It walks, one step after the other, walking-kicking-soles dragging and upturning the brown-growth-soil, stopping right before the cover of security cuts off. The dark-safety from the shadows-greens-safe are growing longer, stretching out. Soon, they'll take over the rest of the biome, and the thing will be able to move out. Staying in the shadows-green-safe is inconvenient. Moving is inconvenient. It cannot free its messy-annoyance-yellow from the low brown-long-useful, its grasping-taking-clawing clumsy.
A noise. It's a little one that smells like Food and moves like Food. The little False-Food sees it, stays still before running away. The thing doesn't chase it. It knows not to eat the little False-Foods, although it isn't sure why. It must have tasted one before, the little ones must taste ugly if the avoidance-disgust lingers even now.
It waits until the burning-danger-sky disappears to move out, other things coming out for the Search. It roams, aimlessly. The Search is always mindless, always so very long, filled with Hunger. Thick saliva drips down.
A rustle, behind it. It's clumsy, neck too stiff to turn. Moving is hard. Moving is becoming harder. It has passed things, laying on the ground, edges blurred into the thin-green-grow, colourful explosions piercing through them, blooming. If it doesn't satisfy its Hunger soon, it'll have to allow the yellow-red-blues to feed on it.
Food. Warm-iron-red Food. The Food doesn't disappear in ear piercing screams. It stand, looking at it. They do that sometimes, when they see it.
The thing stumbles toward the Food, slow and steady, never stopping, never tiring. It is near, it can smell delicious and pulsing-red-chest, but the Food decides to go away. Groaning, calling it back, the thing follows. It's Hungry. Others are Hungry. Others try to poach its Food, even when it growls at them.
The Food disappears, away, out of its seeing-vision-blurry range. It stops, confused as to where the Food went, its middle-hungry-empty angry. It has to Search again.
It stays motionless, before it starts walking again.
A sound-familiar makes it stop, turn, look. Oh. Its Food is there. It is a good Prey. It smells good, so good, in a way other Foods have not.
The thing stumbles after it, occasionally losing it behind shadows-cool-safe, and once tumbling down a trap-empty-ground. It always finds it again, the Food does not stop making its Food noises, edging the limits of the thing's periphery.
It starts hesitating when the burning-danger-sky is close. Its Food is so close, but it should go Search for shadows-green-safe or deep-wet-safe. The Food stops. Maybe it is slowing, finally. Maybe it fear the burning-danger-sky too.
The Food makes its noises, repeating that sound-familiar. The thing will catch it. The Food has to be tiring, and the thing is never tired.
It follows, follows, as dark-safe starts receding and danger lurks behind the horizon. It is sure it will catch the Food—
Sudden darkness. It is trapped, it is trapped, the Food is not here.
The thing stops. Waits for the sound-familiar, but there is only nothingness, and something akin to tight-panic flashes, and then slides away. It is in a dark-small-safe. It cannot walk forward here, or forward here, or forward here, or forward here, and so it stands, waits for the obstacles to move out of the way.
It only remembers it is trapped when it bumps against the walls again, and again, and again, and again—
One of the barriers falls away. The Search is possible. It's never good to stay still for long. Not when the Hunger is so great.
It's in a big space now. The opening behind it shuts close.
And then. Noise. Lilting, lulling, noise. Not a Food sound. It listens to the lilting noise, head bobbing. Something about the noise pulls at a floating sliver from a long time ago. So very long.
Suddenly, a crashing noise, on the ground. The air becomes colourful, mists the thing. The air smells different.
The thing cannot stay up. It has not eaten and now it has to lie down and have beautiful-merciful-colour devour him. The ground is cold and hard, not the good kind for laying. It walks, tries to walk, until it can sit.
This is soft. This is good for growing. Green. It goes on the green, as prepared as a thing can be. It's too weak, it cannot hold itself up. The lilting noise has not stopped yet. It hopes it continues, until it cannot see nor hear. The noise is good. It will carry it far away while the thing's body recedes into the rich-brown-soil.
It has its seeing-looking closed for a long time. Or maybe it blinks and keeps forgetting the in-betweens. Not that it matters, truly. It opens its seeing-looking to see the Food leaning over it. It can't move to eat it, can only lay and wait. It's too late. The colours will take over the thing.
Something cool and sweet gets slipped into its open-wet-eating. It's not food—or is it?—but it bites down on it anyways, hoping to catch parts of the Food.
It's too fast, the Food doesn't get caught. The thing cannot bring itself to care though. The lilting sound-familiar is back, and the Food touches its messy-annoyance-yellow.
Every time the thing chews, the Food pets its messy-annoyance-yellow, making it unmessy. It's another kind of Hunger it didn't know needed to be satiated.
It swallows the cold slices of not-Food, looking-seeings closed. Something has been missing, something has been taken away, an eternity ago. The thing wants.
It can't move, not even to gnash its teeth against the sweet-crunchy-cold slipped in between its lips. It tries, but its body is failing, rotting away to the bright-colours. The Food helps it, and for some reason, even after the thing cannot chew, the Food strokes his no-longer-messy-annoyance-yellow, passes over its forehead. The Food is warm, warmer than the thing is, and the lilting so-familiar-sound is repeated in between noises.
Sometimes, the Food uses a wet-cool-rough to wipe its forehead, its fragile-vulnerable-bitten, its grasping-holding-clawing. They're watering it to prepare it for the colours. Sometimes, they stay to look at the colours growing from the thing, even when the wet-falling-sky is happening, tiny drops splashing its face. The thing cannot open its eyes now, has not opened them for a long time, but it hopes the colours are pretty.
Its Hunger is almost painful, urgent now, but its Other Hunger is soothed by gentle presses against its forehead and so-familiar-sounds whispered in its ear and traced on the inside of its grasping-holding-clawing.
Something keeps tickling the back of its throat and the tip of its tongue, but everytime it thinks it will cough it up, sweet-crunchy-cold takes its place, and the thing forgets until the next time the itch comes to bother it.
There are times when the thing is alone, with no Food to touch its head. It only has bright-colours to pace its mind and lulling noise played from the ceiling.
The Food always comes back, never stays away for too long. Or at least, the Food doesn't absent themself long enough for the thing to forget about them.
The world is shaking. The Thing is shaking. It must be turning into good-for-flora now, its hands and face and torso melting away into something that isn't quite it, but will keep a fraction of itself everlasting, reborn into flower seeds, and birds eating flower seeds, and animals eating birds.
It hurts more than it anticipated. It didn't think it could ever hurt again.
(Again? Odd water-blurry-shallows, receding tides, a slow ebb and flow discovering old imprints chiseled into rock. The carved lines are filled with sand, and the Thing has to wait for small waves to lap at the sediment before it can see what is written.)
The Hands, calloused and hardened by burns and repetitive work, cards through its long-yellow-pride. The Hand speaks in baritone noise, low and steady, that familiar-appellation coming up often. The Thing waits for their return, always, clinging onto the source of comfort through the unease-not-its-own-body. Objects are placed in its hands, its fingers forced to curl around them. They're smooth, carry a certain weight. It knows what they are, yet cannot retrieve the words for them. It groans, partly in annoyance, partly in confusion.
The Hand stops stroking the Thing's long-yellow-pride, before it starts saying the familiar-appellation, again, again, again.
The Thing opens its lookin-seeing for the first time it remembers. A blurry shape stands over it. Food, or maybe not. Perhaps more. It looks down, catches emerald-green in its hands. There's a shift in its chest, barely noticeable.
It yearns.
The Thing is tired. It's bored too. Time passes slowly, in between the visits.
It has accepted that it will not grow flowers. It has been still-a-Thing for longer than it should have been, and it can now sometimes twitch its extremities.
It tires them though. It only does it when the Visitor is there to talks and hums to it, to whisper while they hold its hand . The Visitor always stays longer when the Thing tries to move, tries to follow them with its eyes. When the Visitor is here, it isn't as lost, not as confused. It tries to grip the Visitor's callous warm hands—laced with white lighting scars slithering under long sleeves and up the Visitors jaw, crawling up into a milky pupil, a bright flash during pitter pattering rain, a pained cry, fear, all encompassing—when the Visitor says that familiar word (Hizashi) so the Thing can coax out more of the sentences the Thing has become accustomed to (Hizashi, can you hear me?), in the hopes the Visitor will utter the specific sounds and syllables that always steadies the ever shifting thoughts in the Thing's head (Hizashi, I love you).
A few times, the Thing—Hizashi?—hears loud Food noises. It's the Visitor's, alongside Others, shouting and angry and pleading. The door opens, redstone lighting up, but today is an away day, where the Thing sleeps with looking-seeings open, where the Thing is far away with the flowers. It's vaguely aware of several Foods near it, gesturing and making noises and touching it.
They're gone fast, chased away by the Visitor. The Thing does not remember how many times they come, and when it tries to recall, it—
The Thing gains more strength, and it takes a little bit more effort each time for the Visitor to stay. One day, the Thing manages to keep the Visitor's hands in its. The Visitor says something, tries to pull away, but the Thing has prepared for this. It groans, an almost-word that's still missing key components before it registers as understandable, its vocal chords clumsy from misuse. It doesn't quite know what it wants to say, but the not-its-yet body remembers, has tasted it time and time again.
The Visitor sighs, drawn out, and the Thing thinks for a moment that they will leave.
But the Visitor only pushes the Thing closer to the wall, until there is enough place for them both—together, always, always, always—to lay down next to it, hands clasped with its, green-gray skin fusing with warm beige through blurred vision.
It wants to turn to its side, to cup a blurry face into its hands. It wants to press close, close, closer, until it stops feeling so empty, but it cannot force its limbs to move no matter how much it tries. The body is its-but-not-its yet.
The Visitor makes a noise, concerned and panicked. Two thumbs come down to rest on the Thing's cheeks to wipe away the hurt.
(Hizashi, it's going to be okay.)
Hizashi is made to sit up often. Every day, the Witch makes it move its arms, head, legs, trunk, until the morning stiffness fades away, and then he throws one of Hizashi's arms around his shoulders and starts shuffling around the room, circles upon circles.
Hizashi received glasses a few nights ago. It can see better, knows it's in a closed room with a mirror on one side. It can see the Witch's features too now.
The Witch is...
He is—
Hizashi can not speak yet. It tries when the Witch isn't there, to twist sounds into meanings. Its tongue is clumsy, and its lips don't align in the way they should. It knows it used to enjoy it, producing words and sentences and songs, even if it can't remember.
Memories are still difficult, coming and going as quickly as they appear, like seeing the afterimage of lighting against the dark sky, Hizashi's running toward burning flesh, Hizashi's screaming a sound-appellation, Hizashi is—
Today, the Witch brings it out of the room. It's led up stairs that won't stop getting caught on its feet—clothed in mismatched green and yellow socks—and it's out of breath halfway through, panting in exhaustion while the Witch tries to encourage it to continue.
Hizashi gets to the top of the stairs after several breaks. They're somewhere—it knows this place, it knows this place, it knows this pl—with bright walls covered in papers and books and paintings. The Witch pulls it to a sitting-soft while it stares around.
It doesn't notice the Witch has left until he returns with a bowl, steam rising from it. It tries to hold the utensils at first, but its arms shake too much, are too jerky. The Witch only lets it attempt to feed themself twice before taking the utensils from it and cleaning up the spill.
The Witch keeps his monotone narration as he places the spoon next to Hizashi's mouth so it can drink from it.
It bite down on the wooden handle without meaning to. Freezes when the soup hits its tongue.
It tastes—like a first date, home cooked meals, rainy days spent home together—familiar. It tastes familiar.
The Witch calls for it, one hand on its shoulders. He's worried; Hizashi stopped moving for a while.
It opens its mouth, points at the stew; it wants more memories of that life from before.
The Witch frowns but gives it more, feeds Hizashi slowly, makes sure it's swallowing before the next spoon. Sometimes, Hizashi forgets, but the Witch always reminds it with that same patient tone.
After, it's made to stand under a stream of water, drops falling on it fast. The Witch washes it, wipes away the sweat sticking its back and the dirt caking the sole of its walking-dancing-floors. It tries to help, rubbing its arms with the flower-bubble-clean.
The Witch waters away the flower-bubble-clean before asking it to step out of the water-stream-box. It's patted dry, and the Witch takes out a clear bottle with shimmering orange liquid, sprays some on its hair until wet-and-heavy turns dry-and-light.
It's taken back to the soft-sitting. It waits for the Witch to settle next to it, but he goes to walk away.
It's wrong. The Witch is supposed to…. he's supposed to…?
Hizashi groans, somehow manages to catch the Witch's sleeve. He'll know what it wants.
The Witch's eyes widen at its gesture. They say something, with its appellation-sound which means the words are intended for it, but Hizashi is too tired to listen. It tugs at the Witch until he sits, warming its side.
The Witch tucks a strand behind its ears. That's right, Hizashi knows now. Its hair should be not-loose after a cleaning-water. It points at its head, hoping the Witch understands.
The Witch takes its hands—for touching, caressing, braiding hair—and presses the middle of its palms to his lips. He says something, too soft for Hizashi to understand. It doesn't need to know though. Its body understands.
Its eyes droop while the Witch braids its hair.
Things start to change from then on—or maybe they return back to what they used to be? The Witch forces them to move a lot more, he applies potions on their skin, makes them eat more types of foods-for-Foods, braids their hair, puts on music discs so they can listen while he adds various ingredients and stirs his cauldron. He'll change some things, move around the routine—sometimes, they'll take another shower, sometimes, he'll make them hold objects.
They like the green-shiny-valuable a lot, with their sharp edges and smooth planes. They awake an urge Hizashi had forgotten about, and when the Witch hands them one while Hizashi is distracted by a bird chirping outside, they move automatically, hands hovering over the sides of their thighs, and when they don't find what they're looking for, they move to the table next to the sofa. They pick up the first thing that they can, a direction-pointing-gold, and exchange it for the green-shiny-valuable.
It's only when the Witch's face splits into a frightening—cute, lovely, handsome—smile that Hizashi notices what has transpired.
It's become a habit. The Witch will give them a green-trading-currency, and Hizashi will give something in return. They know, somehow, that the Witch pays too little for what Hizashi gives, but they don't find the urge to correct the trade.
One night, after they're made to lay down on their bed, they are compelled to follow him to their sleeping-pleasure-comfort.
The Witch jumps when they enter, startles still when they lay down on the side that is their body's favourite. They know they'll sleep better here.
It's dark, impossibly so, swallowing all memories of the Thing, until it forgets its appellation-place-weight-in-the-Universe, gripping-clawing-ripping unfeeling as the covers melt away, the thing needs to Search, it has to—
Two arms go around Hizashi to hold them against warmth-solid-comfort. The Witch's gentle breeze tickles their neck, in and out, in and out, in and out, their chest is held together by two hands, resting right where a steady badum badum beats on the same rhythm as the one whispering on their back.
Their legs slot together until Hizashi can't tell which ones are theirs.
Hizashi is led outside.
The breeze changes the air, makes them stop before stepping on the path.
It is night. Night is dangerous, night is supposed to be spent inside. The Witch must have forgotten.
Hizashi tries to tell him so, but all that comes out is a mess of sounds. Unspoken words turn to bile when the Witch doesn't understand, only laughs—low, baritone, loving, teasing, mocking, cruel—as Hizashi's pulled away from torches and glowstone and fences and the village that make existing safer, and now, Hizashi's arm is thrown around shoulders as they're carried into the darkness, away from safe walls and roofs and doors and Hizashi's body doesn't follow their commands, it barely reacts instead of flailing and resisting and pushing away, glass shatters at their feet and wisps of Weakness infiltrate their lungs and the sun is setting, their bags and pockets are lighter, their quiver empty of their single lucky arrow. An animal screams close by and Hizashi isn't moving anymore, it's a wolf or a wildcat, wounded and desperate as its high pitched wails grow louder, it's wounded, it's been caught, it's dying, it's going to die, it's going to die, it's going to die—
A door slams shut. The animal is inside the walls. It followed Hizashi into the Witch's house, it will survive the night, but it doesn't know it yet, it doesn't stop screaming, even when the Witch makes sounds that mean reassurance and safety, it thinks it's fate doomed.
The screaming becomes muffled when two palms cover their ears, and even when Hizashi fights for air, the animal doesn't quiet.
The redstone lamps flicker on. Hizashi opens their eyes. Waits for his Witch to greet them, help them dress, and brush their hair smooth.
They wait, wait, wait, but Hizashi's Witch doesn't wake.
It's difficult for Hizashi's body to move, to start it in motion after staying still for so long without their Witch's help, but they know they must. They turn, painstakingly, until their Witch enters their vision. He's entirely covered by the covers, his squid-ink-black hair spread out on the pillow. He doesn't move, even when Hizashi makes a questioning noise.
The words die and are forgotten before they even pass their lips. Hizashi swallows down the itch in its throat and knows, intrinsically, what they're supposed to do when their Witch is in this state. They swing their legs—for kicking and walking and dancing—over the bed—for hiding and sleeping and loving—and onto the plush carpet—for looking and warming and resting knees.
Their feet pad to the wall, muscle memory overtaking any will. Their fingers grasp thick curtain.
They draw it open, bright sunlight beaming through glass and cutting the room in two, Hizashi standing right over the line. It's been… how long has it been?
Hizashi tries to think about the last time they stood under the sun. Their search through memory is interrupted by a harsh cry, and Hizashi is too slow to turn to see why their Witch is yelling their name. They're tackled away, the curtain pulled close.
Their Witch is up and going, a little more frantic than Hizashi expected. They're pushed on the bed when their Witch comes back, bottled red Healing opened one handed.
It's confusing. Hizashi has been in this situation before, on their back with their Witch standing over them, and a buried-away part of themself wilts when time passes by and what is anticipated doesn't happen.
Healing is tipped over their arms and chest, soaking through clothes and sinking into skin, settling into their bones with a warm buzz. Their Witch sighs, shaky, and drops his head on Hizashi's. He whispers something admonishing, but Hizashi can't listen, not when charcoal and milk eyes stare into their very being to unravel the mesh of their soul, mesmerizing and deep and so, so—
Their Witch makes a choked noise when he looks down. Hizashi tries to get his attention back up, wants to see the Universe reflected into his gaze again, but instead, their Witch holds them, grip tightening for a second, before he pulls away. He pushes their hair away from their face and presses dry lips on their forehead with a low chuckle, a little wetter than it should be. He says something, a series of noises that are meant to be teasing and leave Hizashi flustered, but are too shaky to hold true.
The room is brighter from opened windows, aerated where glass has been taken out. Hizashi is on the sofa when a Witch—not Hizashi's Witch despite the similarities—walks in. The shorter Witch freezes when they see Hizashi.
They make noises, confused and upset, and Hizashi knows they know them from the time before.
Hizashi's Witch comes in to greet them and take the creatures Hizashi had passed over in favour for the shorter Witch, and they remember now, memories clicking into place when the black-feline-predator slinks to Hizashi, sniffs their legs before it rubs its body on Hizashi's pants. They prance to the previously empty bed in the corner, taking their place.
Their Witch holds their hands out and puts a colourful-flying-loud in their palms. It chatters, lilting noises that should have meaning, but don't in its voice. Hizashi instinctually moves them to their shoulder, so they can stand near their face. It tugs on their ear lightly, repeating words Hizashi used to tell it, mirrored back at them.
They go to feed it a seed—they always have handfuls on them—but their hands close on nothing and their thought is quickly swept away.
Everything had been going well—Hizashi progresses at a turtle's pace, but they do progress. They should have known.
They don't know why it happens, can't even explain the sudden lunge at their Witch's arm. It's an automatic reaction to the particular way he waved it, resembling prey flailing, or maybe it's the hunger mistaken for Hunger, but their body remembers how to act when Food is placed in front of it. Its clawing-tearing-holding digs into flesh, its eating-biting goes to clamp down around thick muscle when a hard push against its chest sends it falling on the floor.
It stuns them out of it, numb horror stealing their breaths.
Their Witch stares at them, on his guard, something falling from his face only for devastation to take its place. When it's obvious they won't move, can't move, the Witch rubs his eyes. Leads them to a room to sleep, away from the Witch.
They need to say something, but the word gets caught in their throat, the apology fizzles out, and they're left alone for the night to stare at redstone lamps.
The Witch is more wary the next day, keeps Hizashi at a constant arm's distance. It's lonely. It's so lonely.
Even when Hizashi groans and stretches their clawing-caressing toward their Witch, he only thins his shouting-talking-kissing and goes back to stirring, cauldron acting as a barrier between Hizashi and their Witch.
Hizashi doesn't move to pick up the spoon or the bowl when it's placed in front of them. They aren't hungry, nor are they Hungry, and the Witch hasn't spoken those warm-fond-endeared sounds since Hizashi mistook the Witch for Food.
The Witch calls for them, pushes the stew closer.
Hizashi wants the Witch to hold their petting-holding-braiding together, but they don't want to act on what they previously thought were disappeared impulses again. They pick the spoon and bring the food-but-not-Food to their eating-biting-tearing. Their seeing-crying burn. They close them to will the tears away.
When they open their eyes, they're sitting on the soft sofa, holding emeralds.
The Witch puts another plate onto the sound-making machine when the previous lilting sounds fades. He turns his head, face-lines worried.
He's making noises. Hizashi knows he's speaking to him because their appellation-sound is peppered in between other words. If they concentrated, they could understand the gist of it, perhaps, but the dancing-singing-noises are starting, and Hizashi…
Hizashi recognizes this, can almost anticipate the next sound, and the next after. Their shoulders are too light.
The sofa dips next to them. The Witch is not pressed close, but he is looking at them, his soft noises underlining the disc's.
The Witch's voice grows when Hizashi stands. They ignore the worried questions, focusing all their efforts on coordinating their arms-hands-fingers to grab the Witch's moving hands. He startles upright, about to step back, but Hizashi places them on top of their shoulders.
And just as suddenly as they were taken by the impulse, Hizashi does not remember what they are doing. The Witch stays still even when they groan, confused and frustrated by the fading feeling scurrying away and burying itself, hidden until an unpredictable smell-or-sight-or-sound-or taste-or-touch sparks it awake.
Their Witch moves away, leaves them in their disorientation. The disc is almost done, Hizashi knows it in their guts. When it finishes, Hizashi will forget about this, and for some reason, that makes them want to cry and—
Hizashi's hands are lifted up to rest on their Witch's hips. The music has been set back to the beginning, and then, Hizashi is moved, led around the room by their Witch. They stumble on the first steps before their legs take over, carrying them in circles with twirling and swaying moves, their parrot—who is colourful and talkative and endearing—is bobbing up and down on its perch.
For a moment, when Hizashi gaze into their Witch's eyes, they remember who they are.
The smaller Witch is here. Small Witch and Hizashi's Witch are huddled around a potion stand, speaking and writing and mixing powders and liquids and organs together when Strangers-Hizashi-knows barge into the house. It takes Hizashi a moment to realize they're there, their entrance too unexpected and fast for Hizashi mind to catch up.
One is dressed completely in iron apart for their boots—that are covered in Mending and Depth Strider and Frost Walker and Soul Speed and—and the other is in netherite—mined with sweat and tears and exploding beds and—
The Strangers-Hizashi-knows talk fast, with harried breaths and angry frowns. Hizashi's Witch tenses as they go on about—
Everything around Hizashi is streaked into lines of blotted colours. Hizashi looks behind him to find the smaller Witch huddled with him in the iron cart, their hair wiping through the wind. They yell something over the thundering of the tracks—that were welded by one of the Strangers, placed through mined tunnels by Hizashi's hands—and are holding the Witch's cat and Hizashi's parrot in their arms. There's a sword laying on the cart floor and a shield strapped to the smaller Witch's back. Hizashi goes for his bow and his hands come back empty, and—
The Witch is back, robes smouldering and fingers covered in soot and he's holding Hizashi and the smaller Witch, relieved and tired and smelling of gunpowder and—
The stairs are different. They're longer in height, shorter in length, and the back wall is a shade lighter of green. The floor is carpeted.
It throws Hizashi off for a while. He keeps waking up and forgetting about the changes until he sees the renovations done to their house.
He's better about it now. Hizashi's Witch warns him about the new carpet and back wall and stairs every morning before they walk out of their bedroom.
He's next to his Witch, tending to flower pots brought back inside for Hizashi's sake. He often forgets what he's doing, gets distressed by it because he's grown to be aware of the gaps in his mind, but the blooming flowers and the caws of his parrot and the steady voice of his Witch grounds him.
Hizashi startles when the danger-dark-sky comes down suddenly. It pours without warning, starts beating the windows and rattling glass, begging to be let in.
It makes Hizashi uneasy. He backs away from his clay pots and wooden planters.
His Witch makes a questioning noise, but before he can answer it, the world is illuminated by white, flashing the inside of Hizashi's lids.
He's being circled by things, stuck in place by ill-intentioned cobwebs that tie his feet together. A high-pitched whine, terrified and animal, gains in volume.
The Witch pulls him up, whispers words Hizashi tries to hang onto. His head is tucked into a shoulder, and a hand strokes the back of his head. Safe, safe, safe, repeated to convince him.
He goes bone limp into arms that have never failed him. The hug is exactly like the stew he's been fed, warm and safe, a heated blanket by a fireplace and bubbling incantations.
The world is set alight a second time.
A word, Hizashi's saving grace, forms in his throat, pushes pass through mind-made barriers with the same perseverance as a wolf gnawing at its trapped leg, barrels against his clenched teeth to tumble out into the open, finally free of its confines. "Shou...ta…"
He's held tighter. The world shakes from warnings rumbling seconds too late as the sky continues to fall down. Decomposing hands clamp on his forearms.
"Shouta," he calls—called—for his Witch who never strays far and always comes for him. His voice wavers under the thunder and putrefaction. "Shouta, help me!"
Lighting splits the sky in half. The words get lost in the rain. His bow is broken at his feet, turned into sticks by raucous laughter and vicious hands.
He claws and spits at the horde, not even a torch left for him to ward them off. He pushes through uncoordinated bodies, breathing corpses that try to slow him. "Shouta!"
A hand he knows better than his own covers his neck, right before the pulling and twisting horde sinks hard teeth under Shouta's palm and yellowing nails bring him down. Pain erupts from his wound, blood gushes down his shirt, Shouta the only reason he doesn't bleed out, Shouta who covers him with his body, Shouta who murmurs reassurances into his ear.
Hizashi's ragged breaths almost cover the undead's growls. They blot away into green smears when tears wet his cheeks and stain Shouta's cloak. "Shouta…"
"I'm so sorry," is said in response, words quick and mashed together like they were repeated too often. "You're safe now. Come back."
Hizashi's lungs strain to keep up. He silently begs Shouta to not let go. "Hizashi, you're home. You're okay."
The undead stare at him from shadowy corners, stalk his movements. They're laying in wait, they're going to attack as soon as Hizashi lets his guard down.
He's dragged to his feet—that are for running away, for caving skulls in, for carrying him far, far away—and lugged across the room, Shouta not dropping him for even a second to flick redstone lights on until shadows retreat under furniture. A music disc is put on to cover the thunder and the groans. Shouta brings him to the armour stand and dresses him up, ties his chest plate and laces his boots for him.
He's brought to bed, clanking and cladded in netherite and Protection V. The curtains hide the outside from view, and then Shouta settles next to him, pulls the covers over him, tucking the ends. It brings a childish sense of safety, back when creaks under his bed haunted his nights.
Hizashi blinks the time away. It doesn't feel long—a little less than forever—before morning comes.
"Hizashi?" His Witch's voice—Shouta's voice—is steady, but holds an undercurrent of apprehension. "Hizashi, are you there?"
The Thing and Hizashi turn its-their-his head in tandem. Emerald earrings adorn his Food-Hand-Visitor-Witch when he cards his fingers through the other's black hair. Hope lights the face in front of the-Thing-Hizashi.
Its-their-his voice—for shouting and talking and singing—comes out breathless. "I'm here."
