"Mr. Nightray," someone is shaking me gently, dragging me back from the depths of slumber. "It's time to get up. You overslept again."
I never used to oversleep, back at home. Always up at the brink of dawn, alert and prepared to start another day. But what is the point in rising early at this place? There is nothing to do…no one I want to see. Just more and more white walls. Empty, lonely…
"All right," I murmur, rubbing at my bleary eyes as I sit up in bed. The nurse smiles down at me cheerfully, obviously pleased with my compliant behavior. Some of the other patients are not so easily dealt with.
Once she has left the room, I get to my feet, plain white socks against cold white floors. But my clothes, when I finally locate them, are dark: black almost, but just a shade lighter towards blue. Such contrast against the walls, such difference. It at once makes me feel safe and exposed. But it is a familiar sensation, and so one I accept eagerly. In a world so strange and changing, any trace of consistency is valuable.
I glance at the empty bed next to me, covers pristine white and arranged precisely. Just last week, another human had lain there, only feet away from me. Another heart beat, another pulse…gone. They found him two nights ago, dead.
Shaking my head of such thoughts, I get to my feet, and pull on my clothes.
Breakfast is much the same as usual. Bland food, bland faces. I sit alone at the white table, jabbing at the sickly pancakes. Their pallor prompts me to use syrup, more and more, until they're saturated. It does nothing to improve the taste.
Cafeterias are supposed to be loud, unbearably noisy. This one is quiet, at times deathly silent. Deathly as its patients. Sometimes I feel I can smell the death in the air. A ridiculous notion…how would I know what death smells like…?
The soggy mess is unappetizing. I continue to push it around, knowing I'm never going to eat this. But I'll sit with it for a few minutes longer. After downing the orange juice, I briefly consider another bite of the pancakes, before dumping them.
Now what? Another day of sitting in bed, waiting for the next attack to come. Such are all days in this place. At least all days when hedoesn't come to visit. But those are few and far between, due to the restrictions his parents have placed on him. After all these years, it's one of the only things I'm thankful to them for.
Much to my dismay, today seems to be one of those days. I've just returned to my room, nose buried in a battered copy of The Holy Knight's seventh volume. They're the only books in my possession, every single volume…
The loud speaker comes on: "Gilbert Nightray, please report to the visitor center."
Only one person ever visits me. Him. I think he's the only one who knows I'm in here that cares, and I wish he didn't.
Slipping the book back under my bed—I keep them all under here, not that I'm hiding them or anything—I exit the room, and make my way down the hall, steps slow with trepidation. I don't want to see him. I don't want those creepy mismatched eyes on me, or his arms around my neck, that deranged smile up right by my face.
I should just refuse to meet with him, but that would be ungrateful. His family has supported me, if one can call it that. They've kept me alive, and off the streets.
When I reach the designated area, I see a trace of blond, and my stomach churns. But there's something off. The hair is too short, the body too big, to be that of my adoptive brother's.
My footsteps falter, so loud against the white tile. I can feel my heart in my throat, beating, beating. And without thinking, my legs take me towards the blond, though my mind screams at them to get me away.
My internal conflict seems to have alerted him. He turns in his chair, and then leaps to his feet, emerald eyes shining.
"Gil!" he exclaims, and his arms are around me. I stiffen. He's still taller than me, and still has those same eyes, the same wayward hair. It's been years…4, 5? I've tried to forget.
"Oz," I return, awkwardly raising my arm to return the gesture. My legs are trembling, and a familiar weak feeling overcomes me. Not here, not now…
"Gil, it's been so long. I heard you were here and…and…" his smile falters. "Why are you here? The nurses wouldn't tell me, but to be in a hospital…"
"I…" I begin, mind blank in panic. I can't tell him the real reason, but I've never been good at lying. Especially to Oz, especially at a moment's notice. But I'm saved from responding, if one can call it that.
It starts with a tickle in my throat, a blockage, something foreign that needs to come out. And then the coughing begins. It starts off normal, but quickly becomes hacking, sick clogged gasps interlacing the coughs.
"Gil!" Oz is looking at me in alarm, eyes wide: wanting to help, but not knowing how. "What's going on? Are you…"
I pull away from him, covering my mouth with my hands, my arms, anything to stop him from seeing. I'm fine, I want to say, but there's no way I can force the words out. And they would be a lie, such an obvious lie.
When my knees give out, he follows me down, catching me before my head can hit the floor. My hands leave my face exposed and unprotected, having instinctively jerked out to break my fall. And Oz sees.
"Gil…"
I must look quite the sight. Blood smearing down my face, onto my hands, onto my dark clothes. Onto the perfectly white floor with any luck. But I can't give this much consideration, as the coughing continues.
Voices are coming, the receptionist is shouting. But all I'm aware of is the searing pain in my chest, and Oz's face, his mouth moving with words I can't make out. It's been so long since I last saw him, but his face has hardly changed. His chin is only slightly more pointed, his features just a little more defined. But he is still Oz, still…still what?
And then other hands are on me, pulling me away from Oz, and onto a stretcher. The only think I can hear now is myself, hacking. It sounds disgusting, absolutely sickening. I wince at it, with self hate, but I can't make it stop.
Oz is chasing after me, as I'm carried back to my room. His eyes and hair are flashes of color in this dull place, so distinct against the white-garbed doctors. Is he saying something? I strain my ears, but the words refuse to come clear.
I never wanted Oz to see me like this. Weak, pathetic, disgusting. I wanted to be stronger when and if I ever saw him again. I wanted to be capable of protecting, of taking the burden off his shoulders. That was all he'd ever done for me, after all. I needed to return the favor.
But now…
I feel light-headed, and the room is spinning. I still see color, blond—his eyes too small to make out—and so I know he's there. I almost wish he wasn't, but it warms a part of me, fills a hole in my heart that had been torn open so many years back.
The oxygen isn't getting to my brain, as the violent coughing continues. Black spots appear, and I can feel consciousness fading.
Fading, fading…
I try to hold the image of Oz's concerned face in my mind, but that fades too.
This is my first time writing for Pandora Hearts. Just finished the anime yesterday, and the last episode was terrible, but I still love the series.
I probably won't be updating anytime soon, just figured I'd put this up to see if anyone thinks it's worth continuing. Be harsh. I'm far from understanding the characters well enough to write them - -' But I figured I'd contribute to the fandom...it needs more love.
And thoughts on the perspective? 1st person Gilbert just happened, but not entirely sure I love it...