Chapter Text
"Maybe you don't fix and you like it like this."
Clancy stared at himself in the mirror, a rare privilege in and of itself. Mirrors encouraged vanity, but they also encouraged scrutiny, which is why Clancy has been given time with one.
Nico had sent him in to look at himself, after catching him waking up with blood on his face again. It was an accident; Clancy had protested. He couldn't help what happened in his sleep, what the dry, winter air of Dema did to him. But Nico would have none of it. He had sent him in to the washroom, demanding that Clancy make himself at least presentable if he couldn't make himself better. His words echoed in Clancy's head: Maybe you don't fix yourself, Clancy. It seems to me you like being broken.
The dried blood was barely visible; dried flecks dotting his nostril and down to his chin like a constellation. He must have tried to clean himself on his sheet or his pillow during the night. But it hadn't awoken him, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, all too familiar, almost comforting to a point.
Clancy reached down for the tub, putting the soap between his hands and beginning to scrub. The water was too cold, he had been staring for too long. Just as well, he thought numbly.
As he scrubbed his face, he felt the irritation in his nose. The sensation came on suddenly, almost sending him careening headfirst into the basin before him. He came up for air, breathing hard. He felt like he was drowning. The inside of his nose was already trying to repair the damage the dry air had done in the middle of the night, but it made Clancy feel like he couldn't breath.
Or maybe that was just what he told himself.
He reached for a rag or a towel, something to blow into, something to expel the darkness inside him. If he didn't get it out, it might seep down his throat, filling his mouth, filling his lungs. Sure, it might heal him, in time. But there was no point in waiting for healing when the very act might kill him right now. And he'd been told to stop trying to die. Before his time, at least.
He floundered, fingers catching on the edge of the mirror, the cold metal hitting the chilliness in his fingers in a way that made his teeth rattle. The pain was calming, but wasn't the string of an open wound he was searching for. Opening the wound one more time couldn't hurt. Nico couldn't see him in here, how would he know how freshly Clancy had bled?
Finally, seeing that there was nothing acceptable around him to use, Clancy pulled his own shirt off his head. The white fabric was slightly soaked, whether from the cleaning job or sweating through in the night before, Clancy couldn't discern. He brought it to his nose and blew. He pulled the shirt back, the bright crimson bleeding through the wet fabric. It wasn't enough. He could still feel the...glob lodged, right over the cut buried deep inside of him.
He wrinkled his nose, as if he could wiggle the mass out. It was no use. It was taking all of his self control not to just rip all his skin away, to get in there to open the wound and let himself bleed out slowly. That might finally satisfy the itch.
He glanced around the room, eyes landing on a wooden toothbrush on the edge of the basin. He weighed his options. He could leave it alone, suffer through service, fidgeting and touching his face. Keons would reprimand him, telling him he couldn't touch the keys if his hands were dirty. He could use his fingers, but he knew Nico would be inspecting him thoroughly, and if he missed even one speck of blood under his fingernails, Nico would not let him play. And reprimand him for not being able to keep himself clean.
The toothbrush, however, presented an interesting solution. The end was curved to a point, looking sharp just enough to scratch an itch. Or in this case, open a scar.
Clancy could no longer bear the feeling inside his head. He needed to be clear-headed and clean for the service. This was the only way. Letting it heal would take too long, he couldn't hope for that today, or even this week. Maybe not even within the month. And what if it never healed? At least he was in control, mostly, how and when it bled.
He dropped the shirt into the basin. The blood began to mingle with the water.
He picked up the toothbrush. His brain thought it strange that something so weapon-like was allowed in his quarters. He shook his head. A toothbrush, a weapon? What was he thinking? He needed to fix this so he could play.
He dug the end of the toothbrush into his nostril, sighing with relief as he felt it scrape the cartilage inside. He wiggled the end around, scraping, potentially adding to the scrapes inside. What were a few more?
Then the end of the toothbrush hit on it's intended target. He felt it catch for a moment on the edge of the scab, and pulled it out. He dunked it in the water, blood from the end of the wood mixing with the rest of the liquid in the basin. It was now a light pink color - the deep crimson of the initial blow fading and diluting with the water. He plunged the tool back in again, scraping again against the scab and finally feeling the relief of the clump pulling free. For a brief moment, he felt the cold air rush into the cut, the sensation burning but pleasantly.
Then he looked at himself in the mirror again, and saw a rivulet of blood run down his face, racing quickly over hip lips and flying off his chin. It splashed into the basin, dyeing the water just one shade deeper pink.
Clancy looked down at the basin. Pink. He had been pink once. No, not all of him, but his hair. He brought a hand up to feel it now, peering in the mirror as if to check. Is that what he was performing for today? No - his hair was brown again. For now.
He pulled the sopping shirt out of the sink, doing his best to dab his face. He was now soaked, the shirt dripping all over his trousers and his bare torso. He watched the water drip onto the dirt floor.
Dirt? That wasn't right.
Clancy breathed in through his nose again, letting the cold air run over the cut. His nose twitched, he felt the edge of a sneeze coming, but it never erupted, the cold sting of the air merely traveling up the open wound and into his brain. And the worst part was, a part of him did like it. Nico was right.
He sat down on the floor, letting the blood continue to run from his nose, now splattering on his trousers. Let Nico see. Maybe this was the thing that would finally make him stop being worth the trouble. Didn't Nico tell him often enough he wasn't worth the trouble?
"Clancy, are you in there?" A voice, presumably Nico's rumbled from outside the room. Nico sounded different, but it must just be the cloth walls muffling his voice.
Cloth walls? Clancy really was losing it. All his brain cells were falling straight out his nose with the blood.
He inhaled one more time, allowing the cold air to rush over all of him.
"Yes, Father, just a few more moments."
With that, the tent flap burst open. Clancy looked around, bewildered. He was in a tent. The solid walls of his Dema bathroom, gone. The cement floor beneath him, dirt. The mirror and basin still stood before him, but so did a tin of aloe, antiseptic, and gauze. Clancy blinked, his brain trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what his previous reality had just been.
Nico, but not in his robes, knelt before Clancy. He reached a hand to try to cradle the back of Clancy's head. Clancy scrabbled away, spraying water up as his soaked shirt flew off his lap.
"Father, no, I am dirty. Just give me a few more minutes, I'm sure I can -"
"Clancy," Nico said again. But he wasn't Nico. Or was he? He had softer looking curls than Clancy he'd had went he sent Clancy into the bathroom, kinder eyes and a more furrowed brow. Why wasn't Nico hitting him? Or grabbing him? Or...at least yelling?
Clancy's breaths came faster now. He opened his mouth, some of the blood leaking in. He licked his lips involuntarily, shame creeping in at his childish response.
"Clancy," Nico tried again. "Please stop calling me Father, you're scaring me. Let me help you, what happened? Did you -"
Nico stopped, his gaze landing on the bloody toothbrush. His face fell. Clancy was in for it now. Clancy jerked back, even though he knew he had asked for this. By continuing to open the wound, he willingly continued the cycle. That was the way things were.
Nico furrowed his brow. He inched towards Clancy slowly. A small towel had materialized in his hand, maybe it had always been there. Nico reached forward, and held the thin cloth up to Clancy's face.
"Here," he said softly. Too soft for the Archbishop, the mightiest man in all of Dema, in all the world.
Except maybe for the Torchbearer. But Clancy had long ago given up hope of someone so formidable paying attention to him, saving him. No, the battle was Clancy's alone. It was a shame he only knew how to make losing plays.
Nico held the cloth to Clancy's face, gently applying pressure.
"Nosebleeds happen, Clancy, it's okay," Nico said. He inched closer to Clancy, maneuvering himself next to Clancy, his body warm and solid as it pressed into Clancy's side. Clancy's own hand drifted up to cover Nico's, and Nico gently removed his own hand from Clancy's face, his knuckle grazing his cheek as he settled his hands back in his own lap.
"There, you can hold it, I trust you," Nico said, his gaze steady on Clancy.
Clancy eyed the Archbishop warily. He waited for the "but" to come, the caveat to Nico's trust. It did not.
Unbidden, a sob wracked Clancy's body, as sudden as the river of blood had been down his chin. He didn't know where the burst of emotion came from. But he knew that this softness hurt. Clancy shook his head.
"Not what you said," Clancy gasped, voice thick with tears, blood, and the cloth in front of his mouth. "I don't fix, and I like being broken. That's what you said."
He tried to shimmy away from Nico. He was successful. Nico stared at Clancy, his own eyes brimming with tears.
"I said that?" Nico asked. Clancy nodded.
"Before you sent me in here, to clean myself for service. Why are you pretending, Nico? You're right. You always are Fa-, Nico."
Nico nodded slowly. He inched a little closer to Clancy again, putting his hand up as if holding back a wild animal. "Clancy, this is the first time I've seen you this morning. I woke up in the tent, and you were gone. There was some blood on your pillow - I figured you'd come in here to wash up."
Clancy blinked at Nico over the cloth. His voice, it wasn't as raspy as it normally was. The more Nico spoke, the more that images of yellow flowers, yellow flames, and yellow sunshine filled the tent. He blinked his head in confusion, and for a moment, the man seated next to him wasn't Nico, it was the Torchbearer. Not just the Torchbearer, but Josh. Gone was the bandana, his hair was rumpled, and, now that Clancy thought about it, his voice was also thick with sleep, as if he'd just awoken.
In the same moment, Josh was gone. Nico was back.
Nico watched Clancy's face. He nodded solemnly, a slight sadness creeping over his features. Now retribution would come, surely.
But Nico just stood up, gathering himself before offering a hand to Clancy.
"Let's go to the med tent, and then we can get you some new clothes," he said. Clancy hesitated, and then took his hand, standing to look Nico in the eyes, surprised to find he could see them. The veil that had been there seconds ago had vanished, replaced by soft, warm, brown eyes.
"Torch," Clancy choked out, collapsing into his chest. Josh, he thought to himself, a hope he didn't dare to speak.
Torch sighed in relief. "Yes," he breathed, putting a hand to the back of Clancy's head a stroking where his head met his neck.
He gripped Clancy firmly, pressing into him despite how soaked and bloody Clancy was. Torch always was willing to get just as dirty as Clancy, even though Clancy was perpetually the mess maker. It wasn't fair. And yet Clancy kept allowing it to happen. Kept enabling it to happen.
Clancy sobbed again, his saliva mixing with blood on the cloth, making it hard to breathe through.
"I'm sorry," he wept. "Don't give up on me."
Clancy felt Nico's - no, Torch's - no, Josh's - chest rise as if to give a response. Clancy burrowed his head deeper into the folds of the jacket before him, muffling out the words. He didn’t want to know if the steady chest underneath him would stay, or for how long.
But despite his best efforts, one word made it through the folds of clothing.
“Always.”