Work Text:
It's cold outside. A frozen, icy wind whips through the land. The rain pours down with such force that plants flatten and the ground begins to dent. The trees shiver and quake, and so do the nearby residents. Most of them have barricades themselves inside as they watch fearfully at any close branches. Many have bundled themselves in layers of blankets to keep warm. The wooden floors are frigid beneath their feet.
It's freezing outside.
And yet, Ranboo is burning.
They're sat against a nearby tree, the leaves above providing them with little shelter. His knees are pulled under his chin, and his lungs rises inconsistently. Each breath is short and labored.
Tears stream down their face, carving painful lines along their cheeks. His previous scars are all reopened, and the salt only further irritates their skin. They can feel a stickier substance run down the wounds and soak into their pants, but they do not dare to wipe it away. His body feels frozen in place. He keeps his eyes closed, unable to face the rain. Unable to face the agonizing liquid burning through him.
The sound of sizzling skin clouds their senses. It feels as though someone has begun to rip apart his flesh chunk by chunk, until all he is left with is his bones. He can feel the rain drilling holes in his skin. Each drop tears through him like a bullet, sharp and agonizing. He claws at his skin, leaving long, bleeding gashes along his arms. Vaguely, they can feel pieces of flesh and blood stuck beneath their nails.
Time passes excruciatingly slow, and their torment only worsens.
Every single drop scrapes against his bones.
Every single drop burns through layers and layers of skin.
His fingers brush against his forearm, feeling each hole now present throughout their entire body.
This is how I die, he thinks briefly.
Alone.
In the cold.
Burning.
Sizzling away beneath a torrent of rain.
And yet…
Eventually, the storm begins to slow.
The fire against his skin begins to fade as the rain leaves one last kiss. In its place remains the stinging of a thousand wounds.
Ranboo peaks open their eyes, wincing as more tears continue to burn their face. Once their vision focuses, they nearly vomit at the sight that greets them.
His hands, his arms, his legs, everything, is all peppered with holes.
He scratches at his arms, his legs, his hands, any part he can reach, trying desperately to get rid of the holes. None of it works. Running a hand along the uneven holes, they can feel their fingers dip into each divot.
Their eyes feel glued open, staring at what has become of their body. Staring at their new appearance. Staring at the horror of their new reality.
Holes.
Tiny holes.
Covering their skin.
It makes them want to vomit.
The pain barely registers in their mind as they dig their nails into the wounds. Nausea fills his stomach as they continue to exist, as they continue to stare tauntingly at him. The skin tears, his arms burn, but the holes remain. Deep. Never fully disappearing.
At most, he simply makes it worse. The scratching causes blood to slowly seep out of each and every one of the holes. Any movement of his arms causes the skin to flex and stretch, and the crimson squeezes out of the openings, covering his hands. The fluid pools in each of them, sticking to the mangled skin and beading up like hives.
Drops of rain continue to fall from the leaves above them, and the water mixes with the blood, running down the sides of their limbs and onto the grass. Shakily, Ranboo drags themself away from under the tree. The ground where they were previously sitting is now stained, and streaks of red follow them as they continue to crawl.
They crawl towards the city, silently pleading for someone to help them. The lights of the houses look like salvation. Their throat feels raw, and even attempting to whisper shoots pain throughout their larynx.
Looking at L'manburg, the nation almost seems more beautiful after the storm. A delicate shine covers everything, and the windows glimmer with droplets of rain. The flowers perk up, refreshed, and the rooftops glitter in the hesitant sunlight.
Yet, as he manages to get to the docks, he catches a glimpse of himself in the water's reflection.
Staring back at him is a face.
Distantly, he is aware that it is his own face, and yet he can hardly recognize himself. The line dividing his black and white skin is a mess of flesh and blood. Tiny holes are clustered along their nose, their cheeks, beneath their eyes, their forehead, their jawline, their neck, their shoulders, and every exposed piece of skin that had been available for the rain to touch.
Whether he'd just spent a rainstorm outside or was a target at a shooting range, he cannot tell.
The sight horrifies him, and bile begins to rise in his throat.
Who is he?
Who was he?
What has become of him?
What has the rain made him?
As they stare at their reflection, they're unsure if they will ever be able to answer those questions. And, agonizingly, a new reality begins to set in. A torturous and lonely one. Because while he may not be able to find the answers to his questions…
Watching the monster who stares back at him,
…he fears he cannot face anyone else to ask them, either.