Did I hear someone ask for Yukio slowly becoming unhinged and having hallucinations? No? TOO BAD.
Too hot.
His collar itched, his skin prickled like millions of red-hot needles were constantly poking him, like wearing a suit of cactuses. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, dribbled across his brow, kissed the hollows by his eyes. Some got into his eyes and that burned too. Yukio fumbled for a handkerchief to blot it away- his eyes were watering. He couldn't be seen crying. Someone might mistake it as him still having emotions.
Cool cloth was pressed into his hand.
"Here, use this,"
Yukio didn't even look up, he just closed his hand around the cloth and scrubbed mercilessly at his eye with it, shoving his glasses up into his hair. Once he'd finished scrubbing he groped for his glasses and realized that they had come back bloody. Good thing he had a handkerchief.
Yukio pulled his glasses down onto his face, wondering what the world would look like through a screen of red. His glasses were clear. Did he wipe them? Yukio couldn't remember. He didn't think so, he'd remember the feeling in his finger-joints as he rubbed his lenses in gentle, circular motions just like Shiro had taught him so many years ago- not too hard, you'll break them. Don't rub your eyes too hard, you'll break those too. Don't love you friends too hard, they'll all shatter like cheap plastic from the local pharmacy. Or worse, they'll be taken from you. Confiscated. Stolen.
Yukio's eyes cleared. He was standing over Rin's bed. His brother was sleeping, snoring. Yukio's hand was clenched in a fist, with a boring white handkerchief on it. The cloth was clean.
"What…" Yukio slowly stepped back, his bare feet creaking on the wood floor of their dorm. His insides felt alive, like worms were crawling in them, the prickly feeling in his skin increased. Slowly, Yukio felt the top of his head. His hands were met with nothing but soft, dry hair, maybe a little dandruff. Yukio slowly brought his hand back down and made a fist. He could feel the wet tacky blood on his fingers, but knew it wasn't there. Or was it? No. It wasn't there. None of it was.
Was he in his dorm?
Yukio went to his bed and slowly sat down. His knees creaked. His bed creaked. He stared at the handkerchief in confusion. Was the handkerchief real? It felt real- cool and smooth and a little damp from the sweat off of Yukio's forehead. It smelled like sweat too, sweat and smoke and mint-
no.
Yukio clenched his fist, trying to convince himself the cloth bundled in his palm was a figment of his imagination, just like the smears of blood he sometimes saw on the floor and in his hair and on his hands were also figments of his imagination, he was reading too many guro manga that was all.
Blood had feeling, but no smell.
The handkerchief did.
His window was open.