#darren hurtcomfort

[reluctantwrites]

A Matter Of Time

Thank you @bladeverbena​ for the prompt (and sorry it took so long to deliver)!

In which there’s trouble at the Miller Farm, Cyrus puts himself in danger, and Darren finally figures out how to explain why he is not okay with that. (Approx 6000 words, set five years post-Inquisition. First kiss fic).

Cyrus had overstayed his welcome. He knew it. They knew it. Everyone knew it. Even though he kept trying to ignore it, he couldn’t shake that stomach-sinking sensation that today, surely, would be the day. The day the Millers paused when they saw him and shared one of those long, heavy looks. The day they apologised profusely and wrung their hands; an attempt to ease the final blow.

This was it. It had to be.

Today would be the day they finally asked him to leave.

It had been two months since he’d found himself at the freshly painted gate of the Miller farm, hovering uncertainly before the wooden partition. There had been no one in sight, but Cyrus had been bone-weary and exhausted, his boots falling apart on his feet, his coin pouch empty, his stomach twisted into painful knot of hunger and apprehension. In the end, he’d taken a risk, opting to beg forgiveness if he couldn’t ask permission. He hadn’t known what else to do. Even months later, part of him still remembered the way his heart had pounded as he approached the quaint, picturesque farmstead. It had been loud. Violent. Terrifying.

Now, as he descended the stairs from the second floor, he felt that same rhythm like a kick to the chest.

It told him to expect the inevitable. Told him that he was a burden. A strain. Cyrus knew nothing about farming; he was certain that whenever he tried to help he just slowed things down. He was another mouth to feed in a town that had suffered average to poor harvests two years in a row. Another body to clothe, clad in Darren’s old shirt and trousers. They hung loose and comfortable off his leaner frame. He had lost weight since parting ways with Ralon and Lyrene in the Free Marches.

In the end, one thing was acutely obvious. Cyrus had nothing to offer besides himself.

Maker, what a piss-poor deal.

Uncertainly, Cyrus made his way into the kitchen. Mrs Miller was already up, bustling about the way she always did, pots clanging, the smell of breakfast rising hot and welcoming from the stove. She was whistling a familiar tune; a folk song popular among Fereldeners. Cyrus hadn’t heard it before coming to the farm, but now he was so well acquainted with it that he often caught himself humming it despite not knowing a single word.

As Mrs Miller turned to toss some eggshells into a bowl, she spotted him.

Cyrus’ heartrate spiked.

“Ah, there you are – good!” The short woman smiled, her cheeks round and warm, slightly flushed from the heat of the stove as she gestured to a nearby cabinet. “Be a dear and get that pitcher down for me? ‘fraid my arms aren’t quite long enough.”

Relaxing slightly, happy that he had something useful to do, Cyrus obliged. Moving into the kitchen, he reached up, rising onto his toes, carefully sliding the metal pitcher off the top of the cabinet. “What’s it doing up here?” He asked, passing it down to Mrs Miller. The woman just shook her head and just gave a deep, fond sigh. Their eyes met, and in unison, they answered the question.

“Darren.”

Mrs Miller broke into bright, easy peals of laughter. “Oh, the poor thing. He just forgets how tall he is now.” Shaking her head fondly, she returned to the task of cooking breakfast. “Or maybe he just forgets how short his poor mother is. That’s the way of the Miller men, you know. Always accidentally putting things out of reach!”

Cyrus just snorted, and was about to offer to help when frantic, sharp knocking from the front door cut through the sound of sizzling eggs. Mrs Miller froze, eyes wide as she turned. Cyrus raised a hand to still her, offering a single nod before heading to the door. It was unusual for them to have visitors, yet alone so early in the morning. While it wasn’t likely, if there was trouble, Cyrus sure as shit didn’t want Darren’s mother anywhere near it.

But instead of a cutthroat or a wayward mercenary, what Cyrus was greeted with was a breathless boy who couldn’t be older than twelve. His freckled cheeks were flushed, his mousy hair and simple clothing wildly askew. Cyrus raised his brows, and was about to ask what was wrong when the boy just started babbling.

“I-I saw her, all black and white with that big ol’ tail, barking like mad, so I followed because I wanted to see what she was all upset over, and I-I-I—” 

The boy broke off into a panicked wheeze, coughing, eyes watering. Cursing, Cyrus hurriedly stepped out of the doorway. Mrs Miller, as though sensing the distress of a child, appeared like a spirit of the fade, drying her hands hastily on the rag draped over her shoulder.

“Oh my dear! Come in now. Deep breaths, nice and calm,” she cooed, her voice a soft and feathery comfort. “Maker’s breath, you’re all flushed. We’ll get you a nice drink, all right? Then you can tell us what’s the matter.”

But the boy was shaking his head frantically. “No, no, no.” The panic returned in a wave and he looked desperately to Cyrus. “Was a bear! I swear it was! And she was barkin’ and growlin’ and trying to keep it away, but it wasn’t scared of her—”

“Scared of who?” Cyrus demanded as Mrs Miller gasped softly, alarm written across her round face. “Where did you see the bear?”

The boy sucked in a few shaky breaths, pointing a finger back out the doorway. “O-Over by the south fence! T-There was a dog, also.” He glanced back to Mrs Miller. “She looked a lot like yours.”

Mrs Miller gasped, hand flying to her lips. “Minty!” Those Miller-blue eyes cut across to Cyrus. “Oh Maker, w-we need to get Darren and his father. They’ll be out on the north field.”

Even as she spoke, Cyrus was moving. He raced down the hallway, skidding to a halt before a what used to be a linen cupboard. Wrenching open the doors, what he found inside was far from old towels and sheets. Instead, it held Darren and Cyrus’ old gear, and without wasting time Cyrus grabbed his sword, surprised by the sensation of comfort when he closed his hand around the hilt. “Go find them,” he said to Mrs Miller as he passed her, heading for the door. “I’ll see what I can do about Minty and… shit, I’ll try keep the bear away from the house.”

He didn’t stop to listen to her terrified protests. He didn’t even pause as Mrs Miller called after him, voice panicked as he rushed out onto the south field. All he knew was that there was a bear on the property, close to the Miller home, and Darren loved that damn dog more than he loved most people.

So, Cyrus started running.

Darren’s feet pounded against the ground, the dry soil kicking up dust behind him. His Inquisition sword was clutched tightly in hand, heart hammering harder than it had in years. Even after defeating Corypheus, he’d kept up his training routine, practicing drills and stances. As Captain Lavellan used to say, a soldier was only as strong as his greatest weakness. Even though farm-work rarely called for the use of a blade, Darren had refused to let what he learned in the Dawn Squad go to waste.

Now, he was grateful for that.

For five years, he’d never had to draw his sword for anything other than practice. Maybe he’d just been lucky. Or maybe Cyrus was right, and bad luck really did follow him wherever he went.

Either way, it didn’t matter now. In the distance, Darren could hear Minty barking madly, the sound so vicious and unlike her that it spurred him to pick up his pace. Truthfully, Darren had nearly forgotten to grab his sword in his haste to rush after Cyrus. Sure, the Orlesian was good, but he also had no idea how to deal with Ferelden bears. Most folks didn’t.

With that thought in mind, his chest tight enough to snap in half with worry, Darren kept running until he neared the southern fence.

That was when he heard a roar.

The black bear was larger than Cyrus had expected. Then again, he wasn’t exactly sure what he’d expected. When he’d arrived, it had arguably been just in time. Minty, ever the brave idiot that she was, had been keeping the bear at bay, snapping and growling, barking angrily in an attempt to stop it from heading towards the house. Now that he thought about it, the smell of food had probably lured it out of the forest. But as Cyrus closed the distance, the bear had begun to realise Minty was no real threat. Its movements had grown bolder, the swipes of its claws and snapping of its teeth barely missing the dog as she leaped and dodged, hackles dark, teeth bared.

She was still barking furiously as Cyrus arrived and faced off against the dark wall of fur, muscle, and claw. His blade flashed as he feinted towards it, trying to scare it off more than anything. At first it almost seemed like it was working; the bear took a few steps back, growling and snorting at the presence of a newcomer. But, as with Minty, that wariness swiftly passed. Now, all Cyrus could do was watch as its shoulders hunched, black fur bristling, its lips peeling back to reveal a row of yellow, razor-sharp teeth.

Oh Maker…

The bear roared and charged for him. Cyrus swore, diving to the side, trying to get out of its path.

Too slow.

The bear lashed out, one of its claws catching him on the shoulder, its razor point sinking into flesh. With the sharp tearing of fabric, Cyrus hit the ground hard, the wind rushing out of him, his sword flying from his grasp. Groaning, gasping, Cyrus tried to get up – tried to move as he heard the bear crash to a stop behind him, twigs and fallen branches snapping beneath its massive paws. The sound of deep, grunting breaths sent a rush of primal fear down Cyrus’ spine, chilling him to the marrow. In those few frantic moments, all he could do was imagine the bear up against him, breath putrid from its last kill, claws pressing down on his back, teeth sinking into his neck…

Then, there was more.

More noises. Louder. Closer.

A blur of black and white leaping in front of him.

The sound of a familiar, shouting voice.

“Go! Go on, get out of here!”

Darren’s voice was loud and firm, projecting precisely all of the confidence he didn’t feel. Pushing aside the fear wreaking havoc with his stomach, he stood tall, blade raised, polished steel catching the sunlight like a beacon. Minty – the good girl – was standing protectively over the fallen Cyrus, snarling and barking like a hunting hound made vicious from the scent of blood.

The bear growled, hurling its bulk around to face Darren, a low, dangerous sound reverberating from deep within its barrel of a chest. Breathing hard, eyes flicking between the bear and Cyrus, a flash of brightness among the grass caught Darren’s attention. He lunged towards it, hand closing around Cyrus’ blade, lifting it from the ground.

Whirling back to face the bear, Darren raised both blades above his head…

… and began clashing them together.

The sound was loud and sharp and violent, ringing out like metallic thunderclaps through the field. Darren stared down the black bear, circling until he was also positioned between it and Cyrus. Minty grew bolder, prowling to his side, her fur standing dark and threatening along the line of her spine as she snarled and spat. Even her mouth foamed slightly from the force of her fury; the intensity of her instinct to protect her family.

All of them.

For a moment, it seemed as though the bear would try to charge, its huge shoulders rolling as it shifted its weight. It wanted to get to its kill. Darren readied himself, not entirely sure what he planned to do, but unwilling to step aside.

Then, behind him, Cyrus suddenly gasped in a lungful of air. Coughing, trembling, the Orlesian struggled onto his knees, a hand pressed to his shoulder, expression tight with pain.

That, it seemed, was enough to tip the scale in their favour.

Its kill no longer dead and clearly outnumbered, bear gave a final, almost frustrated roar then huffed sharply. Once. Twice. Three times. Dark eyes studied Darren for what felt like an eternity, the blond’s heart doing flips in his chest.

Then, it turned away.

The bear’s massive form lumbered back into the trees, the sound of twigs and branches snapping beneath its large feet terrifying despite the fact it was clearly leaving. Darren continued glaring at its back, trying to look ‘dominant’ until the steep hill that descended into the forest carried the bear away and out of sight.

Relief flooded through him, palpable and intoxicating. He gave a giddy laugh; a mixture of nerves and adrenaline.

Then, at the sound of a whine from Minty, Darren tossed the swords aside and rushed to Cyrus’ side.

“For the last time, I’m fine, okay? It’s just a scratch.”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t at least wash it. That was a bear claw, Cyrus. You don’t want that cut turning green, do you?”

Cyrus huffed and rolled his eyes, but ultimately decided not to argue. In the small room, Darren moved about, dragging a second stool over, careful not to knock over the small pail of water on the floor. He seemed… well, Cyrus wasn’t entirely sure what he seemed. He wasn’t angry, but there was definitely something troubled about the blond as he set the bucket between his feet and shoved a cloth into the water.

“Darren, what’s the matte—”

“Shirt off.” His voice was stiff and cold as he soaked the cloth. “It’ll be easier to clean without it.”

Uncertainly, Cyrus obeyed, moving slowly to undo the buttons. There was something definitely wrong with Darren. He wasn’t even looking at him, brow drawn tight, shoulders tense beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. In that moment, Cyrus knew he’d fucked up. Somehow, some way, he’d fucked up big time.

Rather than deal with the implications of that particular thought, he tried to busy himself with his stubborn shirt buttons instead. Fumbling for a few moments, grunting and cursing silently, it took Cyrus longer than he cared to admit to realise what the problem was.

His hands were shaking.

Pausing, Cyrus frowned, abandoning the task to curl them into fists. He clenched for a few seconds, knuckles bleeding white, fingernails digging into his palms, trying to regain some semblance of control over the subtle tremor.

It didn’t work.

He felt the full weight of Darren’s gaze on him.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Cyrus muttered as he gave up and made a second attempt on the buttons. The first came free easily enough. But the second, like a traitor, was intent on defying him, slipping away from his fingertips once… twice... fuck…

“Here.”

Darren’s voice, to Cyrus’ private relief, was softer this time. Almost apologetic. His hands moved gently as he reached out, calloused fingers making short work of familiar buttons, popping them free. It was ridiculous, but Cyrus couldn’t help the way his heart thrummed a little harder for each that came undone, the cool air weaving through the gap in the cloth, sending a shiver across his skin. No matter how badly he tried to calm down; to still his heart and his hands; neither seemed inclined to listen.

And then there was Darren.

“You’re pissed at me.” It was more an observation than a question, so Cyrus declared it, trying to keep the pain off his face as he slipped his shirt down, wincing as it pulled free form his injury. “Do I just have to sit here and lose my mind over it, or are you going to tell me why?”

Darren snorted softly, his hand dipping into the bucket. “That’s tempting, you know.” He drew out the cloth, wringing out the excess water in one tight, strong hand, his whole forearm tensing with the motion. “A little worrying might do you some good. Get you thinking about how the rest of us feel.”

Frowning, Cyrus just watched blond as he shifted closer, stool sliding across the floor. Reaching out, he rested one hand on Cyrus’ shoulder blade to keep him still, the other gently dabbing around the wound. The water was cold and unpleasant against his skin, but for whatever reason, Cyrus didn’t feel like complaining. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Darren sighed. “It means,” he said, exasperated, “that maybe if you stopped to think more about the things that could go wrong, you might be more careful. Y’know. Worry more.”

It was almost laughably ironic, given all Cyrus seemed to do was worry. But of course, how could Darren possible know that?

“Wait,” Cyrus reached up, fingers curling around the blond’s wrist, stilling the hand that tended him. “You’re mad at me because I went after the bear? Seriously?”

This time, Darren rolled his eyes. It always felt strange, seeing him pull those kinds of expressions. It was a little like looking into a mirror.

A handsome, broad-shouldered, blond mirror.

“What gave it away?” Darren asked, continuing to clean the wound despite Cyrus’ grip on his wrist. Clearly he’d only paused in the first place out of kindness. For a second, Cyrus thought he was going to leave it at that, but then, something shifted. Gave way. That stony mask Darren had built up crumbled, revealing the blond’s true feelings lying just underneath. The look he gave him, those blue eyes deep enough to drown in, was raw and without pretense. “You scared me, Cyrus.”

Cyrus felt his throat tighten, a rope of guilt fastening around his neck. All he could do was try to make light, so he gave a soft snort and looked away. “I used to scare you all the time, remember? You should be used to my bullshit by now.”

“I’m serious.” Darren stopped, this time of his own volition, eyes cutting across to fix on Cyrus’ face. There was a hardness to them now; the product of years of training. Hard work. Growing up. Yet, Cyrus could still see the achingly familiar softness that formed the man’s core. That gentle, heart-tugging concern for the people around him. “When ma said you’d run off, I…” Darren’s throat bobbed. He shook his head. “Maker’s breath – you tried to take on a bear, Cyrus. Alone. What were you thinking?”

Cyrus was starting to get tired of being questioned.

“I was thinking about your damn dog, Darren.”

The bluntness of the statement seemed to take Darren by surprise. So much so that he sat back slightly, bloodied cloth in hand, blinking. “Minty?”

Slowly, Cyrus nodded. His gaze sank to the floorboards, hands fidgeting uncomfortably on his lap. “Some kid said he thought he saw her in trouble. And shit, I know how much you love that fucking dog, so I…” He shrugged, then hissed in pain, his shoulder burning. Darren’s hands immediately moved to still him. “I-I went to get her. Was that so fucking wrong?”

For a moment, neither man said anything. The silence that descended was thick and heavy. It wrapped around the pair like a blanket, moulding to the curves of their backs as they sat across from each other in quiet contemplation. The blond’s hands were warm against Cyrus’ skin, the heat from his palms so soothing that for a few moments, Cyrus almost forgot the pain. But it was pain that had nothing to do with the wound. Pain that dug deeper every time Darren questioned him. Accused him of carelessness.

You need to leave.

It was only a matter of time.

“You’re right.” Darren’s confession came in the middle of Cyrus’ spiralling thoughts, startling him back to the present. In truth, the words seemed almost reluctant to leave the blond’s lips. “I do love Minty. She’s my friend. Part of the family. She’s looked out for me ever since I was just a kid.”

Cyrus nodded, not sure of what to say. None of that surprised him, in any case. He’d remembered how fondly Darren would talk about her back in the Inquisition barracks. Back when they all wore the same colours and fought for something they believed in.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, now.

“But Cyrus, listen… all that stuff… it’s the same for you. You know that, right?”

Cyrus blinked, his mind easing from his thoughts to focus back on Darren. “I… what?”

The cloth moved again, sweeping gently over his injured shoulder, blood and dirt wiping away from tanned skin. “Those things I said. About Minty.” Darren’s voice was perfectly steady as he looked up to meet Cyrus’ puzzled gaze. “They’re all the same for you.” He paused, then repeated himself more intently. “You know that, right?”

Slowly, the movement controlled and calm, Darren drew the bloodied cloth from his skin and returned it to the bucket, letting it sink beneath the warm water, blood tinging it pale pink. Confusion and uncertainty warred for dominance in Cyrus’ chest, his heart feeling somehow too small for his ribcage. He called the words back – ran them through his mind. Love. Friend. Family. He could only assume he had misremembered them, but at the same time, he’d never really had a bad memory.

At least, not where Darren was concerned.

It was as though the blond sensed Cyrus’ internal panic. He sat back slightly, giving him a bit more space, but even still, their faces hovered less than a hand-span apart. Cyrus couldn’t help but notice the dusting of freckles across the bridge of Darren’s nose. The strong cut of his jaw. The soft fan of brown lashes that framed his eyes.

“I…” Cyrus swallowed, the word sticking in his throat. He cleared it roughly. “I didn’t. Know that.”

It was the lamest response he could have given. Cyrus wanted to kick himself.

But despite that, or perhaps because of it, a soft smile curved Darren’s lips.

“I reckon you did, deep down.” His eyes brightened, something fond and amused dancing in them as he breathed out a chuckle. “You’re a lot of things, Cyrus, but you’re not stupid. Never have been.”

Cyrus’ heart was pounding, but it was different to how it had been that morning. Different, even, to how it had been that first day he’s arrived at the Miller farm, when his fingers had tingled and his legs had threatened to give way beneath him with each step. The things Darren was saying… it didn’t seem possible. It couldn’t be possible. He knew the Millers all put up with him, but he’d assumed it had been out of some misplaced sense of responsibility, or because they were all just too kind to send him away.

But at the same time, Cyrus had sensed his own feelings towards Darren changing over the weeks as they turned into months. It began with his growing admiration for the man he had become. Strong, confident, yet still endlessly kind. Three things worthy of any good man. Three things in short supply alone, yet alone together. That admiration that had come with a range of other emotions Cyrus had no idea what to do with, so he just did what he always did. He pushed them down. Hid them away. Buried them. Doing shit like that… it was safe. He hadn’t wanted to make a mistake and to lose what he already had; the people he had grown to care about.

The person he had grown to…

“Cyrus?” Darren’s brow had creased again, that familiar knot forming between them that showed he was truly troubled. “Are you alright?”

The blond’s gaze flicked down pointedly, then back up. It was only then that Cyrus realised his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails had bitten sharp crescents into his palms. With effort, he forced them to uncurl, his breathing tight and shallow. “Yeah.” He gave a stiff nod. “I just… didn’t think you felt that way.”

This time it was Darren’s turn to look surprised. He fixed Cyrus with a look so shocked that it would have been comical, had the situation been less intense. “You can’t be serious.” He laughed, then, the sound bright and warm, actually lifting some of the tension from Cyrus’ shoulders. “Could you please tell Claire that for me? She’s been teasing me for weeks. Said if I was any more obvious I’d just lean in and kiss you!”

Darren continued laughing, and to Cyrus’ surprise, he found himself laughing too, although somewhat out of shock. It was the strangest thing, sitting across from the blond, wounded and terrified, but laughing. Laughing over something that, Maker, they probably shouldn’t really be laughing over.

Should they?

This sort of thing… it was meant to be serious, wasn’t it? Sincere and fumbling. Awkward. Uncomfortable.

Yet, with Darren, Cyrus had never truly felt uncomfortable.

Maybe it was about time he stopped being so surprised by that.

“So… should I?”

Darren’s voice was low. Soft. Cyrus found himself beneath the watch of curious eyes, the echo of a smile still on Darren’s lips as he waited, still so close, still so… right there. It took a moment for Cyrus to realise what he was referring to. When he did, heat rushed to his cheeks, his breath hitching slightly in his chest.

If I was any more obvious, I’d just lean in and kiss you.

“I… if you want to.” Of all the pathetic things Cyrus could have said, that probably topped the list. He saw a fresh wave of doubt flicker across Darren’s face and, panicked, reached out, resting his hand on the blond’s knee, hurrying to continue. “No, wait. I didn’t… I mean, fuck, yes. I do. I want you to. I—”

The entire time, it felt like the world was spinning out of focus. That all that was left was him and Darren and his horrible inability to say how he fucking felt without screwing it up. Don’t screw it up. Damn it, don’t screw it up. Cyrus was so focused on Darren, so intent, that it seemed the blond was getting closer, the rest of the room melting away around him. The look in those blue eyes shifted from concerned to fond. That mesmerising mouth softened into a familiar, warm smile.

The next thing Cyrus knew, his eyes were closed and Darren’s lips were pressed against his.

It was a soft, careful thing; not at all how Cyrus was used to being kissed. The first lasted all of a few seconds, chaste and warm. Even still, it sent a rush of pleasure through him, the sensation sweeping all the way to his toes at… well, everything. The heat. Their closeness. The kiss. The way Darren smelled a little like soil and sweat as their breath mingled in the air, the blond drawing away for a hesitant moment, his eyes open now, searching Cyrus’ face.

“Hey… you okay?”

“Y-Yeah.” Cyrus answered a little too quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. Something about it must not have been entirely convincing, because a tinge of red rose to colour Darren’s cheeks.

“That, ah, wasn’t my best, I don’t think.” There it was. That smile again. “Can I give it another try?”

All Cyrus could muster in response was a single, breathless nod. This time, Darren shifted closer still, his legs interlocking with Cyrus’, hand rising to rest on the Orlesian’s uninjured shoulder as he leaned in. This time, when their lips met, there was just… more. More desire. More need. More intensity behind the way Darren tilted his head into the kiss, his large hand slowly sliding up Cyrus’ bare skin until it was caressing the side of his neck, warm and gentle. That was the thing about Darren. He was always so gentle. With everyone.

With him.

After the years apart, Cyrus had forgotten how badly he needed gentle.

The kiss deepened as Cyrus remembered to lean into it, his rapid thoughts slowly melting away as he lost himself in Darren’s warmth. He relaxed, opening his mouth in silent permission to the blond. Darren took the opportunity, his tongue sweeping between Cyrus’ lips, but did not venture further. It was just another thing to do. Another way to get closer without intruding.

Darren’s other hand, the one not warming the side of Cyrus’ neck, ventured towards the lower hem of his shirt. Anticipation sent a shiver across Cyrus’ skin, but then Darren paused again, fingers barely brushing the edge of the fabric.

“Can I…?” he murmured against Cyrus’ lips, leaning slightly out of the kiss. Cyrus just grunted in affirmation and chased his lips, warmth blooming in his chest when he felt Darren smile against him.

“Stop… asking…” Cyrus muttered between kisses, his own hands already sliding into place at Darren’s waist, knotting into the cotton of his shirt as if to tug him closer. Maker, he’d never known anyone to ask permission at all, yet alone so much.

That was what made it even more surprising when Darren responded with, “No.”

Startled, Cyrus drew away, puzzled at first, wondering if the no had been in reference to his hands at the blond’s waist. But the doubt melted away as Darren just looked at him, head slightly tilted, gaze drifting up from Cyrus’ lips to meet his eyes. There was still want there. Need. But there was also something else. Something Cyrus couldn’t quite place.

“I want to ask,” Darren continued, voice low and patient. His hand slid up Cyrus’ neck to cup the side of his face, thumb brushing a spot of dirt from his cheek. Remains from his earlier fall. “I just… don’t want to do anything you don’t want me to.”

Sometimes, Cyrus wondered how much Darren actually knew about him. About the handful of soldiers he’d bounced between while at the Inquisition. Soldiers who, once they started, had never really stopped again to check if they still had permission. Back then, Cyrus hadn’t thought himself worth the effort of making sure. He hadn’t even thought that they should have asked, even though some evenings had left him with bruises and an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. Was it possible Darren had noticed something was off, those nights he’d wandered back into the barracks just before dawn? There was no way he could have known the details, but...

… Well, Cyrus supposed Darren had always been perceptive.

“I’ll tell you,” Cyrus said, and was surprised when he actually meant it. “If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you, got it? Stop worrying so much.”

A slow smile spread across Darren’s lips. “Still gonna ask.”

Groaning, Cyrus just grabbed the blond and kissed him again, rougher than before, slipping into something he was more used to. Darren didn’t seem to mind being on the receiving end, a pleasant, deep sound rolling up the back of his throat as Cyrus slid forward until he was straddling Darren’s thigh. When he’d first laid eyes on him after years apart, Cyrus had thought he’d never get used to Darren’s new size. In his mind, he thought he’d always be that short, awkward kid. But now, as Darren’s large hands folded around his waist to steady him, Cyrus found himself quickly growing accustomed to the idea. In fact, he arguably enjoyed it.

Calloused hands slipped under his shirt; trailed up to the small of his back. Cyrus shivered and arched into the touch, lips locked with Darren’s, part of him still surprised by the blond’s easy confidence. He knew was he was doing, as he shifted his thigh slightly, Cyrus weight apparently inconsequential to his ability to move. He’d always been strong, but now that he had the height and muscle to back it up...?

For a moment, Cyrus forgot himself, lost in the mindless blur of want and desperation at finally being in Darren’s arms. The relief of it was almost palpable, and tension flooded out of him so swiftly it left his head spinning. It was in that haze that he reached up, wanting to drape his arms around Darren’s shoulders and slide closer. Only when he did, pain stabbed through his entire arm, leaving him gasping in a sharp, shocked breath against Darren’s lips.

Shit, he’d actually forgotten.

Darren froze immediately, pulling away, every emotion chased from his face save concern. “Cyrus? Are you…” He trailed off as his gaze drifted to the injury, and guilt arrived to mingle with his worry. “Oh, Maker, that’s right - you’re hurt!”

Teeth gritted, Cyrus could have killed that bear. Theoretically. Killed it for ruining the mood as Darren easily lifted him off his thigh set him back down on the stool, ducking down to grab the cloth back out of the bucket. “Fucking bear,” Cyrus muttered darkly, tone murderous as he glared daggers at his bleeding shoulder. The claw marks taunted him, now. Reminded him of what he could be doing instead of sitting there, sweating in pain.

But Darren just let out a low, warm chuckle. “It’s alright,” he said, carefully dabbing away the blood again, preparing it for the simple dressing he had forgotten to apply before. “There’s no rush for… anything, really.”

There was a pause, significant and heavy, before Cyrus replied. “There isn’t?”

Darren glanced across, catching his gaze. Then he just smiled and shook his head. “Nope. None at all.” He leaned down, rinsing the cloth again, a little water splashing over the lip of the pail and onto the floorboards. “I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

There it was. That sharp kick inside his chest as Cyrus heartbeat began to rise. “I thought your family would be sick of my shit by now. It’s been months.” He swallowed. “They didn’t even know I was coming. Or that I’d be staying so long.”

Darren paused, cloth pressed gently to Cyrus’ skin. There was a moment when Cyrus almost thought the blond would agree and deliver the poorly-timed message that he was no longer welcome. But instead, what he received was a breathless, almost relieved sigh. “Maker, so that’s what it’s been.”

Cyrus frowned. “What?”

“I’ve been saying to ma that something was off with you. She could see it too, but none of us could work out what was wrong, and we… well, we didn’t want to pry, in case it was something personal or... y’know...” He shrugged sheepishly, giving the wound one final pass of the damp cloth. “Cyrus, you know we want you here, right? Not just me. All of us.”

Again, after a beat of silence, all Cyrus could do was mumble a lame, “I… didn’t. Know that.”

That earned him a soft, fond laugh from Darren. “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to make sure you know from now on. Properly.” A lopsided smile tilted his lips. “And here I thought we were all embarrassingly obvious about it.”

Darren had this way of just… lightening the mood. So much so that Cyrus actually gave an amused huff of his own. “Or maybe I’m just embarrassingly oblivious.”

“Nah.” Darren returned the cloth to the pail, inspected the injury, then reached for the pile of bandages Mrs Miller had gathered for them. “You’re just not used to it. That’s all. Can’t blame you for that.”

It seemed so simple, but sometimes the greatest truths were just that. Simple. 

As Darren wound the bandage around Cyrus’ shoulder, his movements slow and careful, every time his fingertips brushed his skin the Orlesian wanted to lean into them. Keep them there. Keep him there, warm and close and caring. It still didn’t seem real. How could it be real?

But as Darren glanced across, clearly checking to make sure he was still okay, Cyrus felt a bloom of warmth spread all the way from his chest to his fingertips.

Because it was real.

It was real and Darren wanted to keep him, too.

[reluctantwrites]

Revelation

In which Darren returns to the barracks in bad shape, and Cyrus is the only one around to deal with it (approx 1800 words). Usual warnings for language + mentions of blood.

"I'm supposed to believe this was an accident?"

The barracks was quiet that night, the other members of the squad celebrating at the Herald’s Rest, not quite ready to let go of the day. Only two figures took up space in the low-lit room, one sitting on a cot, a hand pressed to his ribs, the other crouched in front, eyes narrowed into gleaming, dagger-sharp points.

Darren winced, shying away as Cyrus reached out to examine his face. “It was an accident. I just… I fell. That’s all.”

Scoffing, Cyrus considered insisting, but decided to leave Darren be for the moment. Folding his arms, he let his eyes roam over the boy’s injuries instead of his hands, giving him some space to breathe. “Don’t you pull that shit with me. A fall doesn’t leave you with a black eye and a split lip, and it sure as hell doesn’t punch you in the gut for good measure.”

“I landed wrong. Captain Lavellan keeps saying I need to learn to fall properly.”

Fed up, Cyrus reached forward and snagged Darren’s forearm, tugging it towards him so that the boy’s sleeve slipped down. A dark bruise mottled the skin of his wrist, the marks left by fingers unmistakable against his pale skin. “And did the fucking ground do this too?” Shaking his head, Cyrus released Darren, disgusted. “Why the fuck are you defending them? Tell me who did this.”

“Why?” Darren snatched his arm back, holding it close to his chest, as if that would somehow hide what Cyrus had already seen. His breathing had grown shallow over the course of the interrogation, hitching slightly at each peak. “Just leave it alone. It’s not worth it, okay?”

“The fuck do you mean it’s not—”

—“I tell you, then you go and… and do something stupid… and then what?” Darren was practically shouting now, uncaring of who might hear as they passed by the barracks. “Then what, Cyrus? You get thrown out? They send you away?” He shook his head, eyes glassy, a trickle of blood beading on his lip from where it was split. “No. I won’t tell you, so stop asking! This…” He sniffed, the anger melting away as tears he had spent the entire evening holding back finally spilled over. “T-This is my problem. So just stay out of it.”

Stunned into silence, all Cyrus could do was stare at the kid for a moment as Darren raised a hand to his eyes and bowed forward, shoulders shaking, his other hand pressed hard to his thigh. All that effort just to hide his face.

Did he think Cyrus couldn’t hear him crying?

Sighing, Cyrus got to his feet and walked away from Darren, something in his stomach twisting when an anguished sob broke past the boy’s defences. It had taken guts, for him to stand up for himself like that. If nothing else, Cyrus could respect how hard that would have been for the kid.

He just wished he’d do it to the people who actually wanted to hurt him.

Maybe Darren thought Cyrus was angry. Maybe, deep down, he was a bit. But some things were more important than anger, and Darren jolted in surprise when Cyrus returned, a damp cloth in hand.

“Your lip’s bleeding. Look up. Come on, before you get more blood on your shirt.”

Cheeks wet, nose running, Darren seemed reluctant to emerge from his hiding place behind his hand. But Cyrus just waited, and eventually the boy complied, hastily wiping his sleeve across his face, smearing a streak of red with the motion. Cyrus just shook his head and took to the task gently, cleaning off Darren’s cheek first, eventually moving to press the damp cloth to the boy’s lower lip. For a time, neither of them said anything, Darren focusing on getting his breathing under control, Cyrus trying for the life of him to think of a solution. Claiming it was Darren’s problem and washing his hands of it was just… not good enough.

Stranger still was how little that revelation surprised him.

It was Darren who extended the first olive branch. “I’m sorry, Cyrus. I didn’t mean to… you know…”

Huffing in amusement, Cyrus just rolled his eyes. “Seriously? You’ve just had your ass kicked.” He drew the cloth away, frowned as blood welled up once more, and pressed it back again. “My skin’s thick enough to take it, kid. Don’t worry about me.”

“I know. Just figured if I meant it, I should say it.” Darren tried to smile then winced, his lip no doubt stinging from the motion.

“Yeah, smiling’s going to be hard for you, so try not to do it for a while.” Cyrus guided Darren’s hand to hold the cloth so that he was free to examine the bruise darkening around his left eye. He prodded it gently, earning a whine from the boy, but no real indication of pain. “Alright. Doesn’t seem like anything’s fractured. We can still go see a healer if you—”

—“No,” Darren interjected, meeting Cyrus’ gaze. “No healers. I don’t want to.”

Willing to accept that at face value, Cyrus nodded. “Right. Sure.”

They lapsed, then, back into a kind of uneasy silence. They both knew what was coming, but neither wanted to voice it. However, someone had to, and Cyrus figured the kid had been through enough that night.

“You need to tell Hanin.”

He had expected a flinch, or some other sign of distress from Darren, but instead all he received was a tired sigh and a handful of words mumbled from behind a damp cloth. “I know. It’s just so…” Sniffing, Darren shifted stiffly, undoubtedly bruised beneath his shirt but not willing to admit it. “It’s embarrassing.”

Cyrus fixed him with a flat look. “You know what’s fucking embarrassing? A bunch of assholes targeting someone they know won’t fight back. Chicken-shit cowards, the lot of them.” He shook his head. “They’re fucking lucky you’re not the type to lose your temper.”

Darren’s gaze sank to the floor. “Maybe I should. Maybe they’d leave me alone if I did.” He gave a soft shrug. “I don’t know.”

It was an interesting concept, but Cyrus dismissed it the moment it left Darren’s lips. “Nah. Fuck ‘em. You don’t have to change who you are because some creeps are trying to drag you down to their level.” He reached out, hesitated, then ruffled Darren’s hair. The boy didn’t flinch away this time. “But we’re still telling Hanin. And before you argue, I know you don’t want me to know who did it. Fine. Whatever. But Hanin’s not going to be tossed out on his ass anytime soon. Let him sort it out.”

Meekly, Darren nodded, but there still seemed to be something bothering him. Before Cyrus had a chance to demand an answer, the kid spoke. “I just… it feels like all I do is run to him. Like he’s my pa and I got in a fight with some other kids.” He swallowed thickly. “I’m meant to be a soldier, Cyrus, and I can’t even fight my own battles. But I can’t fight them either, because if I do, I’ll get into trouble anyway.”

Cyrus could only sympathise with Darren’s frustrations. “Yeah. I feel that. Believe me.” When Darren fixed him with an inquisitive look, Cyrus just sighed. “You know how many times I’ve fallen over since we got to Skyhold? I thought it was just the way things are. When it was my word against someone else’s, no one was ever going to take my side.” He paused, then, a frown washing over his face as a new thought arrived, adding itself to the end of what Cyrus assumed was a complete equation. “But… I guess that’s not true. Not anymore. Look, we’ve finally got a Captain who actually gives a shit about us. So use him.”

The pity that had briefly overwhelmed Darren’s features shifted to a kind of reluctant acceptance. It was clear he still didn’t like the idea of running to someone else to solve his problems, but he also could see that Cyrus was right. Some battles weren’t meant to be fought by the grunts. Sometimes, the leaders had to step in and do their jobs. And it was their job, to oversee the training of the recruits. That meant dealing with things that stopped those recruits from reaching their potential.

Cyrus figured getting the shit kicked out of you qualified.

“Okay,” Darren said softly. The wind wove past the barracks, its low whistle filling the spaces between words. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. I promise.”

Satisfied, quite certain Darren wasn’t the kind to go back on a promise, Cyrus nodded. “Good.” He watched as Darren drew the cloth back and blanched at the blood that stained the fabric. So he reached out and took it, folding it over a clean side before handing it back. “It’ll bleed a lot, but it’s not too bad,” Cyrus assured him as Darren shakily pressed it back. “A bit like a head wound.”

“Oh. Good.” Darren snorted softly, trying hard not to smile. “Well, I mean, not good…”

Cyrus managed a half-smile as he stood, stretching his back with a soft groan. He paused mid-motion, something about the way Darren was looking off into the distance breathing life to another unasked question.

“Do you know why they did it?” Cyrus almost flinched at the way Darren’s face crumpled behind that damp cloth. The kid was just barely holding it together. But at the same time, the response told Cyrus something even more important.

The kid knew the answer.

“S-Said I needed to toughen up,” he managed after a moment, coughing and cringing, his hand pressing to his side. “Kept telling me to fight back and… but I just… I didn’t want to. I know I’m stupid, but… w-we’re meant to be on the same side. We’re supposed to be…”

Without bothering to stop and talk himself out of it, Cyrus took a few steps forward, turned, and sat down beside Darren on the cot. It creaked beneath their combined weight, but mercifully held as he reached out and wrapped an arm around the blond’s shoulders. “Easy. Breathe. You’ll never stop bleeding if you keep this shit up.”

Hiccupping into the cloth, Darren scrunched his face and nodded hastily, cheeks turning red from the effort of trying to rein in the urge to cry. Cyrus, not the most comforting person by nature, sat rigidly by Darren’s side, unsure of what else to do or say. He’d seen Ralon do that sort of shit with people who were upset. How the fuck did that damn Antivan make it look so natural?

But sitting there, Darren beneath his arm, the empty barracks as their witness, Cyrus had to admit something. Something he never thought he’d find himself admitting.

Awkward though it may be, he’d sit there all night if he had to.

If nothing else, that had to be worth something.

[reluctantwrites]

Subject 027 (part 2)

The sequel precisely one (1) person asked for, so naturally I indulged. 

In which merman!Hanin is rescued by an unlikely bunch of misfits (a.k.a. The Dawn Squad).

How many days had it been? Weeks? Hanin couldn’t say. He had lost track of time, somewhere between the sedation and the containment protocols. In fact, he had nearly lost his life when they drained the tank and observed him for hours as he flagged on the cold metal floor. He’d never been out of the water for so long before. It was worse, not knowing what to expect as his muscles began to cramp and sweat formed on his brow for the first time in his life.

It was torture, not knowing if – or perhaps when – he was going to die.

The tank had been refilled, and while still weak, Hanin was no longer in such a dire state. He swam as much as he could in the restricted space, trying to keep his muscles from growing as frail and tired as his mind. It was something he only did at night, now that whoever was observing him had ceased their constant monitoring. They left after the red numbers on the far wall reached 2330. They must have decided he didn’t have the strength to free himself.

They were right.

It was while Hanin was performing his makeshift laps that he heard it. A strange, sharp click. It reminded him of the sound of snapping coral and he turned towards the source, squinting into the dark. In a world of black and white, it was difficult to discern machinery from walls and doors. But he saw something open, and something else make its way inside. Some part of Hanin screamed that he should be wary. Some old instinct, he supposed, that had yet to be burned away.

But at the end of the day, what more could they possibly do to him?

Another figure slipped through the door, then a third. Then a forth. Heart hammering, Hanin watched as they moved about, pressing their faces to the array of tanks, attempting to peer at their contents through the darkness. They would find nothing in those vessels. Hanin, as far as he knew, was the only one in the facility. Perhaps that was why his captors had started getting so… creative.

“Fucking hell - anyone got a light?”

“Um, but d-don’t we have to be careful? The cameras…”

“Are disconnected, kiddo. Connors took ‘em offline, remember? They should be looping for another hour or so.”

“Exactly. So stop freaking the fuck out and get the torch, Darren.”

Hanin had no idea who was speaking or what they were talking about, but the harsh whispers shared between them gave the distinct air of something secretive and urgent. They were over the other side of the large observation room; Hanin watched them as they moved about, their forms dark shadows staining far wall.

Suddenly, he cried out in shock when a bright light – he swore it was as bright as the sun – blazed directly at him. Reeling, he threw his arms up and turned away, his back rebounding off the back of the tank.

“Shit! Fuck – point that thing away from him!”

“S-Sorry! I didn’t know he was there!”

Hanin’s hands were covering his eyes, and for a few terrified moments he thought he was blind. But through the haze of panic, his vision slowly returned. He shuddered in relief, blinking in an attempt to banish the circle burned into his retinas by the sudden blaze. By the time it finally dissipated, four faces were starting at him through the glass of his tank. Three young men and a young woman.

What was this? Some kind of trick? Another test?

“Do you think he can understand us?” one of them asked, his brown hair pulled back into a high tail, brows knitted in concern as he studied Hanin. He nearly jumped a foot in the air when Hanin immediately nodded his head. “Whoa, okay. Well, uh... hey there.”

“Gods, can all of you stop gawking and help me with this?” The blonde woman had circled the tank and paused at the side, where a metal scaffold gave her direct access to its top. “Ralon, Darren, hold this steady. I’m gonna check out the lock.”

The man who had spoken, Ralon, and a young blond boy who had to be Darren moved to do as instructed, while the last member of the group followed and immediately started climbing the scaffold after the woman. She paused halfway up, firing a glare down at him.  “Cyrus, what the hell are you doing?” she demanded sharply, but he man ignored her, rolling his pale blue eyes.

“Figured you might need an extra set of hands. So stop bitching at me and get that tank open.”

“The only bitch up here is y—”

— “Lyrene, Cyrus, stop fucking around,” said the brow-haired man in a sing-song voice. It seemed he was quite used to the bickering. “C’mon, Darren looks like he’s about to cry. Let’s wrap this up.”

“I am not,” the boy protested as he helped hold the scaffolding in place. “I-I mean… Ralon’s right, though. We should hurry.”

The pair at the top of the scaffolding muttered something but Hanin didn’t quite catch it. He watched them warily as they inspected the top of the tank, the woman snorting in amusement as she reached out and ran her fingers over the lock. “Child’s play,” she murmured. “Cyrus, get me my bag and hold it open.”

“Knew you’d need another set of hands,” Cyrus muttered, but did as instructed as Lyrene got to work. The sound of metal scraping on metal set Hanin’s teeth on edge, but he ignored it, still not entirely sure what to make of it all. What was this? Who were they?

“Um… excuse me? Sir?”

Hanin’s gaze snapped across to Darren, who flinched as though his stare had been a slap. He was clearly terrified, although Hanin could not imagine it was because of him. No, he doubted there was anything about his current condiiton that would make him seem even remotely threatening. How far he had fallen, since the days of protecting his clan.

“I-I was just, ah, wondering if you’re okay,” the blond continued, stammering his way through the sentence. “They, um, haven’t hurt you or anything, have they?”

How to answer that? The truth would take too long, so Hanin just shook his head. “I… am fine,” he said carefully. Even so, the boy gasped at the sound of his voice. 

What had he been expecting?

“Oh Maker, you can talk,” he squeaked, then swallowed and flushed red. “S-Sorry. I just… wasn’t sure how it would work, with you being underwater and all.”

“Kid, you need to relax before you rupture something.” Ralon sighed, then turned his attention to Hanin. “Okay, so this is probably all sorts of confusing, but for now all you need to know is that we’re getting you out of this place. You okay with that?”

Am I okay with that? The question was almost enough to make Hanin laugh, if he had the energy left for humour. He nodded, that jolted in shock as something thudded sharply above him.

“Yes! Got it.” The woman hung over the side, grinning, a metal device clutched triumphantly in her hand. “Creators, I’m brilliant. Aren’t you lucky you have me?”

“Yeah, yeah, pat yourself on the back once we’re out of here.” Cyrus had his hands on the top of the tank, fingers curled beneath the shallow lip. “F-Fuck… it’s heavy. I can barely get a grip. Stop celebrating and help.”

Lyrene made an exasperated noise but joined him. Between the two of them the top of the tank started to creak upwards, the metal shrieking in protest of the movement. But they were struggling, sweating and swearing, their grip occasionally slipping, causing it to thud back into place. Despite his exhaustion, Hanin couldn’t just sit by and watch his strange rescue take place without him. He had to do something.

Swimming up, he breached the surface of the water. There was less than a foot of space between the surface and the top of the tank, so he beat his tail and rose up, pressing the back of his shoulders to the cold metal. With the two humans pulling and him pushing, the lid began to slowly rise. As soon as Cyrus and Lyrene could get a proper grip on it, they threw it up and over, the metal crashing against the side of the tank, the glass shuddering but remaining intact.

The exertion had exhausted Hanin. Breathing hard, he reached up, trying to catch the side of the tank, but his fingers slipped off the slick glass. Luckily, the two humans grabbed his arms before he had a chance to sink back beneath the surface, and between them they managed to haul him up and out onto the scaffolding.

“Fuck me, you’re heavy,” Cyrus panted, groaning. Lyrene swatted him scoldingly, but didn’t necessarily argue as they struggled to get him over to the side of the scaffold. From there, Hanin used what little strength he had to hold onto the metal and climb down, grateful for the waiting arms of the two other humans on the ground as they caught him and helped bear his weight. Before he knew what was happening, he was held between Darren and Ralon, his arms draped around their shoulders, the pair supporting him without a word of complaint.

“Alright, let’s go. Connors is waiting out back.” Ralon glanced across and flashed Hanin a brilliant grin. “One premium rescue, coming right up!”

As they started moving, Hanin struggled to think of what to say to that. “Who… are you?” he asked, his voice raw and rough from days spent screaming. It sounded like… well, someone else entirely. Perhaps that was fitting. He felt nothing like himself.

Puffing, Darren looked at him and smiled. The boy was surprisingly strong, despite his size and age. “Friends,” he breathed, boots squeaking on the smooth metal floor as they struggled through the corridor. “F-Friends who don’t like seeing folks get hurt.”

It was so… simple. But right then, in that moment, it was enough. It was enough that Hanin was free of that tank. Free of the pain and the fear, even if only for a moment. Even if it only lasted for a few more minutes and they were all caught, it would be enough. Enough to keep him going. It was enough to know that there was some kind of hope out there, however slim.

“Thank you,” was all he managed to say, the adrenaline rushing from him as they burst out onto the street. The cold night air crashed into him like a hammer and he gasped, muscles tightening, teeth gritted against the strange sensation.

“Quick, get him in the van and covered up,” the dark haired man – Cyrus – instructed, running ahead to throw the doors open. The vehicle was rumbling, ready to move. Hanin vaguely made out the shape of a woman in the driver’s seat before he was ushered into the back and deposited on a soft mattress. His rescuers climbed in with him and slammed the doors shut. Immediately, the van took off, tires squealing as they swung out onto the street.

Breathing hard, they all collapsed in exhaustion. Lyrene let out a dazed, almost delirious laugh as she tipped her head back against the side of the van and raked her fingers through her hair. “Fuck me… I can’t believe we pulled that off.”

“Told you they’ve gotten lazy,” Ralon replied with a lopsided grin. “It’s been too long since our last raid. We let them get comfortable. Worked in our favour.”

Cyrus snorted. “Yeah, just as fucking well, or we might all be limping our sorry asses back to base like last time.”

Struggling to think, Hanin let himself sink down onto the mattress, head spinning. “You… have done this before?”

There was a beat of silence, as though they had all momentarily forgotten he was there.

“Oh shit, right!” Ralon crawled through the back of the van, cursing as the driver made a hard right, nearly sending him sprawling ass-over-ankles. He grabbed a bundle in the corner then moved back, tossing it over Hanin. It was thick and warm and… damp. It wasn’t the same as being it water, but Hanin had to admit, it helped. “Here,” Ralon continued, settling beside Hanin once more, helping tug the soaked blanket over him. “That should keep you going until we get you to base and into the pool. Sorry, but with the way Connors drives,” he raised his voice pointedly, angling his head towards the driver’s seat, “we couldn’t risk having any glass on board.”

As if in reply, the van made another hard turn, this time to the left, rattling them all like stones in a cup. But Hanin only vaguely registered the noises of complaint and indignation from his rescuers. His head was throbbing now, and he groaned softly, reaching up to press a hand to his brow. It was in that moment that he realised he was shaking. 

“You need rest.” The woman, Lyrene, had a kind face when she wasn’t directing insults at her teammates. Gently, the reached out, placing a hand behind Hanin’s neck and coaxing him to lie down. “Just close your eyes, yeah? You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.” Cyrus shifted, speaking to Hanin directly for the first time, his pale blue eyes flicking across to meet his for only the barest of moments before darting away. “You’re safe. Don’t worry about it.”

Don’t worry about it. Funnily enough, all Hanin had ever done for most of his life was worry. Worry about his clan. His clanmates. The reef. The creatures that lived in it. 

But this time, he just sighed out a weary breath, closed his eyes, and let himself sleep.