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Wignall’s back feels like it’s on fire.
He’s not even sure if he’ll make it to their group meeting at this rate, heat high in his cheeks and breaths dripping from his lips in shallow little gasps.
(It was only five lashes. He got off easy. He–)
The streets winding down to Slumland Street are hard to navigate on a good day, but with the last of daylight having bled out of the late Luchsmoon sky and the darkness encroaching on his vision with each slow step, reaching the Hen and the Beanstalk seems like an impossible endeavor.
When he rounds the next corner, his foot slips on the wet cobblestones and he falls forward and right against the person in front of him.
“Watch where you’re going!” the stranger bites out, rough hands shoving Wignall back without a second thought.
The sudden lurch has him choking on a gasp as he hits the ground. His shoulder slams against the wall and he manages to twist so that his back isn’t pressed against the uneven mortar of the building, sharp stabs of pain shooting all the way to his fingertips with each movement.
He bites down on his tongue harder – like hell will he give anyone here the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.
Wignall tries to catch his breath enough to stand, hair sticking to his face with sweat and his jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth are still intact. He braces himself on his arms and almost blacks out, barely able to suck in a breath as the motion tugs at the wounds on his back.
So it seems like he won’t be able to get up anytime soon. The others will surely be worried if he’s late, especially after what happened with Julius–
If he weren’t so focused on staying conscious, the thought would have made him laugh. Because it’s not like they’d care that much now, would they? Lihanna maybe, but with how things have been lately, Wignall can’t say that with the same certainty he would have a mere month ago.
(She has a lot on her plate. He gets it. Besides, his current situation is caused solely by his own incompetence, so he should be able to deal with it on his own.)
Someone walks by, their foot knocking into Wignall’s legs as they pass him, and it takes most of the air in his lungs to keep a whimper from slipping past his teeth as his back is jostled again.
He needs to get up.
(He can’t–)
He doesn’t notice the pair of boots walking towards him until they come to a stop at his bent knees. Even with the haze diluting his vision, the leather looks expensive enough to be worn by the elves of the royal houses, and Wignall feels the familiar cold grip of panic at the thought of someone deciding his punishment wasn’t severe enough after all.
He forces his eyes to look up at the owner of the boots, swallows the nausea crawling up his throat, and tries to blink the person into focus.
The first thing his mind registers is red.
(Almost the same vivid shade as the blood left on the discipline whip after–)
Sion’s scowl is painfully sharp amidst the fuzziness of Wignall’s thoughts, his mouth twisted into a snarl as he crouches down in front of him.
Then, as if spoken from underwater. “Can you stand?”
Somehow, Wignall musters the energy to give Sion a hollow smile. “But of course I can,” he says, voice a thin rasp in the alley’s shadows, “I just felt like taking a nap on– ah – on the–” the rest of his reply dies in his throat with another rush of pain that leaves him choking on a soundless gasp.
“Leave the attitude for when you don’t look like you’re about to pass out,” Sion snaps, but his hands are gentle on Wignall’s shoulders, scarlet eyes bright with concern.
(And how can he look at Wignall with such an expression even after seeing the pitiful state he's in?)
Wignall squeezes his eyes shut when Sion pulls him forward and can’t bite back the whimper the motion pulls from him. “M’ back,” he says into the soft fabric of Sion’s uniform.
“Your back? Is that where you’re hurt?”
Wignall lets out a hum in response, Sion’s face swimming in and out of focus as the last of the adrenaline sluggishly trickles out of him. There’s a moment where panic seizes his lungs at the sight of Sion’s raised arm coming towards his face, but then the back of his hand lightly touches his forehead, and it’s so pleasant it makes tears prick at his eyes.
“You’re burning up…” Sion murmurs, seemingly to himself. He pushes Wignall’s matted bangs back from his face and looks right into his eyes, his voice softer than Wignall has ever heard it when he says, “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”
In the next heartbeat, the touch is gone and Wignall is being pulled to his feet while trying not to cry out. Once upright, most of his weight falls onto Sion's shorter frame and a string of expletives falls from thin lips as he tries to hold him upright.
“Oh fuck it,” is all Wignall catches before Sion steps in front of him and hauls him onto his back with little to no difficulty. “You owe me big time for this, by the way,” he huffs, adjusting his hold on Wignall's thighs. “I thought you elves were above getting beaten up like this.”
With a measured exhale, Wignall wraps his arms around Sion's neck and tries to hold up at least some of his weight with his legs. “A bit difficult when your faction's doing the beating up,” he whispers in a pathetic attempt at sounding at ease.
Sion's steps falter at the words, and Wignall is distantly aware that he probably shouldn't be telling people from other factions about what happened. Even as he opens his mouth to tell Sion it's not as bad as it probably looks, he can feel his eyelids grow heavy with the rhythmic lull of Sion's careful strides.
“For fuck’s sake– hey!” Sion says sharply, but Wignall is long past the point of exhaustion and Sion's back is so warm…
“Don’t pass out on me now you–”
─────────────────
When Wignall next opens his eyes, he’s lying on something soft and clean-smelling, in a room that has the same layout as the Fairy faction dorms. Though, at a closer glance, there’s infinitely more red here, so that must mean–
“Well, look who finally decided to wake up,” Sion calls out from the doorway, his put-upon tone betrayed by the glass of water and elderflower potion in his hands. “Here,” he says when he reaches the bed, holding both out in front of him.
Wignall braces himself on his arms, his back protesting the motion with a sharp, albeit much less painful than before, throb. He glances down at himself and lets out a sigh of relief when he sees he’s still wearing the loose shirt he managed to pull on after…
“Thank you,” he croaks out, and Sion’s responding eye roll makes a smile tug at the corners of his lips. He swallows the potion and puts the bottle down on the bedside table with a soft clink before quickly chasing it with water, the fever medicine somehow tasting even worse than he remembered.
Sion walks over to the coatrack in the corner and hangs up his cloak with careful hands, then pulls his shoulders back and rolls them a couple of times as if to loosen the muscle.
The sight makes Wignall freeze – unwittingly, his mind reminds him that Sion had to carry him all the way here, and his face heats at the realization, mortification and embarrassment washing over him in hot waves.
“I apologize,” he says, throat feeling less like sandpaper after the few soothing sips of water. “I didn’t mean to trouble you with…”
“Yes? Do go on.” Sion’s voice cuts through the sudden silence, his smirk harsh. “Because I would really like to know what you meant by your faction being responsible for this.”
Wignall’s breath catches in his throat. His grip on the glass tightens, and he finds himself wishing he could escape Sion’s sharp gaze. “I misspoke.”
“Try that again,” Sion retorts, settling down on a chair to face him. “This time come up with a convincing explanation for why your back looks like–” His voice goes high and breaks and he looks off to the side sharply.
(The curtains flutter with a sudden gust of wind from outside, and a stream of moonlight reflects in the sheen over scarlet eyes.)
“You saw–” Wignall doesn’t even realize he’s moving before the glass shatters on the ground, the remaining water darkening the floorboards. “I–” his gaze flickers from Sion to the glittering shards, unseeing and growing fuzzy at the edges as his chest tightens, and why won’t his hands stop shaking–
A hand enters his narrow field of vision, making him recoil in panic, a low whine escaping his lips with the rest of the air in his lungs as he falls back onto the bed. “Please, I swear I didn’t mean to, I’m–”
“Breathe, you fool,” a voice says with such fervor it snaps Wignall right into the present. The hand is gone, and when his vision steadies, Sion is giving him a look he can’t quite place – the soft furrow of his brows over glossy eyes something Wignall doesn’t recognize.
For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is Wignall’s ragged breathing, every shaky inhale pulling his lungs asunder.
Sion takes a step closer, the line of his shoulders taut and glass crunching beneath his feet. “Can I…?” His hand hovers over Wignall’s arm, and he huffs out a sad excuse for a laugh at the awkward look on Sion’s face.
“Isn’t it a little late to ask?” Despite the pressure in his chest and the horrible taste in the back of his mouth, the flush that spreads across Sion’s cheeks has Wignall biting back a smile; the normalcy of it like a Lenire Flumen cast over his aching bones.
Sion scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not like you gave me much choice down there,” he says, looking off to the side. “Still, I’m sorry for touching you without permission. I know it’s important to you lot.”
“It’s alright.” Wignall doesn't realize just how much he means it until he hears the words said out loud. “You’re worthy of more than merely the respect of someone like me,” he adds, more rueful than he’d have liked.
For whatever reason, Sion doesn’t comment on it, taking his words as permission to help him up into a sitting position. He hisses through his teeth as he looks at the sheets, and Wignall's stomach drops. “That's it,” Sion says, the look on his face making it clear that he won't take no for an answer. “Since I suppose the infirmary is out of question, I'm bandaging those wounds.”
With a glance over his shoulder, Wignall understands the sudden insistence at the sight of the dark bloodstains where he had been lying. There must be some in his hair, too. Still, “I’ve already troubled you enough. There’s no–”
“Is your brain damaged too? I said I’d do it, so shut up and let me,” Sion snaps, his usual frown back on his face as he flicks his wand, only for a medical kit to come flying from the bathroom. Then he sits down at the edge of the mattress, casts a chantless Illumina to conjure a bright sphere of light above them, and starts rummaging through the bag for what Wignall guesses are bandages. “Has the Inquiss worn off yet?”
Wignall gives a light shake of his head. “No, I can still barely feel... anything.” He clears his throat a little. “I didn’t know you were proficient in such spells.”
“Only basic ones. Not much Common Magic can do beyond numbing pain. Now take this off,” Sion says, tugging at the hem of his shirt, and Wignall swallows down a protest as he fumbles with the buttons before reaching back to pull his hair to the front.
Once his back is bare, Sion doesn’t say anything for a long moment, the silence pressing heavy and cold onto Wignall’s shoulders.
“…this is going to hurt.”
Before Wignall could ask what he means, there's the burning sting of antiseptic as Sion methodically cleans the lacerations, and it’s all he can do to not move, his body desperate to arch away from the source of pain.
What feels like a small eternity later, Sion lets out a sigh and reaches for the gauze and bandages he laid out on the bedside table.
Wignall watches as he cuts away the excess from the gauze pads, his eyes fluttering closed when he feels Sion’s warm fingers pressing them onto his sensitive skin, slow and careful as he covers all the areas reminding Wignall of his most recent failure.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts as Sion pats down the edges, the tension bleeding out of his muscles at the sheer warmth radiating from his hands. “How can–” your touch be so gentle? he can’t ask, the words dying in his throat as the soft touches continue, and the unfamiliarity of it is downright painful.
(Because it’s something he doesn’t get to have. Because what will become of him once it’s gone again–)
“Never mind. I apologize for the glass… and for all the other trouble I’ve caused you,” is all he manages in the end, bracing himself for a cutting response; for Sion to rip apart the seams of his hastily sewn façade like he deserves.
To his surprise, Sion only hums in response, hands not even pausing as he lets Wignall’s words echo in the half darkness of the room. “Tell me if I pull too tight,” he says, and starts wrapping Wignall’s back in bandages with the same care he’s shown until now, his breath a lick of heat on the back of his neck.
Wignall's fingernails bite into the skin of his palms, the gentleness of it all almost unbearable.
Then, much too soon, the warmth disappears. “Done,” Sion says as he ties off the bandages.
Wignall immediately grabs for his discarded shirt, eager to have a layer between Sion's eyes and the fresh wrapping hiding what's underneath.
“Are you seriously going to put that soiled thing back on? Honestly, I wonder if you suffered a head injury you somehow managed to omit,” Sion grumbles as he rummages around in his closet. He tugs a dark shirt off a hanger and tosses it into Wignall's lap. “Wear that. And wash it properly before you return it.”
Wignall turns his back to him with a scoff. “What do you take me for?” He doesn't say more, distracted by how pleasantly soft the black fabric is against his skin as he slips his arms into the sleeves.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Sion asks with a raised eyebrow, flicking his wand to clean up the glass on the floor.
Not even deigning that with a response, Wignall gets started on the buttons. The shirt is a little loose in the shoulders, but it's surprisingly comfortable, and by the time he reaches the collar, he can feel a pair of eyes trained on him. He brushes his fingers through his hair, loosening some of the tangles, and lifts his gaze to meet Sion’s.
Once again, the fire mage is giving him a look he can't quite decipher. “Huh,” Sion says, and crosses his arms over his chest. “You actually look presentable.”
“My, what a charmer,” Wignall says, flat as he can make it. He moves to stand up, but the motion leaves him dizzy and he drops back onto the mattress in yet another embarrassing display. “Damn it,” he mutters, feeling his face contort in frustration.
“Take this before going to sleep, it should speed up the healing somewhat.” Sion hands him a vial, and before Wignall could so much as thank him, Sion cuts him off with a sharp look. “You up to telling me what happened now?”
Wignall flinches at the words, his skin suddenly feeling too tight. “I…”
“I think you owe me an explanation, at the very least,” Sion says, harsher than he’s been so far, and Wignall can’t really argue with that, now, can he?
He sucks in a deep breath, fingers tightening around the glass in his hand, and coaxes his voice to work. “They– I committed a grave offense and was punished accordingly, that’s all. Each faction is within their rights to use the discipline whip as they deem fit.” It comes out steadier than he’d hoped. Seems like he can do at least something right, after all.
When their eyes meet, Sion looks about ready to set his Guardian on him – jaw set and hands clenched into tight, shaking fists at his side. Then, as if hit by a spell, his face relaxes, and he crosses his arms over his chest as he lets out a sigh before fixing Wignall with a searching look.
“Are you… okay?” is all he asks, his lips curling like the words feel foreign on his tongue.
Wignall blinks at him a few times. Tries to wrap his head around the question. Tries to figure out what Sion wants to hear. “I will be,” he whispers, unable to bring himself to lie in the face of the sincerity in Sion’s eyes and voice.
(He has to be. Otherwise–)
“You… you helped. More than–” he snaps his teeth shut to keep the ‘anyone ever has’ from slipping out. He clears his throat, avoids that stern scarlet gaze. “Thank you. Truly.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I told you already – you owe me big time for this, so don’t get all sappy on me,” Sion grumbles in response, but there’s a bright flush across his cheeks even as he goes on to lecture Wignall for getting his sheets dirty.
Wignall smiles a little helplessly as he listens to Sion’s voice curl around the words.
“I’ll wash those, too,” he says, feeling lighter than he had thought possible after the events of today.
“You’d better,” Sion retorts, but there’s no bite in it, and the way he keeps looking at Wignall makes him feel as though something has shifted between them.
(A strange warmth fills his chest, and he can’t find it in himself to really examine it, content to just enjoy the sensation while it lasts.)