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He slams open the door stalks into the small room of the abandoned cabin they happened upon in this barren landscape. The force of it shakes the wooden walls, dust falling from the ceiling and crevices in the planks. It was probably a very reckless thing to do, considering that it feels like with each gust of wind that comes screeching past the foundation of cabin threatens to get swept away, but Wynn doesn't care. He doesn't care that he's still covered in blood, cuts, and bruises. He doesn't give a shit that his heart rate hasn't slowed and is only rapidly accelerating with each gasp he sucks in, fighting back tears. And he certainly doesn't give a flying fuck that he's maybe two seconds away from actually losing it in front of his team and they're all watching him like he's so fucking monkey putting on a show.
He hates it. Their stares make the blood drying on his skin itch and soon he's throwing his sword and armor off to the side. The clang of metal sounds deafening in the otherwise silent air of this too small room. He rips off his clothes next until he's in nothing but his trousers, a trail of his things leading from the doorway to the only bed.
"Wynn—" Birdie starts to say but he cuts her off before she can something that will send him over the precarious edge he is on.
"Shut up," he bites out. Outside, the wind howls, and it sends in a wave of cold air and snow through the still open door. "Just don't. Leave it."
He doesn't know what expressions they're making but he can imagine it. He hates the twinge of guilt his stupid conscience or whatever does in response, so he doesn't turn around cause he doesn't want to see it. Instead, he quickly buries himself in the scratchy wool and musty covers of the bed and turns his head so that it faces the wall, cheek pressing desperately into the pillow.
He pretends to sleep and everyone knows he's faking it, but thankfully they listen to him for once and don't pester him. Wynn tries in vain to calm his breathing and gain some control over himself, eyes squeezing shut. He focuses on the sound of them fumbling about the room, the shuffle of footsteps over cold wood and the occasional quiet, hesitant word or two exchanged as they pass out rations and figure out sleeping arrangements. Most of them usually insist on sleeping on the floor or bedrolls anyway for some dumb reason so he doesn't see why this current arrangement would be any different.
The cabin eventually falls silent except for the sound of breathing and more than one person tossing and turning. The walls continue to creak from the snowstorm raging outside. Wynn still feels his hands shake where they are fisted in the sheets, his heart hammering painfully against his chest. He grits his teeth and curls into himself. He won't. He won't, he won't, he fucking won't—but then he does start crying, against his will.
The first sob escapes him right as a harsh gust rattles the walls. He hopes none of them heard it. He tries to contain his sobs until there's another howl so he can at least pretend he's hiding his breakdown, but he should've known they would never leave well enough alone.
It's not as shocking as it should've been when he feels the mattress beside him dip as another body settles itself on it. He is shocked, however, when he hears the heavy thump of boots hit the ground beside the bed as the person removes them and then feels the muscled shoulder of Jacint press ever so slightly into his trembling back, lying down next to him. The other man doesn't say anything, doesn't move to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but the warmth of his arm against his spine is soothing. And like a dam breaking loose, the strange comfort that one point of contact gives Wynn has another sob ripping out of his chest.
He curls into an even smaller ball, pressing against the steady presence of Jacint, and clenches his hands harder, his tendons straining and pulling against his chapped skin. Then another hand is gently placed on top of his as Birdie slides onto the other side of the bed. He doesn't open his eyes because he doesn't want to see the pity and concern on her face, but he knows it's her from the callouses on her fingertips where she presses them into the strings of her violin. Normally he would feel cramped and trapped and fucking hate to be caged in by the two loudest members of the group, but Wynn realizes the trembling of his body isn't just from his cries, but the bitter cold that is slowly settling into his bones.
The bed is small and old, and it creaks whenever one of them so much as inhales, but he's starting to feel warm. He feels the mattress dip by the foot of the bed, and then another body curl itself up near their feet, and he feels Jacint's arm move as he shifts to guide Azure's head onto his legs where she'll be more comfortable. Then he feels the smooth, almost leathery texture of Shell's wing lowering itself over all of them as she wraps herself around Birdie, clinging onto her so she doesn't fall off the bed.
The shaking of his limbs and the sobs trapped in his throat have nearly subsided when he hears the low, calm rumble of Brint from the foot of the bed where he sits, taking vigil to protect his team from whatever other terrors the night holds.
"We have you, Wynn. We'll take care of you."
He takes in a deep, shaky breath, then falls asleep.