Work Text:
The silence was unbearable.
Not the kind of silence that blankets a room after a long conversation or a storm passed, but the heavy, suffocating kind that swells inside your chest and twists your throat until breathing feels like a betrayal. Hajime sat on the cold floor of his dimly lit room, knees drawn up, heart hammering like it wanted to break free.
Why did he say that?
The words Gisei muttered earlier — quiet, almost careless — echoed over and over in Hajime’s mind. There was no outright threat in them, no “I’m leaving,” no “I can’t do this anymore.” But there was something beneath the surface, something in the way Gisei’s eyes shifted, a brief flicker of distance that hadn’t been there before.
It’s just paranoia. He didn’t mean it.
But the knot in Hajime’s gut wouldn’t loosen. It twisted tighter, burning, cold, relentless. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms until the skin broke, tiny beads of red blossoming there.
He didn’t want to think it, but the fear was there, crawling like a parasite under his skin.
He’s going to leave.
Hajime’s breath hitched. The room seemed to shrink, closing in around him, walls pressing down like the weight of a coffin. His body trembled — not with cold, but with a storm raging inside.
If he leaves, what will I be?
A broken shell. Nothing but the echo of what used to be. Hajime’s mind raced — images flashing unbidden: Gisei turning away, walking down a corridor, and vanishing behind a door, a life that moved on without him.
I won’t let him go.
The words whispered themselves, a mantra, dark and desperate.
His hand slid down his thigh to the desk drawer, fingers fumbling in the dark for the small, sharp blade he hid there. The metal kissed his palm, cold and unforgiving. He didn’t hesitate.
The first cut was shallow, a line of fire slicing his skin. The sting made him gasp — pain like a jagged edge slicing through the fog of panic.
Blood welled up immediately, bright and vivid, spilling over his wrist. Hajime stared at it, mesmerized. The red bloomed like a warning flare, and a twisted satisfaction curled in his gut.
More.
His breathing was ragged, shallow, every inhale a tremor.
He pressed the blade harder, carving deeper, chasing the pain that numbed the terror. The blood came faster now, dripping onto the floor in small, frantic drops.
Scars. I want scars. Proof. Proof that I’m still here, still alive. Still real.
His thoughts spiraled, toxic and obsessive and broken. Gisei’s face blurred with tears and frustration, the cold distance he felt just moments ago.
Hajime hated it, hated how powerless he felt. The blood was the only thing that grounded him — something real, undeniable.
A voice inside his head hissed, sharp and cruel.
If he leaves, you’ll disappear. But if you bleed, if you hurt, you can’t be forgotten. You’ll own this pain.
Hajime’s fingers trembled as the blade moved again and again, each cut a desperate claim on his existence. The ache was fierce, alive. It carved a map of his torment across his skin.
But the deeper the wounds, the louder the voice inside screamed.
Gisei. Gisei. Gisei.
The name was an obsession, a chant that haunted every thought. Hajime’s heart pounded with the fierce, toxic hope that maybe — maybe if he bled enough, if he marked himself with every scar he could bear — Gisei wouldn’t leave. He would see, he would stay.
But the fear was a storm that never passed.
Hajime’s vision blurred as tears spilled down his cheeks, mixing with the blood. His body shuddered with exhaustion and terror.
He wanted to stop. He wanted Gisei to come back, to hold him, to say it was all a mistake.
But the blade still waited in his hand.
The metallic taste of blood coated Hajime’s tongue when he bit down hard, desperate to silence the ragged scream tearing through his chest. His breath came in shattered gasps, each one raw and jagged, like shards of glass slicing through his lungs.
His wrist burned fiercely, the crimson spreading fast, thin rivulets tracing trembling paths down his arm, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. The sticky warmth pooled on the floor beneath him, a stark, vivid stain in the suffocating gloom.
But it wasn’t enough.
Hajime’s mind was a cyclone of panic and obsession. Every pulse hammered the same sickening rhythm in his veins — Gisei might leave. Gisei might leave. Gisei might leave.
He pressed the blade harder, the sharp edge biting into his flesh with a cruel precision. A long, deep slash opened on his forearm, and the hot, liquid pain exploded through his nerve endings. The wet sound of skin breaking was sharp, a tearing that seemed to echo inside his head.
His vision darkened at the edges, a dizzy spiral that threatened to swallow him whole.
More. More.
The voice inside was relentless, demanding, twisted with need.
Hajime’s free hand shook violently as he gripped his arm, fingers slick with blood. His chest tightened in a vice of panic and craving. The ache wasn’t just physical — it was everything he felt he’d lost, everything he couldn’t say out loud.
He thought about Gisei, about the flicker of coldness in his eyes earlier. That tiny, fractured moment that shattered Hajime’s fragile sense of safety.
Did you mean it? Did you want to leave?
The question screamed in his mind. His tears mixed with the blood, blurring his vision until the room was just pools of red and shadows.
His skin split again, a long, raw wound that sent a flood of white-hot agony through him. The scent of iron filled the air, thick and suffocating.
Hajime’s body convulsed with the pain, muscles trembling uncontrollably. But inside, the chaos was even worse.
If I’m bleeding, I’m real. I’m here. I’m not invisible. He can’t leave me if he sees the blood — the scars I carry.
His voice was a desperate whisper, barely audible, a plea to the empty room.
He hated himself. He hated that this was the only way he could hold on, the only way to fight the terror of abandonment.
Gisei, don’t leave me. Please.
The knife slipped again, dragging across fresh skin. This time, the cut was jagged, uneven, a violent slash that made him gasp in shock and pain.
His entire arm was trembling now, veins swollen and pale beneath the bruised skin.
His heart was a wild drum, blood pounding in his ears, drowning out everything but the awful, desperate need to hurt.
I want to see the blood. I want to feel the scars. I want him to see what I am.
The obsession burned hotter than the wounds, consuming every shred of reason.
His body curled inward, shivering with exhaustion and panic. The cold bite of the knife pressed again, the edge digging deeper, carving a cruel, bleeding language onto his flesh.
His skin was breaking apart beneath him, and still he craved more.
The pain was a fierce anchor in the storm of his thoughts — raw, bleeding, undeniable.
He needed it. He needed it more than air.
The faint sound of the door opening somewhere in the building made his heart slam against his ribs like a trapped animal.
Please don’t come in.
He couldn’t bear the shame. The rawness. The mess.
But if Gisei came-
Would he look at the scars? Would he see the pain? Would he stay?
Hajime’s breaths hitched, tears falling freely now, mixing with blood and sweat, his body trembling uncontrollably in the dark.
His mind was a chaotic storm of fear, pain, and obsession.
More. More. More.
The blood seeped between his fingers, warm and sticky, pooling in his lap like a grotesque testament to his unraveling.
Hajime’s breathing was ragged, each inhale a sharp, burning pull in his chest, each exhale a hollow, desperate gasp that felt like losing pieces of himself.
He was drowning in the sound of his own heartbeat, a frantic drum echoing loud and wild in the silence of his room. It was all-consuming — the raw ache of his skin breaking open, the fierce bite of the blade, the coppery flood that stained everything it touched. His mind was a chaotic whirlpool, every thought sharp as shards of glass slicing through the fog of panic that clouded him.
Gisei’s face flickered behind his closed eyelids, eyes a cold, distant storm he couldn’t reach, couldn’t hold on to. Hajime’s entire being screamed for him, clawing and grasping at the fragments of something that felt like love and terror all at once.
He was afraid — not just afraid of losing Gisei, but terrified that the absence would swallow him whole, erase him like he had never mattered.
His hands trembled as the blade traced another line, deeper now, a brutal slash that sent white-hot fire radiating through his arm, a savage reminder that he was still here. The blood was warm and wet against his skin, soaking through his shirt, and he didn’t care.
The pain was the only thing real. It tethered him to existence in a way words never could. His heart pounded so loudly it seemed to shake his whole body, and with every pulse, the fear grew — the fear that this was the beginning of the end, that Gisei’s fleeting distance was the first step toward disappearing from his life forever. But Hajime couldn’t let that happen. Not without a fight. Not without leaving a mark — on himself, on the world, on Gisei’s memory.
The scars would speak where his voice failed, a twisted proof that he had loved hard enough to bleed for it.
His vision blurred, hot tears spilling down his cheeks and mingling with the blood, creating rivers of red that dripped down his neck and soaked into the collar of his shirt. The sound of dripping filled the room, relentless and haunting, like the beat of a second, sinister heart.
He wanted to scream, to beg, to reach out and pull Gisei back from the shadow where he seemed to be slipping, but his voice was gone — choked off by the crushing weight of his own torment.
The blade felt heavier in his hand now, a cruel extension of the madness that twisted inside him. He pressed it harder, carving a jagged, angry line across the tender flesh of his wrist, relishing the sharp sting that screamed louder than his doubt.
Every cut was a promise, a desperate message written in blood. I am here. I am not invisible. I am yours, even if you go away.
The obsession gripped him tightly, suffocating and all-consuming. Hajime’s mind was a tangle of dark, desperate thoughts. I need more blood. More scars. More proof. The craving was a fire that gnawed at his insides, relentless and cruel.
He pictured Gisei’s face — the cold, unreadable, fucking bastard expression he’d worn earlier, the flicker of something distant and unreachable. Hajime hated that expression more than anything because it meant Gisei might walk away, might disappear without a word, leaving him broken and bleeding in the shadows.
The thought was unbearable. So unbearable that he plunged the blade again, deeper this time, the pain blinding and pure. The blood spilled out faster now, thick and alive, and Hajime closed his eyes, letting the sting wash over him like a wave, drowning out everything but the fierce, aching need to hold on.
His body shook, racked with tremors that no amount of control could quiet.
The room around him felt unreal, distant, as if he were watching himself from somewhere far away — wounded, desperate, consumed. And yet, the blood and the pain were the only things that kept him tethered, the only proof that he still existed in the same world as Gisei, still loved him with a ferocity that was as beautiful as it was terrifying. Hajime’s voice cracked in a broken whisper, a prayer or a plea, or maybe a threat to himself.
Don’t leave. Don’t disappear. See me. See the scars. See me bleed.
But in the silence that swallowed his words, the only answer was the slow, steady drip of blood onto the floor.
The knife trembled in Hajime’s hand as he stared at the deep red that bloomed across his skin. Each cut burned — not just on his arm, but inside his chest. His mind spun with endless, looping thoughts: He’s going to leave. He’s already gone. He doesn’t want me anymore. The cold fear wrapped itself around his throat like a noose. He pressed the blade into his skin again, savoring the sharp sting that cut through the growing panic.
Blood welled up quickly, warm and sticky, and Hajime’s breath hitched. The pain was overwhelming but also strangely grounding. It meant something real. It meant he was still here, still fighting for Gisei, even if it was with broken pieces of himself. He flexed his fingers, trembling as the red spread.
His thoughts became frantic and fragmented, like shattered glass cutting into him with every heartbeat. More. I need more. He has to see this. He has to know how much I’m breaking because of him. The obsession twisted his thoughts into knots. The lines on his skin were proof of his existence, proof of his need, proof that he couldn’t let go.
He pressed the blade down again, slow and deliberate, carving a fresh wound. The sting exploded through him, a brutal reminder that pain was the only constant he could trust. Tears mixed with the blood on his face, burning hot trails that felt like silent screams.
The room felt suffocating, closing in around him. He was lost inside his own storm, drowning in a sea of desperate longing and terrifying obsession. The scars were becoming a map of his pain — a twisted, bleeding diary only Gisei might one day read.
But would Gisei stay long enough to see it? Or would Hajime’s world shatter completely, leaving only the cold, cruel silence of absence?
Hajime’s fingers trembled as he wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, but the sting never left. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, locked onto the deep red lines snaking across his skin like cruel reminders of everything he feared. Each cut was a desperate message — Don’t leave me. I need you. But the silence in the room was deafening, swallowing his plea whole.
His chest heaved with ragged breaths. The sharp ache in his wrist mingled with the wild pounding of his heart. He felt like he was unraveling, thread by fragile thread, a fragile puppet pulled too hard. The obsession clawed at him, relentless and raw. He wanted Gisei to see these scars — not just as wounds, but as proof that Hajime was here, struggling, bleeding, begging to be held.
What if he’s already gone? The thought twisted inside him, cold and merciless. Hajime’s hand shook violently as he gripped the blade again, the metal slick with blood. He pressed it lightly against his skin, the edge teasing the surface like a cruel whisper. He wanted more — more pain, more blood, more scars — anything to make the emptiness stop screaming.
The room was a prison of shadows and red. Hajime curled into himself, the blade dropping quietly to the floor. His breath hitched in a ragged sob. The pain was unbearable, but worse was the silence that followed — the silence that felt like the space Gisei might leave behind if he walked away for good.
He wanted to scream. To reach out. But all that came was a broken whisper,
Please don’t leave me.
The knife clattered softly against the floor, lost amid the dark, like Hajime’s scattered thoughts. His body curled inward, trembling with exhaustion that seeped into his bones. The wounds burned fiercely — fresh, raw, unforgiving — but the physical pain was only part of the storm raging inside him. His mind was a tangled web of fear and obsession, a sick devotion that twisted everything he knew about love and pain.
He felt suffocated by the weight of his own need. The terrifying thought that Gisei might walk away, leaving him abandoned and invisible, clawed at his heart like sharp talons. He’s gone. He’s leaving. He’s already gone. The echo of those words screamed louder than his sobs, drowning out reason and mercy alike. Hajime’s breath hitched and broke into ragged gasps, the tight cage around his chest crushing his lungs.
Blood slicked his arms, a mosaic of crimson trails that mapped his anguish. Each scar was a twisted symbol — not just of suffering, but of his desperate attempt to hold on. The wounds were like a raw confession written on skin, a brutal testament to a love that hurt too much, to a fear so deep it bled.
His eyes burned with tears he refused to let fall, burning hot and sharp against his skin. In the darkness, he saw Gisei’s face flicker — distant, unreadable, and terrifyingly cold. Hajime wanted to reach out, to beg, to scream that he needed him more than air, more than anything. But the words lodged in his throat, choked by a toxic blend of love and fear.
He hated that he was like this. Hated that his obsession had poisoned him into craving pain as proof of existence, that his scars were his desperate attempt to scream, “I’m here. Don’t leave me.” He knew it was broken, dangerous, but he couldn’t stop. The thought of Gisei slipping away was a blade slicing through him sharper than any wound he could carve on his skin.
He shivered violently, clutching his arms around himself as if to hold the pieces together. His voice broke into a whisper, trembling and raw.
“Please… don’t go. Don’t leave me alone in this.”
The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft drip of blood pooling beneath him. Hajime’s breath slowly steadied, the ache in his body a dull throb beneath the raw, desperate beating of his heart. He knew healing wouldn’t come from these wounds. It wouldn’t come without Gisei, without answers, without connection.
But right now, in the fragile darkness, all he had was the burning weight of his scars and a hope as fragile as glass — that maybe, somehow, Gisei might still see him. Not just the blood, not just the pain, but him. The broken, bleeding, fiercely clinging Hajime beneath it all.