Just A Little Bit Shy

Blind Comfort - 15

Regret was not a foreign concept to Y/n. Simply because he could watch Yua hang there, metal rings sliding over metal rings as her weight swayed, and the rivets of blood webbing down her pale flesh — because he could watch and feel nothing as she struggled and screamed... his hand digging into her slit stomach, pulling the intestines out; useless... He could almost feel the slick of it now; a phantom sensation of wet, off-putting heat.

Y/n exhaled, allowing the hot water from Ahane's shower to soothe the knots in his muscles. The shower head was on a hard setting, jets of scorching water hitting all the wound up muscles of his shoulders, his back. Yua wasn't the first person Y/n had dragged out there; some had still been awake when he lifted their struggling body and hooked them, metal tearing through their leg muscles as if it were butter — softer than butter; more tearable. Most people didn't realize they were made of the same components as the meat they purchased in the aisles of their grocery store or from butchers like Kisho. It was different, for them, to understand a person could be butchered the same way an animal could be.

They were nothing more than an entanglement of ligaments, fat, and lean muscle. The nice kind of muscle that could be cut away; broiled or pressure cooked... Most people didn't realize how meaningless their lives were; only when others applied meaning to their lives; only when others acknowledged their worth as something sentient; something precious... did they have a chance to mean something more than the biological waste they came from. Certainly, Y/n only felt as if he, himself, meant something when Ahane smiled at him; acknowledged him... maybe not as something precious, but as something nonetheless.

And only Haru Ahane was precious to Y/n. So, if the (h/c) boy was to experience regret, it would only ever be in regards to Haru Ahane.

Y/n opened his eyes and reached for the shampoo. Popping open the cap, Y/n took an experimental sniff. His face warmed: this really is Ahane's shampoo... Y/n only hesitated a second before he was squeezing out a dime-sized amount, reaching up to lather it in his hair. There wasn't a point to Ahane letting him use his shower if Y/n wasn't going to actually get clean... right? This was... Y/n was tired of second-guessing himself; was tired of trying to decipher all of Ahane's behaviors.

But it's confusing, isn't it? Y/n asked himself, trying not to hate how his own fingers felt in his hair. Ahane had spoiled him tonight, that much was certain. Ahane always trying to help him, even now, with Y/n's reluctance to touch people; with his stark inexperience of being touched. The other boy never disparaged him for not being normal; no, Ahane was simply the type to offer to touch Y/n in order to help him. It felt good, for his hair to be combed through; petted for minutes on end. That — that caused a lot of confusion too... but no more than Ahane did himself.

Ahane afraid for him to walk home alone? Asking him to stay over for the night?

Y/n wished his first leap wasn't to — how many others? How many others did Ahane invite over to stay the night; how many others were allowed to enjoy Ahane's fingers stroking their hair or digging into their thigh? And for how many others, excluding Y/n... had Ahane's intentions been anything but innocent? That wall of photographs in Ahane's room, Y/n wanted to rip it down; wanted to tear through each and every girl's face with his fingernails; wanted to scrape off the photographs' glossy surfaces with his sticking knife. Y/n had certainly recognized the majority of them. Those stupid fucking girls Ahane had entertained — Y/n's hand curled into a fist. He pressed it firmly against the wall, refusing to punch through the tiled surface; refusing to apply force and ruin something that wasn't his but was Ahane's. Ahane's shower.

But of course, no, Ahane and Y/n had only ever been friends. There was nothing more there. Y/n knew; he had seen Ahane approach girls, he had seen Ahane flirt and touch them, and always did it end up with filthy kisses — Y/n gritted his teeth. Y/n wasn't some girl; he wasn't good at talking; he didn't know how to flirt; and he didn't want to be comparing himself to those worthless sacks of flesh anyway. There was nothing to — Y/n didn't want that anyway. Didn't want to be — tossed aside. For they always were, in the end. Ahane got bored. Ahane's attention stopped giving them meaning — and then Y/n was there, knife in hand, under the cover of darkness.