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It’s still a shock, waking with someone beside him.
There was a time when he’d never, not even once, thought he’d be able to. For many reasons. For many reasons that he’s not going to think about, because then he’s going to break in two very distinct pieces. There was a time when he hadn’t wanted to; there simply hadn’t been someone in his life who he’d deemed safe enough to allow near him in such a vulnerable state.
There were so many ways to hurt someone while they were unconscious. He would know.
Willow had been the first person he’d ever imagined having even half as much trust in. She was the first person he’d ever thought of waking up near—touching, even. She was the person who made him realise that closeness was something he wanted. She made him imagine a life beyond the castle, and the bloodshed it was gilded with.
She was the first person he’d ever thought of taking home with him—not to the castle, to some high and lofty realm where she could see something beyond the mask bestowed upon him; fully done up, gloves and uniform.
In the beginning, he’d tried to push those thoughts away. Of course, he had tried. They were improper, and he had a grand destiny waiting for him. But then, he suddenly hadn’t.
And with time, those thoughts grew from saplings into trees with strong roots that warped the cobbled streets, shot out from underneath the stone. They grew into things like considering whether she would’ve gotten along with Darius, whether he would approve (he did, it turned out, wholeheartedly so); whether she’d like to plant something in the old flower boxes in Mrs. Noceda’s garden.
All impossible things, hundreds of far-fetched ex-possibilities; things that would have been feasible, even easy, for Hunter, but were nothing short of laughable for the Golden Guard. It made him want them even more, he realised with a start once, in the middle of the night. His gasp had almost woken Gus, he could tell by the shift in breathing. He stared at the ceiling for a while, that night, and thought about driving into abysses of possibility.
Because still, despite everything he told himself, despite knowing that he desperately wanted to be like everyone while he wasn’t like anyone, there was a buzzing desire in the back of his mind. He wanted those things; he wanted to be held like he was safe, like he was whole. To live far away from his past, to reap the reward of some real peace.
For a year, he brushed that desire aside as an old version of him, kicking and screaming against the steel cage he’d been contained in for so long. He couldn’t allow that boy out, he told himself, because he had to be strong, especially now. Hunter was scared of never finding his way back to the Boiling Isles, but also silently relieved that he couldn’t—the Golden Guard wondered whether Hunter was doing it on purpose, because with each day, Hunter’s fear of what he’d return to grew.
Hunter couldn’t stay.
Hunter begged to be let out, begged to be finally given a chance to win, to gain something after all these years of suffering. It’s not me, the Golden Guard told himself, it’s someone else. Someone weaker. Someone I don’t answer to.
It wasn’t clear to him at which point he’d just given in. He wishes it was. He wishes that it was something distinct yet succinct that he could point to years down the line, but it just wasn’t. It was like falling asleep; slowly, slowly, slowly, then all at once. It was like falling asleep around Darius, actually. A slow saunter down, then falling, but he’d always be caught, cradled between strong arms as he was carried, still able to hear the music from the other room.
He missed Darius.
It wasn’t clear to him at which point he’d given in, but it was years later, and it so happened that there was a girl in his bed, and she’d just very eagerly invited him to lay against her chest and even worse; he’d just accepted. If this was weakness, he was utterly content with being spineless, he decided.
Willow was running one hand through his hair, the other on his back and holding him close. He wouldn’t have been enjoying this as much if there had been any sign that they weren’t both happy, but there wasn’t. And Hunter was drowning in love. He was euphoric, impossibly in love and equally proud of both of them for ending up here.
It was beyond words, beyond disbelief—he was rendered speechless out of something other than fear and rage for the first time, and it was beneath Willow’s hands.
This had only ever been an image of reckless hope, until very recently. Up until today, really; new things always came with risk, especially things involving a bed. They couldn’t have been certain this would succeed until it already had, and Willow was humming gently behind him.
Willow didn’t ask whether he was okay, like she usually would after a few minutes of trying something new. He supposed it was because the answer would be stating the obvious. Instead, she shifted, moving her hand away from where it was walking along his scalp. Then, her chest was shaking softly along with the rest of her abdomen, and he felt no need to move off her in the slightest.
“You look happy,” she said softly, joy colouring her tone in such a way that it was damn near undeniable that she was grinning down at him.
He moved an arm to rest across her ribcage, nuzzling his chin against his wrist. Her fingers swept across his forehead in turn, a hand running across the top of his hair to push a stray strand back into place.
“I am,” he whispered against her.
After so many years of keeping everything that he felt so close to his chest, admitting to such a thing almost felt like confessing to a crime. Like letting his cards bleed to the person playing against him, unable to conceal his throat as an enemy went for it. Letting someone know of his shame was one danger, but to speak his joy was like outright handing them a knife and telling them everything that hurt to cut.
He was looking at the person that gave him life while coming face to face with death. It opened the possibly for everything he’d desperately grasped at to be swept away.
This time, Willow had offered this space to him with a beaming smile on her face, like there was nowhere she’d rather be. Her arms were reaching for him while he was still trying to get his pyjama shirt on, standing near the foot of the bed. She was not so cruel as to tear this happiness away from him intently.
“I’m glad, my love,” she whispered, smiling all wide when he gazed up at her.
She took his free hand from where it was lying limp against the mattress, pulling it up to her lips. A soft kiss, and it was lowered back down to the bed with possibly the most tender care he’d ever been granted.
Each added touch was a victory in his mind, after far too many years of feeling ill at the mere thought of it. And it didn’t help his emotions that it was his hands, the scarred, shattered remains that he’d taken to hiding away, and she kissed them like they were something fine. He looked forward to her touch, now, and it still startled him.
He moved his arm back to the side, resting his head against the same place it had been previously.
“I like doing this,” he mumbled, ever the charmer, letting his eyes flutter shut as she continued brushing her hands through his hair. Another confession said with ease. “You make a very good pillow, darling. And you’re warm. It’s like sitting out in the sun.”
She chuckled.
“That’s because you’re always really, really worryingly cold, dear,” she answered, mirth dancing across the air.
He didn’t say anything to that. If he did, he’d be pushing himself back towards the unforgiving maw of the past. And he wasn’t very interested in that, not like this, not with her.
“Well,” she said, changing the subject, perhaps because she felt him tense ever so slightly, “I’d hope it’s comfortable, if you keep lying there.” She chuckled, her fingertips skimming the skin of his scalp again.
“It is,” he mumbled. “I’ve never… I’m glad we’re able to hold each other like this. It’s nice. I think I missed it, even though I wasn’t able to do it. I don’t remember it ever being this good, though.”
She was quiet for a moment before speaking, her hand pausing briefly as she collected her thoughts. He whined. “I’m glad we’re able to do this, too, love,” she whispered. Her arm snaked around his back, squeezing his shoulder. “I think it’s nice, too. I’m proud of you for being able to—for telling me how you’re feeling.”
He hummed in acceptance, shifting a bit in her arms, trying to encourage her to continue her otherworldly head massage. For the first tie, he wasn’t sure that this amount of touch was enough. He wanted to be closer, wanted her to hold him tighter. Wanted her to push life back into him and give it no option to sneak back out again.
“I’m proud of you, too,” he said quietly instead, “For everything.”
He lifted his head to look at her properly. He did not intend on staying upright in the slightest, or he would have propped his head up once again. He wasn’t tired, but something else. Perhaps this was contentment.
“Thank you for waiting for me—for helping me, too. I couldn’t… without you, I would still be—” he cut himself off, jaw clamping shut.
“I know,” she whispered, voice near angelic—or at least, what he’d learned of the word—as she began brushing his hair back more quickly, strokes smooth and rhythmic. She kept a smile on her face, though he knew that she changed her pace because of him, because she could feel his breathing rise against her, and she knew she had to help him calm himself if she didn’t want the moment to end.
And seemingly, she didn’t.
“Remember to give yourself credit, though. I did my own work, just as you did yours.”
There was not a bone in his body that would accept that, he knew. He had not done any of this himself, he was not the reason this was happening, he was not the reason why he held this immeasurable joy. It was all her. He couldn’t have, not without her giving him someone to work for, someone to become worthy for. And yet as stubborn as she was, he knew better than to argue.
He hummed again, simply nodding once. His eyes closed, pinched tight as he took a couple breaths.
“It will help you lay your head back down,” Willow instructed gently, resting her unmoving hand against the side of his head which had previously been turned upwards. “This is an odd way to hold your neck, you know. It’ll give you a nasty pain if you keep at it. And you’re making it harder on yourself, to top it all off, because of course, you are.”
“I’m okay,” he answered, his voice low. He wasn’t lying to her—he didn’t do that anymore, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t.
“Lay down,” she insisted, a smile still lingering on both her tone and her lips.
“I’m going to fall asleep on you, then,” he threatened, already doing exactly as she’d asked.
“I didn’t ask you to lie there for the sake of admiring the top of your head, love,” she mumbled back, rubbing her spare hand flat against his upper back as her other hand continued to work through his hair. Titan, he’d stay here forever if she promised never to stop doing that.
His eyes shut once more as he relaxed against her; the warmth of her chest and hands being enough to remind him of everything she was Alive and beautiful and right there with him and wow, wasn’t that something? She was closer than he’d never imagined he would be capable of allowing her to be, holding him like he was something she truly, truly cared for. Holding him like he was everything he wanted to be for her.
A few moments of silence later, and he was starting to drift, his body impossibly heavy in the best possible way. Willow shifted, reaching outward toward something and the room fell into immediate, sudden darkness as she turned down the lights.
“Sleep well, dear,” she whispered, not once letting go of him.