from somewhere deep within him.

“The pain? You wanna know… about the pain?” His voice dropped into a whisper, but it was sharp, fraying at the edges. “It’s the expectations. The weight of them. I can’t breathe under it. Everyone always wants something from me!” Yoichi went on, his voice rising in frustration. “The coach. My teammates. My fucking parents. They only care about what I can give them, they don’t care about who I am or… what happens when I break. They just want me to keep going and going and going and going until I‘m nothing.” His leg bounced nervously up and down, sweat kept falling off his skin and it was absolutely maddening.

“But it’s all bullshit. It’s too much. I can’t be that person anymore. I can’t… I can’t be anyone. I’m nothing, just… a failure.” The therapist paused, her expression careful, but Yoichi didn’t notice. His words were spilling out now, the walls in his mind crumbling. He was too tired to care, too angry at the world for making him into something he didn’t understand… Something that wanted to end it all and couldn’t even manage to do it correctly.

He clenched his jaw, his nails digging into his palms as he finally lifted his gaze to meet hers. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a flicker of something wild in them— a mix of anger, frustration, and a deep, bone-deep exhaustion.

“I didn’t want to die. Not really…” he continued, his voice growing more agitated, more erratic. “…but the silence, you know? The quiet. No thoughts, no pressure, no one to tell you what to do. I thought I could just… stop. And maybe it wouldn’t hurt anymore.” He looked up sharply at the therapist, as if daring her to say something, to challenge him. “But it didn’t work… And they found me. And now I’m here, alive, and it feels worse. The world didn’t stop. Nothing changed. And I’m still here.”

His chest heaved with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. His nails gripped the palms harder, his nails digging into the flesh as if the pain could somehow anchor him in a world that was slipping further out of his control. They made him feel too much, but also nothing— like a ghost trapped in his own body. It was too much to hold, too much to process. And yet, everything felt like it was crumbling inside of him.

He laughed, a bitter sound that left his mouth like a curse. “And I tried to… I tried to keep going. I tried so fucking hard. But every time I failed, it just… it just felt like I was disappearing, like I didn’t even matter anymore.” His voice faltered for a moment, the intensity of his own words nearly choking him. “And that night… I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay. I couldn’t keep pretending I was enough.”

His eyes wide, manic, searching for something in her face, some sign that she understood. “It wasn’t about dying, okay? I didn’t want to die. I just… wanted it to stop. I wanted everything to just fucking stop.”

The therapist didn’t react, just nodded, her gaze steady and unwavering. She knew he was drowning in his own mind, his emotions spinning in every direction, out of control. The antidepressants only made it worse. The drugs were supposed to stabilize him, but instead, they twisted his already fragile thoughts into something sharper, more dangerous.

Antipsychotics in the nineties weren’t exactly made to make a person feel better.

“Yoichi,” she said gently, “you’re not alone in feeling overwhelmed. Many people in your situation feel like they’re carrying a weight they can’t bear. But there are healthier ways to manage these feelings, ways to work through them.”

“Yeah? And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?” he snapped, his voice rising again. “You think pills or talking to a stranger will fix me?” Anger burned in his eyes as his fists tightened. “I don’t need help or anyone telling me how I need to feel…”

There was a long, heavy silence between them. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a rhythm that was too fast, too frantic. He was dizzy, his thoughts fraying at the edges, slipping through his fingers like sand.

“…you want me to justify it?” His voice was venomous now, his eyes wild, glazed with the madness of the antidepressants. “…I just wanted the noise to stop… the pressure to end. But no, the doctors just want me to swallow pills, tell me to talk about it, like I don’t know what I’m feeling! Like I’m some… some fucking experiment to them!” He didn’t even realise he started to scream. “They don’t care! No one fucking cares!”

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, the movement sharp and sudden. “You think you can fix me?” he hissed. “Fix me with your stupid questions and your little words? You can’t. Nothing will change, I’ll never be enough. And this—” he gestured at the sterile room, the pills, the process, “—none of this is even real.” He lets out a mock, historic laugh, the bags under his eyes, the bandages around the junction between arm and forearm, the white sterile robe of the hospital…

…it all felt too much. “This is just… it’s just… some game. And I’m done playing.” The therapist didn’t flinch. She had heard this before— anger, rage, resistance. But she knew not to push too hard. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, watching him carefully.

The old woman took a deep breath, her voice remaining calm despite the storm in his eyes. “I know this is difficult, Yoichi. But what you’re feeling, this desperation to escape, it’s a sign that we need to explore what’s underneath— the deeper emotions that are controlling your actions and thoughts.”

Yoichi stared at her, his breath shallow and ragged. Why was it so hard to understand? He didn’t want to listen. He didn’t want help. But her calmness in the face of his outbursts, the way she refused to react to his anger, made something inside him twist— made something shift.

It wasn’t peace, but it was the first thing that had felt like stability in a long time. He sank back into the chair with his head pounding. The anger was still there, gnawing at him, but he had nothing left to fight with… Nothing left to give.

He looked at the therapist, his eyes empty. “There's nothing under it.” Yoichi exhaled, his voice laced with a faint bitterness and a chilling hollowness. “It’s all shattered. I’m just… a collection of fragments.” His intensity surged, and he leaned closer, his cheeks flushed with the remains of his raw fury. “Maybe I’m not meant for this. Maybe I’m not meant to be… anything at all.” His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest tightening again as the realization of his own words crashed down on him like a relentless wave, drowning any flicker of hope left in his spirit.

He hadn’t realized until now just how much he hated himself— how every day, every minute, every damned second felt like he was drowning in the build-up person he carefully crafted for the others.

The therapist didn’t respond right away. She let the silence stretch, letting him settle into the realization that he was never really in control. And as the time passed, whatever remained of Yoichi‘s aggression was soon replaced by an aching exhaustion.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore...” he muttered, his voice small now, barely a whisper. His hands had stopped shaking, but the emptiness inside of him still churned, a hollow pit that seemed to swallow everything else.

There was no escape from it, no way to fill it.

The therapist’s eyes softened as she leaned forward, her voice quieter now, coaxing. “We’ll work through this together, Yoichi. It’s not about fixing you— it’s about healing. But first, you need to believe you’re worth saving.”

Yoichi scoffed, a hollow laugh escaping him. “You think you can heal this?” He waved at himself in frustration, as if dismissing everything in the room. “I’m too far gone.” The words hung heavy in the air, he was totally, utterly drained.

On the clipboard, two acronyms: MDD and GAD.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, but somehow, his parents had made the decision. They had thought it was for the best. The solution, they said. They told him he would go to a place where he could “recover,” where people would help him. A place where he could finally stop being the person he had become and be reborn as something better.

And that was how Yoichi had found himself in the back of the van, the cold rain pelting the windows as it sped toward the facility, a place for the “unstable”.  A place where people like him could be fixed. And again, that’s what they said, nonetheless Yoichi couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t trying to fix him.

„They‘re just trying to erase me.“

Yoichi stared at the bed for what felt like hours, though it could’ve been minutes. The silence of the room pressed against him, heavy and unforgiving. He stared at the white walls, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts a jumble of incoherent thoughts. He was too tired to think clearly, but the noise in his head never stopped. It was constant, like the hum of the fluorescent lights above, relentless and disorienting.

He could feel the effects of the tranquilizers still clawing at him, dragging him deeper into a fog. His body felt distant, disconnected, as if he was watching himself from somewhere far away. He wasn’t sure if it was the medications or the emotional exhaustion, but he was starting to feel numb.

Maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was supposed to help.

…or maybe it was just another way to drown him. 

The door creaked open suddenly, snapping him out of his train of thoughts. Yoichi looked up, his gaze sharpened as the sound of footsteps entered the room. A nurse was standing there, flanked by a figure that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. The new arrival’s wild hair, messy and untamed, was the first thing Yoichi noticed.

It looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in days, or maybe weeks. The boy’s bright eyes flicked toward Yoichi, gleaming with an odd mixture of curiosity and amusement, like he was examining a new piece of art.

“Meguru.” the nurse said, his voice firm yet gentle; “this is your new roommate, Isagi Yoichi. Isagi, this is Meguru.”

Yoichi’s eyes narrowed as he studied the boy. Bachira looked… different. Not in a way that was immediately obvious, but something about him felt off. His presence was unsettling in the strangest way, like he wasn’t fully here, like his body was standing in front of him but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Bachira stepped forward, smiling like he was meeting an old friend, though there was an odd gleam of something darker in his eyes. His lips twitched as if he were about to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he just stared at Yoichi for a long, strange moment.

“Hi!” Bachira finally said, his voice high-pitched and filled with an unsettling kind of cheer. “Name’s Bachira, but… you can call me Meguru if you want. I don’t mind, doesn’t matter to me.” He tilted his head, his grin was wide, unrelenting, and just a little too sharp.

He tilted his head, studying Yoichi like he was trying to solve an arcanum only he could see. “You’ve got that look…” Bachira said, his voice dipping into a playful lilt. “Like someone who’s been through the wringer. I like it. Gives you character.”

Yoichi blinked, thrown off by the oddity of the introduction. He wasn’t used to this kind of energy, this erratic, unpredictable presence. It was like Bachira was playing a game Yoichi didn’t even know the rules of. The brunette shifted uncomfortably, his throat tightening under the boy’s gaze.

Something about his roommate felt… off. Like he was hiding something, like the manic cheerfulness was a mask barely holding back something darker.

Bachira turned his attention to the nurse, his grin widening. “So, where am I sleeping, Kunigami-kun? Am I sharing a bed with my new friend here?” He giggled softly, but there was a wildness behind the sound.

The nurse, Kunigami, stepped forward, his expression professional but laced with a touch of concern. “You’ll be in here, Meguru. With Isagi-kun. Try to get settled in, Dinner’s—”

“—dinner’s at 8 sharp. I know, I know…” The guy said with a grin. Bachira’s eyes flicked back to Yoichi, still wild and unblinking. “Guess we’re roommates then, huh?” he said, flopping onto his bed opposite Yoichi’s, his body stretching out languidly as if there was nothing in the world that could make him feel confined, with an unsettling lack of grace.

“Don’t worry, Yoichi-kun.” Bachira’s grin stretched wider, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “I don’t bite. Not unless you ask.”

Yoichi’s throat tightened. There was something about the way Bachira acted— so free, so untethered —that made him feel even more intrigued. The boy was an enigma, a living, breathing puzzle. And yet, as unsettling as Bachira’s presence was, Yoichi couldn’t help but feel a strange pull toward him, like he was a magnet.

Something about him was familiar, though Yoichi couldn’t place it.

The nurse lingered for a moment, his eyes flickering between the two. “I’ll leave you both to settle in. I’ll check back in later.”

With that, Kunigami turned and left, the door clicking shut softly behind him. Silence filled the room once again, but it wasn’t the same kind of suffocating silence Yoichi had been used to. This one was more chaotic, more alive.

Bachira propped himself up on his elbows, eyes never leaving Yoichi. His smile remained wide, almost too wide, and there was a glint of something that Yoichi couldn’t quite grasp.

“So…” Bachira started, his voice lowering as he leaned forward slightly, “You’ve been here for what? A minute, huh? This place… it’s a bit like a zoo, don’t you think? Lots of animals pretending to be human. But I think you’re different. I can see it in your eyes.”

Yoichi wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He didn’t know what to make of Bachira, and part of him didn’t want to. His mind was already overloaded, his heart still heavy from everything that had happened before. He didn’t need to add another person to the mix. Especially not someone like this.

Bachira’s eyes darkened for a split second, a flicker of something unsettling crossing his face. It was gone so quickly that Yoichi almost thought he imagined it. But it didn’t sit right with him. Bachira wasn’t like the others he had seen here, there was a certain… darkness to him. A kind of madness that Yoichi couldn’t place but could sense deep in his gut.

“Oi.” Bachira said, his voice light again, almost mocking in its cheerfulness. “I’m not gonna really, really bite you. At least, not unless you make me... But I’m more interested in the fun parts. You know… the things nobody talks about. The things that make us tick.” He leaned back again, stretching his arms over his head as if the room were his own personal playground.

Yoichi gulped down whatever bad feeling was lingering in his mouth, while a strange knot twisted in his stomach. He didn’t want to get involved in whatever Bachira was offering, he couldn’t afford it. But something told him that despite being here for just a few hours, he was already too deep. And that, in a way, this boy might be just as lost as he was.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The one with the messy hair seemed content to watch the younger boy, his eyes constantly shifting, his smile never faltering. The other could feel his presence like a weight in the room, pressing against him, as if trying to pull him into a world that didn’t make sense.

Finally, Yoichi exhaled, his breath shaky. “I’m not here to make friends—” he muttered, looking away. “—and I don’t want to get involved in your games. A week and I’ll be out of this shithole.”

Bachira’s smile faded, replaced with a curious tilt of his head. “Games? Whatever you say, pretty boy, sure you’ll be out of here in a week.” he echoed, a note of genuine mockery in his voice. “I’m not playing any games. I just… I like to play.” His eyes sparkled with something wild, something that made Yoichi’s skin crawl.

“It’s different when you can see the monsters that everyone else is too scared to face. They look like things you already know— thoughts that attack your mind like real demons, feeding on your fears and doubts... They’re always there, hiding in the corners of your mind, waiting for you to notice them.”

Yoichi’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of monsters, his chest tightening. Was Bachira talking about his own demons? Or was this just another one of his bizarre, twisted thoughts?

But Bachira didn’t wait for Yoichi to respond. Instead, he let out a long, languid yawn before letting his body collapse onto the bed, eyes closing as if the conversation had ended.

The blue haired boy didn’t know whether to feel relieved or unsettled. He was sharing a room with a stranger— someone who was clearly not like the rest —and he didn’t know if he should trust him or stay far, far away.

But for now, Yoichi didn’t have a choice. He was stuck in this room, with this boy, and with the ghosts of his own past and fears.

The room, once again, fell silent. And Yoichi found himself trapped in a strange tension— a tension between survival and surrender, between the push and pull of things that didn’t quite belong together. Just like Bachira, just like himself. Too broken to fit in, yet too alive to fade away.

After a moment of quiet, Bachira suddenly sprang up from his bed, stretching his limbs. “You know what? I’m starving. And I’m guessing you are too. Let’s go eat.”

The other blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Bachira’s energy. He wasn’t sure what to make of this— Bachira had come in like a storm, and now he was acting like nothing had happened at all. Still, Yoichi followed him as Bachira moved toward the door with an almost childlike excitement.

The moment they stepped into the hallway, the cold air outside Yoichi’s room seemed to press against them, carrying the faint sounds of distant voices. They made their way down the sterile corridors toward the dining hall, a long, echoing space filled with rows of metal tables. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting an unnatural glow over everything.

The cafeteria was filled with patients, they weren’t the same as the people he had once known. Here, in this place, everyone seemed out of sync, their lives fractured and divided into pieces too sharp to fit together.

Bachira scanned the room, his eyes twinkling as he waved at a few of the other residents who were seated at different tables. He didn’t hesitate to lead Yoichi toward an empty spot near the back. The tray of food, like everything else in the facility, was bland and lifeless, yet still, Yoichi found his stomach rumbling. He wasn’t sure if it was the medication or the emptiness inside him that made him crave something— anything —other than the silence.

They sat across from one another. Yoichi picked at his meal, barely tasting it, while Bachira dug in with enthusiasm, as though he were eating the finest meal in the world. His odd energy was almost contagious, but Yoichi resisted it. He wasn’t here to be entertained.

“So, Yoichi…” Bachira said between bites, his voice too loud for the quiet room, “…what’s your story? You’ve got that ‘don’t talk to me’ vibe. But I bet there’s more under the surface, huh?”

Yoichi didn’t look up from his food, his fork still hovering above the plate. “Not really interested in talking about it.”

Bachira’s grin only widened. “Ah, you’re one of those, huh? That’s okay. I like mysteries.”

He leaned in, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. “But, you know, I think we might have something in common.”

Yoichi stiffened, his heart pounding in his chest. What was it about this boy that made him feel so exposed? His gaze swept over the other boys trapped in the facility, his eyes lingering on each of them for a moment longer than he intended. Every face seemed like a reflection of something no one could understand, something had happened to them and it was clear by the way they held themselves or avoided eye contact.

Some were lost in their own worlds, eyes glazed over, while others quietly observed the room, as though searching for something or someone. The quiet tension in the air was palpable— The boy couldn’t help but wonder if he, too, was becoming a part of this strange, disjointed gathering.

Blank stares. Nervous tics. Faces etched with stories he didn’t want to know.

A voice broke through his thoughts.

“You’re staring.” Bachira said casually, his voice light but with an edge of amusement.

Yoichi quickly tore his eyes away, his face flushing slightly as if caught doing something wrong. “I wasn’t staring..” he muttered, gripping his fork a little tighter. He hadn’t meant to stare; it just felt like… something he needed to understand. But Bachira’s grin only widened, as if this kind of thing wasn’t unusual at all.

“Sure you weren’t, pretty boy.” Bachira’s grin widened as he picked up another bite of his natto, eating it with gusto. “Don’t worry about them, they‘re too busy with their own monsters. You’ll figure it out soon enough… or maybe not. That‘d be fun too.”

As the two fell in a somewhat comfortable silence, Bachira spoke once more. “You’ll get used to them, by the way…” Bachira said, as if reading Yoichi’s mind. “The food. The people. The walls that make you feel like you’re disappearing.” He paused, tilting his head as he studied Yoichi. “Or not, you’ll even might be the one who cracks first. Either way, I think we’ll have fun.” Bachira’s tone was light, but there was something unnerving about it, like he knew more than he let on.

Yoichi swallowed hard and didn’t respond, turning his gaze back to his meal, feeling the weight of Bachira’s words pressing down on him.

It was the same feeling that made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

Everyone was a part of this well-oiled, sick machine; all trapped in the same twisted labyrinth of their own psyche. The only thing that separated them was how they each coped with it— with silence, with mania and some even with a cold detachment from their minds.

Yoichi’s gaze lingered on the magenta— haired boy for a moment longer, his mind tracing the same empty path that the other seemed lost in. For a brief moment, Yoichi saw the blankness in the guy’s eyes— a kind of emptiness he understood all too well.

It was a strange feeling, as if he could see a part of himself in the hollow stare, a part that felt unreachable. But before he could think too deeply about it, he felt Bachira’s eyes on him.

He tossed Yoichi a small grin, noticing how the others’ gaze drifted toward one of the many patients who was now absentmindedly tapping his fingers against his tray. The room was a cacophony of subdued chatter and the occasional clinking of plastic ware. “So, let’s talk about the others, shall we?” Meguru interrupted, cutting into his food— or whatever poor excuse of meat that was —with exaggerated enthusiasm. His voice was soft but carried that manic energy Yoichi had already come to expect from him.

The blue haired boy sat stiffly, picking at the bland natto in his plate as the other began; “Rinrin’s the cold one, always too cool for anyone. But if you get close enough, you’ll see he’s got a whole bunch of shit buried under that icy facade. You might think he’s just a jerk, but trust me, there’s more. I know, because well…” Bachira winked at him and Yoichi could feel his stomach twisting.

Yoichi took a hesitant bite of his food, unsure how to respond. His mind felt fuzzy, dulled by the constant lingering effects of the pills, but he listened. “Chigiri-kun—” Bachira continued, wiping his mouth with a napkin “—he’s kind of a mess. Anxiety, panic attacks, paranoia, that sort of thing. But what you really need to watch out for is when he gets too quiet, that’s when you know he’s spiraling. He can go from calm to a full-on meltdown in seconds, and believe me, it’s not pretty.”

Yoichi glanced toward the table where Chigiri sat, methodically arranging his food into neat rows, his movements mechanical. His right leg was still bouncing, like it had been when Yoichi first entered the hall. But there was no real violence in the air, just that nervous energy, that sense that something inside of Chigiri was always fighting to break free.

“And then there’s Ness...” Bachira said with a lighter tone, sounding almost sad. “You saw him, right? He’s the one who’s never really here, floating in and out of reality. He doesn’t even talk to anyone, just… stares off into space. He’s kind of like the invisible guy, you know? But there’s something about him, too… A quiet kind of sadness.” ‘Ness’ was staring into space with vacant eyes at a corner table, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. Yoichi couldn’t help but feel the same eerie sense of detachment that was radiating from the other boy.

“How do you know all this?” A brief pause. “Why are you… telling me?” Yoichi asked quietly, though his voice didn’t carry the edge he intended. The question had been in his mind for a while, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer. He was afraid that if he did, it would make everything feel even more… real.

Bachira chuckled, that wild gleam flashing in his eyes again. “Because it’s all part of the game, Yoichi. You’re new, so you get to see the pieces before they move, soon enough, you’ll be on the board with the rest of us. People can only hide so much before their true colors start to show. You’ll learn how to see it too. …Oh! Probably also because I’ve been here ever since I can remember.”

Yoichi’s grip on his fork tightened as his gaze drifted over the other patients. The silence between them stretched, but Yoichi couldn’t focus on the conversation Bachira was trying to start. His mind kept drifting back to the question that had been nagging him all day—

What would happen when the numbness of the meds wore off?

When the fog of the antidepressants and antipsychotics faded?

When the cracks begin to show?

When he inevitably loses control?

He didn’t want to entertain the thought, but it lingered in the back of his mind, a shadow he couldn’t eradicate.

He didn’t want to think about it.

Bachira, however, didn’t seem to mind his distraction. He was already halfway finished with his food, talking as if Yoichi had been hanging on every word. “You know… Rin’s really something else, you should talk to him sometime. He won’t say much, but you’ll see it in his eyes… Like that asshole is too tired to pretend anymore.”

Yoichi nodded absently, his fingers still tight around his fork and his mind was elsewhere— on the fragile, cracked edges of his own identity, on the idea that maybe, just maybe, he was as broken as everyone else and this wasn’t just a nightmare. The thought of talking to someone like Rin, someone so cold and distant, made him feel even more out of place. Why would he listen to Bachira in the first place?

“You don’t talk much either.” Bachira said suddenly, snapping Yoichi out of his fuzzy thoughts. “But I guess that’s alright, you’re not the only one here who wants to stay quiet. Maybe doing a staring contest will bring you closer, you know? Ahahaha...”

Yoichi opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he found himself staring at the empty space between them, the hum of the cafeteria fading into the background. It was a strange sensation— the kind of silence that felt both suffocating and relieving at once. Oh, here it was the real kick.

Bachira leaned forward, his voice soft, a little more serious now. “You know, Yoichi, it’s okay… We all have our monsters to deal with, you’ll see… It’s just how it is here. And I think… maybe you’ll find something in yourself you didn’t expect.”

Yoichi barely registered the words at first, his mind still swirling. He wanted to ask what Bachira meant, but a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over him, heavy and oppressive, making it difficult to think clearly. The antipsychotics were doing their job too well. He let his head fall slightly, gaze shifting to the table, the food still untouched before him.

“Do you believe in monsters?” Yoichi asked quietly, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Bachira’s smile softened, a slight tilt to his head as if contemplating the question. “I think everyone’s got a monster. It’s just a matter of whether you let it out, or if you keep it locked up where nobody can see it… My mother used to say that anger keeps the animals awake.”

Bachira stopped briefly to drink from a plastic glass and smile. “Before my father turned her into a human torch, that is.”

Yoichi felt his pulse quicken, a flutter of unease in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was the weight of Bachira’s words or the tightening sensation in his own mind, but the idea of a monster lurking inside him felt too real. Too close… And his mother? Thank goodness he was too out of his mind to give him a proper reply.

Before he could respond, a shrill voice cut through the air, drawing attention across the room. A nurse was calling out, guiding patients back to their rooms, ushering them through the cafeteria with the efficiency of someone used to the routine.

“Guess that’s our cue.” Bachira said, standing up with a quick stretch. “But hey, don’t worry about the monster stuff. We’ve all got them. Some people just hide theirs better. Don’t anger the wrong animal, though.”

Yoichi didn’t say anything as he slowly stood and followed Bachira to the exit. He wasn’t sure what to think. What hethought of himself anymore.

The walls felt like they were closing in again, and it was hard to breathe as he followed the noise of the nurses and the shuffle of other patients back through the hallways. There was a sense of resignation in the air, like everyone knew they were stuck here for reasons that were bigger than any of them could understand.

As he stepped into his room, Yoichi felt the same sense of heaviness settle over him that had followed him since the moment he’d arrived. The emptiness of the sterile walls. The haunting thought of what awaited him in the days to come. Would the meds dull his thoughts even more? Or would they break him down to the point where he could no longer escape the truth of what he was?

He closed the door behind him, the sound of it clicking shut echoing through his mind.

Bachira’s words stuck with him.

“We all have our monsters.”

“Anger keeps the animals awake.”

Yoichi wondered what his would look like when it finally emerged.

As Yoichi sank onto his bed, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts that wouldn’t let him rest. The weight of Bachira’s words lingered in his chest, squeezing tight. He couldn’t escape the thought that his own monster had already started to stir, barely contained beneath the surface.

The quiet buzz of the fluorescent light above was the only sound in the room as Yoichi lay back, staring at the blank ceiling. The drugs made it all feel distant, like he was floating, disconnected from everything. His body was tired, but his mind wouldn’t stop. It never did. There was no peace, no release from the relentless pull of his thoughts. The brunette lay on the stiff mattress, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. The room was too quiet, except for the occasional muffled scream or the distant shuffle of footsteps in the hallway.

He closed his eyes, but sleep refused to come. Every time he closed his eyes, the same images flashed behind his lids: the coach’s disappointed face, the ball rolling past him, the crowd’s angry murmurs. And then the pills—the bitter taste of them on his tongue, the crushing weight of his body sinking into the bathtub as darkness pulled him under.

He sat up abruptly, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape his chest.

A faint sound drew his attention— a soft, rhythmic tapping. His gaze snapped to the door, the sound growing louder. Tap. Tap. Tap. He swallowed hard, his pulse racing.

Cautiously, he stood and approached the door, pressing his ear against the cold metal. The tapping stopped.

“Yoichi.”

He jerked back, his chest tightening. The voice was soft, almost sing-song, and came from just beyond the door.

“Yoichi, are you awake?”

His throat felt dry. “Who is it?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

A giggle. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing fainter until silence enveloped him once more. Yoichi staggered back to the bed, his hands shaking. He pressed his palms against his face, trying to steady his breathing.

This fucking place was already getting under his skin.

Tic.

Toc.

Tic.

Toc.

Yoichi sat on the cold floor of his room, his back pressed against the bed. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, suffocating him.

He clenched his fist the one that was holding his hair, his nails biting into his scalp while the other seemed to crave piercing his legs’ flesh. His mind was a storm— memories colliding with doubts, the pressure of expectations crushing him from all sides. He wanted to scream, to shatter the oppressive quiet, but his throat felt too tight, his voice trapped somewhere deep inside.

His gaze fell on the desk, its sharp edges catching the pale light from the overhead bulb. Slowly, he crawled toward it, his hand trembling as he reached for the small drawer. Inside was a single pen— blunt, harmless.

Or so it seemed.

Yoichi stared at it, his vision blurring as his mind spiraled. The weight of everything pressed down harder, threatening to pull him under. How stupid of them to leave it here.

His breaths quickened, his chest heaving as the pen trembled in his grip.

A voice broke through the chaos, an hand on his forearm.

“Yoichi.” a voice called—soft, familiar.

Yoichi froze, the pen slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor.

“There’s pudding for breakfast tomorrow… Don’t want to miss it.”

Yoichi closed his eyes, the tension in his chest loosening just enough to let him breathe as he let Bachira bring him to his own bed, making sure he would lay still since well, the other guy decided it was better for him to trap him between his body and the wall.

And yet, despite everything, there was something else. Something fragile and hidden deep within him. Maybe a desperate need for things to be different. Yoichi squeezed his eyes shut, pushing it all away as he let the warmth of Bachira... Of Meguru slowly cradling him to sleep.

For now, he would just have to survive. The world outside his room could keep turning. The other patients, their monsters, the sterile walls of the facility—they could all fade into the background. He just had to make it through another night, and if the gods were merciful, maybe he would die in his sleep like he always hoped for.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.