When they catch you in an attempt and the aftermath pt 1
Warnings: Self-harm themes!!!
Also this is for entertainment purposes only! While I do have thoughts I just do this to get them out so don't worry!
You had always been an open book with him—or so you let him believe. You had handed him the map to your trauma, pointing out the landmarks of recurring memories and the hollow valleys where the feeling of being a "bother" lived. You told him how you feared being unwanted, a ghost in the life of a man who was destined for the sun.
But there was a difference between explaining the map and being lost in the woods.
When the slumps hit, you didn't call for help. You performed. You wore a smile like a mask of glass—beautiful, clear, but ready to shatter at the slightest pressure. You preferred the silence; you thought you were protecting him from the weight of your internal collapse. He, however, hated it. He could see the cracks forming, the way your eyes went vacant, and the worrying way your silence began to feel like a ticking clock.
Today, the silence was deafening.
The apartment was a tomb of expensive furniture and stagnant air. You were staring at your phone, the blue light stinging your eyes as you scrolled through the digital poison.
“He needs to leave her.” “She isn't even pretty; she’s just a placeholder.” “It’s obvious she used her body to keep him.”
The words shouldn't have mattered, but in the vacuum of a depressive slump, they became gospel. Your mind, already fragile, began to weave a narrative of your own worthlessness. You weren’t just a bother; you were a stain on his perfect career.
Then came the autopilot.
It’s a terrifying thing when the mind detaches from the hands. You didn't "decide" to do it. There was no conscious thought, no dramatic declaration of intent. There was only a cold, heavy fog that settled over your limbs. Your body moved with a rhythmic, ghostly precision, guided by a desperate need to turn the invisible screaming in your head into something tangible—something you could finally touch, see, and control.
The quiet was broken only by the sound of your own shallow breathing, a stark contrast to the storm brewing just beneath your skin.
The Breaking Point: Rin Itoshi
The silence in the penthouse didn't just feel empty; it felt heavy, like the air had been replaced with lead.
Usually, the sound of Rin’s keys in the lock was the starting gun for your arrival—the "cheesy" grin, the warmth of your greeting that acted as his only true decompression after a grueling day on the pitch. He loved the way your skin looked against the white minimalist decor of his home, a vibrant, beautiful life force that made the place feel human. But for seventy-two hours, the starting gun had fired, and no one had run.
“I’m home,” he called out. His voice was flat, but his heart was already beginning to hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
No answer.
He moved through the hallway, his footsteps sounding like thunder in the void. He checked the living room—empty. The kitchen—cold. It wasn’t until he reached the master suite that he heard it: the relentless, hollow hiss of a running faucet.
He didn't think; he just moved. But as he stepped toward the bathroom, he felt a strange, sickening warmth soak into his socks. He looked down. The pristine white tile was being swallowed by a spreading, translucent veil of pink. In an instant, the pink deepened into a heavy, visceral crimson, leaking from beneath the door like a silent scream.
"No." The word wasn't a thought; it was a guttural command to the universe. He grabbed the handle, but the lock held firm. The logic of "Rin Itoshi"—the tactician, the cold-blooded striker—evaporated. He backed up and threw the entire weight of his body against the wood.
CRACK. The frame groaned. He hit it again, the impact jarring his shoulder, but he felt no pain. On the third strike, the wood splintered, and the door gave way.
The sight was a nightmare. The tub was overflowing, a waterfall of red-stained water cascading over the side. And there, slumped against the porcelain, was the only person who made his life feel like something more than a series of goals. Your rich, dark skin—usually so warm and glowing—was terrifyingly ashen, your head tilted back, your body dangerously still.
"Hey—hey!" His voice broke, a sound of pure, unrefined agony. He lunged into the water, his expensive gear soaking through instantly as he hauled you out.
He gathered you into his lap on the cold floor, his large, pale hands shaking violently as they contrasted against your damp skin. He was terrified of how light you felt, as if the world had already started taking you back. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.
"Don't you dare," he hissed, his voice a frantic command whispered into your ear. "Open your eyes. You don't get to leave me here. You don't get to let those faceless cowards win. Look at me!"
He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trembling. He remembered the things you'd confessed—the feeling of being a "bother," the exhaustion of having to be "twice as good" just to be seen. He realized then that while he was out fighting for trophies, you were at home fighting a war for your own soul, and he had let you fight it alone.
"I've got you," he choked out, pulling your limp form closer to his chest, his tears finally breaking. "I've got you. Just breathe. Please, just breathe for me."
—
Your eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead. As you blinked, the harsh fluorescent lights of the recovery room burned, but a shadow quickly blocked the glare.
"Don't move," a voice commanded. It was gravelly, raw, and stripped of its usual razor-sharp edge.
You turned your head slowly. Rin was sitting in a plastic chair that looked far too small for him. He looked like he hadn't slept in a century. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was still wearing the same clothes from practice—now wrinkled and stained.
The memory of the "autopilot" hit you all at once—the comments, the sink, the cold water. You tried to pull your hand away, the shame rising in your throat like bile. "Rin... I’m sorry. I didn't—I wasn't thinking."
"Stop," he snapped, but there was no heat in it. His grip on your hand tightened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles with a desperate rhythm. "Don't apologize for being broken when I’m the one who didn't see the pieces falling."
For the next three days, Rin became a permanent fixture in room 402. He didn't care about the league, the scouts, or the headlines. When his manager called, Rin told him in no uncertain terms that if anyone tried to make him leave this room, he’d quit the sport entirely.
He sat by your bed, watching the IV drip with a terrifying intensity. He took over everything. He helped you sit up, he brushed your hair with fingers that were surprisingly gentle for a man who lived for violence on the pitch, and he made sure your skin was moisturized and cared for, refusing to let the hospital environment dull your glow.
On the second night, when the silence felt safe enough to speak, he leaned his head against the edge of your mattress.
"Those people online," he started, his voice a low vibration. "They don't see you. They see a target. But I see the person who makes the sun come up in that apartment. If you think you're a bother, then let me be bothered. I want the weight. I want all of it."
He looked up at you, his teal eyes shimmering with a vulnerability he had never shown another living soul.
"You aren't a placeholder, [Name]. You’re the only person who actually matters. If the world is too loud, we’ll burn it down. But you stay. You stay here with me."
The False Return: Sae Itoshi
The Spanish sun had been relentless, but the air in your seaside home was always cool, smelling of salt and the expensive citrus candles you favored. Sae had cut his trip short, skipping the post-game celebrations to catch an earlier flight. He told himself it was for the rest, but in truth, he had been unsettled by your recent texts—short, clipped, and devoid of the "Cari" he had grown accustomed to.
He toed off his shoes at the door, the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below providing a backdrop to the low hum of the television in the living room.
“Cari, I’m home,” he called out. His voice was steady, but he paused, waiting for the familiar sound of your footsteps, the soft brush of your skin against his, the kiss that used to be his favorite part of returning.
Silence. Only the flickering light of the TV news cast shadows against the walls.
Sae began to walk down the hallway, his gaze sweeping the rooms. He had bought this house for you because you loved the ocean—you said the vastness of the blue made you feel like you could breathe. He hadn't realized that lately, that vastness had started looking less like a view and more like an exit.
He reached the glass doors leading to the balcony. The curtains were billowing in the wind like white ghosts.
Then, he saw you.
You were standing on the marble railing, your dark skin illuminated by the silver moonlight, your dress snapping violently in the sea breeze. You weren't looking back. You were looking at the horizon, at the place where the sky and the water became one—a place where the noise of the world finally stopped.
The "New Genius" of the football world, the man who never panicked, felt his heart stop. His blood turned to ice.
He didn't scream. He didn't have the air for it. He lunged forward just as your weight shifted—just as you stepped into the nothingness.
His body moved with the explosive, instinctual speed of an elite athlete. He reached out, his fingers straining, his eyes wide with a terror that shattered his porcelain-cool exterior. In that split second, the ocean didn't look beautiful anymore. it looked like a monster trying to take his world away.
"[NAME]!"
The scream finally tore from his throat, raw and jagged, as his hand clamped around your wrist at the very last possible second, the force of the save jarring his entire frame against the railing.
Sae hauled you back over the railing with a strength born of pure adrenaline, slamming both of you onto the balcony floor. He didn't let go. He wrapped his arms around you, pinning you to his chest, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches—a sound you had never heard from him.
"You're not going," he choked out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling violently. "I don't care about the game. I don't care about the world. You stay here. You stay with me.”
Once the curtains were drawn, blotting out the ocean that had almost claimed you, Sae finally came apart. He didn't pace or yell. He dropped to his knees right there on the rug, pulling you down with him. His hands were clamped on your shoulders, and for the first time in his life, the "Genius" looked completely illiterate to the situation.
"Why?" The word was a jagged glass splinter. Then, his voice rose, cracking in a way that felt like a physical blow. "Why?! You told me the memories were recurring. You told me you felt like a bother. I thought I was listening. I thought I gave you everything!"
He let out a sharp, hysterical breath of a laugh, his eyes shimmering with a rare, terrifying moisture.
"Is this how little I mean to you? That you’d leave me to walk back into an empty house?" He shook you gently, his forehead dropping to rest against your collarbone, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the adrenaline. "I can calculate every move on a pitch, but I couldn't see that the woman I love was disappearing right in front of me. Am I that much of a failure?"
The breakdown didn't lead to a return to normalcy; it led to a total reconstruction of your lives. Sae refused to let you go back to the bedroom—it was too close to the balcony, too close to the "nothingness."
With a grim, silent efficiency, he dragged the mattress into the center of the living room. He created a fortress in the heart of the house, surrounded by the TV, the kitchen, and him. He became a ghost in his own home, moving with a silent, lethal focus. He hid the balcony keys. He removed the knives from the kitchen.
But the most intense part was his silence. Sae stopped sleeping.
You would wake up at 4:00 AM to find him sitting in the shadows at the foot of the mattress, his teal eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your chest. He watched your breath as if he were a sentry guarding a flickering candle in a storm.
"Sae," you whispered one night, the guilt heavy in your chest. "You have to close your eyes. You’re exhausted."
"No," he replied, his voice flat and hollow, his gaze never wavering. "I closed my eyes in Spain. I closed them while you were making plans to erase yourself. I’m not closing them again."
He began to treat your recovery like a high-stakes match where he couldn't afford a single error. He brought you your meals, sitting on the floor beside you, watching you eat with a clinical intensity that masked his terror. He didn't lecture you anymore. Instead, he would trace the lines of your palm for hours, as if trying to tether your soul to his.
"I’m not going back to the club yet," he said one evening, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. It wasn't a discussion. "They can fine me. They can strip my title. It doesn't matter. There is no 'best in the world' if there is no world to come home to."
He looked up, his pink hair falling over his eyes, his expression raw.
"You think no one needs you? Look at me, Cari. Look at what you’ve done to me. I am a man who can't even sleep because I'm afraid you'll turn into smoke if I do. Don't ever tell me you're a bother again. You are the only thing that's real."
The Silent Explosion: Ryusei Shidou
Ryusei had been gone for exactly ten minutes.
He had sprinted to the corner store, his movements a blur of lean muscle and restless energy. He was grinning to himself as he tossed your favorite snacks into a plastic bag, already imagining the look on your face when he burst through the door. He knew you’d been in a "grey zone" lately—quiet, distant, drifting—and he hated it. He wanted to shock you back into the light, to see that vibrant, beautiful glow of your dark skin when you laughed at his antics.
He practically kicked the front door open, his wings-up, head-high swagger radiating through the apartment. "Yo! The King of the Goal is back with the goods! Come and get 'em before I—"
He stopped.
The apartment was silent, except for a sound that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up: the relentless, hollow hiss of the bathroom faucet. It was a mundane sound, but in the stillness of the room, it sounded like a warning.
The grin didn't fade all at once; it curdled.
He dropped the bag—the snacks spilling across the hardwood—and moved toward the bathroom. He wanted it to be a joke. He wanted to find you in the tub, maybe just tired, maybe just hiding. He pushed the door open with a playful "Caught ya!", but the words died in his throat, turning into a strangled, silent scream.
You were slumped against the porcelain, your head lolled to the side, your dark skin looking tragically dull under the harsh vanity lights. Your fingers were loosely curled around a plastic bottle that lay empty on the floor—a handful of chemical "nothings" that had stolen his everything.
"No... no, no, no."
The "Demon" of the pitch didn't move with grace this time. He stumbled. He crashed to his knees beside you, his large, calloused hands fumbling as he grabbed your shoulders. For the first time in his life, Ryusei Shidou was terrified of his own strength. He was afraid that if he shook you too hard, you’d shatter; he was afraid that if he didn't, you’d never wake up.
"Hey! Wake up! This isn't a funny joke, [Name]!" His voice was a jagged, high-pitched rasp, stripped of all its usual cockiness. He shoved his fingers into your mouth, his mind racing with a desperate, violent need to undo what had been done. "Come on, spit it out! Give it back! You don't get to take this away from me!" He managed to get you to throw up everything you swallowed.
He hauled you into his lap, crushing your limp body against his chest. He wasn't crying yet—he was vibrating. His entire body was humming with a frantic, desperate energy, as if he could jump-start your heart with his own.
"Don't go dark on me," he hissed into your ear, his forehead pressed against yours so hard it bruised. "I don't play in the dark! I need your light!”
The ride to the hospital was a blur of Ryusei breaking every traffic law in existence, his hand never leaving yours. He didn't just stay in the waiting room; he paced it like a caged animal, his eyes glowing with a terrifying, predatory grief.
When you finally woke up, Ryusei wasn't sitting in a chair. He was perched on the edge of your bed, looking like a coiled spring ready to snap.
"You're a selfish brat," he whispered, though his eyes were shimmering with tears he refused to let fall. He leaned in close, his nose brushing yours, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "You tried to take the best thing in my life and throw it in the trash. Do you have any idea how much of a void you would've left?"
He didn't lecture you on "mental health" or "patience." He spoke in the only language he knew: passion and possession.
"If the world is making you feel like you're nothing, then look at me," he commanded, his grip on your hand painful and perfect. "I'm the most 'extra' person on this planet, and I’m telling you—without you, the explosion stops. The game is over. So you stay. You stay and you burn with me, even if it's just a flicker right now. I'll provide the fuel."
