Work Text:
Q was shaking, their small body shivering ever so slightly as they tried to hold still so they wouldn’t wake up Lovecraft – not that much could. Still, they didn’t want to bother him, so they just closed their eyes and tried to go back to sleep, burrowing against him despite his lack of warmth, feeling the cool tentacle-like appendages they had decided not to think too hard about wrap tighter around them almost subconsciously. They forced themselves to breathe steadily despite the heavy thumping of their heart and shaky frantic sound of their breath. It took them several cold, dark, desperate minutes before they got back to something resembling a comfortable state, and even longer before they got to sleep.
Unfortunately, within seconds off being asleep, they found themselves back in their cell once again, surrounded by the dark, claustrophobic walls that had been their entire world for years before Lovecraft came for them, Steinbeck an irritated tagalong as he took them away, easily deflecting and dealing with anything the Mafia tried to send his way. It was at the same time achingly familiar and indescribably terrifying. It had been their cell, their prison, but it was also their home.
The door opened with its characteristic creaking, and someone stepped into the room. In the darkness, they couldn’t make out their face. It was Dazai. It was Mori. It was Steinbeck. It was the writhing mass of Lovecraft blocking out the sun as he loomed over them. It was all of them and none of them, and it was coming for them. They tried to back away, stall if they couldn’t get past it to escape, but their legs wouldn’t move. Their doll began to laugh, harsh and shrill, as it tore itself in half and collapsed to the ground, dissolving into a pool of blood. The figure moved forward, and they pulled themselves in, trying to hide until the figure lunged at them.
They woke up with a heavy shudder. Their entire body was shaking, and they couldn’t breathe, and everything hurt, and they wanted to cry, but they couldn’t wake up Lovecraft, so they just had to lay there in the dark, trying to be as quiet as possible.
“Kyusaku.” They almost screamed when they heard Lovecraft’s calm, emotionless voice. They didn’t know why he insisted on calling them that – they had no idea where it had come from, but he insisted on using it. It was nice if a little confusing. The name was somehow nostalgic, comforting, even if they weren’t sure what it meant to them. “It’s too early to be awake. Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t.” They barely managed to choke the words out through their heavy frantic breathing. “I-I-I’m s-s-so so-“ They didn’t even manage to get the words out before being cut off by a soft, gentle sound like rushing water. Q tried to turn to look at Lovecraft, to figure out if he was doing it, or if something was wrong, or if it had just been a lull in their nightmare before things got even worse, or if the whole thing had been a dream and they were about to wake up, roused by the leaky ceiling of their cell. “What is…” He pulled them closer to his cold, rigid chest, limbs coiling tightly over around them and squeezing them gently.
The soft thrumming and gentle pressure were strangely soothing as they pulled their breathing under control. They closed their eyes, letting the sound lull them to sleep, only to immediately find themselves once again in the darkness of their cell. The walls creaked, and suddenly the familiar cracks were growing, spiraling in wide swaths up toward the ceiling, then spreading across it until the entire room rumbled, dust raining down on their head until the entire building shuddered and collapsed. Instead of waking up, they were just trapped in the darkness and the pressure. But this pressure was different. It wasn’t the soothing weight of Lovecraft reminding them that they were free and out and safe. It was oppressive and intense, painful and heavy. They were trapped. They were going to die here, buried under the remains of their cell. It was where they had spent their life; it made sense it would be where they met their death.
Suddenly, they were awake, eyes meeting Lovecraft’s as he stared at them. “Kyusaku.” There is was again, that strange but oddly familiar name. “This is becoming a problem.” He picked them up, sliding an appendage behind their back and another under their knees, resting their head against his shoulder as he got out of the bed. Behind them, Steinbeck was still asleep, apparently entirely oblivious to either of them. But Lovecraft, unshakeable, exhausted, refuses-to-wake-up-for-any-reason Lovecraft, was awake. They were in so much trouble. “Tell me about your dreams.” His voice was calm and steady, almost grounding.
“The Mafia. It’s cold and dark and lonely and Mori- Dazai- Steinbeck- You- wants to kill me and the ceiling collapsed and-“ Q’s words broke off as they dissolved into a mess of hiccups and tears, the images flooding back to them. “And” – Mori’s smile – “I don-“ – Dazai’s laughter – “don’t want-“ – Steinbeck’s blank stare as vines coiled into their neck – “want to-” – Lovecraft’s beady, hollow eyes glaring down at them – “I don’t want to die.”
“None of that’s here right now. No one here is going to hurt you. You are safe. That much I can promise you, no matter what anyone says. You can relax. You are not in danger anymore.” He ran a limb over their hair, letting it coil around them as yet another drifted up and down their back, soft and steady. Slowly, he managed to guide their breathing back to a more even pattern, going in and out with the movement of his limb on their back.
For a moment, Q just lay there, feeling the rise and fall of Lovecraft's chest that would accompany a human’s breathing but which they knew he was doing intentionally so that they could feel it. Then, they felt him sigh. “Can you go back to sleep?” They shook their head and burrowed deeper into his shoulder.
“I’m scared.”
“You have nothing to be afraid of. You are safe. You are here. You are loved.” Lovecraft’s limbs tightened around them. “John will not hurt you ever again, and the Mafia cannot hurt you anymore.” And with every word he said, some deep, buried part of their soul accepted it unquestioningly, letting his words seep into their mind and body as he spoke. “Listen to me, Kyusaku.” The name was almost like a password, any last resistance they had vanishing in the face of it. “Everything is alright. You are comfortable. You are safe and warm and loved and wanted, no matter what.” They shifted closer to him once again, this time not out of fear but as a display of appreciation, feeble of one as it was. He sat back down on the bed. Steinbeck shifted in his sleep but didn’t wake up. “You can sleep now. Nothing will happen.” As requested, they closed their eyes and let the weight of his arms around them, combined with the soft rhythm of his voice, lull them to sleep.