Chapter Text
Human bodies are a tragically imperfect machine, bound by severe limitations that seem to exist only to torture their host. Bones break and heal with a dent; scars cascade over flesh that would have otherwise forgotten the ordeal from which they came. The mind will do its best to heal its own wounds, although frequently comes up short of doing so.
Kite sat on the edge of his bed, left hand held forward in the darkness like a pale shadow in the night. Brown eyes watched the faint quaking of the flesh, unsure if it was real or the product of a weary brain attempting to interpret images in the dark. Kite did not dare move; motion only made the pain worse.
That night was the first time in several weeks he had been driven awake by the pain. Kite had truly thought he was recovering. He had told everyone that he was, at least. Blinding agony dug into each of his senses like hot knives; his mind registered the scent of blood, although there was not an open wound to be found. The high-pitched hum of permanent tinnitus burrowed into his eardrums as though there were insects living deep in his skull.
Kite lowered his head, feeling the pain in his neck and jaw grow worse with the added strain. It didn’t matter to him; there was no way he could sit comfortably, no matter what he did, and lying back down was not an option. The pain was somehow worse when he was prone.
It’s nothing I can’t handle, Kite remembered telling the doctor however long ago. Kite could not recall what his name was, but recalled being given a stapled-together pamphlet of how to manage chronic pain, and subsequently leaving it somewhere that was now lost upon him. New memories would fade hours after being formed, and the old ones were filled with nothing but bitterness, now.
What Kite saw in the mirror across from his bed contradicted what he thought himself to be, in nearly every way. Long, silver strands of hair had crept out of their elastic, which held the rest somewhat in place on the top of his head. His jawline and cheekbones protruded from his paper-thin flesh, causing his features to look more like a mask than a face.
His hair was the most troublesome aspect of his physical appearance at the moment. It had grown longer than before, twisting into unmanageable tangles and mats. Despite that, he would never be the type to confess that holding and using a hairbrush was simply too difficult to do with his left hand, pain and everything else aside.
Kite knew he looked like shit. His eyes were bloodshot-red, and his already svelte figure was now borderline gaunt. The doctor certainly under-exaggerated the suffering that came with eating with severe jaw pain.
Softly, Kite stroked his neck with a shaking hand. His own fingers, long and pale, felt foreign to him. They traveled from the base of his neck to the back of his head, and then over to where his throat met his jaw. When Kite swallowed his pain, he could feel the constriction of living muscles push against bones and aching joints. He glanced sideways at the clock on his night-table. It was 2:59 in the morning, about to turn to 3am, and Kite felt worse than ever before.
The doctor had not given him medication to help with the pain. He did not say why, but Kite knew, and let well enough be. Pushing himself back until his shoulder connected with the headboard of his bed, Kite took hold of the ibuprofen bottle that sat sideways on his table. He held it firmly between his thighs, and unscrewed the top with a hand that almost refused to cooperate. In an act that sat somewhere between self-preservation and self-destruction, Kite poured several circular pills on the surface of his bed, and set the bottle aside for morning.
He took a handful, what must have been at least eight to ten, and brought them to his cracked lips. Several fell from his fist as it shook. When the tablets of ibuprofen were between his teeth, Kite took hold of his glass of water from the other night and consumed its stale contents to wash down the sickly-sweet sugar coating of pills that did absolutely nothing other than weaken his headaches.
In no way were his actions indicative of failing mental health. Part of why Kite refused to see a therapist, despite instruction from his doctor, was because he knew he was fine in the head, if a little out of it. He would never be the type to take his own life. Rather, the handful of pills were a means to an end; although, ‘end’ was a strong word to describe the dreamless sleep that came with their consumption. They made his headaches less severe, which in turn allowed him to rest slightly easier. It took at least five pills to do anything at all, six to be safe, but that night was more than terrible.
Kite felt his bones shift with every movement. He laid horizontally across his bed, not caring in the least that his neck was hanging off the side. The odd feeling of blood rushing to his head diluted the tinnitus. His eyes fluttered open and closed, barely registering the outline of the spinning ceiling fan above head.
Kite’s rest was not dreamless, as it tended to be. Instead, he felt unseen claws dig into his flesh, tearing limb from limb and dissecting him with precision and grace. Yellow eyes, feline in nature, watched him hungrily, as though he was something to be hunted and devoured as prey. His pain persisted, even as he slept.
Kite heard his alarm go off only two hours later; 5am, right on the dot. He used to be able to rouse himself so easily. This time around, Kite immediately shut the alarm off. He did not see a reason to be awake so early.
Kite was awoken a second time by a loud knock on the door of his apartment. It’s the mailman, he told himself. He’ll leave soon enough.
“Kite?” A familiar, booming voice called from all the way outside his door. “Are you in there?”
Kite sat up, noticing that the crick in his neck had only gotten worse. His stomach ached like nothing else, adding just another item in the list of things that ailed him. Kite slid himself out of bed, consciously putting one foot in front of the other as he walked towards his bedroom door. He caught a brief, horrifying glance of himself in the mirror, and sincerely hoped that his lovely visitor happened to be blind.
“Kite, if you don’t answer the damn door in thirty seconds, I’m taking it down myself.”
“I heard you the first time,” Kite muttered under his breath, defeatedly approaching the entrance to his home and undoing each lock with unstable fingers. He took hold of the doorknob and turned it. “What do you want?”
Morel Mackernasey did not wait to be invited in. Kite knew beforehand that he wouldn’t. A second person entered Kite’s apartment after Morel, taking the other visitor’s intrusion as permission to do the same.
“How do you two know each other?” Kite inquired, shutting the door behind him as he approached Morel. He was slow in his movements, careful to not call attention to his pain by wincing or showing a slight limp.
“We don’t, really.” Morel huffed a heavy sigh and crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “We happened to get here at the same time, is all. You’re a pretty popular guy right now.”
Kite said nothing. Still standing beside the door, Spinner Clow watched her former coworker intently. She fidgeted uneasily with a package in her hands, pulling at the band that secured its contents in place. Embarrassment, shame even, seeped into Kite like poison. He shifted about unsteadily on his bare feet, leaning over to pick up a blue, knit shawl, and promptly draped it over his aching shoulders as evenly as he could. He wrapped his left hand around his waist and hid it beneath the soft fabric, clenching his teeth as hard as he could to keep the shaking at bay as effectively as he could.
“Do you know what time it is?” Morel asked, shifting his sunglasses with one hand.
“Not sure.”
“It’s nearly three, and I’m not an imbecile; you just got out of bed before answering the door.” Morel’s tone was stern, but the heat Kite felt rising in his face came from knowing it came from genuine concern. “No one has heard from you in a few weeks.”
Kite tried to blink the sleep from his eyes before answering. “I’ve been sick.”
“What did that doctor give you?” Demanded Morel.
“I’m not high, if that’s what you’re implying.” If only. “I’m not on drugs. He didn’t give me anything. I’m just not feeling well. Really.”
Morel raised his eyebrows. “Have you been outside lately?”
“No. Because I’ve been sick.” Kite felt sweat bead at his flesh.
“So sick you haven’t been able to respond to any emails or phone calls?”
“Kite,” Spin interjected, speaking low and softly, as though she were attempting to soothe a frightened animal. “Let’s sit down at your table and just talk. I want to hear about what you’ve been up to.”
A sigh emerged from Kite’s chest, falling from parting lips and collapsing to the floor like cinderblocks. Acute discomfort struck him in every joint and muscle, echoes of a diagnosis that was more of a mouthful than it was worth to him. Spin motion for Kite to follow her with a slight tilt of the head. She was being abnormally cautious, walking slow and keeping herself vigilant. Kite gave in to her beckoning, walking around the side of his couch at the same speed as Spin. He was still being careful with how he moved, doing everything in his power to avoid arousing suspicion in either of his visitors.
Kite knew that there was a possibility he could convince Spin he was fine. She was incredibly intelligent, although not quite as apt at observing and others. On the other hand, Kite knew that deceiving Morel was entirely beyond the bounds of possibility. The man was ridiculously perceptive, and Kite knew better than to go out of his way to draw him further from the truth; it was futile, anyways.
Kite took a seat at the circular table beside his small kitchen. He wrapped his concealed left hand over the side of his rib, tight enough to cause even more discomfort. Uncomfortable still, he shifted his hips, feeling the ache in the base of his spine grow more pronounced with each passing second.
Spin was sitting across from him, wide-eyed and ill at ease. “How’s your…” She clearly wasn’t sure what to say. “Injury?”
It had been nearly two months since Kite was attacked in the NGL, and what of his right arm that was left behind had healed weeks ago. He sometimes still felt it there, right where it was supposed to be. It tingled and burned like a fire beneath invisible skin, almost as though the feline him beneath their claws. A shiver ran down Kite’s spine at the thought.
“My arm healed fine,” answered Kite. Morel did not take a seat between him and Spin; rather, the Hunter stood right behind Kite, watching him with concealed eyes. “Is there something you’re both here to tell me?”
Spin glanced to one side, then the other. “We’re just worried about you. You didn’t really let us know how you were doing after the incident, and you weren’t allowing visitors when you were in the hospital.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re hiding something,” Morel grumbled. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re a really popular topic at the moment. There was a rumor going around that you were dead, or at least about to be. Did you know that?”
Kite closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His shoulders felt heavier than stone. “I told you; I’ve been sick.”
“We’re just worried you’re hurting yourself,” interjected Spin suddenly, maintaining her initial calmness despite the evident concern behind her words. “I’ve read online that self-harm is common with people struggling with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and often used as a mechanism to bring someone back from an episode of disassociation. If that’s the case for you, you know we’re always here for you and nobody would judge you for getting help or admitting you have a problem.”
“I don’t have PTSD.”
Morel was quick to add to the barrage of collective worry. “Have you been drinking?”
Kite found himself taken aback by their accusations. Neither one was true in the least, and hearing them only made him wonder more about what was being said in private regarding his condition. Do they really think that? He wondered, considering that they were just trying to get him to confess to something, anything.
“Gin and whiskey might feel like a warm embrace from the man upstairs right about now, but I guarantee that when you wake up in the hospital, half-alive and feeling like hell, you’ll think otherwise,” Morel told Kite, lecturing him as though he was a child delinquent on trial. “Imagine how Ging’s son would feel knowing you tried to drink yourself to death. That would destroy him, you know; he already feels a shit-ton of guilt for what happened in the NGL.”
Kite cleared his throat. The irony of Morel Mackernasey asking him if he had a drinking problem was nearly enough to bring him to smile. “I’m not drinking.”
“Kite—”
“I’ll take a test, if you’re so sure. I’m not drinking. I don’t have any alcohol in my apartment.”
Spin took Morel’s place in the conversation, peering down at Kite’s partially-concealed hand. “Could you hold out your arm?”
Kite blinked long and slow. If he didn’t comply, the two of them would surely either find a way to force him, or try to admit him somewhere. If he did as they asked, on the other hand, they would see how he trembled. Their expressions would go from concern to downright pity in an instant, as though they were looking at a broken machine that was ready to be recalled from service. I’m not broken, he tried to remind himself. They can’t think I am.
Morel took a step closer to the side of Kite’s chair, his presence more irritating than intimidating. “Kite.”
“I’m not cutting my arm, either,” the silver-haired man told the two intruders in his home. Feeling somewhat compliant, Kite pulled his forearm halfway out from underneath his shawl, exposing pale, unwounded flesh that only bore the scars of battle, training, and the countless mistakes of years past.
“The underside, too,” demanded Morel quietly. Kite was not sure why he, a normally extraordinarily loud man, insisted on keeping his voice so low then. “Put your hand on the table.”
Kite felt his heart rise to his throat. His whole body froze, apart from his shaking hand, and the world fell silent, apart from the ringing in his ears. Kite knew he could always just tell them ‘no,’ but then the questions would never stop. More would come to his apartment door, as if to gawk at an animal in a zoo, picking at his psyche and prodding at his battered body with more curiosity than concern.
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
Kite remained steadfast in his intention to remain concealed. “I don’t have to show you my hand.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.” Morel uncrossed his arms. “But, if you don’t, I won’t hesitate to call someone for you.”
Fuck you, Kite sincerely wanted to say. Instead, he collapsed under the pressure of Morel and Spin’s accusations, and removed his arm from its hiding place. At first, the looks on their faces were of relief; Kite’s skin was clean of all injuries. In the blink of an eye, the feeling of solace faded from the room.
Kite rested his hand against the table; right then, his hand tremor was suddenly the most interesting thing about him.
“Kite.” Spin shook her head. She reached across the small table to touch him, but Kite was quick to pull away.
“Please don’t touch me.”
Morel sighed heavily and rubbed a strong hand against the back of his neck, staring down at Kite’s remaining hand. “You have a hand tremor?” He questioned. “That’s it?”
Kite felt his skin burn like a match was being held against his face. “I have more. My conflict with the ant left me very ill.” Incredibly damaged, he nearly said. Shattered like a glass bottle thrown against the ground.
Finally, seeing that he no longer needed to maintain a foreboding presence, Morel took a seat between Kite and Spin at the table.
“I developed fibromyalgia, since it matters to you. The hand tremor comes from something else.” Kite tried not to make eye-contact with either party sitting before him. “I can’t hold a glass of water without spilling half of it, let alone hold a weapon. I regret to inform you both this way that I’m fundamentally useless to you.”
Spin lifted her right hand to take his, but stopped herself. “You aren’t useless, Kite.”
“It’s alright,” Kite tried to reassure her. “I know I am, and I want to be upfront about it. I’m a liability in this conflict. I can’t do anything for you.”
Morel’s face twisted with frustration. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.” Spin looked down at her hands. “Do you really think pitying yourself will do any good? I never took you for the type, Kite.”
“You have an astoundingly awful bedside manner,” Spin told the Hunter harshly. “He’s in crisis.”
“He needs to get out of crisis real quick or else the Chairman is going to have a field day with this situation!” Exclaimed Morel in response. “It doesn’t matter what it takes; if you need a Xanax prescription, a marijuana dealer on speed-dial, et cetera, whatever you think you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
Kite was at an utter loss for words. His eyes grew heavy, with pain vibrating around the sockets without a moment of mercy. His stomach turned up, down, sideways, begging both to remain empty as well as to have nourishment. “You two should probably leave.”
Spin looked crushed by the statement. “He’s right, you know. Sulking and hiding from everyone isn’t going to do you any good.”
“You could get a prosthetic, or alter your Nen to compensate for the loss of your arm. One of my students is missing an arm, albeit the left, but the point still stands,” Morel pointed out. “I know you’re more resilient than this. You just need to get back on your feet.”
“It doesn’t matter what kind of prosthesis I get, or how I train from now on, as long as I have pain on top of injury. I can hardly move on most days. It feels like my body devouring itself alive.” Kite felt the space where his arm had been tingle in its absence. “I’m not a suicide risk, if that’s a concern for the Association, although I don’t see why it would be. I’m fine, mentally, at least. I’m just in pain.”
The conversation dragged on for a while longer. Spinner leaned her chin against her right palm in a way that would make Kite’s own jaw ache like nothing else, quietly tapping her other index finger on the table while Morel offered a combination of counseling and tough love to a completely unwilling participant. The man seemed to see Kite as much weaker than he was, all while saying the opposite. The subtext of phrases like ‘you’ll find a way to get back on your feet’ and ‘everyone is on your side’ was not lost on Kite in the slightest.
He knew that Morel was a good man. He was certainly making an attempt to comfort, or at least therapize, his comrade, and miserably failing at it, but Kite’s heart was not frozen to the point that he could not appreciate the sentiment. That being said, he could not help but be offended. When he pointed out that he would be useless in any kind of battle, he meant it, and not as a way to garner pity. The fact that Morel immediately presumed to see his resignation as a product of untreated mental illness was enough to make Kite hold his tongue.
“Kite,” Morel started again, noticing the other man fading from the conversation. “Do you want to go back and keep fighting?”
Kite raised his hand to his head and massaged his temples intensely, pressing down into the sensitive flesh harder than what was probably good for him. The pain that resulted was better, a little more tolerable at least, than the pain in his back, his neck, his jaws, everything, so he continued.
“No, I don’t think I can. I would slow you down.”
“Are you just trying to get me to feel sorry for you?”
“I’m being honest and realistic. I apologize if those aren’t things you want to hear.”
“Will you at least meet with the Chairman to tell him this yourself?”
Kite stopped. Pure, unmistakable dread washed over him at a moment’s notice for the first time in a while. It wasn’t that he feared confronting Netero regarding his condition; in fact, he would do so in a heartbeat, without second thoughts. So long as it was over the phone, at least.
“You look sick to your stomach.” Morel scoffed and shook his head. “Kite, you have a problem. I’m not entirely sure what it is, but something about you isn’t right. It’s the thought of leaving your house, isn’t it? It makes you scared half to death. I can tell.”
Kite’s heart skipped a beat. He sucked in a shaky breath, staring out the window behind Spin’s head and watching the afternoon drag on. “I’m not sure where you got that idea from.”
“Let’s go outside, then,” Morel proposed. “We’ll just go for a walk around the city, maybe get something to eat. Not a big deal if you’re ‘totally fine,’ now is it?”
The resulting silence of Morel’s threat turned Kite’s tinnitus into a thunderous sound, drowning out his staggered breathing. Each inhale hurt his ribs, and each exhale felt like fire bursting from his throat. Fuck. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Morel raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Leave. You’ve both interrogated me for long enough.” Kite stood up from his chair and walked away, not even bothering to pay a second glance to either of the individuals still seated. With a shuddering hand, he took hold of the doorknob and turned it.
Morel and Spin stayed in their seats, almost as though their objective of being there in the first place was only to bother Kite. He wanted to hate them for it, he really, truly did, but his body lacked the energy to produce hate. Instead, the place deep in the center of his chest that would have housed hate was already home to emptiness.
“You need help, Kite,” Morel griped when he finally stood. “I want to help you, but I’m not going to waste my time if all you’re willing to do is argue and pity yourself.”
“I asked you to leave, not to keep talking.”
Morel pursed his lips and took the door from Kite’s hand, deciding to be oddly cooperative. Spin trailed behind him on his way out, her head held low. “This is for you,” she muttered, handing Kite the wrapped object she had been holding this whole time. “Please take care of yourself, alright?”
Kite held the package unsteadily and mustered up the humility to respond, “thank you.”
“I’ll be back sometime soon, Kite.” Morel turned back to look at the injured Hunter with an accusatory expression. “If you aren’t doing at least a bit better by the time we next meet, I’m not going to hesitate to call someone for you. Just know that."