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When Yusuke was three years old, he got sick. It wasn’t like he’d never been ill before, but this time was far worse than a simple cold. He was freezing in the days and boiling hot in the nights, coughing and throwing up frequently. He was weak and frail and helpless. Completely helpless. It wasn’t long after his mother had died, and despite any memory of her being blurred and smudged like dirty watercolour wash he’s certain he must have been grieving her as much as somebody as young as he was could.
Madarame sat awake by his bedside every night. He kept a chart on his wall reminding himself to routinely give Yusuke medicine, read Yusuke stories every night when his fever made it a struggle to sleep, held cold flannels to his head and gave him sick bowls whenever he vomited. It was how Yusuke knew, despite it all, that he was safe. No illness could attack him; he couldn’t be hurt at all if Madarame was by his side.
Yusuke still isn’t quite sure why Madarame inhibited such kindness over that period. Yusuke's weakness was so terrifying to Madarame when Yusuke was young, yet soon he would come to use it as an anchor. In fact, as time went on, he began to encourage Yusuke’s weakness solely so he could exploit it. His attitude changed like the seasons; burning red love fading into a dying, easily broken brown, scattering onto the ground to be crushed underfoot. It was a frustrating dichotomy, one that would be far easier if not existent at all.
If Madarame had been so disgustingly selfish all this time, it would be significantly easier to let him go. If he had always been the grotesque, caricaturish version of himself like he was in his palace then Yusuke wouldn’t have to mourn any part of him at all. The illness Yusuke got at three years old could be another bad memory to be locked away and never pondered over again.
—
When Yusuke was twelve, he got sick again. While Madarame still maintained his caring exterior, it was blatant something was different. Yusuke’s nights were spent cold and alone; medicine was only available when Yusuke had completed his artwork. He became further dependent in its absence, — a shell of a person pushed to the brink — coughing and heaving over the canvas having subconsciously realised it was the only way he could get the resources to alleviate his suffering. In a way, it made Madarame’s love — the droplets of it he would be fed, at the very least — feel even stronger. Whenever Madarame would care for him in those sickly, blurred weeks it would feel special. Yusuke had long since realised at this point that every person was capable of cruelty, yet Madarame was the only one willing to provide him with kindness, too. It wasn’t contradictory, it was simply a truth unable to be contended. An objective truth, like the objective truth about the medicine being scarce and far too expensive to buy more of.
Madarame was the only person who could truly help Yusuke. The fact Yusuke was still suffering simply meant there was nothing more that could have been done.
The memory of Yusuke’s treatment that second time stuck out as one overwhelmingly positive for quite a while afterwards. A loving father who, despite all his monetary struggles, still provided his child with all the medicine he could afford. Reframed, it began to feel sinister and messy. It made Yusuke feel pathetic for ever believing in Madarame’s good intentions. Yet, Madarame had shown when he was younger that he inhibited them. He was selfless, for a time. He didn’t have to nurture Yusuke, he never had to be gentle and kind and soft with him and watch him bloom. He never had to be Yusuke’s sunlight.
Yusuke was unsure as to whether his light was always faux or had simply become it; a warm torch thought to be the sun flickering out above a wilting plantpot.
—
A few weeks after Madarame's heart was stolen (as the phantom thieves called it) Yusuke got sick — properly, overtakingly sick — for the third time.
He told none of the phantom thieves about his strife. He felt guilty about even thinking about doing so, in a way. Pushing such responsibility onto them; forcing them to look after him after he’d — only a few weeks ago — attempted with all his power to stop them from catching Madarame would be cruel. He’d threatened to call the police on them, even. He had no right to worry them over some frivolous illness he’s sure will soon pass.
A bottle of medicine is sitting by his bedside. He keeps reaching for it — a task his weary body makes extremely arduous despite its simplicity — then retracting his painted-over hands after a few seconds. He still hasn’t washed them since the last time he’d desperately tried (and failed) to ignore his illness and carry on painting.
He didn't know what was stopping him from taking the medicine. He had it. It was in front of him. He could take it whenever he wanted; taking it would make him feel better. It was a simple solution to his very blatant problem. Yet… did he deserve it? If he were to use it as a reward, would it help his productivity? If he were to use it as a reward, would it make him produce something that made him worthy of being treated?
Even looking at the medicine — in its quaint little red-glass bottle covered by a glaring white label — reminds him of Madarame.
When Yusuke was three years old, innocent and dependent, drinking calpol from a spoon Madarame was holding. When Yusuke was twelve, after a long and tiring day of painting, finally being offered his medicine by Madarame. Finally being allowed to take his medicine. Finally being worthy of pain relief.
A part of Yusuke wishes he was three years old again and Madarame was there at his bedside to feed him medicine and hold a cold flannel against his head and protect him from all the monsters that lurked in the night. It is a childish part of him, one with an obnoxiously high-pitched voice that yells and cries and thrashes its little arms about in his head at the worst of times. It isn’t a part of him deserving of any respect.
It frustrates him. It all frustrates him.
He feels so painstakingly alone. He hadn’t even decided what to make of the freedom he’d been granted ever since being released from Madarame’s clutches. If freedom was this lonely, he didn’t even know if he wanted it. Things were so much simpler when every one of his actions were puppeteered by somebody else. By Madarame.
Perhaps that’s why Yusuke had gotten so ill now; he was overthinking far too much. ‘Take things as they come’ was something Madarame used to like saying. Moreso, he meant: ‘don’t think too deeply about what I’m doing’, but perhaps he was still correct in a way. Yusuke was somebody made to be thoughtless and dependent. He shouldn’t think.
He can’t even bring himself to take the medicine right in front of him. He couldn’t even escape when the door was wide open in front of him.
A harsh cough prevents Yusuke from spiralling completely. He stifles it with his sleeve.
Hopefully his inner turmoil is simply a result of his sickness and nothing deeper. He prays — at the very least — for that to be the case.
He’s still for a while, eyes fixated on nothing in particular. His room is a mess. He still hasn’t quite gotten used to living in the dorms yet. It's far warmer than his old home, at the very least. The floorboards don’t creak at the slightest movement, the air isn’t suffocating. He doubts he will ever truly belong, though.
He coughs again. And again. And again. He prepares to throw up, but his throat is dry. Thank god, he didn’t feel like washing vomit out of his sheets.
He reaches for the medicine again, this time actually holding onto the bottle with the little strength he could muster. He opens it up and smells it. There’s no scent. He remembers when he was young it had quite a fruity smell to it. Perhaps it's just that his nose is blocked.
There’s no spoon for him to feed himself so he simply takes a small sip from the bottle, albeit reluctantly due to the foolish nagging voice still echoing in the back of his head. It's certainly unconventional — and he’s unsure as to whether he took too little or too much of the medicine by the time he’s finished with it — but he doesn’t really care.
The medicine burns his throat. He remembered it tasting sweet when he was younger, but this is just bitter in a way that overcomes all senses. It doesn’t seem to soothe the aching in his head.
He’s beginning to doubt anything ever will.