While his spirit had certainly been present in some form that night , comforting Nice , speaking to Hajime , && calling for his brother , Skill himself had been unaware ; the actions largely being something akin to a fever dream , something that he had felt the vaguest images of enter his mind. If anything , it was more like a series of concepts —— Skill’s spirit helping in the physical world while his conscious mind only was aware of the distant feeling of missing his brother. That night , he’d been staying in one of the several temporary abandoned buildings he’d made his home , && sat against the wall , curling into himself , hands grasping at the empty space where his heart should have been , trembling , sweat breaking out all across his face , as he screamed , his face pressed into his knees to muffle the sound. It had hurt like his heart was being removed once again , && he had had no idea why , assuming that it was just phantom pain , or his body finally realizing that he was lacking the most important organ … at that point , he hadn’t reunited with his brother && therefore knew nothing about where his heart was , so he had nothing to go on.
At first he was bewildered as to why seeing him would instill doubt that it was even him in his childhood friend —— of course it was him , why wouldn’t it be ? —— until he remembered that yes , he was technically dead , && Nice had most likely been told about Skill’s supposed death by his brother or by someone else. Skill had known that Art && Nice were still speaking ; Art had often come home to their shared apartment telling him about Nice’s latest escapades , having explained in the beginning of their reunion that telling Nice about Skill’s revival would take some time to plan. After all , Skill’s death had been long enough ago for Nice to have moved past it … though , with the vest he was wearing that had originally belonged to Skill , he wondered if maybe Nice hadn’t moved entirely on.
So … as it seemed , Nice was under the impression that Skill had died && been buried ( he shivered ; he really didn’t ever want to visit his own grave , though he had been trying to work up the courage ever since he suggested it to Art ) , && that that was that. He hadn’t even seen Skill since he’d been taken away for the testing , so certainly the visor && artificial arms && legs must have thrown him off , or were going to , if he hadn’t noticed everything already.
The name felt so familiar on his tongue he almost felt like he was back at Facultas again , standing on the roof , pointing up excitedly at the Landmark Tower. Initially , he’d used the honorific with Nice’s name out of habit ( while still excitable , he’d become much more polite upon greeting people the first two or three times ) , but now that everything was settling in , the “naisu” slipped off his tongue easily , the same as the familiar “nii-san” he couldn’t bring himself to stop calling Art.
What did a person even say after that , though ? People who had been through the things Art , Skill , && Nice had didn’t just pick up where they left off. && while it wasn’t strange for Nice to be alive , considering everything that had happened , seeing Skill alive was a different story entirely.
He felt his right hand come up to the hollow spot in his chest where a beat should have been——— a subconscious act to calm himself , but a telling one , especially with exactly who it was standing in front of him.
Unlike with his brother , he didn’t feel a need to run && throw his arms around Nice. Instead , he almost felt more like he should be shying away ; the beating of his heart under Nice’s skin was inaudible , but he was hyperaware of it , anyway. Instead of being his hyperactive self , he seemed almost to gravitate towards the back wall of the shop , where he didn’t feel so … exposed.
Why ? Why , when Nice was his best friend ?
On that night , you were looking for me , but you found Hajime instead.
Why did you leave me there , Nice ?
Why didn’t either of you look for me … ?
When such horrible things were happening …
It’s like you didn’t even notice I had been stolen away …
He swallowed his ugliness. It seemed he was still disgusting , after all.
❝ … it’s me. i’m not a dream , && i’m not a hallucination. you can … ❞ He took a deep breath , && then stuck out the arm he’d had up by the hollow spot that used to house his heart , the metal flashing as it caught the light , making him all too aware of the artificiality of his body. ❝ … you can touch me to check , if you want. i’m … ❞ Another deep breath. ❝ … i’m sorry i … that i look so … ❞
He didn’t finish , instead looking down && off to the side so he wouldn’t dissolve into tears.
To say that seeing Skill alive was a mere shock was an understatement; it was something that shook him down to his very core, all thought wiped clear from his mind as he struggled to wrap his mind around the concept, to find some sort of understanding to what he was seeing. It had been years since he had seen Skill, and even then, they had been nothing more than children at Facultas. It was moreso the fact that for years, they had believed Skill to be dead ; and yet, he was somehow alive, his heart pounding within Nice’s chest.
It was a fact ( a lie ) he had thought he had made peace with over the years, yet he’d be a liar to deny the guilt that crept up upon him; the knowing that he had ultimately failed to save Skill. It felt as though there was a knife sinking into his chest again, feeling himself choke on the truth before is eyes, undeniably present and real. The vest he wore felt heavy, leaden with the sudden weight it carried -- the same vest that had been Skill’s, that he had intended to return but never had the heart to get rid of, even when it had brought immense grief. Deep down, it had taken years to come to terms with the fact that he hadn’t saved Skill; his grief was a burden he carried, woven into the fabric of the vest. Grief, that, he wore, metaphorically and physically.
How chilling it must be, for Skill to see his own image nearly spat back at him, a living reminder that he was out of place; to see the one who had vowed (failed) to rescue him wearing his vest.
It took time before what he was seeing began to sink in -- the horrifying reality that was the reconstructed artificial parts of Skill’s body. Cold sweat slid down his spine, the gravity of the situation collapsing on top of him all at once, tearing down the façade he had been living under for so long. Grief that he past years ago, buried deep to come to terms with it, began to swell up again in a sickening wave, crawling its way up his chest and into his throat. As Skill’s hand rose to his own chest, there was piercing agony within his own, the organ beating within clenching.
Words were caught in his chest, jaw slacked just slightly as his lips tried to form words, to say anything, yet the silence only thickened. Swallowing with some difficulty, Nice tried to slow down the wild beating within his chest, ignore the knife sinking in between his ribs, old wounds he had carefully healed torn open again. He was aware in the back of his mind, knowing that Skill was just as panicked -- he could see it; the way Skill moved; the shakiness of his voice; how he withdrew into himself, closing himself off.
He blinks as Skill speaks, quiet voice breaking his stupor; the voice reminds him of reality. Skill’s arm extends towards him, light flashing off of metal -- an offering, one given with difficulty, exposing a moment of vulnerability. Nice can hear the waver in Skill’s voice, the faint hitch of breath as he tries to steady himself in between words, already apologising as if this were his fault.
Nice takes a few steps forward, closing the gap; at first, the feeling of metal causes him to instinctively pause as his fingertips touch Skill’s. He tries to remember a time where he might have felt the warmth of a smaller hand within his own when they were younger, clasping his hand back as he drug them off on some adventure. It almost made him bitter, now; there’s another knife stabbing into his chest, guilt, as if this were his own doing. ( it was something he never would have been able to change; Skill had lost parts of himself before he could have known, yet the weight of consequence remained the same. )
“Don’t apologise.” the words somehow make their way out of his throat, somewhat steady -- if anything, he was the one who owed an apology, yet it was too much to think about now. His head was beginning to ache with warning of a headache, which was ignored along with the strain of his throat, forcing his grief down, down, in attempt to bury it deep again. “I know you’re real; you’re still ... Skill.” He tries to ignore the strain of his voice, threatening to break.
Sliding his fingers forward, he tries to fit his own between Skill’s, ignoring the lack of warmth that once might have been there -- regardless of how he looked now, this was still Skill.
He’s struggling to say his next words, keep his grief contained, to apologise as his gaze remains fixated on what he can see of Skill’s face, feeling his gut twisting -- it makes him wonder how long Skill had endured all of this since he had gone missing, since the Facultas staff had discovered his minimum. “I ...” he can heard his voice waver, beginning to crack, yet he tries to ignore the stinging in his eyes, still in too much shock to fully process what was happening, how surreal it all felt.
I’m so sorry for not being able to come back for you, for your suffering -- for everything. I never meant to leave you there.
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
blakekathryn
titsay
romaincrisis
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