Chapter Text
Toby had sensory issues, it came free with being under the control of an eldritch horror and what Brian insisted was autism. It was like finding deep fried razor blades in a plate of undercooked chicken tenders: an unexpected and unwanted treat in the middle of one of the most disappointing meals on the planet.
The sensory issues were always multiplied by a billion when he came back from missions. The static that filled his mind when he was under the boss’s control always lingered for a day or two, and the effects of basically being under mind control for an undetermined amount of time stayed for around the same time, as well. There was a thin film of fuzziness left over his vision, as well as the sound that played when you accessed a Tv channel that wasn’t currently on air: static, through and through, clouding every single sense while also making him so much more sensitive to every little stimuli he picked up on.
The faucet dripping. A chair being pushed in. Brian flipping a page in his book. The stairs creaking. The wind howling. A crow outside. The voices. Lights. The seams on his shirt. Texture in food. Eating ice. Tim lighting a cigarette. All of this stimuli that wouldn’t usually bother him too much was suddenly so much harsher, so much worse, and he had only one way that he knew how to deal with it.
Holing up in his room. For hours, if not days, the door to his room would be closed, the lights off, and unresponsive to any interaction. Brian would leave food outside his room or tuck a granola bar under his door, but they were never touched. Tim would sit outside and make sure Toby was aware that he was there to protect him, since he knew that the kid’s hallucinations and delusions were always heightened. They made sure Toby knew he was being watched over in his worst moments, even if they themselves were dealing with the static. The man would come out when he was ready, and they would wait until then.
There was only one time that they had to force themselves into his room.
Toby had arrived back at the cabin covered in blood, like usual. He was sitting on the porch, taking hits from a cigarette he stole from Tim’s many packs lying around the cabin like he commonly did after a mission. The static was still heavy over his mind, the man completely unaware of how sticky the blood on his hands and arms was starting to feel. The winter air was crisp, sharp in his lungs and brittle against his skin. He could absentmindedly feel his body start to make goosebumps, the chill that would bother Tim on any given day not registering for his nerves. One of the few perks about CIPA was the fact that he could sit outside smoking for as long as he wanted without getting overly uncomfortable from the weather, something his housemates were extremely jealous of.
He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there, leaning up against the siding and cross legged on the wood. His only indication was the sound of the birds starting to quiet and the crickets starting up. The wind howled past the small cabin, disturbing long dead leaves and branches that always seemed too long and spindly for his liking. Bushes rustled as critters and creatures skittered past, always far enough away that Toby knew it was just squirrels but close enough he could hear it clearly. Animals didn’t like to get too close to the cabin. Tim once brought up that it was probably because they could smell death on their clothes and porch from all the times they spilled bodily fluids on the worn wood.
Headlights blared through the trees as Brian came back from wherever he went, most likely getting batteries or sewing supplies for all the times their clothes got torn up. Toby yelped at the sudden brightness, dropping his blunt to cover his eyes and hunching over himself, hissing in pain. He hadn’t noticed the beaten up truck coming down the driveway through the fuzz in his head, so he didn’t have time to duck inside before the ridiculously overpowered lightbulbs assaulted his retinas.
He’s here! He’s back!
Bite your nails off.
Teenagers scare the living shit outta me-
You’re out of butter.
BRIGHT BRIGHT BRIGHT-
He doesn’t know, does he?
Look at the retard, crying over headlights-
He barely heard as Brian slammed the truck door and walked up to the front door. His head was screaming with voices and static, his eyes burning and skin tingling with every little touch. Out of nowhere the seams on his clothes were scratching and socks too loose, the tightness of how he tied his shoelaces different on each foot and hair touching his skin wrong. He felt a tap on his shoulder for less than a second and threw a punch, hearing a crunch upon impact. He wasn’t sure if it was his hand or something in whatever he hit, but he didn’t care. Everything was too loud.
There’s worms in your stomach.
Fettuccine.
Punch his teeth in.
Cut the fat off of your bones.
The blue things in your wrists are wires.
Burn off your fingerprints.
Remind Tim to get butter.
The voices were screaming, his head feeling as if it was imploding in on itself with the pain they caused. There were eyes on the walls. Toby could feel himself crashing into walls and door frames as he scrambled inside, blindly searching for his bedroom door so he could hide.
Faggot faggot faggot faggot faggot-
Butter, we need butter.
Take out the wires.
Scotty doesn’t know!
Eat your skin.
Pretty boy! Brain’s a pretty boy!
I want that twink obliterated-
He flung himself into his room, slamming the door behind him and crying out at the sound it made. He could feel tears streaming down his face, the sticky blood on his hands as he grasped at his ears, the damp neck of his shirt from his own sweat. Toby crawled under his desk, pressing his back into the farthest corner from the door as he could, curling into himself as if he could simply disappear from the universe if he tried hard enough. His own cries of distress hurt his ears, a counterproductive reaction.
Eat the carpet.
Fatass.
Would you like to buy a new soul for the low low price of seven ninety-nine?
The pineapple was the skyscraper, did you see?
We should get fresh goat cheese.
Wake up.
Thank you for your submission!
The lights were loud. His clothes were loud. The fridge was loud. His shoes were loud. His breathing was loud. His skin was loud. His bracelets were loud. The clock was loud. The wood was loud. Everything was loud and there was nothing he could do about it.