a/n: part of a ficlet i never finished and never will have the resolve to finish, because no matter how much i love touken, my heart will always belong to hidekane and for that reason i'm almost too scared to read past the manga encounter depicted at the end.
may or may not be deleted/revamped.
You'd never admit it, but you've always been worlds apart.
Even perched on the peripheries of separate dimensions, arms outstretched toward each other, fingers reaching and finding and interlacing, that fact still remains, lingering as the two of you settled into a cozy alcove of a cafe. Hide would wolf down the burger in no time flat, tearing away chunks in stark contrast to your delicate nibbles. You're soft-spoken and reserved, stowing your small build away behind shelves of dust-bound tomes, waiting for Hide's carefree spirit to come whisk you away into the crisp morning light.
Where you lacked the assertive air to make a stand, Hide would invariably be there, whether as your backbone or your voice. He was everything you weren't and you were everything he wasn't, and as tightly as the strings of fate drew you together, you would undoubtedly get closer and closer—but never quite together. Never quite the same.
So close, and yet so far.
.
.
.
You need him, in more ways than one. He completes you, elicits from within your withdrawn shell latent potential you never knew existed. He only has to subject one trivial detail about you to his astute scrutiny and that's all it takes to read your emotions as easily as you'd pore over the page of a book.
(And maybe, just once—okay, fine, a little more than once—it may or may not have crossed your mind that you're hanging out more often than not, falling onto different wavelengths but still maintaining near-perfect synchrony, and you would probably look slightly more than mere friends to the casual onlooker—)
He's always been your lifeline connecting you to the "real" world, to the human world and thus, your humanity. Hide reeks of something rich and solacing and so inherently human. Every single time your inner daemons threatened to pull you under, he'd brave the tempest just to grasp your hand and haul you back to shore; back to reality.
The line's thickened and swelled over the years, fuelled by Hide's unwavering support and the seeds of confidence it sowed within you, almost blooming into a full-fledged bridge you could cross with little trouble. To finally join Hide in the world to which you're meant to belong.
And so it's only natural that when the incident with Rize shakes your world to its core, it brings the bridge down with it too.
.
.
.
You're hanging on by a gossamer-thin thread, a flimsy patchwork of duct tape and glue, telltale evidence of a forced, artificial attempt to reforge what had once been—a what-had-once-been that is now gone and will never return.
Hide is still smiling, still laughing, still frequenting the cafe that used to be a favourite haunt of yours.
But now you're a figment of man's worst nightmare haunting the alleyways you never thought you'd stray into, wedged between two worlds you've never quite belonged to, desperately lunging toward the familiarity Hide provides while simultaneously wrestling yourself back in fear of your newborn hunger. In fear of your doubtable self-restraint.
In fear of yourself.
.
.
.
(You wish Hide was there for you as you're ripped into two and stitched back into place with your inhibitions in the trashcan. You wish he could be there, wiping away your choked up tears and blood, walking alongside you on the pavement as you made your way to a common destination, no paths diverged.
And at the same time, you wish your ghoul side would always remain a secret to him (because he could hate you and you couldn't stand to be hated by him ever and even if he didn't, what if he got hurt? What if he was caught in the crossfire? Worst of all, what if one day you're nearly keeling over from hunger and desire and his exposed neck glistens, plump and tantalising and all too easy to reach over and sink your teeth into—)
It's a thought best left unfinished.)
.
.
.
You force your gaze toward the mirror. An unfamiliar, inhuman monster stares back, a grotesque plot device straight out of a horror movie.
You take a look at the cold, lifeless white soaking up all traces of the jet black that once had been, at the skeletal fingerlike scars clawing away at your pallid flesh, at the decay inundating your once healthy pink nails.
It's almost as if whatever celestial deity that exists felt the need to carve a single overbearing message into the depths of your soul. You're different now, and you'll never be the same ever again.
.
.
.
(Never seize small pockets of time between classes to hang out with Hide ever again.
Never grab Hide's arm to stop him from flirting with a flustered waitress ever again.
Never walk the streets with Hide ever again.)
.
.
.
Your world (what's left of it, that is) screeches to an abrupt standstill as a verisimilar silhouette seeps into your flickering vision.
An all-too-familiar voice—that light, teasing lilt that would play with your heartbeat on a regular day another eternity ago, the voice that was once almost synonymous with your own—rings in your ears, stirring an unfathomable mélange of emotions within your chest, within the ice-coated heart that's been torn between begging to be touched and begging to disappear.
"Yo, Kaneki!"
That voice... That voice you've known for so long, that voice that belongs in another world far from this caustic battleground.
"What's with the getup? That in style these days?"
That voice... you've been longing to hear.
"Special makeup that'd shock even Hollywood..." A short laugh bursts forth, resounding through the desolate cavern, slicing through the slosh-slosh-slosh of wading through the sewage.
That laugh you've subconsciously been fighting to protect.
Hi...
"To think you've had to suffer like this, all this time..." It trailed off, crackling with emotion. The sloshing stops, and a hand reaches out to cup your jawline, thumb lightly tracing the contours of the mask.
...de.
It's the first human contact you've had in who knows how long, and you wish you could say you felt rejuvenating shockwaves erupt, felt a frisson of emotions you could never describe with all the superfluous vocabulary you've garnered from reading. You wish you could, but you cannot speak, cannot think; you don't need to. Hide's always been able to tell what you were thinking. Used to pass it off as magic, too, back when you were younger.
"You won't need it anymore, the mask."
You're not real, you're just an illusion, you can't be Hide because Hide doesn't know I'm a ghoul but if you're really Hide and you're right here standing before me that means— that means—
"I already knew." His smile, warm and simmering with the life of a summer's day, pours into the empty gloom. "Who cares about that, man? Let's just go home. Together."
.
You remember yourself, remember what it means to be in such close proximity to your very best friend, and you scream.
You scream and scream and scream and your mind throbs until you think it might split into two just as your identity has.
(In the midst of the waves of agony, you have to strain to hear his murmured "I want to help you".)
.
"... Sorry. Can you fight with all you've got just one more time?"
(He doesn't say I'm sorry I couldn't be by your side sooner, or any of the pent-up spiels he's been dying to tell you.
He doesn't say I became your enemy so I could find you and bring you back.
He doesn't say I won't ever hate you, no matter how much you change.
Truths that are never uttered amid the chaos.)
.
You wish you could say it ignited fresh flames of determination within you, or any sort of human emotion at all, but instead, you feel nothing.
You are alone in your new radioactive world of the dead, separated from your old friend by an unfeeling barrier, and if only for a fleeting moment, it's almost as if everything between you is the same as it used to be.
So close, and yet so far.
.
.
.
You've always been in worlds apart, asymptotes that can get closer and closer but are destined never to meet. Your transformation into a ghoul only underlines that fact more clearly, starkly and painstakingly than before.
(The thread wavers.)