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[so it looks like today is Robin's equivalent of "spring cleaning" day at the hideout. he's mostly getting his shit in order, tying up some loose ends, trashing the old stuff that no one wants anymore, aaaand... dealing with some business.]

[Euri]

[he hasn't spoken to her in a looooong time... but today he decided to change that.]

Hey. You really still hiding out in the woods?

Come on, come back. You must be bored to tears out there.

[Murdertastic Filter]

So, hey. Can't help but notice there's been an awful lot of murdering going on.

Think you guys could maybe not attract the attention of the whole fucking city?

[Public]

[with that finally out of the way and him waiting for responses (if they come at all), he's decided to just hang around on one of the couches and distractedly hum something that sounds a little like the Wren Song. there's a distant tapping that might be his foot on a wall.

but eventually he stops that, too. his attention span isn't all that great on a normal day, but today it's even worse. he'll start talking to no one in particular (which means the journal).]

You know what I miss? Fight rings. And not that publicly broadcasted shit they clean up for TV and radio, no--I'm talking real, messy, Underground fights. Those were the best fucking nights. Always a party.

[tap tap tap tap.]

I wonder if they've got anything like that hiding around here... Some corner of the slums, maybe.

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[it's wordless, the way thoughts start gravitating toward and clinging to that picture that Robin is painting in his head. It's automatic; he's not thinking about what he must be conveying back. Robin sends pain and punishment, digs in to tangibly show him the barest example... and he gets overwhelming relief in return.

The thought of real agony--enough to really be enough to pay for his transgressions--sends this tentative thrill through him.

For the first time in ages, he has hope.

...He needs this. It's the only way out. As much as he'd wanted out of this endless pit he's sinking in, wanted an answer for an unsolvable problem, he wants this. More than anything.

Nerves scream in his shoulder, and already the knot in his soul begins to loosen.]

[there's nothing else he needs to see. he finishes his shoulder with a violent twist, dislocating at the very least, cracking something important at the very most. that's just a gateway, something to get them started; he pushes Coil away and then shoves him, toppling him back down onto the ground where he'd been not even minutes before. he aims to get him to land on that shoulder, but that's just extra.

his eyes glean red, filled with purpose and possibility as he examines his new charge. he bites at his own knuckle while the agony settles in, drawing enough blood to give him a tool. he's not completely sure where to start--he could start anywhere. it's exciting. exhilarating.

but he knows what he wants, and this is equal parts duty and self-indulgence--so crouches down and crawls over to him like this is just some night between lovers and presses his palm down on that injured shoulder and tugs too hard at the other's collar to tear it wider.

it's easy. humans are delicate. fabrics are nothing. his fingers run over scarred skin and for a second he desperately wishes his hands were uncovered. but he can do better--he leans over him, lips feeling the skin at his collar instead before he bites, tearing hard through the flesh at his neck. sinks his teeth in too far, reaches down to crawl fingers under Coil's shirt and press until he can feel the warmth of his body through his gloves. he tugs at the other's blood, starts to prick and stab and slowly press on his ribs until they start to crack.]

[when he hits the ground, his first thought is worrying about the damage in his shoulder. He's allowed a few seconds to writhe and distantly fret over the thought of permanent damage... until he remembers how little that matters anymore. It's either this or nothing, so he's just going to have to accept whatever consequences that means. If it destroys him, even kills him, he has no right to complain.

And then, when that hand comes down on his shoulder and Robin leans in close, he's not thinking about anything at all. There is that white-hot click that confirms his guess about his collarbone being broken, and suddenly there are teeth.

It floods out everything else with a pang, stomach twisting--and he twists with it. It's unexpected; he can't keep himself from reacting. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he tries to push himself back with his elbows, sucking in a shocked breath.

...And that's when he notices the pressure in his chest. Robin's fingers settling over the new scars that bone-spikes left behind, and this crushing crushing weight. He can't breathe, he's being smothered, his kicking and writhing starting to turn desperate as he struggles to gasp air past the crushing and the cracking]

[good. it's not worth it if he thinks he can just lie there and take it quietly. but Robin is not setting out to suffocate him or drown him in his own blood (not again, not a second time) so he moves his hand. he lets go of the bite too, indulgently licking at the wound as the pressure eases away. he doesn't want Coil to fight too hard for breath. he just wants it to hurt when he does.

he presses a kiss to Coil's neck, too soft and delicate compared to what he's just done, probably barely even worth notice. it's just a little token, a moment of blessing before he leans back and the real work begins.

he starts with his wrists. he starts breaking bones, snapping the big things, leaving cracks. moving upwards. he turns joints ways they shouldn't be turned, then tugs with a flick of his wrist, a ghostly puppeteer. he reaches just under his skin in his chest, starts to tear things open. starts to stretch and fray muscle and fibers and watches the hundreds of millions of tiny circulatory tunnels tear with them. he leans over, presses his lips to Coil's forehead, shushes him and pets his hair and runs his fingers down his sides, giving himself a moment to put him back into enough order that his systems don't start failing out of shock.

but when it feels balanced again, the fingers turn into knives that cut into his skin, and his blood reaches out and lances things he needs and things he doesn't strictly require (the lungs, though--those are spared, look at how kind he is). with his gloves completely ruined, he eventually pries one off with his teeth--just so that he can reach back and feel what he's like on the inside. very intimate, this.

he cuts and scrapes and tears patterns into his skin, waiting. humans, no matter how trained, have a limited threshold. he plays a very careful, precise game. mutilate, then wait. mangle, then pause. wait for his body to think he might have time to feel again, then stab in deep and cause a well of pain even greater than the last. but there's a point where he simply will not take any more--where it's physically impossible, because his brain is overloaded or his nerves are too damaged--when he will stop.

until then, he's calculating. precise. waiting, waiting, waiting.]

[somewhere in there, he's lost sense of what exactly is all happening. Robin conducts an orchestra that ceases to be made up of individual notes that Coil can track and name--it becomes an elaborate mess of agonies that chews him up whole. He can pick out only pieces, noting the grind of broken things together, the way he can feel air against things that should be safe inside, the overwhelming smell of blood.

He surprised he's still conscious, even with all the effort he's putting toward keeping himself awake, and the expert way that Robin sharpens his suffering every time he thinks he's beginning to slip. There is just so much... he's shaking terribly, rattling every damaged thing. And he's cold. He notices himself thinking that around the time that he hears himself breathing--and then can't hear anything else once he notices it. It's a horrible sound, strained and frantic, rasping ragged in his own ears. It's an exceedingly familiar sound, the too-rapid shallow gasping of something waiting to start dying.

But nothing stops. Nothing does anything but somehow get worse in measured increments, until even those thoughts are dismantled. After another few minutes, he can't even hold onto the thought of why he's there anymore as his mind spirals and climbs and crashes, hitting that point of preferring anything to the present.

He finally has nothing left but the delirious want for it to stop.

Choking everything back is becoming too much. Exhausted from writhing, mind frayed to nothing, he starts to slip. Finally, something moves into his vision--Robin's hand, maybe--and there is an automatic flinch away, throwing his head to one side as a small panicked sound scratches up through his throat. He wants this to stop. No more.]

[he's never really sure what it is until it happens. he hears that miserable little sound and knows--it's time to start working backwards. he's nothing short of a mess. he's had more than enough. most would have broken long ago.

but there's just a little more.

he spreads his hands out in the air in front of him, fingers dripping, mentally reaching in for what's left of his core, blood that's still trying to serve his system. he takes it all up in his grasp, all of him, and pulls--one last agonizing strain, every injury touched again. every wound given new life, new sharpness. he wants him to remember this, even if he can't comprehend it now.

but then, finally, after the last and final twist, he lowers his hands. his eyes are now red more with the reflection of blood than his own glimmer. he sighs, a horrible kindness in his face.]

...You've done beautifully.

[from there he climbs off of him, sitting in a more neutral position at his side. he quickly busies himself, peeling off the other glove and carefully beginning to stitch up the parts inside of him that need the most immediate fixing. insides first--they're always the trickiest to repair.]

[oh, he will remember this.

The memory of being dragged kicking and screaming through death and back again will always be carved deep into the walls of his mind, but this is a bright image that will be emblazoned over it with such a raw vividness that it will rank one step higher in importance. And that is exactly what he wanted.

His head tosses back as agony rakes through him, back and shoulders arching hard off the red-wet floor--at first breathless, until it doesn't stop and crawls in violent kicks up out of his lungs and into his throat.

It would have been a scream if his jaw hadn't been locked down tight, instead coming out as an agonized cry grinding broken and loud through his teeth.

Robin has granted his wish.

And it takes him a little while to realize that it's done, still lying in broken-up pieces. But after a few more minutes, finally picking up on the fact that nothing new is inexplicably ripping apart at the seams... his writhing turns to pathetic trembling, and his panting becomes nothing but deliriously desperately relieved.

...It's over.

He did it.]

[and he's so proud of him. he really does have a strength, this kid, even if he doesn't know it. he wants to link with him again, to see if it worked, to see if he believes it--he wants to know, to check. he wants to listen to what little his poor mind can feverishly spin through. but he doesn't. he's too busy returning things to their proper places, scooping up blood and threading out impurities and using it to stitch him back together from the inside-out. he takes his panting for as much as its worth; he'll believe, for now, that he's done plenty.

he closes up the gaping wounds, layers them so that they'll heal faster. he doesn't want any internal bleeding. the bones are next, but he leaves some cracks. the skin comes too, but again--he wants some of this to heal on its own. he wants to give him something to carry with him for a while. it'll probably hurt, resetting and rebuilding, but it's nothing compared to what he just put him through. it's interspersed with him touching his face, brushing damp hair away from his good eye. smiling to himself.

eventually he's "good enough". Robin peels off the tattered remains of Coil's ruined shirt, tosses that in a wet mound with his gloves. from there, he scoops Coil up in his arms and carries him over to the bed as easily as a child carries a doll. he lays him down, presses one last quiet kiss to his temple, and then wanders to deal with the mess they've left on the floor behind them.]

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