#f cellbit

And sometimes, Mike would speak. Hesitantly, but presently. "I know you said you don't understand why we don't leave without you, but I wouldn't know what to do with myself," Mike gruffly admits this time.

Pac blinks. He stops walking. Mike follows suit the moment he notices. He ended up hardly a step in front of Pac. A smile crosses Pac's lips. He hopes its convincing enough. "I think you would be okay, but thank you for waiting," he tries to reassure. He meets Mike's gaze. Something in Mike seems to shrink away. His body folding ever slightly inward at the words. Pac wonders if something about him is just that off-putting now.

"Whenever you're back in our ward, we're leaving," Mike responds a little softer. If Pac were anyone but himself he wouldn't have picked up on the subtle shake to Mike's voice. His feet start moving again, and Pac follows. Crutches swinging.

Later in his cell, Pac tries to get a look in the mirror while he sits on the bed. His eyes glance over the reflection that greets him. He watches a laugh wrack his body as he takes it all in. His jumpsuit hangs off him awkwardly. It always has but the way it bags around his slimming shoulders and torso should be scary. His eyes were dull, sunken, and dark. His hair was matted to hell and back. His cheekbones were more prominent than his baby face would ever allow under normal circumstances.

Fuck. He closes his eyes and curls his body forward for a second. Pac looks like a corpse. This place was killing him. This place was going to be the death of him, and he would deserve it. He was a sinner and a piece of shit

Beyond saving. Beyond repentance. Doomed from the start. This would be his grave, like JV.

There's tension in his throat. Bile fills Pac’s stomach. He feels his hands start to shake and tremble against his will. The world around him starts to feel fake. An illusion. An overlay. He squeezes his eyes tighter. He was still in the passage. He never left. Every day he feels like he never left.

There's hands on him. A tourniquet around his knee. Someone is yelling. Everything burns. Faintly. He has to be good and quiet. Good little rabbits stay quiet.

His world splits into two processes. Conflicting understandings of the present, contrasted by a complete lack of understanding at the same time. Cotton and concrete. Tears and blood. Caress and chokehold.

"Shhh. Shhhh, queridinho," Pac hears. Harsh, a little raspy. Attempting gentleness that is probably fake.

But it's too real. His heart beats in his chest faster than anything ever has. The world comes into a focus so fast. The slow motion of the seconds before disaster hits him. He's humming. His eyes are closed. There's blood in his mouth. He must have bitten his cheek. He does not want to open his eyes. There's a hand on his back.

Pac has no idea how Cell got in here.

"Queridinho, look at me," Cell not quite whispers. It isn't... loud. Normally Cell is loud, but this is very very quiet. In a way, it could almost be comforting. The bile rising further in his throat refused to be ignored. He would always be denied deluded safety.

A hand gently cups Pac’s cheek and turns his head to look at Cell. "Good. If you keep screaming, you're going to wake everyone up," he explains. Pac isn't sure if it's a threat. With Cell, really everything was. Pac forces his eyes to focus. He can't make eye contact without completely spiraling. "I don't want anything else to happen to you. We've already waited too long for you," Cell gently drags his finger tips up to Pac's hair as he speaks. There's some half-hearted attempt at comfort. It was probably just performative.

Any of Cell's kindness had a motive. Even when lips meant lips, it was all a means to an end. The grip on Pac’s jaw made him wonder if Cell knew genuine gentleness. Or if it was all the same to him. Everything was an illusion or it was blatant honestly. The worse it was the more honest you could assume it was.

Then Cell gets closer. Pac can feel hot air on his face, but he sees something else. He sees blood on Cell's teeth. His body wants to curl in on itself with pain and dizziness. His skin is slowly growing cold and sweaty. He is dying, again. The taste of his own blood on his lips. The texture of his own flesh in his mouth. A hand gripped so hard in his hair that it might pull hair out.

Pac bites the inside of his cheek to ground himself. A whine leaves his throat in his distress. It is still so quite though. "You're okay. Queridinho, I just need to fill you in on some plans," Cell starts. His true message hidden by a veil of sweet tones. The way he almost coos around the word Queridinho, like it was a sweet gift of a nickname. "So good for me. Here is the plan, Pacci. You're going to ask to go back to your cell. No more infirmary. Then you get three weeks to get back into shape before we leave," he explains.

Pac doesn't register the words, not really. Torn between moments it was hard to understand what was real or not. Cell doesn't give him much time to try and catch up before he's moving Pac’s head for him. A nod. Pac had to agree. His chest burns at this. He doesn't understand until Cell let's go of his face. He collapses back onto the bed and then it clicks. His time was up.

He doesn't even bother to try and figure out how Cell got in. Pac stays motionless aside from visible shaking. The cell door closes, and Pac rolls to face away from it. He didn't want to look. He didn't want to exist. Pac just wanted to be nothing.

(+ Cellbit's POV, as a treat)