A/N: on some level, this story could be considered somewhat sexual in nature. I will honestly admit, when I sat down to write it that that was my original intent and that it in fact turned out tamer than what I was initially aiming for by leaps and bounds. Hence the rating that is probably too high for what it is, but better safe than sorry I figure.
Fubuki doesn't know how long it's been. Between when Fujiwara faded away with a smile, leaving Fubuki alone in that timeless dark, and now. Where there is nothing but an endless stretch of sand and a trio of suns that make things so unbearably hot while they ride high in the sky and frigidly cold after they've set. Exhausted and filthy and trembling slightly while he steadfastly focuses on putting one foot in front of the other for no reason other than to stop moving is to die.
And Fubuki is not going to die. He tells himself this. He can't die. Because he hasn't phoned home, hasn't talked to his parents or Asuka, in a month and feels guilty as hell. Because he's not world famous yet. Because all the girls in Obelisk Blue will be heartbroken. Because Ryo is the sort of noble jackass to feel responsible for Fubuki despite not even being involved in any of this. Because...
Because there's a few dozen different reasons, some more foolish and selfish than others, and Fubuki carefully runs each and every one through his head in a chain with every shuffling footstep. Trying to ignore nagging questions like which will come first: the maddening gnawing of hunger or thirst?
Which will kill him first?
When he stumbles (falls) it's almost an abstract sensation. Something to be observed from outside of his body and he's barely aware of it until he's face-first in the sand. His mind screaming and screaming that he has to get up even as his body refuses to obey.
There's something jabbing him in the side.
With a groan Fubuki forces his arm to move just enough to slip inside his jacket. Fingers groping around blindly and ultimately closing over the smooth bit of metal tucked into an inside pocket that is digging sharply into his ribs. Gasping at the almost electric jolt that hums over his skin and down his arm the instant he makes contact.
It's that mask. The one that Fujiwara...
Fubuki wants to throw it away. Wants so desperately to struggle to his feet, take that thing out and pitch it as hard as he can towards the nearest set of dunes (which, really, could be any direction.) Wants to take his current state of mind-numbed fear out on this inanimate object that makes his skin crawl uncomfortably because he knows that, in the end, it's to blame.
(just as he knows that, in the end, it is the only thing that might be able to save him)
The Darkness is a powerful force. Powerful and dangerous, the fact that Fubuki is trapped here more than enough proof of that particular fact. But at the moment it is all he has. The only sort of strength that a desperate man can cling to.
This is what he tells himself as he brings the mask up to his face; that he will do anything to survive. Anything to make it back home. Even sell his soul if he has to.
Then there is nothing but endless black before his eyes. Smothering darkness and icy cold tendrils sliding along and over his body. Sending a slipsliding chill across his skin and he can't move. That realization more than enough to make him scream. Or attempt to. Whether or not he manages to is a different story, not quite certain if his vocal chords are as frozen as every muscle in his body or if he simply can't hear anymore.
Or maybe sound doesn't exist here. Maybe he doesn't exist.
Except if he didn't exist, then he wouldn't be able to feel anything either. And he does feel. Feels something wrapping around him tighter and tighter. Freezing cold and constrictive and even as he panics, even as his mind screams at him to fight this, to reach up and tear that mask off of his face right NOW, there is something soothing invading his thoughts. Not quite a voice, just the slightest press of sensation growing steadily stronger. Willing him to give in, stop fighting, it will be easier for them both this way.
(you want to live, don't you?)
He does. He really does.
(then give in)
And It's inside him now. Stray bits still skimming along the surface of his skin but pressing deep and that scream that wants to escape Fubuki's throat only becomes more insistent, rattling around in his head over and over and over again. Blotting out the soothing hiss of the Darkness (because Fubuki knows that's what It is) for a moment and once again he finds himself trying to struggle and kick free. To reach up and snatch that mask away and throw it as far as he can. Because it's not worth it. Not even surviving is worth this.
(but your family, your friends)
That gives him pause.
(I can take you back to them)
It's insane, but for some reason, Fubuki believes It, because to believe otherwise would be too painful and if anything, Fubuki has always been the type to smile and believe in the best that life has to offer. Willing the screaming in his mind to quiet and trying his damnedest to pretend that this isn't happening even as It fills him up (and up, deeper and deeper to the point where it stops being terrifying and starts feeling almost... exciting) and seethes through every fibre of his being.
And the last thing he sees, before It wraps around his mind, his consciousness, is nothing but the dark.