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Harmonia liked to sit with their arms around themself. They weren’t sure what had motivated this change, but it was clear exactly where the feelings came from. Not like the reasoning mattered. Being Whole was the only reason any of them had for being, nothing else could possibly matter. In this moment, they were whole, they were together. They weren’t [({Alone})].
Writing became a joint task, all of the love and feelings poured into lyrics rife with reasonable and logical allusions and metaphors, all held together with a compositional skill rich with Heart, Mind, and Soul. When they sang, it was one voice. Harmonies came through planning, feeling, rerecording. One voice, repeating itself to create three. Intentionally split, carefully avoiding the dissonance.
They messed up. Flat, one flat note. They started again.
Sharp, this time.
They started again. No singing this time. Practice the keys.
Hands, shaking. Why were they shaking? Shaking hands, painted in colors of a band gone by. Red, blue, green, grey, yellow. Red. Red. The polish had chipped in all places, but the red polish on their pointer fingers was as pristine as the day they had painted. They laid their hands on the piano, hands fumbling for keys, missing every other note.
They blinked. When had they gotten to the bathroom? The air felt heavy, hazy with the smell of acetone. Their fingertips felt raw, freezing to the touch. Their nails had been scrubbed free of paint, nailbeds red. They brought cold hands up to touch their face. Their skin did not feel like their own, rough and callous but somehow entirely too smooth. When did this change?
The smell was giving Harmonia a headache.
They went to lay down, arms wrapped tightly around themselves, bare nails clutching at arms covered in a thick sweater, the only barrier between keratin and weak, weak, skin. Flesh so easy to tear, to break, to split-
Their chest ached at the thought.
They curled up tighter on the bed, arms never letting go, in some desperate attempt to keep it together. To keep it together. Keep them together.
This was illogical, Harmonia’s Mind supplied. They needed to get up. It was just some nail polish, just a headache. They felt a pang in their chest at this. It wasn’t just some nail polish. They had lost time- they needed to lay here, rest and-
But that was a waste of time. They had music to write, things to do. It was irrational to expect them to-
No! They needed to breathe, to take a minute just to figure out how they were feeling. Something, anything-
They blinked again. They were back in the bathroom. Their nails felt heavier than they had, the sickly overwhelming feeling of half dried nail polish making their hands feel as if they were being pricked by a thousand needles. They felt cold again. They just needed to go lay down- it would be fine.
Curled up under covers, they felt sticky. Hot covers clung to them, how long had they been there? Minutes? Hours? Months? Their hands came up to cover their eyes. The nails had been painted, yes, but not in the fashion of Harmonia. A black painted hand rubbed at their eye socket, willing away the dull ache that throbbed. A white painted hand moved down to cover their chest, gripping at fabric as if it could ease the palpitations sat beneath the skin. Nothing was working- they were going to die here, starve to death under these thick mountains of filth that they had built up around them. How long has it been since they did anything? Made any music?
They sat in front of the keys once more, hands perfectly painted to match the colors in front of them. They pressed experimentally, a few chords, to get their bearings, before beginning to play a familiar, soft tune. The words spilled from their lips like a practiced prayer, a confession, one they had given time and time again. A repetition like a hail mary, one they would repeat until they were dead. There was no getting better. There was no winning. There was no concord-
“[(Wait! No- please- wait-!)]”
He felt his mind start to unweave, splitting down into his sickly little ids. Since when were they his? When did they become him?
“No, I’m not {listening}.” He hummed, words continuing to flow like a hymn, the start to his abhorrent hymnal he would sing forever, until time came to an end, or he did. This felt like a reprise. It always did. It never would stop, no matter how many times they managed this concord, calamity always arose. His body grew heavy, weak. He knew he was no longer Harmonia. His missing pieces always found him, shortly after this- they would start fighting- and then-
His hands flew from the keys, on their own, the song unfinished. Cold, cold fingers pressed over his mouth, damming the prayers and damning himself. He grabbed at his own coat- still his- not Theirs- not Harmonia’s. Fingers dug in tightly. There was no headache. There was no heartache. He was alone. Alone at his keyboard like an altar, staring at it like it held the power to end this all, to start it again. He knew he was not Harmonia. He could not be. But he felt a lot like he should be. This empty husk, sitting where Harmonia had once sat, just moments before. He had been perfect, they had been perfect. Ego embracing Ids, sick and twisted creatures quieting their disputes for only a moment, a brief respite.
Soul wanted to be sick. He admitted who he was, now, he admitted a want. He was too far gone, too far removed. But he’d give himself this solace. He could want.
And he wanted to be sick.
He wished he could purge himself of the bubbling fear in his stomach, threatening to spill out in dark, twisted lyrics, lyrics he didn’t write. Lyrics that They wrote, tunes that They stole. This endless loop of concord - calamity -
“(You motherFUCKER-)”.
A crash.
Cacophony.
The Soul sighed, standing. There was a cold metal against his palm. He bit back the bile rising in his throat as his fingers closed around it. There was more yelling now, something trite, something trivial. Nothing he hadn’t heard before. So why was the space where his heart would be, if he had one, threatening to constrict, implode into a black hole of agony not unlike where he knew his Resident Heart would be, in less than three hours. Why was the space where his mind would be, be he stable and human enough to have one, clouded with fears.
The Host felt scared. That was…new. And new, in these situations, repetitive as they tended to be, was never good.
There was a loud crash. He knew what was coming, he always did. He knew what he had to do, he knew there was only one way to stop this- and-
“[...Soul?]” a deep voice came, deep but not yet tinged with the hollow robotic sound, a figure leaning into the room. It was Mind - The Mind {he quickly corrected. They were not familiar, these parasites-}
The Heart was beside him, eyes blocked but not yet stained by what would happen. They both looked worried. Oh, right. Soul was meant to step in, wasn’t he? Right?
“(Soul… you don’t…look so good.)” Resident Heart said, quietly. The Mind’s eyes were locked onto Soul’s hands, where his-
The Trident was gone, replaced by a thick red coil, hanging loosely from his hands. He gripped it tighter, hands shaking. “{Aren’t you two meant to be killing each other right now?}” He spat.
“[Don’t do anything stupid.]” The Mind said, quiet but firm. “[We… we can put aside our fighting, I suppose. You-]”
The Mind was cut off, shocked into silence {for once} as Soul doubled in half, giggles spilling manically from his lips, turning into harsh laughter. His Heart and his Mind stood, watching as thick tears hit the floor, staining the wood that didn't exist, nothing was real but everything was, and it all hurt so bad-
“{This happens- every time-}” he said, between harsh gasps. “{You never want to listen unless our life is on the line.}”
Resident Heart was looking at him strangely. Soul could almost feel the piercing gaze of shielded eyes, burning through the cloth that covered them, worming their way into his chest. “(Soul… what are you talking about…?)”
Soul took in a shaking breath. “{It doesn’t matter.}” He dropped the rope on the ground, turning on his heel and walking away. He knew his ids were watching him go. He knew they would fall back to fighting soon enough. He knew this conversation would be forgotten, long forgotten, even by Soul himself.
And he couldn’t bring himself to care.