/TW: nightmares/flashbacks, self-harm, vomiting, lots of references to SA, probably panic attack too\
Remember chapter 3? I think this one got worse :')) So please proceed with caution!
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Most nights, he dreams of hands.
Large, well-defined hands, with apparent bones and sinews, long fingers ending with deathly claws.
Some only touch, others hit – some tear off his clothes, others grip his arms, twist them behind his back, blind him, silence him, fingers forcing their way past his lips into his mouth his throat until he chokes or throws up. (Some of these last ones are his own.) Some grip his horns, forcing his head back to expose his neck until it hurt, heart fluttering just below his stretched skin, until the painful angle presses on his trachea and he can't breathe again. Some are fists, some only use their claws to slash at his flesh, and those aren't the worst.
When awake, Melon remembers other hands – the ones he imagined his gone father had, slender soft careful hands, raised in submission in front of his mama; impala ones when his then-adoptive mother pushed him back and down the stairs; young elephant ones, of the animal that should have been his brother, it was an accident but it hurt all the same. Those of the animals he killed. Horrified eyes behind hands that wouldn't do anything against a bullet but that she held in front of her nonetheless, the frail trembling shoulders of that cop that got in his path. A bigger body, one that could have belonged to his second host family – one that he would soon pierce through, big elephant arms outstretched between the Beastar and him because they wanted to protect everything he wasn't and pretended to be.
But the hands that fill his dreams – his nightmares, he never dreams –, those always belong to carnivores.
And that terror, instinctive, so deep-rooted he can't seem to get rid of it, it follows him through the days and the nights. His body is terrified of carnivores – half of it, at least, but when it gets triggered it takes over completely. He chose to ignore it, living amongst them, threatening and tricking and commanding them; ignore the racing heart and the tense muscles and the restricted breathing – and to hell if it's unhealthy, to hell if it ends driving him crazy – he already is anyway. And the adrenaline makes him feel alive.
The hands, tonight, are covered with yellow, spotted fur. It's hazy and distorted through the traitorous veil of dreams, though he knows it takes after that night, more than two weeks ago by now. He recalls the nausea from the spiked drink, the way his vision swam in dizziness, lines morphing into curves, his body not quite responding to his brain anymore. Everything happened too quickly. Hands that he can't shake off, blood on his fangs and face after he bit one that wandered too close, another that hits – and it's his own blood that spills out now – hits him again and again until he can't get up anymore and the darkness has swallowed most of the world. Yet another hand gripping his nape and his head hits the wall, once, light erupting in front of his vision, twice, and he hears his horn crack. The hand moves and it doesn't even have to strain to snap the horn in half now. It bleeds. The pain can do nothing against the poison and its fog, no, it only adds to the weight anchoring his body to this damp and cold pavement, he's helpless and hands are now pulling his pants down and he can't fight back can't resist can't even scream everything has faded to black but he can still feel, they are touching him and that splashes white-hot red over his closed eyelids-
When the darkness parts, he is met with the bloody abysses of Grace's eyes.
He wakes up with a scream lodged in his throat. The blankets are twisted around his legs, trapping him. He brings a hand to his heart, feels it beating, beating against his bones as if to break them, to escape from its prison of flesh. He wants to tear off his skin – if only it could rip from his memories the echoes of their touches.
He rejoices in the way each panicked inhale makes his ribs hurt, tries to focus on the familiar, grounding sensation. Both his hands now press over the claw marks on his thighs, multiple new sparks lightning up under his skin. His still broken wrist burns deliciously. He hopes it won't heal anytime soon.
He leans forward, putting more weight on his injured arm, and the pain makes him gasp. At the same time, his breathing has now been brought back under control. Darkness lurks at the edge of his vision, drowning the flashbacks from within. As it always does. Melon curls a bit more onto himself, hugging his knees. Pain is the only thing that doesn't discriminate, that always comes, no matter what else is happening around. Pain is the only universal proof you're alive.
Sure, he wishes it was different. That there was something else that worked, that settled his mind and lighted the same fire within his chest. He doesn't think such a thing exists, though – a mere chimera, furthermore for someone like him.
So, pain will have to do.
He gets up on shaky legs, has to catch the wall for support. His head is spinning, he feels like he's going to be sick. The corridor is empty and dark, just door after door and the cold air running in between, filled with the scent of lions. He makes his way to the bathroom, letting his body drop on the cold tiles, the shock reverberating from his knees up into his spine. He throws up into the toilet, water and bile, he can't remember the last thing he ate, but his stomach doesn't seem to care that it's already empty – the nausea doesn't relent and he struggles to breathe in between the gagging. It seems like his insides are trying to come out. It's painful, but not the right kind of pain though, no, it doesn't spark, instead expand its slimy tentacles until it fills his entire chest. He knows it comes from what's going through his head, and as such, it cannot be a remedy.
The ceramic is so cold to the touch, it makes his shivers worse. He barely notices he's crying, hot tears streaming down his face, leaking any remaining warmth out.
He tries to get up, rinse his mouth – even though he can only taste cinder, the acrid smell lingers –, but his legs don't carry him. His body seizes, he dry-heaves into the toilet bowl once again, spitting out bile mixed with saliva.
"Hey?"
The voice comes from outside the door, followed by a quiet knock, then the handle turns down and Melon is glad he somehow thought to lock the door behind him.
"You okay in there?"
"Fuck off," he rasps out, surprised his voice even came out.
"Oh, uh, B-Boss?"
"Fuck. Off!"
The slight growling that went with his words only irritates his throat further, but at least there is no answer. He thinks he could recognize Free's voice. He doesn't care though, only wants him to go away, to leave him alone with his sickness. After what felt like an eternity, he hears footsteps retreating.
He's leaning heavily over the rim of the toilet bowl, unsure that he would otherwise stay upright, one hand over his face as he waits for the world to stop fucking spinning. Maybe then he could go back to his room. Of course, sleep is out of the picture for the rest of the night – how late, or how early, is it even anyway? He hopes he has at least gotten like three or four hours, because he's not dealing with a classroom full of students with a headache, thank you very much. Their constant noise, chairs squeaking, papers ruffling, breathings- it's already hard enough to deal with normally, given how sensible his hearing is, but it turns into a nightmare if you add sleep deprivation to the mix.
He hopes Free didn't hear too much of the vomiting and crying part. His traitorous mind flashes to a different lion – one with bigger eyes and a darker fur, with pure white freckles instead of scars on his face. Melon realizes he already misses Agata. Maybe, just maybe, if it had been him instead of Free on the other side of the door, he wouldn't have told him off.
He wonders if he should really have said this shit to him, at the terrasse. He wanted to drive the Congo lion away, to sever the connection between them that pulled them closer and closer with each passing day, with each word and each gesture… cut things off before it got out of hands. It worked just as he was expecting – and yet he can't find it in himself to rejoice. He's back to being in charge; the boss of the Shishigumi, and nothing else. He's back on top with no one close enough to be a threat.
(Then why does he feel so vulnerable, curled up on the bathroom floor like this, why does his heart still race in his chest?)
He thinks about Grace, about the way her cold gaze promises blood, and he feels sick again. Was he right to suspect she had something to do with Agata's sudden change of attitude? He tries to remember the moments they shared, tries to find the tipping point, but everything swirls together and he also can't tell if it wasn't himself that changed first – initiating these past days of novelty. Would the lion have reacted like this, at the terrasse, if he was truly a traitor? The accusations shouldn't have hit the mark if he was. Is he that good of an actor? Playing hurt to not raise suspicion?
He's breathing too fast again, black dotting his vision and staining his thoughts. His chest burns and he isn't sure if it's from his lungs or his ribs or both, or something else, his heart maybe – something less physical that he thought had turned to ashes ages ago. He has flashes of Agata's eyes and words and touches, of his arms around his body and his hands on him and his lips and- he doesn't know if it hurts more to think he pushed the lion away for nothing, if he was innocent, or conversely that this touch too was meant for harm.
(Maybe it's just that he pushed him away, lost him, no matter what the truth turns out to be.)
He remembers vaguely the night the leopards attacked him, sees it splattered against his closed eyelids, except this time the hands aren't covered in bugs, he looks up and finds dead eyes and white freckles. The hands curl around his hips, dark brown fur he recognizes all too well, grip bruising and claws sinking into his flesh, one reaches up grabs his horn turns his head to the side until all he can see is a puddle on the pavement, his neck bent at a painful angle, the puddle and their reflection in it, bodies intertwined in a way that's far away from an embrace. Each thrust of his hips makes the vision slides forward and back again, until blood seeps into the water and everything dissolves into red.
His stomach lurches again, but he doesn't even have bile to throw up by now. He's shivering worse than before, his body jerking uncontrollably from time to time, because even the memories of warmth are dirtied now. Melon opens his eyes, hoping the white of the tiles will win over the dark and the crimson, but it can't reach inside his mind. He needs it to stop, to stop completely. He bites his hand to muffle his sobbing – push it back in, choke it – him – teeth digging into the soft flesh, scraping against bone, even if he can barely feel it.
Maybe it's better to give up control. Even if Agata is playing him, then what? He dies? Ah, what a big deal that is... Right now, it doesn't even sound half bad.
It's will be easier anyway. He's tired of fighting – of being alone.
