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There's some part of him that loathes the noise.
He didn't think he would, but being back in the Archives, being back outside, with sound and heat and skin that feels like normal human skin, it does get a bit too much at times.
He doesn't miss the basement, doesn't miss Nikola and her prodding and rubbing and weird constantly bordering on shrill voice, but there's something to be said about consistency.
He hates looking at himself in the mirror, where he can see his skin almost glow in the dim bathroom mirror, because yes, despite all of his fighting and pushing, he does look better. His skin is softer. It keeps him up — the thought of change.
He used to be younger, a given, used to be more tired, a given, used to have drier skin- cracked along his elbows and his knees and his knuckles. The cold would split his hands open like it was nothing. His skin used to be a little scratchy, used to get caught on his jeans and slacks and the cheep worn leather of his loafers.
He finds himself touching his hands, touching his neck and his face. It's different.
It's different, and it bothers him.
It feels more permanent than all the other scars, even if he knows it isn't.
All he has to do is leave it alone, and it'll turn dry again.
The change feels irreconcilable though.
He has a bruise on his ribs that Breakon (or Hope) left some time before Michael (or Helen) saved him. It heals slowly, dark blues and purples turning into blotchy yellows, and when he presses his soft fingers down on it, it doesn't hurt anymore.
Repairable.
He's fixable.
Breakable, rather. Capable of being worn down to the state he used to be in.
His head spins, and he feels uncertain- confused- at the wideness of the spaces he's allowed to inhabit now.
The basement was cold, filled to the brim with bodies, real and wax, and he found himself yearning for The Lightless Flame to show him the difference definitively. Even his burn scar doesn't look as bad as it used to. He didn't wear it as a badge of honor, more as a reminder of his mistakes, but he wants it back regardless.
He wants his month back.
When he sleeps, he's back in the basement, staring at Nikola spin and twirl and pirouette in front of him, humming something that he can never remember when he wakes up. A smug smile on her face that sears itself into his brain for hours after waking even if she doesn't have a mouth to smile with.
She looks so happy, sometimes taking leaps around him and all he can do is sit on the cold cement and listen to plastic on concrete.
Dreadful sound, really.
He finds a new loathing in Elias' uselessness and a new worry in Tim's carelessness.
He debates telling him, what it was like. What She was like. Especially after hearing about his brother.
Nikola stole Tim's brother just like she stole his time.
And still, she is not done taking from him.
His dreams, his moments in front of a mirror, his soft, pliant, glowing skin.
His hatred.
He's sure she takes all of it with nothing but joy unparalleled, and he has no one but himself to blame.