It wasn't as easy for Hisoka to pull away from it all. Though he was awake enough to see fuzzy little shapes and colors, he was still far too close to dead to start fathoming the concept of "hotel" for all it really meant.
He offered a small, weak smile, and reached out a hand for him to chew upon while the rest of his body recovered.
The words brought bile to his throat. Without being able to even look at Hisoka again, Mello staggered to his feet and lurched toward the bathroom, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet barely in time. All Hisoka would get in response would be the not entirely muffled sounds of him retching violently.
Mello would not be venturing out anytime soon. Still feeling queasy even though--perhaps thankfully--it seemed his human body thought he hadn't eaten much of anything in at least a day or two, he tucked himself into a corner of the bathroom and hugged his knees. He was hardly resting though, more like trying to shove all thoughts away forcibly.
It was impossible. Everything was a vivid nightmare, details barely blurred around the edges, always there. Unable to convince himself to close his eyes more than just to blink once in a while, Mello took to trying to clear his mind with various random calculations.
Hisoka made a bit of a production when he woke next, moaning and grumbling each time an attempt to sit up sent pain shooting along his bruised and tortured chest.
"Fuck, Mello. What the hell was all that about this time?"
"I can feel you in there, you know," he tried again after several silent minutes. "This is the part where we apologize and fight and get the fuck out of each other's lives until the next time something like this happens."
Apologize and get it over with? Really? Mello could barely even muster disbelief, still far too distraught. Hisoka's voice was painful to hear. He resumed distracting himself with pointless calculations in his head as difficult as he could think of. Numbers were mundane, at least, didn't change or become monstrous and didn't remind him of anything awful. His imagination and memories kept trying to push in at the edges of his consciousness, but Mello stubbornly ignored the recalled images just as he continued to ignore Hisoka. It was a self-preservational instinct, right now. He didn't know how to deal with this. He couldn't.
"Okay, fuck you," Hisoka concluded. "You don't get to do this to me and go quiet. You owe me more than that, Mello!"
This wasn't just some silly romp with angel wings or brain-numbing hostess clubs. This was real, physical agony. It was triggering and horrible and there would be reparations.
Still hidden away in his corner across from the toilet, Mello finally lifted his head. He didn't stand though, barely raised his voice.
"Then take what I owe you, Hisoka." He had absolutely no grounds on which to defend himself.
This was the worst he'd ever been forced to do by the Hotel, the worst by far of many awful things. He had no reason to offer Hisoka and no apology. Nothing would be good enough.
Mello flinched, unseen, but his stomach hurt and his throat was raw and his legs felt like water. He let his forehead drop to his knees, staring at nothing because he was afraid of closing his eyes.
He didn't answer, and that should be reply enough. He was a coward. He always had been.
He felt tiny and sick and terrified, like when he'd been a small child and woken up after a horrible, violent nightmare-- except this was real.
It was usually an incredibly easy task, angering Mello. But apparently the fear and confusion and intense self-loathing were getting in the way this time.
His hands were clutching his rosary without his realizing it, lips moving numbly in disjointed, silent Latin. Maybe this was the nightmare, and he could wake up.
He offered a small, weak smile, and reached out a hand for him to chew upon while the rest of his body recovered.
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He felt sick.
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"Mnh? you're not hungry?"
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In that case, Hisoka would simply welcome the opportunity to fall back asleep.
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It was impossible. Everything was a vivid nightmare, details barely blurred around the edges, always there. Unable to convince himself to close his eyes more than just to blink once in a while, Mello took to trying to clear his mind with various random calculations.
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"Fuck, Mello. What the hell was all that about this time?"
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This wasn't just some silly romp with angel wings or brain-numbing hostess clubs. This was real, physical agony. It was triggering and horrible and there would be reparations.
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"Then take what I owe you, Hisoka." He had absolutely no grounds on which to defend himself.
This was the worst he'd ever been forced to do by the Hotel, the worst by far of many awful things. He had no reason to offer Hisoka and no apology. Nothing would be good enough.
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He didn't answer, and that should be reply enough. He was a coward. He always had been.
He felt tiny and sick and terrified, like when he'd been a small child and woken up after a horrible, violent nightmare-- except this was real.
Reply
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His hands were clutching his rosary without his realizing it, lips moving numbly in disjointed, silent Latin. Maybe this was the nightmare, and he could wake up.
Reply
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