Takashi-kun || Takashi Morinozuka || bxb||

Melancholy

"{y/n},"

"Yes Takashi-kun?" Dark grey eyes meet {e/c} eyes as Takashi looks at {y/n}. Concern laced in his glance.

"You need to be more careful." The words come with a wrap of bandages, as Takashi carefully touches {y/n}'s arm.

"Neh, I'll be fine Takashi-kun, I have you to protect me after all."

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"I'm fine." {y/n} was accustomed to these words. They leave his mouth on a daily. The cycle of words as repetitive as the sky.

Today was, like usual. The people he called his classmates gave him harsh looks, and rumors about him clouded the hallways. The whispers suffocated him. And when school was finally over he was put into the next event on his daily routine.

These pompous fucks really like messing with him, huh?

"Oh hey, there you are, we thought you were trying to run away from us." Of course, this was also repetitive. The punches and the kicks.

He was knocked down m, pushed to the ground, each one of his bullies kicking him continuously.

More bruises would taint his skin today it seemed.

This wasn't how his life used to be. This only started in his 1st year. Before that though, he had someone who protected him.

Takashi Morinozuka was that someone. His strong build and high athleticism, even in middle school, managed to scare off anyone that tried to bully him. He was his best friend, and a little more, but good things don't last.

Takashi had a role in his family, to protect and help his cousin, (even if honey didn't really need it) he didn't have time for {y/n}.

He understood that, he really really tried to be okay with it. But he wasn't.

But that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that his daily beating has just ended, and he needs to get home.

His clothing shifted while he walked and made his bruises feel even worse. The walk towards him home was lackadaisical, {y/n} trying his best to make walking hurt less.

When he arrived home he went straight to his room. He didn't want to speak to Mother right now. Not when all of the rumors spread at school were actually true. His mother did sleep with the directors of her films.

He wonders what his father will say, but he doesn't want to be around when the fighting starts.

The {e/c} eyed male sat down at his desk and started doing his homework, turning on his tv for background noise. He really hated silence.

He doesn't know when this feeling of drowning began. Why he feels so suffocated in his own home. The murky waters of his mind filling his lungs and making things hard to breath.

He finishes his homework with a sigh. The days events catching up to him when he tries to get up, the bruises aching as a painful reminder. He has yet to see the damage, and he'd rather not even see it, but he knows he has to.

He walks to the bathroom in his room and pulls his shirt up. His eyes falling to his heavily bruised torso, where multiple shades of blue and purple blossomed on his chest and sides. Arms too.

He lightly rubs at one and flinches, bad idea. He grabs the ointment near his sink and starts rubbing it on each spot of color on his chest.

After that his eyes trail upwards to the more bruises covering his pale {s/c} skin. One of them covers his eye, luckily his hair will hide it good enough till it heals.

When he thinks he's found every one he goes to rub his neck, and finds another. It's right at the back of his hairline and he knows sleeping is gonna be a bitch, but that was already a given.

Speaking of sleep, he hasn't done a lot of that recently. He's always been a night owl, but this was extreme. He feels more like he just blinks for an hour or so, not like he's sleeping.

It's honestly rather terrible. The one place where he was free, his dreams, were taken from him.

He sports big, dark eye bags because of this development. And any good dreams a far off memory.

He usually spends the time he's not sleeping, reading. All this literature making him rather, poetic, if you will.

He's currently reading Letters to Véra, by a Russian poet and writer Vladimir Nabakov. He wonders how someone could love so dearly as the poet.

Looking at his life in introspection feels wrong. His life feels like a placeholder for something else, like some bigger plot. And he wishes that that was true. That he was made for greater things.

That childish part of him still hopes he becomes a world class soloist even though he hasn't picked his violin up in around a month. With all the drama happening around his mother, he's lost both his violin instructor and his desire to play it. The piano is also the same.

He feels terrible about it. Like he's wasting it. The chances he has. He knows that he's rich and lucky, there are people who can't even afford to play an instrument. But his is sitting, collecting dust.

He's the real pompous fuck. God, why is this so hard. Why does he feel like this.

This is hopeless.