Chapter Text
The closest thing that Toby could relate it to was hell.
He couldn’t say it was painful, he had no idea what pain felt like.
But hell? He knew that like he knew the freckles on Brian’s cheeks and the scars on Tim’s hands. He knew that like he knew his sister’s face. He knew that like he knew his own name, the way to the house, the sound of his housemate’s footsteps no matter the shoes they wore.
He knew the pressure, the roughness, the scratching. He knew the slipperiness, the firmness, the shaking. He knew the sound that resonated in his skull with each hit to his head. He knew the tautness when he pulled at his hair. He knew the blood dripping down his nose, slicking his lips. He knew the pulsing in his forehead. He knew the signs. He knew hell.
He knew that he couldn’t control his movements, his tears, the voices. He had no control when he was like this. His body jerking around at its own accord, mind filled with unwanted noise and images, flesh crawling at every touch. He despised it, and it was all he could process.
Did Brian get butter?
Terracotta pie-
Fucking idiot.
Pretty boy! Where did pretty boy go?
Why won’t you listen to us?
Scream, cry, throw up, that’s all you do.
Did the water become flag? About drawer?
Curled up under his desk, the back of his head repeatedly slamming into the wood behind him, hands scratching at his face and pulling at his hair, tears falling from his eyes, blood cascading from his nose and into his mouth, sweat on the back of his neck, seams of his shirt on his skin, sounds that he could hardly call human torn from his throat.
The Eyes were everywhere, staring down at him emotionlessly from every corner and wall and surface. The Man in the Corner stayed where he was, glaring at his shaking form from across the room. The Tapping on his window wouldn’t stop. The Hands on his skin wouldn’t let go.
Mmmm, you should stop crying now, it’s annoying.
You’re bleeding.
Let the boy bleed. He deserves to bleed.
Don’t touch that.
He’s listening.
It’s hot.
Bash your skull in.
Closing his eyes wouldn’t make it go away. Covering his ears wouldn’t make it go away. Covering himself in weighted blankets wouldn’t make it go away. Shredding off his skin wouldn’t make it go away. The only way he could make it stop was if he took out his brain and scrubbed it with steel wool, and even then it would need daily cleansing.
Tim would be mad if he did that.
Tim would be upset about the blood everywhere.
Tim would help him clean up.
Tim would help.
Tim could help.
Tim would hold him close, letting Toby listen to his heartbeat and breathing to make sure he was really real. Tim would bring in that stupid mug with the ridges on it that felt good on his palms. Tim would be fine when his tics made him hit him. Tim would rub his skin to make the Hands go away. Tim would yell at the Voices to shut up. They always listened to Tim.
…
Tim wouldn’t want to help you.
Tim won’t help you.
You’re gross.
You’re diseased.
There’s something wrong with you.
You’re going to make Tim gross and diseased and Wrong.
The Wrong is contagious.
A scream was wrenched from his chest, scratching his throat and burning his lungs. The taste of iron filled his mouth as he bit on his lips and hands, bits of skin sitting on his tongue as they were chewed from their bones. He needed to be quiet. Tim would hear.
Oh god, Brian would hear.
Brian, Brian, Brian.
Pretty boy!
Shush, you can’t wake up Brian.
Brian’s going to be mad.
No, don’t ask for help, you’ll make him Wrong, too.
Don’t spread the Wrong.
Bleach will get rid of the Wrong.
Brian would patch him up and hold his hands so he wouldn’t chew on them and scratch his skin off. Brian would spew out random facts to get his mind off of whatever was going on. Brian would make sure to get rid of the Man in the Corner and make the Eyes go away. Brian would tell the tapping to stop. The Tapping listened to Brian.
He needed the Tapping and the Eyes and the Man in the Corner and the Hands to go away. He needed the Voices to stop yelling at him. He needed his body to stop moving so much. He needed it to stop. He needed it all to stop.
The sound of his door opening made him jump, whipping his head to see what it was.
The Man in the Corner didn’t open doors. He didn’t like opening doors, he said they were there for a reason: to keep things out and there was no reason they should be opened. The Man in the Corner is the only one who would ever cross his mind to open doors. The Hands were all still there, so they didn’t do it. The Eyes couldn’t open doors, they were eyes. The Tapping was still happening, so it wasn’t them. The Voices were all still screaming, so it wasn’t them-
The door opened further, creaking loudly and clawing at Toby’s eardrums. He cried out at the sound, clamping bloodied hands over his ears and wailing as his body thrashed against his will. His eyes scrunched shut, forcing tears from his eyes as he sobbed.
Gross.
Close the door, you’re letting the Wrong out!
Five pounds of butter, ooh baby-
The farmer’s market has fresh zucchini today!
It’s Britney, bitch.
Get rid of the Wrong, peeling off your skin will get rid of the Wrong!
Take responsibility.
Big hands grasped his face, holding his cheeks in their palms like the world depended on it. A voice, not one he could understand, but one he could recognize. It was quiet, just above a whisper, and he knew it was safe. That voice was not one of the Voices. They could never get this voice quite right.
Toby opened his eyes slightly, heaving as he sobbed and gasped for air.
Curly hair.
Freckles.
Tooth gap.
Mustache.
Ponytail.
Sideburns.
Bushy eyebrows.
Big nose.
Black glasses.
Safe.
He was safe.
Or as safe as he could be, considering his current lifestyle.
Tim was holding his face, rough calluses on his hands grounding and familiar. The older man’s eyes were filled with concern, despite the day old cuts on his face from a mission he couldn’t remember. Tim gently pulled Toby into a hug, repressing a jump when his housemate let out a guttural cry. He rubbed his hands along the boy’s bony back, soothing him in one of the few ways he knew worked. He made sure to press the ball of his hand down his spine, along each vertebrae, down his ribs, across each ridge and bump. He was bony, which made it easier to tell where he was pressing, but he always worried about hurting him, even if the kid couldn’t feel it.
Brian let go of Toby’s face, running his hands through knotted hair and brushing away tears. He held Toby’s hands, not caring that the sleeves of his sweater were now stained with blood, just needing him to stop picking and biting at them. It was an awkward position, with one hand holding both of Toby’s and the other carding through the knots and tangles of his hair.
Toby’s sobs were muffled in Tim’s shoulder, snot and tears drenching the fabric of his shirt, but he didn’t care. All of his shirts were bloodstained to some degree, at least he could wash out this. He sighed and kept rubbing down his back, hopefully getting rid of the hands as best he could without guidance as to where exactly they were.
Toby changed his hands and switched to grasping onto Brian’s fingers for the life of him, needing to make sure he was there. He needed to check for the scar that ran across his palm and the way his fingers bent backwards slightly and his bony joints. He knew Tim was Tim because only Tim knew where to press on his back. He knew were to stop and where it was Bad, he knew that below the waist was strictly off limits, he knew that pressing on his sides would make him recoil and flinch for some reason he couldn’t remember, he knew it all.
They were real. They could help.