Homesick || Aptitude || Part 3
Takahara was, to put it nicely, an asshole. There was no other word to describe him, and Shugo was incredibly disinclined to even try and find one. He knew it wasnât going to be a walk in the park from when he first moved into Mr. Takaharaâsâthe most of his things had been put in storage without him even knowing where that storage was or how to access it. Heâd been allowed his uniforms, the books he needed for his studies, his tools, and his computerâand before heâd even been allowed that, Mr. Takahara had taken his laptop and installed strange software that only seemed to allow him access to certain âusefulâ programs, anything fun requiring a password that he hadnât yet been able to guess.
At first Shugo had been told to work hard, to apply himself rigorously through the work week, and if he did well, Mr. Takahara would unlock his computer for the weekends, and that was that. Before his official training period started, even, Mr. Takahara had loaded him up on work and studies and virtually every chore that needed to be done around the apartment. Shugo did everything expected of him without complaint; stayed up late reading, typing, taking notes and learning, cleaned the apartment, washed the dishes, did the laundry. During the day he would follow Mr. Takahara around the base, silently watch and listen and learn.
Sometimes Mr. Takahara would take him to the firing range or the obstacle courses the Silver Squad members used, and those were good daysâsomething other than the stagnation of keeping his mouth shut (though that still seemed to be a requirement) and his shot groups became tighter and tighter with every odd visit. Otherwise, his training group met twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the afternoons and went on until late in the evening, and while the skills they were trained in were interesting, his peers were not.
They spent their time forced into the cramped office-turned-classroom side-eyeing each other suspiciously but never making any sort of conversations. Shugo wasnât even sure if any of them knew each otherâs names, and the only one or two he recognized he only knew from seeing their Friendface profiles one upon a time. It was all business, all intense work, memorizing cipher upon cipher, how to pick locks, and these strange logic puzzles that seldom seemed to make sense. A few weeks in they had an exam that was nothing but logic puzzles, and Shugo did his damndest on it.
He still scored the lowest in the group, and that was when he first learned that Takahara didnât accept failure. He couldnât remember even his father ever hitting him that hard, and it hadnât seemed like it would end, the rod continuously cracking against his back until he was splayed on the floor, scrawny arms trembling with the effort of trying to push himself up to his feet to run, to get away and find somewhere safe. Eventually, the beating had stopped, but before Shugo had been able to make a move, Takahara had grabbed him and dragged him to his feet, throwing him into his room before slamming the door, and Shugo heard something lock.
He didnât eat that night. Or the next night, for that matter. Two days passed locked in solitude before Takahara let him back out with a disapproving scowl and an order to do his chores, and with eyes down and shoulders hunched, Shugo obeyed. When he was finished he was allowed to use the bathroom and eat half a sandwich before he was returned to his room.
âYour punishment will be over in the morning,â Takahara had said, voice even, stern as if he were admonishing a child who had been put into time out for sneaking a few cookies before dinner, âand I expect your performance to increase exponentially. If you cock it up like that again, Iâll leave you in there longer.â
And then the door had been closed and locked behind him. Shugo had stood numbly for a minute before finally trudging over to his desk and taking a seat to begin studying his notes. The aching, bruised welts along his back commandeered the most of his attention, and more than once he found himself reading the same line over and over again. Eventually, he gave up with a huff, and instead went to flop on the bed.
....He missed Petrel. It was the only thing he could think of at a time like this. He missed the way Petrel would awkwardly try and make conversation only to fall short with his blunt statements and stiff body language. He missed smelling Petrelâs strange cooking in the evening, or the way he would make pancakes shaped like pokemon for him on the weekends. He missed the dumb ways Petrel would try and bond with him. Petrel had been caring, in his own odd, antisocial wayâand of course he never lifted a hand at him, a plus. Shugo wished he hadnât been such a jerk to him. Heâd only ever been trying to help, and now.... A lump rose in his throat. Petrel didnât want him around anymore, did he? Because Shugo screwed that up, too.
At the very least, he still had Mr. Mathew. Mr. Mathew was kind and gentle, and Shugo missed him, too, even though it hadnât really been as long since heâd seen him. Mr. Mathew was easier to understand, easier to feel the encouragement from, and seemed to care just as much as Petrel had. He wondered if Mr. Mathew missed him while he was... well... here. Maybe he should try to find some time to visit him, soon, so he wouldnât worry, wouldnât realize anything was amiss. There was no point in letting him, anyways. Shugo was going to be here until he was old enough to apply for his own dorm, because there was no way in hell anyone was going to...
He felt himself trembling, felt the stinging pricks at the corners of his eyes, and he turned over to bury his face into the pillow. Heâd let his nidoran out, but heâd hidden Kabuâs pokeball, afraid of what Takahara would do if he knew Shugo had such a small, fragile, adorable little pokemon with him. He was afraid in general, because he still wasnât quite sure where he went wrong with his test, and he didnât think he could do much better, next time, and then.... This would happen again. More welts. More bruises. Locked in for who knows how long, next time, and as desperately as he wanted someone to come save him before it could happen again, it... it just wouldnât. No one wouldâMr. Petrel wouldnâtâ.... The pillow began to grow wet as his shoulders shook and he hiccoughed a sob down.
Takahara was, to put it nicely, an asshole.
