[identity profile] rhea-samma.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] watari_003
Title: Restraint
Genre: Macabre/Dark
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: None, slight WatarixTatsumi if you squint
Summary: What's the deal with Watari and his skin-tight clothes?
Author's Notes (optional): I should really stop making Watari go crazy D: I'm so mean to him TT__TT


Restraint 


It had often been noted that underneath the baggy turtlenecks, flowing labcoats, and long overcoats, Watari wore snug, restrictive clothing.
 
Granted, the birth of the internet, cyberpunk fashion, and excess of free time may have morphed it into some sort of kink over the years, but even before then, Watari had always worn tight clothes, hidden under two or three layers of other fabric. He had always done so.
 
He was perpetually cold so he wrapped himself in layers and layers of fabric, desperately hoping to keep himself warm.
 
He was afraid of people and their capacity to hurt others, so he put on armor in the guise of cloth, shielding himself from their touch.
 
He enjoyed the play of light against shiny latex and PVC, he loved the smell and soft, raw feel of leather. He liked that they were close and tangible, in no danger of leaving him.
 
However, what Watari really needed from his layers upon layers of clothes, was restraint. 
  

He had none himself, and he needed some sort of reminder to curb his exuberance, to still his tongue, to stop and think things through.
 
He needed that self-imposed restriction. He needed that constant bar in order to still his thoughts, to slow his mind which was churning with ever-flowing thought. 

Why were his thoughts so out of control lately? It didn't used to be this bad... 
  

One day Watari showed up to work with studded armbands, cutting into his skin like a tourniquet. Nobody noticed until he took off his labcoat for a moment, accidentally revealing it. Tatsumi made him take it off.
 
The next day Watari returned and his fingertips were purple.
 
Furious, Tatsumi ripped back his layers of sleeves to reveal more constrictive bands, three on each arm.
 
When asked about it the only thing Watari would mutter was 'deceleration.'
 
The process repeated itself for twelve days in a row. The other Shinigami became disturbed. Watari wasn't behaving like himself.
 
His mouth kept on running, and so did his voice. Comically the sounds and motions were almost out of sync. Watari talked himself hoarse, voice reduced to a grunting whisper. He would start laughing at random, for no reason and couldn't stop himself for hours. The same thing happened with crying.
 
He couldn't sit still. He didn't sit down. He paced throughout the office, running when he could get away with it.
 
His fingertips were purple again, bruised and ugly. He had stopped sleeping, mind refusing to shut off, too many ideas running through his head. He couldn't keep track of them all.
 
Tatsumi wrote a report to the King of Hades, begging him to look at Watari and lock away the madness that was eating away at the scientist.
 
He started wearing some kind of modified corset beneath his clothes, steel boning stitched into the sides, cracking his ribs.
Suddenly papers followed Watari like rain. Too many ideas. Too many. He had to write them down or else, or else, or else, or else...
 
A steady supply of paper and ballpoint pens were set up around the office at strategic points. They'd come in one morning to discover a filled notebook on the floor. On the walls there were streaks of ink and then blood, where Watari walked past them, pressing bleeding fingertips against them, leaving behind a trail of bloodied plaster. He'd run out out of pen so he'd resorted to his fingers.
 
At the end of the day the papers would be gathered and amid the disjointed, structureless thoughts a recurring plea was seen to interrupt all his messages, a cyclic pattern of thought. "Help, help, restraint, restraint." The last word kept appearing more and more, becoming larger and shakier, as if becoming more desperate and less sure in its meaning. Finally the word completely dissipated, the strokes only marginally coming together to form a word.
 
Enma was still looking over Watari's appeal, the plea Tatsumi had sent to the monarch to help his friend and employee.
 
Watari was a mad, mad creature. No longer resembling the man he once was. His hands were withered and destroyed from repeated motion and dramatic cut to blood flow. There was a track in the carpet that he had created, wearing out the fibers completely. His ribs had broken, healed, and broken again and now had healed back wrong, twisting his posture, deforming his chest cavity. 

No one said anything when Enma denied Tatsumi's request.
 
They averted their gazes when the hawk-faced attendants came and put him in shackles and chains, twisting his useless arms behind his back and binding them at the wrist, dislocating his shoulders in their movements.
 
They pretended they couldn't hear the blond's sigh of temporary relief, restraint at last...
 
No one mentioned it when Tatsumi went into a rage and destroyed the lab, ripping everything apart with his shadows.
 
Everyone behaved quite normally as the lab continued to go unrepaired and unreplaced.
 
 
 
Watari had always needed a little restraint.



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Watari Yutaka and 003

November 2011

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