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When Danny makes it back to the fire, he’s numb down to his very core.
Somehow, it never gets easier. He thinks he should be able to ignore it by now, be able to compartmentalize well enough to swallow it all down and forget about it the second he returns and find it within himself to enjoy whatever moments of peace he has, but it’s not so simple. In a way, Danny thinks that it gets worse. Watching the same deaths over and over and over and no matter what he does, there are trials where not a single one of them makes it out alive.
It’s hell. And still, he endures.
Because he has to. There’s no way to escape the forest and at this point, Danny’s not sure if he can even fathom the thought of it. Days move differently here but, although they are all utterly untouched by it, he knows time is passing. It has to be. And his time here must have broken something important in his brain, because he doesn’t think he could ever return to what he used to be.
Meg’s arms are tight around his shoulders as she squeezes him and as badly as he wants to sink into it, he can’t close his eyes. He knows that the second he does, he’ll see the hook through her shoulder and her bloody hands struggling to hold herself together and the hatchet buried between her eyes and he can’t make her remember. Can’t do that to her. Not again.
Instead, he runs his palm over her back a few times, feeling her solid and real under his hands, and lets out a quiet breath. Pushing him back slightly, Meg studies his expression, ducking down to catch his eyes when his gaze falters.
“Okay, Danny?” she asks softly.
Words are a challenge, so he settles for a nod. It must be convincing enough—or maybe she just isn’t up for bothering him too much—because she releases him and goes back to her spot beside Feng, who immediately opens her arms again for her to relax into. It makes his heart ache a little, in a sweet sort of way, and then his eyes wander up again and his chest goes cold.
Frank is missing.
It must show on his face, because Meg quickly points across the fire and says, “That way.”
He guesses he should have thanked her, but it doesn’t even cross his mind until he’s already a few dozen steps past the clearing. Danny steps through the underbrush, trying his best to walk in a straight line because he knows that even the slightest turn will land him right back at the fire.
If not for the fact that he knows that none of them can actually accomplish it, he might think Frank is asleep.
Both arms crossed over his chest, his breaths are shallow and even and he doesn’t so much as flinch as Danny sits down beside him. His head is leaned back against the tree behind him, the dim light filtering in from overhead just barely illuminating the line of his throat and all the tattoos there, spreading down to his collar and the very top of his chest. Careful, he watches as Frank lifts one hand to scrub at his eyes.
“Again?” Danny asks, as quietly as he can possibly manage.
Frank makes a vaguely pained noise, something akin to agreement.
It never sucks any less. The only thing that makes him feel even a tiny bit better is the fact that Frank isn’t curled up on his side, face buried in his jacket to drench everything in darkness. Those are the worst nights.
Instead, Frank uncrosses his arms and allows Danny to fit himself beneath one of them, slotted against his side and he shivers a little as he starts to warm up. Cheek flush with his chest, he breathes in and he never really thought he’d find the smell of blood to be comforting, but it’s right back to that thing about getting a screw knocked loose. Something about knowing that they can still bleed, that they haven’t turned back into killing machines that border on invincible. Yeah, something like that. Danny curls in on him a little, face going into his collar.
A short, sharp exhale escapes Frank.
He pulls away just as quickly as he’d come, already halfway through an apology, but all he gets is a faint ruffling of his hair and a, “Tickling me.”
Danny stares blankly at his lax face, then down at the very red, very prominent mark he most definitely had just been nosing at. Bruise-lidded eyes slit open and find his own in the dark, questioning at his sudden silence. It must click, though, because he snorts and shakes his head in mock-disbelief.
“Always fuckin’ worrying about something. It’s a scar, Danny.”
Well, if Frank’s being blunt, he guesses he should speak just as plainly.
“I thought it was new.”
“It’s not. Just the way it healed.”
"What about this one?" Danny asks, running his thumb down the inside of Frank's forearm.
"Also old. School fight. Bitch pulled a knife and I tried to save my face first." Rubbing his free hand over the jagged line stretching from his cheekbone, through his lips and down to his chin, he waves dismissively after a moment. "Didn't matter, though. Fuckin' teacher took too long to come looking for us."
He can feel himself going pale when the words sink in. "A kid did that to you?" he asks, incredulous.
"We were seventeen, so. Yes and no. A kid, but not a little kid."
Danny only hesitates for a moment, fingers curling around nothing as he considers the risk of getting punched in the mouth and—given that it's Frank—losing a tooth or two, but he bites the side of his tongue and holds his breath and reaches up.
Warmth bleeds into his fingertips as they skim across Frank's skin, cradling his cheek and feeling the ragged, uneven texture of his scar beneath his palm. There's a suppressed sort of flinch from him and Danny pulls away just as quickly, guilt knotting in his stomach.
"Sorry," he says.
"Why?"
Staring down at his lap and folded hands, he shrugs jerkily. "Grabbing your face?"
"Grab is a stretch." If he were in his right mind, he would argue to say Frank sounds amused. "It wasn't bad. Just wasn't expecting it. And fuckin’ quit it with the ‘sorry.’"
It's a stupid question. Maybe the stupidest question.
"Can I?"
But he says, easily, "Yeah, Danny."
This time, he has to deal with Frank's steady gaze on him as he cautiously brings his hand back up, but it's better in a way. Like he knows that Frank knows what he's about to do, and he's okay with it. And not just okay with it, but waiting for it, almost wanting.
Cool metal chills Danny's knuckles as he brushes over the rings in his lower lip. His eyes flick down to them, shiny silver that glows by the light of the fire rolling far behind them, flushing Frank's hair gold in the dark, then over to the stud in his cheek, and the other to mirror it. Careful, he rubs his thumb over the one on the left side, smooth and warming under his curious touch. Danny actually jumps when Frank opens his mouth, thinking he's about to be told off, but he merely sticks out his tongue and he's confused for all of one second before he understands what he's supposed to be looking at.
Another piercing. Two, to be exact.
Before he can so much as hope to stop it, he feels himself going very, very red and Frank grins at him in a way that is not even remotely fair.
"What?" he teases.
"Shut up," Danny groans, shoving at his cheek. "You know what you're doing."
"I like to think I do."
"Shut up!" he exclaims, taking his hand back to hide his unbearably warm face behind it.
One heavy arm comes around his shoulders and squeezes hard enough to make him question the structural integrity of his own joints for a moment. It feels good, though, in some strange way. Heat seeps into his skin as Frank leans into him, drumming his fingertips over Danny’s collar playfully.
“My head’s fucking killing me,” Frank tells him.
“Maybe if you stopped talking it wouldn’t hurt anymore.”
“Ouch, baby.”
Still, he pulls at Frank’s arm until he takes the hint and rests his head in Danny’s lap. His hair is a bit damp from the faint, incessant rain, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind. Simply runs his fingers through his bangs and all the way back to his nape, scratching at the shorter strands curling up towards his ears. Frank’s eyelids flutter a little when he drags his nails over his temples and back into his hair and Danny grins.
“Fuck off.”
“I didn’t say anything.”