Title: a hundred thousand crawling feet
Summary: Kaneki's whole again, now, but it still occasionally feels like he's missing some part of himself that couldn't have been cut off with plyers.
Notes: Crossposting from ao3. Takes place Post Aogiri. First fic in this fandom, hi?
The worst part of waking up is always the moment when he isn't certain whether the scratching sounds are inside his head or out. He wakes and he can barely remember his dreams, just a cold checkered floor, the burn of vomit up his nostrils and a terrible squiggling feeling right behind his eyes.
It always takes him that singular moment to remember he's in his bed, in his room, in his apartment; alone, but safe.
He turns in bed, staring at the darkness of the walls, keeping his hands underneath his pillow so he won't give in to the irrational desire to dig a finger into his ear and pull out whatever has burrowed itself into his brain.
Behind him, the curtains rustle, and he slowly relaxes again, because the noise that woke him is not inside his head. The shadow on the wall slowly moves as the sky brightens outside, but Kaneki can't close his eyes just yet.
It takes time to heal, Hinami had wisely told him when she'd found him on the sofa early one morning, woken by a nightmare and being unable to go back to sleep afterwards. She'd had a certain look in her eyes that day. She didn't know what they'd done to him, but she understood the meaning of hurt, the kind that crawls into your body and never truly goes away.
Involuntarily, he shudders when he remembers.
Inside the walls, he hears the patter of tiny feet of what might be mice, or maybe something smaller, or bigger. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, and too dry, all of a sudden. The sheets are too coarse, and too hot, so he throws them off, covers the ear not pressed against the pillow with his left hand.
He hates it, being able to hear everything, ever since he was turned into a… into a ghoul. The name isn't as bitter as it used to be, but he still thinks that everything was better Before. Before, he didn't have to worry about food, he didn't have to raise a bite to his mouth knowing it was going to be disgusting, he didn't have to think about the possibility of eating his best friend. Before, maybe he would've worried about being eaten… but at least that would've been over soon. Humans can't regrow their limbs, after all.
For all the world knows, he's adapted, but he still feels like a foreigner inside his own body sometimes.
It reminds him a little of that feeling he had back in Yamori's room, blinded by pain, and so certain he could move his fingers and toes, could nearly feel them touch the chair he'd been bound to. But at that time there had only been empty spaces where they should have been (and, like he had thought then, where they would be again, soon). Just phantom limbs, where his body should have been.
He's whole again, now, but it still occasionally feels like he's missing some part of himself that couldn't have been cut off with plyers.
Instead, it's been replaced with something worse.
Reluctantly he lifts his hand away from his ear, tired of hearing his drumming heartbeat just below his hand. He thinks he's still hearing the slight scratching noise, but that might be his imagination. Not that it really matters.
He turns to face the window, cracked open an inch to let the night air in, but not enough for any unwanted visitors. He enjoys the slight breeze on his face for a while, allowing it to distract him from any other fleeting thoughts, and the incessant wriggling inside his head.
It's easy to ignore during the day, when he has Hinami-chan to distract him, and Banjo-san, and even Tsukiyama. It's much harder in this noisy quiet, though.
He's rubbing his fingers against his pillow now, right next to his head, trying to rid himself of any excess energy, but he still feels restless when he turns to face the other wall once more.
He wonders if he'll ever be able to sleep peacefully again.
(He didn't for years, after his mother died. He'd wake up in the middle of the night, and stare at the ceiling. He'd imagine her brushing her hands through his hair and whispering soothing words into his ear, saying that everything would be alright. But Kaneki knows he's always been good at lying to himself.)
His eyelids get more heavy as minutes pass, and then slowly turn into hours. Shadows creep across the wall and he sluggishly blinks. He's so tired, but he cannot sleep.
It's only been a few weeks since everything changed, but it feels like a lifetime ago that he worked at Anteiku, watching Touka and Nishiki exchange heated words, teaching Hinami how to read certain kanji, feeling embarrassed at Loser's foul use of language. That was another life.
It's a lie to say he doesn't want to walk back into the coffee shop, to put on his apron and start brewing coffee and help customers with their orders. But even though he knows that Anteiku has stayed the same while he was gone, he feels like a different person. Someone who doesn't belong in that kind of life. Someone who doesn't belong with the nice and welcoming people that work there.
The arm underneath the pillow has started to tingle, and he yawns when he pulls it out to curl it around his head, brushing against his snow-turned hair with his fingertips.
He yawns again and feels his eyelids droop the slightest bit more. He can afford to fall asleep, he tries to remind himself. There's no need to stay awake, waiting for an onslaught of violence, either on his body or his home, because it won't come. Not right now, at least.
He feels himself slipping away, gives up consciousness to sleep, and the last thing he can recall is that horrible scratching sound he's been hearing ever since he woke to the nightmare of Yamori standing over his chair.