Noeru doesn't know who took him to hospital, or who brought him home after that.
He spends the first day trying to walk, the second trying to sit, and the third trying to draw. He draws fishes, whales, sirens, fishing boats and pirate ships in his old sketchbook and crosses them out, covers them in black until the marker tears through the pages, aborting the illusions of what those images are supposed to represent before they're whole, until nothing is left of them but angry holes on old, torn, yellowing paper.
This was not, in fact, the first time Noeru was so out of his senses that he couldn't fight back. But it was the first time he didn't stop trying.
He falls asleep over the desk, and when he wakes up again it's ten-something in the morning. He's still slouched over the table, black marker in hand, his undrawings lying around the same way he left them. On the wall, elephants, rabbits, shopping bags, flower pots and bright smiling suns watch upon him, their eyes weighting on his shoulders with the sure expectation of soon being joined by a new friend in shaky lines and unmatching colors, and Noeru has never felt so constricted, trapped, asfixiating between the walls of this watercolor prison he's built for himself.
That night, the man Noeru picks up at random in a department store stands in the hallway, blinking at the ruined furniture, the broken bottles on the floor, the remnants of a cellphone smashed against the wall, the torn and crumpled pieces of some child's drawings scattered all around the room. For a second he looks like he's going to bolt, then he opens his mouth and looks like he's going to ask, but then Noeru is losing his clothes and pulling him into the bedroom, and he forgets what the question was.
It's not ten minutes later and the man is leaving, rushing through the door with what he can pick up of his clothes. Noeru never asked his name, and he's not going to now. Mamiya is staring at him with eyes that are too young and empty and lost, standing in the middle of his living room, surrounded by the remnants of Noeru's life, the things Noeru loves the most, and loves so much that urge to destroy is most irresistible. And he fits.
For a moment, Noeru feels like his own sketch pad, old and jagged around the edges, and he looks for pink fishes or green stars in his pages, but all he finds are scratches and holes, page upon page covered in cheap black marker; but Mamiya is still standing there, and then he's putting his arms around Noeru, and in the warmth of a red Noeru has never seen before, Mamiya washes his pages in crimson until there is nothing but color and Mamiya's heart pounding in his chest against Noeru's ear, the blood in his veins echoing like an ocean Mamiya brought home only for him.
Noeru knows now; he'll never stop trying.