Chapter Text
He was taller than Clancy expected.
To be fair, Clancy hadn’t really seen him in over ten years, not since they were kids. Unless you counted split second flashes that Clancy assumed were his imagination, or the man watching him from the cliffs of Trench. But it still took him by surprise to have to look up at him, even just a little. That, and being surrounded by unfamiliar faces, united by the yellow tape on their clothes.
Clancy had been just about to turn around and walk straight back to his dorm and convince himself the whole thing had never happened when he stepped forward and pulled down the bandanna covering his face.
And, well. It was definitely him.
Name long since forgotten over time and through smearing after smearing, but a face Clancy couldn’t forget as long as he lived. Probably even after he lived.
The handshake they had invented as kids came as easy as tying his shoes–it wasn’t an active memory, something he had to try and recall, but rather something he did without a second thought. He received a smile in return, one easily missed in the blink of an eye, and felt himself mirror it.
Running to the tunnels, away from the Bishops, away from it all, had Clancy’s adrenaline pumping. He was leaving . And yeah, maybe he’d left before, but he wasn’t alone this time. As they placed tape on his shoulders, he felt a connection solidify–one he was determined not to forget, no matter how many times he was smeared. There was a nagging feeling somewhere in the back of his mind that he would be taken again, that it was inevitable, but for once in Clancy’s entire life he felt it take a backseat to his own excitement upon seeing light break through the end of the tunnel.
As they–the Banditos , he reminded himself–slowed, now outside the city completely, Clancy felt himself drift towards the back of the group. No matter how many times he escaped–six including last time, but who’s counting?–he never got sick of Trench. Even just breathing in the air, letting it fill his lungs with new purpose and the scent of green, wild, alive . The wind was cold on his face, numbing the tip of his nose, and he’d never felt so awake.
He realized he’d accidentally put a noticeable distance between himself and the group and quickly tried to catch up. A few of the Banditos looked at him, seemingly sizing him up. It felt odd, being under their gaze, and that familiar feeling of anxiousness crept up his neck.
“So, um,” Clancy started, trying to break the silence and his own train of thought, although his voice was quiet enough that it wasn’t effective. “How much longer, do you think? Til we get…wherever.”
The surrounding Banditos looked at each other, before one of them–donned in a yellow beanie–spoke. “Another few hours. Torch will want to keep going until we reach camp, so get used to it.”
“Torch?” Clancy felt like the word was glued to the back of his throat as he forced it out, mouth suddenly drying. “Is that…?”
“ The Torchbearer , yeah,” the guy said, adding a flair to his voice. “Or just Torch. Up at the front, giant x on his chest, you can’t miss him.” He gave Clancy a quizzical look. “You two did that handshake?”
Clancy nodded. “Yeah, I–we did, yeah.”
He felt like he should say more; explain himself, maybe. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure how to explain, not really. The handshake was instinctual; his– Torch’s –face on his mind like it was another one of his tattoos. The face he’d grown up with, watched change from that of a kid who smiled too much to one that was hardened and angry. One that had asked Clancy to leave with him, and had fallen in a way Clancy could never forget when he’d said no.
He stayed quiet the rest of the way to camp. Torch surely wouldn’t want anything to do with him, not after Clancy chose Dema over him all those years ago. The Banditos coming to get him…that had to be out of courtesy. Obligation. Not any personal connection to Clancy, just Torch leading the Banditos at what they did–rescue escapees. Right?
Right?
When the Banditos offered to shave his head at camp, citing it as something escapees typically did, Clancy took them up on it. Sat there, hair falling around him, and hoping they were right about it being a fresh start for him. A new chapter, free of everything the city had left him with.
He sat by one of the campfires, alone, but near enough to the others that he felt relatively safe. He leaned on his knees, chin resting on one of his arms as he poked at the firewood with a stray stick, dragging the ashes around in the well-trodden dirt. The scent of smoke filled his lungs and nose, the crackling of the fire a welcome change from the buzz of Dema’s neon.
Someone dropped onto the log beside Clancy, but he didn't have to look to know exactly who it was. His grip tightened slightly on the stick, but he tried not to visibly tense that much.
Clancy waited for him to say something, but it never came, and the silence remained heavy between them. What was there to even say, he supposed, after all these years? There was too much and nothing at all at the same time.
“I was starting to think you didn’t recognize me,” Torch finally spoke, voice low but undeniably present.
Clancy’s hand stilled for a moment, before he continued the line he’d started in the dirt. “I wasn’t sure I did,” he said truthfully. “I thought I might’ve just convinced myself it was you.”
Ouch. More truth than he’d meant to say.
“No,” Torch said, pulling his bandanna down. “It was me. Each time.”
Clancy got the feeling there was something beneath his words that he was missing, but he was far too tired to read into it, so he didn’t. Maybe later. But tonight, he would allow himself to rest.
“I wanted–” Clancy started, against his better instinct. “I wanted to go with you, you know.”
He risked a look in his direction, but Torch only remained silent, staring at the fire.
“I just…I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready.” Clancy looked back at the fire, too, almost wishing it would spontaneously ignite him.
“I know,” is all Torch said.
Clancy fell silent again, not because he ran out of things to say, but because he was overwhelmed with them. A million things he wanted to say, the words for each fizzling out before he’d even thought them.
The fire continued burning, lower now, but alive. Clancy let the stick fall out of his hand, crossing his arm under the one his face currently rested on. The breeze was cold on his now barren skull, a contrast to the heat right in front of him and to his right. The warmth coming from Torch was different, but ever present, had been the entire time Clancy’d known him. Even being separated that long, it was something he’d known . Never knew what had happened to him, not until he saw him in Trench during that very first attempt at escape, just a glimpse of him ahead in the woods–but he’d recognized him instantly, and with each attempt and each rumor he heard about the mysterious Banditos , he’d put together what had become of him. The leader of the rebels, never named, but known in reputation alone. A beacon of light and hope, guiding a brave few toward a new life and new day. There was always a warmth that followed every sighting and every mention, one of hope he supposed, or maybe something else. It was here now, regardless, and stronger than it had ever been.
“Do you–” Torch began, breaking through Clancy’s mind. “Did they offer you a tent, or anything?”
Clancy looked up and over, and found Torch looking back at him. “No–no, they didn’t, uh, mention that or anything.”
Torch nodded, shifting his gaze forward again. “You can stay in mine. If you want.”
“Okay,” Clancy said, far too quickly.
Torch nodded again and stood, offering his hand out. Clancy took it wordlessly, and followed him across the camp. He felt the other Banditos looking after them, and likely their still-joined hands, too. Torch didn’t spare a glance in anyone’s direction, and Clancy forced himself to keep his gaze on the back of his head.
Torch’s tent was slightly bigger than the others, although not by much. There were patches sewn on in a few places, suggesting years of wear and tear, and Torch dropped Clancy’s hand to pull back the flap and gesture for him to enter.
The inside of the tent was dimly lit by an oil lantern, and Clancy observed a cot tucked away in the corner furthest from the entrance. There wasn’t a lot in terms of furniture–just the cot, really, and a couple of bags probably containing spare clothes and other standard items. It made sense, Clancy supposed, to be able to pack up and move camp easily should the need arise. He noticed a sleeping bag in the corner opposite the cot, presumably for him, and felt a pang in his chest.
Torch closed the flap behind them and walked over to stoop by the bags, digging around for something while Clancy stood by the entrance, unsure what to do. It was less awkward than he expected, at least. It felt like being in a friend’s room as a kid, where you didn’t know your surroundings, but you trusted the other person to tell you what to do and where to go.
“Here,” Torch said, standing and turning, holding something out to Clancy. “I didn’t know if you’d want to wear Dema issue stuff.”
Clancy looked down and saw that it was a hoodie, an older one by the looks of it, and a pair of joggers underneath. He took them both, giving them a once over. The tape on the hoodie, in the same pattern as what Torch currently wore, was worn down and peeling in several places. They had to be spares—backups, when he’d run out of everything else. Despite the obvious age, holes forming, and threads fraying, they were soft and oddly familiar.
“Thank you,” Clancy said quietly. He wasn’t sure why he was so timid now—he’d staged a prison riot, for god’s sake, and broken out of Dema more times than anyone he’d heard about. Yet all it took to weaken his confidence was the simple kindness of the man in front of him.
Torch let his hands fall, then stuck them in his pockets. “Don’t mention it.” He kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot, looking down for a moment, then back at Clancy once more. “I’ll be back in a bit. Give you space to, um…” He trailed off, nodding at the clothes in Clancy’s hands, before ducking outside.
Clancy felt himself turn red, and prayed Torch hadn’t noticed before he’d left.
He sighed loudly, letting out all he’d been carrying that day in one long breath now that he was alone. He sat down on the sleeping bag, unlacing and removing his boots, the one thing he really cared to keep from Dema. They were sturdy and consistent, never failing him each time he’d been on the run. He shed the city issued clothes he’d worn for years, and the jacket gifted and taped by his new community. The pants fit decently well, but the hoodie was just slightly too big. Not that he really cared; if anything, it was a welcome comfort, shielding him from everything outside of the tent and the moment. It smelled like smoke and human , instead of the sterile, alcoholic smell of Dema clothing.
The sleeping bag, if you could really call it that—it was more just an easily rolled up pad and stashed away pillow—had been carefully covered with a fur blanket. Clancy pulled it over his lap and took a deep breath. The exhaustion he’d built up and been steadily ignoring was finally catching up to him, but he didn’t want to fall asleep alone in an unfamiliar place. Truthfully, he didn’t want to fall asleep alone at all , but never before had the option presented itself. He wished Torchbearer would come back.
As if he’d summoned the man with a mere thought, Torch poked his head through the tent flaps, and entered once he saw that Clancy was settled. He didn’t say anything, just sat on the cot and began untying his boots. Clancy watched him silently until he pulled off his hoodie, undershirt riding up, when he dragged his gaze down to his lap.
He shifted under the blanket, resting his head on the small pillow, and listened as Torch did the same. He watched the shadows dance on the tent roof, the wind making the fabric sway gently.
“I’m—” Torch started, and Clancy looked over to see him also gazing at the roof. “I’m glad you got out. That you’re here.”
Clancy swallowed heavily. “Me, too.”
There was another moment of silence; Clancy couldn’t tell if it was one minute or five, but after it had passed, Torch leaned over and turned the lantern down, down until it finally fizzled out, leaving them in darkness.
Clancy took another deep breath, one he tried to keep quiet, and tried to quiet the fear he felt growing in his stomach. He’d spent nights in Trench before, but only a few at a time, and always alone. This was the first he’d ever spent with a community around him, or even just another person a few feet away. He felt a responsibility to stay , to not get taken, to wake up the next morning in the same place. Too many times had he fallen asleep and woken up in a Dema prison facility, or not even made it to the night at all.
But nights had always scared him, had always left him unnerved and paranoid. He wasn’t sure the feeling would ever truly go away, though he hoped each night in Trench would slowly overpower it. But that was in the future, and he was in the present—scared, short of breath, and feeling his hand shaking as he dragged it down his face, trying to calm himself down. It was a futile effort, though, and Clancy took another deep breath.
“Could we–” he said softly, embarrassed that his voice was shaking like it was, “could we turn the light back on?”
Torch sat up, and Clancy felt his eyes on him. “Yeah, are you…are you okay?”
Clancy propped himself on his elbows, hand reaching to comb through his hair and finding none there. “Yeah, I’m–I’m fine, I just…nights, you know?”
Torch nodded, and reached over and turned the lamp back on, although he left it dimmer. “Is that alright?”
Clancy nodded in return. “Yeah that’s great, thanks.”
Torch continued looking at him, dark eyes unyielding. “Do you need anything else?”
Clancy shook his head instantly, not wanting to be more of a nuisance than he already was. Torch stayed staring, almost as if he didn’t believe him. “Do you want to come over here?”
Shocked by the question, a strangled, “What?” was all Clancy could get out.
“Over here,” Torch said plainly, as if he were asking nothing more than if Clancy wanted a drink of water. “I know nights alone can be rough. But if that’s overstepping–”
“No!” Clancy quickly said, impulses taking over before his mind did. “Yeah, if you’re offering, yeah, that’d be nice, I think.”
Torch nodded once more and shifted back, gesturing for Clancy to come over.
So he did, shuffling out from under the blanket and climbing onto the cot, trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. Torch reached over and gently draped the threadbare quilt over them both before retracting his arm. Clancy barely allowed himself to breathe, but at the same time, felt a part of his mind relax with the warmth coming from the man next to him.
“You can relax, you know,” Torch said softly, a slight amusement in his voice. “I’m not gonna bite, or anything.”
Clancy let out a quiet huff at his own ridiculousness, and tried to loosen up. “Right, yeah. Sorry.”
Torch shrugged, causing the blanket to shift. “No need to apologize. You’re safe here.”
You’re safe here .
The words echoed in Clancy’s mind, knocking around his skull over and over. It was something he’d never had the privilege of knowing, something no one had told him in years.
It all caught up to him in that moment, and he felt tears well up and out of his eyes, the cool night air instantly attempting to dry them as each one fell.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Torch whispered, hand coming up to gently wipe them away. “They can’t get you here.”
Clancy nodded, grateful for the contact but wishing he could contain himself.
Torch shifted onto his back, pulling Clancy with him and allowing him to bury his face in Torch’s shirt. He held Clancy while he cried, arms strong around him and unwavering.
And Clancy did cry, he let everything fall out of him at once, and Torch simply carded his hand over the short hairs left on Clancy’s head. Clancy gripped the other man’s shirt as tight as his hand would allow, sure that his knuckles had to be white by now.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been held like this, god , it had to have been when his mother was still alive. She’d died shortly after Torch had left Dema, when Clancy had still been a young teenager. She’d been the last thing tying Clancy to the city besides his own mind, and still one of the only things he truly missed about his childhood.
He let Torch’s shirt slip out of his hand, pulling back and reaching up to wipe away at his face. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no, hey,” came the instant reply, Torch’s other hand rising to hold his wrist gently. “It’s okay, Clancy, it’s okay.”
He nodded, trying to slow his breathing and looking up at Torch. “Thank you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Torch grinned at him softly in the dim light. “Don’t mention it.”
Clancy laid back down, head on Torch’s chest as the other’s hand continued over his head. Slowly, they both fell asleep like that, and it was the most rest Clancy’d got in a single night of his life.