These are drabbles and ficlets without titles hanging over my Tumblr (izanyas). A lot of them are for Durarara, so I thought I'd gather them up under one title here. I'll give the prompt and warnings in each beginning note.
Prompt by yamameta-inc on Tumblr: "aoba and his massive fearboner for mikado"
Pairing: one-sided Aoba/Mikado
Warnings: gore, self-harm, references to child abuse.
Aoba's hand hurts enough to make him want to scream. It lasts long into the night, long after he's gone home; the other boys wanted him to go to the hospital but he refused. He wears the clumsy bandage Mikado has wrapped around the wound until the sun rises and he can sneak into the bathroom to change it. The pain has kept him wide awake, and though it's dulled over the hours it still shoots up his arm and makes his teeth grind, as if he could provoke a headache powerful enough to take priority this way.
The wound is scabbing now. Mikado gave him shots against infection—Aoba doesn't even know where he got them—and cleaned it with careful fingers. He can't close his hand and he can't extend his fingers either. Every move makes his palm burn. It doesn't look like a hole, even though the pen went through; it didn't look like a hole when Mikado took it out. Like all his blood and all his muscles shifted to plug it the second the pen was out, because being able to see through a hole in your body is too horrifying to think about.
Aoba is no stranger to dissociation. He's felt it through his entire early childhood, before Ran got stuck in juvie the first time and before his mom had enough and left, taking him with her. What he's experiencing now is not dissociation. He feels every second and every minute go by with acute awareness. He can count the pink clouds he sees through the tiny window high above the shower stall. He hears every drop of their leaky faucet fall into the sink and run down, down.
Every time he closes his eyes he sees Mikado's face half-hidden in shadow and how cold he had looked. How cold he had felt. The awful pain of being stabbed and the worst feeling of icy fingers over his skin—and Mikado's voice going from low to high, from terrifying to embarrassed as he cleaned the wound he had created—and Aoba doesn't want to think about it anymore but he can't help recalling the flush of exhilaration that had taken him through the shock and the way his face had burned, not from tears and not from fear.
He still feels it now. He knows he won't be able to ever look at Mikado without recalling terror gripping his gut and excitement fluttering in his chest, without feeling an ache into the scars he's sure to have, without fighting off another blush.
There's nausea, too. Aoba sits down on the closed lid of the toilet and looks out of the tiny window; he breathes in and out as calmly as he can, as quietly as he can; he closes his injured hand into a fist and lets tears fall from the pain; and he recalls Mikado's face broken into shadow and light, the fright, the pain, the relief.