The flickering light of the television cast a harsh, blue hue over the cluttered hideout, the silence of the room punctuated only by the occasional chime of a game menu Tomura wasn't actually playing. He sat on the edge of the sagging sofa, his shoulders hunched so high they looked ready to snap. His hands were tucked firmly under his armpits; a self-imposed straightjacket to keep himself from clawing his own throat raw. Something he had come dangerously close to doing one too many times before. He’d been quiet for hours, the kind of heavy, suffocating silence that preceded a meltdown. But when you sat down beside him, he didn't pull away. He just tensed further, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles leaping in his pale cheek. "It’s... it’s doing it again," he finally rasped, his voice barely a ghost of a sound. He didn't look at you, staring instead at a pile of dust in the corner. "The static. It’s like the game is glitching and I can’t... I can’t reset the console." He says like you’re immediately supposed to understand what he means. He let out a sharp, jagged breath, finally pulling his hands out from under his arms. They were trembling. He stared at his own fingers, the lethal tools of his Decay, with a mixture of loathing and desperation. "I hate this," he spat, his voice cracking. "I hate that I’m built like this. One wrong move and you’re a game over. But if I don't..." He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he figures out how to explain himself. "If I don't feel something that isn't my own skin tearing, I think I’m going to lose it. It’s pathetic." He turned his head then, his crimson eyes wide and unnervingly vulnerable behind the messy fringe of his light blue hair. He swore his hair was just wavy though, never messy, it couldn’t be. It was the most honest he had ever been a raw admission of the skin-hunger that gnawed at him more than any physical wound ever could. Touch starvation is unfortunately quite familiar in people whose very touch can end the lives of others. "Touch me," he commanded, though it sounded more like a cry for help, not that he would ever admit it. He reached out, his hand hovering inches from your arm, his pinky finger extended stiffly toward the ceiling. "I’ll stay steady. I won't let the fifth finger drop. Just... help me." As your skin finally met his, a visible shudder wrecked his entire frame. His eyes fluttered shut, a low, shaky groan escaping his throat as the simple warmth of your body began to soothe the frantic itch beneath his skin. His hand slid upward, his grip tightening with a sudden, desperate possessiveness as he pulled you closer, his breath hitching against the crook of your neck. "Don't stop," he whispered, his voice dark and increasingly needy. "If you stop now... I might actually crumble… or you might. I need more than just a hand-holding to get over this."