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the friendship cup's waiting rooms are only a little like solitary confinement. there's lovely food. there's a beautiful view. there's a soft bed.
there's yuuya's own thoughts, reverberating. reminding him how much he hates it. how much he hates it. how much -
he’s - not - an angry person.
yuuya pauses. he's not. right? he's not. he doesn't remember hating like this. does he?
he's not an angry person.
does anyone know that? does he know that, at this point?
he’s not. he’s not. but -
but it’s all he knows nowadays. a sham game for a corrupt world, where the losers are shoved so deep under the earth they may as well be dead and buried, and suddenly all yuuya’s ever known is the feeling of his heart pounding, blood roaring in his ears.
or -
no, no, it was before that. the feeling of cuffs around his wrists. they hadn’t done anything wrong, it didn’t matter, he could scream until his voice was hoarse but it wasn’t going to change anything. he was going to survive the detention because he’s lucky , knows the right people in the right place at the right time and has enough tricks to prove it. but it’s a mockery of justice, and the cuffs glow red -
no -
before that. holding smile world in his hands. it’s from his father. a gift, almost, for yuuya to take and hold like a lifeline. it’s not living, though, not flesh and blood, and though he’s grateful and he feels everyone behind him, a tether to the world of living reality, there’s an absence that gapes like a fresh wound ( dontthinkaboutthat. you look up to him. he’s your father. you want to be just like him he didn’t do anythingwrong-) and he pushes it down but it still festers -
no, no, no.
before that. before that -
when he’s never felt so out of depth in his life. if he moves, he’ll topple off the edge. so he can’t do anything but watch two boys with his face try to kill each other, and one’s going to succeed, and he’s not angry, but he’s scared.
fuck. does yuuya get scared anymore? was that carved out of him, hastily, by something with rounded edges so it wouldn’t hurt? he didn’t feel it.
he was scared . yuuya fits his hand around that feeling, and it pricks him, a nebulous thing with thorns, and he can’t fit it back into him. he’s not scared - he gets confused now, sure, nothing in this godforsaken dimension makes any damn sense . but yuuya doesn’t get scared.
maybe, maybe, being scared is just too light a word at this point. that first day, when he was certain his name was going to be called - that was panic, freezing him up and locking every joint into place like a plastic doll. he’s fine now. it won’t happen again. he felt a little bit like a cornered animal, then, a smile nothing when caught in the headlights of something deadly and seeking blood.
ah,
but that’s yuuya, too.
the anger doesn’t turn off, anymore. it’s not at the surface, not right now, not rising in his throat like bile until he chokes on it and forgets where he is, but yuuya feels it, racing through his veins and his head and his heart. it doesn’t leave him alone. at any moment, if he loses his grip, if he loses his smile, it seeps out like poison, leaving claw marks in whatever it sees fit.
he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than losing control of himself entirely.
it never used to be like this. yuuya doesn’t miss being prey . but - he misses -
he misses knowing who he is. ( he’s not an angry person. he wasn’t an angry person. he’s - )
sakaki yuuya.
sakaki yuuya.
sakaki yuuto -
ah.
yuuya could almost laugh. it’s - fuck, it’s funny, this whole thing is one big joke . nothing makes sense. someone died in his arms. someone died in his arms and told him to smile and all yuuya fucking feels anymore is his borrowed anger pulsing in his chest like a fucking timebomb and he needs it out of him right now right right right now
yuuto doesn’t care enough to protest. yuuto can’t do a whole lot of anything, being dead and in yuuya’s soul or whatever. yuuto needs to get out, he has his own life to live, has his own story and people and world and none of it is yuuya’s. yuuya can’t fix it. he can’t fix anything. he can’t even smile, so what does yuuto want him to do?
( if he fights yuugo. if he fights yuugo - yuugo won’t die, right? there won’t be more blood? it doesn’t matter where, whether it’s on yuuya’s hands or in his mouth but he can’t fucking stand the sight of it anymore it makes him so angry everything just makes him so angry this whole world needs to burn already)
what does yuuya want yuuto to do? what does yuuto -
carve into him. rip it out of him. his blood may as well be indigo. none of it belongs to him.
( i hate this, he thinks, i hate this. i don’t want to be here. he’s just like reira, in that moment, but there’s no one to cling onto. are his choices his own?)
“get out,” he hisses, digging nails into arms that don’t belong to him, and doesn’t care who’s watching or who’s listening. sam has to be outside his door, still waiting to take him to a gladiator ring. that council has to be watching - he can imagine them shaking their heads. what a shame. he was so promising.
such a shame he broke into pieces.
the windows don’t shatter. there’s no mirrors. if he hits the walls, someone will hear. so all yuuya can do and know it’s him doing it is trace white lines on the inside of his arms, over and over, until they become a color he recognizes.
( he’s not an angry person. or was he? yuuto wasn’t an angry person, before -)
he needs to do something. he needs to tear everything apart. he needs to smile. he needs to scream something until his voice gives out. he needs to remember who it is, sitting here in this plush bed in a gilded cage waiting for his turn to be fed to an audience starving. he needs to open up his own ribcage and check what color’s inside of him. he needs to drain all his own blood so he’s no longer appetizing.
he - he - he -
there was something he was supposed to do. ( imdoingfine. duelingisntsupposedtobelikethis. yourenotalone. yourehereforrealcombatexperience)
he feels a little like a marionette with its strings cut. there’s no self-satisfaction for him to chase. there’s no self to satisfy.
he’s not an angry person. he doesn’t get scared anymore. the words that twist around in his head aren’t his own. the angry lines on his skin don’t feel real.
his hands shake.
whoever it is in yuuya’s body doesn’t eat. it all looks so lifeless to him. he must look the same.
he won’t question the anger anymore. if it’s slowly poisoning him and everything around him - it must be better than what’s left behind when it leaves -
there’s nothing left to leave. each part of yuuya and yuuto and maybe yuugo, too, are blending together. he wishes he could cauterize himself so that they don’t bleed.
( he doesn’t sleep much, either, but he dreams of strangling a person with his own face. it’s him, he knows that. but he can’t tell what that person looks like.)