Chapter Text
The world spun.
All Sae had done today was think, and think, and think. He could still recall that feeling on his skin. With a sigh, he took a step into the shower, his vision blurry. The cold water bit his skin- just how he liked it. He glanced at his thighs, covered in marks.
Red.
Disgusting.
His brows furrowed as he ran a hand across them. His touch got rougher as he began scrubbing, leaving the pale skin beside the marks, a hue of pink. He wished to get that feeling off- a certain feeling, of skin against skin.
The mere thought made him sick to his stomach.
He couldn’t quite tell what he wanted to rid himself of.
He wanted to do it anyway.
His skin stung, and he gave up, a shaky exhale escaping his lips. He opened the bottle of shampoo, lathering it onto his palms and fingers, running his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp.
At least he remembered how to wash his hair properly.
When he was done with the shower, he changed into fresh clothes- his pants pooled around his ankles, and his sleeves reached further than the tips of his fingers. His clothes hid his frame completely- in a way, he liked it. He liked clothes big enough to hide in.
His breathing turned uneven, ragged. Once he noticed it, he winced. Nothing he did was precise, now. He tried to fix the way he breathed, tried to slow down, but it just got more intense as the thoughts in his head piled up. With a sigh, he stopped trying, and flopped onto the bed, exhausted. He wasn’t sure of what, but he couldn’t bring himself to even stand up.
All he could do was continue to wonder.
What was he doing with his life? Right now, all he was, was a pathetic mess on his bed, unable to function properly.
He was weak- he couldn’t even push people off when his dignity was risked, when his life was on the line.
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, trickling down his cheeks before he could stop them. He didn’t bother wiping them, a hand pressed against his eyes, as he bit his tongue to hold in sobs. It didn’t work. Loud, desperate sobs came out anyway, as his other hand went to muffle them.
But how did it matter?
He was alone.
Simply alone, in this huge house, with no one to tell what had happened to him. He was alone, and he could cry.
It made him feel helpless, yes, but at least he could cry. Broken whimpers and hiccups left his lips as the crying quieted down.
He should’ve told someone.
He couldn’t bring himself to do it, though.
What would happen to the other man’s career?
His reputation, his relationships, the children who looked up to him?
And what would happen to Sae’s reputation?
People would probably call it a PR stunt, say he’d deserved it, say it should’ve happened to him earlier on.
In a cold, twisted way, he’d believe them.
He wanted to tell someone, anyone, who would listen. But he couldn’t. What would they think?
He desperately wanted help, the ache in his head and the throb in his chest to disappear.
He should call Okaasan. Tell her what had happened.
What if she was disappointed?
She’d help. She always did.
Could she now, though?
He wanted her to tell him it’d be alright.
He could tell himself that. He didn’t need it.
But what if she ended up hating her son?
She wouldn’t. She was Okaasan. She loved him.
How would she feel, knowing her golden boy was reduced to this?
A sob escaped his lips yet again, but no tear was shed.
She wouldn’t mind as much, right? She would help.
What if she yelled at him? The same words that had taught him everything he knew, would they really hurt him like this?
Maybe they would.
Maybe not.
But they might. Sae couldn’t risk it.
But he needed to risk it.
He ended up not calling her.
The dull pain in his head grew the slightest sharper.
Tears returned.
He wiped them- they felt unpleasant. The whimpers escaping his lips didn’t help.
He wanted to scream.
He didn’t.
He kept thinking the same thing- he was weak, useless, pathetic. Would coming back to this again and again really help him lose that mindset?
It was true, though, wasn’t it?
He got out of bed, pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his journal, sitting gently in his seat, trying to make less noise.
He stared at the journal- he’d never bothered using it. He’d always thought it couldn’t help. He still believed it wouldn’t do much. But it was worth trying, no?
His hand delicately flipped through the pages, taking in the scent of the book. It was somewhat appealing. He travelled back to the first page, grabbing the pen on the desk and beginning to describe what had happened.
A few tears slipped out.
He hated it.
He wasn’t one to hate easily- he never cared enough. But in this moment, everything felt raw. Unfortunately too raw for him to want to try to do anything. He felt hopeless. It made him hate it more- hate what he was being right now- weak.
He wrote anyway, with his dark blue pen in his neat cursive. Lost in his thoughts, he spelled something wrong.
“Shit,” he murmured.
He made a clean, dark strike across the word, and rewrote it. His brows furrowed further. Amidst the clean paragraph, was a singular word with a strike piercing it. He didn’t like how it ruined the entirety of the paragraph.
He tore the page out, and rewrote the paragraph.
In whatever state he was in, he’d already let everything consume him, let his work be ruined- he wasn’t going to let this ruin his precision, too.
Once he was done, he did feel a bit better- surprising. He wasn’t sure if he’d continue, though. It seemed more like a hobby than anything. He didn’t have time for hobbies.
Why did he care so much about the incident? It wasn’t that important. He didn’t need to whine about it. The thoughts of him being pathetic came again. But he shoved them aside, and shut himself up. It didn’t matter.
He’d live.