The Host heard him come in, heard the steady whir of his core and heard footsteps grow closer until they came to a stop just behind his chair.
He didn’t offer any indication that he knew Blue was there. He had work to do. Important work that was far beyond even an android’s understanding.
“Host.” A hand on his shoulder, firm and insistent.
Still, he didn’t respond.
“Host, it is time to stop. You require nourishment and hydration.” Blue continued, and the Host found himself being pulled back, away from his work.
Blue spun the Host’s chair around. “It has been seventy-two hours, fifteen minutes, and thirty-six seconds since you last ate.”
“The Host is fine.” The Host’s voice was thin and papery, worn out from hours and hours of constant use.
Blue gave a heavy sigh and leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the Host’s bandages. “It is time to stop now.”
“Blue won’t leave, will he?”
The android shook his head. “No.”
“Fine. The Host surrenders.” Blue stepped back so the Host could heave himself from his chair, reaching out to steady him when he stumbled and almost fell, blood trickling out from under his bandages as pain danced just behind where his eyes should be.
Maybe he should rest and eat, the Host considered, as Blue lead him from the library. Maybe he could work later.
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.”
The room was dark, lit only by a dim, flickering glow. The air hung heavy with the stench of oil and grease.
Above the static fizz of sparking circuitry came the clang of metal hitting metal.
Another clang, and this time there was a harsh snap and a high-pitched trill, sounding similar to that of a child’s giggle.
“Oh,” the Host lowered his bat, a cruel smirk pulling at his lips. He leaned down so he was eye to “eye” with the figure he had tied to a chair. “Is someone ticklish?”
“Yo-OO-our swing is off.” Blue’s voice was high-pitched and wavering. His mouth curled into a sneer as the Host reached up to gently trace the synthetic skin of his jaw where the bat had struck. He watched as his lips moved as he narrated to himself the cracks that spider-webbed down Blue’s throat, the blue drops of lubricant that stained his synthetic skin.
Blue didn’t cringe away when the Host dipped his head to press a feather-light kiss there.
“Is it?” The Host’s voice was barely even a whisper.
“Addd-djJ-ust by three point ttt-TThrree percent.” Was it his overheated frame, or did a shiver run through him at the Host’s almost-tender touch?
The Host nodded, straightened, adjusted his grip on his bat. Blue tracked his every move with an indecipherable expression. Was it his malfunctioning optic units, or was the way the Host’s body curved under his trenchcoat sharper, more defined?
Was it his glitching systems or did he detect an elevation in the Host’s heart rate as he raised his bat?
“Gee-EEt on with it,” he snarled, his eyes flickering from blue to red and back again.
The Host smiled- and in the feeble white light of Blue’s stuttering core he looked truly wicked- and brought the bat down.
emptynarration 