[When Koby was younger, he had trouble sleeping. It was like his mind couldn't turn off, kept spiraling over and over all the potential things that could go wrong, all the things that made him feel ashamed and fearful and confused, all the things he was afraid of, combining into a fraught knot of emotion that lived between his ribs and crushed his lungs every single night. He'd jerk awake from uneasy dozes, staring into the darkness and shivering all over for hours and hours, trying not to make too much noise, trying not to panic in a way anyone could see or hear.
Later, on Alvida's ship, things had been worse in a lot of ways, but at least he was usually exhausted enough at the end of each day to collapse into sleep for as long as the pirate captain would allow him to, too drained to question it. However, Alvida expected Koby to be ready, the second she bellowed his name, ready to jerk awake and be present, immediately, ready to clean or attend to her every whim or whatever it was she told him to do. If he wasn't -- well. Koby was the one who cleaned blood off her club every night. He knew what it could do to a person. So he got into the habit of staying awake for long stretches of time -- fifteen, sixteen hours, sometimes longer -- until he was absolutely positive she was asleep and he could curl up and pass out for a handful of hours.
And then: the Marines. Working too hard was rewarded there, it was a sign you were doing something right. Staying up late into the night, waking up at the crack of dawn were all viewed with approval. Sleeping only four or five hours a night meant you were dedicated, that you had what it took. Koby's whole existence was about proving just that. Besides, he hadn't been enlisted long enough for it to start to have a detrimental effect.
So he'd carried the habits over into the new world he'd woken up in, sitting up studying or reading or charting by candlelight, usually falling asleep at his desk and waking up with his back aching and his glasses shoved up into his hair. The only times Koby actually slept well were the nights -- rare at first, then steadily more common -- when Mihawk stayed over, or when he stayed at the cottage. And then they were living together, and there was something insidious and cruel in Koby's subconscious, whispering: it's only a matter of time, before he sees. Before he understands what a mess you are.
Koby had hoped this wasn't true, that he'd somehow found the magic solution to his constant nightmares -- a combination of memories and hypotheticals, logical and ridiculous, a swirling miasma of fear he barely kept in check while conscious, but which ran rampant at night. He'd pinned his every hope on Mihawk's mere presence being enough to keep the terrors at bay.
He'd been wrong.
It's one night, several days after he'd moved in for good, bitterly cold and well past midnight, when Koby goes from curled up in the protective circle of Mihawk's arms to sitting bolt upright, gasping sharply, his whole body seizing up in immediate, mindless terror, staring unseeing into the darkness. It's fast, it's loud and it goes on, that awful inhalation lasting and lasting in the pitch blackness, heedless of anything or anyone else. Just thoughtless, senseless fear, so acute it's almost tangible -- and, more than likely, something Mihawk can smell as well as hear.]
(By comparison, Mihawk had a rather privileged life growing up compared to many people from their world. He had always felt confident in himself. He was unfamiliar with fear, guilt, shame, or inadequacy. The only thing that had ever really come close to "haunting" him had been whatever had failed between Shanks and him, but even that was less of a haunt and more of an ache.
He's just not used to fear. He slept soundly and blankly every time he closed his eyes. The sort of annoying person who could fall asleep wherever he was and whenever he wanted and who would wake up refreshed and ready to go. He never felt vulnerable.
Not in the way he knows Koby has - and probably still does sometimes. Coming to live with Koby had taught him that sleep wasn't quite as easy for Koby as it was for Mihawk. He would try to talk with Koby or touch him til he fell asleep, falling asleep soon after. But this was a first. Mihawk immediately wakes up, a swordsman's senses are never that far away, especially with the wolf's newer instincts as well.
He's upright almost an exact single second after Koby, his eyes glowing in the dark with an animal, violent feral quality because his first instinct is that something had come into the room with them. He had automatically drawn the dagger from his neck, his other hand clawed, the fangs in his mouth thicker than they were mere moments ago.
Mihawk didn't get where he was by being reckless though. His eyes sweep the room quicker than any human could even imagine, registering the complete lack of a physical, visible threat. His ears prick, and swivel, listening to the stillness of their cottage, and of course, the scents are what truly make him realize that there is nothing at all. It wasn't even snowing outside. The nearest living thing he could hear was some creature hibernating somewhere beneath their cottage, their soft, sluggish heartbeat pulsing in the earth. He takes all of this information in within less than a minute.
Then his attention boils down to Koby. The raw sour fear coming off of him in waves, the sharp panting.)
Koby? (He ventures carefully, because hell, in this place, it could be more complex than something he could detect with his senses. He doesn't lower his dagger, but he does reach out, his claw shifting into something more familiar and human. He curls it carefully, protectively over Koby's waist, a frown growing on his face.)
Is it something in your mind? (Nightmare, curse or whatever it may be...This is so out of his league, but there wasn't an inch of him that was prepared to go back to sleep or move away until he had this sorted. Because whatever could make Koby feel so much fear - Mihawk wanted it dead.)
[The thing is -- Koby is easily startled, by nature. He's hypervigilant as a rule, always aware of what's going on around him, assessing for potential threats and looking for tables to leap under, if it comes to that. He's very realistic about his ability to defend himself, and how flight is usually the better option in situations of life and limb.
And Mihawk moves with the quiet care of a predatory creature, so sometimes Koby jumps or yelps or otherwise has a dramatic reaction to his appearance. But it's always only been an instant, a momentary surge of pure reaction that easily dissipates into indignant squawking or laughter or an eyeroll. It's an instinct, not a deliberate act. Despite all the myriad ways Mihawk could physically hurt him, Koby's never acted frightened of him before.
But this time Mihawk reaches out, the familiar hand curling in the familiar way around Koby's waist, gentle and careful and instead of relaxing backwards with an explanation, an apology, instead of curling into the welcoming warmth of the other man's sleep-warmed body -- Koby cringes away, arms wrapping tightly around his chest, breath catching on an awful, hoarse, almost-sob sound, whole body curling into a rigid, protective ball. It's also instinct, but something much, much deeper, something honed by terror and helplessness, the instinct of a caught prey animal to hide it's stomach, despite knowing perfectly well it's about to be torn open.
And it doesn't stop. He doesn't straighten up or look over and realize that he's awake, that the nightmare's over. That he's safe. There's no recognition, no response that suggests Koby knows who Mihawk is, or even where they are. Just senseless, animal fear.]
(For the first time in Mihawk's life, he has no clue what to do.
It's not the first time someone has been terrified to see him. It's far from the first time someone has flinched away from him.
It's just so different when it's coming from Koby that Mihawk nearly feels it like a slap to the face. Normally startling Koby was just something amusing that he liked to tease his lover about, but this wasn't that by any means. His hand automatically snaps away from Koby because if he can figure out anything right now it is that apparently touch isn't what Koby wanted.
It doesn't stop the sting of irrational hurt, the sting of concern. He doesn't move at all or say so much as a single word. His mind is painfully blank. Shanks was better with this sort of thing than he ever had been. Mihawk was never a patient or kind man. Even his short-lived empathy for the Straw Hats was always curt and direct.
What would Nami do? Hell, she's enough like him that should would probably be frozen on the spot too. Zoro would no doubt be awkward about the whole thing. Sanji was- well, Sanji was an idiot when it came to other men.
What would Luffy do? Mihawk blinks slowly and puts his dagger away. He doesn't understand a single thing about Luffy, but he knew the place he had in Koby's heart and he knew the general type of person Luffy was. Luffy wasn't someone anyone would be afraid of or flinch away from, but Mihawk was, and that wasn't something he could change right then. For a split second, he wished he could, wished that he was a different person because it doesn't matter - he just wanted to stop...This.
Whatever this was.
His ears are pinned back and he sits next to Koby, hands uselessly balled up in his lap, and he realizes the time keeps on going and he doesn't...know what to do.
Thankfully, another part of him seems to. That same part of Koby that reacts like an animal - Mihawk winds up reacting like an animal too. Mihawk might find his back the vulnerable part, but right now, he knows things operate more simply. He slowly lowers himself to lay in front of Koby, on his back, curled in toward Koby, and he gives a low whimper at the back of his throat.
He tucks closer to Koby without really touching him, but then he reaches his face out and nuzzles it just against Koby's leg, all wolf and no man, his face even partially morphed more wolf, an actual proper wolf's snout pushing affectionately against Koby's leg. He doesn't even intend the change to happen, but it's a gradual shift as if he knew instinctively that dealing with a canine might somehow be less intimidating than dealing with a person for Koby right now.)
[At the core of Koby's near-delirious, almost hyperventilating state, there's a strange sort of calm, like the eye of a hurricane. He can't breathe right, his head is spinning, his body is uncontrollably shaking, but now that he's started the panic, there's nothing he can do. It's happening, it's going to keep happening, he's powerless to do anything but ride the crest of mindless terror until it either kills him or stops. There's nothing that can make it better, nothing that can soothe it along -- Koby's tried everything he knows of, everything he can do by himself.
Because that's what he's always been: by himself. Whatever happened, whoever hurt him, whatever long empty endless nights he endured, Koby was always wholly alone. He stitched up his own wounds, he fought with his own ghosts, he sat and stared out from the dank, dark hold and tried to imagine something other than a lifetime of this. When the dreams or fears grabbed hold of him, he didn't reach out for help, because he knew nobody would ever be there. Not for him.
But then -- in the midst of a shivering, whining terror that's as familiar as his own flesh, there's something there. Someone. A low sound, a long, slender nose bumping against Koby's leg, silky fur brushing his shivering thigh. And though he can't remember where he is or how or why, Koby knows this much: everyone who's ever hurt him has done so with a human face and human touch and human voice. Not canine. There's not a place for the touch of the wolfish muzzle, the tremor of a gruff beast's voice, the bright glow of canine eyes when Koby tears his blank gaze away from the empty darkness, looks down instead. Unlike the touch of Mihawk's hand, the wolf resting it's head against his leg doesn't remind Koby of anything painful or frightening or bad.
He's still shaking all over, still breathing in and in, gasping, choking sounds, but one hand is moving, lowering to the silky, plush fur. Clumsily, Koby strokes over the back of one of Mihawk's pointed ears, then curls his icy fingers around it, like he suddenly can't let go. There's no flicker of recognition in his glassy, teary eyes, not yet, but he's actually looking at Mihawk, instead of through him. That's something.]
(There's a hitch of relief when Koby doesn't jerk away from him again. There's a deeper part of him that's pleased like he did something close to the right thing. Some people hated dogs, certainly, but they were a constant companion of man for a reason, right? His eyes shut briefly when Koby moves to pet him, and that feels good too, but mostly because it feels like an anchor being dropped into a swirling sea.
It was progress. He could work with this. He opens his eyes back up when Koby grips his ear. It doesn't hurt in the slightest, even if tight. He lets out another low whine at the back of his throat as if to ask if Koby was okay and if he was with him. But Koby is looking at him now, eyes wet, something still tender and vulnerable in his face.
Mihawk steadily moves up, gently nudging his snout under Koby's chin, as if to say now, now. Then he's giving a small lick to Koby's face, then another bigger one, whimpering quietly, tag wagging hesitantly behind him. He just...wanted to get Koby to stop looking like that. Even if he couldn't make him smile, he wanted Koby to come back to himself, to Mihawk, to where they are right now, and even without fully understanding mental health, Mihawk realizes that Koby is still miles away in whatever hell his own mind put him in.
And he could hear his heart thumping. He just needed to get him to calm down, to reel him in. To ground him. Somehow.)
[Koby's cold fingers loosen as the warm, soft, furry weight moves, tucked under his chin, so huge that it -- that he doesn't fit easily across the young man's shivering thighs. There's just a mass of silky fluff, a wet heat against his face, a weight against his body that's unmistakably real. It's not the amorphous swirling terror, it's not the numbing horror of being back where he'd been for so long, caught in a memory -- it's immediate, it's tactile, it's creating a tether back to the now.
A soft, whimpering growl, the swish of a long, silky tail, and the name comes to him, like an anchor, like a lighthouse --] Mihawk. [It comes out as a sob and Koby squeezing his eyes shut, tears streaking down his face, relief flooding through his body as his tight chest releases just a bit, as breathing comes suddenly easier. He's still shaking violently, still struggling with each inhale, movements jerky and uncoordinated as both hands slide deep into Mihawk's fur and cling tight, but now Koby knows where he is. Who he's with. Now there's something to hold onto, a true north to follow.
Eyes still closed, Koby tugs a little at Mihawk's massive, canine bulk, needing more of the weight, the warmth, something to remind him where his body is, to keep him in it. It's hard, he keeps wanting to slip back into that other, alternate place, that unhinged, untethered nightmare. But Mihawk across his lap, resting against his chest is something Koby can focus on to stay here. Where nothing and nobody can hurt him.]
(The smell of Koby's tears somehow relaxes Mihawk. It's a release of emotions, a collapse that needed to happen. He leans into Koby's arms, as he always did, but this time with a bit more confidence behind it. When Koby says his name, he realizes perhaps he wasn't as hopeless with this as he had thought.
This was Koby. His Koby and he could handle him in every facet he had. If he couldn't right now, in the best way, then he would simply learn. It's instinctual after that. He presses against Koby and moves to put his entire weight on top of Koby, pinning him to the bed.
Then, slowly, the fur recedes and Mihawk ebbs back into a more human shape of himself. His back and shoulders are still dense with fur, his eyes still bright and golden, but it's his face again. Comfort isn't his strong suit, but for Koby, it would be. He presses his mouth against the side of Koby's head in a proper kiss, sighing against him.)
I will not let anything hurt you, Koby. (He murmurs softly against the shell of Koby's ear.) You're here. With me. All right?
[Koby hadn't been able to say it, hadn't known how to verbalize what he needed to bring him back to the real world, to release the grip his silent, mental torment had, but Mihawk had known. He'd known, had pressed forward and brought him into his body and kept him there, kept him safe with the sheer force of his presence.
Each shaky, stuttering breath pulls Koby a little more back to where he is, who he is, reminds him that the things that used to be ever-present -- fear and hunger and exhaustion and loneliness -- are gone. They can't touch him here. Not when Mihawk's there, invincible and immovable and his.
This time the sound of Mihawk's voice doesn't prompt Koby to flinch away or try to protect himself. He lets out a shuddery sob, pressing closer to the sound, letting it curl around him like a physical touch. It's the familiar, adored timbre, tone, endlessly gentle, soothing the frenetic, wild beat of Koby's heart. He curls towards it, tucks himself under Mihawk's chin and manages a nod.]
(It felt natural, really, now that he thought about it. He couldn't cut Koby's problems down with a sword, but his body had always been reliable. Perhaps he could just remind Koby of where he was and who he was with. That Mihawk would cut down entire cities for him without a second thought.
Hearing Koby so terrified and broken struck something deep inside of Mihawk, and for the first time ever, Mihawk realized that he wanted to keep someone safe for once. Not just happy, but safe. Secure. Protected.
Everything Mihawk has never bothered with out of the callousness of his own indifference. He had never had to bother with keeping Shanks safe whether from other threats or his own mind - at least not like this. Shanks could keep himself safe. Koby though...
Perhaps in the future he could, but right now, he was Mihawk's responsibility.)
Of course, I won't leave. (Determined and fierce. He pulls up, bracing himself on an arm so that he can look Koby in the eye. He pauses, hesitating a moment, and then slowly forces himself to say what he always knew to be true:)
You...couldn't get me to leave even if you begged me, Koby. (The very opposite of Mihawk's usual stance on giving Koby all the power, all the control. For this thing and this thing alone, Mihawk thinks that maybe it's all right if he is selfish.)
Whatever strikes this terror in your heart - I won't let you deal with it alone. Ever.
[The warmth of the blankets, the pillows, Mihawk's body against his is slowly coaxing the shivering to abate, keeping Koby present, aware. He tucks closer to Mihawk, knees bumping against his, breathing in his scent, hand sliding down his side, finding the familiar jut of his hip, the contour of the muscles in his lower back. It's a pattern Koby would know from touch alone, tracing over the warm, skin, the fur, curling his fingers gently in it.
Looking up, eyes teary and deep blue in the dim light, Koby hiccups out a breath, coming back to himself more with each word.] Sorry. [Of course that's the first thing he manages to say, reaching up to wipe at his tear-streaked face.] It's -- just dreams I have sometimes. They're not...not real, I'm. It's over. It's fine.
[Voice breaking, squeezing his eyes shut:] I'm f-fine.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action ~ sometime mid-december ig idk
Later, on Alvida's ship, things had been worse in a lot of ways, but at least he was usually exhausted enough at the end of each day to collapse into sleep for as long as the pirate captain would allow him to, too drained to question it. However, Alvida expected Koby to be ready, the second she bellowed his name, ready to jerk awake and be present, immediately, ready to clean or attend to her every whim or whatever it was she told him to do. If he wasn't -- well. Koby was the one who cleaned blood off her club every night. He knew what it could do to a person. So he got into the habit of staying awake for long stretches of time -- fifteen, sixteen hours, sometimes longer -- until he was absolutely positive she was asleep and he could curl up and pass out for a handful of hours.
And then: the Marines. Working too hard was rewarded there, it was a sign you were doing something right. Staying up late into the night, waking up at the crack of dawn were all viewed with approval. Sleeping only four or five hours a night meant you were dedicated, that you had what it took. Koby's whole existence was about proving just that. Besides, he hadn't been enlisted long enough for it to start to have a detrimental effect.
So he'd carried the habits over into the new world he'd woken up in, sitting up studying or reading or charting by candlelight, usually falling asleep at his desk and waking up with his back aching and his glasses shoved up into his hair. The only times Koby actually slept well were the nights -- rare at first, then steadily more common -- when Mihawk stayed over, or when he stayed at the cottage. And then they were living together, and there was something insidious and cruel in Koby's subconscious, whispering: it's only a matter of time, before he sees. Before he understands what a mess you are.
Koby had hoped this wasn't true, that he'd somehow found the magic solution to his constant nightmares -- a combination of memories and hypotheticals, logical and ridiculous, a swirling miasma of fear he barely kept in check while conscious, but which ran rampant at night. He'd pinned his every hope on Mihawk's mere presence being enough to keep the terrors at bay.
He'd been wrong.
It's one night, several days after he'd moved in for good, bitterly cold and well past midnight, when Koby goes from curled up in the protective circle of Mihawk's arms to sitting bolt upright, gasping sharply, his whole body seizing up in immediate, mindless terror, staring unseeing into the darkness. It's fast, it's loud and it goes on, that awful inhalation lasting and lasting in the pitch blackness, heedless of anything or anyone else. Just thoughtless, senseless fear, so acute it's almost tangible -- and, more than likely, something Mihawk can smell as well as hear.]
HELL yea
He's just not used to fear. He slept soundly and blankly every time he closed his eyes. The sort of annoying person who could fall asleep wherever he was and whenever he wanted and who would wake up refreshed and ready to go. He never felt vulnerable.
Not in the way he knows Koby has - and probably still does sometimes. Coming to live with Koby had taught him that sleep wasn't quite as easy for Koby as it was for Mihawk. He would try to talk with Koby or touch him til he fell asleep, falling asleep soon after. But this was a first. Mihawk immediately wakes up, a swordsman's senses are never that far away, especially with the wolf's newer instincts as well.
He's upright almost an exact single second after Koby, his eyes glowing in the dark with an animal, violent feral quality because his first instinct is that something had come into the room with them. He had automatically drawn the dagger from his neck, his other hand clawed, the fangs in his mouth thicker than they were mere moments ago.
Mihawk didn't get where he was by being reckless though. His eyes sweep the room quicker than any human could even imagine, registering the complete lack of a physical, visible threat. His ears prick, and swivel, listening to the stillness of their cottage, and of course, the scents are what truly make him realize that there is nothing at all. It wasn't even snowing outside. The nearest living thing he could hear was some creature hibernating somewhere beneath their cottage, their soft, sluggish heartbeat pulsing in the earth. He takes all of this information in within less than a minute.
Then his attention boils down to Koby. The raw sour fear coming off of him in waves, the sharp panting.)
Koby? (He ventures carefully, because hell, in this place, it could be more complex than something he could detect with his senses. He doesn't lower his dagger, but he does reach out, his claw shifting into something more familiar and human. He curls it carefully, protectively over Koby's waist, a frown growing on his face.)
Is it something in your mind? (Nightmare, curse or whatever it may be...This is so out of his league, but there wasn't an inch of him that was prepared to go back to sleep or move away until he had this sorted. Because whatever could make Koby feel so much fear - Mihawk wanted it dead.)
i love crying~
And Mihawk moves with the quiet care of a predatory creature, so sometimes Koby jumps or yelps or otherwise has a dramatic reaction to his appearance. But it's always only been an instant, a momentary surge of pure reaction that easily dissipates into indignant squawking or laughter or an eyeroll. It's an instinct, not a deliberate act. Despite all the myriad ways Mihawk could physically hurt him, Koby's never acted frightened of him before.
But this time Mihawk reaches out, the familiar hand curling in the familiar way around Koby's waist, gentle and careful and instead of relaxing backwards with an explanation, an apology, instead of curling into the welcoming warmth of the other man's sleep-warmed body -- Koby cringes away, arms wrapping tightly around his chest, breath catching on an awful, hoarse, almost-sob sound, whole body curling into a rigid, protective ball. It's also instinct, but something much, much deeper, something honed by terror and helplessness, the instinct of a caught prey animal to hide it's stomach, despite knowing perfectly well it's about to be torn open.
And it doesn't stop. He doesn't straighten up or look over and realize that he's awake, that the nightmare's over. That he's safe. There's no recognition, no response that suggests Koby knows who Mihawk is, or even where they are. Just senseless, animal fear.]
no subject
It's not the first time someone has been terrified to see him. It's far from the first time someone has flinched away from him.
It's just so different when it's coming from Koby that Mihawk nearly feels it like a slap to the face. Normally startling Koby was just something amusing that he liked to tease his lover about, but this wasn't that by any means. His hand automatically snaps away from Koby because if he can figure out anything right now it is that apparently touch isn't what Koby wanted.
It doesn't stop the sting of irrational hurt, the sting of concern. He doesn't move at all or say so much as a single word. His mind is painfully blank. Shanks was better with this sort of thing than he ever had been. Mihawk was never a patient or kind man. Even his short-lived empathy for the Straw Hats was always curt and direct.
What would Nami do? Hell, she's enough like him that should would probably be frozen on the spot too. Zoro would no doubt be awkward about the whole thing. Sanji was- well, Sanji was an idiot when it came to other men.
What would Luffy do? Mihawk blinks slowly and puts his dagger away. He doesn't understand a single thing about Luffy, but he knew the place he had in Koby's heart and he knew the general type of person Luffy was. Luffy wasn't someone anyone would be afraid of or flinch away from, but Mihawk was, and that wasn't something he could change right then. For a split second, he wished he could, wished that he was a different person because it doesn't matter - he just wanted to stop...This.
Whatever this was.
His ears are pinned back and he sits next to Koby, hands uselessly balled up in his lap, and he realizes the time keeps on going and he doesn't...know what to do.
Thankfully, another part of him seems to. That same part of Koby that reacts like an animal - Mihawk winds up reacting like an animal too. Mihawk might find his back the vulnerable part, but right now, he knows things operate more simply. He slowly lowers himself to lay in front of Koby, on his back, curled in toward Koby, and he gives a low whimper at the back of his throat.
He tucks closer to Koby without really touching him, but then he reaches his face out and nuzzles it just against Koby's leg, all wolf and no man, his face even partially morphed more wolf, an actual proper wolf's snout pushing affectionately against Koby's leg. He doesn't even intend the change to happen, but it's a gradual shift as if he knew instinctively that dealing with a canine might somehow be less intimidating than dealing with a person for Koby right now.)
no subject
Because that's what he's always been: by himself. Whatever happened, whoever hurt him, whatever long empty endless nights he endured, Koby was always wholly alone. He stitched up his own wounds, he fought with his own ghosts, he sat and stared out from the dank, dark hold and tried to imagine something other than a lifetime of this. When the dreams or fears grabbed hold of him, he didn't reach out for help, because he knew nobody would ever be there. Not for him.
But then -- in the midst of a shivering, whining terror that's as familiar as his own flesh, there's something there. Someone. A low sound, a long, slender nose bumping against Koby's leg, silky fur brushing his shivering thigh. And though he can't remember where he is or how or why, Koby knows this much: everyone who's ever hurt him has done so with a human face and human touch and human voice. Not canine. There's not a place for the touch of the wolfish muzzle, the tremor of a gruff beast's voice, the bright glow of canine eyes when Koby tears his blank gaze away from the empty darkness, looks down instead. Unlike the touch of Mihawk's hand, the wolf resting it's head against his leg doesn't remind Koby of anything painful or frightening or bad.
He's still shaking all over, still breathing in and in, gasping, choking sounds, but one hand is moving, lowering to the silky, plush fur. Clumsily, Koby strokes over the back of one of Mihawk's pointed ears, then curls his icy fingers around it, like he suddenly can't let go. There's no flicker of recognition in his glassy, teary eyes, not yet, but he's actually looking at Mihawk, instead of through him. That's something.]
no subject
It was progress. He could work with this. He opens his eyes back up when Koby grips his ear. It doesn't hurt in the slightest, even if tight. He lets out another low whine at the back of his throat as if to ask if Koby was okay and if he was with him. But Koby is looking at him now, eyes wet, something still tender and vulnerable in his face.
Mihawk steadily moves up, gently nudging his snout under Koby's chin, as if to say now, now. Then he's giving a small lick to Koby's face, then another bigger one, whimpering quietly, tag wagging hesitantly behind him. He just...wanted to get Koby to stop looking like that. Even if he couldn't make him smile, he wanted Koby to come back to himself, to Mihawk, to where they are right now, and even without fully understanding mental health, Mihawk realizes that Koby is still miles away in whatever hell his own mind put him in.
And he could hear his heart thumping. He just needed to get him to calm down, to reel him in. To ground him. Somehow.)
no subject
A soft, whimpering growl, the swish of a long, silky tail, and the name comes to him, like an anchor, like a lighthouse --] Mihawk. [It comes out as a sob and Koby squeezing his eyes shut, tears streaking down his face, relief flooding through his body as his tight chest releases just a bit, as breathing comes suddenly easier. He's still shaking violently, still struggling with each inhale, movements jerky and uncoordinated as both hands slide deep into Mihawk's fur and cling tight, but now Koby knows where he is. Who he's with. Now there's something to hold onto, a true north to follow.
Eyes still closed, Koby tugs a little at Mihawk's massive, canine bulk, needing more of the weight, the warmth, something to remind him where his body is, to keep him in it. It's hard, he keeps wanting to slip back into that other, alternate place, that unhinged, untethered nightmare. But Mihawk across his lap, resting against his chest is something Koby can focus on to stay here. Where nothing and nobody can hurt him.]
no subject
This was Koby. His Koby and he could handle him in every facet he had. If he couldn't right now, in the best way, then he would simply learn. It's instinctual after that. He presses against Koby and moves to put his entire weight on top of Koby, pinning him to the bed.
Then, slowly, the fur recedes and Mihawk ebbs back into a more human shape of himself. His back and shoulders are still dense with fur, his eyes still bright and golden, but it's his face again. Comfort isn't his strong suit, but for Koby, it would be. He presses his mouth against the side of Koby's head in a proper kiss, sighing against him.)
I will not let anything hurt you, Koby. (He murmurs softly against the shell of Koby's ear.) You're here. With me. All right?
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Each shaky, stuttering breath pulls Koby a little more back to where he is, who he is, reminds him that the things that used to be ever-present -- fear and hunger and exhaustion and loneliness -- are gone. They can't touch him here. Not when Mihawk's there, invincible and immovable and his.
This time the sound of Mihawk's voice doesn't prompt Koby to flinch away or try to protect himself. He lets out a shuddery sob, pressing closer to the sound, letting it curl around him like a physical touch. It's the familiar, adored timbre, tone, endlessly gentle, soothing the frenetic, wild beat of Koby's heart. He curls towards it, tucks himself under Mihawk's chin and manages a nod.]
You're here. [It's soft, barely audible. Then, again, firmer:] You're here. You're real. You -- won't leave.
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Hearing Koby so terrified and broken struck something deep inside of Mihawk, and for the first time ever, Mihawk realized that he wanted to keep someone safe for once. Not just happy, but safe. Secure. Protected.
Everything Mihawk has never bothered with out of the callousness of his own indifference. He had never had to bother with keeping Shanks safe whether from other threats or his own mind - at least not like this. Shanks could keep himself safe. Koby though...
Perhaps in the future he could, but right now, he was Mihawk's responsibility.)
Of course, I won't leave. (Determined and fierce. He pulls up, bracing himself on an arm so that he can look Koby in the eye. He pauses, hesitating a moment, and then slowly forces himself to say what he always knew to be true:)
You...couldn't get me to leave even if you begged me, Koby. (The very opposite of Mihawk's usual stance on giving Koby all the power, all the control. For this thing and this thing alone, Mihawk thinks that maybe it's all right if he is selfish.)
Whatever strikes this terror in your heart - I won't let you deal with it alone. Ever.
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Looking up, eyes teary and deep blue in the dim light, Koby hiccups out a breath, coming back to himself more with each word.] Sorry. [Of course that's the first thing he manages to say, reaching up to wipe at his tear-streaked face.] It's -- just dreams I have sometimes. They're not...not real, I'm. It's over. It's fine.
[Voice breaking, squeezing his eyes shut:] I'm f-fine.