#kind of 4/4 but i'm not in the mood to do in depth analysys with the readers because it is currently.

[stxrryclusterthinks]

I'm suffering from writers block, so I decided this was a better time than ever to use a saved prompt in the draft section to try and free me.

Coughing, the blonde clutches his side, leaning forwards to spit out whatever comes up. He had been hidden in the forrest, back resting against the same tree for the past, hour? He wasn't sure, but the sun was starting to set, which instilled a large panic residing within him.

Grunting, he pulls his hand away from his side, suddenly wishing he hadn't when he sees just how stained with blood it was. A newfound sickness rolls through him upon discovery of just how much he had lost.

Quietly, he's frustrated with himself. Why hadn't he brought his communicator along? He had left it back at the docks, thinking it would be what the elders called a "quick run." What had happened was that a small group of soldiers would leave the village they were stationed at for communications, food, the sorts.

Of course, living in a war zone, they would have to be careful, but it wasn't often that something would arise and send things askew. That led to now, a blonde sat bleeding out, bullet likely still lodged into his side. They had been jumped.

Attempting to stand, he uses the tree as a brace, moving to lean his uninjured sides shoulder against it. Huffing, he pushes himself off and almost instantly regrets it, stumbling while swaying and growing lightheaded instantly.

Through the fog that was his mind, the sudden recollection that night was coming spurred him on. He stumbles the way he thinks he initially came from. Adrenaline had already crashed long ago.

Eventually, he doesn't know when he hears shouts or cries from a near distance. Subconsciously, he knows that voice, so he can't help but wonder towards it. The swaying had nearly worsened as a headache settled within his temples, clawing all the way back and through his skull.

The crunching of leaves, the snap of a stick, a stuttered cry, and a hold.

Wait, he was being held?

The blonde just relaxes into the embrace, finally giving way and closing his eyes. A new, different yet welcoming kind of warmth filled him, even as he hears the familiar voice tell him almost panickedly to stay awake, instantly calling for help.

Had something bad happened? He only bled a bit.

The headache slowly lightened, complete darkness consuming him without a peep of light.

Was it night already? Okay, he can sleep for a bit, his brother always told him sleep was important anyway.

Just a little bit wouldn't hurt.

Yet, just like that, he gasps awake, newfound fear from a dream he can't quite remember grasping him. Trying to sit up, pain floods his body, and he finds it isn't worth it. He lays, sweaty and stripped down to messy and ugly brown shorts, white socks, and a gross tank top with tares and blood stains in it.

Looking around the room, he knows instinctively where he is just by the sheer number of beds. There were tables with wooden bowls, herbs, potions, and tools in them.

He gags slightly and moves his aching arm up to cover his mouth. Nausea settled in as a headache with vengeance attacks him. Somewhere to the side, he hears a door open yet not close, two different pairs of footsteps walking in.

"Tommy!" And the familiar voice near sprints (he jogs, knowing infirmary rules), to the bedside and is in an instant on his knees beside the blanket less beded boy. "What were you thinking?! Doing that! You didn't even warn me you were going on a petrol." The voice scolds, worry slipping through the firm tone.

"Mate, calm down. The boy just woke, he needs a chance to register everything. Let me give him his herbs." The by far to familiar herbalist nurse speaks, grabbing something from a nearby basket and a cup with already brewed bland tea from nearby. Sprinkling something into it, he slowly moves closer and motions to the brunette beside the blonde.

Tommy, the blonde, slowly sits up with the help. His hand is moved to hold onto the cup, shaking ever so slightly. Patiently, both stay quiet and let the boy sip on the tea. The elder in green robes took the empty cup after it was fully consumed.

"It will work, give it but a moment." He instructs before motioning to the brunette. "You may continue." He says, a hint of a smile on his face has Tommy groans, laying back down on the uncomfortable cot of a bed.

"You should have said something, first, Tommy." He scolds as the nurse moves to situate things in his own area, letting the two have a serious talk.

After some time, it goes from talking to light banter about other things. From how the Tubbo boy had proclaimed his (platonic) love for another kid named Ranboo, both of the two from different sections, to how trash every bed in the district's village was.

"It was horrible, Will! It was like a war, we were jumped and everything!" Tommy complains after his brother, Wilbur, made a snide comment about the fighting side.

The elder, Phil, pauses movement. He had been reorganizing herbs that weren't where they were meant to be. He sets them down gently, not wanting to cause damage to them.

"War?" He asks, turning to look at the two as a dark, unsettling look falls upon him. A discomfort ran throughout the infirmary. "You do not yet know war. You are a child who has tasted their first autumn frost and called it winter." He snaps at the boy, watching as silence bestows upon all three.

"Do not, speak of things you know not about." He turns just momentarily towards the herbs, ignoring the discomforting silence followed with their confused appearances. "I will be in the study if you need me." He settles with, moving hastily to leave, not wanting to stand there much longer with the unbearing feeling.

"What did he mean?" Tommy asks soon as the door is near forcibly slammed shut, his brother wincing at it.

"I'm not, entirely sure. But rumors have it, he's old as time. Why he speaks all funky." Wilbur tries to lighten the atmosphere, Tommy instantly following along.

Both ignoring the discomfort that lingers even with the familiar conversation and banter.

In the study, Phil sits, familiar bucket hat stored away in a case not to be worn. Sword decorated with another language few could decipher placed sideways in a case below it. Both along the left wall, his desk sat in the center of the room, papers all along it. A singular large window along the furthest wall.

He sighs, standing in front of the windows. Waiting, like he does any other day. Pondering, like any other day.

But this time, not about who's to be treated or where something was.

This time, it was about a man he'd been waiting to hear from for a long, long time now.

And yet, like clockwork, he turns his attention to a familiar "tap, tap, tap," against that very window.

It's time.

He opens the window and wastes no time in grabbing the bucket hat, deciding to let the sword rest for just a bit longer.

But now, at least, if he is to be dragged into yet another war, at least the opposing side will know who he's fighting for.

And it wasn't the one he stood with.

"War? You do not yet know war. You are a child who has tasted their first autumn frost and called it winter."