[It’s hard to figure out when it started exactly. With the rush of arrival, and Hayato desperately trying to get his footing in this strange world, it’s no surprise that something of the place’s nature found it’s way under his skin before he can catch it. After all, what reference does he have for the horrors this place likes to throw at you?]
[He’s used to dealing with miserable, bleak circumstances. He’s trudged his way through living hell after living hell. That didn’t mean he had a clue how to handle just how deep this place could sink it’s claws into a person.]
[Hayato hadn’t felt pain in fifteen years. Hayato hadn’t felt much of anything in all that time, and thus had to live with an unfeeling, artificial body while navigating the world, pretending to be human on one side, while fighting an endless war on the other. He was not prepared for this place to hand him back the things he lost, while making it its own unique hell. He did not know how to cope with the fact that having these things back would be worse than the existence he’s forced himself to accept after all these years.]
[And yet, he made himself carry on. He had not choice but to endure, as he always did. He did not have his partner to rely or confide in. He was alone here as far as he could tell, and he could not afford to falter, to fall apart.]
[It worked for a little while. He even tried to revel in it, this novel concept called pain. Eventually it became too much for him and he caved to the impulse that haunted him for days now. He stops at the edge of a street, in a district he’s unfamiliar with, and presses his fingers into the skin on his left arm until blood wells up and the skin splits apart. With a muffled scream, he digs deeper, deeper until-]
Break [Closed] cw: self injury, fingernails
[He’s used to dealing with miserable, bleak circumstances. He’s trudged his way through living hell after living hell. That didn’t mean he had a clue how to handle just how deep this place could sink it’s claws into a person.]
[Hayato hadn’t felt pain in fifteen years. Hayato hadn’t felt much of anything in all that time, and thus had to live with an unfeeling, artificial body while navigating the world, pretending to be human on one side, while fighting an endless war on the other. He was not prepared for this place to hand him back the things he lost, while making it its own unique hell. He did not know how to cope with the fact that having these things back would be worse than the existence he’s forced himself to accept after all these years.]
[And yet, he made himself carry on. He had not choice but to endure, as he always did. He did not have his partner to rely or confide in. He was alone here as far as he could tell, and he could not afford to falter, to fall apart.]
[It worked for a little while. He even tried to revel in it, this novel concept called pain. Eventually it became too much for him and he caved to the impulse that haunted him for days now. He stops at the edge of a street, in a district he’s unfamiliar with, and presses his fingers into the skin on his left arm until blood wells up and the skin splits apart. With a muffled scream, he digs deeper, deeper until-]