Well, the prompt that inspired this was "Missing Time." From 64 Damn Prompts on Livejournal. I suppose this doesn't stick to it that well, but it turned out decently, so here it is.
Princess Tutu and all related characters do not belong to me.
Mytho tried to shake away sleep, but his body was not yet properly aligned with his mind. All he did was run a convulsion through his neck, dazing him more than before. He heaved a dizzy sigh, throwing his quivering shoulders forward to help expel the air that threatened to choke him on nothingness. That seemed to clear his lungs, if not his head, and he thumped onto the wall to avoid falling over. The jolt stirred him, so his awareness did not waver quite so much. He wilted in on himself immediately, thoughts being too weighty for him to support them on his own.
Why was I asleep? I'm... standing? I know... I know I didn't sleepwalk. Where am I...?
This distorted consideration was not to last. His frown was broken by a cry, though he tempered his voice to gentleness. He might have sought against disturbing someone, but there was no one aside from himself that could have been disturbed by the quiet desperation. A heartbeat scraped blood through his veins. Agonizing, but those talons along the current were all that reminded him of how terrible he was. He needed to remember. Those talons were shredding his muscles, taking control of himself away like crows plucking fancy bits of string from a tapestry. Yes, he at least needed to remember, or the picture of himself would be unwoven before it was completed.
His pulse returned erratically; one beat, two, stillness in his chest, then five times blood would push through him rapidly. He stumbled, and yanked his feet repeatedly from the pavement as he tried to walk. He was certain that last breeze would have carried him away, not lifting his body, but providing light distraction to topple his nature. He needed someone to hold him in place, and what the wind did sweep away was Fakir's name for that purpose. Another was gasped from his lips in its stead, a name to warm his corroded heart, before the shard of consciousness he now relied on burned away.
"Tutu... please!"
He pressed the colorless bars of his fingers over his eyes, protecting their golden treasure from a beastly bird, but the stabbing beak would not be stopped by such paper-thin protections. Nor, more dangerously, would even a cell of iron bones have held out life's flooding liquid.
Both assaulted him, washing his irises to a pale pink, and he was a grinning predator.