The drizzle was cold. It chilled his skin and stuck to his clothes and hair, but he didn't care. Warm tears rolled down his frigid cheeks. He hoped people would think it was just the rain.

With his arms around his waist he stared at the wet pavement, waiting for Kazuo to reach the car. Two loud beeps and the orange lights flashing told him that Kazuo had seen him. Although it was cold, he wasn't sure if he wanted to go into the car. Maybe he should power through and continue his classes – it was only a coffee, a misunderstanding.

He wished he could run back in and break everything he saw. Screaming; chasing that woman down and bashing her head against the counter until she too couldn't say a word anymore. Until people had to drag him away and throw him into a cell again. And he'd tear and claw and fight. At least then he'd do something, other than stand there and cry.

It'd be so cathartic. A beautiful, violent display of a brutally violated mind.

But he didn't want to be like that anymore. He just wanted to be able to do things normally. As much as he pretended he didn't care about the cold, he did care about other things. Too much to go back to screaming and scratching and biting.

So with a harsh, hurt breath he pulled the car door open and dove inside. He laid his arms against the back of the driver's seat and ran his fingers through his damp hair, trying his best to keep breathing.

Mere moments later he heard the door on the opposite passenger side open. Cold air rushed in, but it was fresh and allowed him a soothing breath. Kazuo sat down on the backseat, a respectable distance away, but close enough to be present.

He tried his best not to sob, but he wasn't even sure why. Of course Kazuo knew it hurt him – he had been with him for a decade. He simply didn't want to be seen this way, not for a coffee. Even when it wasn't about coffee at all.

「I know you tried.」

The words were soft, and genuine. And for a moment he did his best to stay composed, just like Kazuo was. But all he had to answer with were several deep, hurt sobs.

He'd tried. He tried so hard. For years, and years, through speech lessons and sign language. Through institutes and special schools. And even when it got better, no matter how well he did, it wasn't good enough.

Not enough to order a coffee. Not to sit through a class. He couldn't say good morning, or good night. He couldn't say who he was, not even an introduction. It wasn't enough to make his parents proud, not the way they had hoped he would. He would never be able to tell the people he cared about how he felt – to tell Tristan he loved him. And some days he didn't need to be able to; but every day of his life he'd be lacking something.

Fundamentally broken.

The realisation broke him too. He bit down on his lip and tried to stop it, only for heavy, trembling breaths to force their way through. Tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping down his nose as he grasped at his hair. He cried, his back shaking as he let it all out.

He didn't even know why he was trying anymore. How would he ever become a psychologist if he couldn't talk? Let alone be able to reform anyone. Nobody really needed him. He had nothing he could give anyone that they'd need. Even his parents kept him away from people.

Everyone had figured it all out without him. Even Tristan. He didn't really need him – he'd see that too. Maybe if he wasn't there, he'd realise how amazing he was all by himself. He could leave him all the money he needed to make his dreams come true.

It always came down to that. That was why he had to be around. He wasn't important, but the money in his name was. If he was just tossed in a mental institution for the rest of his life that would all be solved. And he wouldn't have to think about it. Wouldn't hold anyone down. Then Tristan would be able to find someone better. Someone that could talk like he did – he deserved someone like that. Eventually he'd get tired of accommodating him.

Then he'd be left alone in a corner, shouting and screaming. Slamming his head against a white wall until the day he died. As long as he didn't have to try anymore. He was tired of trying.

It's not true. He knew it wasn't. It was just his mind. Spiralling out of his control. I don't want to do this again. I want to go home.

With trembling hands he signed the words. He'd worn himself out – been worn out by having to cope. Even though it was still morning, he wanted to go home and fade away. He wasn't sure he could manage anything else. Not if he had to keep all these horrible thoughts at bay.

「I'll bring you home.」Kazuo said, and he felt a hand cautiously run over his shoulder. It helped a little, just as a reminder that Kazuo did care. Even though something deep inside kept saying he only did because his dad paid for it. He had to be tired too, of dealing with him. Every day, all day. Of having to take care of someone who couldn't help himself. Who turned mean and angry, and screamed at night. Always afraid of another suicide attempt.

He never made it easy for him. Even now he was dripping tears and snot on the carpeting of his car.

Another hurt sob left him, but he struggled to remain quiet. He didn't want to bother him anymore. If Kazuo really cared, he shouldn't make trouble, and if he only cared for the money, then there was no point in crying anyway.

He wanted to die, so he didn't have to think these thoughts anymore. If he was dead it meant he'd at least be quiet – but he couldn't even kill himself right, without hurting others.

「Hibiki.」Kazuo's voice startled him. Even though the man's hand was still on his shoulder, the barrage of thoughts had tuned him out. He didn't respond, but held in his tears. 「It's only a bad day.」

He shook his head. It wasn't. It was never just a day.

「You've been doing very well, even though it's difficult. We'll go home, so you can calm down, and eventually it'll be alright. You know these moments pass, they always do.」

With a few deep breaths, he tried to nod and dry his eyes, even if his mind was giving him reasons why it wasn't true; why he'd always feel horrible. He didn't want to listen, but the thoughts were persistent. Mean little ideas bit into him, and refused to go away even when he was aware how much they brought him down: because they were his own ideas.

「And I am proud of you for not getting angry.」Kazuo's hand ran down his back and back up, only once, but that was enough to allow him to take a trembling breath and nod. It wasn't much, but the fact that he had restrained himself was something to hold on to.

Losing control terrified him. Inadvertently, the idea of Tristan's mother came up. Even though he had never seen her, all he could imagine was her anger for him. The wounds she had caused in that wild rage. For a split second he was the abuser. Beating him into a corner, crying and hurt. He'd hurt people, people he loved. The very thought alone shook him; disgusted him.

He didn't want to be angry. Not anymore.

With a deep sigh he did his best to keep breathing. To stop crying and recollect himself. He felt tired, and emptied now all his emotions had run their course. But the quiet was preferable. He took another shaky breath, and laid back against the seat.

「Let's go home then.」He agreed to that, and watched as Kazuo left the car to switch into the driver's seat.

For the rest of the drive home he was quiet. He watched the Oxford streets pass them by, and then turn to barren shrubbery and evergreen bushes. The fields were still verdant, underneath deep grey skies. He missed home; he missed the ocean. He wanted the heat of Japanese summers, and the sight of forest-covered mountains. Or the white beaches and blue waters of California. Somewhere else.

Always somewhere else. But that didn't really fix anything. He couldn't speak in Japan, not in America – nor in Europe. He couldn't escape that feeling of being lost, of not knowing what he wanted to do. Some loose plan, maybe, but he had just wanted to go elsewhere.

With a deep sigh, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He went to open his chat with Tristan, but he didn't want to look at the messages. He felt like he had failed him. How are you so certain of where you want to go?

Despite everything he had, he had no real goals. Dreams, maybe. And somehow you manage without anything. Even Tristan's anxiety was always about not achieving what he had set out to do, rather than not knowing what to do. It was admirable, and deep inside he felt butterflies thinking about everything Tristan could do.

At the same time he feared that he'd be the one stopping him from doing those things. He wanted to talk to him, to tell him about everything that happened. But he'd distract him. Pull him down with him.

So he put his phone away again.