Chapter Text
𖤓𖤓𖤓
The peace that blankets the cold, star-filled night is torn apart by a loud, almost violent splash, and then silence falls. Missa looks over his shoulder.
He stands outside of Tallulah’s house after tucking her into bed for the evening. A warpstone stands just feet away, and he had held his hand out, ready to teleport home, when he heard the splash close by. It sounded more like a crash, a harsh, heavy moment of contact with the river that sits beyond the fence. Did something fall? Or, oh god, some one ?
Missa’s curiosity wins out in the end. After a few seconds of complete, if tense, silence, he walks up to the river.
He doesn’t see anything, at first, beyond his wavering reflection. The half moon casts a soft, white light over the surface, a break from the darkness. The night wind sends ripples across the calm waters. He looks left, then right. Nothing.
Then, he glances down below, really looks, and he yelps.
“Philza?!”
Philza, several feet under the water, doesn’t respond. He doesn’t react. His body simply makes a slow descent toward the bottom of the river.
Missa suppresses a noise of distress. This isn’t cause for panic, right? Phil probably just wanted to enjoy a late night swim. If something were to go wrong, he can do something as easy as swim up and out of the water on his own, right? He doesn’t need Missa’s help, never really has.
But more seconds pass, and gravity drags Philza further into the depths of the riverbed. His limbs are slack, like a puppet with its strings sheared. His eyes are clamped shut. He looks pale.
The realization strikes like lightning to the heart: he’s drowning.
“Aaaaahhh, mi querido!” he shouts before diving in.
The water is freezing . Winter hit the island several weeks back, snow littering the walkways and outer fields. The sweeping wind of the night doesn’t help, either. While the cold doesn’t affect Missa, he’s not sure if Philza shares the same immunity (he doubts it).
Missa swims down, deeper and deeper until he’s within arms’ reach of his unconscious partner. Bubbles float from Phil’s lips, the one sign that assures Missa, though barely. And… since when did he have wings?!
No , no, that’s not what’s important right now. With a steely focus, Missa swings one arm around Philza’s waist and swims up to the surface. Philza’s wings must add greatly to his overall weight, because he’s heavier than Missa expects. But he refuses to let that drag them down as they escape what could’ve been Phil’s watery grave.
Missa catches his breath the moment the air can enter his lungs. Even above the water, Philza sags in Missa’s arms like a doll. The only thing keeping Missa sane is Philza’s faint heartbeat thudding against his skin. He lowers Philza onto the ground at the edge of the river before lifting himself out of the water. He collapses, clutching the grass as he gasps for more air. The adrenaline in his veins is fading; he’s trembling, though only slightly. They’re okay, they’re okay...
But for how long? Missa wonders, hovering over his partner. A trace of blue curls over Phil’s lips from the bitter cold. His skin is a ghostly white, like thin sheets of paper. He looks like someone approaching Death’s front door with their soul in hand to offer as a kindly gift.
Por favor, no puedo… He ignores the sting of tears in his eyes and begins pushing against Philza’s chest. He presses with the knee of his palm, keeping to a steady rhythm. After several attempts, Phil lets out a few violent coughs. Water gushes from his mouth and down his chin. His heart lodged in his throat, Missa clutches Phil’s hand like a lifeline as Phil begins catching his breath. He recognizes both of their hands are shaking.
Then, Phil falls quiet, and his body slumps back down. Still unconscious. Missa can at least still feel a faint heartbeat under his soaked clothes. But then he notices dots of blood staining Phil’s lips. Shit, that’s not good.
“Dios mio, Philza, que diablos paso?” Missa murmurs as he sorts through his inventory for some sort of potion.
There’s bones and wood blocks and old weapons. Some tree saplings and even an iron sword. All this useless crap, but no potions. He drops his bag onto the ground and lets out a huff of frustration. He’s never prepared for situations like this. If Spreen saw him now, he’d be teasing him and his lackluster inventory even after all this time on the server… all while shoving enough items into his arms to survive through an immortal's whole lifespan.
But Spreen’s not here, and even though it hurts, he’s all he has right now. He's all Phil has right now. No one else is awake at the moment, if his silent communicator is any indication. But there has to be somewhere he can find something to help.
The bunker under the house . The room always looks stacked to the brim. He could surely find at least a few potions among all of those chests and storage space. But before he even thinks of standing up, he spares Philza a long glance. Both of their clothes are soaked and clasped to their skin. But where Missa isn’t affected by the cold, Philza needs the warmth. He can’t leave him like this, not even for a few minutes.
So Missa braces and lifts Philza into his arms. His head lolls and leans against Missa’s chest. A small whine leaves his lips, a pained and pathetic little sound. “Sorry, sorry,” Missa mutters uselessly.
He runs to the warpstone by Tallulah’s house. He manages to hold Philza securely in his arms while gripping the stone, even as the whoosh of air threatens to sweep him off of his feet. Against the dazzles of purple and a momentary feeling of nausea swirling in his gut, he feels the ground under his feet. He takes a breath. They’re home.
Missa opens the front door to the house with his hip and enters. It looks… dusty, as if untouched for weeks, or even months. He kicks off the blanket strewn over the single bed and places Philza on the mattress.
The man is trembling, so Missa finds some flint in his inventory and sparks up a blaze in the fireplace across the room. But a small fire alone isn’t going to help Philza. His clothes are still damp, wrinkled and cling to his shaking body.
Missa cringes, but he hates how he hesitates for even a millisecond. He can’t waste time feeling embarrassed or awkward about this. Philza needs him right now. “Lo siento, Philza,” he says as he chucks off Philza’s shoes, then his haori. He takes Philza’s jinbei off, and then all that’s left is his cropped undershirt and boxers. With his billowing clothes tossed to the side, it’s easier to notice the bruises blooming across Philza’s body. All fresh, probably from the fall.
Missa shakes out the blanket just outside the door. Once the dust is cleared, he lowers the blanket over Philza’s resting body. Before he hurries down to the basement, he holds Phil’s hand between both of his own. “I’ll be right back,” he promises in a gentle whisper before stepping away.
Inside the bunker, there is a lot of storage, enough to get lost in. Chests and other random decor cover almost every inch of the floor. It feels so… cramped in here. But after peeking into a few chests, he finds what he needs, so he’s not complaining.
“Got it, got it,” he murmurs in victory before he scrambles up the ladder, cradling a few healing potions in his bag.
When Missa returns to the house, Philza has curled up onto his side, facing the doorway. His wings are flared out, now dry and softer-looking. He curls his arms against his chest, his face buried into the mattress. He looks so small . It’s unsettling for him to see his husband, usually so resilient and strong, like this.
Missa kneels down to Philza’s eye level. His hand brushes through Philza’s hair, rubbing circles over his temple. He tilts one of the healing potions between Philza’s lips. The potion’s magical essence flickers like sparks across his lips as the drink goes down his throat. Phil lets out a single, wet cough, then another sad, little whine. Missa’s fingers dig a bit further into Phil’s hair, scratching over his scalp.
In a blink, a pair of blue eyes open, slowly and just barely. He looks exhausted, his gaze locked on something above Missa’s head.
“Hola, Philza. Hey. Everything.... everything is okay now,” Missa says, though he’s not sure whose worry he’s trying to assuage.
Philza doesn’t say anything. However, his bottom lip quivers. He tilts his head toward the ceiling, and he clasps his hand over his eyes. A shuddery gasp escapes him, an almost broken sound. Missa can only watch, frozen with concern imploding inside of him.
“Fuck, it’s never gonna happen, is it?” Phil mourns with shaky breaths. “Why’d I even try…”
“Ph-Philza?”
With a quick gasp, Phil pulls his hand back, and their gazes meet. Or, at least Missa thinks so. Philza’s eyes are glassy, distant-looking. Phil cringes and turns away from him, his hands covering his face again. He begins mumbling to himself, but Missa can’t decipher what he’s saying.
Missa can take a guess, though. His heart sinks. He can’t blame Philza for being so hurt by the mere sight of him. If they don’t count the remarkable yet brief reunion in the middle of Purgatory, it’s been months since they’ve last seen each other. Of course his partner wouldn't want to even so much as look him in the eye.
But he's here now, and he'll promise to make up for it, or he wants to try, at least. So Missa leans forward, a hand brushing over Phil’s arm. “Mi querido, what’s wrong?”
Slow and heavy, Philza lifts his head. Their gazes meet, and there’s a bit more clarity in his eyes. But Phil continues staring at him, almost as if he’s observing him. His hand ghosts over Missa’s. His skin is still cold.
“... Missa?” Phil whispers.
Oh, he’s out of it. Missa’s face softens. “I-it’s me, yes. Hi,” he says with a nervous grin. He squeezes his hand. “You were hurt real bad, but I don’t know if—”
“You’re really here?”
Missa didn’t think his heart could break any further at this point. Well, he was wrong. “Si, yeah, I am. Sorry, I’ve been, I’ve been gone for so long, but look, I’m here now.” He adjusts himself to sit on the bed, feet still planted on the ground. “Are you—are you alright?”
Phil blinks at him. “Mh-hmm, ‘m fine. Just… jus’ tired, I guess…”
Missa, somehow , isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t pry. He just nods. “Okay. I gave you that potion, so you should be okay, but if you need more, I’ve got—”
Phil shakes his head. Oh, shit, is he still in pain? But Missa’s worried train of thought comes to a halt when Phil curls up closer into him, his face pressed into his side. Missa bites his lip to hold back a surprised yelp.
“You’re warm,” Phil mutters against the fabric of Missa’s clothes.
“Tienes frío? I can get more blankets, o-or—”
Philza’s grip tightens on him. “Don’t leave again,” he says. “You just got back.”
God, how Missa wants to cry. I don't want to. With a nod, he maintains his composure and cards his fingers through Philza’s hair. “Of course, Philza. I won’t go anywhere this time.”
Phil doesn’t say another word. With a sigh, his body noticeably relaxes, limbs going slack. His cheek is pressed against Missa’s thigh, almost like a pillow. Missa’s fingers continue to scratch at Philza’s scalp as Phil begins to drift off.
With everything slowing down, the exhaustion crashes over Missa in waves. He continues stroking through Phil’s hair, and his other hand finds and clasps around one of Phil’s. He leans back against the headboard. Through the window panes, the night sky looks beautiful, but his eyes are focused on something—someone—more important.
His partner’s mere presence calms him, and he, too, closes his eyes and falls asleep.