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The bathroom tiles were cold.
In the living room, the noise of the TV was audible. Brock was probably focused on the new video game Master Frown had gotten him for their roommate-anniversary. Usually, Frown would be right there beside him, hogging the blanket and complaining about how when he had a turn, “The controller must be broken!”
But tonight, Frown didn’t want to be anywhere near him. He felt too guilty to face him.
It wasn’t one big thing. It was a thousand tiny pinpricks of failure. Another bad day at work, the Doom Lords having gone on another staff holiday without inviting him. The way Unikitty’s sparkling voice had felt like sandpaper against his brain earlier that afternoon. Days and weeks and months of pent-up hurt. It all built up until his skin felt too tight for his body; and he just wanted to claw it off.
He looked down at the small, sharp piece of metal in his hand.
Six months.
He thought of Brock. He thought of the night six months ago, leaning against the door. Brock talked to him through the wood for hours. When he’d finally let him in, Brock carefully wrapped gauze around his forearm with hands that trembled despite his size. Brock had looked at him with those soft, compassionate eyes and asked. “Frownie, just… promise me you’ll try to tell me next time? Promise you don’t have to go here again?”
Frown had promised. He’d meant it, too. He’d clung to that promise.
But tonight, he needed something.
He promised himself, only one. Just a cat scratch. A little sting.
It was dissatisfying.
…Just one more.
One more turned into three. Then four.
He lost count after that. He only became somewhat aware when he realized he’d had to switch arms, running out of room on the first.
He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing hard. The silence in the bathroom was deafening now, broken only by the drip-drips of their leaky sink.
Then, there was a knock.
Frown jolted, his heart leaping into his throat. He tried to scramble to pull his sleeve down, but his fingers were clumsy, slick with the evidence of his failure.
“Dude? Everything okay in there? You’ve been gone for like, twenty minutes. I’m starting the second boss fight soon.” Brock’s voice was muffled by the door, warm and steady.
“I’m fine!” Frown snapped, his voice coming out way too high and shrill. “Go away! I’m… having… really intense bowel movement! Lactose intolerance!”
There was a silence on the other side of the door. Master Frown held his breath, praying Brock would just laugh, call him a weirdo, and go back to the couch.
Instead, the handle jiggled.
“Frown. Open the door.”
The humor was gone. Brock’s ‘Mom Voice’ was out—the quiet, serious tone he used when he knew something was wrong.
“I said I’m fine, Brock! Give me some privacy!” Frown scrambled to clean the floor with a wad of toilet paper, his movements frantic.
“Master Frown,” Brock said, his voice dropping an octave. “Open the door, or I’m getting the spare key from the kitchen.”
Frown froze. He looked at his arm, at the mess, at the broken promise. He felt like he was nine years old again, caught in a lie he couldn't get out of. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.
He heard Brock walk away, then the faint jingle of keys. A moment later, the lock clicked.
The door swung open.
Brock stood in the doorway, his large frame filling the space. His face went pale as his eyes dropped to the floor, then to Frown’s arm, then to the metal in Frown’s hand.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Frown waited for shouting. He waited for Brock to be angry, to tell him he was disappointed, to throw his arms up and say he was done dealing with someone so broken. He braced himself, shoulders hunched up to his ears, Head down-avoiding eye contact.
“I’m sorry,” Frown choked out, his voice uneven and cracking. “I’m sorry, I broke it, I know I promised! I just-it’s so hard-I’m sorry, Brock, please don’t be mad, I’m so-“
He was cut off by a heavy weight settling on the floor in front of him.
Brock sat down, right there in the cramped bathroom space, his knees bumping against Frown’s. He didn't reach for the arm first. He reached for Frown’s face, cupping his cheek with a warm hand.
“Frown. Hey. Look at me.” Brock murmured.
Frown opened one eye, his vision blurred by stinging tears. Brock wasn't angry. He looked… heartbroken, yes, but mostly he just looked like an anchor.
“I’m not mad,” Brock said. “I’m bummed, yeah. But I’m not mad at you. I’m mad that you have to feel this way alone.”
“I broke the promise,” Frown sobbed. He hid his face with the back of his hands, his body shaking with the force of his guilt. “I was clean for so long and I ruined it and I’m a loser and you should just leave me here in this stupid house in this stupid place-”
“Stop.” Brock said firmly, cutting him off. He gently took Frown’s stinging arms, his touch remaining gentle. “You didn't ruin anything. Recovery isn't a straight line, man. It’s like… a video game. You died, sure, but you don't lose the whole game. You just gotta try again, no matter how long it takes.”
Brock leaned over just enough to grab the first-aid kit from under the sink. He’d kept it stocked and ready—a silent testament to the fact that he’d always known this was a possibility.
Frown watched through blurry eyes as Brock began to clean the wounds. He was so caring. So patient. He didn't lecture. He didn't make Frown feel bad for breaking his promise.
“It hurts,” Frown whispered.
“I know, pudding.” Brock replied. “But I’ve got you.”
Once the bandages were neat and white against Frown’s pale skin, Brock didn't get up. He relocated himself so he was sitting against the wall, legs spread, and patted the space between them.
Frown didn't hesitate. He crawled into Brock’s lap, buryng his face in his chest. He felt Brock’s arms wrap around him, pulling him into a hug that felt like safety.
“I’m sorry-“ Frown said again, his voice muffled against Brock’s hoodie.
“I know, Frownie. I know.” Brock said, resting his chin on top of Frown’s messy hair. “But you’re still here. And tomorrow, I’m still gonna make you breakfast. And we’re still gonna live our lives. We’re just starting the counter over, okay? No biggie.”
Frown let out a long, shaky breath. The noise in his head had finally started to quiet down. It wasn't perfect-the guilt was still there, a dull ache beneath the bandages-but for the first time in hours, he felt like he could actually breathe.
“Brock?”
“Yeah, Frown?”
“Can we… go sit on the couch? I’d like to see you try that boss fight.”
Brock chuckled, the vibration of it grounding Frown even more. He squeezed him a little tighter before standing up and lifting Frown to his feet along with him.
“Yeah. You can watch my skills. But we’re getting the weighted blanket. And you’re drinking a glass of water.”
“Fine.” Frown grumbled, though he didn't let go of Brock’s hand as they walked out of the bathroom.
The counter was at zero. Months of progress were lost. But as Brock set the blanket on him, sitting down and pulling Frown into his side- a warmth spread through him.
Master Frown realized that maybe it’d be okay.