Work Text:
Drippy has been cursed for a very long time.
At least, he thinks it's been a long time. It's hard to tell, with no one to talk to. 'Talking' with other fairies is more akin to thinking, really. He knows what thoughts they need to think and he knows what thoughts they need him to think and that's about it. Everything is blurry beyond belief and he can barely tell from the fuzzy light he gets if it's day or night, much less how many times that has changed. He wanted to save Alicia. That's all he's ever wanted. Every time he went and got himself into trouble, she fished him out with a smile and a cloth to polish whatever muck got on his lantern.
She can't even save him this time.
For… who knows how long. It could be days. It could be centuries. For a very, very long time he is still on the ground. Every once in a while, little hands pick him up and shake him. They never last. Even with their so-tight-its-painful, so-sticky-its-disgusting grips, he desperately wants them to hold on and never let go. The ground is so hard. It hurts, but at least it's contact. Pressure. The empty nothingness of air on his skin is so, so much worse.
Until one day. One day, where gentle, clean, adult-sized hands pick him up. And they don't put him down. He hears muttering above him and it seems like he's getting put down and then he's shifted to be more secure in the grip. They carry him, and they carry him out the door and it's only once he feels wind rushing through him that he realizes he's been in stale air for who knows how long. It must be sunny. He feels warm. Or maybe that's just the arm around him, carrying him the same way Alicia used to carry him before he learned to carry himself. He feels like a littlie again. At least he doesn't need to worry about embarrassment like this. The murmuring of voices he can't understand lingers.
He changes hands. He can tell, there are four hands on him, two big, two small, and then the big one leaves and the small ones hold him close. They aren't tight, and they aren't sticky, and maybe, just maybe, they won't let go. They humm against him. It sounds clearer than the garbled, twisted muttering of his dulled hearing. They call out something. He can't tell what. A sound quiet enough it might as well be the wind calls back. They answer. For once, it's clear. For once, Drippy knows what someone has said. "... just come back soon, okay?"
If Drippy were capable of crying like this… well. He probably wouldn't have any tears left if he weren't cursed, anyway. He tries not to think about it as he's carried inside, up and up and its darker but its warm, in this child's arms.
"Hello," they say. To him? Drippy doesn't hear a response. It's not like he can answer, anyway. What's he thinking, he's a toy, this is a child. They don't expect an answer. They aren't a fairy. Drippy can't communicate with him. He knows he doesn't get the hello back Drippy thinks as hard as he can at him, but it feels rude to ignore them. "What's your name?" They ask.
And isn't that so much more tricky? Drippy, he wants to say, My name is Drippy, Lord High Lord of the Fairies.
"Hmm…" the child says. "How about… oh! My mom always talks about a funny fairy named Drippy when I can't sleep. He's super cool! He doesn't like to cry, but he has magic tears and mommy says that's why it's okay to cry." And oh, oh how that feels good and hurts at the same time. Hearing his own name, but it isn't really his name, because it's some character from this kid's dumb bedtime stories. He's much cooler than this other drippy fellow, even if he's felt like the lowest of the most pathetic creatures in the world ever since he decided to go against Shadar. He'll take it. Something is better than nothing.
"Would you like to play race cars, Mr. Drippy?" The kid asks, and Drippy isn't in a position to deny race cars.
It goes like this for a while. This kid with the clearest voice talks to him and asks him questions he can't answer. After a while of playing, the child gasps. His name is Oliver, he forgot to say. He's very sorry for not introducing himself. He doesn't mean to be rude. Sometime, Oliver's mother must have come back. They talk, and Drippy can only hear Oliver's side of the conversation well. He can tell, though, when he tells his mother Drippys name, that she goes quiet long enough that Oliver starts to worry. She doesn't stay much longer.
It's dark again, and Oliver does not let him go. He holds him tighter, in fact, but it still doesn't hurt. Tighter and tighter until his grip loosens, sleeping peacefully. He waits to fall out of the little arms, but hands- the mothers hands, he thinks- pick him up. He isn't sure what they're trying to do. They fiddle with him, send waves of feelings he just can't process through him for what surely is hours. Probably. Days? Maybe it was minutes. Long enough he wants for the comforting embrace of the little boy Oliver, and long enough she finally puts him back.
Drippy still can't tell time very well, but the Good Morning, Mr. Drippy!'s and the Good Night, Mr. Drippy!'s at least give him the confidence to say it's been a few weeks. Oliver's mother stops toying with him, and lets her son rest with his favorite toy. Let the toy rest too, even if she doesn't know it. Oliver sleeps with him every night.
Until one night. One night he doesn't even bother to play with him. He's crying, and Mr. Drippy wishes he could help. Oliver falls asleep crying. In the morning, he stays home from school.
It's midday(probably) before he cracks. The first words come tumbling out, "I'm sorry Mr. Drippy," Bullies. The worst of the worst, in Drippys opinion. "They just… they were so mean. They said I'm stupid to sleep with a dumb old toy," Drippy had given up being angry at Shadar, but the sickly familiar feeling bubbles up again at Oliver's treatment. "Mommy- Mom says not to listen to them but what if listening to them makes them stop being mean?" It surprises Drippy, to feel so intensely for Oliver at this moment. "I hate school! I hate everyone! Theyre all dumb and mean and I want them to like me." It's then he realizes something. "At least… at least you like me, right Mr. Drippy? You're my best friend. Ever." Something that almost makes him want to try.
Drippy knows, with a certainty that would take his breath if he had any, that he will never leave Oliver's side again.
Drippy can always tell when the bullies come for Oliver. The only days he doesn't hold him at night are when he'd been crying over them. Even when he cries less and less, Drippy is sure his pulling away isn't growing up. (Because if it was, he'd be alone again.)
One day, a friend comes over. His name is Phil. That's all Drippy learns before he is shoved behind a pillow. Phil is loud, almost loud enough for Drippy to understand, even between the layer of feathers and cloth. He hears laughing, a conversation where Oliver sounds happy and carefree. Drippy yearns to be a part of it, but is content with listening. It's all he does, nowadays.
Until the kids get rowdy. Oliver and Phil are still laughing, so it isn't worrying. One of them- Drippy isn't sure who- is shoved into the pillow. He feels himself fall to the ground, bare and exposed to the prying eyes of two children, worried and curious. Someone picks him up. Drippy knows it's Phil, because it isn't Oliver. He says something to Oliver. Oliver, who had frozen up, breathes a sigh of relief and introduces the two of them. They begin to play, and Drippy is happily included.
One day, something changes. The bullies hadn't bothered Oliver in a while, and nothing they'd ever said made him cry this much. He'd never left Drippy alone at night for this long.
Three whole days.
Oliver picks him up, finally going for comfort. For the first time, tears stain Drippy's stitches.