Work Text:
You’re lying in bed after a long day.
A long week maybe, what with paperwork swamping you, the letters blurring with each other and captain Jenna scolding you gently, urging you to take a week off. You're not on top of your game, a wanderer almost killed you, your reports are not making sense. We can’t lose a valuable hunter. Rest.
Perhaps, maybe even a long fucking year.
The longest one of your life. Grief has not “been a friend of yours”. It's more like a mean shadow, waiting until your mind is finally quiet to whisper and lap at your ear. Like right now. You’re in bed with a debilitating migraine. The kind where your bones weigh more than lead, where even breathing sends shockwaves of pain, the kind where you’re grasping your scalp and digging your fingers just to get the pressure off.
After the gentle scolding, you dragged yourself to the apartment complex with your head pounding. The walk was dreadful, the remaining sunlight attacking you and then, just to spite you, the clouds started to tint themselves a dark grey. A thunderstorm was predicted for next week.
That’s how you ended up in your underwear in bed. Sweaty, tired, in pain.
Thunder clapped your windows, beautiful violets cracking the sky. You spy a commercial plane bravely traversing the thick clouds, and with another cruel flash of thunder, you’re reminded how safe they actually are up there.
There’s a scientific explanation for everything Pips! Don’t worry!
Caleb’s gentle voice soothes the pain. Suddenly, you’re in the attic again. Your head is resting on tiny, slender legs. A small hand is caressing your forehead, trying its best to soothe your headache. He used to do this every time you got a migraine, every time the pain was too much for your tiny body, courtesy of the thousands of experiments on your tiny body. Back then you thought Caleb was a wizard, with magical hands that took the pain away, with clever solutions to help with the dull ache.
One of those was distraction after a sour pill. He carried you to the attic to stare at the stars and sometimes, thunder.
Graupel particles collide and bounce off of ice part- Look, look!
Caleb loved science. He often stayed up with Zayne nerding on about whatever during your sleepovers. You fell asleep between them, lulled by their soft voices. Caleb’s favourite topic, though, was the sky.
Lightning looks purple because the atmosphere is made up of nitrogen and oxygen, they can be blue, purple or even pink pips!
Hot tears drip onto your pillow.
Caleb's dead. The only companion you’ve trusted to show your pain is gone. Brutally taken away from you. You’re alone now. You’re not a loved one anymore. Your family’s now resting cold on the ground. Grief is not your friend. It is a debt you’re paying for loving.
There’s no one to hand you the pills when they are too far away, there's no one to carry you to bed, to gather you softly in strong arms and carry you to the shower and turn on the faucet for you. No hand rubs your back when the nausea ends in the toilet.
Grief floods your eyesight like fog. Numbness doesn’t freak you out anymore. You long for unconsciousness.
It's okay. I’ve got you, pipsqueak. You can rest now, I’m here.
You cry until the pounding returns. You cry and cry, and sob until your body is shaking. You sob until it burns to wheeze for breath. Your hands mimic the way Caleb’s traced your arms in patterns, you try to soothe yourself, but it only angers you. It’s not right, it’s not his hands, not the right pressure, not the right care, not the right love . It's not him.
The whimpers stop gradually, like the thunderstorm that passes. Somehow, your tears dry on their own.
Somehow, you’re sitting under the cold shower spray, shivering.
Somehow, you dry your hair, even if the roaring hairdryer is too loud. Somehow, you’re stuffing your mouth with an energy bar, its texture dry like sand. You down a glass of water and brush your teeth on autopilot.
Somehow, you’re in bed, under the covers. The chemicals finally doing their job. The painkillers and exhaustion render your brain useless, no longer able to know what’s a memory and what’s not.
Ibuprofen courses through your body and finds where it hurts. You should always take painkillers when the ache starts, otherwise you’ll need a stronger dose. Stronger doses, at best, are dangerous.
Zayne’s calm voice answers. The so-called saint in your mind kindly supplies information so you don’t panic. It politely reminds you not to try and take ten pills. To not kill yourself with over-the-counter painkillers.
You could call him. Should. Tell him that the migraines are here again, that the grief is drowning you. That you need help, but much rather die than ask for it. That you need an even stronger dose to quiet Caleb’s soft voice from your memories. That you need your other childhood friend, and that maybe, just maybe, that he needs you too because there’s no way he’s not grieving too. That it takes a workaholic to know one.
A purr-like chuckle interrupts your small monologue.
Even the strong need rest.
Sylus, for a change, sounds soft. His deep voice caresses the edges of your mind like a cat’s tail, telling you he’s here to help and for once not strike his claws.
Rest if you’re tired. Cry if you’re sad. Don’t do it, if you don’t want to. I’ll be there, every step of the way.
You shiver at the reality that you consider the head of Onychinus a trusted ally. A friend. More than that, sometimes. You sigh, weirdly, with relief at the fact that he didn’t kill Caleb and that he’s more than glad to help you with your revenge. That he’s helped you and saved your life countless times now. Sylus has seen the ugliest, most vulnerable parts of your mind, courtesy of his Aether Core. And in return, he’s let you read between the lines of his cryptic phrases. Let you exist, be, do whatever, alongside him.
Call me. Let me help you. Use me, my power. I’ll be your shield, your sword, just use me. Let me.
Your fingers grip your scalp again, this time to shake the red mist out of your mind. You can’t. You can’t. You can’t. Your full body reaction makes your head pound again, and you moan in pain, grip the edges of the bed ready to book it to the toilet. The room is spinning, and you’re going with it. You clamp your eyes shut and heave, the dizziness like strong currents pulling you in.
Nonono, deep breaths. There you go, slowly now, with me. Stay with me, yeah?
Rafayel’s airy but steady voice commands. You remember having a panic attack in his studio, after a wanderer almost dragged you to the oceanic floor. He was there after you regained consciousness. Sunset eyes swimming with worry, strong arms carrying you to his private beach, porcelain hands leading your calloused ones to his chest to help you mirror his breathing.
You did. You inhaled while staring at his stunning eyes, exhaling and stealing his air on your next breath.
You’re not aware you’re obeying his past command until you feel the nausea leave your body. Your mouth no longer floods with saliva. Oxygen returns to your lungs slowly but surely. Until it leaves you in soft cries. You miss him. His melodic laughter, the solidness of his presence. He’d allow you to stay with him in the darkest part of the year. He had fed you, showered you, when your bones were too heavy with grief.
He had let you stare at him when he painted, his steady brushstrokes grounding. His couch too comfortable to resist resting. The clashes and beautiful streaks of red and blue echoing your emotions.
You miss him. You haven’t contacted him in a while. Shame has a strong hold on your wrist, not letting you type a simple text. You’re scared that if he sees that you’ve collapsed again, he will not stay for a second round. That he won’t play caretaker again because of the hassle. That he’ll leave.
The voices of these men turn and turn on your head. You can’t. You’re ashamed that you need someone to help you. You’re scared. You’re alone. The room is closing in on you, the white ceiling too close, the floor too far. You’ll die if you fall from the edge of the bed. Your fingers feel like static, no longer responding to your command of gripping harder or else you’ll fall.
You’re falling.
You’re falling. It 's dark. You’re scared. You don’t want to die.
The deadly fall doesn’t even last a second. The carpet welcomes you like strong, soft arms.
Don’t push yourself too hard. I’ve got you. Let 's go home.
Xavier’s caught you so many times already. Your reliable partner has saved your back and fought alongside you so many times now. His evol always lighting a path for you both to walk home, to go out on late night walks. To carry you from your couch to your bed after he caught you nodding off.
Were you always this light? I’ll go to your house more often. I’ll make sure you're eating properly.
Not surprisingly though, he’s gone. He’s gone to gods know where, on a no contact, secret, who-knows-how-long, mission.
You run your hands through the rug, try to count how many strands of fabric peek through your fingers. While you try to the best of your ability, to regain sensation on your limbs, it starts to rain again. You focus on the pitter-patter on your window, and count.
You count until you mix up the numbers and have to start again. Until you can kneel, and then when you can, you climb onto bed again. Your plushies greet you with a fluffy duvet and adorable faces. A fat crow with a ruff collar, a poker-faced snowman, a tiny bird with an even smaller paint palette, a little spaceship with a yellow alien, and a grumpy apple.
You miss them. You can’t do this alone.
Tears come again, not stopping until exhaustion claims you.