DELIRIA - YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA

Five: Smoke, talking.

You sabotage yourself again.

It's like you're facing a hurricane; your self sabotage almost felt natural, but not necessarily evil. Like it was a force of nature simply just happening, and you would be one of the many casualties, a simple statistic, devoid of sadness and weight. A simple number.

1.

You.

You're disconnected from the world again, and you're trapped in a world of your own, where the sun doesn't shine ever, a frozen over world with permafrost and sleet and ice, permanently stuck in paused motion. It is strange, how history has grabbed ahold of you so firmly in its iron clawed paws, pinning you down like a pressed flower against the numbered psalms of a bible. You're trapped, frantically against the voices in your head, battering you left and right until all you were left to do was to drown in your own congealed darkness of depravity and self annihilation. Sometimes you only felt like an echo of this congealed darkness; like you weren't even there at all, but a simple sound of you existed.

Was it nostalgia you were feeling?

No. It couldn't have been. Nostalgia had a learned formation of a Greek compound, consisting of the word "homecoming". You had never had a home. You never had a home to come to.

You're sinking to a dark place again.

You take the cigarette loosely hanging from your lips and breathe out the smoke, feeling it hang in your lungs like a silk curtain, before unfurling into nothingness as your shoulders slump. You're leaning against a railing of a rooftop building, your eyes glazed over with the darkness of a sun setting. You're mean and bitter, at the way things turned out, at your own history. You could still feel the hatred burning into your back, stemming from simple eyes, branding you like a hot iron, exploding and detonating in your head like landmines. Your youth slips away and you're left with nothing but a carapace of yourself, simply breathing and existing without any consciousness.

Were you too young for this?

You were only twenty two, after all.

Twenty two years of living had culminated in you pressing your hand against your forehead with a cigarette between your fingers, alone and lonely. But a part of you wanted to be left behind, though. That way, no one would see what you were, and what you'd become from what.

"What're you doing here?"

A voice. You don't turn around, but you do lift your head up and face the sun slowly disappearing behind the flat horizon. The velvety, dulcet tone of a man whose voice was marinated in expensive, foreign wine.

"Leave me be," You say, a twinge of exasperation in your words.

A huff.

"This is my smoking spot too, you know," Chuuya emerges next to you and brings his own cigarette, the fast approaching night exacerbating the little light on your end. You don't bother even acknowledging him in your peripherals. "This is my spot."

"Looks like we're gonna be sharing it, then." You suck the end of your cigarette and pinch it between your thumb and index finger, letting the ashes flutter away like muted fireflies in the breeze.

"I didn't know you were a smoker."

"I'm usually not," You say.

"Then why are you smoking?" He quirks an eyebrow at you, teeth clenched down to hold his cigarette while his hand cupped it, the other igniting his lighter. You shrug.

"Why not?"

This was the sabotage you were talking about; the very act of speaking was self annihilation. Speaking for you meant a war was won; you would have gotten mute if you had decided to. Speaking for you was a battle—the words came from your stomach over your throat, your vocal box untouched and unopened. Like a growl, it came out scathed and scratched, bloodied and gored.