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He always finds his way to the water, when he’s lost.
The lull of the waves hit the side of the cliff, the strait in a permanent rage below him. The rush is slower at night, but it’s nothing compared to the storm in his chest. Every beat of his heart is punctuated with the same word, a burst of thunder ringing in his ears:
Jump.
He doesn’t. The lightning rings behind his eyes. He doesn’t move, simply stands at the edge, stock still. He’s not sure how long he’s been standing there, staring over. He isn’t seeing the sun as it sets. The sun is simply a blur, seen through the ripples of the water covering his head, the tears stinging his eyes.
Jump.
The word is unfamiliar in his own head. It isn’t Nico’s voice, for once, yet he can still feel him hovering, his ghost lingering over Clancy’s shoulder, hands wrapped around his throat. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to think, to remember that he doesn’t want to jump. It’s even harder to search the haze of his mind for the reason why.
He knows there is one— feels it deep in his chest, in every steady beat of his heart. Because of it, he is frozen— or maybe because of the lack thereof, he isn’t sure. But he knows he can’t move; he can’t bring himself closer to the edge, can’t bring himself to step away. He’s perfectly still, like if he doesn’t go anywhere, the world will simply pass him by.
Yet the feeling stays. The exhaustion. The deep, deep pull of gravity within him. His legs ache to give out, plead to carry him over the edge. He wants to feel the water drag over his head. It already is, he thinks tiredly. His limbs feel like they’re floating. He’s staring at the water like it’ll come up and bring him down with it.
Jump.
He’s done it before, he remembers, though only vaguely. The memory is a foreign one, if it’s even there at all. He knows it happened— rationally, he does. Torchbearer hadn’t been shy about telling him, though he’d pretended to simply want to hear what he’d seen. He didn’t know how to say that he’d forgotten. That the only thing he remembered from that day was the weight of the robe on his chest, the way his charcoal hands trembled as he held them up. The way Torch’s expression had crumpled just looking at him.
Torchbearer.
His name is a hand, reaching into the tide, pulling his head up enough for him to breathe. He clings to it with trembling hands that are frozen at his sides. Torch’s name is the line, keeping him from sinking. Even simply thinking it is enough to bring him back to himself, enough for him to manage to take a breath— a deep one, that rattles his chest. His vision blurs, with tears or dizziness, he’s unsure. He sways with it. Everything slows down to the beating of his heart, the lightning behind his eyes.
He shivers. The sun is still out— usually he hates it, when it comes blaring down too early, unbearable heat midway through a day. Yet he’s freezing cold, arms wrapping around himself. Jagged nails dig into his bare arms, crescents in his skin. Tiny moons, he thinks. He doesn’t remember where that came from. The moon is something beautiful. He is nothing of the sort.
“Tiny moons,” a voice murmurs, soft and low in the back of his head. “And your freckles are the stars.” A faint smile, a tiny laugh, a gentle touch sending sparks across his skin. “You’re the whole sky.”
His heart aches, and he knows, again: Torchbearer. Warmth washes back over him. The clouds are parting. The sun’s light wraps around him— not harsh rays, but a blanket, soft and gentle.
He’s shaking, still. He wants to step forward, he wants to turn around and run until his legs give, and he can’t even see the water anymore. He’s teetering on the edge, staring down at the swirling storm below.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out but a strangled whisper, words he’d thought long lost to himself.
“Sahlo Folina.”
It’s been ages since he’d had to use the call. Half of him wasn’t sure he’d even remember how to say it. He can’t say he even feels relieved. Not now. Not when his legs move on their own. He doesn’t hear himself saying it; doesn’t feel his lips move with the words. He doesn’t feel anything but the gravity in his chest, the pull of his head towards the water, begging him to go under.
Please, he thinks, hurry. But does he even want that? How could he explain himself, when he can’t remember why he’s out here?
Jump.
“Clancy?”
The name doesn’t register in his head. All he hears is the thud of footsteps, perfectly in time with the thump of his heart. He doesn’t turn, even as they approach. Arms slot around him like they’re meant to. Tight, desperate almost, sliding fully around his waist and dragging him back into a solid, warm chest. Breaths shudder against him, so close he can hear the tremble as they leave. He says underneath the weight of the hold. The urge to collapse hits him all over again, legs melting beneath the sudden heat.
“Don’t you dare jump,” a voice breathes into his ear, shaky, hoarse, like whoever was speaking had just been running. All to get to him. It makes him sick with guilt, wobbly with relief.
Why, he wonders, would someone worry themselves so? He is far too much of a coward to jump. He’s proven that time and time again.
“Clancy,” the voice chokes out, and he realizes, belatedly, that that’s his name. How could he have forgotten? How had such simple information slipped from his mind, fallen under the waves?
And, even more suddenly, he knows who’s there. Only one person has ever said his name like that— like it’s something that matters. Something precious. Something to be saved.
“Torch?” he chokes out, twisting in his grip. The arms around him only tighten in response, Torch’s forehead dropping down to the back of his shoulder.
“Don’t,” he pleads, pleads, but Clancy can’t stop. He has to see him, has to see. “Please, don’t—“
Torchbearer cuts off with a gasp Clancy wrenches himself free, just enough to turn to face him. One look at his face— windswept and flushed, eyes glittering with tears— is all it takes for Clancy to fold, his legs finally giving out underneath him as he all but collapses onto Torchbearer. The weight is nearly enough to knock them over, but Torchbearer, ever steady, ever stable, just wraps him back in his arms.
“I don’t wanna—“ his voice breaks with a shuddery hiccup, a sob finally wrenching itself free. “I don’t wanna—“ jump, don‘t wanna die, don’t wanna let go.
Torchbearer just shushes him. “Clancy,” he whispers, and he shuts up, only to let him speak. “It’s alright, deep breath, okay?”
He tries, he really does. But it hitches, and he shudders. He’s dripping water everywhere. He’s perfectly dry. “Please,” he sobs, “I’m sorry. I don’t wanna—“ he breaks off into sobs, desperate and pleading, clinging to Torchbearer until he’s run dry. Until he’s left a husk, dried out, wrung dry, shaking in his arms.
”C’mon,” Torch whispers, “let’s get you away from the edge.”
He just nods. There’s nothing more he can do.
He lets Torchbearer lead him back to the tent, one hand around his waist the whole time, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into the skin. He’s grateful for it. The lack of control is nice— his chest loosens, the slightest part. His mind is blissfully blank as Torchbearer ushers him in. He sags down onto the mattress with a sigh, one hand rubbing over his face. His vision blurs into static, ringing in his eyes.
Yet Torchbearer’s voice comes clear, filtering through the haze. “You haven’t used the call in a long time,” Torch whispers, fishing a hoodie out of a pile of clothes and the corner and gently slipping it over his head. He’s careful as he pulls his arms through, though he’s desperate for the warmth— he’s too afraid of hitting him on accident. He’s hurt him enough.
He swallows, shrugs, tugs the sleeves over his hands. “I couldn’t move,” he says, weakly. It’ll just raise more questions, but he hopes it’s enough of an answer.
Torchbearer blinks. “Couldn’t move?” He echoes, and there’s that familiar worry seeping in. He wants to throw up. He wants to cry. He wants to curl up, be as small as possible. Maybe if he shrinks enough, Torchbearer won’t see him.
Guilt rushes to his throat. He folds forward, vision blurring with tears that he blinks away. He doesn’t get to cry. Not now. All he can choke out is a pathetic whisper: “Nevermind.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. “Nevermind?” Torch echoes, and he winces at the sharp note of hysteria in his voice.
“Yeah,” he snaps, and it’s harsher than he means for it to be. He forces himself to soften as he keeps talking, softer, weaker. “I’ll forget about it anyway.”
That gets Torchbearer to stiffen. “What?” He whispers, and it’s worse than if he would’ve shouted it. Clancy flinches either way.
“I..forget,” he says quietly. His arms wrap around himself, fingers bunching in the fabric.
“Forget…what?”
He shrugs. “Everything,” he whispers. “Bits and pieces of memories. Places we’ve been. Things we’ve done.”
“I remember,” Torch whispers, and it stings. “I remember everything.”
Clancy swallows hard. “How?” he chokes out. “I don’t even remember most things about myself.” It comes out shaky. A pathetic little confession.
“Clancy,” Torchbearer whispers, “of course you don’t remember everything. After what they did to you…” he exhales, softly. “It makes sense,” he finally finishes, and it doesn’t, but Clancy clings to it. It has to make sense, it has to, or he’ll go insane over it.
“You just met yourself,” Torchbearer whispers, and Clancy half-laughs, half-sobs. “I’ve known you for years.” He smiles— tries, is more accurate. He barely manages a twitch of his lips. “No one can remember everything.”
“But I shouldn’t be forgetting,” he sobs, scrubbing his arms across his eyes.
“Yeah, and my bones shouldn’t hurt all the time,” Torch shoots back, and he blinks up at him. Torch just raises an eyebrow, holds his gaze. And Clancy just shifts over on the bed, scoots to the side. A bed, half empty, on his left, so he can sit if it hurts.
“We can’t control our bodies,” he whispers. “But…goddess, darling. Why didn’t you tell me?”
And there it is— the worry, the care, the thinly veiled hurt that almost has him bursting into tears all over again.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with that too.”
Torchbearer is silent, shaky breaths the only sound that fills the tent. “Clancy,” Torch breathes, soft, and it’s too shaky, too wobbly, and it hurts him to hear. “I’ll do everything that you ask. I’ll always come when you call. And I am your—” his voice breaks, eyes welling. One hand— a hand that’s trembling, Clancy realizes, a sick pit forming in his stomach— finds his mouth, muffling the soft sob that jerks his shoulders.
He did this, Clancy thinks. He hurt him. Again. Scared him in a way he’d promised he never would.
He takes in a breath, soft and slow, the motion painful as his heart clenches. “Oh, angel,” he whispers, and Torchbearer completely stiffens. His eyes widen, breaths still; the trembling of his hand is the only movement from him.
Angel. He says it softly, means it with everything in him. He’s surprised, still, that Torchbearer hasn’t sprouted wings and flown away.
He simply reaches his hand up, and Torchbearer takes it. It’s not hard to pull him closer, down to his level. Torchbearer goes willingly. Clancy hardly has to move to cup his hand over his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye, catching a tear before it can fall. “You do,” he says, gently. I’m not deserving of any of it. “Angel,” he whispers, again, “why do you think i’m still here?”
Torch doesn’t reply— just stares, with those wide, wet eyes, brown-green-gold. Clancy smiles, faintly. “I wouldn’t be here if not for you. You…do know that, right?”
And there it is— that’s the truth. He doesn’t know if he’s said it before.
It has the desired effect. Torchbearer just sobs, folding forward, head dropping to Clancy’s knees. “You scared me, today,” he whispers. “I heard the call, and then I saw you at the ledge, and I thought—“ he breaks off with a sob.
“I thought about it,” he admits, quietly. Torchbearer sobs into his legs, rough and raw, and he has to swallow back sobs of his own. “I didn’t want to,” he whispers, “I just…couldn’t stop thinking.”
Torchbearer doesn’t respond. Just clings to his arms with trembling hands, a white knuckled grip.
“I’m sorry,” Clancy whispers, a tear dripping onto Torchbearer’s head, into his hair.
“Don’t be,” Torch whispers, looking up. Tears roll down his cheeks. “Don’t be, just—“ his voice cracks, and he sniffs. “Don’t make me lose you too.”
His breath catches tight in his chest. Everything in him feels like it comes crashing to a screeching halt. Torch sounds years younger. He’s years older.
Clancy just tugs him in, helps him onto the bed, wraps Torchbearer in his arms and pulls him closer, buries his face against his chest. His heart is racing. He hopes Torch can feel it, feel the undeniable proof that he’s here, he’s alive.
“I’m not good at this,” he whispers, eventually, once his voice is steady enough to trust, once their trembling has subsided. “At…staying.”
Torchbearer pulls his head back, looks up through lidded lashes. “Try?” He whispers, and he sounds so desperate it breaks Clancy’s heart. “That’s all you have to do. Just…try?”
He nods, slowly, before he registers it. “Okay, angel,” he whispers. “I’ll try.” The “for you” goes unspoken, but Torchbearer sags like he knows.
“I’m good at staying still,” Torchbearer murmurs, tucking his face back down into the crook of his neck. “I’ll be good enough at it for the both of us.”
Clancy nods again, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Torch’s head. “I’ll be here in the morning,” he promises, and that’s all he can do.
Torchbearer just hums, like it’s enough. And maybe, for now, it is.
He closes his eyes and lets the tears fall, and traces up and down Torchbearer’s shoulders, and smiles down at the wingless angel in his arms.
He’ll be there in the morning. Maybe, that can be enough.
“I love you,” Torch whispers.
“I love you too,” he breathes back, and he knows, that yeah, it is.
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