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B-52 awoke to the sound of someone sobbing, which, although not an unfamiliar sound to him, was rather startling when he wasn’t the one making it. He spent a brief moment lying there confused before his half-asleep mind clicked into awareness and he rolled over and switched on the lamp next to his bed. Warm yellow light filled the room, and B-52 squinted, waiting for his vision to adjust; he turned his head to see Brownie curled in a ball next to him, clutching the blanket to his chest, his shoulders heaving and his eyes bright with tears. He looked shell-shocked and spaced out, but as soon as he realized B-52 was watching him, he yanked the blanket up over his head, mumbling something unintelligible.
“Brownie?” Concerned, B-52 gently tugged the blanket away from Brownie, who let go with little resistance. “Are you okay?”
In the quiet that followed, he could hear Brownie’s jagged, raspy breathing and the small whimpers he was letting out every few seconds. Cool night air blew in through the open window, carrying with it the rich scent of earth damp with rain, so heady he could almost taste it. There were crickets singing somewhere in the distance, though he had to strain his ears to make out their almost melancholic chirping over the rustling of branches outside his room and the whispering of leaves swaying in the breeze. It was peaceful, he thought, feeling the chill wind brushing his skin; at least, it would have been peaceful if not for Brownie’s clear distress and B-52’s subsequent worry.
“I-I… I’m f… fine.” Brownie finally broke the stillness, panting out his words in a way that made it clear he was absolutely not fine.
B-52 chewed his lip, trying to think fast. He was bad at talking. Not in the way that Brownie was “bad” at things, where he’d say he wasn’t any good at something and then do it flawlessly, leaving everyone around him to be stunned or annoyed or both, even as he continued to insist it wasn’t that impressive; no, B-52 was truly, genuinely terrible with words. They didn’t come naturally to him like they did to Brownie—B-52 had to puzzle over everything he wanted to say long before he said it for it to sound even the slightest bit eloquent. So right now, he had no idea how to help, but he was sure as hell going to try his very hardest, and he figured copying what Brownie always did was as good a start as any.
“Hey.” He laid a hand on Brownie’s shoulder, gentle enough to not alarm him, just firm enough to let him know B-52 was there. “It’s okay. To… to be upset, I mean. You don’t have to try to say you’re fine. You can talk to me.”
“It isn’t professional,” Brownie rasped, staring wide-eyed at nothing in particular. “It’s… I’m… I’m…”
“You’re trying to find excuses to bottle up your feelings,” B-52 said. Blunt, maybe, but it was the truth. “You… don’t need to be professional, Brownie… This isn’t really a professional situation. I’m your… boyfriend—” he still nearly choked on the word every time he said it— “you can just be honest.”
Brownie sniffled and sat up a little, and B-52 didn’t hesitate to take the opportunity to wrap his arms around Brownie as tightly as he could. His stomach lurched as he realized that Brownie was shaking like a leaf, his entire body trembling and twitching, and when he shifted one hand to Brownie’s chest he could feel Brownie’s heart pounding beneath his ribcage. He’d never seen Brownie this upset—actually, he’d hardly ever seen Brownie lose his composure at all before this—but B-52 knew panic attacks all too well, and this, without question, was one. Seeing Brownie like this sent a chill down B-52’s spine; he felt ice-cold terror grip his heart and soon wrap its frigid fingers around his entire body, leaving him shivering and sick with worry—at the same time, his blood began to boil with rage, and he fought down the immense urge to destroy whoever or whatever had dared to hurt his lover. He knew getting angry would do him no good now, and it certainly wouldn’t do Brownie any good to be surrounded by violent energy when he was already on edge. Besides, if the cause of Brownie’s panic was what B-52 thought it might be, there wasn’t anything tangible for him to unleash his wrath upon anyway.
“It’s n-not anything you need to worry about,” Brownie breathed, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “I just… it was just… a terrible dream.”
That confirmed his suspicions, then. B-52 pulled Brownie even closer, if that was possible, and began to rub his back in slow, rhythmic circles; he knew it was effective when he felt Brownie’s tense body relax just a little, his rigid shoulders starting to droop and his fists unclenching in favor of grasping at B-52, his hands searching frantically for something to hold on to and settling on intertwining themselves behind B-52’s back. Brownie buried his tear-streaked face in the crook of B-52’s neck, and B-52’s free hand moved to stroke Brownie’s hair.
“D’you wanna talk about it?” B-52 asked, using the same soft tone of voice Brownie always used to comfort him. In all honesty, pretty much everything he was doing here was just throwing Brownie’s own tactics back at him, so it was a miracle that it was somehow actually helping. He wasn’t complaining, though, just thanking whatever god might be listening for letting him be of some use in this situation.
For a long while, the only sound was Brownie’s muffled weeping and the pattering of rain on the roof, which must’ve started up again while B-52 had been distracted. The rhythmic tapping was rather soothing, and it allowed him to think more clearly. Still rubbing Brownie’s back, he began to murmur words of comfort, so soft they were nearly inaudible; it was just a rambling flow of thoughts, just endless reassurances that everything was okay, that everything was going to turn out fine—even though it was almost nonsensical, he meant every word he was saying, and Brownie must’ve known that, because B-52 could feel the rise and fall of Brownie’s chest returning to a more steady rate. Finally his shivering became less violent and his heartbeat slowed and his teeth stopped audibly chattering, but he made no move to break away from B-52’s embrace, so B-52 made no move to let go.
“It was about you,” Brownie said suddenly, his voice still a little hoarse. “The nightmare was about you.”
Now it was B-52’s turn to have his heart begin to pound, and he withdrew from Brownie, scooting backwards so fast that he nearly fell off the bed in his haste to distance himself. The thought that Brownie was scared of him, scared enough to have nightmares about him just like he had nightmares about Spag, made his stomach tie itself in knots and his chest physically ache. He felt like he was going to throw up, and he swallowed past the lump in his throat, trying to hold it together even as tears pricked at his eyes and his mind buzzed with a thousand disjointed thoughts racing through his head—what was he supposed to do? What could he do? What was he doing wrong? What did he need to apologize for? He’d apologize as many times as it took, he’d do anything, absolutely anything… Would it be best for him to just leave Brownie alone? He wanted what was best for Brownie—even so, he couldn’t help but let out a pained gasp at the thought. Brownie looked utterly baffled for a second, then a flash of realization crossed his face and he grabbed B-52’s hand and squeezed it hard.
“I—”
“No!” Brownie cut off B-52’s panicked rambling before it could even begin. The hand that wasn’t gripping B-52’s gently brushed B-52’s chin, tilting his face upwards so he was forced to look Brownie in the eyes. “Not—not like that. You didn’t do anything… or, you did, but you didn’t do anything to me.”
“What?” B-52 could feel that his own hand was clammy and damp with sweat—it was even more noticeable with Brownie’s warm fingers wrapped around his palm—but Brownie didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he didn’t care.
“You went… you went back to the catacombs.” Brownie swallowed thickly, dropping his gaze and letting his arm go limp; a strange, tingling heat lingered where he had pressed his fingers to B-52’s face, and even now it brought B-52 some small comfort. “And… I was… too late this time. By the time I got there…” His voice broke on the last word, and he trailed off, letting the implications of it hang heavy in the air between them.
“Ah,” B-52 said. He knew that was far from an adequate response, but he was overcome with relief that Brownie didn’t hate him, wasn’t afraid of him—and at the same time, he was having difficulty comprehending Brownie’s words.
“Even the thought…” Brownie lowered his voice to a whisper. His eyes had that unfocused look again, and B-52 could see tears beginning to form. “I can’t bear it. I don’t want to think about anything happening to you. I can’t even… imagine it.”
All this distress and pain and fear—it was all over the thought of B-52 dying? It didn’t make sense to him. It didn’t make sense that someone would care so much. None of it made sense—Brownie’s kindness, his gentle touches, his constant worrying over B-52’s wellbeing; the way he defended B-52 when the other Souls got too judgemental, and held B-52 tight when B-52’s brain was being especially cruel, and now the way he was breaking down at the mere thought of something bad happening to B-52. No matter how hard he tried, B-52 couldn’t even begin to understand. After everything he’d done, after the way he’d been treated his entire life, after all the things he’d been through, he truly didn’t know how someone could look at him and see something—someone—good. What he did know, though, was that he trusted Brownie without question. If Brownie said he cared this deeply for B-52, then B-52 believed him, even if he couldn’t figure out why just yet. Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he leaned forwards and embraced Brownie once again, a gesture which Brownie gladly reciprocated. He felt Brownie’s head against his chest and heard a soft, shaky sigh of contentment, and all of a sudden he wasn’t too worried about whether or not he understood everything.
“I’m not gonna go back to the catacombs,” B-52 said, his chin resting on top of Brownie’s head. “I promise. I’m not ever gonna go back there. I-I mean, unless we’re on a mission or something, obviously… but I won’t go back by myself… y’know.”
Brownie giggled softly, which made B-52’s heart skip a beat and brought a rush of heat to his cheeks. He rarely intended to be funny, but every time something he said gave Brownie even the slightest bit of amusement, B-52 felt like he was on top of the world, so he certainly wasn’t going to question it. B-52 pulled back and pressed a soft kiss to Brownie’s forehead, reaching over to turn off the light at the same time. The darkness that enveloped them was cool and comforting, and as they lay down to finally get some sleep, Brownie cuddled up to B-52, his head resting against B-52’s chest—the realization that he was listening to his heartbeat made B-52 feel flushed with warmth all over again, despite the fresh night air around them. He draped one arm across Brownie’s body and started to trace faint patterns on Brownie’s back with the tip of his finger, giving a gentle reminder that B-52 was there and he wasn’t going anywhere; truth be told, he liked to feel Brownie’s skin against his to remind himself, too, that Brownie was real and here and his.
“Good night,” B-52 murmured, his eyes closing of their own volition. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Brownie whispered; his voice was still the tiniest bit shaky, but now B-52 could hear him smiling. “Ah, also—thank you so much. For comforting me, I mean. I’m so sorry that I—”
“Don’t apologize,” B-52 said, cutting him off. “You don’t have to thank me, either. I… know I’m not the best at being comforting, but I’m always going to be here, okay?”
“Ah…” Brownie hesitated for a moment, as if he were thinking over B-52’s words. “Okay. I appreciate it more than I can say. Thank you, my love.”
“Wh—” B-52’s eyes snapped open as he nearly choked on air, and he had to make a conscious effort to not literally burst into flames. “Y-you know how flustered it makes me when you call me those things out of nowhere—!”
“Why do you think I do it?”
“Oh my god,” B-52 groaned. Despite his words, though, he had to admit it thrilled him to know he was the only person Brownie would tease like this. “Please just go to sleep before I light you on fire.”
Brownie laughed out loud at that, and even if B-52 had been truly annoyed with him, his annoyance would’ve melted in an instant. Brownie’s laughter—not just a quiet chuckle, but rich, genuine laughter—was another thing only B-52 got to hear, and every time he did he felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest. It was a remarkable feeling, one that he’d never experienced before he’d met Brownie; he wished he could live in that feeling forever.
“Alright, alright.” Brownie yawned and snuggled even closer to B-52, who shut his eyes again, already beginning to drift off to sleep. “Ah, if I can just say one more thing… You’re very, very important to me. You know that, right?”
If Brownie’s question gave him pause, it was only a moment before he recalled the events of the night and found his answer right there, on the tip of his tongue. “Of course.”