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He's suffocating in the bed.
He’s staring at the white ceiling but his eyes don’t see anything but orange flames and burnt skin and a rundown training floor. His chest is heaving but he isn’t getting enough air to his lungs. A dull tremor of panic runs through him at the realization but it isn’t enough to snap him out of his daze. His skin is burning, peeling off his bones, sizzling hot. He’s frying (he’s freezing- the fan combined with his body meant for ice is doing nothing but making him colder.)
There’s a weight next to him, heavy and solid and close enough to touch. It holds a treasure he seeks, a comforting kind of warmth. He wants to reach out to it but his fingers are trembling too badly and moving even a centimeter feels like a mile’s worth of travel. His shaking gets worse as he looks towards the door.
Where is he? Why is the door made of oak? Of course the door is oak. His bedroom door has always been made of oak. The kind that slams when pulled, the kind that creaks when snuck through, the kind that endures when thrown against. He can’t tear his eyes away from it.
He hears heavy footsteps thudding on the wood outside. He tries pushing his frozen body deeper into the covers, a rabbit backing into their burrow and away from a prowling wolf. It’s not 5 am yet. Is it? It can’t be. It must be; the footsteps are getting closer. His eyes fill with sudden tears. His body hurts too much. He doesn’t want to get up. He can’t get up.
He looks to the body next to him again, attempting to reach out. There’s never been anyone with him on mornings like these. His siblings know better than to stay later than 2. A panic chokes him up before he realizes it’s not one of them. It’s not much respite.
He’s still so scared. He feels dizzy. He looks back at the door. There's someone standing in front of it. He can tell by the shadow beneath. It’s waiting, lurking, testing. The slightest noise and he’ll fail the challenge. The twitch of his ear, sway of his tail, and it’ll be too late.
His vision is blurring at the edges. Everything is blacking in and out like somebody is flicking a light switch back and forth just to mess with him. He’s so scared, he’s so scared, and the desperate want for his mother arises abruptly. He wants her fiercely, wants to curl up to her side and rest his head on her shoulder.
His whole body hurts. He’s burning. He wants his sister to ice him again, sneak in after Father falls asleep and press her cool hands to all the places he’s damaged. He wants his little brother to tell him one of his stories until he falls asleep. He wants to hold the baby.
Where is he?
His mouth is forming words that aren’t coming out, one syllable, and he says it over and over until his brain registers the creaky baritone of his voice being transmitted through the room over the sound of blood rushing through his ears. The figure outside, Father, must have heard, but he doesn’t care. He’s terrified.
“Dabs?” A tired voice asks. He manages to gasp in one painful, stunted breath at the twinge of relief he finds in the dark, suffocating terror. He knows that voice. He knows who that is. He needs that person to keep talking. He needs to hear him again, badly, even if it’s just another word. A whimper leaves his mouth in a pitiful attempt at request.
“Dabi, hey- Hey, What’s wrong?”
He feels a shift in the bed and his eyes finally snap from the door to the figure. His frantic gaze is submerged in a warm blanket of honey and another breath escapes his quivering lips. They hold onto his wide eyes steadily, ease his scrunched up eyebrows into relaxing. They’re so sure for somebody who must not have any idea of what’s going on.
The hand that connects with his clenched jaw doesn’t move at first, but when it does it’s in relaxing circles. The tight muscles loosen slowly and soon he’s pressing his cheek into the grasp to the best of his limited abilities, the only focus he’s able to hold belonging to the tracking of warm fingertips as they trace from his bottom eyelashes to his jawline.
In his ears he hears the cry of a grateful beast and in a rational compartment of his brain shut off to him at the moment he thinks that this is what a true hero is.
“Scared,“ He manages to get out.
He doesn’t process how it all happens, can barely keep hold of the tight leash he’s trying to sustain on oxygen intake, but he finds himself cocooned in warmth.
He feels his legs fold beneath him, warm thighs on his sides, warm hands on the back of his head. Warm fingers are carding through his hair like his mother’s and the gentle massage of familiar fingertips against his scalp pulls a tiny sound from his lips. There are downy brushes of softness all around him, touching on the back of his neck and his arms as if consistently trying to remind him where he is. He can’t see the door anymore, not even from the corners of his eyes. He only sees deep red, soothing, and familiar.
Noise is echoing between them, bouncing off the impenetrable wall of feathers. It consists of something like birdsong and chirps, he notes, but softer and more deliberately placed. It’s a language he can’t quite understand. It’s comforting. He’s glad for it. He can’t process full words right now.
The skin beneath his nose smells sweet calm safe okay. He presses his face down as flush as it’ll go. He wants to pack in as much of the scent as he can, hopes this type of wild taking of what he needs is allowed, doesn’t know what he’ll do and how he’ll manage if it isn’t. When he hears the soft ‘coo, coo’ of encouragement instead of the scathing words he is expecting, he sags. He’s safe like this, he realizes. The overwhelming sensation makes him feel boneless.
“I have you,” he hears in the medley of sound. “I’m right here.”
He knows where he is. He knows who’s saying it.
It’s Hawks, it’s Keigo, why would it be anybody else? A sob claws from his throat and the wings around him tighten. He’s okay with Keigo. Keigo wouldn’t let anybody hurt him.
He presses himself deeper into the warmth, feeling the shivers wracking his body subside to little tremors. The hands caressing his head and lower back aid him in his quest before continuing to trace their respective patterns. His hands refuse to stop fisting the shirt material in front of him.
He can finally breathe, though it hurts to do so.
“You’re okay,” Keigo whispers. “You’re okay here.”
He believes it. He believes him.
He prays he’s not dumb for doing so. It doesn’t feel like he is, drifting to sleep in the strong arms. It feels justified when he closes his eyes and sees nothing but gold in the darkness. He prays that nothing takes this away from him, the first safety he’s had in forever. The last thought he has before slipping away is that God has never heard his prayers before.