First, I have no idea what the hell this is. This is what happens when my mind reaches a strange place. Don't worry, I'm fine. But this is probably the most depressing thing I've written—and it's Techen (777/the Tech) too, so that makes it even more sad.
Disclaimer: I don't own The World Ends with You.
Nothing felt real anymore. Not the eerie sound of the heater turning on, or the sunlight fighting against the window, and not even the sound of some American band on the radio. Then again, he didn't even know why that was playing anyway, couldn't even remember he was listening to an international station.
That was how surreal everything felt. Everything, sanity, motivation, truth, it was all hanging right in front of him, toying with him. Barely in reach, but once he stretched out to reclaim it, some hand would pull it back and the owner of the hand would laugh cruelly, almost as though this was some type of game. Who would that be, he wondered. God? Some mystical being? Something, possibly someone, that his sick mind conjured up?
No, he had to get a hold of himself. He was perfectly fine. In control of everything. This was just a moment of weakness, or an uncontrollable migraine. That was all.
He nodded, attempting to reassure himself. He probably would've spoken aloud, but his throat was too parched, voice too malnourished to speak. He had been wearing the same clothes for days, and his hair was greasy, flat. He hadn't moved from his leather couch in days, feeling as though he had practically morphed to the thing. Considering how warm he felt, that could easily be the case. Sweat clung to his body, so it could have attached him to the couch, which would be fair punishment for not getting off it for four days.
But those thoughts were quickly pushed away. He was fine. It didn't matter that he couldn't remember anything from the past two days, or that he could vaguely recall the date, or how he could barely comprehend who he was. No, that was okay. Everything was okay.
He groaned, and rolled to the side. He was clumsy, and fell off of it, crashing onto the floor in a heap. He was tempted to stay there. It's not like he would be able to distinguish the difference between them soon. Couch, floor, Hell, it was all the same: he wouldn't be happy, content, comfortable, anything. He'd cease to be, and that was okay. There was nothing keeping him here, only the madness that was slowly creeping over him, suffocating him, cloaking him in a second skin. And he wasn't a snake, he knew there was no shedding this. It was going to swallow him, consume him.
And that was okay.
He managed to pull himself up, using his failing muscles. Perhaps this was a rebellion against the insanity, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything anymore.
He persevered, and got to his feet. His legs felt like they wanted to fall off, to allow him to sink back down to the floor. They trembled, ready to collapse, similar to his mental stability. While he would've been fine with that, part of him was a natural fighter, and he wasn't going to let the sick, vile person who did this to him to win.
He made his shaky way to his bathroom, feeling like a puppet on strings. Someone was carrying him, dragging him, there, and he wanted to turn around. He wanted to run out of his apartment, he wanted to flee the city, which now only contained bad memories, tragedies, nothing that could keep him around. Any city this dependent and co-existing with death was a bad place, and he should've realized it sooner. His ignorance made him lose everything he held close.
His legs wanted to revolt against him, but if they did now, his body would hit the tile patterned floor head-on, and that would be far more disastrous than hitting a carpet. Then again, could he bleed to death? The morbid curiosity was crawling over him, making him want to find out. The skin of insanity was further covering him, and he felt like he was about to hyperventilate.
But no. He forced himself to grab onto the sink. Once it sunk in that he wasn't going to let go, he looked up and took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. He shook his head so hard and fast that it rattled his entire body, and he felt dizzy long after it stopped. There was something wrong; everything was wrong!
His eyes were bloodshot, sickly. Widened with madness, pleading for a solution to a problem he never knew existed. Burdened with a weight that was crushing without mercy, and that he was falling victim to. He made himself strong, he wanted to be a savior. But there was no one saving him now. But that was okay.
His skin. It looked gray, gaunt. More stretched-out, dead, which was ironic, since it should've looked like that in the first place. It was lackluster, without everything that made it his. It was someone else's, and it was taking him over, taking away everything that made him who he was.
Then again, that was fine. He lost that a few days ago anyway. What was skin compared to a person, right?
It scared him, petrified him. It mocked him, laughing at his descent, his fall from grace. Savoring his free-fall into a pit of unrelenting darkness, one that would never release him and would hold him captive forever. One that would cherish him for the rest of eternity, show him a tenderness he'd never known before. Whether genuine or not, he was too far gone to tell.
To whoever he should be praying to, what did he do to deserve this?
Now he was hyperventilating. Air wasn't going into his lungs, but it was definitely coming out. The skin was expelling it faster than his mouth and nose, and there was nothing he could do that could stop that from happening. The skin was a force he couldn't stop, and he lacked the power to try. On his own, he was nothing, and he had learned to accept that. He could save others, but not himself.
But he could live with that. He could die with that, knowing that he had failed the one person who mattered to him. After all, that wasn't a shame he could live with, so he had no other choice. The skin could take him over, but he sure as hell wouldn't let it manipulate him. Maybe he wasn't a hero, but he could die—permanently die—as a martyr.
"You're covered in my skin."
That only made his breath quicken, something he couldn't afford to let happen. Everything was going fuzzy, which clearly meant he wasn't getting enough oxygen to his brain as it was. But the madness, the insanity… it spoke. He was truly unhinged.
"No," he croaked, voice failing him.
"You can't escape."
"Fuck you," he muttered. Those three words had been too much. His body continued to disobey him as he was launched into a fit of coughs.
"You're covered in my skin."
This time he only shook his head, not having the strength to banter with the hissing in his head. He couldn't keep this up… he just couldn't anymore. He couldn't breathe, not that he really needed to anyway, and there was a heaviness in his chest. He didn't really understand it. Was it really possibly for someone like him to die of some natural cause? Had that ever happened before? While he could continue to question it, he decided to just let all thoughts flow out of him. It didn't matter anymore, nothing mattered. Only escaping the agony that was engulfing him. That was his top priority.
Suddenly, his vision turned, rotated, until it was horizontal. He barely felt the impact of the crash, or that he had hit the bathtub on his way down. He was so out of it that he didn't even hear the sickening crunch the contact made.
But he could see someone walking toward him, and he felt tears well up in his eyes. He sobbed shamelessly, or at least it felt like he was. He didn't know, and that was okay.
The figure bent down next to him. Their mouth was moving, and while he couldn't understand what they were saying, they were drowning out the voice inside of him. That was more than okay.
"777?" The voice said. He could barely understand him, but he did recognize that as his name. However, he tried to stop the person when he noticed that their hand was rubbing his arm. He couldn't feel the sensation, but he still wanted to warm them against doing it. The skin was going to take them too, if they weren't careful. "Come on, we need to go."
Go where? He thought, unable to voice it. To where you are?
"Yeah," he somehow answered, like he could read his mind.
I'm sorry I sent you there.
"Not your fault, you idiot," they responded with a loving chuckle.
We fought, and that was the last thing we did. I didn't tell you that I loved you, just show up to my concert on time…
"And the last thing I thought was that you were a jerk," he admitted. "I didn't know I would get in a car crash, and you didn't know either. So stop worrying about it."
It's okay, right Futoshi? Everything's okay?
"Everything's okay."
And he watched as his lover slipped his hand into his own. No feeling returned to it, but that was all right. He allowed himself to slip away, and that was it. Everything just… ended.
The skin could have his body, that would be okay. He wouldn't need it where he was going.
So yeah… still not sure of what this is. A death fic (something I've never written before) with an unhealthy dose of angst and insanity (involving one of my favorite characters ever) with the "skin" thing based off a song with the same title (anyone know it?). Yeah, I guess that pretty much covers what it is. I probably should've recapped it up at the top, but oh well.
Review worthy? I hope so. Even if to tell me that I shouldn't write anything like this ever again, I'll appreciate the feedback.