#mwwwwwaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh

[eycless-archived-blog]

              As soon as Mike hears the sound of his rustling blanket, he knows that Black Hands has returned. Eyes open slowly, half-lidded with yet another sleepless night. On him are wide ovals of vague light. He looks as innocent as he always does.

              ❛  Hey. ❜

              Black Hands blinks slowly. ❛ HELLO... ❜

              The man stares for a moment longer, then sits up, blanket tented around his knees as he runs a hand through messy hair. Tired... so tired... but he's used to it. He can handle it. The entity still hasn't moved a muscle aside from the shift of his eyes; they've followed him, bathed his face in a soft white glow. It's a beautiful allusion, a hint of purity sheathing restless features.

        ❛  ...what...? ❜  The man whispers, before he clears his throat and tries again, firmer this time: ❛ What? ❜

              The entity moves to sit next to him, feet pointing so that they can touch the ground as he anxiously fiddles with his fingers. The kill had been difficult, as much as he'd enjoyed it in the moment-- the wrong mindset had led him to believe that killing wouldn't be difficult, that he could go on in his kind's ways without feeling the crushing guilt that came parcelled with taking a life. He was wrong. How can he always be wrong about this? Will he ever learn?

              Mike takes note of his uncomfortable silence, watches as his eyes round at the top to give the illusion of an arched brow. Sad-- no, more honest than sad. Forlorn.

                    ❛  I'll taaake it you paid Tyler a visit. ❜                                                                                     Silence. Then, a tight-lipped: ❛ INDEED... ❜

              Quiet becomes their theme as they sit in the dark living room. The light from Black Hands' eyes dims, leaving them shaded in shadows as they crouch together in the emptiness. Somewhere in the silence, Mike thinks he hears a sound-- looks down to see the entity's shoulders shaking. Awkwardness takes over him, teeth gritting lightly as he considers his options, for he knows what's happening - vaguely - but doesn't understand how to remedy it. Emotions are difficult for him; it's no lie to say that Jaydon has been the first contact he's had with them since the loss of Anna. Or, at the very least, genuine ones that didn't result in anger.

                                  A hand settles hesitantly on the Eyeless' shoulder. ❛ ... it's... okaaay... ❜

              The whimpering stops. Movement of his head is gradual as he turns it upwards to look at him. Silent staring is all he does for approximately three seconds... before he loses his resolve. Whimpering turns to giggling, and even through choked sobs his laughter increases until the feeling of relief in his stomach is so great it feels as if he could fly.

              Once he's settled enough, Black Hands sniffles and wipes his eyes, ❛ YOU'RE... YOU'RE STILL SO HORRIBLE AAAT THE COMFOOORTING THING... ❜

              Mike chuckles despite himself.

              He doesn't protest as the being shuffles closer, hesitantly lays his head on the shoulder it's somewhat forgotten. Ever since he'd gotten closer to Noname, he really hadn't felt as much desire to be platonic. It's nice to fall back into his old habits, even if only while the demon appears to be absent. Cheek nuzzles, a hand moving to pull back the blanket so that he too can be beneath it. It's here that he notices the slight cringe on his host's face.

              ❛  'S OKAY. III'M NOT GOING TO KISS YOU. ❜                                                                 Cringe dissolves into a humoured expression, ❛ Thank God. ❜

              He's allowed further in, side meshing against Mike's hesitantly. More than the blanket envelops him then, a sense of familiarity so warm and comforting that he feels safe for the first time in a long time. Noname quells the whispering voices and the willowly tendrils... but sometimes he makes them tighten too. Taut around his ankles, around his wrists, trying to keep him from feeling, from touching, from staying and loving-- at the very least, they take note of Mike and leave completely.

              ❛  Hey... I was thiiinking... ❜  Mike suddenly speaks up. The entity's head shifts , eyes blinking up at him. A quiet ❛ mm' passes his lips as he takes note of the expression on his face. It's distant, thoughtful, faraway-- is he here right now? And if not, then where is he?  ❛ ...you... you saaaid you could do that stuff with memory, right...? ❜

              The Eyeless sits up straighter now, though the blanket is still tight over his shoulder. The more he immerses himself in the conversation, the more he forgets about what he's done. It seems a favourable pastime as opposed to laying next to a sleeping partner and stewing in self-loathing for several hours-- there's no way he's falling asleep tonight.

              ❛  ...YOU'RE... GOING TO HAAAVE TO ELABORATE. ❜                                                       ❛  Well. You said... you said you could 'delete' them. Diiidn't you? ❜

              Eyes squint. If this is going where he thinks it is, he wants no part in it. He's seen enough of a dead man for one night.

              ❛  MIKEY... ❜                                                   Without even having to specify what he means, Harmon replies: ❛ Please. ❜

              The man never says please. There are two rules about Mike Harmon: never beg and never kneel. If he breaks either one of them, there is a definite chance that he is desperate. Black Hands blinks at him (must he blink so much? He's so aware of it at this point--) and then sighs. A deadpan explanation is breathed through an unwilling mouth.

              ❛  YOU... WAAANT ME TO DELETE YOUR MEMORIES OF TYLER JOSEPH, DON'T YOU? YOU WANT ME TO... CRAWL INTO THAT... WIBBLY-WOBBLY BRAIN OF YOURS AAAND... ERADICATE HIM ENTIRELY, DON'T YOU? ❜

               Mike stares. Then, Mike nods. ❛ Mhmm. He's-- he's just- I hate him so much, Black Hands... it's fucking eating at me. Even knowing he's dead now didn't give me the euphoric rush III thought it would. I just wanna... not know about him. I don't want the cunt to exist. ❜

               The entity sighs, brushes a hand over pointed hair. It bounces back with about as much resistance as he feels he has the energy to treat Mikey's request with. He's already gone ahead and killed the man. What's a few more minutes of energy to thoroughly erase him? He stands on his knees, begins feeding himself into the man's palm with a grunt of   ❛ FINE, FINE ❜  as he disappears.

                                                        He hasn't been back inside in so long.

              Dodecahedron. It's what Mikey's mind has always been. As Black Hands stands in the centre of his mind, he takes note of all the the oddities he'd left behind. The clawing hands that protrude from the walls of his brain; the footsteps that seem to echo from nowhere and everywhere all at once; the edges that give way to wobbly nothingness, as if his mind simply dissolves into a black, empty space that he could walk along forever in an unchanging line.

              No time to focus on that. He has to at least look at where he'd originally belonged. Eyes peer down the dark hole that leads to his previous place of residence-- to think he'd called The Funnel his home at one point. With a deep breath, the entity feeds himself through it, spits himself into the 'bomb shelter of space' (as he'd once so eloquently described it to Noname) and stares. The lone swingset in the centre gives him chills. How many years had he spent rotting here, trying to kill Mikey? And then, in a twisted manner, trying to save him instead?

              Now that he has a form of his own, an existence of his own, he notices that the 'hatch' of The Funnel doesn't seem so black and unreachable. Knowing that he can leave freely now makes the being want to tear up-- regardless of the road he and his Mikey had gone down, he'd earned his right to leave. After spending a few more seconds looking around, he does so, and it is with a breath of relief that he approaches the place he knows memories are stored. This foolishness about molecules carrying memories get him every time-- it really is as simple as a computer sometimes in terms of storing it all. Not everything about the human is complex.

              It resembles a filing cabinet-- except it's tipped over and the 'receipts' of his past are scattered everywhere. Whenever he tries to pick a loose one up, it always seems to evade his touch. He can't reach it. Just as Mikey can't reach it either. Part of Black Hands is grateful that the man will never see the mess that is his own head. He isn't a disorganised person but the Eyeless certainly would have guessed otherwise had he never met him.

              Pulling open random segments of mind until he finds the familiar name engraved on its pulsating wall. Tyler. Joseph. There he is - and there he torturously remains. It is with ease that the creature peels back the layer of wobbliness and bears witness to a dozen well-kept receipts. Why they're so well-placed he doesn't understand-- perhaps it explains why the man can't seem to move on, why he remembers every little disservice Tyler ever did to him. The lies, the manipulation, the blatant mistreatment-- part of him wonders how Mikey could ever forget. Never mind. He'll make sure he does.

              The memories make an odd sound as they're peeled from the wall of the mind, akin to a sticker being pulled from its pad. That peeling, cellotape-esque noise, slightly wet to the ear but not to the pad of a finger; all of them screwed into a quivering ball in between black fists before he unapologetically throws them back into his cavernous mouth and grinds them into nonexistence. He doesn't even feed on them-- why would he want more remnants of the worm floating around inside of him?

              Mind shakes, as if overtaken by an earthquake. He floats to avoid the shift of Mikey's existence. Does he even realise what he'd asked him to do by requesting such a thing? He had quite literally just changed the way his brain functioned. To him, as of this moment, there was no such thing as Tyler. Just as asked, the singer no longer exists-- and, after the reports of his disappearance or death, however people choose to report it, die down (which Black Hands will be certain to make sure the man avoids), there would be nothing left to trigger Mikey's awareness. Even if his music still rang in his ears, his brain would make a new 'file' for the man - and only what was known to the public would be accessible.

              He won't have to remember the vile treatment he was forced to endure for the sake of 'friendship'. He won't have to recall the growing sense of worthless the longer he'd been emotionally abused and abandoned. He won't have to think about his hatred for the parasite any longer-- because he doesn't exist to him any more.

     Despite his horrible deeds that night, Black Hands smiles. With Mikey's potential peace comes his own.

                                                               Let him  FINALLY  rest now.