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There is nothing harder than being a kid. To be a child is to experience, to learn and develop from the world around you. To watch colorful magentas, oranges, and pinks swirl through the sky, so full of life, bleeding long into a sunset horizon.
Bliss. Innocence. Joy.
But more importantly, to enjoy being young.
To be the sun shining long after it has rained.
But to be a child is also to realize that life is not so benevolent. Not the world, not society, not people. And that day a child realizes that adults and others are imperfect, and more often than not will end up letting you down, is the day they may no longer be a child.
And worse yet?
To realize that, and still be a kid.
***
He’s not exactly sure about what brought about this spiral.
Or maybe he is.
***
It’s nearly morning. He can feel it. He’s been awake long enough to know it.
He sits at the edge of his bed, wearing a day’s old black gi he hadn’t bothered to change out of. He’s tired, but at least he’s not lying in bed. He should get up, start some semblance of a routine, and begin his day, but he can’t bring himself to do much more than stare at the bedside table beside him.
Wooden groves. Lines stretching on for days. Something so mundane is the only thing he can bring himself to pay attention to right now.
But the reminders in his head don’t stop. He needs to get up. He shouldn’t be like this.
Why is he like this?
***
He isn’t sure when it started. Maybe the thoughts have always been there. The perspective. When exactly that day the world had… started to grow so bleak. The day the fists of chaos slammed down on the wooden table that was his life, tipping over the first domino of maturity. And once it fell, down went the rest of the winding row of dominoes.
So long bliss. Bye-bye innocence. (Joy? You’re still here, right?)
Out of grasp now, unreachable, the dominoes clatter to the ground. This is how things are meant to be. There is no going back now. But as the dominoes fall, he has to wonder… Had it started with his mother's illness? His father’s expectations? Or something earlier, hidden deep?
In the beginning, there were those positive experiences. Absorbing the world as it began to take shape—fuzzy images of the important people, parents, and safety of a home. And the world, this big place full of other people, and lots of life decorating the earth. Pretty colors. It had been the start of existence. The warmth that is love. How running into a mother’s arms kept the bad things at bay. When a hug made everything alright.
He could have stared into her brown eyes forever. Full of love and comfort, assurances. He just knew that back then, everything would be fine. Because as long as she was here, he could weather any storm. It didn’t matter how mean bullies at school were or how other kids just stood by and watched. How they’d pick on the kids who didn’t know how to stick up for themselves.
(Who was supposed to have shown them?)
(Why did the adults stand by and do nothing?)
(It never felt like what he did was enough.)
No matter if going back into that environment everyday made him feel as if a piece of himself was being lost to time. When profound doubts began to plague him, and a hopelessness hollowed at his chest, making it harder to breathe. The vice around his chest with no reprieve in sight (because he’s a prisoner, who doesn’t want to be there anymore). But, there's good in bad, isn’t there? She is there too, and she makes everything better, she is his mother, she loves him, he loves her and then—
She dies.
Dies and is dead. She’s dead. Dead. Dead dead dead dead dead. It’s over. She’s gone now, she’s never coming back. The grievances, the disbelief. The anger. The whirlwind of events that came next. People from her life appear in her name, to mourn her. A black suit that chafes his skin. The stoic face he puts on, and the tears he refuses to shed. He can’t cry, he won’t cry, so he doesn’t cry—not in front of anyone. The shock fringing on what’s left of shambles of his father’s life and his. Left to pick up the pieces of all there ever has been, and all there ever will be.
(She’s dead.)
A funeral. She’s really gone. Buried in the ground, beneath the weight of flowers and tears.
(Dead.)
She’s really gone. Now a lantern he’d never ever wanted to light. But now he has to, for her, because he’d have done anything for her. She was his mother, he is still her son, but now she is gone, and all he has left are his memories of her. Safe and guarded behind the stone walls protecting his heart. Loss is a part of life, the things you keep, and the things you don’t. That’s all that remains. That and…
His father.
***
A murky face stares back at him in the brown-tinted tea of his mug. Nondescript. Even in the darkness of the monastery’s dining room, there is enough light for it still to be seen. He stirs his silver spoon, watching as the face twists and deforms, washing away with the motion.
The tea is too sweet. Too much sugar. Not balanced, not even close.
He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palm.
Balance.
(Why isn’t it balanced?)
Cole stares hopelessly at it, like he can will the over-sweetness to diminish with his mind. For the tea to return to a semblance of normalcy. First master knows he could use it; tea is the only thing he can think of to quiet the hunger of his belly and the repulsion of eating of his brain. It’s just one of those mornings, one of those mornings where he needs to push himself extra hard because functioning isn’t automatic and he’s stuck driving on manual.
(The driving stick is jammed, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.)
He sips his concoction.
Still too sweet.
He settles the blue mug on the table, thumb rubbing against its handle.
It’s a quiet morning.
Eating always makes—
“You’re up early,” an unimpressed voice says, sending him reeling back. Wooden bench creaking slightly. He can’t help the body flinch, gi ruffling with extension, and head sent swerving back to the doorway.
Glowing orangeness on his fingertips, willing it back down.
“Whoah,” says the voice, one hand raised.
His eyes latch to the figure, tension easing out.
Lloyd stares back at him, in green-themed loungewear, and an eyebrow raised skeptically on his face. The shadows seem to reside in the features of his face, eyes dimmed. He holds a mug of what is presumably coffee in hand. “Thought I’d be the only one up this early,” he murmurs contemplatively, taking a sip of his drink. “But… Why are you in here, though? It’s so… empty.”
Cole considers the question, an image so vivid in his head.
Boisterousness at the long, brown dining table. Laughter, chatter, and pleasure shared between a found family. Delicious food, Zane has made, brings them together; that connection makes the meal all the more enticing.
Maybe to Lloyd, it is. But it’s not so empty to him.
It’s just absent, for now.
“…It felt right,” he settles on, words flowing on without a doubt, that’s true. But part of it irks him, Lloyd’s phrasing of the question. Nagging, judgemental, like he can be anywhere else in the monastery. Like he should be anywhere. It’s not like that, he has to remind himself, Lloyd isn’t like that. “I just,” his jaw clenches, he’s gripping the spoon now, “Wanted to drink tea.”
“Surprising,” the green ninja chuckles, mostly to himself. Lloyd enters the room, crossing the void, and sits at the spot adjacent to him. His legs cross at the bottom of the bench. “But knowing you, I’d’ve thought you’d be eating a hearty breakfast by now. At least, since, you’re up now anyways,” he waves his hands thematically, morning voice rasping, “Full-course meal, no crumbs spared!”
A fist clamps around his heart, squeezing.
His fingers press on the grooves of the table, back-and-forth.
Logically, Cole should know that Lloyd is just playing with him, trying to banter and start a conversation. He’d do the same right now if all were well (but everything is well, he’s just confusing himself). It’s strange, emotionally, he just… isn’t up for it. He’s a mixture of irritation and frustration. Each comment feels like a direct blow to the chest, something else he should be doing. Something else he needs to be doing. Business-as-usual is still eluding him.
His jaw twitches, eyes focusing on the mug of cooling tea instead of Lloyd’s critical face. Drifting briefly between him and the mug. What is he supposed to say to that? He isn’t hungry? That the idea of putting something into his mouth fills him with disgust? Yeah, that’d do him great alright. Oh, how he wishes he could just make Lloyd—
Lloyd’s waiting on him.
Oh. He hasn’t said anything.
“…Way to shake things up,” his brother-in-arms remarks, in the lack of a reply. He sounds odd. Like Cole, uncertain of what to say next, how to approach this, but making an effort anyways. He purses his lips, thumbs twiddling beneath as he rests his chin on his hands. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed? Ha… Oh. Uhm, uh, good morning to you too, anyways.”
It’s even weirder how much of Kai that pose screams.
“Morning,” he echoes, the greeting now suddenly drying his mouth. He’s parched. And for what? It’s not like he has said much. He fumbles for a generic conversation question, one he can’t muck up. The words might as well be grating, broken pauses stringing them together: “How did you sleep, Lloyd?”
A long look at the ninja-in-question pronounces the question.
“Oh.”
Lloyd’s eyes widen ever-so slightly, brow twitching in response as if the question seems so unexpected. But the emotion vanishes as a warmer expression replaces it, “Weeell, since you had to ask—I had the funniest dream,” he says, suppressing a snort, “I don’t know about you, but sometimes I dream about being back at Darkley’s, and I’m not sure why or what specifically about this school was so important that I just gotta relive it. But, pff, it was just so silly…”
The fist is tighter, heat burning his chest.
“I think Brad was there too? You remember Brad, right? Brad Tudabone.”
He nods absentmindedly. His shoulders feel so rigid. He tries to focus on what Lloyd is saying, but he has heard school and the claws of memories are threatening to take him back.
“And, anyway, it wasn’t even about anything malicious—shocker, I know. This version of Darkley’s decided to teach, oh, you’ll never guess. Okay, guess—oh, wait, aaagh , let me—let me just tell you! Flowers! Yeah, flower diagrams on the chalkboards! I don’t really remember what was so important about them, but I guess I felt… really happy?” Lloyd smiles fondly, likely replaying the fleeting dream in his head. To his ears, his friend keeps his voice soft and soothing, like he’s trying to gauge the reaction from Cole. Lloyd keeps looking at him, as though studying every detail of his face, still checking on him even as he’s telling a story. “Pssh. I know it had nothing to do with Darkley’s education curriculum or whatever, but, when Brad comes to mind—I think about how he liked to plant flowers.”
He stares at Lloyd’s lips, watching the words come out.
“An—anyways, there I am. At school, with the other Darkley’s boys, Gene too maybe, and talking about flowers or whatnot. I think I stood on a desk? Okay, yeah, the dream is starting to vanish right now as I talk about it, but,” his friend sighs wistfully, clearing his throat, “I get it was like an ideal version of that old situation, but I don’t know why exactly it made me feel so fond about it, looking back? Just being in the presence there, just soaking it all in. It was… kind of nice.”
(It was kind of nice.)
A breath catches in his throat, and suddenly he can’t try to focus on Lloyd. Eyes on the table. On the mug. Hands weakly trembling and he’s squeezing them, trying to keep them still. The table is hard and cold, but barely under him.
It’s not grounding him.
(It was kind of nice.)
“What about you, Cole? Did you ever enjoy school?”
The beige folding screen walls of the dining room have never felt so far away. Zooming, zooming out. Spinning out of control.
(Did you have a good day at school, honey?)
He closes his eyes, for a second, and he can hear their voices. Mom’s look boring into him, her hand on his small shoulder as she asks. The paragon of safety, comfort, and guidance stares back at him. She loves him, she really does. She’s asking if school was good. He stares at her. He doesn’t know if he can say yes.
He blinks.
And now the quietness of his youth suddenly retakes him, because his voice is gone and the teacher just asked a question.
Uhm…
(He stammers a reply.)
He’s staring at the other kids, wracking his brain because he doesn’t know how to start a conversation because kids his age don’t like kid-things anymore now and he never has gotten the memo. And they’re so… mean nowadays. What happened? Why did it all have to change?
He’s quiet. No words leave his lips.
(I think Cole’s lonely, Lilly-dear.)
He’s this kind-of-kind-of-not loner.
‘Friends’ and allies come and go.
No wonder he’s so good at sticking up for anyone but himself.
(So… how was your day, son?)
The newspaper crinkles in his hands as Lou asks, sat at a seat at the kitchen table. And really, he’s never been sure if it’s out of concern or obligation. He wants to believe his father really cares, that this disinterest is just part of who he is, and that his father loves him. Because being young, he has been idolizing the man and wanted to be just like his father ever since he could walk on two feet.
He tries so hard to dance like his father (like his mother) but it’s not enough. It’s not the Triple Tiger Sashay. Not yet, anyways. It’s not balanced. Unbalanced. He falls flat on his face, in the cold dance studio’s embrace. He can’t dance around everything, not like Lou.
It’s no wonder he only made it two days.
(Grow up, Cole. You have to be an adult.)
Funnily enough, he’s the only person who ever told himself that.
But nobody else ever had to say to his face for him to get the memo.
So. He says ‘fine’.
(This is what being an adult is like.)
He’s always fine.
(Everything is fine.)
Why wouldn’t it be fine?
(He’s so fine.)
So fresh. So fine. So fresh, like the wound never closed up properly. Why isn’t it like ripping off an old bandage? The sooner he gets it over with, it should be better.
It was…
Only, the bandage is stuck, and with each tug, it’s peeling off flesh from the bone.
He clenches his teeth, shaky hands finding his shoulders. They might be a magma color right now, but he’s not paying that any mind. It’s a hug to himself of sorts, compressing, keeping everything on the inside. Forearms crushing his chest, heavy arms signifying yes he is here. Yes he is feeling this. This is real. It’s not a dream. Fingers tracing the fabric. A rough and acquired texture, sand-paper. The worn gi’s fabric that envelops him. Protecting him from all the attacks of the world outside.
“Cole?”
He opens his mouth, lips quivering and floundering as he tries to find the words. Air is the only thing that leaves and enters his mouth. Lloyd wants an answer. Lloyd has asked him a question. Lloyd needs a response. Lloyd has asked him a question.
He asked him a question.
(Well? How was it, Cole? Don’t leave your dear dad in suspense now.)
The smallest domino shatters as it hits the ground. A million little pieces.
His throat tightens. The words… they just won’t come.
***
He helps her the day before.
The mole on her cheek crinkles as she smiles back at him, “Thanks again for helping me out, Cole,” she says pleasantly, a real gratefulness settling in on her cheeks. They’re heading to her bedroom now, where she’s got some boxes she wants to sort out.
They fill the quiet hallway with their voices as they walk down it, floorboards creaking beneath their weight.
He’s happy to help, he tells her.
It’s fine, he tells her, he wants to do this.
“I really didn’t want to trouble P.I.X.A.L. with my junk, she’s got more important things to do—trust me on that. I mean, it would’ve been nice. Hanging out with her. But I was supposed to do this with someone,” she scoffs with the fury of a thousand suns, “Kai just. Happens to be too busy with his hair right now to do this. ‘Ohh but I’m a mess, sis.’ Why I outta drag him by his hair and show him a”—she pauses—“Ahm. What I’m trying to say is: I’m just really grateful you agreed to do it with me. Believe me, entering the rift that is a trip down memory lane is more fun together.”
“I’m not surprised,” he chuckles, nodding along. They’re at her door now. “About Kai, that is. But I appreciate the gratitude, but again, it’s really not a big deal. I’ll take care of these boxes in one-go, no sweat.” He licks his lips, thinking about the best way to carry them. Funnily enough, the image of himself buried beneath boxes is the first thing that comes to mind. He’d best be careful.
“Oh no, Cole, you misunderstand. We’re going through the boxes—like, opening them, looking through them—you get the picture I’m painting here?”
He blinks, taken aback. The sheepish smile is stuck to his face, and all he musters is an “Oh” in response. That makes sense. No wonder none of the other guys (minus Kai) had seemed so interested, they had been just as invested in the video game as he was. But he had been so eager to do something physical—and it has trumped his capacity for staring at a screen today.
Here he thought he’d be moving boxes.
Nya grips the door, sliding it open, and gestures for him to enter. But she pauses, studying what must be the surprise of his face. Her eyebrows furrow with worry. “Not what you signed up for?”
“Not exactly,” he sighs, crossing the boundary, where the darkness of the room awaits him. He turns back, meeting her gaze, a foot in the dark void, “But I agreed to help you. It is what it is, isn’t it?”
Following in, she replies happily, “Exactly!”
The door slides closed behind them.
***
“Uhm. I have to,” Suddenly he’s trying to stand, pushing against the table. He’s not sure what he’s doing, not why he’s standing, not where he’s going, bench creaking as he struggles to get to his feet. Clumsy and erratic, leg in tangles. He gives one last look to Lloyd. This is his normal face. The word breaks as he says it, “Bathroom.”
“Cole? Wait. What’s wrong!?”
(Don’t chase.)
Shift of the floor, sensing Lloyd spring to his feet behind him.
(Don’t chase.)
And he’s off on a mission. The sclera of his eyes is starting to burn. Liquid. Eyes sent blinking rapidly in response, he’s stepping faster because he needs the space between them. Into the darkness of the halls searching for a different space. A safe space.
“Cole!”
(He needs to run away from himself, but there’s nowhere to run.)
He can’t be seen right now. He’s not sure how’d he react if someone caught him like this. With a palm over his mouth, he’s pushing back the quiet, quick breaths.
It’s okay Cole, you’re okay Cole.
Why does it sound suspiciously like Jay, Cole?
He navigates the darkness, fingers drifting over the enshrouded walls. The bathroom has never seemed so far away, and now he’s desperately hoping (begging) no other faces will surprise him.
Oh no. What’s Lloyd going to think of him?
The realization terrifies him.
Don’t think, don’t think of that.
There. The bathroom, in sight. His fingers grasp the lattice work frame, and with one quick motion, he’s inside. It’s dark, but it’s clean and there’s air freshener on his tongue. He crosses the distance.
A shuddery breath is released as he all but collapses beside the toilet, side pressing against the wall.
He’s not in here to do important business.
A choked cry escapes him, and he’s dragging his stiff, shaky fingers through his hair. “You’re okay,” he mumbles and mumbles to himself. He’s talking to himself, it’s what he does best when alone. His voice is his comfort, his comfort is his voice. But like his body, it’s so jittery, jelly on a plate. It’s like he won’t stop shaking. Why can’t he stop shaking?
Why can’t he just handle this? Get it together!
He’s voicing his thoughts to himself, in a low, hushed voice. What’s bothering him? What caused… this? The lack of sleep? Insomnia? Loss of appetite? He should be hungry, why isn’t he hungry? That’s not normal. Why can’t he be normal?
(He’s so unbalanced.)
Oh no, his palms are so sweaty. Skin clammy and stuck to him like a costume he can’t escape. This is it. Impending doom. It’s not being a ghost that kills him. It’s not a fall that kills him.
It’s this.
“I must be dying,” he whisper-laughs, hollowly laughing, hugging himself tighter. Knees into his chest. So small. By the bathroom floor. Oh, he’s a mess. His face is so wet. His mouth is so dry. His eyes burn.
And his heart hurts.
The danger is all around. He needs to run away from himself, but there’s nowhere to run.
***
It’s so pretty.
“Wow, this is—this is really good, Nya!” he exclaims, hands delicately holding a diagram-plan for some sort of vehicle? Automobile? The parchment is crinkly, yellowed with time, but the lines are clear enough to make out the outline of a motor vehicle. He doesn’t really understand the semantics of it, (Okay, he doesn’t get it at all, and trying to understand it makes his brain hurt) but he really likes the neat lines and design of it. A nice composition.
Wowza.
She’s really good at art, true even back then.
Nya sifts through some photographs in her hands, cross-legged on the floor of her room. He’s got his legs curled in front of him. Memorabilia, pictures, and diagrams litter the floor around them. She looks up, balancing an expression of amusement and flattery. “You think so? You know, before all of this, I always liked to think about how things like vehicles worked. What makes them tick. I didn’t really have the freedom back then that I do now, because of other responsibilities of the time, and with Kai pushing me to focus on education rather than interests like these.”
He nods along thoughtfully, fingers fiddling with the edge of the parchment. “Well then, let me be the guy to set the record straight: You’re brilliant, Nya. And if an airhead like Kai couldn’t’ve seen it back then, well… that’s on him. It’s a good thing you always did pursue your interests.”
“You did not just say that about Kai,” she all but giggles, fingers rubbing her cheek, pushing her bangs back uselessly. “But, thank you Cole. Really. Oh, oh, it’s crazy how time flies! I don’t usually think about before, all that much, but since we’re doing this, it’s got me looking back,” she sighs, “I loved being a younger teenager. I mean, Kai was, well, more extreme back then. He’s mellowed out, so I like him more now, but, I felt like I really got a sense for who I was.”
She stares longfully at a photograph in her hand, “Kai encouraged it, he wanted my life to be way bigger than his. School, making friends, all that junk. The art? Not so much. Weirdly enough, I think it was school that really helped get closer to that, meeting people—getting out of the smithy and getting to know society.” He listens, trying not to take her words to heart. They still find their way through the cracks. Society, blah. School, hurrk. School’s good for people who can go-with-the-flow, like Nya. Not… someone like him. He’s feeling pent up, now leaning closer for a better view (because he needs to move, do something with the energy), eyes trailing the image.
Light shining in the sepia-toned photo. A painting and a person. There’s a stylized mountain landscape on a canvas, mountains swirling with clouds. A schoolgirl with long hair painting something, a beautiful mountainscape. She’s familiar, younger, and baby-faced still. But it’s her. It’s Nya.
“You look so different. Your hair’s… longer. A friend took this?”
“Yeah—wait, hold on. I show you, me with a painting, and that’s the first thing you notice? My hair?” She scoffs, chastising him, “What happened to your artist’s eye, Cole? Gosh. But, yes, for your information—my hair was longer.” He barely stifles a chortle, her shoving him for it, “Stop laughing!”
“Wait. You’re telling me—Nya had long hair, but when I met her, she had a bowl-cut?” He all but cackles, wiping his face, “How did that happen?!”
“It didn’t really feel like me, back then,” she murmurs, eyes tearing away from the picture and landing onto Cole. She grimaces. “I grew it long like that for school. That, and most girls I knew had pretty long hair. It wanted to fit in. And, I hadn’t even known cutting my hair was an option. Hrk, okay, yeah that is funny. But… not until Kai caught me watching him as he cut his, and offered the haircut.”
He absently touches his own hair at the mention. It’s thick, curling, and definitely past his chin. It’s always been longer than the other guys’, long enough to tie back into a bun, but there’s comfort to be found in its length. So he gets what it's like for something to feel right. Smirking at Nya, he adds, “Awh, that’s sweet. Snnrk. And it makes a lot of sense now, actually. Heheh.”
“It’s longer now.”
“Heh-heh.”
“Oh, you won’t let me live down that one, will you? Jay would say I was the most beautiful thing to walk the earth to his eyes! And you won’t?!” she admonishes, staring down at the photo again, “I really forgot I still had things like this. I’ll admit it: I’m a bit of a hoarder when it comes to keepsakes and my machine parts, but it’s really nice when something like this surprises you.”
He agrees.
The past can strike back unexpectedly when you’ve got your back turned.
He’s not sure what about the notion makes him antsy, because now he feels like he should be productive. With his hands. Settling to peek at her diagrams and design plans once more, his eyes drift between the papers and Nya.
“So… what about you, Cole?” She stirs the waters, rolling up the parchment from before. In the corner of his eye, she glances at him once-over. “I know you didn’t stay long at Marty Oppenheimer’s, but you enjoyed school too, didn’t you? Did you like to draw back then, too?”
Cole’s mouth has never felt so dry, he looks away, tugging the sleeves of his gi. He thinks about the times he spent sketching with charcoal, figures in action poses, real heroes coming alive in the sketchbooks he never could finish. How art was an escape for when the real world got too tough to live in. “I liked to draw. It’s what got me drawing, actually. Back then, it was a good way… to focus on other things. Better things. I didn’t paint, not like you did—or do—it’s confusing. Pencils were easier. I keep things simple. School was… different back then.”
“Different? How so?” She’s sorting pictures into an album, humming softly. The stillness in the air. A pause. She stops humming, asking again, “What do you mean?”
His fingers adjust the collar of his gi, something pounding in his chest. It’s like, his body knows it’s hard to admit this. To talk about the things he’d rather not think about. “I was there. Because I had to be. Not because I wanted to be.”
If he never had to have gone to school, he wouldn’t’ve.
School’s a waste.
(Waste of time.)
Hurt, pain, and…
A hand touches his forearm, thumb rubbing circles, and now he’s looking at her. Eyebrows lowered, lips drawn tightly. Now she looks sad, like Cole’s said something worth being sad about. She looks sad because he said something.
(You did this.)
“What do you mean, Cole?”
Why did he say something? Oh, he shouldn’t’ve said something. Oh, this is not what he wanted, not at all. He opened his mouth to kill the mood. Why can’t he have taken a hint?
He bites his lip, hard.
“I don’t know.”
***
He really wishes he had climbed up the roof now instead. Feet and body that could have been fighting gravity on the resting hill roof. What he wouldn’t give right now, to feel the coming morning breeze atop the tallest peak of the Mountains of Impossible Height. More importantly, how climbing gives him clarity, it’s not just about overcoming the challenge. But the ability to look down and take in his problems as a whole. Hand gripping the crest, as he hangs above and looks at everything below.
Instead, there is no roof crest, and he’s in a dim bathroom, as small as possible against the wall.
Maybe that’s for the best, he can’t handle being so exposed right now.
He stretches his arms, rolling them up and down his knees. He’s huffing, air still weak and unsteady. That doesn’t make sense. He settles for rubbing a hand on his chest, palm striking up and down.
Breathe, darn it, breathe.
He hates this. He hates the minutes that stretch past. Where nothing he does works, and nothing is changing.
Here he is, wallowing, alone in self-pity.
He doesn’t hate being alone—he had to adapt growing up, anyways. So he can’t hate it, not really. He finds solace in himself, his own voice, and the strength he has to keep going. Maybe it’s… the loneliness of his heart that’s consuming him right now. The blanket of the dark he can hide underneath, but still gets himself lost within.
These ugly feelings that have always lurked in the back of his head, that normally, he’s able to control.
Not- not right now.
A moment of weakness.
“Stupid.”
Why is he lingering on these memories anyway?
“Stupid, stupid…”
He wants to think about his mother, how warm her hugs were, even in her last days.
Lloyd? No. Not right now, his face won’t help him.
(He’s still judging him.)
Oddly enough, he starts thinking about Nya. Her words.
He shakes his head, hands over his ears.
Pressing his eyes shut, he tugs his knees closer, and puts his head down. Chest still beating loudly with every moment passing. It’s just him, the dark void, and the earth. And right now—he’s not sure if he can handle anything else. Not the way the monastery will buzz with life once the sun is up, chatter and laughter that’ll fill the air. Loud, and loud, and everywhere.
Eyes in the darkness piercing into him.
He gasps, choking on an inhale.
(It’s getting worse.)
Okay, stop, he needs to stop thinking about that. Right now.
He needs to calm down, right now.
This isn’t working.
Nothing is working.
He opens his eyes, pulls his head up and glances at the sink. He could use it to wash his hands. Sweaty, sweaty hands. Turn on the faucet, let the cool water pool. That darn faulty faucet, always leaking.
A drop of water slips out.
Water.
The trickling droplet bleeds into memory.
And it’s not the master of water who he thinks about.
“The human body is a truly fascinating thing,” his nindroid friend drawls on, the robotic fuzz over his words. Ice blue eyes that penetrate his soul. Gentle voice whispering in Cole’s ears, “Have you ever heard of the diving reflex?”
Or—oh, that would work. It will, it has to.
“It is triggered when the face, especially the area around the eyes and nose, is immersed in cold water. It's an automatic response that helps the body conserve oxygen and regulate blood pressure.”
Yeah, yeah. Important stuff.
Get to the good part.
“The diver’s reflex triggers your vagus nerve, part of your parasympathetic nervous system, which is also known as the ‘rest and digest’ system…”
He staggers to his feet, feeling no more than a newborn fawn testing out its legs, and takes a step towards the sink.
“...increasing blood flow to our limbs, making us generally more alert, 'rest and digest' slows us down…”
He clogs the sink, turns the knob, and the water is running. Filling it.
“...I like to imagine I have an equivalent to that. But did you also know that the diver's reflex can be used for anxiety relief? Splash cold water on your face or take a brisk cool shower, or even immerse your face in a basin of cold water—these actions effectively trigger the diver's reflex and induce a calming response.”
(Why are you telling me this?)
“It’s always good to have knowledge to help others, if not yourself, Cole.”
The water is deep enough.
Reflection, its reddened stare, glaring back at him.
(Induce a calming response.)
His nostrils flare, and he plunges his face into the sink.
***
“I don’t know,” he replies, struggling to meet Nya’s gaze. Fingers fumbling as he corrects his gi. His knees are drawing closer. “It’s not at all like what you had. I really don’t… I don’t really like to go back to that part of my life. I like the here, I like the now.”
He doesn’t like to think about his past.
He doesn’t.
Not really.
Her brown eyes stare back at him, imploring him to go on. And he hesitates, because he thinks he wants to say something. It hurts, it stings, I feel all tingly. Something sincere. What he really means. But, he can’t bring himself to do it. So he picks up where he left off, taking a deep breath. “It happened already. It’s over. The past stays in the past, so I don’t think about it.”
He doesn’t.
Like to.
“Or talk about it. That just sounds… ominous,” she frowns, brow furrowing, eyes darting as she mulls it over in her head. To his ears, her pitch shifts–high and low, and all over the place. “If it were me, I wouldn’t… Okay, but it’s you, and are you sure you’re okay with that? It’s just, I’m not so sure about that last part. Past staying in the past, I just- it- it doesn’t sound right to me. Look, look at our lives, everything we’ve done at this point in time, the bad guys we’ve faced—I feel like the past has had more of a looming effect than we care to acknowledge.”
He bites the inside of his cheek, “I don’t know what to say, Nya. In the grand scheme of things, my life story isn’t some terrible thing I haven’t made peace with. There’s not some life-altering revelation about myself that I needed to have come to terms with, or an idea about myself I needed to relearn. I didn’t spend everyday fighting to survive. There was stability: I had a home, food in my belly, and people in my life who… cared about me.”
It’s strange how when he thinks of growing up, the shift in children, their mocking laughter, and every cruel thing they had to say to each other.
His father staring back at him, and how hard he tries to please him.
Voice minimizing, spotty, it betrays him:
“I was loved.”
She puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it. It’s nice.
But she’s silent for a while.
He is too.
They go back to sorting through some things.
The progress is impeccable.
“That sounds,” she murmurs at last, fingers fidgeting with a poster, giving him a direct look in the eyes. “Really heavy. Listen, I know we come from radically different backgrounds, but, I think a person’s life can still sound good on paper, and not be a thing like the design in action. Faulty, imperfect—trust me, machinery is kind of my thing, I would know. But the things we should be grateful for shouldn’t invalidate our struggles—because it’s different for everybody. That’s just how things turn out.”
He looks her way, nodding, agreeing. She’s not wrong. A familiar phrase makes its way to the tip of his tongue: “That's the way the cookie crumbles.”
“Yeah, exactly. That’s it! And, I think that, maybe, you should sleep on this. And if you want to talk about it, we can. It doesn’t have to be now, it could be tomorrow, or in a week, or in a year. I’ll listen,” his obsidian-haired sister strains a smile, “I’m glad you did this with me, Cole, even if the conversation isn’t really light anymore. I had fun, and I hope you did too. But you look tired, Cole, and you should really try to get some sleep. I know I’ll need some.”
He nods. A part of him is drained—and it’s not just the physical part. Maybe it’s his psyche, fatigued enough to warrant rest. Or, even some further thinking.
“Thanks. You too. Goodnight, Nya.”
“Have a good night, Cole.”
He’ll try to.
He doesn’t sleep that night.
***
Flashes.
The water is cold on his face.
His body radiates warmth.
Cold.
Bubbles gushing from his nostrils.
Water all over.
He’s not sure if it’s working, but it has to be.
His face goes back in.
Just a few more seconds.
Kai would hate this.
He pulls his head up, gasping, eyes landing on the mirror in front of him. Soaked hair, clinging to his face. Droplets trickling the slope of his nose, rejoining the pool below. Eyes in the mirror, blood-shot, in tandem to the puffiness beneath them.
(When did the rock become so eroded?)
“What happened to you, Cole?” he asks the mirror, profile in frame.
The face-in-the-mirror stares back. The mirror says nothing.
His shakes have faded to mere twitches.
He huffs, forearm slamming down on the sink. Not hard enough to damage it, but hard enough to feel pain. With a deep breath, he wipes the wet hair away from his face. And one last time, he splashes water over his eyes. Go back to normal, please.
Deep breath.
Can’t stay here forever.
“You can do this.”
Put on a strong face, time’s up.
Pick up enough pieces of the domino, back together it goes.
Time to face the world.
(Attaboy. That’s right!)
He marches away from the sink, the mirror, and everything still there. Fingers grace the sliding door, and he pulls it open. Light flares onto him.
He blinks.
A spiky-haired young man gapes back at him.
It’s not Lloyd.
It’s Kai.
“Cole.” The red ninja states, cementing his presence. Still in his nightclothes, ragged and bewildered, eyes blinking away sleep.
A fact: Kai stands before him, and he stands before Kai. Kai’s eyebrows are raised, creasing his forehead, hands on his hips. All eyes on him. His eyes drift past Kai’s shoulder, Lloyd’s bob of blondish hair in view. Lloyd is beside him, not quite behind him. Lloyd gazing back, arms shifting from crossed to back at his sides—trying to figure out an expression.
“Hey, g’morning Kai,” he croaks, hand gripping his bicep. Fingers scratching the gi, he blanches, “You guys… needed to use the bathroom? What, Kai? Don’t tell me you’re up this early to start your hair routine?”
“That’s not…” Kai trails off, his brow furrowing deeper, looking back to the green ninja. A silent conversation plays out, spoken through their eyes. The red ninja’s eyes widen with emphasis, Lloyd furrows his brow, and tilts his head back to Cole. Lloyd chews on his lip.
This unspoken understanding has him recoiling, shoulders raised.
Not getting the memo.
He grits his teeth.
Enough is enough.
“Okay, jeez, I get it,” he raises his hands, fingers splayed, “Relax. I’ll get out of your hair, Kai. No biggie. Thank me later once you’ve styled it to the nines and the day’s halfway over.”
He makes a move to leave, but Kai places himself in front of him.
“Did something happen, Cole?” Kai looks him up-and-down, scrutinizing every crevice of him. Judging him. “Your hair’s so… wet? But you didn’t… You didn’t even shower.”
So?
“He wasn’t like that before,” Lloyd pipes up, even quieter, “It’s like what I said, Kai.”
Shut up.
“I see that.”
Shut up, Kai.
“Can we talk about before, Cole? I don’t understand, did I upset you?”
No.
“What Lloyd said. Is there something going on? Oh— your eyes… What’s going on, Cole?”
Nothing’s going on.
“Please, Cole.”
“You were crying?”
“Please, Cole, this is scaring me. When you took off like that, I didn’t know what to think.”
“Do you need to sit down? We… can go to the couch. Your room. Just name it, buddy.”
“I– Was it the dream? I still don’t…”
“Are you okay, Cole?”
“...Did it remind you of something?”
“I don’t think you’re okay, buddy.”
“Talk to me, to us, please, Cole.”
“I’m here, I’m here. You’ll be okay Cole.”
“Cole?”
“It’ll be okay.”
“Kai. He’s not saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything?”
The bed is soft.
His eyes are closed, body curled up in the fetal position. Kai’s bed is soft beneath him, a blanket between his fingers. Kai and soft beds seem to come together in a set of two. He sighs faintly, the comfort only exacerbating how exhausted he is. Physically. Mentally.
Emotionally.
Kai sits at the side of the bed, hand rubbing his shoulder blade.
“Okay. He’s in here now. We did it. Should I go tell the others—maybe not Pix. Zane? Oh, he’ll want Jay, won’t he? Nya? Uh, Master Wu? Maybe they’ll—”
(No no nonono.)
Eyes in the darkness piercing into him.
His breath hitches.
Right, Lloyd’s there too.
“No, Lloyd. Stop. Don’t do that. Listen, it’s freaking him out. He’s already overwhelmed as it is. Let’s not worsen it.”
“I’ve just never seen him like this… I still feel like there’s more I can do. Should be doing.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it. You did good. You got me. That was good thinking. I’m glad you woke me up. And, I think, we just need to wait it out, and he’ll…”
Kai continues, Lloyd replying in the affirmative. He doesn’t… really want to listen anymore. His slower breathing returns.
The conversation fades to a hum, and his mind wanders in the darkness. What is he missing? What does he need to ground himself, to return to normal?
(To find balance.)
Balance, what a word.
But… that’s something he has already, doesn’t he?
The answers are there, have been there, from the days of his youth to the present day.
He shoots up, sitting. Legs crossed, hands up in front of his face. Examining his palms, the back of his hands, lefty and righty. He watches the magma glow run down his forearms, and recede back to his hands. Waves running back and forth on his skin as they oscillate.
This ability has been something too that he learned about himself.
Something that hadn’t come easily. And at one point, not normal, either.
Oh.
He chuckles, chortles, it grows—he laughs.
Maybe there really is no such thing as normal for him to grasp here.
Crazy as it is, that’s something tangible. Something he can revel with. A mountain to climb.
Pieces to pick up.
He’s laughing so hard, there are tears in his eyes.
“...Cole?”
Lloyd’s hanging in the doorway, watching Cole with a wary expression. His eyes travel away from his friend, across the bedroom. The room around them is a bit disorganized, hair products lining Kai’s desk, gi and weaponry hanging from a wall. Blinds over a window are cracked enough for him to catch a glimmer of the sunrise.
But, honestly, he wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s warm, it’s safe…
“What is it, Cole?”
Kai stares at him, hand back on his shoulder.
His laughter fades into a smile. “I’m starting to get it now,” his sleeve wipes away his tears, chest pounding in anticipation. “I have a really bad habit… and I think it’s because there’s something about myself I’ve been running away from. For a long time.”
(School’s out forever.)
Relief washes over Kai’s face as he nods along, an encouragement for Cole to continue on. Behind him, Lloyd slides into the room, shutting the door. He takes a seat at the edge of bed with Kai.
And it’s hard, never easy. But in the haze of exhaustion, what’s one more hurdle to climb over?
“There’s something I need to talk about.”
His fingers wrestle over his wrist. A calloused hand settles over them, and his eyes meet Kai’s.
“You’ve got this, Cole. Take your time.”
He takes a deep breath, taking in Lloyd and Kai once more.
Yes, the dominoes have fallen, toppled down and over. But that’s the thing about dominoes, all it takes is a gentle hand to help the chain off its face, off the ground and start again. They’re meant to be knocked over, to fall, and yet get back up again anyways. It’s hard, never easy, but he must do the same. He does, he starts at the beginning, where the anxieties first emerged—school.
He talks about Lilly, about Lou.
He tells a story, a tale of how a boy swiftly became a man.