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The storm comes in waves.
It keeps him warm as he sits around the fire, wraps around his throat and chokes him as they sing along to one of Clancy’s songs. He stays far longer than everyone else. To make sure they’re safe, he tells himself. Not because the flames look inviting, holding his hand as he shifts the firewood around. He knows how to avoid it– but he could so easily let his hand dip into the light, let his hoodie catch aflame and burn until he’s nothing but ash.
He remembers the car, when that happens. Driving down a freezing road, gripping the wheel as tight as he could, gritting his teeth. Burning rubber and smoke. Crashing, flaming metal, hands that trembled as they struggled to get Clancy’s seatbelt off. Eventually he just stopped telling him to buckle it; it took too long, anyway. He remembered the burn scars that littered a previous Clancy’s skin and thought: never again.
Sometimes, he wants to just slam the gas down and barrel off into nowhere. He wants to floor it and crash into the trees. He doesn’t know why they still let him drive; the car just falls apart quicker and quicker every time. He does know that the only thing keeping him from doing it is Clancy; the knowledge that he’s still in the car, that he would die too. Some deep, twisted part of him thinks maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. He tries to ignore that, leaves it in the car to burn as he helps Clancy away.
Sometimes it’s a whirlpool. Flipping through notebook pages, making sure he’d left enough instructions. Detail, plans, promises, the spiral spreading further and further down, further and further out, until he couldn’t see the top of the tent. He’d throw his notebook across the small space and pray he didn’t hit anything important and scream into a wad of Clancy’s clothes, sob into them until they didn’t smell like him anymore, only tears and snot and bloodstains where he’d ripped himself open. It’s an accident. He didn’t mean to.
Sometimes, though, it creeps over him, slow and sneaky, freezing him solid in his place. He sits in the cold for hours, trembling, arms wrapped around his legs, nails digging into his forearms.
He tells himself that he keeps them long for practical reasons— it’s easier to untie things this way. It’s easier. More useful. He ignores the indents left in his arms, the deeper marks he can make because of it. It’s for the good of the group. His scars benefit them too; his small, fading marks are only a mere echo of the pain they’ve had to carry.
He stays there, frozen, until he sees the sun come up. Until he knows Clancy’s will be up soon, and ducks back to lay down, press himself close and breathe like he’s forgotten how. Maybe one day he’ll learn how to again, without someone guiding it.
But right now, it rages like a storm. Thunder crashing in his chest, a lightning strike to his heart jolting him upright from what was probably once a peaceful slumber. His eyes water from the rain flooding his brain and he can’t breathe and the notebook on his chest feels heavy– too many words, scrawled in heavy script. The blanket over him– one he doesn’t remember putting on himself– feels stifling. It slips off as he sits up, the notebook dropping onto it with a thud, landing face up, his own handwriting glaring up at him as he picks it up.
Debby her real name crossed out, a thick stripe of black, Dev written in gentler script below it. Lighter gray, like it would make the words less cruel.
If you’re reading this…
His entire body stiffens at the sight of the words. nearly chucks the notebook across the tent– he itches to throw it, but his grip tightens despite himself. The page is stained with salt and blood and he gags at the sight of it. How long ago was this? He doesn’t remember, but the ink smears a bit as he drags his finger across the page.
Recent, then. He shudders at the thought— more so at the way he can’t remember a goddamn bit of it— and tucks the book back into its place, trying to be quiet— until he freezes at the silence that meets his own. No soft breathing for him to copy, no shifting in the night. Clancy is—
He isn’t there. The spot next to him is empty, save for a piece of paper left, recognizable handwriting. Neater than it used to be– or maybe Torchbearer is just better at reading it, now.
Went for a walk. Should be back before you get up.
– Clancy
No location, no details— a good sign. He hopes Clancy would’ve left more of a note, had he planned to leave forever. He did before. He shouldn’t have had to. He shouldn’t never felt like he needed to leave.
Torchbearer couldn’t blame him for it. He wasn’t much to stay for, anyway.
He gets up, anyway, peeks his head out the tent flap, glances around the moonlit camp for the footprints. But he finds none, and his heart pounds. What if he didn’t want to be found? What if he left? What if he saw the notebook and ran? What if—
The thunder crashes in his ears and he swallows, digging his nails into his palms. He’s thankful, not for the first time, that he kept them long. The pain keeps the storm at bay— but does he not deserve to be washed away? Is being struck down and shattered not the penance he owes?
“Torch?”
Debby’s voice crackles in the silence— lightning-sharp, piercing through the noise, and he chokes on a gasp— whirling around to face her. She steps back, tired-eyed wide, hair half strewn about her face, raised like he’s a spooked animal, no longer their leader, no longer someone strong to depend on. Someone to be scared of. “Torch,” she whispers, “are you—“
“I’m fine,” he interrupts, too sharp too mean too terrible, “just looking for Clancy.”
She blinks at him, slow and steady, the tiredness leaving her eyes. “No, you’re not,” she says slowly.
He huffs, rolls his eyes. “You just caught me off guard, Dev–”
“I don’t just mean now,” she snaps, and he freezes. Shit. Shit. Shit. She sniffs a little. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it,” her eyes narrow, accusing, and she knows, she’s seen the note, she’s seen everything, she knows she knows she knows– “–but it’s almost like you’ve been avoiding me.”
It stings, namely because he can’t deny it. Not truthfully, anyway. I have been. It’ll be easier for you to say goodbye if you’re upset with me. But she sounds hurt, and what kind of selfish idiot would hurt her further? Him, apparently, because he lies. “I’ve…just been busy,” he manages, lamely.
That earns him a scoff. “Too busy,” she corrects, and he winces. “You’ve been reckless lately. You don’t eat, you’re working yourself to the bone— and you don’t sleep!” She throws her arms up, crosses them firm over her chest. “What’re you doing awake, huh?” She snaps. He winces, but it’s deserved and he knows it. He’s far too aware of how deserved it really is. “And don’t try to lie to me about it. You woke up and found him gone. Why are you awake?”
He doesn’t lie— he can’t. The words stick to his teeth as he spits them out. “Bad thoughts,” he says, quietly, and he wishes that were it. But that is all. Since he’s simply letting it happen to him, it isn’t bad. That’s all it is, isn’t it? Simply bad thoughts, that he never plans to act on. “Just my brain being stupid. It’s…nothing you need to worry about. Okay?”
The fight seems to leave her, at that, her arms loosening, eyes widening, filling with a familiar gaze of soft, aching sadness. Her eyes are gentle, glassy, and she swallows hard, and he remembers deep in the pit in his stomach why he doesn’t tell anyone about this. “Oh,” she whispers. That’s all, for a moment. Just oh. Then, shakier: “Is that why you go to the strait so much?”
He flinches, at that, and he can’t hide it this time. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. How is he to tell her that he aches to jump off?
His silence is a resounding burst of thunder and Dev gasps.
“Josh,” she says, and her voice cracks on the single word, his name, whispered soft and gentle into the dark. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s heard his name like that but it hurts, an aching, painful way. “Please, don’t try to downplay this. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m not—“
“Please, just be honest with me—!”
“Debby,” he pleads, shakier than he’s been, “please. Just drop it. I’m not going to do anything.”
Her mouth opens, then closes, a frustrated huff leaving her lips. And she does— the topic slips from her hands, but she doesn’t look happy about it, still staring up with furrowed brows and wide eyes that are suspiciously shiny. He pulls her into a brief, tight hug— tries to put everything he can into it, like the warmth of his body will sell the lies he murmurs into her hair.
“Everything will be alright,” he says. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Stop giving me reasons to,” she mumbles, choked into his shoulder, and that he can promise. I won’t be around long enough to, he thinks. After a moment of that, standing there clinging to her, finally, finally, she sighs. “He’s at the strait.”
Panic shoots into his throat, but not for Clancy– no, selfishly, he is worried about himself. About what he will do if he’s left by the edge. He didn’t have the self-control not to save his darling. Who’s to say he’ll have the self control not to stumble right off the cliffside?
But he sags anyway, because at least he knows. “Thank you,” he breathes, pulling back just to look at her— at her kind eyes, glimmering with tears, a deep seated sort of rage. She’d be better off without him putting that look in her eyes. They all would be.
“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, scrubbing at her eyes with one hand, the other locked firm on his shoulder. He pretends not to see the tears that stain her shirtsleeve when she pulls it away, steps back to leave so he doesn’t have to. He’s never been a good actor, anyway. It’s a miracle they think he’s going to stick around.
She calls to his back as he walks away. “You better not do anything stupid like jumping, y’hear me?”
He turns half over his shoulder to smile at her. It’s close to reaching his eyes, this time. “I hear ya,” he says, softly. “Now go back to Jenna, okay? Worryin’ yourself sick’s not going to help with anything.”
She sniffs, hard. “…okay,” she whispers. “Yeah, I— alright. Just be back for breakfast, okay?”
He nods. “Okay,” he whispers, and he walks away before she can see the rain flooding his eyes. Before the tremble of his lips gives away his lies.
He hardly makes it out of sight before he slumps against a tree, sobs wracking his frame, his hand clamped firm over his mouth. The bark digs in through his clothes, and it hurts, but he doesn’t care. How could he?
How easy would it be– to simply walk into the forest and let Trench take him? He knows she wouldn’t on Her own— She had made that perfectly clear. Nights alone in frozen woods nobody should’ve been able to survive, snow covering every limb. Branches breaking, waves crashing into rocks. He doesn’t know how he’s survived it all, doesn’t know why She has kept him so. Maybe if he asked, pleaded, told Her every reason he’d rattled off in his notebook. His purpose has been served, after all. What use could She— or anyone— possibly have for him now? He isn’t sure.
What he is sure of is Clancy. He needs to find him. He has to find him.
He takes a deep breath, scrubs at his eyes, and plunges into the storm.
Torch hears Clancy before he sees him– his voice, quiet and low, the soft plink of ukulele chords ringing in the air, filtering through the waves.
“I could take the high road, but I know that I'm going low. I'm a ban-, I'm a bandito.”
His heart aches in his chest and he stills, foot half raised to step. He can’t bring himself to encroach— not when he’s singing. But how selfish would he be, if he simply stood and listened, when he could be hurting?
Even so he merely stands there for a moment. It’s been too long since he’s heard him sing like this, even longer since he’s sung at all. He graced Torch with it, occasionally.
He can’t bear to wait any longer. He steps forward— loud enough to announce himself (though it’s not like he can hear it through the pounding in his own head) and crouches down behind him. His arms slot around Clancy’s waist, face pressing into his back. He feels Clancy relax against him, and belatedly remembers a time where he would’ve stiffened, first. But now he melts into the touch, hums contentedly as Torchbearer rests his forehead between his shoulders, breathes in the smell of his t-shirt, closes his eyes as they burn. It’s not affecting him at all, he thinks. It’s not the first time he’d lied that evening— he’s sure it won’t be the last.
“Hey, you,” Clancy murmurs, still plucking off small notes, strumming idly. He wishes he knew the chords. He wishes he could sing along. He promised he would, if Clancy survived; and yet, the words stick in his throat.
“Hey,” he whispers. It’s all he manages.
Clancy hums again. “You found me,” he muses, almost idly. “Didn’t even leave a good note this time.”
“Of course I did,” he whispers. He could laugh. “Of course. I’ll always find you.” He presses a kiss to the back of Clancy’s shoulder, ignoring the way his lips tremble against the skin. It’s the only thing I’m good for. “Always.” It’s more of a rasp than anything, more sob than word, all that he can get out. His throat aches to close, for him to never speak again.
The chord goes sour, abruptly stops. “Torch?” His fingers still on the ukulele and his brain crashes into the rocks. “Hey, are you okay?” It sounds like he’s underwater and Torchbearer gasps as he breaches the surface. It’s pouring, torrential. It’s going to flood, he’s going to break, the lightning is going to strike him and he’ll shatter.
“Don’t stop,” he pleads. Clancy’s breath hitches against him, hard. His hands fist in his shirt, grip around him tightening. He’s careful– his bruises are long healed, by now, but each time his shirt lifts, Torchbearer still braces to see the black and blue spots littering his ribs. “Please, I just–” his voice breaks, and he doesn’t even try to explain. The waves crash over him, leaving him shuddering, fighting off the sobs that want to break free. He knows Clancy wouldn’t judge him, but the thought makes him sick. He can’t bear it. “Please.”
He doesn’t know how to word it. He hopes Clancy knows, though Torchbearer doesn’t tell him anything, and maybe he does, because he’s kind enough not to question him. He pauses, a beat, before quietly whispering an “okay”– so small, oh-so gentle. His voice wobbles as he continues, and Torch hates himself for doing it to him.
He switches songs, a quicker tune, easier to latch onto. But he recognizes the chords before he hears the words and stiffens, gasps.
“You are formidable to me.”
His entire body lurches, cold cell floors and welts, locked eyes across a platform, reddened lips, bruised at the corners, ones that wouldn’t tell him anything that happened, and Clancy stops instantly. “Not that one?” he murmurs.
Goddess, no. Torch barely manages to shake his head, still pressed up against him. He shivers as he remembers it– Clancy’s time in Dema. Ink on the ground and bruises all over, hands that were too cold. Marks on his lips, his neck, his chest, his wrist. Blood on his gloves and bandages made of cloth. He should’ve saved him. Dev would’ve saved him. Anyone else would’ve done a better job protecting him, would never have let him go back there, would never have let them take him–
“No,” he croaks, “nothing from then. Please.”
“Okay. Okay.” Soft, gentle, patient, like it really is. It isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t. “What do you want me to play?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know.” He’s crying in earnest, now— the tears drip from his cheeks like rain, saltwater all the way down to his lips. He’s barely fighting back sobs as he buries himself in Clancy’s back. “I don’t know,” he whispers, and it’s not about the song anymore. But Clancy knows that.
More strumming, light tapping against the body. A steady rhythm— one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. “Hey,” Clancy murmurs, “hey. Torch. I need you with me. Need’ja to breathe.”
He hadn’t realized he wasn’t— hadn’t known he was drowning— until Clancy pointed it out. Another sob forces its way out, raw and choked, a gasp of a breath following it. He’s shaking. He can’t let go– his hands won’t let him. It takes longer than it should for him to realize that Clancy’s holding him in place, one hand clutching both of his own. He gives a soft squeeze and Torchbearer clings on.
“Please, don’t stop.” He sobs. “It’s loud. It’s so loud.”
Clancy’s breath catches, a hard hitch in the back of his throat. “Okay,” he says again, and it’s not— nothing about this is, but he starts strumming anyway.
“What do you need from me?” He whispers, over the chords, and Torchbearer just sobs harder because he doesn’t know. He can’t beg for anything, he can’t ask. He wants to let go, he wants to run into the forest and let Trench take him. He wants to rot in the flowers and decompose into something beautiful, or wash away in the waves below.
But Clancy is still holding him in place, so he doesn’t do any of that. He just sobs against his lover’s back and hiccups, a strangled, pathetic sound.
“Tell me not to do it,” he whispers instead.
Clancy freezes, completely and totally. “What?”
He swallows back another sob and nods. “Tell me,” he breathes, “not to do it. Tell me not to jump in. Tell me—“ his voice gives out with another ugly noise. He should be better than this. Worthless, pathetic, wasteful of any oxygen.
“Tell me to stay,” he finally manages.
Clancy’s shaking against him. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, I—okay.” It’s all he says, okay, okay, okay, like if he repeats it enough, it will make it so. His voice wobbles as he starts up, gentle strums of chords filling the air.
“Now, the night is coming to an end.”
He doesn’t remember how this one goes— not over the sound of his own sobs, of the thunder ringing in his ears. His heart beats with every burst of lightning. It’s a fight for him to even hear the words.
Then he does, miraculously, and he wishes he wouldn’t have.
*“Stay alive, stay alive, for me.”*
Oh. *Oh.*
He asked for it, he knows, but it slams into him all the same, straight to his chest. His grip on Clancy goes impossibly tighter and he nearly sobs. *Focus on the words,* he thinks, *and not the crash of the waves. Not the sound you’ll make if you hit them. Breathe.*
Clancy’s crying too, now, as he keeps going— *goddess above,* he’s crying, because of *him,* because he had been too stupid and couldn’t keep his goddamn mouth shut. Torchbearer can hear it, and it makes him shudder.
*“I hope I’m not my only friend.”*
This time, he barely manages it— to hum the backing that he once echoed around the campfire. Clancy sobs, once, but the sound is tilted. *He’s smiling,* Torch realizes, and he keeps humming, focuses all his energy into it.
*“Take pride in what is sure to die.”*
The last note rings soft in the air. His hands pull back, Clancy is moving, and he pulls his hands back, one hand grasping tight at his hair, the other fisting in the grass. *Stay in place. Don’t jump. Don’t jump. Don’t jump.* A few pieces come loose in his fingers and his lips move in futile apologies, *I’m sorry for hurting you, my lady, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,* but no sound leaves; a soft breeze washes over him, *“it’s alright, dear boy,”* and he shivers.
A soft thump as Clancy sets the ukulele to the side. “Torch,” he whispers— so soft, so gentle. It’s not fair, that he gets to sound like that. Not fair that he’s mimicking Torchbearer’s own voice back at him. He doesn’t deserve that— or maybe he does. His stomach rolls like the waves, and maybe hearing his own voice from his darling is the worst thing that could’ve happened to him.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, and Clancy exhales.
“No,” he chokes, “don’t…don’t, it’s-“ his voice breaks. “It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay, just—“ he sniffs, hard. “Just please, talk to me.” It’s a broken whisper, a soft plea. He can’t deny it. He never could.
“It’s just too loud,” he whispers, pressing his hands to his eyes. They’re wet and pathetic and he presses his hands further in. It hurts. More tears spring forth. He’s pathetic.
“What’s too loud?”
“The storm.” It’s the first time he’s ever put it into words, the first time he’s ever *thought* of saying it aloud. “It’s just— loud, and thunder, and too much, and—“ he breaks off with a strangled sob. “Goddess, I don’t make any sense, do I?”
“No!” Clancy cries, too quick, too sudden. “No, I— I know what you mean. Goddess above, of all people, I would know what you mean.”
“I’ve got my blur,” Clancy whispers, and his voice is too soft, too kind, his hand tracing gentle circles on his cheeks. “You’ve got your storm.”
“You shouldn’t have to have that,” he chokes out. “You wouldn’t have that if I hadn’t—“ *hadn’t left you there, if I’d gotten to you quicker, if I’d saved you.* He doesn’t say any of that— can’t even bear to have the thoughts swirling in his head. His eyes flood with the tears from the rain.
“I don’t know how you even forgive me.”
“Don’t do that,” Clancy whispers, firm, not harsh— not angry. “Don’t talk to me about forgiveness. I’ve never had to forgive you for a thing.”
Torchbearer’s breath hitches in an ugly noise and he shakes his head. “Y— you have,” he whispers. He remembers it vividly— dropping to his knees at Clancy’s feet, tears washing the ground around him, begging for him to just try and understand. *He couldn’t have been there, he couldn’t have stayed, he should’ve been able to, he should’ve helped.*
Clancy had walked away and Torchbearer had stayed knelt there in the cold, until Dev had come and brought him back to camp.
He doesn’t explain any of that, because he doesn’t have to. Clancy just knows, and he sighs— a deep sort of noise, sinking heavy into the dirt.
“I wasn’t angry with you for that,” he says, and he sounds tired. “I’m still not.”
“You should be.” He sounds young, pathetic, like an insolent child.
“But I’m *not.”* He reaches up and tilts Torchbearer’s face to him. “I was scared and desperate and confused, but I was never angry.”
His eyes— so deep, so brown— bore into Torchbearer’s own, and he swallows. His own drift away, to the cliff’s edge. He can’t tear them away. He can’t look back, or else he might believe him.
“We should go back to bed,” he chokes out, and it’s a pathetic attempt at a subject change, and he knows it. Clancy flinches.
“What? No, I—“ he breaks off, follows Torchbearer’s gaze. A soft exhale leaves him. “..Torch, do you—?”
He doesn’t finish the question and Torchbearer doesn’t answer— just squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the look he knows is on Clancy’s face right now. He’s barely fighting back the sobs as is.
“No,” Clancy says, firm and flat. “No, we’re— we’re not going anywhere.” He sniffs, and Torchbearer peeks his eyes open. Clancy is glaring at him— not with anger, no. Something worse, unnameable. “We’re going to sit right here by the water and Trench is going to keep us safe, and you’re not going—“ his voice cracks, harsh and loud, and Torchbearer, not for the first time that day, fights the urge to vomit. “…you’re not going to jump,” he finally whispers. “You’re just not.”
He sounds so small, so hurt, and Torchbearer has to say something. “I don’t…wanna jump,” he whispers, and it’s a false reassurance and they both know it.
“Then don’t!” He cries, and there it is— the rage, the anger. “Just don’t.”
“But you’ll all be better off if I do!”
The words come out without thinking, a lightning strike from his lips, and he regrets it immediately. He can see the words wash over Clancy— he deflates almost instantly, his eyes widening, lips falling open, and oh, Torchbearer has never hated himself more than in this moment, watching his expression fall. “Torch,” he says, half breath, half gasp, all sob, “how could you say that?”
And suddenly, seeing Clancy’s face crumple in front of him, watching as the tears flood his eyes, he doesn’t know either. How could he possibly say something so selfish, so horrid— even if it were true (which it is)? How could he put that look— that expression of what he can only describe as utter devastation— on Clancy’s face. How could he claim to love him, when he was just hurting him? It was all he’d ever done.
His lips part, pleading, desperate: “I’m s—“
“No,” Clancy snaps, pulls himself up to stand. “No.”
He takes a step back, and for a split second, Torchbearer thinks that’s it. He’s going to realize he tied himself to a pathetic, worthless, idiot of a man— if Torchbearer can even call himself that— and he’s going to leave. He’s going to get swept away with the flood, with everything good. He’s going to drown in the storm, and Torchbearer is going to watch.
But the footsteps don’t recede. He risks a glance up just to see Clancy’s eyes are closed. Clancy’s hands open and close and open again, tight fists trembling in the night air.
“Clanc—“
“Don’t.” He takes in a long, slow breath. “It’s my turn to talk. Okay?”
He nods. It’s all he can do. He’s too scared to speak— to shatter the thin ice he’s currently standing on. Maybe he deserves to fall in and freeze, but he’s selfish enough to cling to Clancy to stay afloat. Another long, slow breath. He tries to follow it and nearly gags.
“You really don’t see what you do for everyone, do you?” he whispers. “You…just don’t.”
“You don’t hear the other Banditos talking about what they can do to take some of the weight off your shoulders. Talking about wanting to help you, because you’ve done so much for them. Because you’re such a good leader.”
The lump in his throat grows. His eyes sting. The thunder crashes, once, loud, I don’t deserve that, before going blissfully silent.
Clancy continues. “You don’t see that Dev and Jenna hunched by the fire, practicing their sign language. You don’t hear what they say about you. How happy they are because of you.” He sniffs.
His brain latches onto it— the smallest of details. “…they practice?” he whispers.
Clancy nods, a wet laugh leaving his lips. “Yeah,” he whispers. “They’ve let me join them a couple times. But it always feels like I’m third wheeling.”
That works a small, startled noise out of him— one he belatedly realizes was supposed to be a laugh. The smile that graces Clancy’s lips doesn’t stay very long, but his heart thumps once, hard, in the beat that it stays.
“And what about me?” He whispers, and oh, Torchbearer is screwed. He can feel the sobs building, shaking his frame as he grips the grass, forces himself to stay still.
“What about all the times you’ve saved me? What about you risking your own life to visit me? And—” he holds out a hand, cutting him off. He hadn’t even realized his mouth had opened until he shuts it. “And don’t say you weren’t really there. You were, to me, and you were putting yourself in danger. You don’t think Dev and Jenna told me about that?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. I didn’t think it mattered. It doesn’t matter. Does it matter?
The world is blurring. He’s shaking. When did he start shaking? Did he ever stop? Has he ever been steady?
“I wouldn’t be here without you. Even now, I would’ve killed myself a million times over. You have no idea how many times I’ve had to hold onto you so I didn’t do something stupid! You—“ he breaks off with a strangled noise.
I do know, Torch wants to say. If it is even close to the amount of times I’ve had to hold onto you, then I know. I am more than aware. But he doesn’t, because he thinks— knows— he will sob if he opens his mouth.
Clancy throws his arms out. He longs to jump into them, but he is frozen still. “I love you, you hear me?” He cries. “I love you!” It’s loud, at the top of his lungs. He sniffles and Torchbearer can’t say it back.
Clancy drops his arms. “I don’t think I can say it enough, how much you mean to me.” He sniffs. “But I can’t- I can’t do this without you. None of us can, but I—“ His voice cracks, and he hides it in his hands.
“I need you, okay?” He whispers. “I need you here. I love you. You can’t leave me.”
That’s what breaks him. His entire body lurches with a strangled sob. He grits his teeth and grips the grass and the breeze washes over him again, stroking his back.
“Goddess damn it,” Torchbearer whispers, letting the world blur. “You’re going to make me do something stupid, y’know that?”
He realizes his mistake the second Clancy hears it, hands dropping from his face, eyes wide. But he looks up, the tears flooding down his face.
“Goddess,” he chokes, lips tilting in a trembling smile, “you’re going to make me want to stay.”
And he means it. That’s the scariest part. He means it, and he doesn’t even regret saying it.
Clancy laughs, startled and broken. He’s in front of Torchbearer in an instant, dropping to his knees in front of him. He sobs, a loud, raw sound, and Torchbearer has to blink another wave of tears down his cheeks. “Please,” he gasps, dropping back to his knees in front of him. “Please, stay.”
His hands fly up to cup Torchbearer’s cheeks, brush stray tears away. Torchbearer doesn’t think twice before mashing their lips together. It’s not like the last time— it’s slow, and soft, salty and sweet and he’s half sobbing into it with every breath he has to take. Every kiss is punctuated with a soft whisper, a gentle, hoarse, desperate “stay, stay,” from Clancy that has him melting, folding forward to bury his face in his neck. Clancy’s hand buries itself in his hair, pressing him close like he wants to keep him there forever. Selfishly, Torchbearer wouldn’t mind.
“Don’t you dare jump,” Clancy whispers. His own words, parroted back at him. How ironic.
“I won’t.” He means it. He shouldn’t, but he does. He means it with every fiber of his being.
“I love you,” he whispers, and it’s the only thing he could possibly mean more. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Clancy whispers. “How many times have you talked me off this ledge? Feels only fair that you get a turn.”
That coaxes a laugh out of him, a low rumble. He feels Clancy return it against his chest.
“Just—“ Clancy clears his throat, his grip tightening, ever so slightly. “Just please. Tell me, okay? Let me help too.”
He’s pleading, and Torchbearer hates that he’s the reason for it. So he nods, slow and steady. “Okay,” he whispers. “I promise.”
Clancy smiles, sniffles, blinks a few times to clear the remaining tears. “Look.”
A subject change— a welcome one. Torch knows it isn’t over, but then the light hits his face and he gasps, and maybe it is. The sun barely peeks over the horizon, but it feels like he’s coated in the golden glow.
“We’ve been out here a while, huh?”
“Yeah,” Torch whispers, “I guess so.”
The light coats his face, Trench’s gentle hand caressing his cheek, drying the remnants of the tears stinging his skin. He exhales, softly.
My goddess, he thinks, and it’s like a weight has been lifted. The storm calms, the cloud parting. The warmth washes over him.
My boy, Trench thinks back, a glowing brush of rays. It is a soft brush, though— hardly there. Enough to remind him, She is not what matters right now.
He turns to look at Clancy— red eyed, flushed cheeks, ukulele resting in the dirt beside him, a tentative smile building on his quivering lips. He’s beautiful, painted in the orange glow from the sun, and Torchbearer’s heart aches. How could he have ever left something so gorgeous? How could he have ever considered it?
He closes his eyes. The sun is bright. The sun is rising, again. Clancy is with him. The weight— the dark, the storm, the whirlpool— is made light, fading in the golden glow. He turns to press another gentle kiss to Clancy’s lips, smiling against him.
“I love you,” Clancy whispers, a sunbeam glow, brighter than lightning and kinder by a mile.
He exhales, deep. The words get stuck— you shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it— and selfishly, he lets the light wash them away, and simply breathes out the only thing that matters.
“I love you too.”