26 days. Nightmare (Zanzas/Squalo)
Hands pierce the nervous tremor, and in front of my eyes the fog covers everything, dizziness spins as if after a bottle of burnt alcohol. Nothing left but fear. He covered it with tentacles, like an octopus, penetrating the corners of a cruel black soul, tearing it from the inside, making it bleed abundantly again. The horror crushed his mind, crushing it into dust, taking his place, so that the possessor slowly went mad, again and again plunging into his most terrible nightmares, which in his time were a reality.
Zansas suffocates without seeing anything in front of him, but he cannot lower his eyelids, keeping his eyes wide open, so that the fantasy does not throw up too bright pictures. In this position, everything was blurred - both the present and the past. The mouth is meaninglessly open, the throat gives out deaf rattles too often, as well as intermittent breathing.
Panic attacks? That's what these bitter doctors used to say, who were running around in front of him in the first place after his release. Their fluttering was only even more annoying, and the whiteness of their robes and unnatural smiles made their eyes ripple.
The cold was returning. Along with the same "panic" that does not exist in this world, it is completely different, not the one that everyone is accustomed to seeing. Hands shiver more, and lungs tear from the frost, which penetrated the inside and needles pierce all the organs, hitting them with ice.
"That's enough," he tries to shout out Zansas, but instead he spits out another rattle, and the tongue feels his own bitter, nasty, tasteful blood. The nails tear the skin on the palms of their hands, adding to the already huge number of scars a few ugly curves. But this pain is nothing compared to the nightmare that is coming on it. Along with this annoying, pitiful, sympathetic, lousy look of the old man, who dared to say that he was his father. A father who pointed a gun at him and bound him to an ice prison.
Caring? Huh! They just wanted to throw him out again like a useless thing. He was always superfluous, superfluous, and wrong, a mistake of peace that still, surprisingly, continued to live. Despite all attempts at destruction.
"Let me out," Zansas tried again, clutching his fingers in his hair and wheezing, suffocating from the sobbing. The phantom ice crust crawled over his legs, freezing them, preventing him from escaping. She was climbing up her shin to her thighs, shackling her. Zanzas wanted to start pulling the ice off his skin, but the numbness did not go away. And all he had to do was look at it and suffocate.
- That's enough," the man could barely hear it, still squinting. The better vision of the past than hallucinations in the present, which are too similar to the truth.
Pictures of the very hall in which he stood as an ice statue for many years flashed. Many years of cold and fear.
- Not again," Zansas wheezes, ripping whiskey to pieces with his fingernails. Her warmth is a little sobering, but it's not enough to finally open her eyes.
He feels a touch. It's also cold, but it burns as well as calendar iron. Eyelids rise slowly, and it is blinded by the whiteness of strange skin, thin, through which you can see the blue lines of veins and vessels. Long fingers are cold, but they smell of life, and Zanzas stretches after her, standing under the palm of his hand, which somehow gently strokes on the head. She removes fear like a veil of mourning, throwing it on the floor. Panic whines and squeezes like a beaten dog under the harsh eyes of icy eyes. From the touch of the hot lips to the soaked forehead all retreats, and Zanzas can finally breathe a sigh of peace.
- Just breathe," Scualo says quietly, pressing lightly on his strong shoulders. He obeys and lies on a ruffled bed, from which he jumped a few minutes ago from his nightmare. His breath is still painful, but the feeling of free-breathing is joyful, and Zanzas tries to get enough air. He covers his face with his palms and spends a lot of energy removing the rest of his horror. The look finally becomes clear, but focuses still strangely - the clearest and clearest is Scualo.
- Crawling, garbage, so easy to crawl into my room at night," Zanzas says by habit. Squeaky smiles a little, knowing that it's just an attempt to get her face back. But both realize that in this case, it is not necessary, because they saw each other in all manifestations, even the most disgusting and low.
- I'm afraid, fucking boss," the swordsman played, stroking the wide chest with scars, feeling the heartbeat already leveled with his fingers.
- Fear," Zansas grinned, already looking at the subordinate's almost completely naked body. He pulls the captain's legs, gnawing at his lips, stealing the warmth of his body. Zanzas compresses long white strands, secretly admiring the silky softness that soothes and brings back the clarity of thought. Strange blood tastes much better than its own - as tart as expensive wine, and about as intoxicating. Zanzas almost licks the mouth of his subordinate, collecting all his tastes.
- Stay with me," he exhales from the swollen, slightly bleeding lips of Scualo. It was clear from his face that he wasn't going anywhere, but it was important for Zansas to think that everything was in his hands and under his control. He is covering his eyelids with cold fingers in his hair again, which now makes him sleep well. He lies next to him and strokes his head until Zanzas falls asleep, only after which he lets himself fall asleep on his dark shoulder and close his eyes.
No nightmare can disturb his boss while he's around. And that will never change.