Light.
When the first hints of warmth begin to dance across his skin, it's enough to send shivers down the boy's spine. Boy, not man; he feels no hint of maturity as he steps out of the building he knows too well. All that his mind can grasp is awe as the sun creates feeling for him. For days he's felt numb, cold... and oddly helpless. The last few nights have yielded no rest, the mornings no solace. Each and every time that he makes his way into headquarters, he is greeted by strange glances and immediate bouts of hushed conversation behind his back.
He looks terrible, and he knows it all too well.
Mirrors have become the bane of his existence. He's glanced into one only once, examining himself briefly after the latest of too many cold showers. His ribs are painfully visible, and his waist has become a sharp, almost effeminate incline. Before the sights had gotten to him, he'd turned and tried desperately not to think about what his spine looked like against his skin as he turned the freezing water back on. That was how he tried to keep himself awake, as of late; standing under an incessant stream of icy cold until he could barely stay upright from all the shivering.
As this thought crosses his mind, one hand comes up to press delicately against his cheek. It's still cool to the touch, slightly moist from the downpour that he had cursed so vehemently the night before. It wasn't often that he had the chance to be out when it rained that badly. For hours he'd stood outside, head tilted slightly upward as if trying to locate the source of all the rain. It was hours before he ventured back inside, chilled to the bone and soaked beyond measure. As much as he treasured the numbness that the cold offered him, the sensation of raindrops on the small amount of bare skin that he dared show had proved too... too...
Warm, almost.
Was that possible, he wondered? To be so cold that the feeling inversed itself? He would have given anything to know on that night, to have someone- anyone -tell him whether it was okay to go back outside and freeze to death, or nearly pass out from exhaustion inside, as he had done? Thinking back on it, he almost wished that he would have done the former. Dying in the rain... what a way to go.
He shakes his head at these thoughts, bringing himself back to the present. They're not pleasant memories, the mirror and the rain. They give testament to his rapidly declining condition. It would be enough to frighten him, had he not buried the emotion long ago. Hesitantly, he lifts a finger to his lips, as if in silently reminding himself of the words he hasn't spoken in too long. That's how his friends had originally picked up on his condition; he hadn't quoted Loveless in weeks. They expected at least a line or two from him every day. That was enough to bring the ghost of a smile to his lips. They knew him all too well, to be able to tell his condition from what he didn't say. The smile makes him wince as soon as it appears on his face, and his hand is quickly withdrawn. He feels... cold. Colder than usual. Curiously, that same hand is pressed to his throat, thumb resting on his jaw. The skin there feels paper-thin, and he can swear that he feels his heartbeat against his palm. The slow, steady pounding does nothing to calm him. If anything, it's yet another reason for him to lift his other hand to his throat as well. His fingertips touch at the nape of his neck, thumbs crossing neatly just above his collarbone. It's as if they were meant to rest there, they fit so well. He gives a light squeeze, experimentally.
The slightest of movements is enough to cut off his airway, garnering a startled cough from his protesting lungs. For a moment, his grip loosens enough to allow breath again... only to tighten once more. Each attempt that his body makes at retaliating is silenced by an eerily calm sense of self-control that was hammered into his brain so long ago. The only outward sign of his asphyxiation is a slight flush that rises to his pale cheeks, a near-imperceptible tremble in his wrists. His eyes close in what he supposes might be rapture, only to open promptly soon after. He releases his own throat only when he was forced to by sudden weakness, lips parting slightly to allow a sharp inhalation. Every inch of his body settles into trembling, but his hands do not move more than a few inches away from his throat.
He's nothing. Nothing but a broken toy for a sadistic organization.
How poetic.