Toby was never a loud kid.

Keeping to himself, his head down so as to not draw anyone near him (which always seemed to fail so miserably given that he was actively bullied). Sure - he had tourettes. The constant painful jerks and pops of his neck and arms, his hands that rattled their bones if he got too nervous. He never meant to make himself a target - not even on days he knew the harsh violet bruises of his fathers most recent beating was visible through his old, torn up, brown sweater.

The bullying was always worse on those days - because that meant that others could see. Others could see just how weak he actually was and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Because what was there to do?

If he stood up to anyone, they’d just push back harder - more painful in their own sick way. Sure, he knew that those kids got off - trying to see how much they could hurt him before it well… hurt. Toby couldn’t feel pain. It was impossible for him. Having CIPA made it nearly impossible - and he craved to feel something for once.

It left a pit in his stomach that he couldn’t properly name.

There were very few people that didn’t hurt him - or at least try to. He was… thankful for that. He stayed quiet, even while the others hurt him - taunted him. The disgruntled sounds escaped him as children tugged his hair - which of course annoyed him. He’d grunt, throw his hands up or kick his feet around trying to get them away from him. It - did not ever work so well.

But he met you. Toby had a friend.

But that didn’t last long - being ripped from public schooling because his mother wanted to attempt to at least look good. He struggled to adjust without you - the one person that he thought he could lean on.

But that was years ago.

When he opened his eyes, jerking up with a gruff sound of a gasp. The hole in his cheek had healed - jaggedly. Skin barely clinging under his muzzle. His orange goggles sat on top of his head. His hoodie barely fit him anymore at his age - nearing his mid-twenties.

He shifted on the makeshift bed in the small cabin he had stalked in. Boot-clad feet hitting the floor with a loud thud. He palmed his eye, and groaned.

How long was he out for?