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Sometimes, when the world is too quiet, and Yuma has expertly managed to convince himself that the world as he knows it has come to ruin and he is the only real person left on this planet, he thinks, secretly, that he is broken.
With all things considered, he's been doing better recently, eating more, sleeping more, and even making an effort to take his medication on time, but the thing with illness is you can't outrun it. Even if you do everything perfectly, it still gets you in the end, and when it does, it sinks its teeth into you until putrid gum meets flesh, and injects you and those around you with its poison.
Yuma knows this better than anyone, and yet it still takes him by surprise when he finds himself unable to leave his house for the fourth day in a row. Realistically, he knows that it was only ever a matter of time before he fell into a slump again, and while he currently isn't actively wallowing in misery like he has been for the past few days, he fears that the numbness he feels right now is worse.
Everywhere is empty. And it's his fault.
You see, Yuma has this thing that he does, when everything gets too much.
It starts, most often, with his kitchen. Normal enough. With only one mouth to feed and a strong awareness of worldly issues despite the ungodly amounts of Gentle Monster and other far too expensive pieces in his closet, in Yuma’s apartment there is never any wastage. He buys what he knows he’ll wear, and leaves the rest, and similarly, he buys what he knows he can eat, and leaves the rest.
Even so, when the world starts to tilt a bit too far on his axis and Yuma starts to fear he might just topple over and find himself somewhere he has no business being, like… Australia or something, the stocked cupboards empty far quicker than usual, as does the fridge, until finally, he is left with nothing. The empty cupboards and bare fridge shelves calm him, and the hunger which gnaws at his stomach at odd intervals during the following days serve as his sole companion during these times. He never orders in, has no clue what kind of chemicals and hidden sugars have been pumped into those greasy bags of takeout, and while his bank account thanks him, his weakening body makes its protests known. He's often too numb to eat anyways. He tells himself it's all fine.
The countertops and stove are cleaned, and cleaned again, and then the couches in the living area are vacuumed and sealed. He's done this so many times that he's usually able to clean the living area on autopilot, and he so rarely leaves his room these days that the hallways and floors are still spotless from when he mopped them last week, so he gets to skip that step.
Next comes his room. Usually, he carefully removes every last picture and painting from his wall and places it into a box filled with the rest of his posters, trinkets and every other trace of his personality that he has accumulated over the past couple of years. Sometimes though, when things are really bad, he changes his sheets, curtains, and even the rug on the floor from his usually cutesy themed ones to plain black, grey or white ones. Nothing is ever spared, no trace of Yuma is ever left around to be perceived.
When his walls are fully bare, stripped of all life and reflective of the void in his brain, he always lifts — never drags — the box and carries it out of the room, as if its his sorrows that are packed away in that box, nestled between his favourite posters, and not his entire persona. He likes to pretend that he is carrying them not only out of the room, but out of his life too. He is never quite able to take it far, just out into the hallway, but when he sets the box down in a spot where he knows he won't trip over it and stares down at its contents he always realises immediately that in these moments he feels more broken than ever, and wonders if broken is even the right word, if such vocabulary can even be used on someone like him. Broken implies that the item was once whole. Yuma isn't sure he knows what whole means.
Though dramatic and far-fetched, this is his ritual, and this time is no different.
He has 3 written assignments that are due at the end of next week, and a video essay due at the end of this week that needs to be edited, and yet here he is, far too focused on removing every trace of life from his bedroom as if the emptiness will grant him clarity. So far, the only thing that is clear to him is that he is hungry, and he isn't even willing to do anything about it, so there's that.
Now, as he sits on top of his freshly made bed without even bothering to get under the sheets to give himself a bit of warmth, he wonders if he has ever made a good decision ever, whether anything in his life up to this point has ever been worth it.
He only means to think about it, a short trip down memory lane, but much like everything in Yuma's life, things quickly take a turn. The short trip slowly becomes an arduous journey, and memory lane fades into the background as he finds himself in a pit of darkness both familiar and unfamiliar. His corporeal form melts away and in this moment he is not Nakakita Yuma but a wisp of something lesser. An integral part of the darkness. With no tether to the human world, he tumbles head first into dissociation.
He has no clue what time it is, whether it's night or day. His curtains are black this time, and thick too. There is no light in his room, save for the faint glow of the strawberry night light that sits on his bedside table. Maybe he sits there for hours, or maybe it's only minutes. Time warps and bends around him, and he sits stock still as it happens.
An undiscernible amount of time later, his phone buzzes beside him, and the sound rips Yuma from the depths disoriented and out-of-sorts, like a swimmer who has spent far too long in the water and has now forgotten how to walk. It takes him a while to figure out what roused him, but when his eyes land on the offending device lying face down on the bed beside him he immediately shuts them, as if by closing his eyes and pretending not to see he can fade it from existence. As expected, it doesn't work. When he opens his eyes again, the phone is still there.
He checks the time, eyes burning as they struggle to adjust to the sudden bright light. His phone clock reads 02:20, not the best time to return from the dead, but hey. Yuma isn't picky.
Sighing, Yuma picks up his phone and swipes through it, figuring he can't stay hidden forever and will need to talk to his friends eventually. He runs a hand over the side of his face as he takes in the sight of the number of KakaoTalk notifications he has accumulated, wishing for a nasty second that his friends would all just disappear, or leave him alone at least. It's not their fault that there's something wrong with him, and it shouldn't be any of their responsibilities to hold him together when he frays at the edges either.
Feeling every bit as miserable as he is, he ignores the messages from the big groupchat, and ignores most of his DMs too. From the previews he can tell that his friends are worried, really worried, and while Yuma can't say it makes him feel worse, the numbness in his chest grows more intense with the knowledge that he is the cause of his friend's suffering yet again. He's not yet ready to face the world, and while he knows everyone means well, he needs time. Time to toe the line between life and death, time to figure out which side he truly belongs on.
He wants to shut off his phone entirely, wants to go about his day as though he never saw the messages in the first place, but amidst the concerned texts and calls there's one groupchat that catches his eye. It’s an unassuming three person one, consisting of just himself and his two oldest friends Kei and his boyfriend Fuma, but the fact that it is being used now tells Yuma that their worry is nearing its limit. Ignoring them in general is never a good idea, but looking at the unopened chat with the number 9 plastered on the side, Yuma knows he only has at best a couple more hours of no contact before they abandon all efforts to give him space and make a joint effort to break down his door.
He suppresses a gag at the idea of his friends in his apartment in its current state, and suppresses another at the person he has become. Since when do his own friends disgust him? As the only one (save for Kei and Fuma) with a sizeable, private apartment, his home has always been open to his friends, so why does the idea now make him feel ill?
He reads the messages, starting with the oldest.
the (non super)hero, the damsel (who isn't in distress), and their (im)polite cat
fuma 🦸♂️
Yuma?
3:14 AM
fuma 🦸♂️
You're a lot stronger than your thoughts, and we'll all be waiting here when you're ready to come back.
Let us know if you need anything ❤️
The kids miss you, so do we.
3:28 AM
That had been this morning. Yuma feels his heart twist at the timestamps displayed below those messages. Fuma should not be up at questionable hours of the night, looking out for him. He tries to swallow over the lump in his throat and keeps reading. The next messages are from the past 12 hours.
kei 👑
yum, we're not sure when you'll see this,
but when you do, let us know you're okay?
6:44 PM
kei 👑
we know you need time and you're welcome to
as much of it as you need, we're just worried
6:46 PM
fuma 🎮
The kids haven't stopped asking about you
Jo too.
He’s quieter these days, more than usual.
I think he misses you a lot.
7:01 PM
Yuma reads the messages until his eyes blur, and then closes the messaging app before the tears can fall. He isn't even sure why he feels this way, why he feels more untethered after getting solid confirmation that his friends still care about him. Nothing makes sense, and he worries that nothing ever will. This is his problem alone though, his cross to bear and so after a few quick breaths he reopens KakaoTalk. He considers replying to the two eldest members of his friend group in their groupchat, but then realises that he probably owes everyone at least something. Sighing, he enters the surprisingly quiet main group chat and types a quick message.
humkeng pack house (applications closed)
2:24 AM
🐱
hi
i'm okay
sorry for worrying you guys
not feeling the best
He leaves it at that. A simple, concise response, that doesn't reveal any of the inner turmoil he's experiencing. He's honest in the fact that he doesn't feel great, and a little less honest in the claim that he's okay.
The replies begin to flood in instantly, the group chat coming to life with his activity, but he doesn't read any of the messages, doesn't even open the groupchat again. He isn't ready for conversation, no matter how guilty he feels for dissappearing and making everyone worry and then reappearing like store-brand Houdini.
Just as Yuma is about to close the app indefinitely, possibly even delete it from his phone forever and then throw said phone in the nearest ditch, a message pops up at the top of the screen. It's one he knows he cannot ignore, will not ignore, even if the stars have lost their light and the moon hangs dull and lifeless in the sky.
instant rice factory
2:26 AM
🍙
Can I come over?
2:26 AM
He gives it a minute. And another. And then:
🐱
okay
2:28 AM
As soon as the response is sent, he shuts off his phone. He's not sure why he does it — shame maybe, or possibly guilt. He isn't sure why he agrees to Jo coming over either, especially when just a moment ago, the thought of any of his other friends in his space had made him feel ill. He doesn't know why, but it's different when it's Jo.
Jo is safe, comforting in a way Yuma can't put into words. He is straightforward and honest, and somehow just knows when Yuma is feeling talkative and always readies himself to listen, and when he is feeling overwhelmed and would rather communicate without words. Jo understands, gets him in a way that he isn't sure anyone else in the world ever will, and Yuma yearns for the other's quiet company.
With his phone now shut off and across the room, he realises he has no choice but to wait. He didn't wait for a response, he has no way of knowing if Jo has even seen the message, if he even wants to come over still. Maybe something else has come up and, and in the two minutes between their messages Jo has somehow made a new commitment, one more important than Yuma, and he's unavailable now. Maybe he's given up on him, maybe he's realised he wants nothing to do with him anymore.
Somewhere, at the forefront of his mind he knows that none of these thoughts are true. Jo will come. He always has, and he will now. That's what his gut tells him, and Yuma is relieved to have a positive gut feeling to rely on for once.
As he takes in the state of his now bare-bones room he feels a strange urge to mess it up somehow. His room isn't a mess, isn't strewn with unwashed dishes and overrun with unpleasant things crawling where he can't see them, but that doesn't make it any more habitable. It is clinically clean, each surface wiped countless times with disinfectant wipes and then again with some strong smelling all purpose cleaner, and without his collection of trinkets and other items it looks even more empty. There is nothing on the floor, swept and then vacuumed to perfection, and his laundry hamper is completely empty.
Sometimes he thinks he would rather the mess. At least then, with a filthy room, he would look around and feel something. Disappointment maybe, disgust definitely. The chaos would make him miserable, and his misery would make him real.
The minutes pass, with Yuma growing more and more detached as the minutes go by, retreating into the depths of his mind once more, returning to that familiar and unfamiliar place, and when he finally comes back to himself, this time because the texture of his shirt has started to annoy him, he realises that he should probably change into something less overstimulating before Jo walks in on the meltdown of the century.
His body is still red and tender from where he scrubbed it in a daze during his shower earlier, and he isn't sure he owns anything presentable that would feel good on the raw skin right now. Also, the idea of picking a whole new outfit, one that he can be seen in seems entirely too much for his current state and eventually he settles for removing the shirt entirely, and replacing it with his cat patterned pyjama shirt that should really never leave his apartment.
He forgoes the matching bottoms. His friends have all seen him in worse states of undress, and he's confident in his body. Jo won't mind. If Jo is even coming, that is.
He won't be upset if he doesn't. If he sees Yuma’s dry response and decides that he can't be bothered to deal with him right now… well, that’s fine. The time will pass anyway, with or without Jo.
It's quite some time later, when the door finally creaks open, and when Jo steps inside, Yuma finds that breathing seems to come a little easier. The younger flicks on the big light and takes in the sight before him, and he is kind enough to not let his true feelings show on his face, hiding them beneath a face full of concern. Or maybe, the concern is genuine, and Yuma is simply making himself miserable.
He takes a few steps deeper into the room, and when his eyes find Yuma's he pauses, looking him in the eye directly.
Is this still okay?
Yuma reads the unspoken question like its written in a language he was born to understand, with ink only he can see, but can't bring himself to answer. Instead, he holds Jo's gaze, exhausted but unwavering, and hopes that it is enough.
For Jo, it always is.
“Have you eaten?” Jo asks, as he continues on his path to Yuma's bed. “I brought dinner. Or breakfast.” As he says the words, he grabs Yuma's desk chair and wheels it over to the side of his bed, and then pulls out the foldaway table that Yuma keeps beneath his bed.
It makes Yuma's heart clench, the way Jo knows him, the way he offers words he usually prefers to hold tight between sealed lips into the air even when he’s met with silence. He can only watch as Jo makes quick work of setting up the food he has brought, and tears prickle behind his eyes when he realises what it is.
“Handrolled sushi. You can see all the ingredients, I think. I cut it this way on purpose, so you could see, but…” He clears his throat. “Um, here's salmon, that's tuna. Some have peppers because I ran out of cucumbers but I know you dont like those so I'll eat them. I didn't cover them in sesame seeds because you don't like to feel them when you chew and I didn't mix the rice with anything either because you don't like contrasting flavours. Sweet soy sauce here, and over there is—”
It's kind of pathetic honestly, the way Jo rambles on and on and lists off things Yuma can quite clearly see, but it's also really fucking sweet, and Yuma is really fucking tired. The tears spill over before he can even try to hold them back.
Jo trails off awkwardly, and Yuma huffs a wet laugh. “I know what sushi is, Jojo,” he says, a hand coming to wipe at his eyes furiously. “I might've went ghost for a bit, but I can assure you that my eyes still work.” His voice sounds raw and shot through, the result of days of disuse, and his snarky comment lacks its usual bite.
Jo grins anyway, an awkward, lopsided little thing, and Yuma snatches a piece of hastily cut salmon nigiri and chews obnoxiously to distract himself from the way his stomach turns with feelings better left unsaid.
As per usual, Jo doesn't react to his antics and simply hands him a pair of chopsticks with a pointed look. Yuma accepts them gracefully and picks up another piece of sushi, eating it in a much more dignified manner. Jo rewards him with a smile, and the sun seems to shine a little brighter.
They eat in silence, and as the quiet sounds fill the room Yuma finds that the foggy haze that had settled over his mind over the past few days begins to lift. He knows better than to overdo it though, and after a few more bites he lowers his chopsticks, opting to watch Jo instead.
True to his word, he diligently eats all the pieces containing bell peppers, and he eats so prettily that Yuma finds it unfair. He likes getting to watch Jo like this, purely in his own world and existing within his own parameters. He's much the same whether he knows he's being watched or not, but something about him is more free, less careful. Yuma wants to see more.
“Are you done eating already?” Jo asks suddenly, and it catches Yuma by surprise. His face is still focused on his chopsticks, and he isn't even looking at Yuma, but somehow he knows that Yuma is looking at him. The older isn't quite sure what to make of that.
“Yeah. I'm kind of tired. I haven't really slept well these past few days.” Jo doesn't fuss, doesn't stare dramatically after him with a face full of pity, doesn't nag at him to do better. He simply nods once and begins clearing away the plastic containers, and packing away the leftovers and placing then on the desk.
He then wipes down the table with Yuma's favourite brand of disinfectant wipes because of course he does, and then folds it away and returns it to its place under the bed. Everything Jo does is intentional, from the very specific sushi ingredients to the meticulous cleanup, and Yuma feels seen, exposed in a way he isn't used to.
Suddenly, the anxiety held at bay since Jo's arrival comes crashing down in waves. Is this it? Did Jo come here just to get some food in him and leave? Maybe he was put up to this, by Fuma maybe, or Kei more likely. Maybe Jo didn't even want to come in the first place.
Jo picks up the leftover sushi and moves towards the door, and panic flares through Yuma's being. He's out of bed in seconds, dizzyness and sudden desperation making him unsteady on his feet. He regrets not wearing the pyjama bottoms as his bare legs meet the cold air, but the cold surrounding him isn't as bad as the chill he fears might consume him if Jo leaves now.
Jo whips around, confusion etched in his features. “Where— Where are you going?”
Yuma narrows his eyes, and hates himself for doing so. “Where are you going?” He asks, tone upset and the slightest bit accusatory, as if Jo is the one acting ridiculous here. He hates himself for that too.
Understanding dawns on Jo's face, and he lifts up the container. “I was going to put this in the fridge for you, and get you a glass of water… I don't have to though, I can leave it here and go later. I just thought you might be thirsty so…”
“I'm not thirsty,” Yuma mutters, feeling ridiculously small, “so you don't have to go to the fridge or get water. Just stay here.”
I don't want to be alone, he doesn't say. Jo hears it anyway.
Yuma returns to his bed, this time burying himself under his blankets, and tries had not to let his rapidly declining mood show on his face. Jo doesn't deserve his instability.
Things stop mattering though when Jo sheds his outerwear, folding it neatly and placing it beside his bag, and when the younger wordlessly slips into the bed and faces Yuma he begins to wonder what he was even so upset about in the first place.
Yuma doesn't say anything, and neither does Jo, but when his hand comes up to Yuma's face, and his thumb swipes gently across his cheekbone as though he is made of glass or porcelain or some other delicate material, as if he is to be cherished and loved as much as the figurines that lay neglected in the box just outside the door, Yuma immediately feels the sting of his eyes filling with tears again.
The sound of Jo's heart beating against his own is like the first rain after a drought, and the sound of his deep, even breaths soothes him better than any balm could.
Sleep comes easy like this, and when he finally succumbs to the pull he silently, desperately hopes that Jo will be in his dreams too, steadying him even in a realm where things are designed to be unsteady.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Yuma returns to consciousness some time later to the sound of footsteps, and when his eyes open, the first thing he realises is that his room has been returned back to its original state. His posters and paintings sit in their regular positions on the walls, and his trinkets have been placed carefully on his desk. Beside them is an unopened packet of low strength alcohol wipes, the exact brand he likes to wipe his more delicate things down with.
“I thought you might like to clean them since they were in the hallway all night, so I didn't try to organize them,” comes Jo's soft voice, lacking in sleep tinted drowsiness but gentle nonetheless.
And that, well that's just something, isn't it? If Yuma speaks to Jo— If he even looks at him right now, he will burst into tears, and he wants to at least try having a good day before that happens, so instead he blindly opens his arms and tries to hold himself together when Jo gently lowers himself into Yuma’s embrace.
It’s safe, and it's grounding, and Yuma thinks that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t as broken as he thought.
“Will you cook something with me today?” Jo asks, and Yuma is nodding before he can even think about it. He thinks he would follow Jo to the ends of the world if the younger ever asked it of him.
Jo rewards him with a small smile and Yuma wants to cry again as he lets the other pull him out of bed. He still doesn't feel quite right, and his body is all out of sorts, but Jo is gentle in the way he leads him into the bathroom, and gentler still as he hands Yuma his toothbrush, pre prepared carefully by the other with just the perfect amount of toothpaste.
There are feelings here somewhere, under his need to stay afloat amidst this grey sea of numbness, that they will eventually need to talk about, but for now, just the two of them brushing their teeth side by side as Jo remains a steady warmth by his side is enough.