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Everything hurts. Oh fuck, does he ache like hell. Waylon’s made dumb decisions before, but this one is way up there. He can't believe he actually just jumped from a moving car.
One moment, everything was fine; he was fine, and now... now, he's laying on the side of the road, battered, bruised, bleeding, chilled, and more than a little lost. He isn’t entirely sure how he got himself into this position.
Well... no, he might be lying to himself a bit. More than a bit. Okay, a lot. He knows his friends have never liked Jeremy. He thought they were just being overprotective, a ‘Here’s a newly out Waylon testing the waters in college, better keep an eye on him’ kind of love.
He knows he was resistant to listening to them. Sure, Jeremy could be kind of an ass, but he was kind to Waylon when it mattered. He thought they’d eventually warm up to him. Instead, they hate him more than before and here he is beat to fucking hell in more ways than one.
He was really wrong with that one.
Jeremy’s always been a little pushy, but his confidence in his every move was what drew Waylon in. He didn’t think complaining about it was his place, so when Jeremy pushed a little too hard or went a little too far, Waylon just took it. They were still learning each other's habits and limits. Jeremy wasn't stupid by any means, he had to see what Waylon was okay with and what he wasn't. They'd find their rhythm.
And then, they really didn't.
Jeremy kept pushing and he kept taking. He can’t help but think of the story of the frog in a pot not knowing it’s being boiled alive. It feels fitting.
He's so glad it hadn't gotten physical, because he already feels like death from his ill-advised leap of faith. It wasn't so far off though, based on Jeremy's cryptic answers about where they were headed, what was going to happen, and how angry he got when Waylon finally spoke up and began to really disagree.
He looked like he would have throttled Waylon if he could've and Waylon was not going to stick around and find out.
So a very ill-advised tuck and roll it was. He’s lucky he didn’t smash his head on the ground and that Jeremy just kept fucking driving instead of stopping and coming back for Waylon; he wouldn’t be able to put up any sort of protest in this state.
…Jesus, he really has been a complete idiot. That’s such a messed up thought to have, shit.
He wants to hide away and lick his wounds in peace. He wants to cry for being so fucking stupid. He thinks he could die from the shame of being so thoroughly fooled like he was. He’s thinking about just finding a place to squat for the night when a violent shiver wracks his body and puts an end to that train of thought.
He’s never been hurt like this before and he’s afraid he won’t make it through the night without help. He doesn’t exactly trust his judgment right now either.
First things first, he carefully tests each part of his body, taking stock of what hurts and how injured he might be beyond his nerves screaming pain at him. His back and shoulder took the brunt of the fall, and he thinks he feels cold air directly against his back, which would make sense. He probably has the worst road rash ever, but everything moves and nothing hurts more than he expected it to when he flexed, so that’s good.
Next, he carefully pushes himself into a sitting position and reaches for his phone. He’s praying it survived the jump, because he has seriously no idea what to do if he can’t use it to figure out where he is. He actually does tear up a little in relief when he pulls it out and sees it’s just a little more scratched up. Thank god for good phone cases.
When he pulls up his map app, he feels his heart sink. He’s in a part of town where he’s never been in before, so shuffling off on his own is out of the question. It’s probably better that he doesn’t move too much anyway, but still. He really doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. He’s afraid of what their reaction will be.
He absentmindedly bites his lip and hisses in pain. Shit, it’s probably split, he didn’t think about that. He’s actually terrified of checking himself out with the camera right now and pushes the thought aside.
Focus! He needs help and he can’t stay here. He should call someone, but who? He doesn’t want to call Lisa out to an unknown neighborhood late at night. Miles is out of town on some assignment, if he remembers correctly. That leaves… oh shit. Eddie.
Waylon groans. Eddie is both the best and the worst person for him to call. Eddie drives both a car and a motorcycle. He’ll be able to pick up Waylon with no problem and he probably knows exactly what to do for all his injuries. Not to mention he’s a beast and can take care of himself.
He also may or may not have a bit of a crush on the man and the thought of Eddie seeing him like this and judging him hurts. He debates taking his chances on a rideshare for a minute before discarding the idea. He’s made enough bad decisions for one night.
He takes a deep breath and holds it while he dials Eddie’s number and waits for him to pick up. Oh god, what if he doesn’t answer? What’s Waylon going to do? Will he have to actually try a rideshare? He’s halfway into driving himself into a panic spiral when Eddie answers. “Hello? Waylon?”
He lets the breath out in a messy sputter, a squeaky “Eddie!” coming out with it. Oh god, could he be any more pathetic right now? He grimaces, closing his eyes against the invisible judgment he feels.
“Eddie,” he tries again. “Hi... I’m sorry, but can you come and get me right now? Please? I’m in trouble.” An understatement, but Eddie will see for himself soon enough. “I’ve shared my location.”
“Trouble? Waylon, what is going on?” Waylon can hear him fumbling about in the background as he starts getting ready to leave.
He avoids the question, but does remember to tell Eddie, “Bring your car, I can’t ride on your bike right now.”
“Waylon!” He sounds panicked and Waylon feels so guilty and stupid and pathetic. He wants to end the call immediately, but he knows he’ll only make Eddie worry even more. He doesn’t need to get into an accident trying to help Waylon.
“I’m... not fine, but I’ll be okay until you get here. I left Jeremy. I don’t know where I am and I need help. Please... don’t ask anything more right now.” He hunches in on himself, hissing in pain as it pulls the wounds on his back.
“You do not sound fine. I won’t ask, but you are staying on the phone with me until I get there. I am not budging on this.” Waylon hears the sound of a car door slamming, he must be on his way. “I shouldn’t be long, stay with me.”
He gulps and murmurs quietly, almost chastised, “Okay. Thank you, Eddie.” He can’t stop the tears now, but at least he isn’t sobbing in Eddie’s ear.
Eddie keeps up a stream of comforting words and progress updates, only occasionally asking Waylon to respond so he can check that he’s still there. It’s more comforting than he expected and he finds himself relaxing incrementally.
It lasts until he can hear Eddie’s car speeding down the road. He immediately curls back into a tighter ball, another gasp of pain escaping. Across the phone, he can hear Eddie make another alarmed sound. “M’fine. Just moved wrong.”
“Is that you on the ground?”
“Yes.”
This time it's a wounded sound. “Waylon, darling, I’m right here. Just give me a minute.” He hangs up the phone and Waylon is so, so happy because the word ‘darling’ breaks him. He’s crying noisily now and if Eddie can’t hear him while he’s parking, he will soon.
Eddie practically wrenches his door off the hinges, sprinting over to Waylon. “Darling, what happened?” He drops to a knee, hands hovering over him, like he’s afraid his touch will break him.
Waylon cries harder, noisy gulps of air interspersed with hiccuping sobs. He doesn’t know if he’s touched by Eddie’s concern or hurt that he’s being denied that comfort. His chest feels so tight and his stomach feels like it’s dropped out from underneath him
“Oh, darling...” Eddie sounds heartbroken and his expression can only be described as devastated. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you. You’re safe with me.” He stands up, offering his hands. “Can I help you stand? We’ll get you to my car and make a plan from there, okay?”
Waylon can only nod, carefully uncurling and reaching for his hands.
Eddie immediately takes them, only barely refraining from hauling Waylon up himself to ensure he doesn’t aggravate any of the numerous injuries he can see and especially those he can’t. They’ll need to go to a hospital, but he knows Waylon won’t agree to that tonight. He’ll have to take him home and do his best.
He does practically lift him off his feet with how much weight he takes as he walks him over to the car. He didn't even bother to turn it off, and he’s glad for that with how cold Waylon feels. He immediately settles him into the backseat on his side before swinging around to the trunk to pull out the emergency blanket he keeps in there and tucking it around him loosely. He’d love to have him up front with him, but it’s better to keep pressure off his back for now.
He crouches down again and gently brushes some of Waylon’s hair out of his face. “Are you okay coming home with me? I can take a look at your wounds and take care of them there.”
Waylon’s still gasping for air between his forcefully stifled sobs, so he nods again, choking out a tiny “Please.”
“Of course, darling. It won’t be long.” He strokes one finger lightly against Waylon’s temple before withdrawing. He wishes he could speed home, but he can’t risk hurting Waylon anymore, so it’s better that they get going now.
The drive feels like it takes forever and no time at all, both of them caught up in their own worries and fears. Waylon has managed to stop crying even as the guilt and shame he feels intensifies. Eddie feels like he's hanging onto his calmness by a thread. He desperately wants answers and to do something, anything, for Waylon.
He's terribly invested in his well-being.
As soon as he’s parked, Eddie comes around to the backseat. “Waylon, we’re here. Can you sit up so we can go in?”
He nods again, not trusting his voice to hold. He carefully rights himself before awkwardly shuffling along the seat to take Eddie’s hand and stand. As much as he wants to shy away from his touch, he’s craving the comfort it brings him. He makes do with clutching the blanket harder with his other hand.
They make their way inside, shucking their shoes at the door before Eddie ushers him towards the bathroom, settling him on the toilet. “Let me get you a change of clothes and the first aid kit. I’ll be right back.” True to his word, Eddie’s not gone more than a minute. He sets the pile of clothes aside for later before kneeling in front of Waylon. “Can you drop the blanket? I need to see your wounds.”
Waylon lets the blanket slide from his grip and shoulders, hissing as it drags lightly across his injuries.
Eddie furrows his brow at the sound, mouth pursing in displeasure and worry. “I’m sorry, darling, I don’t want to give you anything until after I’ve seen how injured you are. I’ll be as quick and careful as possible. I promise.” He slowly reaches out to touch Waylon, sighing in relief when Waylon’s eyes close at his touch and he relaxes into it.
He takes the opportunity to take a long look at him, bruised, scraped, and bleeding. He looks so fragile and so strong at once. Eddie admires that about him, but he wishes Waylon wouldn’t push himself so hard and treat himself so roughly. He still doesn’t know the story, but he knows Waylon.
He gives himself a shake before refocusing on his task. He gently moves Waylon to get a better look at the various injuries, testing his range of motion. It’s mostly smaller scale, some scrapes and bruises, but nothing that worries him. He reaches for the antiseptic and delicately cleans the open wounds before applying bandages. They’ll need to get ice packs later for some of the swelling.
When he’s done tending to Waylon’s front, he asks “Can you open your eyes? I need to check for a concussion.”
Waylon obliges. He follows Eddie’s finger as it moves, meets his gaze as he checks his pupil sizes, answers all the basic questions he asks to check his memory. They’re both not sure if the pain is related to one or just the overwhelming feedback from the rest of his body, but they do their best.
Eddie is still concerned, but Waylon passes most of his tests, so he lets it go. It will be a problem for them to tackle tomorrow. “I think you’re alright, so now, could you turn around?”
He carefully rotates to put as much of his back towards the light and Eddie’s gaze as he can. He has to fight the urge to curl up as he hears Eddie hiss in sympathy.
“Waylon, darling, I’ll need to cut your shirt off to see better. Is that okay?” At his nod, Eddie reaches for the trauma shears and quickly cuts through the remaining cloth, gently easing it off Waylon’s torso. He looks like he’s been through a shredder, large swaths of skin sheared off and gravel and grit embedded in places, dotting the bright red skin with flecks of brown, gray and black.
They’ll need to clean it all out before he can do anything else, but he’s afraid of causing him any more pain. “Waylon… There’s a lot of debris in these. I’ll need to remove it. Can I wash your back?”
Waylon flushes pink. As if he wasn’t already feeling exposed, this might just be the thing that will kill him. He’s oddly grateful for the pain. It keeps him grounded. He gives another tiny nod, bracing himself.
Eddie works quickly. He uses tweezers to pull the largest pieces out before getting the softest washcloth he has and wetting it, along with a cup full of water. He carefully pours the smallest amount of water along each section of his skin, gently following up with the cloth. It’s painstaking work, each gasp of pain from Waylon makes him wince. But his hands stay steady.
As soon as he’s done with the water, he grabs a soft towel, pressing it lightly against Waylon’s back, checking for any remaining debris and how badly the blood is flowing. When he hears Waylon make a protesting noise, he scoffs, cutting him off. He can replace the damn thing later.
Luckily, there isn’t as much blood as he feared. He will have to restock the antibiotics after this, maybe even the gauze bandages. There’s very little of Waylon’s back and shoulder that survived unscathed. He really wants to know what happened, but no, not yet.
He finishes treating Waylon’s injuries before standing up, his knees cracking from holding the same position for so long. “That’s all I can do for you. I’ll let you get changed and when you're done, come into the kitchen, okay?”
Waylon nods, but doesn’t turn around until he hears the door close. He’s still in pain, but it’s not as sharp as before. He can’t wait to take something for it. He carefully steps out of the rest of his clothes before reaching for the set Eddie left him. He can’t decide if he’s grateful or not for the spare change of underwear, but doesn’t let himself dwell on it, ignoring the heat of embarrassment spreading across his face. The sweatpants are a little long and the soft button up swamps him, but it’s easier than lifting his arms above his head and he’s so grateful for the thought Eddie put into a set of clothes.
He shuffles into the kitchen where Eddie has a cup of tea and a painkiller waiting for him. He takes both with enthusiasm, sighing in relief. He knows it won’t kick in for sometime, but the warmth from the tea is doing wonders as he settles into a seat.
Eddie is just finishing heating and portioning out some soup for Waylon. He gently, but firmly places the bowl in front of him. “Eat. You shouldn’t have that on an empty stomach and you’ll need your strength to heal.”
He waits until Waylon’s more than halfway through the bowl before he broaches the subject. “Waylon... I’ve been patient, but please, what happened?”
Waylon freezes, averting his gaze. He knew this was coming, but he’s not ready to talk about it. Still, he owes Eddie this, if nothing else. He deserves to know the circumstances of why they’re here now.
He slowly, haltingly, tells him about how Jeremy had slowly gotten more... demanding. The build to tonight. The tension he felt in the car and the fear culminating in his ill advised bail out. He can feel himself hunching in on himself as the story goes on, god, he was so stupid.
Eddie is glad his hands are under the table, his fists are clenched so hard, they’re trembling in suppressed rage, knuckles pale white as the skin stretches over them. He has to clear his throat before he can speak, but a thread of a growl underneath is still clearly there. “Waylon, you did nothing wrong. All the blame lies with Blaire. So, please,” he flexes one hand, loosening it before he reaches across the small table to lightly grip Waylon’s forearm, “please don’t think any less yourself, darling. You did the best you could and I’m so glad you called me for help.”
Waylon makes a small noise of protest, but Eddie shushes him. “I mean it. You’re very precious to me.”
Waylon flushes again, hiding his face. Eddie lets him.
This isn’t the end of this conversation, he knows. But he’s hopeful for the future at least.