warnings: PLEASE PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING, gn!reader, mention of suicidal thoughts/attempt, implied depression, self-deprecating thoughts, angst, comfort!!!
w/c: 2.2k last i checked
a/n: helo this is for @tetsvhoe’s please don’t say you love me collab and also my angst debut (technically if you don’t count the unwritten parts of rftp LOL). uhm this is something that’s very haha vulnerable just because i wrote it when i was in a not-so-hot place. but writing this was like lifting off a weight from my chest and i hope it’s able to have the same effect on you <3
[05:37 PM] you: i had a shit day
[05:37 PM] you: i'm just gonna go to bed, i'll prob be sleeping by the time you come home
[05:37 PM] you: i'm sorry, i know you wanted to eat dinner together
[05:37 PM] you: i just can't right now
you're already cozied up within the blankets by the time his response comes, phone blissfully set on do not disturb. the response comes at six on the dot, just like you knew it would, because osamu always takes breaks at the beginning of every hour.
he's a man of routine, and you can't help but think that you keep fucking that up.
that, among other things.
[06:00 PM] osamu: don't worry about it, i'll be home soon
[06:00 PM] osamu: sleep well, baby
you awake some hours after, a warm weight draped over your waist, a thumb rubbing circles on your stomach. your back is pulled close to the heat of his chest and his chin is hooked over your shoulder—you feel his quiet breaths against your skin.
he's still awake. you know that because his exhales are more drawn-out than when he's sleeping. that's what he does when he lays next to you—he controls his breathing so that it's quiet.
he told you once that he does that because he doesn't want to wake you up with how loud he breathes. you'd laughed at the time, and he'd chimed in with a 'i'm serious!'
that all seems very far away now. you don't let the small smile of the memory pull at your lips.
with a rare burst of energy, you rotate your body, unceremoniously shuffling on the bed until you're facing him. his eyes widen as your eyelashes flutter open.
"hey," he whispers carefully. delicately. as if he's too loud, some gust of wind will blow through and slam the window shutters shut, trapping him out.
you hate how you make him worry.
"hi," you hum.
his hands raises to trail a finger underneath your earlobe and cup your cheek. you'd nuzzle into the touch, but you don't think you deserve to indulge in it.
"how're you feeling?"
an indiscriminate noise slips from between your lips. "better."
"'better' enough to eat?"
you frown. "no, you're not cooking. you just came from work—"
osamu shrugs. "i love cooking."
you ignore the pang of pain in your chest when he says that.
"i'm sure you're tired," you say, closing and opening your eyes to clear your blurry vision. slowly, you begin sitting up with the intent of getting out of bed, ignoring the way your head spins. your feet pat mindlessly at the floor beneath you in a poor effort to find your slippers.
"i'll make... something. some ramen."
as you lift yourself up, he grabs your wrist. "i'm cooking." you open your mouth to protest but he cuts you off. "you had a bad day and i'm the professional chef. end of discussion."
you try to fight him on it, you really do, but he's faster and you're neck-deep in lethargy. in the time it takes you to stand, he's already out the door, giving you a two-finger salute with a cheeky smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
you hate how you make him worry.
somewhere along the way, you doze off again, your face half-pressed into the pillow with your limbs tangled in the comforter. the scent of something delicious trails in from the other side of the door, and your stomach growls.
a muffled 'dinner's ready!' rings out, and you groan, pressing the meat of your palms to your eyes before pulling yourself upright.
you trudge to the dining table, following your nose more than anything else, chasing the remnants of sleep with barely-closed eyes. the table's a quaint little thing with only four chairs, one of which has an uneven leg that keeps pattering against the floor, but right now, it looks better than any of the five-star restaurants osamu's ever dragged you to.
there's two plates set up. they don't match—one is decorated with simplistic flowers, and the other is a metal dish swiped from the restaurant—but you could care less. each is filled to the brim with warm, orange noodles, a cloud of steam rising from them with a smell that makes your mouth water.
and as you scoop the first forkful of food into your mouth, under osamu's watchful gaze, it's like color has returned to the grayscale of your mind. you sigh happily, letting the comfort of the meal wrap you tight, and then you let the cook do the same.
and for some time, everything's alright. you have your occasional lows, and osamu has his, but together, you're always able to figure things out.
you're always able to feel okay again.
that was the first time.
after that, those 'shitty days' become more and more frequent until they outnumber the 'not-shitty days'. more often than not, you're already tucked into bed by the time osamu comes home, an apology having been typed out and sent. half the time, you pretend to be asleep when the bed dips under osamu's weight and his hands massage your aching muscles. the other half, you at least make an attempt to greet him with a smile and ask about his day.
though the strength you have to maintain that latter half is waning.
it's on a saturday morning, when you're sitting on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands, that everything starts boiling over.
"i just want you to talk to me."
you stay silent.
"i'm here for you, i swear. tell me what you need and i'll make it happen, i promise. just–"
you clear your throat and his rambling lapses into silence.
"i'm just... tired."
after a few beats, when it's clear that you're not going to elaborate without being prompted, he speaks. his voice is soft. delicate.
you hate how you make him worry.
"tired of what?"
you bite your lower lip as memories of late-night meals, all-encompassing hugs, coarse fingers wiping your tears away, all come flashing through your brain. you don't deserve it, any of it, you're sure of that.
you don't deserve him.
you chuckle mirthlessly, digging your fingers into your temples.
"isn't it obvious? i'm tired of being a burden."
he stills; you can feel it, the air shifting with way his jaw clenches and hands tighten into fists. he drops to his knees in front of you, tilting your head up from your chest so that you're making eye contact with him.
"are you serious?" he sounds almost angry. you avert your eyes from his. "you're not a fucking burden."
you scoff, getting off the bed and walking to the other side of it. out of the corner of your eye, you see osamu rising off his knees, expression unreadable.
"it's like talking to a brick wall," you say, throwing your hands in the air.
"where is this coming from?"
you spin on your heel, face burning. you're seething, breaths coming in harsh pants.
"'where is this'—what do you mean 'where is this coming from?' i'm like a fucking leech! all i do is suck the happiness out of your life, don't you see it?"
"no you don't," he replies curtly. "you don't—"
"yes i do!" you sound frenzied, almost manic at this point. why doesn't he get it? why doesn't he see that he could do so much better than some pathetic, fucked-up individual that has done nothing to deserve his affection? "i just keep holding you back."
"don't say that." he's made his way to you, cupping your face in his hands. his face is anguished, tears prickling at his lashline. "that's not true. please, don't say that."
you hate how you make him worry.
you exhale, closing your eyes for just a second, before opening them up again, a hardness in your stare that has him wincing. your voice is low and deliberate when you speak again.
"haven't you noticed that you cook more for me than you do for the restaurant? you drop the dinner shift almost every day just to make sure i eat, like i'm some kind of dependent child, because i can't fucking do it myself. i can't even bring myself to eat anymore and you're the one that's forced to pick up the pieces."
his brows furrow. "the restaurant is a job. you're my partner—"
"that's not the point," you hiss, tears now streaming down your heated cheeks. "that's not the fucking point."
"then what is?" he asks almost desperately. he can feel you slipping through his grasp, he can feel you spiraling down, down, down...
"i'm keeping you from doing what you love!"
your admission slices through the air.
osamu can barely think through your words—he's fucking pissed. pissed at himself for making you feel that way, pissed at you for convincing yourself of that, pissed at the whole fucking world.
he takes a shaky breath.
"...and what is it exactly that i love?"
"cooking, you asshole. cooking! you love the restaurant, and yet i'm the one that keeps you from it every fucking day!"
"are you serious?"
"yes i'm fucking serious! i'm like a ball and chain—"
"i love more things than just cooking!"
"like what? what is possibly worth you giving up your time and energy that you could be using for your dream—"
"i love you!"
a moment of quiet passes, then another, and another. you turn to osamu with incredulity written on your features.
"what?"
osamu swallows. "i love you."
you back away, hand quivering at your side.
"no. you don't get to pull that on me right now."
don't say that. don't stay with me any longer than you have to.
he walks towards you, voice strained as he tries to think of a way to fix this mess, to assure you that he'll always be here when you need him.
"i stay here because i love you, i take care of you because i love you, you have to understand that—"
his arms come to wrap you into a hug and you sob, a heart-wrenching noise that twists his internal organs into knots.
"you can't," you muster. "don't, god, don't fucking say that."
"why?" he's begging for some kind of explanation, for some way to heal your hurt and permanently dry your tears. "tell me why, please."
"'samu," you whisper into the air above his shoulder, knowing that this will change everything. "i don't want to be alive anymore."
he freezes, pulling away slightly to look at you. "shit."
you struggle for air as he runs his hands through his hair.
you hate how you make him worry.
"shit. have you—"
"no, i haven't attempted anything."
his eyes fly to yours in horror. "jesus fucking christ, that wasn't what i was gonna ask. have you talked to your doctor?"
"oh," your throat is dry. "no. not yet."
he nods silently—it's taking everything in him not to burst into tears.
"okay, let's do that first."
he moves to the bedside drawer, kneeling down to shuffle through the pile of documents and takeout menus stuffed in there.
"i know i have the info in here somewhere..." he mutters to himself.
"osamu," you whisper hoarsely.
he doesn't hear you.
"we'll get through this. you'll be okay."
"osamu," you say more forcefully.
he pauses, halting his movements.
“yeah?”
"there is no 'we' in this."
"what the hell is that supposed to mean?" he looks so heartbroken, so damaged—this is exactly what you wanted to avoid. "it's me and you. i'm gonna be here the whole time."
"i don't want you to."
you don't want him to be near when you inevitably burn up. you don't want his comforting embrace or his stupidly good food or his corny jokes, not when you know that you'll lose it all eventually.
"come on, don't say that. i love you."
you hate how you make him worry.
"i can't love you back." i want to, i want to so bad, but i can't. i'm so sorry. "i barely have it in me to love myself."
"i don't care about that. do you really think i'd care about that?"
"you deserve better."
"fuck what i deserve. you deserve better. you deserve the world. i can't give it to you but i can sure as hell try."
you take a shaky breath. "are you sure?"
his gaze unwavering, albeit watery. "never been surer."
"i'll just hold you back."
"you never do. you never will."
you bite back a sob. "it's just—everything is so hard. all the time."
he sniffles, cheeks wet. his voice cracks when he speaks. "then let me help."
"it won't be easy. for a long time, it's going to be really hard. i don’t know if i—"
"—i won’t let you do this alone. as long as i'm with you, i don't care if it’s hard."
"but—"
"—i'll always be here," he says firmly. "you're not getting rid of me."
you can't stop the grateful tears that gently cascade down your cheeks.
and sure, maybe you can't love osamu today. but there's always tomorrow. and the day after tomorrow. and the day after the day after tomorrow. you have time.
(TW SI) Depression Culture is having a awareness of you and your best friend (at the time) having mental unwellnesses (multiple) and doing such a bad job of it both you and her end the friendship and feeling suicidal about it forever after it's gone
imma have to put a trigger warning for homophobia and suicidal thoughts here !!
so i knew i was genderfluid when i was like 12-13 and i kept it a secret. after starting to watch anime i started closet cosplaying male characters and whatnot and i came out to my mom. i also told her i was mentally unwell and i wanted to kms:// what did she do? send me to therapy and ban me from watching anime. but we later made a deal and she allowed me to watch naruto <33 but then my dad found out and he said i was banned but i spend most of the time w my grandma so i have time to watch anime there <3
this is actually concerning... no hate to your parents or anything souco but banning a source of entertainment instead of sitting down to talk?? to find the source of your then mental state?? this is literally something my parents would do I'm gonna be honest 😭 I'm glad that you're separating from them a little bit and watching what you like my beloved. naurrr im telepathically telling your parents that you can cosplay whoever you want to cosplay 🙄🙄🙄 but seriously I really do hope your mental state has gotten better my love!!!
