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"So, I need you to try to think about what feeling triggers this."
Kise Ryouta was a lot, and that wasn't news. Everyone knew it, even himself, and it'd been that way from the beginning of his memories. It was a double-edged sword, his mother had told him God knows how long ago. And he tended to agree with her.
When he was young, there wasn't much of a problem since, except for the almost unconscious animal force he sometimes displayed, his overstimulating and rampant nature mostly manifested itself in a textbook extroversion, in a somewhat loud voice, which his teachers knew how to excuse as simply being 'an overly loving boy.' It's sweet that he wants to talk so much, that he's so curious, so we forgive him for his intensity. Back then, it was all a game, and if his inability to set limits became dangerous, it would simply show itself as running as fast as possible until he tripped and fell, playing as rough as he could and feeling his heart pounding in his chest. It was the time when bruises were allowed, scrapes were commonplace, and dilated pupils were just a sign of a slightly unbridled game. Nothing more. There was no need to dwell on it; boys will be boys, and that's it.
By the time he entered junior high school, everyone around him had ways of explaining this behavior, this constant excess that, against all odds, only seemed to grow exponentially with age.
The thing is, Geminis are always like that -excessive. They throw themselves head first into everything, especially when they're young.
Your dad was the same at school; you have no idea how often I got calls from the principal. Luckily, he got over it later.
But not only had he grown, but so had the feeling, which was now accompanied by another, which had taken place, slowly and stealthily, and had been settling into his entire being.
"Have you ever felt trapped, Aominecchi?" It was the end of their first year, and they'd been playing together for Teiko for several months now. Although they weren't the best of friends, he'd hoped to feel understood. Someone else must be going through this, he thought, while the boy in front of him raised his eyebrow in confusion.
The truth is, feeling trapped is horrible, in general. But his suffocation wasn't explained by fear or even claustrophobia. He felt stuck, oppressed within his own body. This worsened when he played basketball, because then his heart would beat abnormally fast, his brain would race at 10,000 kilometers per hour, his nerves would feel as if they were on fire, and that's when he didn't know what to do. He felt an inexplicable, suffocating pressure in his chest cavity, and it scared him. It also scared him because right there and then he thought his body wouldn't be able to take it much longer, and he found himself thinking how good it'd be to be even more—taller, bigger, stronger—or, better yet, to be nothing at all. Not having a limited physical form, being able to feel and float as he pleased, being able to be free.
What was he supposed to do with these ideas if, even knowing how silly and childish they were, he couldn't stop thinking them?
"Always, Kise, always."
So he'd continued like this, in that space of mutual understanding (although always unspoken, because how could he talk about something he didn't even fully understand in the first place, him being, them being only teenagers?), letting himself be carried away by the passion that consumed him.
If his classmates were the same, then it couldn't be so bad, right? After all, if his way of being and feeling meant his attacks on the court were so vicious and unstoppable, he should take advantage of it. The words of the others, especially Akashi's, motivated him to always be more, and he would have done anything to maintain that group, which he slowly realized was becoming more and more of a fundamental pillar in maintaining the chaotic life he had grasped with a pinch of salt.
He was young, he had time, this was the moment to be uncontrolled, to let himself go and not think about the consequences. Although sometimes a teacher or close adult would warn him about the need to have a brake, to know how to return to shore after swimming, when he and the GoM finished a match and hugged each other—drenched from head to toe in sweat, their bodies warm and their minds spinning, often with smiles and looks that seemed terrifying to any outsider—then Kise couldn't find the willpower to feel anything other than pure pride. Of his personality, of his teammates', of the connection between them and the reality that currently surrounded him.
Passion oozed from his pores, his love for everything (his friends, sports, life itself) shook him from head to toe, and there was no way such a seemingly positive attitude could transform into something bad.
"I don't know what to do, Ki, I don't want this to end like this! You're supposed to be—we're all supposed to be friends!" Momoi's voice screamed against his ear, where he was clutching the phone so tightly his knuckles were turning white.
Everything was falling apart, and he didn't understand why it was happening or when the beginning of the end had begun. Everything was changing, and the speed at which his friends adapted, which he'd always envied and appreciated, was now driving him crazy, because he really couldn't keep up. They were about to graduate from junior high—there were only a couple of weeks left until the end-of-year ceremony—and except for him and Momoi (and maybe Kuroko, with whom he hadn't discussed the subject much because he was the one he'd grown closest to, and the idea of knowing what he really thought, especially if it turned out they didn't agree, scared him so much it almost embarrassed him), everyone seemed fine with what was happening.
Everyone seemed to endorse Akashi's attitude, agree with his idea of parting ways, and he couldn't begin to understand how the mere thought didn't seem as terrifying and worrying to them as it did to him, how it didn't make their stomachs churn, how the rest of them could carry on as normal when he was dying, and not as figuratively as he would have liked.
The days had continued to pass, obviously, and as his perceptiveness on the court spilled over into other aspects of his life, he'd slowly noticed how, in real time, everything he'd known was slipping through his fingers.
He'd tried to talk it out, he thought he remembered, but then he'd been hit in the face by a reality he thought he'd completely overcome. People tended to underestimate him, reducing him to a pretty face, a loud and annoying voice, a weird guy who was really good at sports, and that's why we forgive his flaws. We let them go.
Then everything had exploded. He'd become obsessive, paranoid, and took advantage of every little situation to make a scene, yelling at his classmates for anything, no matter how ridiculous. He seemed desperate to feel connected to them through something, to do whatever it took to rebuild that bond. Was this something new, a knee-jerk reaction, or simply the other side of the same coin, the second edge his mother had warned him about?
The happy days, which still existed, made him feel dangerously high, as if he were flying on a cloud of ecstasy and euphoria. But the worst always came later, when that moment was shattered and he would plunge back into panic, screaming, scratching, and hitting whatever crossed his path with the pure (and somewhat ridiculous) goal of feeling like he had some power over his destiny. By that point, his personality had ceased to be something to be overlooked, a justifiable flaw, and had become his fundamental weakness, because the bad was beginning to outweigh the good on everyone else's scales.
And there we were back to where we were before, because he believed with increasing certainty that it wouldn't be long before his heart exploded or his brain caught fire as a result of the brutal effort he had to make to endure the sea of destructive thoughts and emotions that haunted him. It was a daily problem, even more so every time he came home and suddenly nothing could distract him. Because he felt small, so small and so, so alone, vulnerable to the ghosts in his mind taking shape and attacking him at will. No one could stop them, no one could say no or ask for help, not even—or especially not—him.
He was ten-year-old Kise again, crying too hard over the death of a TV character while his family laughed at him, unable to understand why no one else was affected, why everyone was so apathetic. Except now no one laughed, not with or at him, and his problems were real, tangible. The pressure in his chest had returned, even more searing than before, and it was spreading through the rest of his body, setting fire to everything in its path, attempting to break out of the confines of his skin and scorch his surroundings as well.
His life had become cyclical. He went from zero to one hundred—or rather, from minus one hundred to plus one hundred—with no trigger other than some comment or action from any of his classmates, who were increasingly unable to tolerate each other (or him).
"You need a ground wire, you can't get lost like that. You're not a bad person, Kise," Kuroko's words bounced around in his head over and over again as he curled into a ball in the corner of his bathroom floor, his breathing ragged and his eyes clouded with tears in something that was nothing more than a reflection of practically every night of his for the last couple months. He didn't believe he was a bad person either, he never had, but honestly, that was no longer a relevant concept to him. Now all he cared about was the imperative need he had to oh please feel in control, the owner of something, capable of deciding the what, how, when, and why of literally anything.
Everything related to him -in the past, present, and future- was so nebulous, so confusing. He wanted to feel more and at the same time less, to be more and less aware. He wanted to understand what was happening to him, why to him, or why not to the rest. He wanted to know if it was wrong and, if so, what to do about it, which suddenly mattered, because he couldn't lose his friends, because he had nothing else. And once again, he found himself in the middle of the night, unable to sleep and thinking things that scared him, like how he really wouldn't have a future if he didn't keep competing and winning with them; he couldn't afford to lose what defined him.
The first time it happens, the shock lasts less than he expects or it should. He's taking a shower, fighting the endless battle against his mind once again when he slips (he doesn't notice when he steps on the soap, he doesn't even notice what's happening, he can't prevent it), so he ends up almost falling to the floor, saved by his quick reflexes that unconsciously allow him to grab onto one of the shower shelves just in time. As he stands up again amid whispered insults, he notices something strange. There are red drops on the floor, and when he finally looks down at his hand, he gets it. He had the bad luck of grabbing ont the shelf where he normally leaves his razor—damn those modeling agencies, obsessed with keeping him hairless—so he currently has it buried in his left palm, and the sight causes him to hiss in pain.
Anyway, as he pulls the razor from his skin, Kise notices something he hadn't before. As the red thread falls, faster and enhanced by the shower water, giving the impression of being more abundant, as the burning in his hand becomes more noticeable with the lack of pressure, he realizes he's present. And calm. So calm. He doesn't know how much time passes like this, with his eyes wide open, focused on the wound while his breathing quickens, regularizes, and quickens again in a loop.
He doesn't realize his brain is completely silent until several months later, when he's lying in bed with a blade pressed against his abdomen (by now covered in marks of various shades of pink, which would definitely bother agencies if he'd continued modeling) and his uniform crumpled into his mouth to avoid making a sound, and it occurs to him that maybe this is what he's always needed. That maybe boys like him—boys who are and feel a lot, who wear their hearts on their sleeves—need a way to keep themselves under control, to not burden others. To not scare them away. That thought doesn't scare him, either. For the first time in his life, it seems like a logical reaction, especially considering how light his chest feels.
Even when his friends part ways and he survives, he doesn't stop. Or when they reunite, in high school, to play with their respective teams, and he survives too. Or when things finally start to improve, little by little, when he reconnects with Kuroko and the rest, when he meets Kagami and company, when he survives once more.
"I don't remember anymore, if I'm being honest."
And maybe it's not that much of a lie. He can't help but laugh about it.