Fanfiction: A Helping Hand (Omori)
This fic basically exists because I've been haunted by the mental image of the red hands dragging or holding Sunny down, which is really an image that feels better suited for fanart. But, alas, I cannot draw! So you're getting fanfiction instead.
Believe it or not, this wasn't actually intended to be a Kel/Sunny fic - I'm not a Kel/Sunny shipper! - but I cannot deny that it somehow ended up radiating Kel/Sunny vibes, so feel free to interpret their relationship however you'd like.
Title: A Helping Hand
Fandom: Omori
Rating: 14
Wordcount: 1,400
Summary: He remembers, vividly, the first time the hands came for him.
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, trauma, full-game spoilers for Omori.
Sunny’s found himself at the top of the stairs again. Just standing there, staring down at the floor below.
Strange to think he’s found himself there. As if it’s an event, somehow, something unusual. They’re the stairs in his house; of course he’d have to use them sometimes. There was a time he’d go up and down them twenty times a day without thinking about it.
He can’t avoid thinking about it now.
What would it feel like to fall? How much of it did she feel, before it ended?
He might survive, if he tried to find out. He doesn’t know if that just scares him more.
There’s a touch on his ankle, and he jolts so sharply he actually almost falls.
The red hands are back. Growing out of the landing he’s standing on, out of the top step, out of the banisters.
His instinct is to run. But they’re already winding around his legs, around his arms, holding him in place.
All he can do is stand there, his breathing quickening, sharpening. Forced to stay facing the stairs. An arm encircles his torso like a snake.
When he feels fingers against his throat, he tilts his head back, squeezes his eyes shut. The fingers are just lingering there: not tightening, not yet, but inescapably present. Like a caress, a collar, a threat. Like they’re still deciding what to do with him.
Like he’s deciding what to do with himself. In his dreams, he can almost forget, at least for a little while. But he’s awake; he can’t fool himself into believing these hands aren’t part of him.
He can feel palms against his back. If they decide to push, he’ll know at last, he’ll know what it was like for her when-
The hands drag him down to the floor, and he breathes open-mouthed into the carpet, ashamed of himself for being relieved.
-
He remembers, vividly, the first time the hands came for him. He’d tried to tell his parents the truth. Or... maybe tried is the wrong word; maybe that implies he got further than he did.
He’d thought about it, at least. He’d stood there, watching his parents on the sofa - holding each other, but somehow more distant than he’d ever seen them before - and he’d thought, I can’t do this. I can’t keep this secret. I can’t just keep this caged inside me forever.
The hands had been on him in an instant, clamping over his mouth. Disembodied fingers forcing themselves down his throat, and he’d choked on the taste of blood.
He’d tried to resist the instinct to struggle. He’d assumed the hands were there to kill him; it was what he deserved. But he’d struggled anyway: trying to claw them away, trying to breathe, desperately, like the coward he was.
He’d almost blacked out. When his mother had tried to pull him into her arms, he’d thought for an instant that she was Mari, and he’d screamed, trying to fight her away.
When he’d come back to his senses to find that the hands were gone, he’d thought that his parents had fought them off somehow. It was days later when he realised that they couldn’t have been real.
-
It’s strange, walking back into the outside world. He’s seen it through windows, of course. But it’s different in person, the air feels different, the light seems to take on a different quality. The sun is warm on his arms, on his face.
It doesn’t seem real. It feels like he’s stepped into a painting or a photograph.
It’s been a long time, he guesses. It doesn’t feel like four years. But, walking down these once-familiar streets that seem like a distant dream, he’s forced to acknowledge that the time really has been passing.
Kel’s different, too. It scared Sunny, at first, to see how much older he looked; it felt like something was slipping between his fingers, like he’d lost something and hadn’t even realised it. But he’s still the same old Kel when he talks, when he smiles, and that feels like a kind of anchor.
Sunny was terrified of coming out here. But he’s glad he did; it feels like the right decision. He thought he could hide from everything, in that house; he guesses maybe all he was doing was shutting himself in with the memories.
That might be what he deserves.
He tries to focus on the birdsong.
-
Sunny lashes out with the knife when Aubrey approaches them.
He’s not-
He’s not thinking about it. He knows how to fight, he’s done it in his dreams every night, but this is the real world and he-
Her hand is bleeding. Sunny stands there, frozen and staring.
Of course she’s bleeding. This is the real world, and he just slashed her with a steak knife.
He can see the hands all over her. At her throat, at her wrists.
He’s going to kill his friends.
It’s not over. Of course it’s not over. He’s a murderer; murderers don’t just stop killing, do they?
He runs. He doesn’t consciously pick a direction; he just runs. He just has to get as far away as possible.
-
Kel finds him at the lake. In his headlong escape, Sunny got up to the edge of the water and just froze.
“Sunny?” Kel asks, carefully.
Sunny turns to look at him.
Leave, he’s thinking. I’m going to hurt you. You’re only spending time around me because you don’t know that I killed your friend.
He doesn’t say any of that. He just stares, wordless, at the necklace of hands Kel is wearing. Kel doesn’t seem aware of it at all.
“Aubrey’s friends are looking after her,” Kel says. “I think she’ll be okay.” He hesitates. “Uh, why did you bring a knife out here?”
Sunny shakes his head. He can’t give any answer that would make sense.
“Okay,” Kel says. “I’m gonna take it off you, okay? It’s dangerous.”
It’s not until he says it that Sunny realises he’s still gripping the knife.
Maybe everyone around him will be safer, if he gives it to Kel. But he doesn’t want to hold it out by the handle; that means the blade will be facing Kel, and that feels risky. He tries to turn the knife around in his hands.
“God, don’t-” Kel grabs his hand. “Don’t hold it by the blade! What are you doing?”
Kel’s hands are warm; his skin is almost glowing under the afternoon sun. He’s breathing a little harder than usual, after running to catch up with Sunny. He seems so intensely alive, in this moment, that Sunny can almost believe it’s impossible for him to die.
He knows better, of course; he’s known better for four years. Anyone can die.
But the hands around Kel’s throat are fading, and, when Sunny lets him take the knife, they’re gone.
Kel pulls him into a hug.
It’s... it’s not someone anyone has done in a very long time. Sunny’s mother treats him carefully, like she’s worried he’ll fracture with the wrong touch; she tries not to hug him unless he initiates it. He hadn’t realised, until this moment, that he hadn’t been initiating.
It takes Sunny a moment to remember how to hug back. He brings his hands up to - Kel’s hair? His back? One hand in his hair and one on his back; it feels like he doesn’t have enough arms to hold Kel as close as he wants to, to protect him.
He closes his eyes and pictures the hands. Holding Kel to him, keeping him here, keeping him safe.
-
When Sunny is drifting to sleep, it’s even harder than usual to keep track of what’s real and what isn’t. The hands often visit on the border of his dreams, holding him down, trapping him.
He’s tense tonight, expecting it. He’s seen a lot of the hands today, on his excursion out of the house, and that usually means they’ll come in the night.
But they leave him alone tonight.
Not quite alone. He’s aware of them, vaguely, in the corners of the room. But they don’t move to constrict him.
As his consciousness fades, he thinks he might feel someone gently stroking his hair.
Believe it or not, this wasn't actually intended to be a Kel/Sunny fic - I'm not a Kel/Sunny shipper! - but I cannot deny that it somehow ended up radiating Kel/Sunny vibes, so feel free to interpret their relationship however you'd like.
Title: A Helping Hand
Fandom: Omori
Rating: 14
Wordcount: 1,400
Summary: He remembers, vividly, the first time the hands came for him.
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, trauma, full-game spoilers for Omori.
Sunny’s found himself at the top of the stairs again. Just standing there, staring down at the floor below.
Strange to think he’s found himself there. As if it’s an event, somehow, something unusual. They’re the stairs in his house; of course he’d have to use them sometimes. There was a time he’d go up and down them twenty times a day without thinking about it.
He can’t avoid thinking about it now.
What would it feel like to fall? How much of it did she feel, before it ended?
He might survive, if he tried to find out. He doesn’t know if that just scares him more.
There’s a touch on his ankle, and he jolts so sharply he actually almost falls.
The red hands are back. Growing out of the landing he’s standing on, out of the top step, out of the banisters.
His instinct is to run. But they’re already winding around his legs, around his arms, holding him in place.
All he can do is stand there, his breathing quickening, sharpening. Forced to stay facing the stairs. An arm encircles his torso like a snake.
When he feels fingers against his throat, he tilts his head back, squeezes his eyes shut. The fingers are just lingering there: not tightening, not yet, but inescapably present. Like a caress, a collar, a threat. Like they’re still deciding what to do with him.
Like he’s deciding what to do with himself. In his dreams, he can almost forget, at least for a little while. But he’s awake; he can’t fool himself into believing these hands aren’t part of him.
He can feel palms against his back. If they decide to push, he’ll know at last, he’ll know what it was like for her when-
The hands drag him down to the floor, and he breathes open-mouthed into the carpet, ashamed of himself for being relieved.
-
He remembers, vividly, the first time the hands came for him. He’d tried to tell his parents the truth. Or... maybe tried is the wrong word; maybe that implies he got further than he did.
He’d thought about it, at least. He’d stood there, watching his parents on the sofa - holding each other, but somehow more distant than he’d ever seen them before - and he’d thought, I can’t do this. I can’t keep this secret. I can’t just keep this caged inside me forever.
The hands had been on him in an instant, clamping over his mouth. Disembodied fingers forcing themselves down his throat, and he’d choked on the taste of blood.
He’d tried to resist the instinct to struggle. He’d assumed the hands were there to kill him; it was what he deserved. But he’d struggled anyway: trying to claw them away, trying to breathe, desperately, like the coward he was.
He’d almost blacked out. When his mother had tried to pull him into her arms, he’d thought for an instant that she was Mari, and he’d screamed, trying to fight her away.
When he’d come back to his senses to find that the hands were gone, he’d thought that his parents had fought them off somehow. It was days later when he realised that they couldn’t have been real.
-
It’s strange, walking back into the outside world. He’s seen it through windows, of course. But it’s different in person, the air feels different, the light seems to take on a different quality. The sun is warm on his arms, on his face.
It doesn’t seem real. It feels like he’s stepped into a painting or a photograph.
It’s been a long time, he guesses. It doesn’t feel like four years. But, walking down these once-familiar streets that seem like a distant dream, he’s forced to acknowledge that the time really has been passing.
Kel’s different, too. It scared Sunny, at first, to see how much older he looked; it felt like something was slipping between his fingers, like he’d lost something and hadn’t even realised it. But he’s still the same old Kel when he talks, when he smiles, and that feels like a kind of anchor.
Sunny was terrified of coming out here. But he’s glad he did; it feels like the right decision. He thought he could hide from everything, in that house; he guesses maybe all he was doing was shutting himself in with the memories.
That might be what he deserves.
He tries to focus on the birdsong.
-
Sunny lashes out with the knife when Aubrey approaches them.
He’s not-
He’s not thinking about it. He knows how to fight, he’s done it in his dreams every night, but this is the real world and he-
Her hand is bleeding. Sunny stands there, frozen and staring.
Of course she’s bleeding. This is the real world, and he just slashed her with a steak knife.
He can see the hands all over her. At her throat, at her wrists.
He’s going to kill his friends.
It’s not over. Of course it’s not over. He’s a murderer; murderers don’t just stop killing, do they?
He runs. He doesn’t consciously pick a direction; he just runs. He just has to get as far away as possible.
-
Kel finds him at the lake. In his headlong escape, Sunny got up to the edge of the water and just froze.
“Sunny?” Kel asks, carefully.
Sunny turns to look at him.
Leave, he’s thinking. I’m going to hurt you. You’re only spending time around me because you don’t know that I killed your friend.
He doesn’t say any of that. He just stares, wordless, at the necklace of hands Kel is wearing. Kel doesn’t seem aware of it at all.
“Aubrey’s friends are looking after her,” Kel says. “I think she’ll be okay.” He hesitates. “Uh, why did you bring a knife out here?”
Sunny shakes his head. He can’t give any answer that would make sense.
“Okay,” Kel says. “I’m gonna take it off you, okay? It’s dangerous.”
It’s not until he says it that Sunny realises he’s still gripping the knife.
Maybe everyone around him will be safer, if he gives it to Kel. But he doesn’t want to hold it out by the handle; that means the blade will be facing Kel, and that feels risky. He tries to turn the knife around in his hands.
“God, don’t-” Kel grabs his hand. “Don’t hold it by the blade! What are you doing?”
Kel’s hands are warm; his skin is almost glowing under the afternoon sun. He’s breathing a little harder than usual, after running to catch up with Sunny. He seems so intensely alive, in this moment, that Sunny can almost believe it’s impossible for him to die.
He knows better, of course; he’s known better for four years. Anyone can die.
But the hands around Kel’s throat are fading, and, when Sunny lets him take the knife, they’re gone.
Kel pulls him into a hug.
It’s... it’s not someone anyone has done in a very long time. Sunny’s mother treats him carefully, like she’s worried he’ll fracture with the wrong touch; she tries not to hug him unless he initiates it. He hadn’t realised, until this moment, that he hadn’t been initiating.
It takes Sunny a moment to remember how to hug back. He brings his hands up to - Kel’s hair? His back? One hand in his hair and one on his back; it feels like he doesn’t have enough arms to hold Kel as close as he wants to, to protect him.
He closes his eyes and pictures the hands. Holding Kel to him, keeping him here, keeping him safe.
-
When Sunny is drifting to sleep, it’s even harder than usual to keep track of what’s real and what isn’t. The hands often visit on the border of his dreams, holding him down, trapping him.
He’s tense tonight, expecting it. He’s seen a lot of the hands today, on his excursion out of the house, and that usually means they’ll come in the night.
But they leave him alone tonight.
Not quite alone. He’s aware of them, vaguely, in the corners of the room. But they don’t move to constrict him.
As his consciousness fades, he thinks he might feel someone gently stroking his hair.