Archive of Our Own

He stared into the mirror. His hair was wet, cascading down his back and chest. Unraveled from its long braid.

The usually vivid and bright colour was dulled, dark. Dead. The short portion of his hair was flattened to his head.

Crimson eyes blinked back at him, his face pale.

It was the face of someone who'd died, only to be revived by a fun twist of fate.

Vein's eyes wandered. Just beneath his chin was where no more of him could be seen, hidden beneath drenched fabric. The black turtleneck hugged him tight, in its current state. Clung uncomfortably to his skin.

Humiliating. It was utterly humiliating, the way he'd been unable to strip further.

He'd never been insecure about his body, even at that peculiar age where most found even just the slightest thing off from their peers to be a horrible curse.

He'd been quite the opposite, really, despite scars speaking of bullet wounds and stabbings. He'd cared about his appearance, wished to look decent, but never worried about his general apperance, about blemishes or the like.

Yet what laid beneath his turtleneck...

He vividly remembers it, would forever remember it. Undressing for the first time in the safety of his own bedroom, exhausted and only wishing to change into more comfortable clothes, and seeing what had happened to him post-mortem upon turning at the wrong angle, catching a glimpse in the mirror.

He could see vividly the cause for the burning pain that had persisted ever since he'd woken, at that time still reddish and even more horrendous than it was now.

He vividly feels the pain of the needle stabbing through skin, back when he'd realized that his abrupt movements after awaking had torn the stitches.

Stubborn and prideful as he was, he'd stitched it himself. Barely able to even see, the mirrored image making it hard to aim properly. He'd poked himself countless times.

It was nothing but a scar, now.

An ugly, hideous scar.

Whenever he saw it, his organs itched under phantom fingers. He hadn't been awake, or even alive. But his body remembered.

In his worst nightmares, he wakes but cannot move. Can feel a knife or perhaps scalpel sinking through skin, through flesh and muscles. Tearing through them with practiced ease.

Slicing into him, leaving his organs exposed to hands covered in silicon gloves, like a butchered animal about to be gutted and have its innards removed.

He shook his head, attempted to banish the thoughts. The phantom feelings. The images.

Yet they lingered.

Vein, the seemingly oh-so-fearless, oh-so-unshakeable head of Chinatown... felt sick. And he hadn't even undressed yet.

He gripped the sink, his breath shaky. Squeezed his eyes shut.

He wasn't sure why, but felt as though he was unraveling.

There were good days, where he barely minded looking in the mirror. It was fine. He was fine.

There were bad days where just the thought of having to see left him feeling lightheaded and ill.

Ever since waking up, there had been good and bad days alike. More bad than good, in all honesty.

Liu Xiao not minding had helped. Certainly. But it didn't make the hatred of having to see go away.

He wasn't sure if remembering would've made it better or worse.

As it was, he stood. Shaking faintly. Not just from his nerves, but also because he was sopping wet and cold.

He heaved a sigh. Dug his fingers under the hem of his turtleneck, pulled it away from his skin.

The feeling of the drenched fabric was disgusting, and part of him was relived when he finally tugged it over his head and flung it over the large bathtub.

Showering while dressed, to put it plainly, was only fine until you stepped out of the shower.

His eyes drifted to the mirror again. Slightly fogged up at the edges.

Traced over a pale face, then slowly down to his chest.

Along his collarbone ran two scars, merging into one just beneath his sternum, before running down, down, down... stretching across his entire front.

Faintly, he could see where the stitches had been.

Most of his scars, he didn't even consider ugly. They were just there. Life lessons at most, the bite of a mosquito at least.

But this one? It was plain hideous. Standing out strongly against pale, smooth skin with its discoloration, its bumpy texture.

It had healed... alright, all in all. Better than the bullet wound on his thigh. The cut on his back, just beneath his tattoo.

Yet he froze. Stared. Felt ill. Horribly so.

Stared at where he'd been sliced open, torn apart to be examined like the carcass he'd been, only to be neatly stitched back together as if nothing had happened. 

Phantom fingers danced across his intestines, across his liver, his lungs... wrapped around them and  squeezed . He couldn't breathe, but the dead have no need for air. 

His heart raced. Like a hare chased by a hungry wolf. Like prey that knew that death's sharp maw was coming for it, about to tear through skin and flesh, like a hot knife through butter, about to-

The dead need no air, the dead feel no pain. 

The strangled noise that escaped him reminded him of an animal about to be slaughtered when it clawed its way up from deep within his chest and to the back of his throat.

At least it was only noise.

Humilating. 

The dead didn't breathe or feel, but he wasn't one of them. Not anymore. 

Silently, he felt relief that no one else was home, that no one would see him in such a state, that no one would notice how long he'd been inside the bathroom.

At the same time, he longed for nothing but warm hands to hold his own cold ones, to hear anything but his own heart beating in his head loud enough to drown out anything else.

Stiffly, he turned around once he found the strength to move. Grabbed the shirt he'd put down on the counter and slipped it over his head.

Uncaring about his hair still being wet.

He didn't care. He didn't care about his racing pulse, his wet hair dripping and leaving puddles on the floor. Didn't care about how hard it was to simply breathe. He just needed to stop seeing... that.

His legs felt weak, shook with the effort of holding him upright. The world shook, as if unsure whether it was upside down, perhaps.

He walked the four steps to the closed door, turned, and leaned against it. Sliding to the floor.

Laughable, how the mighty could fall to such lows, but then again, even he was human, wasn't he?

Then again who was here to judge him but ghosts of people who, unlike him, had not managed to return from the dead? If they laughed from within their graves, so be it. 

No, in the sanctuary of his own home, locked inside the bathroom, he was allowed a moment of weakness. In here, where no one would see, he didn't need to be the head of Chinatown, no mafioso, no manager. 

He could simply be. 

No one had to know, no one would know, if he got his way. 

There was no need to concern them, either...

After all, there were good days, and there were bad days. Today? Today was just a very much  shit  day.