Holding Onto Ghosts - Komahina/Hinakoma

Intro?

A/N: Hello all! Thanks for deciding to click on this. I'm not the best writer, but hey, i'm just doing my best. This fic is based on a movie i really love - "But I'm a Cheerleader".  You don't need any knowledge of the movie to read and understand this fic, though! 

I know my cover art does kinda suck but. I drew it myself at least so there's that.

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Dread settled in the pit of Hajime's stomach the second he walked through the door into his house. Both parents were standing in the kitchen - something they rarely ever did, looking expectant.

For the life of him, he couldn't recall anything he had done wrong. He was doing fine in school - despite being lonely and not having many friends. He had gone to a party a few weeks ago, but they had both known about it and let him.

What the hell had he done?

"What happened? You both look like you've seen a ghost."

There was a period of silence, and the dread in the pit of his stomach grew. Was someone in the family dead? Surely not, they weren't even close to family outside of this room, that wouldn't warrant the looks they were giving him. He furrowed his brow and tossed his backpack onto the bench next to the door, walking further into the room.

"Maybe you should sit down."

Only then did Hajime notice the other person in the room, a rather tall man with a sunken face and greasy, slicked back hair. He beamed at Hajime, reaching out and shaking his hand vigorously.

"Sure." Hajime muttered, plopping down on the couch and sighing. He was really too exhausted for mind games right now.

His parents sat across from him, the awkward tension in the air almost palpable. He could have laughed, if it wouldn't have made the tension worse.

It felt like a fucking intervention.

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, trying to blink the exhaustion out of them. He fought off the urge to yawn. Again, this wasn't really an appropriate situation to do that.

"What." He repeated, staring over at his parents and the stranger, leaning forward on their elbows like they were bracing to tell him something.

"Hajime, you know we care about you a lot," his father started, wringing his hands in his lap. He was a tired looking man, with bags under his eyes and glasses that looked like a stray breeze could push them right off his nose.

He waited a few seconds, but his father seemed to be struggling to add words onto the end of that phrase.

"Uh huh," Hajime said, figuring it would be rude to not reply. In truth, it wasn't as if they showed it. They were both business people who spent the majority of their lives working on their careers. He was a mistake and an obstacle, and he knew as much, even if they never said it directly to his face. He was just glad they cared about him to some degree.

Enough to not put him up for adoption, at least, even though their love more often than not came off as pressure to be the perfect son.

"And, well," his father continued, fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat and looking to the side.

"We found this picture of you," was his mother's voice cutting in impatiently. She held up her phone for him to see, and his heart leapt into his throat.

A vague memory resurfaced from the night of the party.

Actually, in any situation other than this, he would feel much more guilty about not remembering when exactly it was taken. Maybe he had a little too much of the questionable drink he'd been handed. Now a vague annoyance flickered in his stomach. Who the hell had taken that picture, anyway?