Chapter Text
Sloan keeps themself in a very particular way. They always wear several layers of clothes, even in the tropical heat, so they don’t have anything touch them that they don’t want. Their goggles are omnipresent so that they can pull them down whenever they need. They have a set of earplugs on hand in case they need some quiet. They keep about half a dozen different stim toys in their pockets and usually replace them every other week. Everything they wear and keep with them has a purpose.
They don’t know what set their sensitivity dials on full blast today, but they can’t stand anything.
The sun is too bright.
The wind is too loud.
The air feels too much.
Sloan doesn’t know when they collapsed on a vaguely familiar floor, but they hate every sensation. They’d flung their jacket and shirt off as soon as they’d stepped through the door. They slam their hands on the floor, over and over, harder and harder, even as their palms start to hurt, then hurt worse, and suddenly they’re leaving red marks on the floor as they continue hitting it. They can’t see clearly, their sight is blurred and fuzzy, there’s hot, wet lines coming down their cheeks, they hate it, they start clawing at their cheeks in some futile attempt to stop it but it just keeps happening, more and more and it won’t stop.
Sloan moves their hands into their hair and starts pulling, just to feel something different, to make the bad sensations stop.
They feel too much. Everything is too much.
They start to punch their bicep, pounding the side of their fist into their arm, heaving sobs even still. They feel like they’re in a vacuum, like air is being stolen straight out of their lungs, and they feel themselves start to babble, to speak, but they can’t hear what they’re saying, can’t really understand what’s coming out of their mouth.
Massive, warm arms envelope their torso suddenly, forcing their arms against their sides, keeping them from moving. They start to kick their legs out, but those are grabbed too, held close so they’re held totally still.
They squirm around in the grip, trying to keep moving, trying to keep hurting themself, but the unseen arms won’t let them. They’re squeezed against a wide chest, and they instinctively bury their wet face into it. Their own chest continues to heave, they keep trying to struggle away, but they’re held too tightly to move.
They heave, cool breath slowly coming back into their lungs, bit by bit, hands curling and uncurling, pressing crescents into their palms. Their breaths are shaky, shallow things, difficult to draw.
The chest they’ve been crushed against starts to thrum with a deep bass, and, finally, Sloan opens one eye, able to see a tattooed bicep curled around them. They tilt their head back just enough to feel the scratch of a beard against their forehead.
“Back yet, Slo?” Sloan nods. They feel like a rag doll, completely devoid of any bone or muscle. Their cheeks are still wet, and they weakly lift their arm to wipe the lingering dampness away.
“Alright, c’mon then.” Mauga lifts them like they’re delicate. Sloan almost hates it, probably would if they had the energy. They let their cheek fall against Mauga’s chest as he carries them off. They don’t really pay attention to where they’re taken. They’re placed gently onto a table, and they stare at the grain of the wood while Mauga rifles through things.
Sloan startles when Mauga carefully takes their hand and begins to dab at it with antiseptic. Dark red and violet blotches their palms and knuckles. The antiseptic stings. But there’s a fluttering warmth that comes from being cared for by their surrogate brother. Usually his care is teasing and verbal jabs and affectionate bullying - average big brother behavior, according to most people they’ve talked to. The way he holds their hands so gently as he wraps them up, though, Sloan wishes they could cry, but they just don’t have anything left.
After watching Mauga’s hands move steadily for several minutes, Sloan realizes he’s been talking, filling the silence with his voice while they drift back into their head. “-Apparently never found one so big so close to shore. It caused a stir with all the tourists, or that’s what I’ve been told, but honestly, all you gotta do to get those people talking is sneeze too loud.”
Despite the ache in their cheeks, they manage to smile at that. Mauga notices, and lifts one hand to ruffle up Sloan’s wild mess of hair with a smile of his own. It’s not like the one he wears around other people, that performative, wide, just-too-sweet smile that makes Sloan’s spine tingle in a terrible way; it’s real.
“Nice to see you come back above ground,” He says amiably. He turns his focus back to wrapping their hands for a moment, expertly tying the bandages off at their wrist, and carefully laying a biotic patch over their bruised bicep. “Been a while since you’ve been this bad.”
Sloan shrugs. They want to say something back but can’t force the neurons to fire that’ll open their mouth and move their tongue and teeth.
“No words?”
They shake their head.
“Any reason for-“ Mauga gestures broadly to Sloan. “-y’know?”
They tap their fingertips against their knee. Their head feels empty, like something used to be there that’s vacated. Even the soft tap against their own knee makes their hands pulse with minor pain. Sometimes there’s a kind of trigger, like a sudden boom of thunder or a screech of metallic plating, that shoves their brain into that useless, flailing, hypersensitive state. But if there was, they don’t remember it.
They shake their head.
Mauga exhales, then steps away to grab their jacket from the hook near the door that Sloan hadn’t noticed. He holds it out to them and they gladly take it now that they can think clearly.
Carefully, they slide down from the table to their feet, and they stand motionless for a long moment, staring at the well-loved jacket squeezed between their wrapped hands. Then they step forward and let their forehead rest against Mauga’s chest. They feel his big fingers start to card through their wild brown curls. “How long do you think it’ll be until you start talkin’ again?” Mauga asks.
Sloan shrugs. Sometimes they can start talking a few hours afterwards and sometimes it takes nearly a week for them to get their words back.
“Geez, didn’t expect to get a babysitting job so soon after you got home.” Despite his words, Mauga’s voice is soft and gentle. Sloan can feel moisture gather in their eyes, and they raise their arms to wrap lamely around Mauga. Or, well…as much as they can manage. Their arms are nowhere near big enough to properly reach around their brother for a proper hug, but they just want someone to hold after the horrible torment they’ve just suffered.
Mauga puts his other arm around Sloan’s back and squeezes just enough for them to feel the pressure. “Guess you’re gonna be stuck with me for a while,” He mutters to himself, though Sloan can clearly hear it. They squeeze him tighter.
They like being stuck with their brother.