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Four hours left.
Then three.
Then two.
One.
One hour left, and Midori's companions were getting more and more restless by the minute. It was supposed to be fun. It was fun. It was.
Was.
Midori's friends called out to him, screaming his name in excitement. 'Midori-kun' this, 'Midori-kun' that- he was sick of it. Not of the actions themselves, but the joy they brought him. Midori is a mistake. Midori isn’t supposed to have fun. Fun was reserved for the good people in the world- the hardworkers, the producers, the ones who can contribute something. Midori wasn't one of them. He was just some guy who wandered in, no aim or goal in mind. Who the hell did he think he was, getting any enjoyment from anything?
He can't take this anymore. He couldn't hear the impassioned ramblings of his fellow juniors, nor the faint warbled conversation his seniors were having. All Midori could hear were his own scrambled thoughts, his brain desperately trying to justify his existence. There was no good reason for him to be here, and the only reason he was was cowardice- he was just too scared to die. How pathetic.
Well, heroes are supposed to face death happily, right? Willingly. Proudly.
For once, Midori thinks he can live up to his title as RYUSEI Green.
Midori excuses himself from the main room. The bathroom was the excuse he gave, and while that was his destination, it wasn't for the reasons his teammates thought. On his way, passing through the kitchen, he thought to grab a knife, freshly sharpened to a fine point. How thrilling.
He quietly let the door click behind him and turned the lock. Sweat covered his palms, he noticed as he stared at the hand on the knob. It was shaking, too. Far more than he'd ever been conscious enough to register. Even his breaths were unsteady and jagged; uncontrolled. It was a miracle he hadn't knocked himself out from hyperventilating. Midori wasn't sure what the hesitation was even for, it's not like he's never done this before. He's thought it out meticulously countless times, attempted at least half as many- what was holding him back now?
The knife slips from his hand and nicks his foot. Midori jumps, kicking the blade to the wall without thinking of the noise it would make. He held his breath as if it would stop anyone from coming to check on him. He faintly heard one of his guests yell out, just a general 'you good?' out of obligation. Midori raised his voice as high as it would go and hoped they could hear so they wouldn't investigate further. After a minute with no move from the others, he sighed. A strange sense of relief filled him as he gripped the plastic handle.
Where to start... in his plans, he's usually submerged in scalding hot water as he bled to his inglorious end- y'know, the romantic way. But it would be pretty suspicious of him to draw a bath an hour 'til midnight, so he supposed he'd have to improvise.
Despite his demeanor, his self-hatred, his loathing for the person he's become, Midori doesnt like pain. He doesn't like to hurt. As much as he knows he deserves every last cut and bruise, each burn of a cigarette being snuffed out on his own skin, he didn't like it. Though, he supposed, that was the whole point, wasn't it? To suffer in a way he never had, to give him something to really feel sorry about. At least now, he had an excuse.
He sat himself in the tub as planned. No water, he shuddered. No water, no problem. This is what you deserve. Shakily, he shrugged off his jacket and threw it across the cramped room. Maybe it would make for a nice memento, something for his fellow idols to mourn over for a week before tossing it, or selling it online for an outrageouly high amount so they can still profit off of his death. He's sure it would pull in as much money as they wanted, especially if they knew it was worn just moments before his demise. Midori held the knife to his arm. He figured it'd be best to get this over with sooner rather than later before he thinks so hard he forgets to die.
The first few are mere scratches. He'd have to do better than that! And he tried, he tried everything he could think of, from going over cuts multiple times, trying to imagine he were dicing a carrot and not his own body, in hopes it would cut further, but no matter what he tried, he couldn't get any deeper than the surface. He balled his fists in frustration, grip on the knife becoming firmer and firmer, and slammed them down onto his lap on impulse. A choked cry escaped his throat at the sudden, searing pain in his thigh. He looked down to see the knife, down to the hilt, stuck in his leg. Blood poured, the impact having caught on and reopened some newer cuts in the area. The fanric of his pants only irritated them further. It was itchy, dammit, and his nails weren't doing him any favors ( Tetora and Shinobu made him keep his nails trimmed for this exact reason. ) Well, he still had that knife, right? He could work with that. ( He's made do with much less. )
Midori barely winced as he unceremoniously ripped the thing out of his now unfeeling leg and began to scratch away at his wounds like the back of a lotto ticket. The itch was far more than just skin-deep now, and he would skin himself alive if it would make it all go away. And so he did. Layer after layer; skin, fat, muscle, all of it- pain didn't mean shit anymore. He wanted this. He deserved this. No amount of pounding on the bathroom door could change his will, his fate. He was destined to bleed out there, cold and alone, skin torn off by his own feeble hands.
It was all too much again, but just enough to keep him going on the edge of consciousness. Whether it was more the blood loss or shock, he couldn't tell, but Midori refused to give in, not yet. He wouldn't let this be a repeat, another attempt. This would be a suicide.
He laughs to himself. I've never had so much conviction before. At least I did when it counted.
Then, everything went black. His head crashing against the faucet behind his head was the last thing he felt, mind unable to register the loud clang of his body going limp against the porcelain of the basin. He couldn't hear the screams of his friends, the incessant pounding on the door, the desperate pulling at the knob, none of it.
Five-
Tetora bashed the door, putting his whole body weight into tearing the thing down.
Four-
Shinobu went scouring the place for a something to loosen the screws with, or break the hinges, anything-
Three-
Kanata grabbed a decorative, not caring about its price or significance. It was metal, heavy, it could bring down a door, right?
Two-
Chiaki continued hammering on the door, ramming into it like Tetora had- the wood was weakening, he could feel it, just a few more hits and-
One.
The door broke just enough for Chiaki to reach his arm through. After feeling around, he finally found that damned lock and was able to rush to Midori's aid with the others-
He couldn't hear their commotion. He couldn't hear their cries, their shouts, their pleads for him to come back-
Now, all Midori heard was peaceful silence at last.
Here's to a happy new year, the best RYUSEITAI has ever had.