Overwhelm
Requested by: @mochigen001
The day started wrong and never found its footing.
You knew it the moment you woke up. There was a weight in your chest, a static hum beneath your skin, the kind of warning sign you'd learned to recognise but never quite managed to defuse. Your brain felt like a browser with too many tabs open, each one playing a different sound at a different volume, and someone had lost the remote.
The toothpaste was too strong. The bathroom light buzzed at a frequency that made your teeth ache. Your favourite shirt—the soft one, the safe one—was in the laundry, and every other option felt like sandpaper against your skin. You stood in front of your closet for ten minutes, your hands shaking, your throat tightening, until you grabbed something at random and pulled it on and tried not to cry.
Gen was still asleep. His shift didn't start for another two hours, and he was sprawled across the bed like a starfish, one arm flung over the empty space where you'd been. You didn't wake him. He needed the rest, and you didn't want him to see you like this. Not yet. Not when you couldn't explain it.
Work was worse.
The office was too bright. The fluorescents flickered at the edge of your vision, strobing in a way that made your stomach turn. Your coworker in the next cubicle was eating something crunchy, and the sound of it—the wet smack of lips, the grinding of teeth—drilled into your skull like a dentist's drill. Someone had changed the default notification sound on the shared computer system. It was one note higher than before. You noticed. You couldn't stop noticing.
By noon, you'd retreated to the bathroom three times to press your palms against the cold tile and breathe. By three, you'd stopped responding to emails because every new message felt like an accusation, a demand, another weight added to the pile that was already crushing you. By five, your boss called you into her office to ask why the quarterly report hadn't been submitted, and you stood there with your hands clenched at your sides and your jaw locked so tight your teeth hurt, and you said, "I'll have it tomorrow," in a voice that didn't sound like yours.
She frowned. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Fine."
"You look pale."
"I'm fine."
"You can go home early if you need to."
The offer should have been a relief. It wasn't. It was just another thing to feel guilty about. Another failure. Another proof that you couldn't handle what everyone else handled without complaint.
The commute home was a gauntlet. The train was crowded, and someone's elbow pressed into your ribs, and a baby was crying three rows away, and the overhead speaker crackled with static every time the conductor made an announcement. You dug your fingernails into your palms and counted the stops and tried to remember how to breathe.
By the time you reached the apartment, you were fraying at every edge.
The key wouldn't turn in the lock. It caught, stuck, refused to cooperate. You jiggled it. You forced it. You tried again, and again, and again, and your hands were shaking so badly now that you couldn't even grip it properly, and the tears you'd been holding back all day finally spilled over. Hot and fast and humiliating.
The door swung open.
Gen stood in the doorway, still in his sweatpants, his hair a mess, his expression shifting from sleepy confusion to sharp alertness in the space of a heartbeat. His good eye—the one that still worked perfectly—swept over your face, your shaking hands, the key still clutched in your white-knuckled grip.
"Hey," he said. "Hey. What's going on?"
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. The tears kept coming, and your throat was closing, and the hallway light was buzzing just like the bathroom light, and your shirt was scratching against your collarbone, and everything was too much, too loud, too bright, too—
"Okay." His voice cut through the static, low and steady. "Okay. Come inside. Come here."
He didn't touch you. He knew better than to touch you when you were like this. Instead, he stepped aside and created space, a clear path from the doorway to the couch, and you stumbled through it like a swimmer breaking the surface of water.
The apartment was dim. He'd pulled the curtains. The overhead lights were off, replaced by the soft glow of a single lamp in the corner. The TV was muted, the console dark. He'd been waiting for you, you realised. He'd known, somehow, that today was a bad day.
You made it to the couch and collapsed. Your bag slid off your shoulder and hit the floor with a thud. Your shoes were still on. You couldn't figure out how to take them off. The laces required fine motor skills and you had none left, none at all, your fingers were stupid and useless and—
"Can I?" Gen's voice was close now. He'd knelt in front of the couch, his hands hovering near your feet but not touching. "The shoes. Do you want me to?"
You nodded. A jerky, desperate motion.
He untied the laces. Slowly. Carefully. He didn't comment on how ridiculous this was, a grown adult who couldn't take off their own shoes. He didn't sigh or roll his eyes or make any of the faces you'd learned to dread from other people, the ones that said you're being dramatic, you're being difficult, you're being too much.
He just untied the laces and pulled the shoes off and set them neatly by the door. Then he sat on the floor in front of the couch, his back against the coffee table, his knees drawn up, and waited.
The tears became sobs. Ugly, gasping sobs that shook your whole body and left you hollowed out. You pressed your hands over your ears because the sound of your own crying was too loud, and you curled into a ball, and you rocked because the motion helped, a little, like a metronome in the chaos.
Gen didn't speak. He didn't try to fix it. He just sat there, a steady presence in your peripheral vision, his breathing slow and even. A rhythm you could borrow.
After a long time, the sobs quieted. The static receded. The world came back in pieces—the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic, the faint scent of whatever he'd been cooking before you came home.
"Bad day?" he asked.
You laughed. It came out wet and ragged. "Bad everything."
"Yeah. I figured." He shifted, turning to face you more directly. "Do you want to talk about it, or do you want me to just... be here?"
"Be here. Please. I can't—words are—"
"Hard. I know." He reached up and very slowly, very gently, placed his hand on the couch cushion beside your head. Not touching. Just close. An offering. "You don't have to explain. I get it."
And he did. That was the miracle of it. Gen Narumi, who'd grown up in an orphanage that didn't understand him, who'd spent his whole life being told he was too loud, too lazy, too much—he understood. He knew what it felt like to have a brain that wouldn't cooperate. He knew what it felt like to be overwhelmed by things that shouldn't be overwhelming. He knew.
"Can I hold you?" he asked. "Or is touch too much right now?"
You considered it. The pressure of the couch cushions against your body. The scratch of the fabric. The weight of your own limbs.
"Maybe in a minute," you whispered.
"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
He leaned his head back against the coffee table and closed his eyes. The lamp cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the faint scar near his temple. He looked tired. He always looked tired lately. But he didn't look impatient.
"You don't have to sit on the floor," you said.
"I know."
"It's uncomfortable."
"I've sat on worse. You should see the chairs at the Defense Force briefings. It's like they're designed to cause spinal damage."
A weak smile tugged at your mouth. "You complain about the chairs every week."
"Because they're terrible. Someone should file a formal complaint."
"You're the captain. You could file the complaint."
"And do paperwork? No thanks." He opened one eye, peering at you. "See, you're already smiling. I'm excellent at this."
"At what?"
"At being your boyfriend. It's my best skill."
"Your only skill."
"Rude. I have many skills." He started counting on his fingers. "Kaiju killing. Video games. Looking handsome. Making you smile when you're sad. That's four things."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm emotionally supportive. There's a difference."
Your laugh was small and fragile, but it was real. The static in your chest had quieted to a low hum. The tears had stopped. The world was still too bright and too loud, but Gen was here, being ridiculous on the floor, and somehow that made it bearable.
"I'm ready now," you said. "For the holding."
He didn't move too fast. He climbed onto the couch with the careful deliberation of someone who knew that sudden movements could shatter the fragile calm. His arm slid around your shoulders, and his chest pressed against your back, and his body curled around yours like a shield.
"This okay?" he asked.
"Mm."
"Too tight?"
"No. It's good."
"Good." His chin rested on the top of your head. His heartbeat was steady against your spine. "You know this isn't your fault, right? The bad days. The meltdowns. None of it."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you get this look sometimes. Like you think you're failing at something. Like you think you're too much."
Your throat tightened. "Gen—"
"You're not. You're not too much. You're exactly the right amount. The exact right stats for your build. And anyone who's ever made you feel otherwise is an idiot."
"Even when I can't open a door?"
"Especially then. That door was poorly designed. I've been saying it for months."
You laughed again, and this time it came easier. "You've never said that."
"I'm saying it now. Bad door. Terrible lock. Zero out of ten." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "You want to know something?"
"What?"
"I used to have days like this. When I was a kid. Before I learned how to shove everything down. The lights in the orphanage were too bright, and the other kids were too loud, and I couldn't—I couldn't deal with it. So I'd hide. Closets, mostly. Under beds. Anywhere dark and quiet." His voice was low, reflective. "No one ever came looking for me. They just let me stay there until I came out on my own."
Your heart cracked. "Gen."
"I'm not telling you that so you'll feel sorry for me. I'm telling you so you know I get it. I get it, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to let you hide in the dark alone." His arm tightened around you. "You're my player two. My healer. My favourite person. You're allowed to have bad days. You're allowed to fall apart. I'll be here when you put yourself back together."
You turned in his arms, pressing your face against his chest. His shirt was soft. He must have changed out of his uniform before you got home, deliberately choosing something that wouldn't scratch against your skin. The thoughtfulness of it—the quiet, unassuming care—brought fresh tears to your eyes.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"For what?"
"For not making me explain. For not getting frustrated. For sitting on the floor."
"I'll always sit on the floor for you. The floor is fine. The floor is my friend."
"You're so weird."
"I'm emotionally available. There's a difference." He tilted your chin up, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. "Seriously, though. You don't have to thank me. This is the deal. This is what we signed up for. Good days and bad days. Meltdowns and all."
"You signed up for meltdowns?"
"I signed up for you. The meltdowns are part of the package. A very small part. The rest of the package is excellent."
"Excellent?"
"Premium quality. Five stars. Would recommend to a friend." He kissed your forehead. "Now. Do you want dinner? I was making something, but it might be burned. I got distracted."
"By what?"
"By my beautiful partner having a crisis in the hallway. Very distracting. Ruined my cooking."
"Your cooking was already ruined."
"Rude. And probably true." He sat up, pulling you with him. "Come on. You can sit on the counter and tell me what to do. I'll be your hands."
"You'll burn it again."
"Then we'll order takeout. Either way, you're eating something." He stood, offering his hand. "Deal?"
You looked at his hand. At his tired, handsome face. At the apartment he'd dimmed and quieted just for you, the shoes he'd untied, the space he'd made.
"Deal," you said, and took it.
The kitchen was warm. The lights were still low. Gen burned the rice, just like you'd predicted, and you sat on the counter and directed him through making a second batch, and he complained the entire time about how rice cookers were "overcomplicated" and "probably designed by kaiju."
By the time you ate, the static was almost gone. Your brain was still fragile, still raw, still teetering on the edge of overwhelm. But Gen was across the table, stealing food off your plate and telling you about the terrible new rookie who'd tried to challenge him to a sparring match, and you were laughing, and the world felt manageable again.
That night, you lay in bed with the curtains drawn and the white noise machine humming softly on the nightstand. Gen's arm was draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even, his body a warm wall against your back.
"Gen?" you whispered.
"Mm?"
"I love you. A lot."
"I love you too. A lot a lot." He pressed a groggy kiss to your shoulder. "Now sleep. You need it."
"Okay."
"And tomorrow, if it's another bad day, we'll deal with it. Same as today."
"Same as today."
"Exactly. Co-op mode."
"Co-op mode," you echoed, and smiled into the dark.
Outside, the city hummed its endless hum. Inside, Gen Narumi held you close and steady, and you let yourself be held, and you let yourself believe—maybe for the first time—that you weren't too much. That you were never too much.
You were just you. And that was exactly enough.
