A soft, sad smile crossed Kenta’s lips. Neo had no clue, no clue at all how broken, how messed up he was. Most of the things he’s done with Neo or really anyone was just a mask, a personality that hid the truth. In all honesty he wasn’t that strong that he tries to put up. He could be if he really needed to. But he was sensitive to things, he just never let anyone know that. Hurtful words can hurt him and even though he acts like it doesn’t phase him at that moment, when he;’s alone it does. It gets to him and he can’t help that.
But he’d learn to cope with this. Around people he’ll put on this whole different personality and when he’s alone,the truth is revealed. He acts like he doesn’t care, but he does. But Neo just had no idea what kind of mess he was getting into.
When he feels his head being lifted up, the sad smile quickly disappeared and he put that straight face back on. Even though he was still slightly trembling, he was slowly getting himself together. Enough to put that fake personality back up in front. Not all of it was a lie but most of it was. Though even being himself he can still be a brat. That was something that Neo probably wouldn’t get away from.
He stared into those blue eyes of his. Listening to him carefully, letting him speak. Kenta didn’t bother to reply just yet. He just sat there and listened. He let Neo’s hand move from his chin to his chest. To where his heart had stopped beating, oh how he missed it. How he missed so much of being human and he was slightly jealous of people who had warmth and that beating heart.
When Neo whispered the last thing, Kenta let out a small ‘heh’. He didn’t know whether Neo was just stupid or amazing. What? Wait. Amazing? This idiot being amazing? … Kenta shook his head slightly. No way. He couldn’t be thinking like that.
The words touched a part of him and a warm feeling started to build up. Even though he couldn’t feel his heart beating, it was still there and working.. He was more than what he thought. The blond sure as hell had a way with words, he’d give him that.
He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it for a few more seconds, like he was thinking of what to say. All this was getting in to deep and Kenta already said far too much. He showed him too much than what he’s shown anyone and that wasn’t good. He needed this to end. Or he was going to start relying on him.. and then he’ll get attached. Then.. he might hurt him…far worse than what he’s done already.
“You’re an idiot.” He finally says. “An idiot for wanting to stick around and thinking I’m actually worth something. Worth someone to help.” He slowly started to get up, not wanting to but he knew if he stay like this any longer, he might never want to leave. “Don’t treat me like I’m anything special. You don’t need to say such sappy things. Now before I get into more trouble from the people I live with, take me part way home."
He fully got off of Neo, wiping the dirt from his pants but stopping to look at Neo’s hand that was bandaged. “Actually we’re going to the hospital first to get that wound seen and then you can take me part way home. Now get the hell up.” He moved to collect the arrows and bow.
He wanted to try and hurry back. He wanted to cry but he didn’t want to do it once more in front of Neo. He drew in a deep breath, trying to keep it together.
There’s a laugh that escapes him before he can catch it on its way out, the word idiot reverberating around the space between them. As Kenta moves off of him, Neo shifts to lie on his elbows, his arm slipping from around the kid’s shoulders, his hand dropping from where it rested on his cold chest. The noise is soft, ultimately. Gentle. For all its subtlety, however, it breathes each emotion laughter is known for–happiness, relief, simple positivity; fondness cracks around the edges of it, and Neo looks up at him with a quick tweak of the corner of his mouth.
"Forewarning,” he begins, “I’m a sucker for sap.”
And with that, he gets to his feet as well. He straightens his shirt, kicking his feet a little what with the earlier cut-off of blood circulation, and then rocks back and forth on his heels to get everything working properly again. As he rotates his arms in their sockets, however, there’s a word that slices through him with the neatness of a samurai’s katana.
Hospital.
Like it’s started some atomic chain reaction, the stability of Neo’s mind falters. He begins to think. To remember. His nose fills with the acrid scent of over-sterility, of medicine, of floor cleaner and his own filth beneath bandages that still feel like ghosts whispering against his skin. He can taste the machine’s air–the one that had been breathing for him while his lungs developed–and he can hear the sounds of sneakers against polished floor, of hushed murmurs about his condition, of the clinking of champagne glasses when he was deemed capable of sustaining his own life.
The pain starts soon after. Instead of a dull throb in the back of his head, his entire nervous system begins to fill with liquid fire, reminding him of how his body doesn’t fit against each other–reminding him of the fact that he is only parts stitched together, and not at all a whole. His eyes ice over, the soft blue associated with warmth replaced with a steely, hardened gaze, and Neo’s jaw clenches as he stifles a snarl of anger from taking over.
It hurts.
It hurts.
“I don’t need to go there. I can stitch myself up just fine.” His tone of voice is firm and conclusive, leaving no room for argument. Neo doesn’t even look at Kenta, his insides beginning to flare up inside of him as his body takes him mechanically towards his knapsack and the toolbox. He can’t even pronounce the word without an uncontrollable rage seeping into every pore in his skin–can’t even say hospital without wanting to scream it out as he drives a knife into someone’s eye. The word drips with venom and hate even as he thinks it; it is filled with disgust and anger and every negative emotion Neo has ever felt in his three years of consciousness. A harsh film spreads over his vision, bleeding red like the wound trapped beneath the soft fabric of Kenta’s shirt. He wants to destroy something. He wants to destroy himself.
It’s more than a fear, the idea of hospitals. It’s more than Neo’s inward paranoia towards having hands over his body, working over his wounds and touching him with the forced smoothness of rubber gloves. It’s a trigger word–it’s an idea, a concept that he can’t even bear to think of without his entire frame filling with hatred instead of life and blood. It is a word that makes Neo want to die. It is something that makes him want to throw himself in the middle of a battlefield and feel a million bullets sink into his mismatched flesh.
He walks towards his bicycle with a sort of tension in his muscles, knapsack slung over one shoulder and toolbox held in his uninjured hand. With his foot, he roughly gets it out of its leaning position, and even though it stings him, his free hand grips the corresponding handle tightly as he moves his leg over the machine like he did hours ago.
He has gone through a complete change, it seems like. Neo has been reduced to the most basic state of himself created by the men who thought him fun to rebirth into their own personal warrior.
Each breath he takes is calm, but each breath he takes feels like poison in his lungs.
“You’re not riding, right?” All playfulness, all niceness, all traces of kindness Neo may have had disappear entirely. Though not hostile, his tone of voice is monotonous and syllabicated, each word pronounced in the perfect enunciation illustrated in dictionary references, like he speaks only because he understands how to, and not because he feels he must. His grip on the handle tightens almost dangerously, his wound opening up further beneath Kenta’s ragged cloth.
Neo doesn’t look back, shoulders hard in their stance like he’s getting ready to step in the line of crossfire. “Let’s head out of here.”
It’s not fair, probably, that Kenta doesn’t know of Neo’s demons. Here the young man’s opened up to him like a flower in spring, and all he knows about Neo himself is the fact that he’s not natural. His stories, though–his past and his background and everything that has to do with it–are deep and angry and drenched in the blood of the innocent. His mere existence wrought death in its wake. There is no way for him to explain it without wanting to break every bone in his body.
He fixes the quiver of arrows on his back right after fitting the bow over his torso.
And then, in silence, he rides.