I can't apologize enough for not updating in so long (I tried to make this chapter longer to make up for it). I just can't seem to motivate myself, but hopefully I'll be able to now that things will actually happen.
Because I'm so giddy at having finally finished, there's still things I'll no doubt need to sort out (most likely with the previous chapter too - damn continuity!), so bear with me on that. Any help with my appalling grammar would be appreciated too.
Like I said on my profile, I'll be going back and editing previous chapters, though I'll still start writing Chapter 9.
Okay, enough rambling. Enjoy.
"I'll be right back."
Something told D-boy that Eff's comment required some sort of retaliation on his part, but the wiring between his brain and mouth seemed to have short-circuited along the way. So he resorted to the next best thing which happened to be glaring at the back of the other's head, although why he had taken offence was apparently irrelevant.
D-boy let out a shaky sigh, though not for any specific reason. He didn't like the feel of his chest rising and falling as he did so, xylophone ribs brushing against his forearms, the bones shifting and settling back into place. It felt so unnatural, but it couldn't have been any further from the truth. Bodies were meant to do that. Real bodies were nothing but corpses without all of the disgusting necessities of breathing and accumulating waste and all the other superfluous shit which defined someone as "real". Just choosing what aspects of living one wanted and discarding the rest…it didn't work like that. You had to take it all or have nothing.
Not that D-boy had that choice, so that particular train of thought derailed and proceeded to catch fire and maybe some of the passengers were trapped on the inside and…
Where was I going with this?
The former pastry display stand wanted to rub his eyes, but didn't dare risk making them sting again. That could be avoided whenever possible. But the longer he sat on the arm of the sofa, the more aware he became that not one part of his body didn't hurt or ache one way or another. It was to be expected, really; with a transformation on such a scale as his, discomfort was standard procedure.
It eventually occurred to D-boy that he was shivering; it was hard to tell when exactly that had started, but it didn't really matter, despite being somewhat unnerving as to how it could have gone unnoticed for any length of time. Maybe he thought too much. Thinking of anything should have been out of the question –if not impossible- after the abuse his mental and physical self had endured not long ago. Had it been not long ago? It was hard to say how long he'd been in out of sleep for and that was indeed a concern. The ex-figment made a face and forced himself to stop that thought before it had chance to develop. Now was not the time for hypothetical bullshit. He could worry about this later, when he was more capable. Being half awake, possibly with concussion and/or internal bleeding, in a body which seriously needed tending to and not to mention being naked…was not a fit state to form theories in.
Where the buggery is Eff? If he doesn't hurry the fuck up with these clothes he's supposedly gone to get...
Shit, I don't know.
D-boy drew the blanket up around his shoulders as it has slipped off at some point. The less he could see of this hideous, squishy container, the better.
Absently, he wondered if he'd ever get used it; the internal noise of his body, the shifting of bones underneath his skin, the rush of air in and out of his lungs as he breathed…He was going to take a chance and assume that answer would be "no". Of course, D-boy was not the one to actively search for the positive side of anything. The more flaws he could find, the easier it would be to sink back under the surface of despair, each imperfection another weight dragging him down. The water's warm; it's fine, come on in! Stay a while. Feel the comforting, familiar sensation of it seeping through skin and bone and whatever the fuck else and drown in it. Here was safety, as was anywhere which offered something understandable and well-known.
This was better.
Old habits. Fortunately for him, D-boy still found it easy to slide back into regular thought patterns. Despite being in a different container, he was still Psychodoughboy. That at least, was something –if not the only thing- to be thankful for.
"Come the fuck on, Eff, I'm freezing!" Still sounded hoarse. Still hurt to exercise his vocal chords.
Had he felt cold in his old body? Sometimes it felt like it, but that was impossible without nerves, receptors to detect temperature stimulation…Johnny had felt it; that skinny bastard barely had anything covering his fucking skeleton, and that wasn't mentioning the threadbare clothes he was accustomed to wearing. Nevertheless, Johnny had felt cold, warmth, pain, everything which a living organism should and all that D-boy felt were the after-effects, not the initial feeling. Although the Figment was unable to experience anything physical, patterns in mental processes became attached to various stimuli. If Johnny had been too warm or cold, the feeling of discomfort would follow hand in hand. Similarly, pain invoked anger, regret, and it was these things D-boy felt, therefore linking these feelings to the physical source.
From another area of their house (…house? Apartment? Where the hell are we?), Eff's fainter reply reached him, "Shit on you!"
He was sure he was cold now. There was the discomfort; the urge to increase body temperature. A draft from some part of the room was playing on his skin, and this new physical dimension made just about every experience massively intense compared to those in his Styrofoam form. At least one of them would be enjoying this.
D-boy reckoned he wouldn't get used to the other's voice. Or his own. A voice makes up an identity just as much as appearances or names, and without the squeaky Styrofoam edge to their old ones, it just wasn't the same. There wasn't a great deal of their original forms left, and being anything different was not preferable and something that should be avoided and fought all the way. If D-boy was anything but depressing, then he was not Psychodoughboy. If he wasn't himself then who-
Clothes were roughly thrust into his chest, the force causing numerous cuts and bruises to make sure their presence was known and not forgotten. His heart was pounding again and D-boy wished it would stop because he had already started to hate the feeling of something moving inside his body. Too much sensation wasn't good for a heart that had been newly forced into a person's chest cavity.
He turned the bunches of fabric over with slender fingers of one hand (the other still had a firm grip of the blanket), which ached without any real conviction, due to their practically unused state. Had to wear his body in, loosen the stiff mechanics. D-boy was pleased that his shirt still displayed the word FUCK on it, and resembled his old painted body. That was good. It wasn't the same, but still offered what familiarity it could; like watching a movie in a different language.
Nny never let us watch movies. He hated television.
Is there a TV here?
It really didn't matter right now.
D-boy turned his attention back onto the clothes, while Eff watched with mild fascination, his gaze alternating between the other's expression and movements of examining the various articles of clothing. He'd also found some boots, evidently, as the hard rubber soles were now tapping rhythmically on the carpeted floor.
Always has to be doing something. Can't stand still for a minute.
At least it was something to focus on.
"Have you just tried this on?" The slight warmth radiating from the shirt- not to mention being inside out- had that suspicious air of clothing being hastily removed -like when you got blood on them and happened to have a complete abhorrence to bodily fluids.
The rhythm faltered slightly but regained pace, almost unnoticeably.
"And why might that have been?"
Tap, tap, tap
Eff smirked, his face suiting the expression perfectly, annoyingly so, "Because, my boy, I've always been pissed off that Nny painted "fuck" on you and not me –it's my name for Christ's sake!"
True, it would have made more sense the other way round, regarding their paint jobs, but D-boy couldn't really offer an explanation on that one. Perhaps the painting had been done before the Styrofoam display stands were infused with their voices. In any case, it was too long ago and insignificant to be remembered.
However, Psycho now found himself trying desperately not to imagine the words "property of" scrawled above the expletive.
"Why are you so able to move around, anyway?" That's better.
Eff's rhythm faltered and the beat stopped. The younger Figment broke away from his day-dream.
Can he ever pay attention longer than thirty seconds? Fuck, I hate repeating myself
D-boy frowned. And repeated himself, adding an explanation seeing as Eff's blank stare indicated that it required one.
"…I feel like shit but you seem to be perfectly fine. Even after…" Didn't know how to finish that sentence.
"Do you know how long you were asleep for, my boy?"
"I know you aren't going to tell me." This coaxed a grin from the other. Asshole.
"Mm. Well, while you were neither in nor out of it, I was getting used to this upgrade of a body. At first I was just like you are now, of course, but I am in charge of this sack." Eff threw his arms out for dramatic emphasis, then thrust his hands into the back pockets of his trousers. "I forced myself to get up –it's a shame for you that you missed out on seeing that spectacle- wouldn't allow myself to stop moving until everything stopped screaming. And my god, D-boy, I made toast!"
Eff always did love smiles that made people nervous. He ought to be careful otherwise that fucking grin would stretch right off his face.
"You should try it, Psycho. Motherfucking toast!" His eyes widened, his voice straining to go so high. D-boy wondered whether Eff was on the verge of orgasm at the thought of being able to make toast whenever they pleased. He sniggered.
Just as suddenly as this particular manic episode started, Eff stopped abruptly. This never failed to make D-boy uneasy, as if the other's unpredictability could ever have been forgotten.
Somehow, being Real made it that much more frightening.
Eff's eyes flickered rapidly, slightly narrowed, his breathing shallow and alarmingly fast. Was he hyperventilating? Had the stupid fucker pushed his weak body too far, too soon?
"Eff, what-?" D-boy was denied from finishing his query into the other's wellbeing as Eff had snapped out of his daze and grabbed his wrists, forcing the elder's hands onto his chest. The initial instinct was to stop touching immediately, the pulses of pain confirming this reaction to be appropriate, but struggling only seemed to make it worse and his wrists burned.
"Let go! What the fuck are you doing!?"
D-boy hissed as Eff tightened his grip, just to drive the point home that resisting was useless.
"Eff! What're you-" The extra strain of shouting caused another fit of violent coughing, which made D-boy's eyes water and his throat feel like it had been lacerated. Kind of had, really.
"Can you feel it? Stop moving! Can you? There- there!"
D-boy allowed himself to calm down, and not just because the continuous effort had his joints begging him to. And then he felt it. Feather-light, but it was there; the steady beating of a heart, thudding, struggling against Eff's ribcage. D-boy could feel the constant rhythm even through the fabric of Eff's shirt, skin and beneath bone, his fingertips hovering lightly to feel the internal mechanism, could feel the rise and fall of Eff's breathing, the shift in the other's bones –which were not dissimilar to his own- and the interlacing heartbeat that kept everything in time.
When Eff spoke, D-boy could even feel the resonating vibrations of his voice.
"So can you?"
I don't like it. I don't want to feel it. Eff's the one with the penchant for heart beats, not me.
"Let me go."
"Let me go, now."
"Psycho, you piece of shit! Can you feel it!?"
The pace was terrifyingly fast now, D-boy could feel the other's heart crashing inside his chest and god, it was horrifying. It would break, it fucking would. It was identical to his own –off time, sometimes synchronizing for a few pulses, falling back out of rhythm again, but nevertheless, identical. In an obscure way, it was like them; marching to their own pace, but occasionally, the beats would accidentally collide and sound simultaneous, whether they were aware of it or not. Most likely not.
For reasons unknown to even himself, D-boy had resorting to avoiding looking at the person before him, as if that would somehow regard this situation as being acceptable. An outward show of internal discomfort, perhaps. Embarrassment. But without the visual sense, this only magnified the sense of touch, and so was a complete failure on D-boy's part.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Eff kept the other's hand pressed against his ribs, resolutely; the consistent intake and expulsion of air weaving its way into the body's elegy. D-boy couldn't help but follow the notes, learn them, memorize them, sing along. The vinyl record was skipping because someone had gone and got fucking fingerprints on the surface and no one was there to take the needle off.
Take the needle off and stop the noise.
The younger boy emitted a sound that was uncannily like a purr, had a cat been previously made of Styrofoam, and then had real vocal chords driven down its throat. And then purred.
D-boy took this opportunity to wrench his hand free, compelling Eff to be shaken from his state of semi-hypnosis. The now blond-haired Figment did a quick glance around the room to re-establish where he was, then shot a smirk at D-boy as his presence was remembered.
"You'd better get used to it, my boy." His hands settled on his hips, in such a way that stated Eff had discovered narcissism.
I daresay he's already found his bloody dick.
Dark eyes met light in a venomous sideways glance. "Is that so. Tell me, Fuck, are you purposefully being a simple bastard, or are you actually that naïve?"
Eff grinned, unfazed, and this lack of reaction grated on D-boy a great deal more than it should have warranted. On the rare occasions Eff mustered what little self-control he possessed to deny the other such satisfaction, he nearly always won the argument. However, neither seemed too concerned with making the effort as far as arguing went, and cheap-shots took preference as it was far easier to do so, despite it being slightly monotonous. D-boy at least was thankful for the respite, and found himself feeling relieved that Eff had chosen not to retaliate seeing as he doubted he'd be able to hold his own in a battle of wit in his current state.
In this brief interlude, where both Figments (or rather, ex-Figments) had nothing to say, D-boy took this opportunity to get a better grasp of his surroundings, now that the haze of sleep and/or concussion was beginning to lift. One of the two interior doors was now open a little; Eff had gone this way to get clothes and left it open, and now a strip of artificial light trickled through the gap onto an unattractive, bruise-coloured carpet (D-boy could probably match the hue perfectly with one of his own). It still managed to illuminate a good deal of the room, although Eff apparently hadn't the initiative to turn the rest on. Apart from that single band of light, there didn't appear to be any other form of illumination, but D-boy was wary about having retinas to now take into consideration and didn't particularly want to blind himself.
From another area of their accommodation, a faint hum was just about audible and the elder of the two decided it belonged to a refrigerator. Somewhere closer, to his right, came the ticking of a clock and this caused the question of what time it was to resurface. It certainly seemed dark enough to be well into the night, but with such thick curtains, it was hard to tell accurately, or if it was even dark outside at all.
The house already smelt like toast.
Burnt toast to be more specific.
During D-boy's general scope of their new environment, Eff was seemingly enraptured by a loose thread on the end of his shirt sleeve. He was humming too.
It was with genuine disappointment that Psychodoughboy had to break this rare silence.
"I'd rather not be naked any more, Eff. So are you going to fuck off, or…show me to somewhere else I can get changed?"
'Show', of course, conveniently replaced the word 'help', even though they both knew that it would be unlikely D-boy had the energy to make it three feet without any form of assistance –not including the fact his joints still seared and hissed in protest with every movement. Eff managed to pry himself away from the remarkable fascination of his already-fraying sleeve to be reminded once again of D-boy's existence.
"Well, your room has a lock." Eff answered nonchalantly.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
The younger boy took D-boy's scowl to be interpreted as indignation; that he'd gone and assigned rooms without asking for the other's opinion and whether that was alright with him, and you know, they could swap if he wanted to.
"It's not my fault you weren't awake!" Defensive, but it wasn't said with any real conviction. "Besides, I wanted the room with the window facing out onto the road – you should see how high up we are Dee!"
…how high up? So we aren't in a house like the one I dreamt of?
Where the fuck are we!?
"…yours just faces onto the back of some shitty housing estate-"
D-boy interrupted Eff's mindless noise-making, evidently not sharing the other's interest in his one-sided conversation.
"Eff! That's really fascinating, but what do you mean 'how high up'? Where are we?"
Mr. Eff was not impressed with this interruption, and sighed shortly, as if he was being made to explain something very simple to an ignorant child. Honestly, some people. Nonetheless, the blonde's sulking was short lived, as he now had centre-stage and could demonstrate further that he was more aware of their standing in the overall scheme of things. Or whereabouts they were, at any rate. He grinned (it was hard to determine whether it was more out of spite or mischief), and strode over to where the faux-velvet curtains were situated, behind the armchair. D-boy noted that Eff walked with a slight limp in his right leg –no doubt even he wasn't fully healed from the ordeal- and this made him feel a little better, even if it was childish. The knee of his uninjured leg rested upon the soft cushioning of the armchair, maroon leather creaking as the fabric adjusted to take his weight, while the other rested out of harm's way on the carpet. It seemed unbelievable to D-boy that Eff's body even made a dent on the furniture due to the younger's (and, most likely, his own) delicate looking, waif-like figure -but he certainly knew better than to assume Mr. Eff as being anything other than coiled springs and sharp edges and was most certainly not delicate.
Slender fingers had replaced Styrofoam mitten-like hands, and they clutched at fistfuls of the heavy curtain material, peeling them apart.
One hand remained bundled in the fabric- the other gripped the back of the armchair for support. Eff turned round to face his companion of sorts, with a satisfied half-smile upon his face, "See? We've got to be on at least the thirteenth floor."
D-boy grinned genuinely, "Apartments don't have a thirteenth floor."
This was acknowledged with an eye-roll from the blonde, "Whatever. Just come and look"
From his current position, the dark-haired Figment could only discern that it was, indeed, dark outside – although the exact time remained elusive. Couldn't see any stars from this far away either; it had been quite a while since he had seen them last, and wouldn't mind viewing them again because they were one of the very few pleasantries of existence he was ready to admit to liking. D-boy reckoned they'd be the things he missed most when everything stopped- although really, that was a contradiction.
It could be summed up nicely in one word –the reason why D-boy found himself sighing and bracing for the pain which would undoubtedly ensue:
Psychodoughboy was curious, and in the rarest of rare behaviours, he allowed it.
It was alright to show interest in one's new surroundings, wasn't it? Not out of hope to find something likable in being Real (stars didn't count, apparently, as he'd always liked them), and nor did it signify his surrender and acceptance of this fate he'd found himself in. It was just to see. For now at least, his current mood told him that shutting himself away would not change a thing, would not make this all go away, and so for D-boy to ignore it all would be remarkably pointless and unrealistic. So why not seize the moment in hope of better understanding this mess? Of course, he could choose to pick it apart later, when his prevailing depression took root again – let it serve as a reminder –as the effigy- of precisely why he'd rather be nothing. But right now, he was curious. And he wanted to see.
"Hurry up!" Eff's high-pitched voice was one of excited impatience, despite D-boy doubting that the view outside wouldn't suddenly fuck off no matter how long he took, and made sure to express this opinion. Eff pulled his eyelid down and stuck his tongue out- although the elder Figment hadn't a clue what it meant, and assumed he'd seen it on a cartoon show he'd managed to watch.
D-boy made a mental note to throw the TV out of the window his comrade was now urging him to look out of. With this, the elder Figment reaffirmed his grip on the blanket around him and used his free hand to ease himself up off the sofa arm.
At once, his knee and elbow joints began to sear at the effort being exerted up them, and through the cloud of pain, D-boy wondered if Eff had been right to start moving as soon as possible, because sitting down had caused his joints and sockets and ligaments and muscles to grow stiff and had probably made it worse for himself. Even though his initial reaction was to sit back down again, the dark-haired youth acknowledged he'd only have to get back up again and repeat the process. His knees audibly cracked, although this did very little to relieve the rigidity, and he hissed through bared teeth as he straightened his spine – each disc grinding into place with a fiery sting.
And so D-boy stood properly for the first time in his new form.
However, this small accomplishment went largely unnoticed by the elder Figment who was currently focusing the better half of his attention on not collapsing in a heap or having a stroke. His eyes were shut tightly to form an anguished frown, and could distantly hear his own breath hitch occasionally on a faint sob.
"Come on, Psycho." It could almost be seen as encouragement, had it not for his following comment: "Jesus Christ, you look like an old man!"
"Fffuck. Holes in you, you s-sadistic piece of shit."
Endure it. Pain is…just… nerve stimulation.
Eff laughed uproariously when D-boy stubbed his foot on the leg of the makeshift coffee table.
After a furious string of expletives in highly creative combinations, the vast journey from the sofa to the armchair continued.
If I've gone and broke my fucking toe, I'll make sure I break the rest from ramming my foot up his ass.
It was incentive enough to keep D-boy putting one foot in front of the other, barely lifting them off the floor in preference of a shuffling technique that lessened the ache on his knees. By using this method, D-boy was eventually able to graze the armchair with his fingertips, and then the palm of his hand, and then allowed his forearm to take his weight and drag himself onto the arm – finally allowing himself to sit down. Sobbing and sweating and shaking, the former pastry display stand could do nothing but concentrate on getting enough air into his fragile lungs and hope that his vision stopped swimming sometime soon. His whole skeleton felt like it was tearing itself apart inside his skin – that in itself seeming like the only barrier that was actually keeping it in place. He could still feel the sensation of where the bones had grated against each other, forced into operation while still raw.
"So good of you to join me."
"You hole." It was the best insult D-boy could manage in his current state, the words trembling as he spoke them, all but a whisper. However, it only served to make Eff grin all the wider- pupils small islands in a ring of amber (not quite like his red, painted ones on his old body, but equally as piercing). D-boy hadn't thought that the moon and streetlamps below and whatever other lights dominated the night would have been bright enough to contract pupils like that, but admittedly, the former Voice of Despair wasn't well versed in the understanding of human anatomy.
What's my eye colour?
I'll check later. Or should I ask Eff?
…I'll check later.
As the pain in his joints receded to a dull ache, D-boy allowed himself to steal glances at the other from under cover of hair hanging in front of his face – a quick glimpse as he scratched the side of his nose. Although he couldn't see the moon itself, the silvery light reflected off it from a distant sun pooled into the room, first flowing over the Voice of Insanity. In addition to this, the sickly orange glow emitted from artificial lighting from the city? town? below lit the underside of his features, giving him a frighteningly surreal appearance.
He'd definitely appreciate that.
"I bet if it explodes it'd rain silver dust everywhere. Don't you think?
And the stars?
Fortunately, Eff had turned away again and was now far too enraptured with the outside world to notice D-boy's reluctantly curious gaze upon him. He probably knew anyway, though. Eff was like that; he'd act unassuming until he caught you off guard in an ambush attack you couldn't escape. Psycho had to give him some credit – the elder Figment would prefer to be more direct and immediately tell the other to piss the fuck off if he was doing something irritating. But that wasn't really relevant, was it? Because Eff was undoubtedly drunk on the knowledge he was being stared at –hardly find the act irritating at all.
D-boy felt brave enough to look outside. So, bracing himself, he allowed his body to slide further up the maroon arm of the worn chair and couldn't be sure whether it was his bones making the creaking or the leather. In turn, Eff retreated to perch on the opposite corner of the chair's back, to allow the other space - actually, that was quite considerate of him. The effort of using his muscles to lift his weight onto the slightly higher dais of furniture was enough to cause them to sear in protest. Thankfully, the distance was minimal and D-boy could rest once more, already panting at the effort, and trying hard not to exert himself further in order to make his position more comfortable. It would do.
Eff had a stupid little grin sketched on his stupid face, and it really didn't suit him. He looked like that sort of content and dewy eyed that can only ever be accomplished whilst being high or intoxicated. D-boy imagined that exact look could be found on most idiotic teens who had ever hopelessly stared at someone who they had no chance whatsoever of being with and they were probably a complete dick anyway, but that was beside the point because those idiotic teens couldn't see the flaws – or disregarded them even if they did and Eff was talking to him
Another eye-roll from the blonde. Heh, blonde. Now that was amusing. "I said 'what do you think?'"
The younger Figment jabbed a finger at the pane of glass, "That?"
D-boy now directed his attention to stare past the glass that separated them from outside, feeling somewhat like a child with ADD - although that, really, was Eff's field of expertise (and quite likely actually afflicted with). In the transparent barrier, he could see a vague reflection of his own face , but the light was too dim for the image to be of any use in regards to finding out his appearance, and so cupped a hand against the window to erase it and achieve a better view.
Eff had been right; they were high up. It gave the ex-Figment a momentary sense of vertigo, his stomach knotting horribly. But as he continued to peer down at the pavement below, the uneasy feeling subsided. On first inspection, D-boy concluded that they were indeed in an apartment – possibly on the outskirts of a modestly-sized town, judging from the buildings in the dark surrounding area – their lights like neon orange stars in distant concrete. It'd be easier to tell when it was light, although that didn't seem likely for a good while yet. Another apartment block wasn't far from their own –looking at it gave a more accurate measure of just how high their own room was, and D-boy could only see two rooms with lights on out of those he could see on the side of the building facing him. Beneath them, a main road ran parallel with the window the pair were gazing out of, it's path lit by streetlamps spewing a nauseous orange-yellow coloured light on the concrete pavement. It looked like it had been raining at some point; the surface was slick and splinters of orange and yellow and silver glinted off the wet.
D-boy couldn't see the moon at this angle, and he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed about this.
No stars either.
Maybe it's cloudy. Maybe the moon's too high and I've missed it.
I would like to see them again. I can admit to liking them –they're unbiased, neutral in this little experiment.
Neither something to hate, nor something to convince me into enjoying being Real.
Because I really, really don't want that.
Eff whispered, not wanting to break the illusion he was obviously under, "Well?"
The younger Figment was pressed so close to the pane of glass, his words left a pale mist of condensation. Which he quietly drew a smiley face in, using his index finger.
"I think it's hideous."
"Of course you do." Didn't sound completely there. "I don't though. I think it's beautiful." Probably wasn't. His voice was mellow, and it sounded so unnatural coming from Eff who was always crashing into one form of mania or another – sometimes furious, sometimes like an ecstatic child, but never sedate as he looked now. D-boy couldn't even recall a time that he'd been so calm as long as he'd known the other – and that was since forever ago. But had one never met Eff before, or had any inclination about his dysfunctional (this was becoming to be D-boy's favourite word to lend in description of the other) state of mind, his current physical appearance strongly suggested that it was anything but calm or sedate or mellow. Most mentally sound people didn't have a mass of blonde hair sticking up in such a way they seemed to have not long since been electrocuted, along with such sharp amber eyes that just dared you to fuck or fight him, and not forgetting a smile that served to make people nervous.
Although, should one have the displeasure of actually meeting the so-called Voice of Insanity, just how unstable his frame of mind was would be apparent after less than three minutes in his company. However, this would all but serve as an ego-trip to a being whose favourite past-time (aside from toast making) was seeing vital things from a person come out.
D-boy supposed the novelty of this whole mess, under the name of "living", would pass eventually, as Eff never had been known for his attention span. D-boy also supposed Eff was inclined to try and experience as much of being "real" in as little time as possible.
"It sucks for you that this all has to end, then." Passive-aggressive. Arguing just 'cause.
Eff stubbornly refused to look at the other, instead preferring to remain gazing at the view, as if he wanted to memorize it all. Perhaps he did. "Do you think that I can't influence you, Psychodoughboy?"
"Don't call me that." Eff let out a short noise of satisfaction from his nose, a slight smirk drifting idly –out of habit- across his face. "Do you really think you can? I'd like to take the opportunity to remind you that I won."
"Holes in you. You won because of an accident, and you know it. I was so close –Nny was going to turn the gun off when it happened!" This time, Eff did look at him, his face contorted into a scowl, but it lifted almost as soon as it had appeared. "But it doesn't matter, because we're Real now. I can make toast whenever I want and I'll just work extra hard on my manipulation of you and hey- you have a scar on your face- neat!"
"I do? Where?"
D-boy brushed his fingertips across his face in a random sweep, only to have it batted away by the other, who then proceeded to poke him in the temple. "There!" The blonde then dragged his finger, with more pressure than what was required, in a line down the side of D-boy's nose –stopping just above his lips. Warily, the elder Figment placed his own fingers to where Eff had determined the "starting point" and was surprised to find that there was, in fact, a raised line of skin, and repeated the trail to where it ended.
Suddenly, Eff was all but screeching with riotous laughter, holding his sides and a look of despair upon his face at his inability to stop. D-boy glared at his younger companion and demanded to know what this was all about and would he shut the fuck up already before he woke people up or something. However, Eff's hysterics continued for at least another half a minute, until, sobbing and wiping his eyes, he simmered down enough to explain.
His breathing was still erratic, a few giggles of laughter escaping, "You k-know what that's from, don't you?"
D-boy's raised eyebrow translated as: no, but you better fucking tell me soon you little shit.
"It's from when Nny stabbed you in the face and pinned you to the wall!"
The latter half of his sentence was spoken so fast and broken with uncontrollable shrieks of laughter, it was almost incomprehensible and took a few moments for D-boy to replay it in his mind to decipher it. When he finally did make sense of it, the former Voice of Despair emitted an infuriated growl, not caring in the slightest that it scratched at his throat to do so, and swung a fist to collide with the other's jaw and oh fuck did it ever feel good.
Eff hissed as his head whipped round, following the motion of the other's fist. Utter shock turned to rage, and the blonde's hands curled into fists, his entire body stiffening like a coiled spring.
D-boy braced himself for the inevitable retribution, knowing full well he hadn't gotten used to his body enough to be able to counter it.
Only the retaliation wasn't physical.
"WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK, PSYCHO!?"
"That felt marvellous."
Eff's expression of indignation was priceless, and D-boy smirked broadly in triumph. "That was my fucking face! Since when have you ever resorted to fist-fights anyway!?"
"Since it could actually hurt you."
The elder Figment made no attempt to conceal the smug look sliding onto his features.
The blonde let out a squeal of rage and launched his entire body at the other, the collision and momentum sending the pair hurtling backwards over the arm of the chair. D-boy cried out as his limbs and joints were involuntarily forced into movement, though could only release a hoarse whisper as the impact with the floor caused his chest muscles to constrict around his ribcage. This fall would have been retribution enough, as the darker haired youth lay gasping air through gritted teeth, blanket just managing to preserve whatever remaining dignity he had left.
Unfortunately, Eff disagreed.
Despite the fact he was probably in just as much pain, Eff managed to stagger to his knees, panting and snarling, then once again threw himself at his rival. It only seemed natural that he was as crude in his fighting technique as his language- although with this violent, ineloquent mindset, there was no denying its productiveness. Always straight to the point. In the same display of adrenalin-blinded thought, D-boy ignored the screaming in his bones and tried desperately to fend off his attacker. It was all in vain, however, as Eff clearly had the upper hand – he'd not only had more time for convalescence, but he also had the advantage in regards to their positions; namely, he was above the other with a knee either side of him.
I really fucking suck at fighting. This is twice now that this has happened –this exact same thing! Okay; we were both Styrofoam the first time, back in the Void. But are we really this predictable? This set into our reactions? The other felt a twinge of disgust for an instant. How did I not see this happening? Am I that blind – are we both- so that we can't even conceive acting any differently? Is-
"YOU LITTLE SHIT!"
D-boy's internal conflict ended abruptly as a result of having Eff's fist connect roughly with his face –managing to hit the targets of both his mouth and nose at once. His eyes watered and felt the metallic taste of blood trickle into his mouth, undecided and uncaring at which injured facial feature was the source. And how the fuck did he know it was blood in the first place!? They'd never tasted blood, or anything for that matter. But that was the least of Psychodoughboy's concerns.
Trying to ignore the thick cloud of pain that was spreading across his face, D-boy clamped a hand on Eff's face in an attempt to force himself free –perhaps gouge an eye with any luck. But they were torn away by the wrist and slammed into the carpet, continuing to be held in the places that had last been restrained by mechanical hands. The pressure on his bruised skin forced D-boy to hiss something indistinguishable, indecisively wanting to be free and at the same time not cause the other's grip to tighten.
Get off get of let go pl- no I'm not begging just let go
Eff had a frightening look on his face. Of course it was manic, but it was more than that; something with more focus than simple madness. Revelling in his superiority, his dominance over someone weaker…it was absolutely predatory.
The blonde grinned, both boasting and unpredictable at the same time. Something only he could accomplish.
D-boy simply glared, dripping despise with every shred of his being. Discomfort broke his steeled expression on occasion, knowing full well the other wouldn't miss these falters no matter how hard he tried to kill them.
"How many more times do I have to beat you before you just give it up, Psychodoughboy?"
"Holes in you, you fuck."
"You really are a sore loser, you know that? It's such an ugly quality to have."
Like your face. Oh god, that was childish, even for our standards.
"It's a good thing I don't give a shit then, isn't it?" Defiance. Even though the initial impetus of the argument was totally unrelated to the current subject of debate, this felt more familiar; something that they could endlessly debate about and go round in circles and repeat and contradict themselves, and still never gain ground, but it was familiar. And in such a foreign situation, it was a safe place to retreat to. "When you find everything ugly, it's hardly an insult."
Eff adopted a look of mock sadness, playing along, even if he wasn't consciously aware of it. "Poor Psycho. That's terrible. It must be simply awful to regard everything as 'ugly'. Nothing, my boy, is 'ugly' and I assure you that I wouldn't lie about that. It's all about perspective, you see, and mine is more accurate than yours as you are nothing but a pessimist, so biased by default."
"You'll always lie, Fuck. You wouldn't dare be honest with me –can't afford to let your guard down, so don't give me that shit. And I'm biased? By that logic, so are you – constantly looking for the pleasantries to being Real, lest you find something hideous to spoil your precious illusion."
Instantly, Eff stiffened and radiated that the situation was lingering on turning dangerous. The air was crackling again with tension, and for a moment, both ex-Figments stared each other down, positively daring the other to act first. Subconsciously –or otherwise, Eff's grip on D-boy's wrists increased and caused him to inhale sharply, much to Eff's satisfaction.
The younger of the two then leaned closer, the distance between reduced to more than a few inches. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from the other's face, take in the other's scent of burnt toast and Styrofoam.
"I'll always win, Psycho. Always."
D-boy kneed him squarely in the balls. "Fuck you," he spat, while Eff yelped and half-fell to get out of range. D-boy pushed himself by his elbows, reaffirming his purchase on the blanket, and took this to indicate that their brawl had ended. Now that the heat of the so-called battle was dying, pain had taken to rush in and fill the empty space. With any luck though, the previous amount of movement had served to loosen up his joints some –if that was any consolation.
Both were breathing heavily; granted- Eff's being more laboured, broken by short groans and drawn-out sighs after just recently having his crotch assaulted by D-boy's knee.
"You piece of shit," hissed the younger boy under his breath. The elder grinned victoriously, completely unconcerned with being responsible for causing such an injury. If anything, that was the biggest reason for his grin, rather than 'winning' the actual fight. 'Winning' being a loose term, as all he'd really served to do was defend himself appropriately from an almost certain beating.
Isn't that the same thing?
Somehow, D-boy knew it wasn't.
"What?" That simple word overflowed with undeniable hatred.
"Would you kindly get the fuck out so I can change? I've had quite enough of being naked."
Nevertheless, Eff, with one hand still grasping his groin, picked himself up shakily from the floor and staggered towards the door from which came the refrigerator humming sound. He didn't glance back once, and in an action worthy of a sulking teenager, slammed the door shut with window-rattling force.
D-boy reached above his head to grip the soft arm of the sofa, seeing as it was now the closest item of furniture to him after falling backwards off the chair. Accepting, rather than ignoring, the ache in his bones, D-boy raised his now heavy body to lean against the edge of the leather sofa, and scanned the room to relocate his pile of clothes. There. Gingerly, and using the back of the sofa as a suitable rail, he made his way to the opposite arm. With only the briefest of glances towards the door Eff had retreated behind, the Voice of Despair allowed the blanket to fall to his feet and finally take his first glance at his new container.
It doesn't look right, doesn't feel right. My legs are too long and as for that…I have nothing to say about that.
After much difficulty with the enormous feat of putting on the lower half of his attire, which included numerous near-misses in regards to falling over, D-boy picked up his illustrious shirt. And somehow, he approached the task with eager anticipation. Superman had his cape, Zorro had his mask, D-boy had his shirt with "FUCK" written on it. Although, in keeping with this analogy, Psychodoughboy would undoubtedly be more suitable in playing a villain, and he snickered despite himself.
With only a slight hesitation, he pulled the article of clothing over his head.