Work Text:
He'd been staring at the blank canvas for too long. His head hurt.
On the floor, the remains of its predecessors were scattered, many decked in an almost regal red and permeating the air with the smell of stale linseed. The work upon them was ripped through entirely by the same knife with which he blended colours together on a palette. He’d almost been inclined to use his own blood again, but he’d made a promise. If nothing else, he wouldn’t go back on his word.
… How many days had it been, again?
Didn't matter.
His expression remained unchanging. His limbs shook. Tears blurred his vision and fell, though he wasn't crying or sobbing - his breathing was eerily even, honestly. His brush marked the canvas steadily. His stomach hurt. His mouth was dry.
… What was wrong with him?
He blinked in and out of his trance a few times, struggling to maintain a clear head. At this point, he wasn’t even sure what his initial subject was.
His brushstrokes took on more weight and pressure, wearing out the stressed bristles on the end. Despite it being nearly dead quiet in his room and at the hour - (midday, most matches are going on right now, and if people aren’t in matches they’re in the garden or dining room, it’s so peaceful) - everything felt so loud. There was a tension that stretched from his temple to his shoulders, held painfully squared, aching from the long posture.
His head was aching. So was his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since starting. Maybe that contributed to the weird feeling that built somewhere under his diaphragm, that choked his heart and put pressure on his organs in a way that was uncomfortable, making it so much harder to find focus.
He needed a break. Water. Food. Sleep.
He needed to finish the damned painting.
But what was the point, if he wasn’t painting anything worth anyone’s time - or anything at all, for that matter? And why the hell was it so fucking LOUD -
For the umpteenth time, he lashed out, discarding his tools much more violently than he’d have liked; the canvas, too, was cut open and grasped at roughly, easel falling aside easily with his fit, and the painter let out a bellow of frustration, face finally contorting into a pained, angered expression.
Actually, no. Correction; it was more of a cracked cry that ripped from his gut, some raw instinct demanding that he release something for all the time he’d been standing there. Kind of pathetic to hear, honestly, but he couldn’t be arsed to think about it - much less so when his body reacted with shock to the sudden action, and he succumbed to his weakness, crumpling down to his knees.
Touching his head down to the floor, he grasped roughly at his beret and heaved, struggling to calm down, to tame the nausea and hurricane of different emotions. He was hungry, he was thirsty, he was tired, and he was fucking furious, because he hadn’t been able to make anything for days, and it felt like such a stupid thing to be so upset over, but he couldn’t fucking think.
He most certainly couldn’t think clearly enough to catch the knocking at his door, or the presence of someone else in his room. Not until a hand met his shoulder and forced him to jolt up, scrubbing at his face.
“God - do all of you have the worst manners in the world, or did the practise of knocking just die out overnight?”
“I did knock. You didn’t answer. After the yellin’ and crashin’, I thought it better to check in just in case you died, or somethin’. Guess we didn’t luck out, this time…”
Finally, Edgar pulled an arm away from his face and glared at the intruder - none other than the Prisoner, who, while tempered with some degree of concern, seemed more amused and relieved by the Painter’s usual sass. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel the same way at all, turning back to the utter mess of a scene before him and sighing to himself.
“... You should’ve stayed out. I’ve got too much to do.”
“Yeah, you seem real busy in here,” Luca remarked, looking over the spilled paints and water, the busted canvases, the now possibly broken easel. Edgar wanted to cringe, but managed to refrain from doing so, instead rolling his eyes.
“Fine, let me phrase it differently. I want to be left alone. Get out.”
“You’ve been in here for a couple days, huh.”
“You’re still here.”
Luca pressed on, ignoring him. “Haven’t seen you out of your room at all, actually.”
“Respectful as always, Balsa.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
Edgar opened his mouth to retort, but any words he had died on his tongue when he met eyes with the inventor; this time, concern overrode amusement, and he felt Luca dissecting his own face and body, taking in every detail, every hint or evidence of Valden’s inability to maintain perfect health.
He looked away again, locking his jaw and hugging himself.
“... Eddie.”
The disappointment in Luca’s tone, combined with the nickname he loved loathed, made Edgar dig his fingers roughly into his arms.
“You promised.”
“I promised not to cut anymore, Balsa,” The artist shot back, shutting his eyes tightly. “And I haven’t.”
“You promised to take care of yourself,” Luca corrected, standing upright and crossing his arms in return. “We both did.”
Once again, he went silent. The Prisoner heaved out a sigh, leaning down and holding out a hand.
“C'mon. You need to eat something.”
“Fuck off.”
“Alright, hard way, then.”
Almost too fast for Edgar to react, Luca dipped down, managing to scoop the Painter into his arms and stand upright again within the span of a few seconds, save for the slightest stumble as his legs accustomed to carrying the extra weight - light as he surely was. Of course, once he realized himself, he started kicking and squirming, only making Balsa stumble again and let out an irritated huff.
“Put me down, you bastard!”
“Stop squirmin’ so much, will you?! You’ll kill us both!”
“It wouldn’t be a problem if you just put me the hell down! ”
“I’m not lettin’ you waste away in here! Like it or not!”
Finding his balance, Luca started out of the artist’s room, marching down the wall with purpose as Edgar lost his already dwindling energy and gave up in his struggles, going mostly limp in the Prisoner’s arms,huffing from the effort fighting back had taken him.
He managed to refrain from emphasizing how much he hated the situation any more, finding more interest in where Luca was taking him to begin with; he got his answer in the survivors’ lounge, wherein he was unceremoniously dropped on one of the couches, responding to the vertigo with a yelp and huff.
“Asshole.”
“You’re welcome. Stay here,” Luca snorted, “and don’t think I won’t just bring you right back if you leave.”
And with that, he left Edgar on the chair alone, entering the corridor that led to the dining hall. The Painter shifted a little, debating with himself on whether the fight was worth it, and ultimately flopped back against the armrest with a huff of irritation. He didn’t have the energy, anyway. He still couldn’t think clearly, though he’d been able to channel most of his irritation towards Luca, which was far less confusing and stressful to work through.
… Even still, the thoughts gave way to sheer exhaustion painfully quickly; normally unable to relax anywhere outside of his room (and sometimes, not even there), he was almost surprised to find himself drifting a bit, succumbing slowly to the comfort of the couch until a soft click on the end table forced him to jerk awake again, looking up to catch the Prisoner holding a bowl and casting an appraising eye over him.
“Eat first, alright?”
“... Tch.”
It took great effort, but he managed to sit up, pushing away from the armrest; in return, Balsa wedged himself between the artist and armrest, holding out the bowl towards his patient. With reluctance, Edgar accepted, raising a brow at the contents.
“... Plain oatmeal. I didn’t know you fancied yourself a gourmet.”
“Ha-ha,” He snorted in reply, seeming relieved that Edgar was at the very least eating what he’d been given, if slowly. “I know how hard it can be to stomach shit after goin’ on empty for a coupl’a days. It’s a good startin’ point.”
There was a beat of silence between them, filled only by the soft scratching of the spoon against ceramic.
“... Besides, I did, uh. Almos’ burn down the kitchen once. So options were kinda limited.”
“Shocking,” The artist responded, almost completely deadpan; he didn’t register his own pun until Luca choked out a laugh, and at that noise, he glanced over incredulously.
“What? What’s so -”
And then it hit him.
“... Goddamnit. Shut up.”
“Hehhehheh… You’re so out of it,” The Prisoner snickered, twisting a little to collect a glass of water from the end table as Edgar shoved the bowl towards him again. They swapped cargo at that, Luca pausing to check what was left and seeming satisfied at the low amount of scraps. What was left could be used as a snack for Wick, later, if Victor was alright with it. He set it on the table before turning back to watch the artist take tentative sips from the glass, grimacing his sympathy; he knew well enough how it felt to be so dehydrated, and how tempted Edgar was to just chug it all down, but also knew well enough that caving to that temptation would only make him feel worse.
In the end, only a quarter of the glass was choked down; a quarter was better than nothing, though, and Luca nodded his satisfaction again, taking it from the other once more and placing it next to the bowl. Another long period of silence followed as Edgar gathered himself, relying on his arms to support his weight, propped against the couch cushion.
“... If that’s all, I want to go back to my room now,” He stated at last, his voice more unsteady than he’d have liked. “I’ve got a mess to clean up, as you saw yourself when you entered without waiting for permission, like the heathen you are, so if you don’t mind -”
Of course, he broke off with another yelp as Balsa suddenly pulled him closer, adjusting himself so Edgar’s spine was pressed to his front, with his head on his chest; his legs propped themselves on either side of the artist’s body, keeping him contained to the couch, and his arms wrapped around his torso as well, more or less locking him in place.
In the new position, Edgar hesitated, mostly just taken aback by the sheer vulnerability of being held in such a way.
… He didn’t hate it.
So he lied; “I despise you.”
“You need a change of scenery,” Luca replied nonchalantly, shrugging a little. “You can nap here. It’ll be a few hours before the place starts to fill up again, anyway.”
"Hmph…"
The justification was offered as if Edgar had a choice in the matter, or any fight left in him; as it stood, the warmth of the inventor’s body, combined with his own empty battery, left him mostly jelly, shifting only to reposition how his head lay against Luca’s chest. It didn’t take long for him to start drifting again, begrudgingly conceding to his need at long last.
Balsa wasn’t going anywhere. He supposed, in times of internal turmoil like these, he was glad to have a rock. Besides, he was already starting to feel better - not that he’d be caught dead admitting such things.
They were found together hours later, both fast asleep, cuddling each other close as if afraid the other would be missing when they woke up again; nobody dared disturb their peace, friends of the duo pausing on a pass through to drape a blanket over their bodies before moving along.
There was a silent, unanimous agreement that Luca and Edgar were far more adorable and tolerable when they slept.
God help them all when the duo woke up in that position.