Chapter Text
Boombox was thinking of doing something stupid. Something really stupid. They know it’s stupid, really stupid but…
They sigh, getting off their couch to pace again. They scoot past the coffee table — covered with things from around their apartment that they could end their life with — and find the short space in front of it where they can pace comfortably.
Shaky hands rub up and down their arms, giving themself a hug, a sense of comfort… something. They're not— they’re not suicidal. They never thought that they’d die at their own hands. Death terrifies them, always has. Everyone gives them shit about it, but it’s why they half-ass phights. They don’t want anyone to get hurt. They don’t want to hurt anyone. They don’t want anyone to die because of them.
For some reason, right now is different. Well, no, there is a reason. They know the reason. Everyone wants them dead. They’re just… too much. They try. They really try to make people like them. They’re really trying, but it’s not good enough.
They just want to be liked. But, they always phuck things up somehow. They’re just too loud, too careless, too annoying.
Yeah, those comments got to them, but they never expected that they were bad enough that people would want them dead. Yet, here they are; Pacing around their living room like they’re some hotshot noir detective deciding whether or not they should end things tonight.
Would their fans miss them? Or would they just be another tragic star who didn’t make it? Should they release a goodbye track before they do it or would that just burden everyone? Would anyone come to save them if they knew?
That… stops them. Their eyes widen marginally, their muscles tense, their lips press together to hide the trembles that want to rock their body like The Black Eyed Peas in 2009. Everything drags, like this is a rollercoaster about to go down the big drop, a disaster about to reach its crescendo before it crashes down to Inpherno… and never gets back up.
But does it matter if the only person on the roller coaster is a loser that everyone is cheering to their death? (When did they start thinking of themself as a loser? “OOH foul shutdown, boombox!! Don’t know what I expected from such a loser, amirite?” Oh. Oh yeah. Was… did… They thought Skateboard was their friend… and if their friend’s think so low of them then…)
For the 8th time in the past half hour, (of course, it had to be music related, ⅛ note in every half note), they stopped pacing and sat down on the couch. Examining each way they could kill themself almost made them chicken out again, but this time they have dug deep and found motivation.
Nobody… As much as everyone wants them dead, they surely don’t want them to suffer while dying, right. Right? Every way is going to hurt somewhat, but… maybe pills will allow them to pass out before they die? Well, that one’s iffy because they don’t know how many pills they’d have to take to kill themself and if it fails then… that would be awkward (“Yeah, hey pharmacy, so about my last prescription given to me yesterday…. Yeah its gone, i tried to kill myself last night and failed, so it would be really swell if you could give me a second one. I already feel like a failure for not being able to end myself (which would be my first time killing someone – i really don’t know how to kill people), so I pinky swear I won’t do it again.”)
Pills are off the table. They could drown themself, but that’s long and painful. A noose isn’t always guaranteed to work. That leaves… surprisingly few options. The main option left is the kitchen knives that they brought over.
Tenderly, almost, they pick up the sharpest one. They think it’s the sharpest at least. They contemplate whether to cut or stab or slit or plunge or tear or split or goudge or slice themself open to reveal their insides. Now that’s a fun thought – they aren’t enjoying themself, but when’s the last time they enjoyed anything – slicing upon their stomach and letting their guts pile onto the floor. That’d hurt but surely it would kill them quickly. Their cheap carpet would be stained red and brown and be covered in everything bad about them.
It’s funny. That’s why it’s funny. For a long time, they were insecure about their weight, the size of their stomach, the stretch of their clothes over their skin, the way they could never move without it bothering them, how it slowed them down, how it left them on display for everyone to see their body, how people would grip and grab, thinking that their body fat was fun, the way it ruined their smile, how hard it was to clothes shop with other people with their limited options, the press of their thighs always always always, the double chin that made their face even less flattering, and worst of all, the stretch marks that covered their skin, reminding them how ugly they are, and how nobody who could see or feel would ever want someone so… big, so wrong. Everything was wrong and it destroyed them not knowing what others thought of them because of it. Wouldn’t it be ironic if that’s what killed them. Their own insecurities (maybe they don’t want you dead? Maybe they just want you to know that you’re ugly and don’t deserve to live.)
Come to think of it, what if they ruined everything. If they’re going to kill themself, might as well look their best. Might as well cut off all that fat and imperfections for their funeral. Then maybe someone might come. Someone might say, “hey, they look like less shit without all that disgusting excess.”
Now, that… that would make up for the pain. To be seen as someone who looks like everyone else and not, well, an overweight, annoying man.
A new spark alights within them. A different one. One that has always been hard to explain. They knew they’re gross, disgusting, so, so imperfect. And, yet, there’s something else that always remained; even when they were young enough that people’s weight didn’t matter. Even as they grew, and changed, and did everything in their power to look otherwise, they never looked right. They always looked too– too– too much like Sword, and Rocket, and Slingshot, and Skateboard, and all the other boys their age. (The only difference is that they’re normal, they’re average weight, muscular, maybe even underweight! Wouldn’t that be a thought for them… underweight…)
Maybe… maybe if they’re fixing themself, they could find a way to not make them look like a boy, or a man, or any form of masculine. (It’s not them. It makes their skin crawl, tear their hair out, scream and throw up. It’s not them. Why does everyone think that they are… they aren’t.)
Yeah, yeah. An unhinged giggle, born from pure elation at this dark spiral they’ve gone down, practically bubbles out of their throat. Adrenaline courses through them, shaking their hands, pumping them up.
(They wonder how long it will take anyone to find their body. They wonder if all the decay and rot and decomposition will ruin all the work they will put into being perfect.)
The knife is cool, quickly warming up under their blood filled hand, connected to their blood filled body, covering up them, the perfect them. They twist it in their hand, looking at the edge of the blade. It looks sharp, and bringing their finger to the edge proves that to be very true.
They smile, a smile full of relief. Not only will they be better, and fixed, and perfect, but they’ll also be gone, they won’t be around to annoy the other phighters, and Banhammer will move on and find someone better than them (not that they are anything). Their fans will find another artist to replace them, and they’ll be okay.
One breath in, one breath out. Just like preparing for a show – their last show. (Maybe they should write a note, but no, they take off their jacket. They’ll deal with their legs when they get there, but for now, they can’t wait to be rid of themself).
They switch the blade into their dominant hand, lifting up their other arm to see where the fat pools, and bring the side of the knife to skin like they’re chopping meat. Without any support, the skin just moves away, but the knife is sharp and still cuts into it. Shallow, bleeding, a marker of where they need to work at. They trace around the flab, determining that the circle they made is how thin their arms should be. (This is an interesting way to find out that blood doesn’t make them squeamish. They’ll be seeing a lot of it before the end of their life).
They adjust their arm, whincing at how bad it stings, to find a more supportive angle. Of course, their fat is ruining their life to the very end.
Once they are satisfied on the angle, they bring the knife to it again. Delicately – they don’t want to ruin their own perfection – they slid the knife into the cut. They yelp, hissing as they bite their tongue; it hurts like nothing they’ve felt before, but they can manage. They push deeper, watching more and more blood swell to the surface of the cut before dribbling down the imperfect part of their arm and onto their couch. After they adapt to the burning sensation, they begin to trace the circle again at this new depth.
Survival instincts tell them that they’re being really stupid. They suppose they are. Phuck, they know they are. But, this is better for everyone. This is better.
The knife cuts through their skin almost smoothly when they press hard enough. Tearing through muscle and skin and worthless matter to cleave off the unlovable parts of them. Maybe if they survive this, they won’t have any of this fat, and the phighters they want to call their friends will tolerate them. That would be nice.
That would– That– Swords, when did they start crying. This is their choice, this is their choice for the better of everyone they care about. Why can’t they just follow through? Why do they have to be a coward? Why do they even have to be in this situation? Why did it have to be them? Why couldn’t they be perfect and live out the rest of their days making music instead of… what? Drowning in self misery? Drowning into others misery? How pathetic. This is why people want them dead.
Whatever adrenaline is doing in their body it rushes to their head and they forget all other plans of fixing themself to just get it over with. Their hand rushes up and just as they’re about to stab it in their throat to choke on their own blood, suffocating their own bullshit… their phone rings.
It stops them like an off switch. Their breathing turns ragged. Once again, the world pauses, and their eyes go wide. The knife pricks at skin, so close from going deeper. Yet, it didn’t.
Holy shit, they were about to kill themself. They toss the knife onto the table, gentle enough so it doesn’t fall off, but harsh enough that they un-tense from the minor energy release. Cursing their thighs, and adrenaline, they stumble over to where their phone charges after a day of phighting.
Oh, Slingshot is calling.
For a brief moment, they contemplate whether they pick up or not. They don’t think they’d forgive themself if they didn’t. So they pick up the phone in their shaky, (mostly) not bloody, non-dominant hand, and answer Slingshot’s call.
Their breathing feels like it stops. This… this feels like the roller coaster they thought they were on earlier. Everything is about to come crashing down on them, but… but… but…
“Hey, man! Sorry about the call so late at night, but Katana is making dinner for our little section of Thieve’s Den, and I wanted to know if you wanted to come over to eat. I’m sure お母さん would love to hear some of your music,” Slingshot chatters away.
Oh. Oh.
For the not-first time tonight, tears well in their eyes. To think that in some world, they’d be dead or unconscious or decided to not pick up. Oh, they pity those world’s. To think that they could have missed this.
Their breath releases before they can catch it. It creates a chain reaction of short hics of breath as the tears get harder and harder to stop until they’re full on sobbing. Considering they’ve never called anyone — or had anyone called them — This is one hell of a first phone call.
“I- Boombox, are you good? It sounds like you’re crying?” Slingshot’s tone immediately shifts into something more concerned, vulnerable, caring, they might even say loving. It makes a part of them that’s been smushed down for a long time peek out. (Slingshot is a good friend. He really cares about you).
They don’t know how, but they manage to steady their breathing and sobbing enough to shake their head and breathe out, “N-No.”
“Do you want to talk about it… shit, if it’s about dinner, you don’t need to come–”
They chuckle, cough, and sob at the same time. “No, I- I-” They swallow, “I really appreciate it. I w-want to come.”
Slingshot audibly deflates, “Okay, good. Soo—”
“I almost killed myself, Sling,” Boombox rushed out, almost babbling. Their eyes pressed tight together, phone held tight against their head, other hand covered in blood drips, grabbing onto their pants. Sniffling and gasping and coughing as they try to breathe normally and stop their sobbing before their nose gets too runny.
The silence was deafening.
After forever, Slingshot spoke again, “You… You what?”
They take in a shuddering breath, their words are breathy, light (they feel anything but that), “I almost killed myself. I was about to end it all. I… I only stopped because you called.”
Slingshot made some noises that sounded like a dying fish. They decided to keep quiet as Sling started moving on the other side of the phone.
When Sling speaks again, his voice is teary, relieved, “I am so glad that I called you.” It’s said with a release of air, making his tone as light and airy as theirs was moments ago.
Boombox laughs, but it sounds strained, and sobby, and half-way through, they do sob. “I’m so glad that I picked up.”
“Yeah… yeah, me too,” Slingshot mutters, “Wait, shit. Are you okay, man? Physically. Obviously not… emotionally.”
They contemplate that, then glance down at their bleeding arm which now looks very concerning. Yet, the sound of Sling’s voice calms them down. Tears slow, same with their breathing.
“No. I… I don’t think— I am.”
Slingshot doesn’t verbalize any thoughts he may have, he simply responds, “Okay, do you need to be taken to the hospital? Or… or do you need to be picked up?”
“I don’t…” They take a deep breath as tears from a new feeling come (love), “I’m at my apartment. I… I can w-walk, but I have a cut on my arm that ‘m worried ‘bout hurting if I do.”
Sling hums, “I’ll call Hyperlaser. She’s driving over here, and I’ll ask her to pick you up. Shouldn’t take longer than 10 minutes.”
“‘Kay,” They mumble. Hyperlaser is… nice to them, but they still feel like they annoy him.
“Are you… Is it… I, uh,” He tries, and fails to say, “Do you want me to tell Katana? He knows first aid, and- and, if that’s not enough, she could call Medkit… maybe?”
“Medkit?” Medkit finds them very annoying, and lazy, and—
“Oh, yeah! Kai and Lee and Med are all dating now. We’re calling them KitKat.”
What?
“What?”
“It’s been a long time coming, I’ll tell you about it later,” Sling’s tone softens, “I know you and Med don’t really get along, but they really care for my moms… him helping you is not a bother… you aren’t a bother.”
They choke up, losing their words. They hum, high-pitched, almost whiny, “thank ‘ou.”
“You don’t need to thank me, you’re my friend.” (Friend! He called them a… a friend. Just a friend, nothing more).
Boombox smiled, a soft one, a warm one, a smitten one. Part of them wants to feel guilty about feeling this way while also having feelings for Banhammer, but… but maybe… they don’t know. They know that Sling makes them feel good, and Banhammer showers them in romance and praise; though, he never cared about their body.
Slingshot seems to honor the quiet moment, letting them feel all the emotions they have. They’re starting to get annoyed at the tears that won’t stop swelling in their eyes. Their breath seems to have a similar issue too, but they accept that one.
Sling slowly breathes out. “I texted Hyper, they’re on their way to pick you up and should be there in less than 5 minutes.”
“I appreciate it. I’ll get ready?”
Sling huffs, “yeah, maybe find some clothes that you don’t mind getting bloody for the drive over here… and maybe some bandages for the road, okay?”
They nod, but he can’t see that, so they hum, “mhm.”
“Alright.” Sling takes a deep breath. “Talk to you soon, Box.”