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Jiji had… more fears than he'd like to admit.
First — and the one most people knew about him — was gore. His old friends would laugh as they threw on slasher movies and he'd have to hide — behind a couch, under a blanket, in the bathroom. As though he was just being a baby, as though his heart didn't feel like it was going to pound out of his chest.
As though the screams of pain from the actors didn't resonate in his heart, pulling at his veins, make it feel like he was the one being stabbed, being ripped apart, being tortured.
It was more than a 'dislike' — but he wasn't going to try and make anyone understand, instead trying to laugh it off when his 'friends' 'accidentally' started a movie right in the middle — mid heavy gore scene — rather than the action adventure he'd been promised.
Jiji was scared of hurting people. Physically, emotionally, it didn't matter. When the boys on his soccer team started talking rougher tactics — how to elbow the other players in the nose and make it look like an 'accident', tripping them, whatever else — he felt like he was going to be sick. It was something he could never understand, the idea of not just hurting someone, but doing it on purpose.
He'd long since learned how to tailor his words to each person. What would most likely make them smile, what words and topics to steer clear from. He paid attention when he spoke, when he acted. A smile was his goal. Exacerbation at his 'over-the-top' personality was fine.
But when the corner of someone's lip's turned down, when their eyes lost their sparkle…
When worst of all, he could see tears starting to shine in the corner of their eye.
Jiji would backtrack. He'd reframe, replot, turn up the jokes, the charm, the compliments. Anything to make them smile, laugh, feel something good. Even if it was at his own expense.
He didn't just dislike making people sad, the idea of doing it kept him up at night.
The image of holding Momo up by her throat when Evil Eye was in control kept him up at night.
But the idea of killing Evil Eye kept him up at night, too.
There were smaller fears. Centipedes, specifically, sent a shiver down his spine. He'd scream like a baby if he saw a cockroach, crawling in front of him, minding it's own business. The forest at night had him on edge, though intrigued him at the same time. The normal fears, fear of failure, fear of disappointing those he cared about, of not being good enough.
Mostly, though, Jiji's biggest fear was of being alone.
Not in the usual sense. Not in a 'I need a romantic partner or my life won't feel fulfilling'. It was in a fear of abandonment, fear of screaming for help and no one answering kind of way. In a waking up to an empty room in the morning can sometimes spark a panic, even though he's had his own room his whole life kind of way. In an if-I-can't-see-them-I-can't-protect-them kind of way.
If he was honest, Evil Eye helped. He was a presence in his head, constantly there, reminding him he could never be alone again. That his body itself had become a shared space for two souls, that Evil Eye was not at risk of just walking away, abandoning him, leaving him behind.
Some people may hate that.
Jiji thrived on the knowledge.
Before, and sometimes still, silence itself was terrifying. The emptiness around him amplified, reminding him no one is here.
Something in his mind telling him it's because no one wants to be. That they have better things to do, better people to hang out with. That they were never coming back, done giving him their pity, that they were tired of him and he was going to be alone forever and-
His mom would open the door with a grin, Ten bags of groceries in her arms like it was nothing, talking about how the fruits were singing to her that day so she had to get extra and asking if her dearest Jin would assist her in the kitchen to put away the groceries while she got to chopping.
The fears would go back to the back of his mind.
Never away, though. There was never freedom from fear.
It would always return, whenever the silence did. Rationality didn't matter, he couldn't talk himself out of it with the knowledge that people were allowed to have lives outside of him, that it was impossible for everyone he cared about to be around him all the time.
No one else knew, though. He didn't talk about it. Learned to stop crawling into his parents bed when he woke up, alone, scared, when he was much younger. Because they'd ask questions.
They'd lie and say they'd always be there, he'd never be alone.
Jiji wasn't scared of lies, but he didn't like them. They tasted bitter on his tongue, leaving an aftertaste that he felt like would never wash away.
Yet, he told them daily.
"I'm fine! Great! Amazing!"
"Wrong? Hah, what could possibly be wrong when I get to see a cyute face like yours on this wonderful day?"
Lies of smiles. Lies of laughing at jokes made at his own expense. Lies of brushing off words that hurt, that pierced.
As bitter as they were, they were easier than the truth.
And for a long time, that was fine. No one knew. No one poked and prodded past the surface. At most, he'd get a look of suspicion flashed his way after a forced reassurance, but no one ever pushed.
For a while.
Until Kinta.
Kinta was an enigma. Jiji had a lot of people experience — he made an effort to get to know people as much as he could, as many as he could. It was the only way he could try to make so many people smile.
The otaku was unlike anyone else Jiji had ever met.
He came off as self-centered, self-assured, a bit of a perv but in a way that felt more silly than harmful.He was quick to judge but also quick to protect, seemingly confident, seemingly needing no reassurance to boost his confidence, affirm his abilities.
But that wasn't all true, he was quick to learn.
Kinta was brave, though, in ways Jiji wasn't. As much as some of his personality was a bravado, the same way Jiji's perpetual happiness was, one thing that was true was Kinta's willingness to express what he loved with no shame. To the point of it leading to isolation, loneliness, hurt — both physical and mental.
But he never tried to take it back, never tried to fake interest in what was popular.
Jiji was quick to learn the other craved attention in a similar way to him. That he faked injury in hope of sympathy, in hopes of sparking someone to express that they cared. Sure, it wasn't healthy, but… Jiji could relate. To wanting someone, anyone, to look at you, to ask if you're okay, to give you a hug and assure you that you would be.
He found himself gravitating towards Kinta without even realizing it at first. The other's taunts of 'pretty boy', 'lothario', 'handsome devil' hitting him far less hard than they normally would, had anyone else been using them.
Perhaps it was the way he occasionally saw Kinta's cheeks heat up when he said those complimenting insults. Or the way he never met his eye when he did it. It had him smirking, over fearing being disliked.
Had him wanting to provoke the other more.
He pushed Kinta's buttons. Teased him in gentle ways, nothing too far, but enough to get a rise out of him. Gave him nicknames, found excuses to slide right up to him and stay close in group gatherings.
Found reasons to seek him out solo.
To explain the things he'd always felt too shameful to truly, properly enjoy outside of the safety of his own home. The manga, the anime, the intricate backstories and lore. To dissect both characters and machinery, ask him why and how they tick, to argue when he disagreed.
He found himself hanging out with Kinta more than anyone else in the group.
And Kinta stopped arguing about how Jiji was following him around like a 'little lost puppy'.
In fact, he started seeking Jiji out himself. To show him a new article, a new build he'd managed to snag on ebay. To rewatch a movie they'd both seen hundreds of times to see if they could find that one detail they missed, and then spend the next hour discussing it's importance.
When they didn't hang out, they called. Kinta would sit on call with Jiji as he worked on his homework, somehow seeming to know without being able to see him when Jiji was no longer focused, when he was pulled by either a physical distraction in his room, or the ones in his head. Refocused him, grounded him.
Jiji didn't know when he fell in love with Kinta, but he realized it suddenly and fully. It was scary, but it was also nice. Glances he'd once turned towards Momo now towards the boy who had become his closest friend. Even when he wasn't there, he was thinking about him.
It made sense, when he thought about it. Kinta seemed to understand things without Jiji ever needing to put words to it. Understood the feeling of being alone, understood the panic it could instill. He'd admitted to Jiji that he'd largely grown up alone, his parents often gone on work trips, no friends to hang out. Just him and his Gundams.
He said that sometimes, he felt less alone when he looked at them. But sometimes, it reminded him that the only thing that he could even pretend cared about him was plastic.
Jiji had said, softly, that he cared about him.
Their hands gravitated together, holding tight. Not romantically, just two friends, comforting each other.
They didn't talk about it after.
Jiji wanted it to happen again.
Once he realized his feelings, he wasn't sure what to do with them. Asking people out was much easier when you hadn't formed a bond yet. But there were risks when you did. The fear of rejection was always there, but the fear of abandonment amplified the anxiety tenfold. The possibility of disgust, of ridicule, of being alone again.
Because Kinta had him feeling less alone. Always willing to spend time together, to call, to text. Seeming to know exactly when Jiji was about to panic, about to scream when the silence was too much, and send him a link to some new article or fan theory. Making fun of the authors when they had a different stance than him, the colorful language managing to pull a laugh from him when moments ago, it had felt impossible.
He couldn't lose that.
But that was okay. Because Kinta was braver than him. He always had been.
He'd said it, simple, one day when they were on Kinta's couch. Jiji had been laughing at some analysis Kinta had put on, the far reaches the narrator had of the characters far too much for the both of them to take seriously. He could feel Kinta's eyes on him. Wondered why.
But he didn't ask, didn't pry. He didn't want to know if the answer was bad. Didn't want to pester him if it would upset his best friend.
Kinta told him anyway.
Just said, simply, that they should go out to dinner that night. Then he clarified - as a date.
Jiji said nothing for a moment, stunned. Then a grin spread, a real one, no need to fake it. He said yes, and that was that. They went back to their video.
Not much changed for a bit. Jiji managed to be brave enough to kiss Kinta first, but other than that addition, it was mostly the same.
Except… Kinta slowly began to open up to him more.
Repeats of the night Kinta had admitted to feeling so alone his whole life. Admitting to things that he told Jiji he'd never told anyone else. Holding his hand, leaning up against him, pressing his face into Jiji's neck, breath shaky as he confessed fears, mistakes, secrets.
Jiji was happy to be there for him.
It was harder, though, to open up in return.
He was more open with Kinta than he was others, he could admit. It was easy to be, with the way Kinta was terrible at letting anything go. But still, he held some of his fears close to his chest, not wanting the judgment, the abandonment, whatever else they may bring.
But he owed Kinta.
And, it seemed Kinta already knew parts. The way he'd cast Jiji knowing looks when he discussed his own fears, his own problems when it got Too Quiet. The way he'd ask Jiji if he understood. The way his smile was soft, so gentle, when Jiji admitted a quiet 'yeah' after weeks of repeated questions.
Opening up was slow, but it was more than he'd ever done before.
He talked about the Silence, the feeling that meant he was alone, would be alone, that he'd been left behind. Abandoned. Deemed not worthy of… anything, anyone.
Kinta showed him the joys of the silence.
Showed him how he relaxed, practically meditated, while painting figures. That he didn't put on music or shows in the background, and simply focused on the task at hand, becoming one with the brush strokes, allowing his thoughts and feelings to flow through him, not allowing them to control him.
It was hard. Jiji didn't quite get it.
But, he could endure the silence now, if it was companionable silence. If Kinta was there, by his side. As though there were waves that came off of him, undetectable by human ears, but Jiji could still feeling it, encompassing the silence, pushing it away.
Saying he was safe. Not alone. Loved.
Neither of them had ever used that word, but Jiji felt it anyway. Maybe it was presumptuous of him, but he tried not to think too hard about it.
Couldn't think too hard about it.
Relied too much on the feeling to get him through those darkest of nights.
Kinta started calling Jiji every night, just before they went to sleep. Would talk about anything and everything, filling the silence without Jiji even needing to ask. Jiji listened, intently, taking in the words that Kinta had felt he'd never have anyone to listen to them.
It was a bit of codependency, but Jiji figured at least it was mutual. The way Kinta needed to be heard, and Jiji needed to hear.
It made sleep easier, feeling like Kinta was truly there in his room, his phone providing a physical light to represent the metaphorical one his boyfriend provided him.
It was hard to remember how he coped before Kinta. How he fell asleep at night without the sound of his voice, or even just his breathing.
Slowly, he opened up more. It became… not easy, but less painful. He still wore a mask, but he was more ready to admit to it after the fact, to discuss what was wrong, even if it was too late to do anything about him.
Kinta knew when to push, and when to back off. Knew exactly where to press to get him to open up in a way that felt more freeing than painful, but also knew when it was time to just throw on a movie and not talk.
Sometimes, Kinta pushed too hard. Jiji would get defensive, close up more, resist the urge to yell and scream and cry. But he'd apologize after, and Kinta would too, even if it was a bit reluctant at times.
Still though, opening up to anyone else felt out of the question. Everyone had their own things to worry about, they didn't need to hear his problems, complain that his fears were unfounded and stupid and pathetic. Kinta told him they wouldn't, but he could tell in the other's eyes that he feared the same.
Jiji knew of the ridicule his boyfriend had faced his whole life, just for being himself. He never wanted him to deal with it again… but he also didn't want to deal with it himself.
It wasn't that he doubted that his friends were good people… but maybe some of his fears were irrational. Knowing that, didn't make conquering them any easier.
He tried, though. He'd tell his parents if his day wasn't great, even if he didn't go into detail. Would admit to being tired when Momo asked how he was doing. Told Okarun he was stressed over the math exam next week instead of just shrugging it off.
It was… nice. The support they gave. He felt guilty for it, though, and he wasn't sure that feeling would ever go away.
But the pride in Kinta's eyes when he told him he'd tried… that was worth the guilt.
So he kept going.
Yes, Jiji still feared a lot. The silence still left him succumbing to his thoughts, heading toward dark places. But between Evil Eye and Kinta, it felt like there was always someone to pull him out, toward the light. Even if Evil Eye just picked on him, or Kinta just chatted mindlessly, it felt like the ultimate life float in a sea of darkness. Kept him above water, able to breath, even if he still felt stranded at times.
He liked to think he was helping them, too. Maybe just so he felt less guilty. Maybe just out of some ingrained selfishness to need to feel important, useful. But Kinta smiled at him when he listened to his complaints, and Evil Eye was a little less prone to murderous thoughts, so maybe he really was.
Maybe fear wasn't the end of the world. Maybe he just needed to not let it control his every move. Maybe he could find ways to cope, to survive.
Maybe.
He didn't know — no one knew the future.
But he knew he was willing to try.