My Savior isn't a People Person [Noiz × Aoba]

20 - Shut In

[🚨🚧 : Depression, self harm]

Silence. Silence filled the apartment as Aoba left for work, Noiz stayed in bed; his eyes staring at the one window they had in that room whilst he laid on his side, holding Ren close to his chest. He was on the verge of simultaneously crying and getting so angry that he thought about trashing the entire apartment.

He didn't understand his emotions, he didn't understand why he was starting to regret everything from the past half a year. He breathed in deeply and slowly say up, looking around the empty room; just the way he liked it. What he was used to and grew to enjoy.

He acted as if all of his memories of a certain blue haired, golden eyed man didn't exist—like those memories washed away over night. He stood up and set the stuffed Spitz down on the bed then headed towards the kitchen so he could make himself a cup of coffee. Running on auto pilot, just like before. Before him. Who? Him who? He thought to himself, almost forcing himself to act like he didn't know the man he had harshly fell in love with.

Wilhem looked at the coffee maker after it beeped to alert him his bitter drink was ready, taking it back to bed and getting under the covers. His brain—and especially his heart—felt like a void. A dark, dirty and very dangerous place that could kill him if he allowed it too.  He felt lifeless, like what he had been doing for the last few months of his life meant nothing to him.

As if they were only a dream, a very pleasant—welcomed—dream. Something that could never happen. He started to tell himself that he didn't deserve the happiness he experienced; that the joy he felt was just fake. That he wasn't worthy of Aoba's attention and time.

He let those thoughts consume him, feeling as if two giant hands came up behind him and pulled him into the depths of his mind that he never wished to return to. It was cold, lonely; dark. He couldn't see or hear anything. The only sense he had was touch, the coldness of what felt like a floor and shackles. Shackles made of iron that felt like they were welded to his skin; they were tight, freezing, digging into his skin. Though they were cold they felt like they were burning him.

It burned, felt like the iron was on fire; eating away at each layer of skin slowly—the heat was unbearable. It felt...itchy, must scratch. And that's what the blonde did. He started to scratch where he felt the burning sensation. As soon as he started to drag his nails across the burning skin; the sensation spread.

He dug his nails into his wrist, pushing and pulling with great speed; the tingling wouldn't stop it only grew greater. Itchy, itchy, itchy, stop, why won't it stop?  He thought to himself whilst he "aided" in the process of stopping the burning sensation in his ankles and wrists. Before he knew it he was bleeding; multiple layers of skin under his nails.

He couldn't feel the pain—the exposed, bleeding skin that he kept irritating. That he kept digging at, that he was destroying. He couldn't even see it, the crimson that dripped from his carpus and talus; the muscle that he was starting to reveal—the muscle he couldn't feel any pain in.

How long had he been going for? How long had he been using his nails to destroy his unfeeling limbs? He didn't know. He just wanted to tingling to stop. He wanted it all to stop.

Noiz was brought back to the real world whenever he heard honking outside the apartment building from nearby traffic. He looked down to the damage he had done; knowing that he had been scratching—but not the extent that it went.

He looked at all the blood, the muscle that seemed to be twitching. The red, irritated skin surrounding his work. He breathed out deeply then slowly stood up from the bed and stripped it of it's sheets, taking them to the laundry room; removing the clothes from his body and tossing them in the machine with the dirtied and ruined sheets.

After he started the washer he went into the bathroom and turned the shower on; wanting to clean and patch himself up before he laid back down and got some rest. He quickly cleaned himself up and wrapped his injuries; being happy that he couldn't feel the self inflicted pain.

Sadly this became a routine for him, sleeping all day; staying awake all night—that time awake was filled with scratching whatever burned on his body. Before he knew it, he and Aoba grew very distant. He couldn't look at himself in the mirror, he limited his talking, he ate very little and barely left the bedroom. He liked it this way, and he didn't want it to change. Ever.