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Under the paper, there are minuscule bumps. In clusters, they're dispersed across it in lumps similar to water damage, and lift the pads of Clark's streaming fingers. They're neither solid nor malleable, appearing closer to an intentional feature than something erroneous. He bows his neck, peering closer at the pattern stroked up along the wall. Encased in a five-pointed diamond—though he cannot visually find the fifth corner—is a feather. Its edges are split as a duck's moulted feathers would be. The graphic spans the entire length of the wall in rows, even past where a baseboard should be expected.
He leans back and trudges his feet, sidestepping as he ventures down to the left end of the wall, all the while keeping contact with it. Its scent is that of dampness following a steaming shower; humid droplets streaking over a plastered hole in the wall. Occasionally he palpates it like a wrinkling apple, assuring that its form hasn't suddenly shifted. His ear brushes close, yet the ambience seems to permeate through the physical barrier. At the sight of a crease in the wallpaper, he narrows his eyes and shuffles his foot further. But in his focus, he fails to notice a steep inclination in the floor.
The outsole of Clark's shoe collides with the step, striking his balance and plunging him towards the carpet. In an attempt to soften the landing, he tries to tuck his arm. Yet, in the half-second he has to react, he ends up centering the impact on his wrist. It twists as he hits the ground, grinding along the stiff texture until a light burn glazes the surface of his palm.
"God fucking— Shit!" Clark yells through a tightened jaw. His uninjured hand encircles the now-sprained one, squeezing it in his frustration. Laboured breaths whine through his teeth and fan out hot air as he brings it up to his face.
Propping himself up off of his back, he pats over his floor-bound flank to assess any other possible damage, finding no more than a scarce soreness—but his hand was not nearly as fortunate. Even with a moment to recuperate, a pronounced stinging erupts in flashes that lead up to his elbow. Clark presses his wrist up to his mouth, thumb curled at his brow and knuckles shoving into his shut right eye. A small, lucid part of him keeps his attention on breathing as had been instructed to him by Dr Kline.
He whacks the curb of the step with his heel and exclaims, "Piece of shit!"
These presumably desultory ruptures in consistent design are ones he has come to expect, yet not predict. Ordinarily, he could let himself be fascinated by the privilege of such a state: to exist as it pleases. Sparingly, however, it reminds him that it serves no one, likely not even itself. A ten-minute trek down a narrow corridor can amount to no more than a ceiling slanting to the floor. An expansive, brimming room could have no floor and a hundred-foot drop in place of it. And sometimes a small incline will be planted in the middle of a regular room.
A thump overpowers the hum surrounding Clark. Then, a resounding thud vibrates through the carpet like static. Finally, a knock thrums clumsily into the walls. The careful exhales turn into a drawn-out sigh as he realises what is about to ensue, and the convincing he must do to win back his faith. It isn't long before the clunky strides pull closer, seemingly as hurried as they can be.
Captain rounds the corner and peeks over to discover Clark in his impaired position. His misaligned eyes tear wide open, and with quick paces, he closes the gap between them; his shoulder bumps the wall and his pegleg quivers from the effort.
"No, no! It was just a fall, Clark. You don't need to get worked up." He waves his hands out to dissuade him, yet to no avail.
Delicately, with enough attentiveness for the anomalous step to make Clark grumble, Captain sinks to his knees and clutches him by the waist. As he is lifted to his feet to more appropriately commune, the tiniest whine whistles out and betrays the exact amount of worry Clark fretted.
"People are always falling over—I mean, I fall all the damn time! And I didn't break anything, did I?" he says as lighthearted as he's able.
Though it does not do much to assuage Captain from attending to him. He runs his palm over Clark's shirt and smoothes out the crinkles as he examines for any possible damage. A row of knuckles pokes at the tucked hem, aiming to hitch it up for a more thorough search.
With darkening cheeks, Clark furrows his brows. "Seriously, I am fine. Now, get your hands off of me."
A pitchy groan rumbles out in response, and a pair of drooped eyes does not appear at all convinced by his refutation. The other hand grips his waist tighter, silently admonishing him. Clark subtly slides his arm behind him to hide it from view.
Relenting slightly, he quietly maintains, "I'm okay, I promise. Just take my word for it."
Captain's face slackens with a somber expression. His already frowning lips loosen into a pout as he hangs his neck low. In a moment, he's burrowed into Clark's shoulder without any consideration for the weight pushing into it or the hat skimming his face. Soft murmurs of distorted whimpers wash out from his throat like a settling foundation. Groping hands now linger on his torso like it's Captain's conception of a hug, which Clark hesitantly reciprocates by cradling his head with his arms.
"It's fine; it's fine!" he assures to the best of his ability, "We're okay, there's nothing wrong."
There isn't any abating of his want for comfort. If anything, his eagerness for it rises, dragging Clark nearer.
"Calm down. We've seen you have much worse falls, and you didn't get that hurt, did you?"
His whimpers grow to whines, and he returns to clasping him, but with enough force to bruise. The urgency of the situation is finally apparent to Clark, and he understands he won't get far with denying reality.
Conceding, he huffs and begins to pat Captain's back methodically. "Okay, I'm sorry. I appreciate that you care." A short respite from the crying comes as he speaks.
Clark sighs much louder. "And, yeah, I did hurt my wrist."
Hastily and ungainly, Captain shoots off his shoulder and immediately tends to the twisted hand. He groans—light and agitated, like a mewl—as he massages his thumbs into the muscles; it's a hassle with his much larger fingers.
Biting his lip, Clark blurts, "Fuck-! Could…could you be more gentle?"
His shoulders slump down marginally, and he instead caresses his wrist. The warped countenance spells a mounting concern over such a minor injury. This aspect of his still life's behaviour didn't particularly perturb Clark anymore after the long length of time he'd spent exposed to it. Following their tumultuous meeting, there have been very few moments when he has been allowed to be alone without his tedious urging for it. In fact, it is that urging which granted him the opportunity to survey by himself just now. He figures it'll be a considerable while before he can go anywhere without a shadow drifting close behind.
With the disregarded hand, he lifts it to Captain's right cheek and burrows it in the coarse stubble. As he soothingly pets him, the smothering behaviour is halted right in its tracks. Suddenly, all focus is laid on the rubbing until he's placated and flustered.
"It barely hurts. We're going to be fine, Captain," Clark comforts, almost overdoing it with the appeasing.
A faint drone emits from him instead of his regular groans—it reverberates into his palm like the buzz of a fan. Where agitation had dictated his features, a pleased grin steadily spreads. Bulging eyes lie upon Clark's with an understated sheen, inner brows tugged up, lids squinted together and somewhat dreary. And, in an action that instils fear, he begins to lean his weight forward into him.
He tries to brace himself. "Hold on, hold on!"
The entire hulking form of Captain descends upon him in an embrace so tight it sends a shock through his nerves. Vices of gangly arms coil his torso as Clark's body is pressed into his chest. He's dropped to his backside with his thighs spread apart wide to accommodate Captain being between them for his needy, ardent cuddling. It nearly suffocates him to bear the heftiness; it may even harm him more than the fall, but he chooses not to protest to keep any further outbursts from arising.
Clark repays the impassioned hug with a less-aggressive enveloping of his hips. Thumping besets his heart to the degree he can sense it even from Captain's chest, bumping against his squished cheek. The teeming excitement settles, and now they lie there still in the company of each other. If Clark loses his focus on the room, shutters his eyes, and relaxes his shoulders, he can inundate himself in this recognition he had always longed for. This thing which had once absorbed him with terror is the only thing to ever bring him comfort.
As Captain starts to pull back, they find they're glued together by an unconscious clinch of his belt. He grunts and tugs on the collar of Clark's shirt and harshly forces his mind back to itself, in no small part thanks to the light choking. Embarrassment flushes his face when he comes to realise how sappy he'd become.
Clearing his throat, he asks lowly, "So is everything fine now?"
There isn't much of an intelligible response from him, just a concentrated stare and the wandering of his hand back towards Clark's ailed one. All five of his fingers cinch his wrist in gaunt, crooked lines that spill close to his elbow.
"Clark…?" he interjects amid the other's trance.
Yet, there is still no reply. He hunches down and narrows the distance between their faces. Slowly, the arm is raised high above the carpet, carried through the windless air until it meets the center of Captain's nose. The heel is pressed firmly into it until the skin depresses with a worrying amount of ease. Clark's thumb sits flat at the bridge of the nose, and his cautiously bent fingers scrape below the right eye. A tepid gust from Captain's limp maw grazes past his wrist like a moist breeze.
"C…Cuh…lah…arr…kuh…"
All sensation drains out of his body once the drawled moans cease. Prickles of sweat sting the surface of his palm, sweltering from its proximity to Captain. The stare is unyielding and fierce, as if it follows even the slightest twitch. There's a pause for a reply, seemingly without one expected.
Then, he flicks out his tongue, stroking up the wrist with its length. Clark shudders and attempts to yank his hand away with immense struggle.
"What's that for?!" he shouts, face grimaced and dismayed. It's released after a couple more jerks, to which Captain snaps from the reverie he was in. Clark dries the line of spit with his opposite sleeve and whispers, "I'll understand this place before I understand you."
Captain shrinks a little out of shame, but quickly rises onto his foot and peg with unwieldy motions. It's followed in tow by Clark, who clamps his teeth on his lip as he accidentally places his weight upon the sprained wrist. Standing there—him the minutest part higher due to the step—he catches a glimpse of his restless hands and unsettled eyes. Unusual timidity gushes like a crashing stream, far from how brash he'd just been. It isn't strenuous for Clark to figure that there's a persisting anxiety. Though it can pester him from time to time, after Captain's earlier doting, it seems fair enough to indulge him; likely just for now, however.
Clark swings his arms out to either side of him. "Hey," he calls out, signalling his desire to him by gesticulating like a brisk bird.
In an instant, Captain perks up, entirely reinvigorated. He promptly clings to Clark and hoists him up into the air with a secure grip.
"Do you want to check out something I found together?"
Through enthusiastic groans and the vague nod of his head, he responds affirmatively. Clark smiles and pats his shoulder, then slings his finger out at the furrowed wallpaper to direct him. Captain doesn't waste any time ambling over there, tensely grasping him without much space between them. It's typical for him to be held at arm's length, but neither of them seems to mind the tenderness.
They reach the crease swiftly, and Captain turns him around to allow for inspection. It abruptly ends a few inches from the ceiling with no clear indicators of a tear or cut; its edge is finer than tempered glass. Clark peels it back a little, revealing the same diamond pattern as before, but notably not mirrored or translucent. Behind the wallpaper is a clear white wall lacking the texture of paint and appearing almost metallic. However, its surface feels no different to that of stone when he runs his thumb over it.
Captain cranes his neck over to query him on his findings, yet he can only return the gaze.
"We'll get it one day," Clark assures in a calm mutter