#these 3 hurt me horribly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

carnivalcarriondiscarded · 1 year ago

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hi. here's a little over 5k words for the modern human au! entirely unedited, as usual! you'd think this is a full oneshot... ha... no... i actually have some warnings for this one - hospitals, panic attacks, major character injury / discussion of death / clinical description of injury.

in short, my writing comfort zone <3

The dial tone plays, and Barnaby looks down at his phone. Call ended stares back at him under Wally’s cheerful profile picture.

“He hung up on me,” Barnaby states. His lips twist and he tosses the phone onto the couch with a snarl of, “That little bastard.”

“Hey now,” Howdy says sharply, frowning at him. “That’s our friend you’re talking about.”

“Like he doesn’t deserve it! All I do is be supportive, understanding, and worry about his damn well being. And then he goes and acts like my very much well-founded concern is an attack!”

Howdy’s frown softens as he watches Barnaby pace, gesturing wildly.

“I love that RV. Maybe not as much as Wally, obviously, but it pains me that it needs to go. And it does need to go! Thing’s becoming a damn deathtrap.” Barnaby pushes his hair back and huffs. He glances at Howdy. “Right? I’m making the right call, here?”

“Of course you are,” Howdy says. “But-”

Barnaby cuts him off. “I tried to be nice about it. I tried to warm him up to the idea of retiring Home, yaknow? And what does he do instead of handling it - he revs up the tin can and runs. Home shouldn’t be started, let alone driven. It’s dangerous.”

It’s extremely dangerous. Wally is skilled at driving it, but no amount of skill will save him if it breaks in the middle of the freeway. What if the engine catches fire? What if a tire pops, or comes loose? Home is old, and wasn’t made to crumple in a crash. Barnaby doesn’t even know if the airbag still works. It’s not safe.

The thought of Wally bringing Home hurtling down the freeway at ten at night in a - quite honestly - not great mental state turns Barnaby’s stomach.

“I just wanted him to come back so we could talk about it,” Barnaby says. “I let him keep worming his way out of a serious conversation and now - now he’s -”

“Running away,” Howdy finishes. The point of his pen taps a rhythm against his notepad.

Barnaby jabs a finger at him. “Exactly. One tough, necessary decision and he turns tail. This isn’t gonna go away if he skips town! Not to mention how he isn’t giving a thought to how this might affect the rest of us.”

“Especially you.”

Barnaby throws his hands up with an indignant look. “Now not only do I have to hunt him down-”

“That would be a we scenario, Barn.”

“But we,” Barnaby concedes, “gotta try to knock some sense into that thick skull ‘a his, and drag him back home - kicking and screaming if we hafta.”

Howdy’s pen taps faster. “What if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“What if he-” Barnaby stops short and stares at him, wide eyed.

That’s not.

That wouldn’t happen, right? Wally would come back in the end. He wouldn’t decide to up and leave entirely, would he? He is in Home… all the essentials he needs are in that RV. Barnaby sits down heavily on Howdy’s threadbare couch. “What if he doesn’t want to come back.”

Wally would have to come back to clear out his studio - he’d never abandon his art. Then they’d have to go through everything inside the house and see what he wants to take, since not all of it is Barnaby’s. A lot of it is shared, so they might have to bargain on who gets what.

Then they’d all have to watch Wally get into his motorhome and drive away. Possibly for good.

Barnaby would be alone in that big house with Welcome, knowing that his closest companion is out of his life. Living somewhere else. It's sickening.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that, Barn,” Howdy says, watching him with furrowed brows and a deep frown - if Barnaby were feeling like himself, he’d crack a joke about him emulating Frank. “I can confidently say that Wally loves you more than that old RV.”

Barnaby snorts. “You sure about that?”

“Unflinchingly. Believe you me, he’s going to wallow for a day or so, and then Home will come rumbling back down your driveway like it never left.”

“I wish I could have your faith,” Barnaby mumbles. He exhales and picks up his phone. No missed calls, no messages. “Maybe if I call him and ask him to just come back, no strings attached, he will.”

“That’s the spirit! Save the talk for another day - tell you what, I’ll help you corrall him so he can’t escape the conversation. I’ll tie him to a chair and bar the door if needed!”

“Good luck with that. Kid’s slippery.” Still, Barnaby hits call again. It rings only a couple of times before a robotic automated message states the caller as unavailable. Barnaby doesn’t enjoy being upset with Wally. However, it feels like his blood is simmering, and the wall is starting to look like great target practice for his phone. He grits his teeth. “He turned off his phone.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Howdy’s eyebrows shoot up as the man turns back to his paperwork. He exhales a controlled breath and writes something down. “I have to say, I’ve never known him to be such a-”

“Pain in the neck?” Barnaby offers.

Howdy clicks his tongue. “You said it, not me.”

“Yeah, well, he’s full of surprises.” Barnaby lets out a frustrated huff. He’s half tempted to run Wally down right now, but he wouldn’t even know where to start. There’s only one freeway out of town, but it goes both ways, and it branches. Wally would have hit one of those branches by now, and who knows which he took. North, south, east, west. Deeper into the woods, or towards the city? To the coast? Somewhere else entirely?

He has to face the facts - there’s nothing to do. He just has to wait until Wally pulls his head out of his ass and realizes how stupid and insensitive he’s being. Those are two words Barnaby would never normally use to describe Wally, but after tonight? They seem fitting.

Barnaby can’t even muster up guilt for thinking such harsh things. He tried to be nice. He was patient. He’s always kept a lid on it whenever Wally frustrated him, which doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. And what does he get for caring? For being tactful and careful about a shitty situation?

Avoidance, a shove, and a cut call. Wally left Barnaby’s been left to stew in his own anger and worry. Right now, he’s inclined to lock up that worry in a tiny box in the back of his mind.

Barnaby pushes himself up with a grumbled, “I’m makin’ some coffee, want some?”

“If you’re offering then I will not decline.”

Barnaby pretends not to feel Howdy’s eyes following him to the apartment’s tiny kitchen. It’s hell to maneuver around in, and the frustration of bumping into something every five seconds only makes Barnaby’s mood worse. By the time the coffee is brewing, he’s ready to punch the cabinets. He won’t, but he wants to. He’d regret it immediately, but he stares at the chipped paint and fantasizes.

The coffee machine breaks after brewing a whopping single mug. Barnaby stares at it for a long moment, and tallies up the consequences of taking a hammer to it. In the end, he just clenches his fists for a long moment and counts to ten. He takes the mug and sets it in front of Howdy, then goes to the window to brood. Thankfully Howdy is too reabsorbed in his work to notice beyond a mumbled thanks.

For the next hour, Barnaby’s thoughts are entirely composed of Wally. Different scenarios of what might happen next, how Barnaby might handle those situations without shaking Wally for doing something so needlessly reckless, and cruel daydreams of setting Home on fire. Barnaby wants to feel bad about that. He doesn’t. That damn RV has caused two different rifts between Barnaby and Wally - and Barnaby was the one to fix both of them, because both times Wally just left.

He gets it. He really does - for a time Home was all that Wally had. It’s been with him since Wally was thirteen, and if the thought of retiring it to a dump makes Barnaby sad, he can only imagine how much it distresses Wally. Well, he can do more than make an educated guess. Wally practically told him tonight, if not with words than with actions.

Still. They’re adults - Wally is older than him, if only by a handful of months. When does Barnaby ever ask something of him? When does Barnaby ever push? Why can’t Wally see that Home is becoming a liability, and why won’t he listen? Barnaby can’t make it make sense.

Wally has always been more inclined to avoid conflict, but this is too far. Barnaby swears, when he tracks Wally down he’s going wring that scrawny little-

His phone is ringing.

Barnaby lunges for it, relief dousing his anger. He picks it up, ready to give Wally a piece of his mind and then beg him to come back-

“It’s an unknown number,” he says, shoulders slumping. Of course it’s an unknown number. Wally wouldn’t change on a dime and decide to be considerate for once. He exchanges an exasperated look with Howdy and declines. He goes to set the phone down - the number calls back.

“That’s one determined scammer,” Howdy says. He leans back in his chair and holds out a hand. “I’ll deal with ‘em.”

Barnaby is all too happy to hand it over. Let the poor sap on the other end of the line deal with a master swindler.

“Howdy-hi, how can I help?” Howdy starts with a mischievous grin thrown Barnaby’s way? He leans back in the chair and hums. “Who, may I query, is asking?”

All at once, the ease drains out of Howdy and he stops fidgeting. He sits up, already looking at Barnaby with a paled expression that has something cold slithering down Barnaby’s spine. Something is wrong.

“He’s right here.” Howdy holds out the phone. His throat works uselessly for a moment before he plainly states the obvious, “It’s for you.”

Barnaby takes it, his mouth abruptly dry. Howdy is already up and moving - grabbing his coat, his keys. “Hello?”

“Is this Barnaby Beagle?” a professional feminine voice asks, tinny through the phone.

“B. Beagle, yeah.”

The woman introduces herself as the nearest city’s hospital, and Barnaby’s heart drops through the floor. She asks him to confirm that he’s Wally Darling’s emergency contact. He confirms, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. Howdy takes his arm and gestures to his shoes by the door, spurring Barnaby into motion.

“Is he okay?” Barnaby manages to say. He puts the wrong shoe on the wrong foot and almost curses aloud as he switches it.

“Mr. Darling was involved in an automobile accident,” is all the hospital employee says. “He was brought in a few minutes ago.”

Barnaby steadies himself against the doorjamb, choking on a whispered, “Oh, god.”

Keys jingle as Howdy opens the door and pulls Barnaby through, then locks the door behind them.

“But is he okay?” Barnaby asks again as they hurry down the short hallway to the stairs.

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at present.”

It’s bad. It has to be bad if they won’t say anything over the phone. He must be silent for too long, because Howdy takes the phone, tells her they’ll be there soon, and hangs up. He tucks the phone into Barnaby’s pocket before opening the door to the store’s back lot.

The frigid air slaps the shock out of Barnaby, and sensation comes flooding back in. He grabs the keys out of Howdy’s hand and strides to the car with long, powerful strides that would leave anyone shorter than Howdy in the dust.

“Are you sure-”

“I’m driving,” Barnaby growls, cutting Howdy off.

Howdy makes a disapproving noise, but relents. They get in and Barnaby adjusts his seat with harsh movements, jabs the key into the ignition because Howdy’s car is a dated hunk of junk, and peels out of the parking space before Howdy even has his seatbelt all the way on.

Howdy clings to the ceiling handle as the car tears down the mostly empty street, going at least ten miles over the speed limit. Barnaby doesn’t know exactly where the hospital is, but he knows how to get to the city. They can figure it out from there. Several people honk as Barnaby brings them flying onto the freeway.

“Holy Marilyn marmalade!” Howdy screeches as they narrowly avoid side-swiping a minivan.

Barnaby ignores him and cuts off a pickup to get into the right lane for the interchange. Howdy whispers a string of something high pitched and strained and clings to the handle with both hands.

It takes him a moment to parse out the constant ramble as, “-pull over pull over pull over pull over-” Two honks and a squeal of tires as Barnaby almost causes an accident, and Howdy yells in a louder and deeper tone than Barnaby has ever heard from him, “PULL OVER!”

Barnaby clenches his jaw and cuts across the carpool lane’s double whites. It only takes a moment to reach the shoulder. Howdy leaps out of the passenger seat as soon as the car stops, marches to Barnaby’s side, and wrenches the door open.

“Out,” he snaps, breathing hard. “Barnaby, I swear to all things priceless, get out. “

Barnaby meets his steely gaze for all of a second before unbuckling and getting out. Cars whip by. Howdy huffs at him and slips into the driver’s seat, muttering about recklessness and disasters and if you would wait to try and kill us until we’re right outside the hospital, if only to save us the ambulance fee-

When Barnaby gets into the passenger seat, Howdy waits for him to buckle in with fingertips drumming on the steering wheel. He merges onto the freeway smoothly and carefully. They go slower than the speed Barnaby had them flying down the asphalt at, and it makes something deeply impatient itch in him, but it’s safer.

“I know you’re upset,” Howdy says, eyes still fixed on the road, “and I know that you’re scared. But what in hell’s bells was that, Barn?”

Barnaby side eyes him and grimaces, folding his arms. “I don’t know. I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have put you in danger like that.”

“You put yourself in danger too, you know.” Howdy sighs and relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. “We’re of no use to Wally if we get ourselves in a crash. What would he say?”

“Whatever he’d say would be hypocritical,” Barnaby says before he can think better of it.

Howdy glances sharply at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He..” Barnaby’s voice fails on him, and he swallows hard. “He was in an accident.”

Howdy is silent for a full few seconds before he exhales a thin, pained sound. “Oh, Walls…”

He must not know what else to say, which is good and well, because Barnaby doesn’t either. A long few minutes pass of silence. Headlights of passing cars on the other side of the freeway flash over them before plunging back into darkness. The dials on the dash glow. The check engine light is on. They’ll need to get gas in order to make it home.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” Howdy says. He’s tapping the steering wheel again. “It’s likely just a few scrapes and bruises, at worst a broken bone. Nothing Wally can’t handle, and certainly nothing to be concerned over.”

Barnaby can’t bring himself to agree. Maybe… maybe if Wally was driving slowly… but that wouldn’t matter if someone crashed into him with enough force. Home is a large, sturdy vehicle, but it isn’t invulnerable. Wally certainly isn’t.

Without the distraction of driving, all Barnaby can think about is the what ifs. Yeah, what if he’s only a little bit hurt, but what if it’s worse? All of the worst images Barnaby can think of roll through his mind like a messed up movie reel.

Wally dead on the scene, caught in a hunk of twisted metal.

Wally, choking on his own blood in an ambulance, dying en route to the hospital.

Wally flatlining on a metal table.

Wally’s small body covered with a sheet-

“Almost there,” Howdy says, slowing at a stoplight. It bathes them both in red. Barnaby didn’t notice when they got off the freeway.

Barnaby squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead to the cold window. After a moment, a slender hand rests on his thigh and squeezes. It’s such a small, stupid thing, but Barnaby breathes a little easier.

Despite the drive down the freeway feeling like it took hours, the drive through city streets to the hospital passes in a blink. Before Barnaby knows it the car is spiraling up to an upper floor of the parking garage. The floor is mostly empty - Howdy pulls into a spot right by glass double doors.

Barnaby gets out a split seconds before Howdy, staring at the pristine white walls just inside the doors. In a moment he’ll find out if it’s not that bad, or if he’s about to have the worst night of his life. He’s been to a hospital twice. The last time was for Howdy, but he went with the knowledge that it was only a precaution. The other time was for Mama’s health scare.

That had been terrifying. The waiting, the wondering, the too-bright hallways and the staff’s rigid smiles. It ended well, but it had still been horrible, and hospitals took center stage in some of his recurring nightmares. Barnaby never wanted to see another loved one in a hospital bed again.

Looks like he doesn’t have a choice.

Howdy comes around from the driver’s side and lays a hand on Barnaby’s shoulder. “If you need a moment to-”

“Nah,” Barnaby says, his voice rough. He nods and adjusts his sleeves. “Better rip the bandaid off.”

They go into the sterile maze. The bright overhead lights dazzle Barnaby’s eyes after being in the dim parking garage, and he grimaces at the strong odor of antiseptic and floor polish. Howdy makes a beeline for the nearest receptionist and talks to her in rushed, low tones.

Barnaby shuffles after him, rubbing his shaking hands together and eyeing every person in scrubs that walks past. Something beeps somewhere. He thinks he hears someone crying. This is a place without color, art, or happiness.

“This way,” Howdy says, walking past him and tilting his head at the elevator. Barnaby follows, feeling like a lost puppy dropped at the side of the road.

A nurse gets into the elevator with them and politely smiles before staring at the floor counter and pretending they don’t exist. It’s fine with Barnaby. If he has to make small talk right now, he might actually snap. The man’s pink scrubs are almost an eyesore in the harsh lighting.

The elevator dings, and they all get out on the same floor. Howdy reads door plaques and wall signs like a hawk, his head turning on a swivel as he reads everything at lightning speed. Barnaby nearly has to jog to keep up with his hurried pace.

Howdy changes direction without warning and heads straight for a door at the end of a short offshoot hallway. Barnaby reads the sign next to the door.

[can’t remember if it’s icu or the other thing, research later]

It’s bad.

The waiting room is small - longer than it is wide, and there’s a woman sleeping in a chair in the corner. It looks nicer than the emergency room, or where Barnaby waited to see his mama. The benches have colorful cushions, and the walls are a pastel green instead of white. There’s an abstract geometric painting on the wall next to the woman.

Barnaby slowly takes a seat on stiff cushions, watching Howdy talk to the receptionist from afar. He nods and pats the counter before joining Barnaby. He sits close enough that their legs press together.

“Someone will get us up to speed as soon as there’s news,” Howdy says. “I tried to pry some more out of him, but he wouldn’t give up another word.”

Barnaby nods, staring down at his hands. His nail polish is already chipping, despite Julie painting them only last weekend. Barnaby picks at the bright red on his pinkie until Howdy pulls his hand away and enfolds it in both of his own.

When Howdy takes a deep breath, Barnaby finds himself mimicking him. Their gazes meet - Howdy’s is unflinching, and steady. He smiles and runs his thumb over Barnaby’s knuckles, soothing the nervous trembling, and Barnaby is struck by how darn grateful he is to have Howdy with him.

If he had to do all of this alone… Barnaby doesn’t think he could. Either he’d have gotten himself into a crash to join Wally, or he would still be sitting in his car, staring at the hospital doors. He doesn’t have the courage. But Howdy does, and Barnaby loves him for it.

For once, Howdy lets the time pass in silence, though after a long stretch of indeterminable time he gets up to pace. The bench cushions are high quality, but they start to feel uncomfortable. Barnaby doesn’t dare go for a walk. At least they’re not the usual waiting room chairs - he’d rather stand than try to fit into those plastic, narrow things.

At some point the woman in the corner wakes up. She startles seeing two strangers in the room with her, but quickly ignores them. Barely a few minutes pass before she leaves, mumbling something about coffee. She doesn’t come back. Barnaby spends a while wondering why - did she go home, or wait somewhere else, or did she receive news in the halls?

Howdy sits down again and starts typing furiously on his phone. When Barnaby gives him a curious nudge, he quietly explains that he’s texting the group chat. Barnaby feels a twinge of guilt at that. He completely forgot to let everyone know that there’s a… situation. Who knows if any of them will see it until morning.

Message sent, Howdy gets up to pace some more. His rhythmic gait gives Barnaby something to focus on, seeing as the clock on the wall is silent, and the receptionist seems to be sleeping. Barnaby could probably pass time on his own phone, but every second spent distracted is a second he might miss someone coming to tell them…

What? Tell them what, exactly? That Wally is okay? That he can receive visitors?

That he didn’t make it?

The door opens, startling Barnaby to his feet. Howdy scurries over from the far side of the room and rests a steadying hand on Barnaby’s lower back. A woman clad in blue scrubs enters, reading something on a clipboard. There are shadows under her eyes, and she looks beyond exhausted. Barnaby can sympathize.

“Mr. Beagle?” the doctor asks, looking between them. When Barnaby nods, she smiles thinly, gaze flicking briefly to Howdy. “Hi. I’m Dr. Allen. Before I disclose any sensitive information, I’d like to confirm what your relation to the patient is.”

The question gives Barnaby pause. He’s always had a difficult time putting his and Wally’s relationship into simple terms, because it’s anything but. Wally is his best friend, his dearest companion, the man he lives with and can’t imagine being without.

“He’s my partner,” Barnaby settles on, because it’s a good umbrella term. Partner can mean a lot of things, and people don’t usually pry for specifics. “We’re as good as family.”

Dr. Allen writes something down on her clipboard. “No worries, I’m not going to kick you out if you’re not - you’re his emergency contact for a reason, after all. It’s just basic information that I’d like to have on hand.”

“Course - so how is he?” Barnaby cuts straight to the chase. He’s not in the mood for niceties.

“Well, Mr. Darling is certainly giving us a run for our money,” Allen sighs. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but I believe he’s gotten through the worst of it.”

“He’ll make it?”

Allen offers another tight lipped smile. “We’re doing our best.”

Barnaby has seen enough hospital dramas to know that we’re doing our best means no promises, prepare for the worst. Howdy must feel the tension gripping him like a vice, because his hand slips from Barnaby’s back to his hand.

“What are his injuries, if I may?” Howdy asks.

“I’m not sure-”

“Please. We’d rather know than wonder.”

Allen looks between them and sighs again. She flips a page on her clipboard. “Unfortunately, there was a bit of time between the crash and when emergency services were called. Between blood loss and the near-freezing temperatures, Mr. Darling developed mild hypothermia.”

Wally was dying, cold and alone in the wreckage of his home for who knows how long before anyone came to help. Barnaby sways in place, and Howdy helps him sit down on a bench instead of the floor. Allen looks apprehensive.

“Keep going,” Barnaby rasps. He needs to know.

Allen doesn’t look happy about it, but she continues. “Mr. Darling also suffered several low-grade lacerations from shrapnel, some fractured ribs, a compound fracture in his left tibia, and currently unidentified damage to his right hand and lower arm.”

Barnaby swallows a mournful sound. That’s fine, it’s fine. Broken bones heal - Wally will be painting again in no time.

“He also developed an intracranial hematoma. It’s been treated, but we won’t know the extent of the damage until Mr. Darling wakes up.”

“What is that?” Howdy asks before Barnaby can figure out how to speak again. “Intracranial hematoma - tell me if I’m wrong, but that sounds like a head injury.”

“It is - in layman’s terms, it’s a brain bleed. Head trauma can cause bleeding inside the skull, which puts pressure on the brain. We caught it as quickly as feasibly possible, which should raise his chance of a full recovery.” Allen flips the clipped page back into place. “There may still be lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet. I’ll be forward with you - this is one of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time. Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive.”

Allen goes on to offer platitudes that Wally is a fighter, and easily answers the flood of questions Howdy has about the mentioned injuries. It all sounds distant. Underwater. The room is too small and the air is stale - are the vents working? Is there a window they can open?

In a blink - and yet the conversation lasts ages - Allen promises to come back with more information as soon as she has it. She smiles one last time and leaves.

“Barn?” Howdy sounds muffled. “Barn, are you alright?”

What kind of question is that? Of course Barnaby isn’t alright - his best friend is dying, likely on this very floor. There’s a chance he’s already dead. Barnaby might have already lost him, he just doesn’t know it yet.

Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive.

One of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time.

Mild hypothermia - brain bleed - lacerations - fractures.

Lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet.

We’re doing our best.

“He hung up on me, the little bastard-”

Barnaby is up and out the door before he registers moving. He staggers down the hallways in a blur, everything swirling together into a mess of sight and sound as his lungs struggle to get a full breath. He bypasses the elevator and takes the stairs down to the level they parked on.

The cold air does nothing to help him breathe. Barnaby chokes on it as he leans against the rough wall grasping at his chest. Howdy is there immediately - he must have been on Barnaby’s heels the whole time.

“Talk to me, Barn,” Howdy pleads, a hand on the back of his neck and the other over the one Barnaby has on his chest. “What is it - you’re not having a heart attack, are you? Tell me you aren’t, I can’t handle that right now.”

Barnaby doesn’t know. Maybe? He feels like he is. He can’t breathe. He tries to say so, but the ragged gasps his breathing has devolved into doesn’t allow it. Howdy must know something he doesn’t, because he doesn’t run to get a doctor.

“How can I help?” he asks instead.

“Don’t - don’t - know,” Barnaby wheezes.

“Okay, alright, don’t worry, Barn, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. Let’s try, ah - what were the steps? I didn’t exactly write them down, though in hindsight I should’ve - that’s not the point! It was… what a time to take after Eddie’s memory-”

It shouldn’t be helping, but Howdy’s constant stream of words grabs Barnaby’s attention. He manages to inhale nearly a full breath before it stutters back out and he’s struggling again.

“Breathing!” Howdy says. “Yes, that was it - Barnaby, I need you to focus on me. Copy my breathing.”

He sucks in a slow, dramatic breath through his nose and exhales just as slowly through his mouth. Barnaby catches on and tries to mimic him, but-

“Can’t, I ca-an’t,” Barnaby says. His chest hurts.

Howdy presses their foreheads together. “Yes, you can. Come now, Barn, in… out. Simplest thing in the world.”

It doesn’t feel simple, but Barnaby tries. It feels like forever before he manages a full inhale. He butchers the exhale, but Howdy praises the minor win before launching right back into measured breathing.

Barnaby finally manages a slow inhale and exhale, and suddenly it feels like the pressure filling his chest has vanished. He slumps against the wall, worn out. He puts his hand over Howdy’s mouth in the middle of another dramatic demonstration.

“You’re alright now?” Howdy says, peeling his hand off. Barnaby nods, and Howdy leans next to him with a whoosh. “Thank the stock market - I was starting to get light headed.”

It takes another few minutes for them to catch their breath. Barnaby straightens enough to rest his head on Howdy’s shoulder, breathing in his cheap cologne and homemade laundry detergent. Howdy cups the back of his neck and massages the tense muscle there.

“This will all turn out okay,” Howdy promises. “Wally is stubborn - I think we both know that well enough. By this time tomorrow we’ll be moving forward.”

Barnaby wants to be that optimistic, but this is real life. For all they know, moving forward means making funeral arrangements. His breathing stutters and he forces it to even out before he can start hyperventilating again.

A car pulls into a parking space with a gravelly sound. Barnaby pays it no mind until Howdy makes a surprised noise - Barnaby looks up, and his stomach churns.

Frank, Eddie, and Julie are all getting out of Frank’s car. They’re all in various states of dishevelment. Frank’s hair is a mess, and he has what looks like Eddie’s company jacket thrown on over his pajamas. Eddie is in little more than a shirt that says male? lol, more like mail! and boxers - he’s even wearing slippers instead of shoes, and his hair flops over his forehead in soft tufts. Julie’s hair is still in curlers, and though she’s wearing shoes, she’s in a too-long shirt over sweats that don’t belong to her. They’re paint-stained.

They rush across the parking lot, all worried faces and tired eyes. They’re already asking what happened, is Wally okay, Sally is getting Poppy, they should be here soon, has there been any news-

Barnaby lunges at the nearest trash can and vomits.

#IM SORRY FOR ANY HOSPITAL/PROCEDURAL INACCURACIES IM NOT TRYING TO BE ACCURATE AT THE MOMENT #except for the injuries. those are realistic and i did my due diligence. read a lot of first hand accounts! medical pages!#ohhhh this was so cozy to write #i mean. not as familiar as actual on-screen injuries but yk #its been too fluffy in here.#this is a mild example of my usual tastes and habits when it comes to fic & fiction #WHUMP CENTRAL BABEYYYYYY #i like it messy and painful!!! Lets Fuckin Go!!!!#this is a prime example of me not being able to shut the fuck up when writing #my scenes & convos just go on and on and on and on....#but yes! enjoy! the Crash arc is very thoroughly planned out in my head and lately its one of my favorite things to imagine before bed <3 #bedtime stories can be fictional characters going through horrible injuries & emotionally hurting each other #snippets from the bog #i will repeat what i have said multiple times before #i take the comic relief character. i hurt the comic relief character #i could have posted the little carnival half-scene. i could have #but ive been feeling stressed and caged and i need to let out some steam #and this is how i do that. controlled fictional violence <3

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angeart · 3 months ago

Text

hhau mimic arc rambles - part IV: the inbetween (the wing spiral)

(~5,2 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

this comes right after the hot spring bath, still the same setting. and once again this is based on our discord rp so most of it is going to be a lengthy back and forth for a scene that could be summed up much shorter <3 hopefully you’ll enjoy!

[cws self-destructive tendencies, like seriously, a LOT. this is all kind of just that. and trauma. and going nonverbal.]

~~~

It’s once Grian’s wings become properly waterlogged and start sinking him that Scar pulls Grian back to the shore and wakes him up. And he worries, for many good reasons, that the moment of peace will be gone as soon as Grian’s feathers dry up.

He doesn’t expect the end to come much sooner.

Grian’s body feels like mush after sleeping in the warm water, relaxed for the first time in forever. He feels weak, heavy. His wings are leaden. He isn’t sure he can actually walk. With trembling legs, he slumps down, instantly getting his damp skin dirty. The air brushes his damp body and sends him shivering.

Even though it’s winter, the ground outside frost-painted and frozen, the cave is somewhat warmed by the pool of hot water. It’s something, but it's still far from ideal. The walls provide them enough shielding though, and they’re relatively hidden… So Scar gingerly dares to set up a fire for the night.

Sitting down on the spread out cloak, Grian hunches up while Scar works.

Grian’s feeling Bad. Frustrated with his wings. He can’t lift them up and spread them over the fire; they’re too wet, too heavy. Everything itches So Much Worse now that the debris got dislodged from the spots he's learned to ignore. He's swarmed by an overwhelming pile of awful sensations that make him hyperaware and overstimulated in the worst ways, and he wants it to Stop.

He needs his wings dry now, or—

Or he needs them gone.

His hands hover over his feathers, expression drawn. He considers squeezing them to get the water out, but that’s only bound to damage them—and he isn’t entirely sure if he could stop himself from yanking at them right now if he so much as touches them.

Scar watches him, uneasy, trying to figure out how to help. Tentatively, he offers to help spread Grian’s wings out close to the fire. He could cover his hands with fabric! It wouldn’t even be skin-on-feather contact! And he won’t move unless Grian moves him, and and—

He’s just rambling nervously. He doesn't actually know what to do.

Grian’s a shivering mess at this point. His nerve-endings are firing and flaring up and he’s quickly growing so tense again and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He begs Scar to help, but at the same time he doesn’t want his wings to be touched. (He can only comprehend painful touches. If Scar’d grab and pull instead of be gentle, maybe that’d be something Grian’s mind could comprehend.)

Scar tries to soothe him. “Hey, hey, we’ve got plenty of time to let them dry! It’s fine. It’s fine! I’ll help however you let me!”

But Grian’s mind is already spiralling, overtaken by the sensations that don’t let him calm down. There’s an encroaching feeling, something sharp and unpleasantly familiar. His hands curl. He whines and cries that his wings are heavy and they feel wrong.

Self destruction brushes against the nape of his neck, ghosts over his feathers. He can’t help but misguidedly crave pain against his feathers, because maybe that would feel right. Maybe that would make sense. Maybe they deserve to be punished. Maybe— Maybe they should be cut off.

Just— Please. Please make it stop feeling like this.

He needs Scar to do something, but he doesn’t know what. Can’t articulate it either to release them from this stalemate of an awful moment.

Not for the first time in this world, Scar is convinced he completely messed up for suggesting the bath at all. It was a bad idea, clearly. Why was he so eager? Why did he have to insist, even though Grian was clearly hesitant? Why did he have to go ahead and drag Grian into it, only for it all to end up like this?

He’s a bit frantic, but he’s trying to keep his suggestions level and calm. He offers Grian to lie down so he doesn’t need to keep his wings up too much in his attempts to reach the warmth of the crackling fire.

With a weak whimper, Grian curls up on the cloak. With a sharp flinch, he nudges his wing a bit too close to the fire. (He doesn’t care; he’s so upset with them. He watches blankly, sees it happen, but doesn’t move away.) (His wing is so heavy.) (What has it ever done for him—and Scar—in this world but bring suffering?) (Maybe it'd be better if it burned.) (Maybe it should.) (It deserves whatever happens to it, he thinks dazedly.)

Scar’s stunned, locked in place at the sight. What is he meant to do here?? He can’t move Grian’s wings. He— Does he move the fire? Or— Or he could scoot all of Grian, maybe. But now he’s convinced all of his ideas are garbage now. He doesn’t want to make things worse, and he’s aware that he tends to inadvertently do that far too often.

Grian’s mind continues spiralling, untethered, in free fall. He’s blankly looking at his feathers near the fire; the sparks fly nearby. The glow illuminates the damp mess of his feathers.

In the quietest voice, barely audible, he asks: “... Scar, do you want to cut them off?”

Scar’s lungs seize up. Surely he heard that wrong? “What?”

Grian purses his lips, a small frown settling between his eyebrows. He’s still staring in the direction of the feathers and the flame, not turning to look at Scar.

Something in Scar shifts then, so adamantly. Where he was trying to work with Grian’s spiralling before, now he just has outright refusal flowing through him. “Grian, no.” His voice is stern instead of that squeaky, panicked gentleness from before. “Listen to me, you are fine, we are safe, they will dry. I told you I’d watch your back, okay? I told you it was okay to relax, so let me figure this out.”

Grian doesn’t move. He stays lying quietly, not looking at Scar, fingers slightly curled but left with nothing to hold onto. Scar’s words swirl through him, but they refuse to take hold.

“Scar.” It’s quiet, so incredibly quiet. Wobbly and blank, somber and so horribly factual. “I don’t need them.”

“Yeah I don’t need my hair either but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna shave it,” Scar grumbles. His voice isn’t angry exactly, but he is not playing this game. “I can make another fire if you want. We have enough fuel, we’ll just have to gather more soon. And then we either wait or you let me help.” He’s gone full diplomatic, spending all his energy on remaining calm and certain.

Grian squeezes his eyes shut, pulling himself tighter into a ball. Scar’s voice is flatter than usual, not the coaxing gentleness he usually uses, and Grian silently blames himself for that tonal shift, further unease blooming under his skin.

His wing twitches, feathers moving just the slightest bit towards the fire. It’s not an intended motion, and with his eyes tightly closed and mind fuzzy, Grian isn’t even fully aware of it. (He wouldn’t correct it anyway.)

The wings are wet and heavy and cold, and everything in them feels dislodged and damaging, and he wants to tear at them—

He curls his fingers tighter, nails digging into his palm as a whimper breaks past his lips.

Even if Scar is upset with him. Even if Grian is feeling and saying wrong things. (Things that scare him but sink into him like daggers anyway.) Even then, he still wants Scar to help. He— He needs Scar’s help, because he isn’t sure he’s going to win this fight with himself.

Grian sniffles and looks to him, all wretched and pathetic. “Help.”

The tension tugging at Scar’s features as he racks his brain eases slightly when he meets Grian’s eyes. His expression immediately softens, utterly weak to it.

“Okay,” Scar says softly, even if he’s not sure what that promised help entails quite yet. He scoots a little closer, purposely putting his foot in between the fire and Grian’s encroaching feathers. “Another fire or do you want me to help you dry off?”

Notably, Grian’s feathers don’t shy from the barrier of Scar’s foot. They’d usually flinch back, maintaining distance, but Grian can’t muster up enough will to care right now. He’s willing to get them hurt.

The way Scar’s voice softens chips at something in Grian. Abruptly, his eyes flood with tears and his fists loosen, hands twitching up. (To cover his face or to reach for Scar, he isn’t sure.) “I just want— I just want them dry. Scar, please.”

It’s not an answer to a preferred method, but it is an answer to the scale of urgency. (And that’s not even it. Grian wants more. He wants them clean but without being bright. He wants all the things lodged in them to be pulled out without them being touched. He wants them to stop feeling so awful all the time. He wants them to stop being beacons. He wants them to stop being such an incessant burden. He wants people to stop so hungrily wanting them, as if they were an object to take. He wants to stop being afraid of the day when they will inevitably be hacked off his back while he screams and can't fight back. He wants them to feel like a part of him again instead of just something unwieldy and wounded he carries along. He wants them to stop feeling so inflamed and scratched up, so tense, so big and visible, so untouchable, like a dead space around his back that has to forever be navigated around. He wants— He wants it all to stop. He wants them gone, now, on his own terms.)

“Okay,” Scar says again. His voice is steady but his hands, notably, are not.

Aside from the fire, every suggestion he has involves touching Grian’s wings— which as far as he’s concerned, is something he is never allowed to do.

“Okay, just… let them down? Um, droop?” Scar slides his leg firmly between them and fire, though. “… And not too close to the fire.” He’s no longer beating around the bush with that. He knows what Grian is thinking about. He can sense the self destructiveness.

Grian tries to follow what Scar wants from him while wading through the endless suggestions his own mind spews at him. He shifts, a bit clumsy, and his wings sweep across the floor. They’re so heavy to move. To adjust. To redirect. It’s ungraceful, fumbly.

Despite Scar banning the proximity to the fire, the feathers lightly crash against Scar’s legs anyway, a small pressure leaving nothing but a despondent suggestion of Scar moving out of the way as Grian sobs quietly while his mind spins. (Tear rip destroy cut get rid of them get rid of them make them GONE pluck them out claw them off anything just gone gone gONE) (Make it stOP—)

While—as Scar presumes, anyway—Grian’s mind is preoccupied dealing with the task of moving his wings, Scar goes ahead and tears the other band-aid off. “…Grian, I’m— I’m going to have to touch your wings to make this work.” Again he’s fighting down his nerves, forcing his voice to remain even, but he struggles.

He hates this.

Grian blinks, not looking quite at Scar. His vision is blurry and something in his chest tingles, plunging him into uncertainty. He doesn’t know how he feels. His ears ring. “Okay…” he says, a bit too quiet, a bit too flat.

His brain fumbles through nonsensical half-sentences. He considers asking Scar to yank the feathers. He considers asking him to make it hurt? He thinks maybe he should tell him again to cut them off, get rid of the problem at the root.

What he ends up saying instead is something else entirely, and his voice is small and incredibly off while he delivers the line.

“... Do you want them?”

“... What?” Scar says again, entirely thrown off by that nonsensical question. But he quickly decides he doesn’t want Grian to explain that, actually, and keeps talking. “No, Grian, I want you. All of you. I just—“ The gravity of those statements weighs on Scar after a moment and he stutters slightly over his words, but still powers through. “I just want you to be okay. This was supposed to be relaxing.”

It takes a second for Scar to realize Grian did provide consent for the idea of his wings being touched, which is wild, and it sets off a whole bunch of other questions he doesn’t want answered flying around his brain. “So I’ll be as fast as I can, okay? And then we can enjoy some nice warm clothes and a lovely campfire.”

Grian grows both more sheepish and more numb, quieter. It feels like surrendering. To what exactly, he isn’t sure yet. He’s just done fighting. Whatever happens, happens.

His voice is tiny and hollow, but he gives Scar another nudge, another confirmation that he’s listening and Scar is allowed to carry on. “Okay.”

“… Okay,” Scar repeats, somewhat terrified. He’s never known Grian to give in so easily to anything, even when it’s good for him. “I won’t hurt you, you know that?” It’s meant to be a statement, but it comes out far too close to a question.

The words are out there and— Grian knows Scar wouldn’t hurt him, but his brain is screaming at him anyway, and he thinks he’d welcome it if Scar did something horrible to him. (He’s verging on doing it himself—) Instead of answering, he just closes his eyes.

Scar fumbles his hands about, looking for his clothes that he set out to get warm, taking his vest for starters because it’s the thickest. He wraps the fabric over and around his hand, taking this time to steel his nerves. He really shouldn’t build up to this whole thing, even if he wants to preface it with about a dozen apologies.

Grian can sense Scar getting ready. It sets his nerves alight, and he wants to retreat, back into that numbness, even as the anticipation builds up under his skin. He takes a shaky breath, brings his arms up and ducks his face in them, hiding himself.

It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay let it happen—

Scar really doesn’t want to prolong this any more than necessary, so he gets right to it, placing his wrapped-up hand on the wing closest to him and moving it in line with the feathers, trying to place as little pressure as possible for this first pass.

Grian’s wing barely twitches, startled as Scar starts touching it. Grian’s biting into his lip, trying not to tremble, trying not to— He isn’t sure what. (He wishes Scar’d pull his claws out and dug in.) (The lightness of the touch is driving him insane.)

Restless with mounting tension, Grian shifts a little, moving to curl on his other side, effectively turning his back to Scar. It seems practical: it helps the angle, gives Scar easier access to the wing. But more than that, it also means relinquishing even more control—something Grian usually never does. (The idea of someone behind his back usually spirals him into panic. He never really allows it. Not anymore.) (And yet.)

Scar’s surprised he isn’t given much resistance for doing this. He feels like he ought to be slapped, or in the very least shouted at for causing this whole mess. He’s miserable, not at all enjoying this disaster of a preening session, if you could even call it that.

Grian’s chest feels horribly constricted and his hands shake. Turned away from Scar, he presses his hand against his bare, damp chest, nails clawing at his skin, clutching at the pain he can’t quite get to.

Scar presses down a little more with each pass, letting the cloth soak up as much water as it can, and after a few successful strokes down the entire length, Scar lifts ever so slightly to let it drip off the bottom, testing if he can get away with drying there as well. He doesn’t exactly want to, but it would get this done faster if he could.

The firmer pressure on Grian’s wings, oddly enough, feels better than the light touch. Grian doesn’t want Scar to be gentle. (He doesn’t know how to make him understand that.) (He thinks maybe Scar knows and just doesn’t want to understand.) Nonsensically, he wishes it’d all be worse.

He doesn’t react to Scar manipulating his wings in any way, doesn’t twitch or flinch them away. The wing isn’t relaxed, not in the slightest, but it obliges and obeys, surrendered just like Grian. (Please please please make it hurt—)

As he works, Scar takes a breath to speak. It’s shaky, just like his hands, but he pushes past it. “I was—“ His voice catches in his throat, and he quietly curses himself for failing on his one strength here— his words. But he tries again, pushes past the wobble in his voice. “… I was gonna build a castle this season. I know I’m always on about how I hate big castle builds, but I had a block palette ready and everything.”

When Scar starts talking, voice faltering, Grian feels an abrupt rise of emotions clog his throat. It’s the first time since the start that his wing really twitches, threatening awareness on him. He fights down the uprise of panic, breathes through his mouth, a long and steady exhale.

“Wh— What palette did you— have in mind?” he manages to say in bits and pieces, voice hoarse and thick, sounding like he’s been crying. He can barely comprehend what he’s saying, half of him switched on autopilot.

Scar is so relieved to hear Grian speak, even if his voice is more pained than his own. It just feels like something more manageable than the task at hand, however, so he clings to it, continues on.

“I was gonna use blue ice for the roof. Maybe a little impractical but—“ he almost chuckles, trying to ease into the easy conversation. “I think the worst part of castles is everyone goes for the medieval look. They suck the soul right out of the build with it. There’s no magic!”

He scrubs more methodically, even offering the occasional squeeze to get the water out. He still hates it. The enthusiasm of his words rings false to his own ears. To make up for his frustration, he frees a small twig that had been driving him crazy before back in the hot spring. “I would go for a more pastel color palette— sandstone, terracotta, no deepslate allowed.”

Grian presses his forehead against the cloak that’s underneath him, just trying to hold himself together. (He still wants to grab the wing and do bad bad bad things—) (The freed twig sends a toppling sense of relief through him that he can’t quite decipher or understand.) He tries so hard to follow Scar’s words, instead of the unending scalding avalanche of things his mind keeps suggesting and burying him under.

He wants to tell Scar to rake his claws through his feathers.

He wants to tell him to just tear at the joint, right where Grian’s exposed back lies defenceless.

He wants to tell him to bite and tear and take—

He swallows thickly and says, instead: “A fairytale castle.”

“Exactly!” Scar says, the excitement partially real this time. “A proper castle isn’t just a build, it’s an experience!”

It feels like this might take an eternity, but Scar does recognize progress. He continues taking out anything he sees stuck in the wings, deciding he’s at least going to make Grian’s wings feel better if he has to do this to him.

Grian's curling up tighter, shivering despite himself, but his wing is still and willing in Scar's hands, nothing but an object to be manipulated. (To be taken.) He still wants this all to get worse. He also wants it to be over. He can't stand this in-between.

With effort, Grian drags his other wing—the one Scar isn't currently working on—across himself. He hasn't purposefully touched his wings in so long, but with a stutter of his breath and mind burning, his fingers find the feathers now.

“Careful,” Scar warns, like he’s the one that should be offering wing advice somehow. “I’m almost done with this one, I think?” He lifts his hand, seeing the vest is properly soaked already.

“Mm.” Grian doesn’t really process what Scar means by saying careful. Doesn’t catch the warning. His wing tucks around him, fingers curling into the feathers without care. He’s playing with the idea of yanking as if he was playing with fire, but somehow it seems like the option that will burn him is the safe one. The letting go. Like he should pick this destructive option instead to make it all better.

His earwings shield his face, even as all of him is turned away from Scar’s sight anyway.

They muffle the quietest, choked sob.

Grian’s fingers pull.

Just at that moment, Scar turns to grab his undershirt, figuring he may as well. The clothes’ll dry easier than the feathers, clearly.

When he looks back, he sees the slight pull Grian’s fingers make and he narrows his eyes, wanting to be wrong about what he just saw. He decides against bringing attention to it, instead grabbing Grian’s hand and unthreading his fingers altogether. “Let me,” he says, though he leaves little room for argument.

There’s no fighting back; Grian’s self destructive, but entirely given up otherwise, still surrendered to Scar fully. (His mind is a tangled mess of contradictions and warnings and pleas.) He lets Scar do what he wants, a sense of blank numbness descending back over him. (He wants to keep it. It’s easier. He wants to tuck himself in it and never emerge.)

Scar doesn’t bring up what he thinks he just saw, not now. He’s not so sure Grian is fully with it, something he’s become more familiar with than he’d like to be.

He gets to work on that wing, leaving the drier one spread out near the fire. (Though he keeps a close eye on that.) The undershirt is a tad worse at collecting water, but it’s longer and still does the job. And he wants that job done as soon as possible. “How did you ever bathe back home…” he mumbles, not expecting an answer.

Grian’s completely resigned, his wing fully in Scar’s control. He’s staring blankly ahead at the darker part of the cave, not really seeing anything. His soul feels like a warzone, littered with exploded landmines.

He isn’t sure if there’s anything left to explode. (There probably is.) (He doesn’t want to think about it.)

He hears Scar asking something, but he doesn’t quite catch and process it. The word home makes it through to his awareness though and, quietly, without a word, his eyes flood with fresh tears.

Despite not expecting an answer, it still hurts Scar not to receive one. He feels like he’s talking to the void when Grian gets like this. Like his heart is about to tip forward and fall into it.

“Is there like… a hair dryer for wings?” His attempt at a joke doesn’t make him feel any better. Again he moves the wing to work on the underside, carefully pinching when he needs to squeeze the water out.

Numbness tingles through Grian, but contradictory, the tears continue to overflow and silently drip down his face. He doesn't know what he's feeling. Is it emptiness? Is it pain? Is it fear? He thinks of the campfire and feathers. He thinks of blood and screaming, arms and blades and being pinned down. He thinks of Scar's soft voice and of his hands massaging Grian's scalp.

He can't untangle himself.

He continues staying quiet, not reacting.

“I guess you… could just use a normal hair dryer.” Scar’s heart aches. His vision is getting blurry with tears as well. He’s still doing well drying the wings, but his chest feel likes it’s splintering. With a small sniffle, he adds on, far too quiet: “Grian, I’m so sorry.”

The apology, barely audible, elicits a small twitch of Grian’s wing in Scar’s hold.

He doesn’t understand. Why is Scar sorry? Why is Scar hurting?

He can’t get through the fog that surrounds him. (He thinks it shields him; he isn’t sure he wants to venture out.) He thinks, disorientingly, of warm beds and tight cuddles.

He wants to ask if this is over yet. He wants to ask if Scar is okay. He wants to—

(He wants to discard his wings and—)

His eyes close, eyelashes wet. His hand weakly paws at the cloak that’s still underneath him, a feeble layer shielding him from the coldness of rough ground.

“Maybe not— not one of my better ideas, the whole bath thing.” Releasing his inner conflict is comforting to Scar in some way. It makes his tears feel like less of a waste. It helps him keep going somehow.

He might rush somewhat, but only because he can barely take it anymore.

Softly, he croaks out: “It was nice to hear you laugh…”

A shaky breath leaves Grian. He itches to reassure Scar. To tell him the bath was absolutely wonderful. To thank him, for letting him laugh. To press a kiss to his cheek and genuinely thank him for it, for that moment of reprieve.

But he can’t.

He can’t, not now, not now, because if he does try, everything will fall apart and the carefully held back dam of panic will break and he’d suffocate.

So he just silently waits for it to be over, even as the heartache builds and builds and builds through the numbness in his heart, a desperate aching leading straight back to Scar, yelling at Grian to fix it.

Scar continues in silence after that, words entirely failing him either way— whether he opts for sentimentality or distraction.

After a while longer, he feels like he stops making progress, like the rest will simply have to be air dried.

The wings are let go and there’s a lull, an empty moment, and Grian hazily realises he doesn’t remember most of the wing drying. Something in him skipped over it and buried it deep down, the sensation of harmless pressure over his wings lost to some void.

Scar slowly shifts to be in front of Grian as he wrings out his shirt. “Is it—“ His voice breaks painfully and he has to pause to clear his throat. “Is it okay?” He sets the shirt down near the fire and offers his empty palms, his usual placating gesture. “I could help you up?”

Grian hears Scar shift to the front of him, and it draws a small questioning sound out of him. He opens his eyes, finding Scar’s, noticing the rawness of his expression, the wetness of his eyelashes and cheeks that mirrors Grian’s own.

Scar is checking up on him, but he sounds so wounded, and it’s absolutely destroying Grian’s heart. His breath hitches, and his vision blurs anew. (Fix it fix it fix it fix it—) He still can’t quite find words. He still can’t quite find himself.

But he wants to give Scar something, and Scar didn’t take his wings, and—

Timidly, he reaches for Scar’s offered palms, but remains pressed to the ground, not attempting to get up. “Scar.” It’s hoarse and small, pleading and broken. There’s an edge of fragmentation to it, a cracked glass too sharp to not get cut on accident.

Scar’s breath hitches again at the sound of his name— god, how he loves hearing Grian say his name— and he chokes out a small sniffle, bordering on a sob. “Hi,” he says lamely, meeting Grian’s outstretched hand and taking it. His other hand immediately finds Grian’s cheek, brushing aside a few stray tears and cradling his head gently.

“Hi,” Grian echoes back so, so weakly. (He wants to give more more more more more—) His hand squeezes against Scar’s, but it’s feeble. He feels taken apart into pieces, unsure how to put himself back together.

But he looks at Scar and he thinks that Scar also needs someone to put a scrap of cloth over the wounds scattered across his heart. (They don’t have bandages. They don’t have stitches. They have hands and words, tears and prayers, and some scraps.)

So Grian does his best to pull through the thick fog, to attempt a tiny, tiniest, weakest smile. “The bath felt nice.” It’s hoarse and precarious, but it rings sincere.

Scar coughs, choking on a small bark of laughter that’s hardly even joyful. It’s still pained. But it’s something.

“I’m glad,” he replies softly, eyes flicking downward. “Your sweater should be all warm by now.”

Scar’s small laughter is more than just something. Grian holds onto it, wraps it up in his mind, protects it from the tingling fog as if it was the most precious thing.

“Mm.” His sweater might be warm, and gosh, what a tantalising though that is. But it isn’t within his reach.

Scar is.

Lightly, questioningly, he tugs at Scar’s hand. “C’mere?”

This time the laughter is a touch more sincere. Scar can’t help it. That simple word warms his heart enough to melt away a bit of the ice he was letting freeze over him.

He slides his legs down, ignoring the cold ground, and adjusts himself so he can lie down in front of Grian, leaning his head close. “I’m here.”

Without hesitation, Grian shifts towards him, yearning. There’s that string between them, a bond that tugs, dictating that there’s only one direction for Grian to go to reach safety.

His feathers are lighter. They tuck behind him loosely, still semi-sprawled, still siphoning the warmth of the fire to dry off the remaining bits. He feels a little bit silly for how violent he wanted to be with them. (He thinks he might end up wanting that again. But not now. Not now, when Scar’s lying in front of him after just laughing unsteadily, looking so vulnerable after trying his absolute best for Grian.)

“Mm.” Grian reaches out his free hand and lightly brushes over Scar’s cheek. “You are,” he confirms in a whisper, and then he sniffles. “I’m— I—” He swallows down the apology, buries it deep within his heart as he tips forward, wanting to tuck himself against Scar. “Thank you.”

The returned gesture manages to get Scar to smile, however weak it may be. He leans into the touch, needing it desperately. “Mm, I— …Yeah.” He wants to say of course like he normally would, but it doesn’t feel right. “… Is it any better?”

Grian nuzzles himself under Scar’s jaw, searching for his spot at the crook of Scar’s neck. “It’s better,” he reassures, soft and quiet and unsteadily sincere.

Even if he's still hurting. (Even if Scar is as well.)

Even if his wings still feel off and he's still scared.

Even if he still feels exhausted and numb, a little bit volatile and a whole lot fractured. With a bruised heart behind his paper-thin ribs.

Even then, this one thing is a truth he can concede.

It's better.

It's better, because Scar was here to make it so.

And Scar is still here.

Abruptly, Grian shivers, because his skin is still exposed, and so is Scar’s, and—

Maybe rashly, on impulse, he swishes his wing up, where it falters.

“Scar.” He pulls away just enough to be able to look at him. There’s an edge of fear in his wide eyes, something so desperately shackled, and an endless pool of vulnerability. “Don’t— Don’t touch them anymore, not— Just—” He starts tripping over his words. He opts to duck back into the safety of his spot and— His wing slowly, so very slowly drapes across him and Scar, like a blanket. “Just. Is this—” He wants to ask if it’s okay, but the words don’t make it past his throat.

“I won’t,” Scar confirms immediately, and he’s glad he did, because those words would have definitely been broken up and choked out if he had waited for Grian’s wings to be draped over them. “I—“ he still stammers, hopelessly endeared and emotional by the touch. “… O–okay.”

“Okay,” Grian echoes a little breathlessly, and on nothing but instinct and yearning, the wing presses against Scar’s back in a gentle tug. And his feathers still flare up, overstimulated, but it feels different now. Like this might be something he can handle.

Like maybe this could help, too.

And it's him initiating this whole touch, perfectly aware of where his wings are and what they're pressed against. He's in control here, like walking on a tightrope, begging Scar not to unexpectedly shake it underneath him.

Being cocooned in feathers feels very natural and comforting to Grian, even though it’s something he’s been denying himself for the longest time. They shield them from the cold air, trap the warmth between them, quite like a literal blanket would, even as some of the feathers are still damp. (He hopes Scar doesn’t mind.)

Maybe clothes would be warmer, but this makes Scar feel so much lighter. His heart feels like it could spring out his chest, a mixture of relief and gratefulness stirring within him. Immensely glad that the awful part is now over, quite honestly struggling to catch up to this jump in development.

But he’ll take it.

He’ll take this over Grian asking him to cut off his wings any day.

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