Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stumbling in through the door to the mansion, Lillium bit back the rush of tears that burned just behind his eyes. It didn’t help at all that Begonia looked ready to cry when she saw him too. Rushing down the stairs—he assumed it was faster than floating— with her hands covering her mouth and wearing a terrified expression, she ran to greet him. She, to her credit, didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around him to offer support, despite what he looked like, and in that moment he thought her arms around his waist could very well be the only thing holding him upright. Then another dizzy-spell hit and his knees buckled. They both sunk to the floor, him backing up against the doorframe for support and sliding down in a heap, and her trying to help him down as carefully as she could. In reality, she would not have been able to hold him up had he collapsed completely—while he’d always been taller than her, during the last growth spurt he had furthered the gap, now standing more than a head higher—but he still appreciated the gesture.

He needed the comfort, desperately.

“Oh my dear, w-what happened? You’re covered in b-blood, and… is that v-vomit on your shirt? O-oh, dear, Oh dear, oh d-dear,” she repeated over and over again, as if she couldn’t believe his entrance, and in all honesty, he didn’t blame her.

“Uh… Yeah, I threw up,” he admitted when it occurred to him that she was probably waiting for him to say something, if only to confirm that he was coherent enough to answer. Briefly contemplating if he should be embarrassed about it, he quickly decided that he simply didn’t have it in him to care, right now. He closed his eyes against the artificial light from the ceiling-window, his head hurt, and the brightness of the room made it worse, and allowed his body to relax.

He had made it there, and he was finally safe.

“Oh, dear. Y-you’re bleeding; did you hurt your head? D-do you feel nauseous s-still? Y-you p-probably have a c-concussion. Y-you should lie down. A-are you w-wounded anywhere else? C-can you get up?” She asked, and through the onslaught of questions, he deciphered that she wanted him to stand up so that they could move to the living room where he knew a fairly comfy sofa resided.

“I, uh, I think so. Just a bit dizzy,” he mumbled and scrambled to get his legs in under himself to stand again. Once up he thanked her and feebly let her lead him to the couch and sat down while she disappeared into the kitchen with a profusely expressed apology and an explanation that she was going to get the med-kit. She soon returned with a bowl of water, a rag, and a red metal box with a white cross painted on the lid.

Wordlessly she began washing the grime and blood off of him, and he let her without any protests. Barely noticing her administrations—his mind occupied elsewhere—his eyes fixated on his shoes. They were covered in dirt and grime too, and oh god, was that blood on his sole? Had he stepped in it? Suddenly another wave of nausea rushed over him and his hand instinctively flew up to cover his mouth. He wasn’t going to be sick again. He’d hurt his head. That was all. He didn’t feel sick because he was remembering the feeling of a human body going slack and collapsing over him. He wasn’t. Feeling his mouth salivate, he swallowed—in a panic—and pressed his hand harder against his lips.

Shit, he was going to be sick again.

‘Calm breaths. Come on now, you can do this, just calm down, man,’ he coaxed himself, and slowly his breathing evened out, at least marginally.

Vaguely noticing in between the waves of nausea that Begonia had halted and was now staring at him worriedly, he tried to take a few more deep breaths to calm down and offer a smile to reassure her that he was okay, and if it came out a bit small and lopsided, at least it was something, right?

She bit her lip in response, as if she wanted to say something, but remained silent, and once her confidence was restored that he was not seriously wounded or going to be sick, she picked up a bandage from the med kit and wrapped it around his forehead to stop the sluggish bleeding before ducking out of the room for a moment. She was soon back though and this time carrying a grey tee and a pair of sweats “I, um… h-here is a sleeping shirt and some pants, i-it might be a b-bit tight on you, b-but it’s the best I have. I-if you want to have a shower, I’ll wash your clothes for you, okay?” She offered.

“Ah, a shower sounds great, thanks, but don’t worry about the clothes. I’ll just burn ‘em. I’ll find something somewhere, and I’ll give these back to you later. If I can borrow them for a while?”

Ignoring the pitiful glance she gave him as she nodded her agreeance, he went silent for a moment before clearing his throat. “I, um… I’m sorry for all of this,” he mumbled and accepted the bundle of clothes, gaze still lowered to avoid looking her in the eyes.

“P-Pardon me, but d-don’t be an idiot,” she scolded, and the reprimand offered him a welcomed chance to reclaim some of his shielding bravado, a fragment of his old self.

“Aye, ma’am. I’ll try. Can’t promise much though, pretty famous for it, ya know?” He returned with a sheepish smile while giving her a quick salute and was awarded an exasperated eye-roll and sigh. The small sense of normality the mild banter offered helped further calm him down, and as the adrenaline began ebbing he could feel how worn-out he really was. Absently trying to think of the last time he had had some sleep, he thought it mildly concerning that he couldn’t remember. While the dizziness had somewhat subsided now that he was sitting down, it was still hard to focus on anything and his whole head ached, especially his temple. As the exhaustion pulled, he closed his eyes again to stave off the unwelcome, nauseating sensation of the room spinning around him. Dropping his upper body down on the sofa, he shifted so that he lay down on the side. Sleep did sound like a great idea.

At least if he passed out, he wouldn’t have to have the image of when he was showered with someone else’s blood playing on repeat in the back of his mind…

It only lasted a moment though, as his attempt to drift off was abruptly interrupted by Begonia’s gentle voice.

“I-I’m not sure y-you should l-lay down, Lillium,” she said and his eyes flew open with a start as she moved closer to lay a hand on his shoulder. His head throbbed painfully and he couldn’t help but wince. He didn’t really understand why he couldn’t. He had slept on the couch before and she hadn’t said anything then, but she had been so kind up until now that he didn’t want to cause any more trouble for her.

“Hm? Uh, I’m sorry. I know I’m filthy, I’ll get up,” he muttered and pushed himself up into sitting position again.

“N-no, I meant… W-with your head. Shouldn’t y-you stay awake?”

He blinked incomprehensively at her for a few moments before what she was trying to say sunk in, “0h, uh… Probably… Don’t know. I think I’m okay. Just tired. Ok if I crash here for a bit?”

Y-yes, absolutely. If you’re sure. B-but you should have a shower first, a-and then take my bed; it’s more c-comfortable than the couch.”

“Ah, yeah. A shower sounds great, but the couch is f-”

“N-no, I insist. D-did you really think I w-would let you sleep on the couch? P-please, it will be better for you.”

“Um, okay, if you’re sure,” he relented. Arguing seemed pointless, and the thought of sleeping in an actual bed was undeniably tempting.

She nodded energetically in response and coaxed him up into a standing position again and led him upstairs, to the bathroom. Once there she left him be and closed the door after ensuring once more that he would be okay by himself, and he shooed her out of the room in a mix of grateful, amused exasperation. He pulled off his filthy shirt with a shudder as soon as she left. While it looked like the pants were actually fairly stain-free, he didn’t want to ever wear them again, and the shirt… No, definitely better to just burn them.

Stepping in under the shower—careful not to let the bandage around his head get wet—a heavy sigh escaped as he closed his eyes to the feeling of hot water massaging aching muscles and leaving behind a soothing drowsiness. At least until he opened his eyes again to look for some soap, and noticed all the red-ish water dripping off him and pooling around his feet.

The nausea returned instantly and he fumbled to get out of the shower as quickly as possible, shuddering at the image of the floor tiles being dyed pink as a grim reminder of why he was allowed the respite of a shower in the first place. He wasn’t afraid of blood. He had sure seen enough of it, both his own and on his travel companions not to be bothered by the sight during the last year, but it was a completely different thing to know that he was the one responsible for hurting another human.

Not a glitch, but an actual living human.

It didn’t matter that it had been in self-defense and that he had only reacted on instinct.

It still made him sick to his stomach.

Chapter Text

As Begonia closed the door behind him she let out a deep sigh. Not knowing what had happened only made her worry more, but it was clear that he didn’t want to talk about it and she had to respect his wish. All she could do for now was to try to care for him the best she could and make sure that he knew that she was there if he ever wanted to talk.

Walking downstairs again, she set her mind to make him some food after his shower and the following nap as the thought hit her that he probably hadn’t eaten in a while. Perhaps she should have insisted that he would eat first? Ah, too late now. He looked like he needed a shower and some sleep the most.

She wished she knew more of what to do if a person had a concussion, was it even a good idea to leave him alone? He had seemed pretty unsteady on his feet, and slightly disoriented. And… she could have sworn that she had heard somewhere that you should keep the person awake, but for how long? It was obviously a while since he had bumped his head, judging by how much the blood flow had slowed down and almost coagulated already…

Moving through the cupboard she hummed, thinking about what to make. Her cooking experience was virtually non-existent and sandwiches just didn’t seem to cut it. However, even if she had had the skills to make soup or something similar, the severe lack of suitable ingredients for soup-making found in the cupboard shot that idea down before she could consider even trying.

Hearing the shower being turned off upstairs, soon followed by muffled, rushed padding of footsteps on the creaking wooden floor and a door closing in the other end of the corridor, she hoped he would get the rest he obviously needed. Since he would probably be asleep for a while, she could take care of his clothes in the mean-time. Moving back upstairs to the now abandoned bathroom, she stopped next to the soiled pile on the floor and swallowed. There was so much blood on it, mainly on the chest of the shirt, with splatter spreading out from the centre of the stain. It wasn’t his. That much was obvious. So, what could have happened for him to get so much of another’s blood on himself?

She hadn’t hesitated when he first entered, but now, in the stillness and aftermath of it all, the shirt suddenly seemed incredibly intimidating. The implications of what had happened, and why, burned in her mind. Scolding herself for her pathetic fear, she braced herself and picked it up between her fingertips, holding her breath. The shirt reeked; a mix of old, sour sweat, mud, and the pungent, metallic smell of dried blood that made her want to gag, and she couldn’t even begin to think of how he must have felt wearing it.

The whole situation was so surreal that focusing on the shirt became a grounding point. At least that was something simple, physical that she could do to help. Offer new clothes and getting rid of the old.

Being locked up in here was often maddening, but out there in the real world—unless you were travelling with a group—a demiflora was never far from danger. They were hated and hunted for just existing.

Floating downstairs again, she dumped the shirt in the bin and picked up the book she had been reading when the door had opened, setting herself to wait.

She was used to it, very much so.

She didn’t have to wait very long though, halfway through the second chapter she heard a subdued thud coming from the bedroom, followed by… a sob? That settled it. She wasn’t sure how well an intrusion would be received, but she wasn’t about to just wait downstairs doing nothing either.

Stopping in front of the door, she hesitated. It wasn’t in her nature to intrude, and she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but then she heard another muffled sob and before she could even contemplate if it was a bad idea or not, her hand had moved to reach the handle and push the door ajar.

Once she peeked in through the door, her heart sank in her chest. He was curled up on the bed, trembling and sobbing quietly with his eyes still closed, seemingly unaware that she had entered.

“L-lillium,” she called softly, walking closer and reaching out to touch his shoulder, and he woke up with a start. His head jerked up from the mattress so quickly that it gave her a fright, and his arms flew up to cover his head protectively.

“B-begonia?” He stuttered out incomprehensively, and she saw him blink a couple of times in the darkness as he slowly lowered his arms. Not entirely sure how to act not to frighten him further, she made sure to smile, so that even if he couldn’t see it, he would still hear the smile in her voice, and slowly moved closer again.

“Y-yes, it’s me, Lillium. It’s okay, it’s just me,” she shushed and bit her lip, moving to sit down on the bed next to him as he scrambled to sit up himself. He remained silent though, and self-doubt crippled her. She was just about to ask if he wanted her to leave when he moved closer. She felt him fumble to find her hands in the darkness, and when she reached out to him, he grabbed and clutched them frantically. She heard another, virtually panicked sob escape and felt his hands shaking as she squeezed them calmingly in response.

‘I’m here. You’re not alone,’ she tried to convey through her hands and felt the rush of his power gush over her as he desperately sucked in her reassurance like a man drowning and gasping for air rather than a boy terrified of his own thoughts. It wasn’t like him to lose control over his powers so easily and overwhelm her, and she thought it to be a testament to how out of sorts he really was. Wiggling her right hand free so that she could wrap it around his shoulders instead, she gently nudged him closer. The reaction was instant; he collapsed in her arms in a shaking, snivelling mess when she welcomed him in.

“B-bad d-dream? Do you want to t-talk about it?” She asked when it after a while became apparent that he wasn’t moving. She waited, patiently, for so long that she began suspecting that he hadn’t heard her at all when suddenly she felt him tense and take a few deep breaths before swallowing and pulling himself out of her arms. He rubbed his face with both hands before letting them fall down on his lap and taking a shaky breath to prepare himself.

“I-I killed a guy,” he mumbled, and swallowed again, “I-it was-they were-fu-” he tried to start and groaned as he cut himself off not knowing what to say—or even where he was going with it—and desperately clung to the comfort offered while trying to sort out the invasive images in his mind. “I-I can’t get his face out of my head. He fell over me, there was so much blood. He was huge, and stunk! I-l can’t stop think-”

Begonia took his hands again, stopping his increasingly frantic harangue midsentence, and gave another encouraging squeeze to remind him of where he was, prompting him to look up at her for a moment before dropping his gaze again, down on their hands. Taking another deep, albeit shaky breath he started anew, “Wasn’t far from the Northern-gate Save-point, perhaps a couple of miles? Ducked into what I thought was an abandoned shack rest for a bit… I was wrong,” he snorted bitterly. “I tried to hide my eyes by looking at the ground, but it didn’t help, they figured it out quickly enough. Know what to look for by now, you know?” He continued, and she didn’t need an explanation of who ‘they’ were, the contempt with which he spat out the word made it crystal clear even without the confirmation. “Anyhow… Ran outside again to get away from them and look for another hiding spot. The campers followed: bastards’ good runners. Tried to shake them by running into another nearby shack. Went for the roof and almost got caught by three glitches already up there, one of them got my ankle and tripped me, hurt my head in the fall...” At this point in the retelling, his voice died out for a moment, and he absently detangled his hand from her hold to touch his bandaged temple and the bruised skin on the side of his face.

Begonia waited still, letting him set his own pace without hurrying him or interrupt with questions.

Then he rubbed his face again and ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. “The campers got caught up in the mess too, giving me a chance to free myself. They got one of them. He had a gun and when the glitches jumped him, he dropped it. I picked it up, to use on the glitches, you know? It was heavier than I thought, and the smell of gunpowder overpowered even the stink of the glitches… But the other one tackled me. He was yelling something about that I should pay for his friend being eaten, like it was my fault. He was gonna kill me, had me pinned down on the ground. Had his knife ready and everything. Kneed him in the gut and bought me a second or two and jumped at the gun. He attacked again, but I was quicker. I killed him, Begonia. I killed someone. I didn’t-” he stammered out and halted his retelling once more to perform another vain attempt to collect himself by rubbing his eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths. Then, after a barely audible sniffle and a sucked in, half-broken hiss of air, he continued.

“I shot him. He landed on top of me. It was-fu-I killed him,” he continued, with a heavy emphasis on the word kill. Who he was trying to convince; Begonia, or himself, she couldn’t tell. His voice trembled, bordering on sobbing as he stumbled out the tail-end of the confession. “With the glitches occupied with their meal, they didn’t pay me much attention as I rolled him off of me and puked my guts up. Got down by the fire escape and made my way here,” he explained before swallowing heavily, “I killed him, Begonia. I killed someone. I didn’t-” he repeated before stopping himself midsentence and burying his head in his hands, letting out a half-strangled wailing. Begonia could barely breathe. The agony in his voice, in his trembling hands and in his eyes, even as he refused to look at her made her choke on every word of comfort she could think of…

Unable to find anything to say, she did the only thing she could think of. She wrapped him in a hard hug and as she did so, she felt him tense even further but soon enough the shaky breaths returned, quickly escalating into full-blown sobbing as he collapsed in her arms again, one of the few friends he had in a world that despised them both for simply existing. His explanation had been rather choppy, and some details had probably been left out, be it intentional or simply because he wasn’t clear enough to tell it coherently, but she got the gist of it anyhow, and she could not even begin to guess how he felt, or how she could help.

She didn’t know how to offer comfort other than just holding him and letting him know that she didn’t think any differently of him. Words seemed too small, so she resolved to simply do so, and prayed that it would somehow miraculously be enough, even though she doubted that it would…