Summary: Wilford finds Dark in a position he wished he hadn’t. Enjoy~
None of the egos had seen Dark for over ten hours. This was bad. Over the last month Dark had relapsed four times; two of those happening in the same week. What concerned Wilford most was the last two times he’d relapsed he’d been so… confident, in who he was. He’d really believed he was Damien, or Celine. His absence was causing intense anxiety to ripple through Wilford’s body, as he combed through the house trying to find him.
Finally, he found Dark. He was standing in the middle of an office, eyes grey as the usual haze that covered him when like this was thickened. His body twitched in place, aura gone as well as his ringing. Wilford dashed across the room to him and held him by his shoulders. “Dark!”
He shook his grey toned partner, eyes frantic and wide. Dark was unresponsive, his body numbly going along with the shakes.
Wilford shook him a little harder. “Dark come on. Come back to me, please. It’s me! It’s Wilford, please!”
“I don’t… I’m not…” Dark’s head slowly tilted up towards Wilford. “I don’t know who I am.”
“Your name is Dark. My friend, my love my Dark.” Wilford says. “You’re a strong man, immovable, cunning… Dark please… you’re the head of the egos. We have a daughter, Yandere. She adores you, wants to be just like her dad.” Wilford rambled with manic hope, just knowing something will snap Dark back. It will. He knows it.
Dark blinked, long and slow. Wilford saw the struggle in his eyes, as he tried to rationalize and come to terms with who he is. “I… am… not who you say.” He whispered, voice haggard.
“No, no Dark don’t you say that please.” Wilford whimpered. “Dark, come back to me. It’s Wilford, it’s me.”
Dark looked pained and lost. “But… Damien… Celine… I am Damien and Celine…”
“No, no they’re parts of you but not the whole please Dark-”
An hour. They carried on like this for an hour before Wilford broke down into sobs at his feet. Another twenty minutes go by, and he still is in the same state.
So Wilford sniffled, stood up and helped to guide Dark to his bedroom. “You’ve been standing awhile. You should rest.” He whispered.
“Rest….” Dark repeated, voice distant.
Wilford helped him change into soft pajamas and tucked him into bed. He was like a zombie, doing everything he was prompted to do. Once he was all tucked in, he kissed his head. “Goodnight, Dark, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Dark didn’t respond.
Wil went to his own room and slept fitfully. He woke early, and when he checked in on Dark, he was still the same as before. “Dark honey,” He asked, voice cracking. “Are you hungry?”
“Hunger…” Was his reply.
So Wilford swallowed down and got breakfast for Dark. He fed him, bite by bite. Dark ate lifelessly, chewing and swallowing when prompted.
Another week went by like this, which turned to two which turned to a month. Wilford had formed a good habit of taking care of his beloved, reading meeting notes to him, playing old records and reading novels.
Yan visited her dad sometimes. But he never said much, and the entire situation kind of freaked her out. She doesn’t really stop by often.
Wil tried to reach out to Celine or Damien, wanting someone there, not this empty husk. And his efforts failed. He cried some nights, and others he tried to laugh and smile. He and Google worked together to try and do Dark’s job- balance books, make people happy… It was a hard job and Dark had done it flawlessly…
Wilford cleared his throat as he sat beside Dark one day. “Dark…”
The man tilted his head up slightly. He recognized that word as his name now, the way a dog learns its own name. Repeated use.
“Are you… hurting, Dark?” Wilford asked softly.
Dark thought. He struggled as he tried to find thr word that best fit the situation. “No.”
Wilford let out a sigh of relief and kissed his hands. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
Dark watched him as his hands were kissed, eyes void. He hadn’t lied, he really wasn’t hurting.
It’s to feel pain, when you can’t feel anything at all.
Dark couldn’t tear his eyes away from the figure in the mirror, the figure that was both him and not him at the same time.
It was getting worse.
The skin of his chest and stomach were rotting away, revealing old bone and moldering organs that were of no use to him anymore anyway.
When had it started? The answer to that question escaped him, but the decay had spread quickly, eating away at him from the inside out.
Dark scowled, and watched his reflection do the same, watched it ripple and shudder as he did. Curse this broken, ruined body. Curse Mark, for forcing him to inhabit it.
He was jolted from his thoughts when there came a knock at his door.
“Dark? You in there? It’s dinnertime! I’m starved!” Wilford, bubbly and overeager as always.
As quickly as he could, Dark re-fastened the buttons of his suit, hiding away the rot and dust he had become. “I will be along shortly, Wil.”
“Not shortly enough!” The door swung open, and in burst Wilford, just as Dark was finishing up. “Can’t keep me waiting when there’s food to be had, Darkie, you know that.”
“I do.” Dark turned, made his way over, managed to keep a straight face even as every step, every movement, made him want to keel over and let his body crumble to dust and ash. “Worry not. I wasn’t going to let you wait for long.”
“Wonderful!” Wilford grinned, and leaned over to steal a kiss.
Smoke and mirrors. Lights—blinding—swinging back and forth, endless,
unceasing—And somewhere beyond, there were footsteps approaching—the closer,
the quicker. Tinny ringing, cold slithering over his exposed skin—
“Darkiplier,” he hissed, his throat aching around the word.
“Host? What’s happening to you?” Dark’s tone indicated that he might
already have a suspicion, but he still clearly expected an answer. His
narrations were sometimes a coping mechanism; coaxing the Host into speaking
might stabilize him, he thought.
It didn’t. “The—The H-Host is—” Biting back the welling urge to cry out,
the narrator rocked forward against his knees, a quivering wheeze escaping. “He
Sees—his nightmares—a-and he cannot stop them! He—”
At that, Dark’s hand moved from his knee to his ankle, joined by the
other on the opposite side, pulling his legs straight. The older Ego leaned
over them, clasping his shoulders. The pressure of his fingertips was a
different kind of pain, distracting, grounding. He needed it. Unable to contain
himself anymore, the Host threw himself into the touch, scrabbling to bury his
fingers in Dark’s clothing.
“Does Darkiplier sense it?” he gasped, pressing his temple flat against
the demon’s. “Does he hear them?”
Dark had gone rigid, taken aback by his desperation. After a long,
cloying moment, he moved one of his arms, wrapping it around the back of the Host’s
neck, squeezing hard against the strain. “…Yes,” he growled, willing his voice
not to shake at the strength of the sensation. “I hear them.”
“Host, I’d like an
explanation for what happened in our meeting,” Dark stated, doing his best to
keep his voice even. The Host always responded better to a calm question than
to anger; it would only make him more defensive.
That said, the Host already
seemed stiff and unsteady, unsure of where he wanted to stand. Dark’s eyes
tracked him without too much effort as he paced back and forth, but after
almost a full minute the movement became bothersome and he stepped forward,
grasping his arm to still him.
“You lost focus. You
retreated into yourself,” Dark reminded him, tightening his grip when the Host
pulled minutely against it. “Give me a reason.”
“The Host is restless,” he huffed at last, shrugging
away and pressing his hands briefly against his temples before letting them
fall back to his sides. Tilting his head lower, he pressed his lips tightly
together, inhaling deeply. “He…has not been sleeping well.”
That was something Dark
could sympathize with on a deeper level than the Host knew. Wordlessly he
draped his arm over his friend’s back, guiding him into a delicate hug. He was
in control of it; he knew how far it was meant to go, which was why he
automatically stiffened when the Host slumped into it, pressing his face
against his shoulder. He didn’t shove him away, but he didn’t quite relax
either.
“…Host. Your blood is
soaking into my dress coat.”
emptynarration 