He dreams in technicolour.
TV static dances through his cranium, the white noise threatening to submerge him in low signal. Someone's trying to communicate to him, but the radio waves can't quite get through his skull, with the television tapping a morse code beat as it swallows his attention. All their words are lost in translation, and he wonders if they intend for it to sound so jumbled.
A secret code, or another language. They're whispering in tongues that should be familiar, yet the antennas aren't tuned to pick up the message. He twists the dial clockwise in hopes it fixes the display.
It doesn't. Grey specks keep pulsing in his retinas, like pins and needles in a dead arm. The sensation is all too much for him to bear.
He wants to break the television, but he doesn't want to deal with the bleeding knuckles that'd ensue. Glass cleanup was the worst; too many shards in the cuts to pry out, with the forceps never getting deep enough to clean the wound properly. And he feels what remains of the glass in his fingers, how it circulates through his body, swimming in his blood vessels undisturbed. Neither the glass, nor the blood cells, are alone in him.
The bugs are still there too.
They enter through his mouth and cozy up around his nerves. Each insect burrows in him not unlike the rabbits, digging and digging and digging and digging and
Never coming out. Great Hare consumed him whole, yet the Wasps want to dwell in his carcass. His ribcage has turned into a nest for the critters, maggots snuggling in the gaps between ribs as if tucking themselves in for the night. Subaru wants to scream that he's still alive, that he's decomposing as he stands, though no one's around to listen.
Insect and Hare alike gnaw on his bones uninterrupted. Squelching noises plug his eardrums, and he almost misses the numbing static. As much as the carnage makes him want to hurl, it's something. He's feeling something. Not empty, nor full, in pain, yet still alive. The act feels like a reassurance that he's still reluctantly kicking. There's no outstretched appendages waiting to wring his heart this time, only the all-consuming feeling of being eaten alive. Becoming food for Gluttony's pet. Just like Rem -
Her attacks don't stop. Every bone in his body has been shattered, every question answered, but she just keeps going. Muscles and bones fuse together, meld under the pulse of magic. None of them work properly. She never bothers to properly heal him when she's just going to break him again.
Maces are an interesting weapon. It's all spiky and digs deep in him, making him into a bloody meat sponge. Pink and black, like her sister, because everything about her is a comparison. Rem's never lived for herself, has she? That's sad. Subaru's feeling pity for the girl ripping him apart, but he never voices his thoughts. She'd strike harder if she suspected he felt for her.
He doubts she cares enough to hear him prattle about how much he relates to being compared. Can't bring up good ol' dad easily without an explanation of how he got here in the first place. Maybe he could try next loop to negotiate, sympathise, see if that gets him through the encompassing days as he figures out what's going on in the village. Or he could run far, far away and forget his promise to Emilia. They would miss each other, but hey, saves him racking up a high death toll.
….He wouldn't, though. Too stubborn for his good, he'll stand by and believe in the good of people like they've never killed him before. Besides - Emilia's not killed him yet, so that's got to count for something.
He snorts. That got proven wrong pretty quickly, but he doesn't hold it against her. Didn't hold it against Rem or Ram. Still talks to Puck, after all the decapitation, ice in his tendons, freezing the cuts in an effort to stem the bleeding, make him suffer more.
That one was particularly brutal. Subaru doesn't like thinking about it. He wishes he could pick and choose what to replay, but he's not exactly in a theatre full of good movies. Snuff doesn't appeal to him in any capacity. It takes a particular kind of sick person to enjoy watching a guy die over, and over, and over, and over and over and
The cycle never ends.
The screen's playing his run with Petelgeuse in the cave now. He doesn't remember much of it, being too far gone to properly process the start, but Rem's contortionist act repeats like a mantra every night he goes to check on her. He was nothing if not diligent, after all.
Wipe at the eyes with a fresh, white cloth.
Sweep the sweat off his brow.
Peel off expired bandages, bite back the wince and foregoing nausea, wrap him in that sterile, sterile colour.
Beatrice will be here soon. She'll hand wave away the viscera, but it's better to do something than nothing.
It's not enough to fix what's wrong with him. He tosses and turns in bed, shakes off bed sheets and the towel on his forehead, determined to take advantage of the good fortune given to him. By all accounts, he's a dead man walking.
"Please rest, Natsuki-san. We'll stay until you're ready to wake up," Otto prays on deaf ears.
Eyes and ears are everywhere. On the TV, on his hands, his feet, the white walls and in the crevices he can't quite see. Someone's listening to his relapse, and he wonders what they're feeling.
Is it joy? He's fucked up a lot of times in the past. Plenty of reasons to hate him, but he doesn't know if there's something in specific that people dislike. Multiple eyes suggest an audience, and he wishes there was a way to poll them as they watch him become tattered and filthy. Live studio cast reacts to some teenager's psychosis. It'd be nice to know what specifically he's done wrong this time. He won't improve, he's far too gone for that, but he can give them a show if they pay the fee.
This is his brain, full of mania and mixed messages. The whole thing's pretty complex, being 17 years in the making, so the least spectators could do is pay their respects as it all comes crashing down. Or don't. He's not a respectable person.
Subaru just wants to be a hero. One of those people you hear from bedtime stories, rescuing the princess and fighting the dragon. But the dragon here is supposedly a god, the damsel is far stronger than him, and he's a two-timing bastard. At least the show is subversive, he thinks. Girl power.
Then again, girl power is the reason he's here, so he's not going to keep up that feminist schtick for long. Sounds creepy given his track record of obsessing over Emilia.
But she's just so...wonderful. Amazing. Awe-inspiring. Got noble goals and the drive to pursue them. She's everything he's not, and he loves her in the way he wants to be her.
Yet she's undeniably human. Half-human. Either way, she's naive to a fault, and struggles to face her past to the point of losing herself in the chaos. Which - same, honestly - humbles her to him. He's no longer in love with the idea of loving her, of filling his role in the archetypal hero narrative.
He's well and truly smitten with Just Emilia.
Subaru wants to see her. To have his worries washed away, rest his head on her lap, and forget about how much he wants to live. It's so hard being alone. Waves of people surround him, and he's all alone in his head again. Dead to the world in a daydream. Will he wake up again? Does he want to wake up? If all he wants is the warmth from his beloved dear Emilia he could simply relive that memory like a revolving lantern until he finally expires.
(it wouldn't be the same, he's far too used to idolising her to ever picture the real thing.)
So, he resolves to wake up. Except, there's one tinsy tiny problem.
He can't.
Beatrice operates, stone-faced as always, and the lack of tears is telling.
"This has happened before," Otto surmises. He doesn't have to see her lower her head to know he's right.
Subaru and self-harm. What a novel concept, he thinks, but it's not as surprising as he feels it should be. Hell, he's seen Subaru at his worst, picked him up from the wreck the Sanctuary left him, so the idea of him being actively self-destructive felt fitting. Hah. Isn't that fucked up?
That his best friend's killing himself, and all he has to say is that it's fitting?
Maybe he should be more angry. Beatrice has been hiding… whatever this is for quite a while, judging by how she immediately knows the problem spots before Otto's even told her what happened. Is he that untrustworthy? It feels like a personal slight, but he lets it roll off his back.
Light swells the dim guest room. Subaru's legs are engulfed in the wave of energy, absorbing droplet after droplet of mana like a dying man in a desert. He tosses and turns as she works her magic, seemingly discontent with the bright sparks going off the way his face scrunches up and contorts in a squint. Otto can't really blame him for reacting the way he does; even the merchant winces at the display in front of him. If Subaru's as dehydrated as he suspects, all the flashing colours have to be forming a killer migraine right about now.
Selfishly, he wishes that Beatrice would say something about the injuries. She's familiar with curses, according to Subaru at least, so there's a chance all the blood and vomit were caused by him tampering with something he shouldn't. It's a cop out to avoid having to pry all the answers out of Subaru later, and it's almost sickening that he'd rather have his friend possessed than have something wrong with him. Possession and curses are easy to miss, but things like this…
Otto should have seen it coming. He'd do just about anything to have him burst out of bed, a clean bill of health and a pep in his step as he recounts this tale of surviving a bout with a mabeast. He just wants his friend to be alive and well, but the excuses and false hopes keep rolling off the tongue.
All that matters is that Subaru lives, he tells himself. Ever since he's met the guy, he's been a whirlwind of energy, always plotting and planning everything ten steps in advance. Initially, it had been unnerving, but he'd quickly become accustomed to the almost-uncanny level of intuition his friend had. Blind faith's bad for business, yet it's not done him wrong so far, so he'll keep believing in Subaru for as long as he's around. Hopefully, it's a lot longer than his pallid expression seems to hint at.
Surprisingly, Beatrice is the first one to break the ice. He's never quite been in a one-on-one with her, so he expects something formal, a near-clinical analysis of what's up with their friend. 'She's a little needy, and she rarely says what she means, but she's scarily perceptive when she needs to be,' or so he'd been told. Could explain why she knows and Otto doesn't. He likes to think he's not so obtuse as to miss the warning signs, though he's not around as much as Beatrice is.
The idea stings a little. He should've done more, or been around, could've intervened earlier…
Oh. Beatrice is staring at him in concern, and he realises he hasn't been listening to a word she said. "Can you repeat that? I didn't quite catch what you said," he replies, hoping it's not too obvious he wasn't listening in the first place.
If it is, she doesn't remark on it. "Betty has done what she can with her mana, I suppose. It's best for Subaru to rest for a while to try and regain his strength, in fact. He's been…" she chokes out.
"He's been…?" Otto pries. Any word he fills in for her brings a horrific truth to mind, so he hopes that it's something that can be healed with time instead.
"...Starving himself, I suppose. He told Betty he would stop hurting himself if she stayed with him, but she didn't know about this. She didn't know, and she can't heal disorders of the mind, in fact," Beatrice finishes, teeth gnashing against each other loud enough for Otto to hear.
So that's why, then. Makes sense. Just pick up the habit of eating alone, while working or skipping a few meals in favour of sleep, and no one's going to tell the difference. Otto's skipped enough meals in the flurry of a lucrative deal to know it's hard to keep track of a person's dietary habits.
Food works for him. He may not be able to heal him like Beatrice or Emilia can, but he can sit with him and share a meal together. Being the voice of reason doesn't come naturally to him, so he relies on his quick wits he's picked up from merchantry to carry him through impromptu counselling sessions. It's not much, but it's something, and that's the best he can do right now.
Beatrice seems smaller than ever with her hand barely managing to wrap around Subaru's. The bed is big enough for the pair of them, though she opts to sit on the edge and stroke her thumb across each knuckle on Subaru's hands. It's soothing to both her and Otto respectively, with the repetition and rhythm being a welcome constant in a room of uncertainty. He asks her why she doesn't settle in with him, but cuts his question short at the mollified look that rolls over her face.
"Betty thinks it would be better for you two to talk when he wakes, I suppose," she chimes, though the words don't quite ring true.
He'll ask what she means when she's not shaking inconsolably. Watching her lose her calm felt like he was tapping into something he should, unlocking a box he was never given a key to. For as experienced as she looked when first addressing Subaru's wounds, the mana requirement and mental toll of patching him together must be wreaking havoc on her body. If she's not comfortable sleeping with Subaru, then Otto's fine to turn a blind eye as she dozes off upright against her contractor's side profile.
There's a time for rest, and a time for questions. And if he's to be fully honest, Otto's not ready to hear the answer.
Subaru snaps upright with a peculiar resistance coming from his arms and legs. Something's wrapped around his limbs, but he hasn't got enough strength in his fingers to dig for the threads coiled around each of his joints. Flexing his wrist does nothing to abate the taut strings on him, so he merely lets his arm flop to the floor in a spectacular display of motor control.
He takes a moment to observe his surroundings. The television is gone now, but it's apparent that he's in the same room as before. White, white walls enclose his vision, and he's swimming in that bleak, boring colour again.
It's always white that follows him. In the bandages and in the papers he learns his glyphs on. In the clothes Emilia wears, and in the fabric of his own tracksuit jacket. Everytime he sees it, the urge to dye the colours strikes him, unable to resist the feeling of tainting what he sees as purity. If everything he ruins turns a murky, dull palette, he's not alone in being made of filth and trash. Let the darkness hold him, take over his heart and drag him away from the heavenly white Emilia adorns herself in. He can't stand the canvas, so he has to paint over her in something better.
Black looks striking on her. The resemblance to someone he can't remember is overwhelming, but at least she's no longer above him, dripping that empty colour from every orifice.
It takes a moment to shake off the white torture. He shudders, lets the memory run its course, and goes back to checking out his surroundings as best he can.
A few paces behind where the television set had been is a long, white table. Several items decorate the surface of the table; in the centre, a mirror, with mannequin heads of different head shapes and sizes in a neat row beside it. Each head is accessorised to a T, with purple, red, grey, blond and brown hair being appropriately styled and cut to size. They face away from the mirror, turning their back on his reflection.
Only one mannequin seems pointed at Subaru, and draped over the head is a wig he's worn before.
The strings around his joints slacken as he stares at the head. Taking this as a sign to get up, he trudges over to the desk in a fit of morose curiosity. Natsumi says nothing to him, which is good, because mannequins don't talk.
It's freaky. While the mannequin has that fleshy, hardened silicone finish, the facial features seem off. Indents where the eyes should be look more like mouths than pupils, and the doll's lips are sewn with the same red thread binding his limbs tight. There's a metaphor for him to decipher, a puzzle for him to figure out, but he has no interest in playing psychologist to himself.
Rorschach can wait until he's back to the cold, dead tiles of the bathroom he passed out in. Armchair psychology only works when there's an armchair to sit on instead of, well, being pitted against his psyche unprepared.
Natsumi frowns disapprovingly at him. Her presence raises far more questions than it probably should - he'd assumed her disguise was a one time thing - yet it seemed to play a big enough role to rock up front and centre on his banquet of friends. Things that he'd expect, the dreaded comparison with the knights that stand for virtue and good faith that he'll never embody, and the feeling of betraying Otto with every slice that breaks his skin.
It's him, at least. Replacing Subaru with a new character would be so easy, peeling all his traits with a knife, and shedding what's left in favour of some fresh meat. Then his remains could find worth in a world that's not actively trying to kill him, one where power and strength is as important as it is on Earth. Sure, Natsumi is a new body, but the essence is still the same.
He wonders how it'd go if he was a girl. Would he be compared to his mother instead? Sharp eyes and sharply dressed in imitation of the strongest woman he knows. There would be no expectation for him to be strong as a girl. He shakes head - if anything, the budding insecurities of weakness would triple seeing the candidates take over the election in their own ways. Or would they be guys if he was a girl?
Suitors would be a problem, too. Sure, he hates himself, but he knows best of all how well he can pull off a dress. Guys would line up to be with him, Emilia leading him down the altar, and giving her wishes as a stand-in for his grieving parents.
Being a girl didn't sound so bad. His hands stretch to place the wig over his scalp, and
a bunch of spiders wriggle from under the elastic netting of the cap. They crawl up his arms in droves, slipping between the threads and spinning their own in a merry jig. Subaru can hear himself screaming, but the sound becomes muffled under the invasion of the arachnids pouring in his open mouth.
He pukes, and all that comes up is spiders.
Egg sacs knit next to his joints, ready to burst at the slightest bend. He's pulled tight, wrapped in webbing, and he's a sitting duck while they work. Swiveling up and down his torso. There's crawling on his eyeballs. Blinking bats more in than out, so he lets them do as they please.
How many times does this have to happen? The insect's eyes feel more invasive than their wiggling, with how they dissect him so completely. All the mannequins turn to him and watch the pitiful show. Everyone's watching, so he can't afford to mess up. There's so much blood on his hands from his failures. He wants to scoop his eyes out, but he knows they'll continue to watch him fall apart.
Will they reach the end of the show, or will they bail out when it becomes too much? He doesn't know. He doesn't know what he doesn't know. Should he know? It probably doesn't matter. This is all for entertainment.
Puppet strings pull, and he dances to the beat of a broken man. Bridges are falling in the distance. He doesn't remember the words, but he remembers his fair lady.
the hair looks as he remembers. Glossy and healthy, with a good length to help shape his figure. The mirror reflects someone else, but it's still undeniably him.
He hates it for that same reason.
Mirrors are oh so breakable when they need to be. Subaru considers slinging one of their heads at the panel, but he doesn't want to feel the weight of their heads in his hands. There's so much weighing on his shoulders already. Atlas has nothing on him.
Instead, he swings a good right hook at the picture of Natsumi. Shards scatter across the white, cutting deep in the pristine flooring in a way he finds strangely appealing. Some lodge in his knuckles, which he hates, but at least it meant there's one less Subaru in the world to worry about.
Blood tapers off the tips of his fingers on the floor. The sight entrances him for a few moments, letting the red seep in the void, never to come out properly. It sets him all giddy like an alcoholic.
That's not the reason he punched the mirror, though. Crouching with quite a bit of resistance, he takes a shard in his hand, poking his pinky on the edge. At the pricking and rivulet, he moves the jagged edge to somewhere far more suitable.
...The threads around his knees, of course.
Then his feet, his toes, elbows and fingers.
He's becoming a real boy now. No strings to hold him down, nor lingering attachment to the world he's inhabiting. Subaru's free to make his own choices, and that feels worse than the lack of control, because now it's up to him to make his choices. Can't use the thread excuse now he's cut himself loose.
If it's not the strings holding him here, it's himself. And he doesn't want to go down that wormhole if he can help it. Would quicker grab a shovel and dig himself a shallow grave than even try to figure out what the fuck is going on upstairs. That's a thought - why doesn't he die? It's unlikely to be permanent, going off his track record. Besides, the white could use a rewrite, and he's got the perfect shade for it. A lovely, vivid scarlet colour.
But he doesn't want to hurt anymore. Subaru wants help, wants to feel the warmth behind pleasantries and confessions, and he wants to lay in the sun with Beatrice at his side. He wants to ruffle Otto's hair, swing his arm around Garfiel's shoulder, and go on a date with Emilia.
There's so many things he wants to do. Above them all, one desire overwhelms him.
He wants to live.
In some sick, yet welcome irony, he cracks his eyelids open to a ceiling of wooden support beams.
Three days is his maximum, Otto reasons. All his textbooks and ink are relocated to the guest room, and he props his back with a spare pillow when the chair fails to give enough support for office work. If he was planning on Subaru sleeping for more than three days, he'd drag his office chair through the doorway, but he sees no reason to mess with the archway to bring a chair in.
Emilia clings to him for hours, nigh-inconsolable, so Otto lets her do her thing. He's shed his fair share of tears in sleepless nights, and it's only fair she's offered the same privacy to grieve. Ram reluctantly carries an unconscious Emilia out of the room, bowing to both him and Subaru.
The actions speak of courtesy and good practice, but the trembling in her hands and the tension in the air is palpable. Rem's left scars that run far deeper than just losing her sister, it seems.
His respect for Ram grows tenfold. She's the only one able to keep Garfiel from busting in and shaking Subaru until it finally nets him a response.
Two days pass, and he's changed his friend's nightwear three times. Subaru's insistent on sweating through every shirt he's given, feverish in his squirming in bed, so he takes care to wipe him down gently and plump his pillows when he looks particularly uncomfortable.
Otto hopes that during one of the sponge baths, Subaru will wake up and tease him relentlessly. He doesn't.
On day five of force feeding his unconscious friend, he goes for his last resort. Beactrice told him to treat Subaru with care, to avoid prying when he clams up, but he's been out for days and she's not the one responsible for keeping him alive. Otto needs to know what's happened.
So he does what he's sworn off of. Tuning in to the voice of a spider in that dreaded bathroom, listening to the creature spin a tale of destruction and - hope.
"How sad! How sad! He opened himself up, and couldn't close the gap," it howls.
Another spider dangles down to Otto's face, crowing as loud as the first."Down came the rain! The tears fell, and so did he! How sad."
"No one came! He crawled his way to the door, but you just missed him. Would things be different if you came so~oner?"
Yeah. He's never doing this again, but at least that answers some of his questions. Spinning on his heels, he pads down the hallway, careful not to wake any of the mansion's servants.
Sleep was precious, and he couldn't assuage if any of them had managed to grasp what he's been struggling with for days on end. Even Frederica's lost some of her colour, eyes becoming more gaunt as Subaru's condition weighs down on everyone. She's keeping Petra going as best she can, but there's only so many 'get well soon' cards to write before the realisation hits that they aren't going to improve.
It's with that sense of cosmic irony, or maybe it's the fact Otto's been gone for more than 5 minutes for the first time in five days, that he returns to a lurid Subaru lying awake in bed.
I really hate bugs U_U
Extra details:
(1) Wasps come from his Prophecy of the Throne death. The game's not canon here, but it's a night terror extrapolated from a phobia of being consumed and touched.
(2) A revolving lantern is commonly associated with the flashbacks you experience just before you die.
(3) Rorschach refers to the inkblot test to examine someone's wellbeing.