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The sun dipped below the horizon, blanketing Crossroads in a dingy, endless darkness. At this time, it was usual for demons to sleep. But, Sword could not. He just couldn't, and he knew exactly why.
Medkit. Sword had seen him a couple days ago, but something during that last meetup made it so Sword did not want to let go - he did not want his brother to leave, he did not want to say goodbye. Med was acting strangely - he was awfully disconnected and reserved; well not that he wasn't reserved all the time, just more than he normally was.
He had definitely been hiding something.
It made Sword's skin crawl. It made his heart and chest ache. The paranoid swordsman pulled his legs to his chest, sitting in his bed, deep in thought, mind flooding and considering every possibility and scenario under the sun. Maybe he was worrying too much. Maybe Medkit was just having an off day. Maybe he was anxious about having a long week of work ahead of him and did not want to burden Sword with that information.
Come on. He needed to stop panicking. There was no proof that something had happened yet. But his gut would not stop screaming at him violently, that something was wrong, that something was going to happen soon, and that he had sat idly, and done absolutely nothing about it.
Oh, what a great brother you are! Letting him get lost in his depression, not picking up on the details and not helping. Wow.
That thought crashed into his head - Sword quickly and desperately concealed his face in his knees, as if he wanted the non-existent onlookers to leave him alone and stop staring, judging and scrutinizing him so painfully.
He wasn't being stupid. He wasn't. The moon loomed in the sky like a precursor, like a warning. Its routine bright glow had been dimmed a frightful amount. Sword held his breath in an effort to silence his brain and gut, to stop them from overloading every organ and nerve in his body so that he could finally get some rest, but they would not let up, as if his own existence was mocking him sadistically.
He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted to stop worrying. He just wanted to make sure that his brother was safe and sound, to make sure that he was okay.
That day, he did not seem okay. That day, he should have stepped in. That day, he should have said something. That day, he should have helped, like what he had pledged - to save Med. To save him from whatever is keeping him from being at peace, from being happy, from feeling free.
Sword regretted it. He regretted it so much. Ever since they waved goodbye, a weight secured itself within his chest and has been growing heavier and heavier every second. He had made the incorrect decision. He had put his brother in danger. He had made an active choice to not help.
Absolute liar. You said you'd help him no matter what. Pathetic.
Tears pricked the swordsman's eyes, threatening to spill.
"Remember, you're just being paranoid. You're worrying too much. He is fine. He was just having a bit of trouble and did not want to tell you." Sword whispered to himself, trying to prevent himself from sobbing like a little child and to stop his mind from telling himself horrible, demotivating thoughts.
Sword began to hug his knees tightly, acting as if he were surrounding his brother with a warm embrace, like Sword always loved doing. But this one was shallow. This one was meaningless. This one was cold. He hugged even tighter, desperately trying to hold onto a dying ember of what it felt like to be in Med's presence.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He felt nothing. His entire body was numb. He did not want to feel.
The boy looked off to the side, dejected, drowsy and wistful, fantasising about the moments they spent together. Would that be lost? Oh lord. He was so damn paranoid. Did he not remember. Nothing has happened to prove that his dear brother had gone missing or disappeared or been hurt.
Yet.
He had nothing to fear. Calm down. But, no matter how hard he tried he could not be at peace with the current situation. Every time he shut his eyes and got close to dozing off, his brain screamed mercilessly at him, as if throwing insults and words of ruthless abuse, forcing his eyes open and him to be wide awake again, confused, dazed and angry.
Angry at himself.
He did not realise that his breathing was picking up. His chest rose up and down, up and down. Before he knew it, his mind had been taken over by a static-y, buzzing feeling, which made him feel nauseous. His palms shook. He was getting warm. He was getting hot. It was hot. It was too hot.
Carelessly, the swordsman discarded the duvet and wobblily stumbled over to the bathroom, stupid negative statements remaining in his mind. In the darkness, he stared thoughtlessly into the mirror, as if he were entranced by a deep abyss, calling him to jump in and let go of everything.
He did not like what he saw. Whoever that was, in the reflection, looked ill. They looked weak. They looked dumb. They looked vulnerable. They looked dead. Sweat dripped down his brow. His expression showed nothing but emptiness and annoyance and a desire to stop feeling this way.
Why. Why did he have to worry this much. Nothing. Nothing had happened. And if something did happen, it's all your fault. Stop being a little child about it get over it. If Medkit saw you like this... ohh... he'd be disgusted.
He stepped back, hand covering his mouth against his will, accompanied with a weird, sickly sensation from his stomach. Sword shut his eyes, trying to stop it all from happening and forget he was here. The swordsman's legs gave out; he fell to his knees frailly and crouched over the toilet. Bile spewed from his throat, painting the toilet a repulsive beige hue.
Great. Just great. What a disappointment.
He could swear he saw blood. Oh, he wishes there was blood.
He was such a mess. Such a weak creature. Crying and breaking down over this? No wonder Medkit abandoned you. He should've done that a long time ago. What did you expect? That he would put up with your stupidity until the day both of you die?
Now every organ, tissue and cell in his body was howling, yelling, begging, generating an unstoppable and unbearable ringing in his ears. Sword cupped his palms over them, but the noise did not subside, it continued to tear his brain into tiny, indiscernable pieces agonisingly. His breathing had not slowed. It hurt to keep his eyes open so he shut them.
"Med..." the boy murmured into the night, a silent plea for an answer - an answer that would quell his worries and assure him that everything and everyone was going to be okay.
But they weren't going to be okay.
What a fool.