Running on Empty

The marks of a muzzle Pt 1: Memories

The muzzle was on tight, tighter than usual; he could feel it slicing through his skin every time he moved his face. His blood was pooling in the mask, making him feel like he was drowning, as if it wasn't hard enough to breathe in the thing anyway.

It was digging in at the back of his head too, right when the hair had been pulled out when the lock twisted and he was sure to have a little bald spot when he was finally freed.

If he was finally freed.

He tried to open his eyes to take in his surroundings, get more of a sense for the situation. Who was he even living with at the moment? He couldn't remember. And for some reason his eyes wouldn't open, they weighed heavy on his face, dragging him down into the depths and now he was falling, hurtling to the ground like he'd been so intent upon doing before. He couldn't remember why he didn't.

The muzzle was getting smaller, he could feel it getting tighter as the blood continued to gush from the wounds. He tried desperately to pull it off but it just got even worse. The pressure was giving him a headache, he hadn't been able to take a proper breath for what felt like an eternity and he was still falling.

And then he hit the ground, but what he felt wasn't concrete, it was the cool surface of his foster parents' house and someone was kicking him, hitting his head against the wall and shoving the sharp edges of the mask further into his skin.

He tried to scream but opening his mouth even the slightest was agony.

There were hands on his shoulders now, shaking him, and he fought desperately to push them off but he could barely move his hands anymore, he felt fabric around them and knew he'd been tied down somewhere, to keep him out of the way or stop him from protecting himself he couldn't tell.

There was a voice, tying to speak to him, he thought he could hear his name. That was never good, they hated admitting he had a name, it made him seem too human. He must have really fucked something up.

He couldn't focus on the voice right now because behind that, growing steadily louder was the snip, snip, snip of scissors and he froze, desperately trying to suck in air and choking on his own blood. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't see. Was this it? Was this what dying felt like?

There was an ache in his chest at the thought, but that was strange. He'd never been particularly bothered by the thought of dying before, he'd even wanted to at some point, some point recently, so what was this feeling?

Snip, snip, snip... it was getting louder, and the muzzle was still getting tighter, and his chest ached and his head was pounding and—

Hitoshi woke with a start, gasping for air as he looked around frantically. Where the hell was he?

There was a man there, he looked terrified and he was crying. He was holding an empty bucket.

Hitoshi looked down at himself, he was shaking, or shivering he realised. Probably both. More importantly he was uninjured, but absolutely drenched.

"I'm sorry," the voice he'd heard calling his name spoke again. "I couldn't wake you up, I didn't know what else to do."

Hitoshi didn't respond, he was too busy trying to get as much oxygen as he could. When he reached his hands up to his face he almost cried at the skin he touched, instead of the cool metal of his muzzle.

It was wet though, and it hurt to touch. He must have been wearing one recently, although these cuts were vertical, and the ones the muzzle gave him were normally along his cheekbones and jawline. When he pulled his hands away he saw the blood under his fingernails and connected the dots.

"Hitoshi," the voice spoke again, closer than before, and Hitoshi watched as the man carefully sat on the edge of the bed. He thought he saw a flash of hurt when he shifted away. "Do you know where you are?"

He frowned, looking around the room. It was... familiar? There were drawings on the wall beside him, his drawings. And two plushies kicked to the foot of his bed. A cat hopped up beside them — Luna, although how he knew her name escaped him.

He looked back at the man, worried green eyes meeting his. He shook his head.

"You're in the apartment," he supplied. "Mine and Shouta's apartment. I'm Hizashi, remember? We're looking after you 'Toshi."

Something about the nickname triggered his memory and it all came rushing back. Eraserhead found him, they were looking after him, he was safe here.

His eyes welled up with tears and Hizashi cautiously raised his arms in invitation. Hitoshi fell into them with silent sobs and they sat like that for a long, long time. The hero stroking his hair and rocking them back and forth.

Hitoshi felt the man kiss his head and wondered how he could ever have forgotten.

Hizashi picked him up and moved them round so that he was sat at the head of the bed and Hitoshi was in his lap, still curled up in his embrace.

"Do you wanna talk about it kiddo?" He whispered, and Hitoshi thought about it, deciding that he would try at least. He always pushed things like this away and ignored them, but Hizashi was so kind and gentle, and he really wanted to let the guy in, so he decided to try. If it became too much he'd stop.

He nodded and moved his head to lay against the hero's chest, instead of burying it in his shoulder.

He swallowed and opened his mouth to speak... but no words came out.