Hands register just as distantly as voices, faces, names. Heās expected to walk, so he does, feels the occasional tug of his steps trodding over his own hair. Only the chill of wood and marble flooring is of much consequence, the world flashes of warm and cool hues between matted strands that heād rather not part. If theyāre not taking him to Wukong, then he doesnāt really care where he goes.
At least, he doesnāt think he cares. Sound in inquisitive murmurs drones around one ear and then the other, careful prodding of arm and shoulder. Distantly he recognizes the warmth of touch, but it remains as nothing until it reaches upward. Light scraping peels the silicone free, unsticks his lashes. The distinct crackling ripping hissing of scissors and glare of lights on his closed lids drags his senses up and out of him like purged sick. Actually opening his eyes only skews the sounds he makes worse.
Much more sound than coughs hadnāt been made since his liberation. The frightened shrieks and growls hurt worse than heād ever expect after nearly drowning. They leave him alone, though, hacked mane oozing back down in a blanket with every pitched gasp echoing from the corner of the darkened bathroom. Palms pressed to desperately shut lids like leaking wounds, no amount of cold or hunger can unfurl him or unstick him from the tile.
Time isnāt something heās measured since ever. Age or days, neither come to him, only the immediate sensations of his own awareness. Pain, exhaustion, paranoia, confusion. Slack limbs snap to tension, the room as dark as itād always been ā as long as heās been there, always? ā eye puffy and blurry and something like his thoughts swimming. He must have fallen asleep, and thereās a smell. When he finally moves minutes, hours, days later, his hands find a full plate atop the sink counter.
Food comes again while he sleeps. Then again. It makes his skin crawl, but the dark is safe. He keeps his ears open the next time, anyways. This time, at least, he can see the silhouette cautiously moving from and to the doorway. They both stare like frozen deer when he finally decides to look up fully.
They cut his hair again. It makes his eyes hurt, but the light isnāt so sharp. He growls, but they let him go where he wants. They donāt touch him again for at least six more meals.
He doesnāt know why they want to clear his hair away so much, but the activity is slowly dulling in novelty, and it doesnāt come bursting from his crown as much after theyāre done. He moves a little more freely about the room, doesnāt feel his pulse quite so sharply anymore. There isnāt really much pain. His new cage seems a little better than the last.
Thereās someone that smiles, greets him with an outstretched hand that he doesnāt know what to do with. Actually speaks words that he can understand. Nothing heād ever want to reply to, not the one person in the world heād actually want to talk to. The man doesnāt seem to mind, though.
Light becomes bearable, slowly but surely, until he can actually stand the bulb that glares down from above. He hasnāt been in enough real bathrooms to find a missing mirror strange. That itās like home is only problematic in that, when he finally leaves, he shivers all the more for the difference of warmth that almost makes his skin prickle in contrast to cold tile.
No lock installed, but he hunkers like any creature to its nest. That much more comfortable with carpet and sheets, and that much more uncomfortable because of them. Nothing like metal and hay, no dry rustle, no harsh impenetrable surface. His claws rake right through the mattress in a way that makes his stomach turn. Itās too unfamiliar here.
Having others within his space is just as bad, but that, like sight, slowly creep into him as well. Furniture swapped, taken and changed because heās yet to allow them to use anything more than scissors. When his claws are finally clipped he nearly bites through several helpers. How is it that none of these tools hurt?
It doesnāt hurt to let them cut his hair, so he sits still and watches. It doesnāt hurt to spit into vials, either. What other use has he, anyways? What better things to do?
Learning how to sit āproperlyā, to walk āproperlyā, to look āproperlyā. Is this their idea of training? The word ālessonsā had nearly sent him into a frenzy, but hours long coaxing drew him down for something almost laughable if he hadnāt slipped back into listlessness. So he doesnāt want a pet that acts like an animal, then. Whatever.
Beyond physical reflex thereās absolutely no hope of him ever paying any attention to text. The teacher learns that after a painfully long month and a half. The man says itāll make him more āsympatheticā anyways.
Even though he never responds, the man seems strangely keen on talking to him. Hyuk supposes it makes alright white noise. His voice isnāt particularly annoying, but thereās so many things he says that fly completely over his head. He canāt actually expect him to even know what a pyramid scheme is, can he?
Heās not sure where the man learned his real name, but he says it an awful lot during phone calls. Those conversations of his almost sound like doctor reports, confirmations and denials of his physical and perceived mental state. Maybe heās looking to sell him off again.
The man seems pretty pleased with his own creative ways of ripping people off. Wukong wouldāve punched his face in. Hyuk doesnāt much care beyond the fact that his selfish glee is a bit too disgusting.
With the poor quality and previous overuse, having his third eye covered is almost a relief. Eventually, at least. When he stops shredding the gauze out of discomfort, humbling under sharp command. The tools hadnāt been painful, but the edge to the manās voice suggests they could be.
Being presented isnāt something heās alien to. It just feels weird in crisp clothes with the absence of steel bars.
Thereās something different in the eyes of the people that look at him here. Hyuk doesnāt know what it is. He hears coos, sighs, whines, something like sadness when his caretaker lies about his āillnessā. He seems really, really pleased with himself.
No more than a fly on the wall, unlike the circus heās a passable novelty here. The others find the man far more interesting. Itās probably because theyāre all just like him. Greedy. Disgusting. Conversations dwindle to nothing when he finally rasps out that he wants to leave the gathering. The man looks gobsmacked. There isnāt anything he has left to say when the ear thatād listened so silently finds the breath to speak.
It isnāt often these days that others are afraid of Hyuk. Even now the man still holds power, but thereās something in his expression when he passes Hyuk in the halls or comes to get him groomed or taught that tells him that he has power, too. Unclear is the nature of fortune that heād rather sit and watch.
No one hurts him here. Maybe thatās why heās started to think about Wukong less. Maybe thatās why heās started to remember how angry heād been before. Why heās starting to actually feel it again deep beneath his skin.
There isnāt any kind of way he can mask the way he feels when hands move to change his bandages and lips quirk in a playfully uttered āMedusaā. Some condescending remark about his sight, no more harmful than a pinch or a slap on the back. Hyuk tries to remove a limb for every syllable of that fucking name.
