Archive of Our Own

Rudo was scrubbing his hands at his sink when he heard the loud knocking.

It was so—obnoxious—that even as his head swam, and the world warped at the edges, he couldn’t ignore the sound. His hands hurt so blandly and 3R was—unable to help now, and he needed to clean it anyway—but he was scrubbing at his skin and watching blood and grit and something else fall from his limbs, into the sink, within the mixture of water and soap.

There was a bottle of rubbing alcohol hazardously leaning to one side. Strips of gauze and abused cotton balls were scattered, too, next to the discarded bottle of liquid soap that Rudo had practically thrown across the counter after he originally tried applying it to his hands. Burned and blistered and cracked and twisted. His old bandages were messily strewn over the floor, and the water was still running.

He was watching the skin… peel.

It was peeling. Warping, too, like his vision.

Rudo’s mouth was way too wet. His fingers trembled. Everything was burning. He was biting his lip so hard—so fucking hard—and his mouth was pooling with salvia. It was a bad sign. He always threw up when his mouth was like this, numb and staticky—like a cheap radio.

Regto had known how to convince him not to—

The loud knocking came back again. “Rudo! Hey, you’re gonna miss dinner, man!”

And Rudo knew that. His head straightened, lifting. He blinked sluggishly. Spit spilled from the corner of his mouth, and it trickled down his throat—scratching at him—nod he barely looked at himself in the crooked little mirror above the sink before his head lolled back down, and he squeezed his body closer to the counter. His knees bumped the cabinet under the sink. His hands shook wildly, violently—everything hurt, and the noise made it worse, and his stomach cramped. He knew he was about to miss dinner, ‘cause everyone had been talking about going out to eat after that recent job, but Rudo had said he wanted to go to his room for a bit—just a bit, whatever—and Riyo had rolled her eyes and tasseled his hair and Enjin had laughed and Zanka had shrugged, indifferent in that weirdly non-indifferent way of his—and Eishia had waved him off shyly, and Rudo had known that they didn’t know. His stomach had been aching all day. His hands had gotten worse the longer the week went on, and this mission nearly—put him—back into a little silk-deposit known as death-season, or as Regto called it, the ghost town in your head, bud. But Rudo was here, right now, and he was trying really hard to clean his hands without—without—without fucking it all up.

Rudo opened his mouth and his head bowed. Some of his hair tickled his face, and started to cling to his forehead. What the hell? He was sweating.

Something was… wrong.

His hands kept shaking and his eyes had begun to sting.

“Rudo!” The sound from beyond the door, beyond the bathroom, in the hall—echoed and crept and rung. “You better not be fixin’ some trash up! We gotta go ‘fore it gets dark, y’know how far the restaurant is!”

But Rudo wasn’t hungry.

Rudo was…

Somethin’ is wrong with me, he thought, and it couldn’t even leave his mouth.

He felt something rise up in his throat. His shoulders climbed, too, and he pressed himself further against the sink. His knees knocked into the cabinet below again. Further, further, further. His heartbeat was in his ears—louder than the knocking—and he couldn’t even come up with anything.

Fuck. Why did it—hurt so much?

His eyes darted over to 3R, which was waiting patiently on the far corner. He set the gloves on a folded towel. ‘Cause his gloves deserved better, and he didn’t want to just… get them dirty. He didn’t want that.

There was silence. The water running rushed over his skin. Rudo watched it. It wasn’t clear. It was coming away reddish pink, brown—parts of him were clumping up. The pain was starting to erupt. He knocked his hands down, directly under the stream of water. The water pressure wasn’t strong in his room, but it wasn’t strong anywhere—the one time he got a taste of strong, pressurized water was when Regto brought him a hose from a particular scrap market. It had barely worked for most of its life, but when Rudo got his young hands on it, admiring the rubber and the knobs and the weird water pump they hooked it to, the water that launched outwards and splashed Rudo. It had wiped his curiosity clean off, and replaced his face with something surprised. It was a—good—memory. He remembered Regto laughing so loudly. He remembered the coppery tang the water carried. He remembered being toweled off. He remembered—

Through his teeth, his lungs made a whistling sound.

“Fuck,” he whispered, rippling.

The sound came out wheezy, and weak, and his knees were starting to bend. Rudo leaned halfway across the counter, almost far enough over that he could rest his head against the mirror.

His hands jolted, and the water poured over the backside of his palms, down into the grooves of his wrists, and Rudo had the briefest vision of carving everything off and blood splattered right down into the sink bowl and his eyes stared. He was—something was—sick, wrong, fuck—it hurt, everything hurt, he needed new bandages, he needed—

Rudo choked, and choked, and spit came up from his mouth and then something hot and acidic spilled out right after and it went everywhere into the sink.

His hands went on fire and he made such an awful sound, cursing and shaky. He smacked one hand into the faucet, into the knobs. He pulled them forwards to get all the water he could, struggling. “Agh,” he choked, and sputtered, and there was vomit in the sink and on the counter and some of it was on his forearms. He crammed his hands further into the sink, scrubbed and splashed at the skin. Fuck. Fuck. “Ah—shit, fuck, urgh,” his words started to smear together and his eyes went everywhere and he knocked his head forwards into the mirror and it stopped—oh.

Rudo leaned up against everything, water pouring over his arms.

He should… shower. His head hurt so bad. His arms—spasming—and he squeezed his eyes shut all the way and his skin was throbbing, peeling, dying. Was this stuff necrotic? Was he—he could move his limbs and they worked, even in pain, even if they looked like this—but were they—dead?

Regto would have known. Regto would have been able to come up with an answer.

(His jinki was the answer. Had been—)

Through the sudden haze, leaning his head against the coolness of the mirror, Rudo realized he could do it again.

Pain overpowered pain. New pain, something fresh and crisp and sharp and different—that was something Rudo used to do. Regto never liked it. Regto had always stopped him as soon as he saw or heard Rudo doing anything like it—head slamming or arm hitting or dunking his arms into hot water.

“Ah,” he said, hiccupping, and his voice scratched.

He could feel 3R’s anima. He could feel his own.

(—the answer, because Regto had wrapped him in a blanket and then shown him the gloves in a small box and had said try these, Rudo, tell me if they help. And Rudo’s head had been coated in dried blood and he had slid one glove on slowly, fingers weak, and Regto had helped him with the second glove, and Rudo’s pain and emptiness had transformed into something different, and Regto had smiled at him, and Rudo had mumbled it helps.)

Rudo lifted his head away, just for a moment, and then slammed it back into the mirror.

And then he did it again, and again and again and again and—

(You can’t keep this up.)

—then there was a violent interruption, such a loud noise that cascaded down his spine.

“Rudo,” someone said, sharply, and there was a heavy hand on his shoulders and then Rudo was being yanked backwards. A hand cupped his head, too, warm and smooth and—stable—and Rudo made an awful noise again at the contact. “Hey,” the voice continued, “Hey—it’s fine, Rudo, it’s fine. Stop—hold on, ‘kay?”

Rudo flinched and recoiled, and the water was still running over his hands, but he shuddered and said, “Stop—jus’ stop, stop…”

“Okay,” said the person, and Rudo was tugged backwards one last time—far from the sink and mirror—but then no other movement happened. “It’s fine. It’s fine, okay? You’re… ah…”

‘Cause the blood and the vomit and the water running and the bathroom. You don’t look fine, buddy. You don’t look too good. You don’t look right. His ears were ringing. The hand on his shoulder had spun him around, firm—unwilling to let go—and Rudo could feel it. The other hand was at his head, warm. Too warm. What? His eyes darted, unable to focus, and he breathed out harshly and tried to suck more air back in. Through his teeth—he whispered and rasped and started to cough, choking on spit and tang, and the haze barely cleared.

“What?” He choked, and the fog wasn’t changing.

His shoulders were cold.

His blood was racing to his head, and he could feel it trickle across his skin. He was itchy.

There was a person in here with him, and he could—hear—the anima, feel it press against him like a shadow. The hand swiped across the back of his head, holding him carefully. The distance was—away, gone—he wasn’t sure what was happening. It was wrong. Rudo kept tensing up, but the slightest shift made him think of safety, and then he loosened, and he tumbled, and he breathed weirdly.

“Rudo,” said the voice, slow as it dragged over his senses, “Take a breath. Pretty sure it’d help, y’know?”

Heavy—like drowning—there had once been a bucket big enough to shove both his arms into. He had filled it with water and dunked his head into it when he was seven—held himself there—kicked and thrashed when Regto found him after a few minutes—had fought so valiantly. Gave his Dad a busted lip for his efforts. Yelling, gargling, salt and spit and anger. Did your book tell you what I was doing? Regto had grabbed him by his biceps and wrapped him in the thickest blanket they owned, over and over, until Rudo stayed put and stopped kicking. Then they had sat… down… and Regto had pulled Rudo close, into his side—Rudo, I heard something, so I needed to check on you—and his Dad had kept him close for the following night until Rudo’s anger dissolved, until the blood from his hands dried out and he could clean everything properly, until it was less like dealing with a battery that had exploded. Don’t do that type of thing, man, Regto had murmured, slowly, and then the bucket had been discarded. Rudo got his gloves three weeks later.

There was a sharp sound; a breath, to breathe, to inhale.

It wasn’t Rudo.

“Ow,” said Rudo, when the hand pulled him a little—when it pressed at his forehead and moved his bangs away. Take in what the sky owes you, Regto had recited from and old book, once, reading out loud to Rudo in one of his many fits.

“Sorry,” said the…

(What does the sky owe to a buncha humans who ruined it?)

Rudo started to move his head away, tilting. His lungs expanded. He shuddered, and he made a sound—animalistic—the Sphere was right, he wasn’t human like this—something terrible had transformed in his head to make him otherworldly.

“Stop,” he hiccupped, and hissed, “That—”

“Sorry,” the person repeated, and the hand kept his hair out of the way. Observational, light—the words filtered in the air, “Rudo, you there? ‘S okay. Seriously. You’re at base, remember? In your room?”

In his room, yes, ‘cause of the mission and people were gonna leave for dinner but Rudo’s arms hurt so fucking bad and he—

“I know,” Rudo snapped, blistering, and there was blood trickling down his head. It curled over the bridge of his nose. It kissed one eyelid, tangled into his lashes, smeared over his eyebrow. “I know, I know,” and he turned his head sharply to the side, sputtering. He wanted to throw up again. “Lemme go,” he struggled, and his shoulders rose, and the hand on his head and body were infectious, awful, guilty things. “‘M missin’ dinner, I know, I know!”

“Rudo,” said the person—and the silhouette moved, and the bathroom was brighter than Rudo remembered, and there was copper and acid in his mouth, and Regto had always warned him not to throw up too much if he could help it, ‘cause stomach acid would fuck up your teeth, and no one had access to great dentistry in the Sphere unless you were richer than rich, and the bathroom was too small and a stranger—not a stranger—was here with him.

“Go ‘way,” Rudo snapped again, all teeth, but when he stumbled backwards—he smacked into the side of the counter again. Pain went up his leg, into his hip, into his back.

The room spun, and he toppled backwards-pressed his body as close to the sink and cabinet as he could. “Gotta, gotta just—”

(Hurry up, man, c’mon! Dinner! Hurry up! You can’t camp out in there all night! Let’s go! C’mon! C’mon!)

—stop the bleeding, and the pain, and—

And the hands were gone, and he thought that—they would grab him—and pull him out of the bucket and away from the wall and into a blanket—wrapped up and tucked against a living, breathing side—Rudo’s head twisted on itself, and he smacked one wet, bleeding palm against the counter, searching for 3R’s comforting presence.

Regto had never taken 3R from him. Never. Rudo had avoided taking his gloves off for days at a time, barely ever parting from them. And now—

Now—

A clatter, and the person was at the sink’s single drawer to the left. It slid open and out came a washcloth. The sink was still running. There was a smear of blonde that Rudo barely tracked, still seeking 3R blindly at the corner of the counter. But then the guy had a wet washcloth and he turned over to Rudo again and reached out. The boy ducked, struggling, teeth opening and body recoiling.

But before Rudo could grab onto one of his gloves, the washcloth touched the center of his forehead, rather careful, and a voice scraped over the room. “Rudo. It’s Enjin. Do ya see me?”

The blonde… and nicotine…

Rudo froze, stumbling, and there was warmth over his face.

The water that soaked into the washcloth was lukewarm, but it—pressed along the stinging sensation at the center of his face, over older scars—shiny—white, single-minded—and Rudo’s eyes darted. His teeth clacked when he shut his jaw. Enjin held the cloth to Rudo’s face, oddly impassive, and they were at a weird standstill.

“Ya with me?” Enjin asked.

“I,” said Rudo, choking, “Hurts.”

“I know,” Enjin replied, slowly, “Ya hit your head a few times, yeah?” But the guy looked down, towards Rudo’s limp arm—which was still swirling with residue. “Oh. Shit. Ah—hey.” That awful sound, the breath—the surprise and muted disgust, was it disgust? Rudo’s other arm was on the counter, his hand curled up into a fist. Blood had smeared over the surface, trickled across it on his attempt to find 3R. “Hey,” Enjin said urgently, “Two options, okay? Wanna hear ‘em?”

“Jus’ hurts,” said Rudo.

His words tripped up, and he looked down, and he saw his feet on the tile and there was water and blood and old bandages all over the floor.

“I know,” Enjin repeated, because it was kinda obvious… but he held the washcloth to Rudo’s face, damp enough to catch the blood that had been drying on his skin, but not wet enough to make the wound—wounds?—continue to bleed profusely. “I can patch your arms and head real quick, or I can bundle you up and take ya to Eishia. I gotta keep pressure on this, though,” and Enjin emphasized the washcloth, pushing it a little firmer against Rudo’s head. “If you wanna hold this, I can get your arms wrapped.”

Rudo’s gaze slid to his arm. His fingers twitched.

“No meds,” he mumbled, and hoped that was coherent enough.

Was it? No painkillers available, and he didn’t want to bother the healer—she was shy and nervous—Rudo felt like she might blanch if she saw this stuff.

“Uh, yeah, okay,” said Enjin, “I’ll patch you up. Don’t worry. Here—hold this.”

The pain was… gonna come back. He could feel everything tingling, that twinge that never stopped. Getting injured in other areas sometimes made his arms more bearable. Not always. Just sometimes.

“Okay,” the boy mumbled, and he slowly raised one hand to press at the washcloth on his forehead. His fingertips brushed over Enjin’s, and it sent a terrible electrical sensation down his spine. He recoiled, pressing away—and Enjin released his hold on the washcloth and the side of Rudo’s head.

“Sorry,” the man murmured, throat bobbing—stiff—like a door nail, “Didn’t mean to give ya a static shock. Hold that there for a minute.”

Then Enjin leaned towards the counter and started to assess stuff. Rudo assumed, at least. The hand on his head slid to his shoulder, stretching. Some shuffling… noise… and Rudo blinked and Enjin was in front of him again, roll of bandages in one hand, while his other ended up on Rudo’s shoulder. “Here,” he said, “Sit down for a second.” And Rudo complied, vision fuzzy. He was sitting on the floor, now, legs folding awkwardly. Enjin knelt down, dragged something with him—oh, the first aid kit. The stupid kit that Rudo hadn’t been able to understand. “I’mma start with this arm,” Enjin said, and he tapped Rudo’s right bicep. He tapped far above the damaged flesh, far above and away from what would hurt. Enjin sounded serious. “If it hurts, tell me. We can take a break or go to medbay.”

Rudo blinked groggily again, still holding onto the washcloth. He slowly extended his right arm, shivering a little. He felt cold. His head was warm and blistering and his mouth was full of spit and—bile—something acidic was still in his throat.

“Yeah,” said the guy, “Just like that. No biggie.”

And he was… muddled, shadowed. Something twisted in his eyes but Rudo didn’t know the name, and Enjin didn’t say anything like gross or don’t infect me. Enjin didn’t say anything at all as he began to maneuver Rudo’s arm, taking apart the roll of bandages and determining a good starting place. Some of the blood was welling up again, at the deepest groove. Rudo’s wrist ached. He wanted to chew the skin off, scrape and scrape and…

“Rudo,” Enjin asked, and his voice was steady. Pressure grew on his right arm in a thick streak, and Rudo looked at it blearily—the clean white that had just pressed over the angry black, the charting, the… “How long were you doin’ this, hmm?”

“Uh,” said Rudo, and he tipped his head backwards. It barely smacked into the cabinet behind him. “Not long?”

He felt dizzy.

“Yikes,” Enjin sighed, mostly under his breath. “Man, you should’ve said something if you needed help.” He pressed down a bit too roughly at Rudo’s elbow, and the pressure turned to pins, and Rudo squeezed his eyes shut and hit his head backwards again. “Shit, sorry,” Enjin lessened the contact, and his hand came up to Rudo’s nape—slipped, pulled him forwards. “Sorry,” he repeated, sounding a bit rough at the edges. He frowned. “I should’ve just taken you down to medical, huh?”

Rudo’s face contorted. He flexed his fingers against his forehead, and the drying blood, and the damp cloth, and he hiccupped. “I hate medical,” he said after a minute.

It took far too long to get the words from his brain to leave his mouth.

“Ah, I get it,” Enjin tried to—what was he trying to do?

Rudo’s eyes were stinging again. His arms hurt. “Wrap ‘em,” Rudo insisted, all high-pitched and embarrassingly kiddish. He kinda sounded like… a kicked dog. He knew what they sounded like, ‘cause he had seen the Apostles kick a stray in the slums during one of the maintenance security check-days—total shit—what a fucking—he pressed down as harshly as he could on his forehead. He should’ve just bashed his head into the mirror properly, should’ve thrown up his lunch and breakfast. Fucking wasteful. His eyes snapped open. “Enjin,” Rudo mumbled, teeth clacking uncomfortably, “Hurry up, just—”

Enjin took Rudo’s right arm and started the process again. This time, he let go of Rudo’s nape, instead dragging the boy away from the cabinet and more towards the center of the floor. This whole affair was so fucking embarrassing.

“Don’t hit your head,” the guy said, dryly. “Seriously.”

Rudo’s head spun. As he looked everywhere but his arms and Enjin, his lungs eventually stopped trying to explode out of his chest.

“Hurts,” he confessed, and he really shouldn’t. He wasn’t… in his head anymore. He shouldn’t be saying a bunch of useless shit. He shouldn’t be saying any of it. A few seconds went by, and he squeezed his eyes shut again. “Hittin’ my head always helped before,” he croaked, “And throwin’ up, and—”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Enjin muttered, but it sounded sarcastic as hell. He didn’t falter with the bandages, though—and Rudo forgot to ask how the hell this guy knew a lick about first aid. He wouldn’t have ever expected it.

The floor was cold. Rudo should have just taken a shower and scrubbed everything like that, with the downpour. It would have been easier. He could do that next time.

(Don’t do this kind of thing again, Rudo. Don’t do it alone.)

His arms stung. Something crawled up in his throat and he gagged.

“Needa throw up again?” Enjin paused, and he looked like he was gonna get up and get a trash bin or bowl or something.

“No,” Rudo lied, and he saw a vision of painted teeth—bright red enamel paint—the fancy stuff that the rich people used during the fancy holidays—the kind that Regto had said would cost way too much for such a short experience. But Rudo could see it, and he wanted red teeth—not caked by blood or spit—but power, that clenched fist of fate, the strangulation of wealth that could have helped people in the slums if the normal folk weren’t so fucking batshit crazy. His stomach churned, and he struggled to come up with an excuse. “Can you,” and everything was buzzing badly, “My arms, ‘m sorry, jus’ fix ‘em, I—”

“Almost done with this one,” Enjin said. “If you needa throw up, lean to the left. We can clean it later. Try not to…” And the man grimaced, cleared his throat, “Try not to throw up on your arms or me, ‘kay?”

Rudo warbled, “I know.”

There was a hum. It stretched out. Rudo stretched his mind, too, chased the sudden—silence, the ache—he wished Regto was here—his stomach twisted uncomfortably. Dinner. He should have just manned up and powered through. It was necessary. A little pain after a long day. It shouldn’t be such an issue, it shouldn’t, but he was just—here. Somethin’ is wrong with me, he thought, and it still couldn’t leave his mouth. Somethin’ is wrong with me. Somethin’ is wrong with me.

“Sorry,” Rudo managed to murmur, and he dutifully held the washcloth against his head. His arm hurt at this angle, but Enjin was making quick work of his right arm, anyway. “I… Aren’t you… missing dinner?”

“No issue, man,” Enjin hummed, half-shrugging.

“I wanted dinner,” Rudo confessed, sour, and he lowered his voice. Talking it out didn’t help him much, but it was expected-explain your motives, explain why you decided to hurt yourself, explain it so they don’t the wrong idea. I won’t know unless you tell me, Regto had told him, wiping mud off his face. So, you gotta tell me these things. Tell him. Telling. “My arms jus’ kept hurtin’, and then by the time I—there were people knocking on my door, and I was… busy… tryna clean the wounds, and…”

“Hey, we’re gettin’ it fixed now,” Enjin said. He wrapped another layer around Rudo’s arm, careful along one of the deeper grooves, and continued, “No reason not to go to dinner afterwards. As long as you’re feelin’ up for it, then we can still go. Don’t sweat it.”

“Sorry,” Rudo muttered.

“Nah,” Enjin replied, “I just said there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“I… hit you, though,” the kid mumbled, and his voice was low.

When Enjin was done with his right arm, he made sure the trail of bandages were secure. The man gave it a quick tug and made sure none of the damaged tissue was showing before he gestured for Rudo’s other arm. “Eh,” said Enjin, “You were scared. I came up on you when you couldn’t tell who was who. It’s my bad.”

Rudo slowly changed arms. His right hand came up to hold the washcloth, and he ducked his head with a long breath. “Dunno,” he said.

“Well,” Enjin muttered. “You don’t gotta know.”

“Sorry,” Rudo said again. “I…”

“All good,” Enjin replied. He was careful with Rudo’s arm, and didn’t look away from it—most would—most did—Regto never did, from what Rudo remembered—the man would just help him wrap everything and then tuck a blanket around him, if he didn’t already have one. Enjin held part of the bandage down, moving it over Rudo’s wrist with precision. “Not too tight?” He asked.

Rudo shook his head, the slightest movement, and bit his tongue from puking. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. “No,” he said. “‘S fine.”

“Alright,” Enjin agreed. He was very meticulous. “Do you wrap your fingers, too?” Rudo made an affirmative sound. Enjin said, “Huh.” Then continued, like before. He paused at some point to take another wet rag and mop up some of the blood. He must have done that for Rudo’s other arm, too, ‘cause there wasn’t a lot of blood seeping through the new bandages. Some kind of… ointment? Enjin dropped the washcloth off to the side, dismissive, and placed both hands over Rudo’s forearm, smoothing out the ridges in the new wrapping. He hesitated before reaching Rudo’s palm, and the fingers. “Still okay?” He checked. “Can you flex your fingers, make a fist?”

Rudo, distantly, flexed his fingers. It sent mild pain up his arm, but it wasn’t any worse than normal. Not really. He formed a fist right after and felt his skin pull uncomfortably at his knuckles. 3R would numb that, probably. Make it bearable.

He tilted his head down, nauseous, and pressed his washcloth further against his head. Everything was throbbing. “‘S fine,” he mumbled, again.

“Lemme get your gloves,” Enjin said, and he got up from the floor and reached for the items on the counter. The idea of Enjin touching his gloves made Rudo feel queasy, but it barely lasted a second—he couldn’t think—he didn’t want to think about that.

He used to say that to—Regto—all the time. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. Bleeding out, blood in the kitchen sink, over the counter and floor—splattered on the side of the couch, vomit and mud trekked through half the house, upstairs and down—stars above them, colliding, sparkling as Rudo spat copper into dirt piles and pressed a needle through scratchy felt, buttons bursting—his Dad coming home and ruffling his hair before showing him a new recipe—it’s fine, said so angrily after someone kicked him or badmouthed him or anything like it—it’s fine, ‘cause he stopped paying much attention to the scrapes or burns or glares sent his way.

Rudo flexed his hand again, and then curled his fingers into his hairline with the washcloth. His body protested. His head hurt.

Better carve it all off next time, said that awful voice that lived at the back of his head. Rudo had thought 3R had taken care of it—that violent urge, the awful sensation of choking and dying and killing—seeing it happen in time, seeing his Dad take the blade and the stranger walk free, taking his Dad’s book with him. My arms always fucking hurt, choked that little boy. Nothin’ will fix it. You can’t fix it.

(Kicking and screaming and crying and trying to drown, trying to silence it, trying to stop it—having Regto pull him away and out of the bucket, to wrap and hold him tightly—kept safe—still weeping when it happened, still so angry. He remembered being so angry.)

Was he still angry? About it?

Fuck, Rudo thought. His stomach growled. His mouth was full of spit.

What had made him so angry then—

Enjin crouched down in front of him again, and extended the gloves. Rudo’s eyes pitched forwards, and then his body. Instinct led him to his soul, that tiny piece of himself that grappled with reality in kinder forms than he did—and his hands shook. He dropped the cloth from his head and snatched 3R from Enjin—quick, shaky—struggling to shove one glove on. He managed it before Enjin could say anything, or make a comment, or even open his mouth. Rudo’s heart went to his throat, to his head, to—everywhere.

Rudo sucked in air for a while. 3R settled on his hands, the material heavy. Anima struck him, electric and brittle, and it dug in past his bandages and it was all pins and needles. But—he knew it, so familiarly. It was his. It was life. He breathed through his teeth. He didn’t look up to see his team leader’s face. This was bad enough. This was such shit, and Rudo was hungry, and he wanted to throw up a little more.

“You good, Rudo?” Enjin asked.

“Uhuh,” the kid coughed, wet, and he tilted his head down. “Gotta fix my head, though.”

“It’s not bleeding as much,” Enjin agreed. He rocked backwards on his heels, wiped a hand down his face and then pinched the bridge of his nose. He took about two seconds to think of something else to say or do. Then, with a type of energy that Semiu normally had, the guy sighed. “So. Did you hit your head on accident?”

(That sounded familiar. Didja? But it was obvious, in the question, that the answer wasn't the one you wanted.)

Well.

Rudo, rather pointedly, didn’t meet Enjin’s gaze.

Enjin made a sound, and it was long and drawn out. He reached over and placed his hand on Rudo’s head, very heavy, and ruffled his hair a touch too aggressively. “Man,” he said, “I got my work cut out for me with you.”

“Nah, you can go to dinner,” Rudo mumbled, bitter about it. “You don’t gotta do anything with me, I have it handled. ‘S not always like this, always—you just—it was…” He coughed, slid his gaze over the floor, then to his glove hands. The bandages were that soft white color. New, clean. Not coppery. He breathed out harshly. “It was a bad day. That’s all.”

“You need dinner too,” Enjin laughed. He ruffled Rudo’s hair one more time before straightening out and standing up. Something popped when he stood at his full height, and Enjin dramatically winced at the sound. He chuckled, “Don’t get old, man.”

“My back does that already,” Rudo scoffed. “Not ‘cause of age.”

“Damn,” said Enjin, and he wiped his hands off on his shirt and sent a look in Rudo’s direction. “You gonna stand up so I can look at your head in the light?”

The kid frowned. “Can’t you see it from… down here? How’s light gonna help?”

“Eh,” said the guy. “Just get up. I’ll see what I can apply to it—dunno if you have the right stuff for a head wound.” He paused, smiling dryly. “At least you didn't break the mirror.”

“‘M not dumb,” Rudo said, and he slowly unfolded himself, and slowly stood up. He leaned into the structure of the cabinet, scraping his hip as he raised himself onto his two feet. He leaned against the counter, hitching one arm up to smack on the surface. It was still scattered with red. He glanced at the mirror in question—which had fractured, splitting—he could see where his head had made an impact. “I wouldn’t. I don’t like breakin’ ‘em.”

Regto and him had only ever had one mirror. It had been scraped really badly, but it had served them well. Rudo had never broken it. Regto was the one who ended up knocking it over on a random Tuesday, to which the two of them mourned the loss of their mirror. They started using a polished metal board afterwards, it hadn’t been the same.

Rudo reached up and gently touched his forehead. He winced when 3R’s material touched his skin, tender, but at least there was no debris. He didn’t feel any.

The mirror was still attached to the wall. There weren’t any scattered parts on the counter.

(You can’t keep doing this kind of thing, man.)

When Rudo turned to face Enjin, the guy gestured for Rudo to shuffle forwards. The kid came closer, around the counter, and Enjin reached for his head and tilted it. Rudo’s eyes traced upwards, into the ceiling, and he tried to focus on the differing ceiling tiles—the crooked one and the one with spots, like quail eggs. He wondered if the Ground even had quails anymore. He should ask. Regto had a tapestry on one of the walls that depicted an ugly-colored bird, and he had always said it was a type of quail. Rudo had thought he was talking shit.

“Never said you were dumb,” Enjin hummed. He tilted Rudo’s head back, frowned a little, and clicked his tongue. “You can still see everythin’ without issue?”

“Yeah,” Rudo mumbled.

“Follow my finger,” Enjin said. He stepped back enough for his hand to be visible.

Painted nails, the tattoo—it swirled and warped in Rudo’s vision, but he followed the movement without much issue. His other hand stayed on the side of Rudo’s face—made his skin tingle—something burrowed into his chest and told him to crawl into a ditch.

“I see it fine,” Rudo coughed, wetly—and followed Enjin’s hand as it finally dropped to his side. “Ugh…”

“Alright, alright. Let’s just wrap it so no blood gets on your face when you eat,” Enjin shrugged. He grabbed the last piece of fresh bandages—one strip left, shockingly enough. “Let’s go get dinner when we’re done. Can’t let ya starve.” He did that weird pausing thing. “Do you need anythin’ for your stomach beforehand? Some anti-nausea meds?”

“Uh, no,” said Rudo.

The blonde did a so-so gesture with his hand, before pushing Rudo’s hair carefully to the side. He started pressing the bandage against the skin, securing it in place. “You sure? You threw up twice.”

Rudo scoffed again, and he rubbed at the side of his neck with 3R. “‘Cause it—well, no. I’m fine.”

At the response, Enjin laughed again. It was short and snippy, not very amused. “Painkiller, then,” he said. “Eating might help settle your stomach, but if your hands are still giving you trouble, then you should get something to take the edge off. Seriously, man, don’t pull this crap if you can help it. Nothin’ wrong with taking some ibuprofen.”

The little things? Rudo wrinkled his nose.

The idea of takin’ something made his stomach coil up uncomfortably. If it wouldn’t knock the pain down several pegs, then he wouldn’t bother. It would be a waste. Rudo didn’t like messing around with medicine, anyway—even if the Cleaners could afford it, Rudo didn’t want that bullshit over his head. His hands caused him trouble on a weekly, if not daily, basis. He wasn’t about to take some crap every time he felt a little hurt.

“Probably would need hydrocodone or some shit,” Rudo muttered, wiggling his shoulders and rolling them forwards to try and alleviate the tension that was coming back. “Fuckin’ gabapentin or, like, tramadol.”

“Oh, you mean—the big boy meds,” Enjin said, and it came out funny.

Rudo heard the underlying tone. Somethin’ is wrong with me. He turned his head to the side and glared at the man, “Shut up.”

Enjin was mostly done with the bandage, and while it felt unobtrusive, if Rudo thought about it for more than a few seconds he started getting dizzy and sick. The guy backed up, coordinated and easy. “Ah, sorry,” he said, and the cleaner leaned against the opposite wall and raised both his hands up. Surrender. “Not tryna make fun of you. I guess I didn’t realize that the pain was… that bad.”

That bad, Rudo thought, faintly.

He turned away from Enjin and observed the counter. Fucker, he thought, without much heat.

He should clean it. He should.

The scattered supplies and blood and the traces of vomit—yuck—fucking gross. And the mirror. He should use 3R tomorrow, when he felt better, and could use anima without potentially throwing up or bleeding some more. ‘Cause he didn’t want to break things. It was bad enough that… it had happened, and that Enjin—anyone, really—saw it. Now it had to get fixed and that was Rudo’s fault.

His hands throbbed mildly. Rudo was trying to push past it, and the heaviness of being watched, and the arch in his belly that kept growing. He flexed his fingers again, trying to gain some kind of control back. They moved. His hands worked fine. He could bend his arms at the elbows. His wrists weren't as stiff as boards. His knuckles weren’t split in nineteen different places, and there weren’t any splinters in his hands. He blinked wetly—spit pooled in his mouth. He needed to brush his teeth. Maybe get saltwater, if any was available.

“Rudo?” Enjin asked, lightly.

The kid turned from the counter. Indecisive. They should just go to dinner. Enjin should go away. I didn’t realize the pain was that bad. Seriously. That was…

“When it’s actually bad,” Rudo mumbled, tightly. “I wanna die.”

(Wanna die, came that choked ghost, that voice inside the dying town of his head. When it’s actually bad, I wanna die. Get it?)

The man’s shoulders tensed, and his face shifted, those eyes steady—but Rudo wasn’t steady, he wasn’t like that.

Rudo met his gaze for approximately three seconds before he couldn’t anymore, and looked away. Always hurts. Always bad. But he didn’t want to—die. Right now. He didn’t want to die right now. When he was younger, it had been a constant pattern in his head; swirling endlessly. Regto had figured it out without any explicit words being thrown. No one ever said wanna die, and it had never been asked about directly. Rudo hadn’t wanted to say something so serious. He wasn’t ever that… disoriented for long. Maybe a few days at a time, if it was really bad. The worst it’ll ever be. That kind of thing.

He went back to the counter, because he wasn't able to handle looking at someone who was looking at him. It was too stressful. He hated it.

“So—my Dad—would try everythin’ to fix it.” And his voice climbed, and his shoulders were up to his ears. He inhaled, then exhaled, and then dug around in the drawer from before. He had plenty of washcloths in here, thank the Gods, but he had never had to use ‘em like this. He mumbled, made of bile, “But he’s—not here. Duh. And—so, I—can’t feel better, and I know medication is expensive everywhere—we never had it up on the Sphere, either, so my hands would just hurt all fuckin’ month. Had hydrocodone once, when it was really bad.” Rudo took the cloth and dragged it over the counter, mopping up the blood and… vomit, he guessed. There was soap and water splattered closest to the sink, too. “It helped enough, before I got 3R.”

Enjin was still staring at him.

Rudo could tell.

“Shit,” Enjin said at last. The weight of his gaze made Rudo’s neck prickle. “Yeah. Okay.” He took a breath, and muttered something about needing a smoke. Then he said, “Lemme get you a clean shirt.”

Rudo focused on cleaning the counter. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but the tank top he was wearing had suffered consequences in the heat of things. There was blood on some of it, but the dampness had spread along the entire front of the fabric—spit and vomit, probably. He took the washcloth and dragged it over the puddle of blood. It looked like he had simply dropped an egg—broke it, cracked—yolk spilling from the shell. His anima felt like that, half the time, unready to come out but being forced into a pan anyways. He busied himself with tidying his bathroom. Enjin didn’t come back until Rudo was shoving the scattered tissues and soiled bandages into the trash can. The soap was put where it belonged, the water mopped up, and the washcloth that had seen better days had been deposited into the basket of dirty clothes—he would go wash ‘em later.

Enjin brought a clean shirt—one of August’s designs, like normal—and Rudo took a few seconds too long to even come up with one thing to say. “Sorry, man,” his team leader said, giving a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Will this work?”

“Yeah,” Rudo mumbled.

He wiped 3R on either side of his shirt, clinging to his ribs. Then he grabbed the bottom half of the tank and peeled it off—bare—and he dropped the dirty shirt into the basket and then reached for the shirt in Enjin’s hands. Rudo’s hands shook too fucking much. He grabbed it on the second try, fingers curling uncomfortably.

Thankfully he didn’t take too long to get his head and arms into the shirt. If he had spasmed or gotten stuck—he wouldn’t have—he might have just thrown up again, if Enjin had to help him get dressed.

Fucking—no.

Rudo shuffled, and exhaled very slowly.

Enjin didn’t comment on the way Rudo’s arms shook. He shrugged, “Wanna come into your room? We can get the mirror fixed later.” He tipped his head, sending the kid a look—lingering. “Did you still want dinner? Pretty sure we could roll out in fifteen, if you’re cool with it.” Enjin paused, again, again, again. “Though, Riyo might interrogate you…”

“That’s a lot of questions,” Rudo mumbled.

“Answer what you want,” Enjin replied.

Rudo shuffled after the man and left the bathroom behind, breathing out through his nose.

“Also,” said the man, who stopped in the doorway and met Rudo’s gaze. There was something in his expression that made Rudo freeze—heart spattering uncomfortably in his chest. “Next time, try to call before bashing your head into a wall,” and he sounded a little weird, like before. He flicked Rudo on the forehead, still frowning. “Your choker is on your neck. Anyone would’ve helped out, y’know?”

The contact barely stung, but—

“Didn’t realize it was a big deal,” Rudo looked down, and then rubbed at the side of his head.

The bandage that Enjin had wrapped around his skull felt weird. It was just out of place. Going to dinner like this would be…

He blinked a few times. His thoughts were floating about like smoke trapped in a building. He always got like this after cleaning his arms. Dumber than a box of fuckin’ rocks, or whatever. Far out of time, of space, of life. 3R normally helped. Finding something heavy to lay underneath helped, too.

The kid coughed pointedly. “Move,” he muttered, with a weak hand gesture—it sent a terrible spike through his arm, but he pushed past it.

Enjin sucked in a breath, exhaustedly. But, he left the doorway with a backward glance, and Rudo followed slowly. His legs felt weak, but he didn’t want to say anything. His bedroom was brighter than the bathroom, with the lamp and overhead light both being on. A golden glow was cast over everything.

Rudo squinted.

His hands weren’t burning anymore, at least. His head was still throbbing uncomfortably, but he wasn’t dying. That was good enough. He was never dying in the first place. Feeling like—death—wasn’t fun. That was all. Fuckin’ big deal or whatever. Missing dinner because of some blood and tears. Still missing dinner, ‘cause they were in his room and not the cafeteria or the car. Change of plans. Change of plans. Sick to his stomach, just because his hands hurt.

“‘S not a big deal,” Rudo clarified, after too many seconds went by.

Enjin sighed very loudly. When he spoke next, it was rather quiet. “Your Dad didn’t stop you from doing it?”

The kid didn’t really want to say anything to that.

He made a face, kicked his foot at the carpet—Riyo had dragged it to him after a particular mission, and Rudo had been ecstatic—Zanka had side-eyed them both—Rudo loved carpet, even if cleaning it took way too long—but now it was settled hazardously in his bedroom, covering up the bare floor, and it served its purpose well. He shuffled his foot one more time and frowned. Why the sudden interest in his Dad, now? No one asked about it, before. Not even Enjin. Rudo barely said anything about it and no one asked—at all. Maybe it was standard, or culture. On the Sphere, you’d expect a different reaction to learning that someone’s parent had died, even if they were Tribe Folk. If you lost your parent, or both parents, it was normally considered a tragedy—it got spoken about in hushed voices and with pitiful faces for years after the fact. The only exception was if your parent was, ha, as awful as they come—true to the word of God—absolutely fucking evil. Like Rudo’s father, apparently. Not that Regto ever said it.

But everyone else did. And everyone else talked and talked and talked about it, never shutting up, never letting it go. Down here, on the Ground, it was different. Rudo looked at Enjin and couldn’t figure out what expression the guy was wearing—but Rudo was hungry and tired and nauseous, and he was lightheaded, and he just wanted to go to bed now.

“He did,” Rudo muttered. “But it made sense for him to stop me. You guys can… mind your business and ‘s fine. Y’know.”

There was a small pause.

“It’s not fine,” Enjin said dryly. “You could’ve bled out or gotten seriously hurt.”

“‘M already hurt,” Rudo snapped, face contorting. “You—you saw my arms, so—you—don’t fucking bother. You saw.”

This time, he didn’t wait for Enjin to reply.

He kicked off his slippers and stumbled over to his nightstand, which had his discarded water bottle from earlier. With a little struggling, he managed to undo the tab and take a sip. He swished the water around in his mouth for a good thirty seconds, too. The taste of bile was never pleasant. He should have rinsed his mouth in the bathroom, but he hadn’t thought about it. Not really—not by much. He sucked the water between his teeth and then with as much suppressed disgust as he could take, swallowed it.

“Kid,” said Enjin.

Rudo pointedly didn’t look at him, pointedly didn’t say anything, and pointedly sat down.

“Kid,” Enjin repeated, “About your arms—”

Rudo flimsily stuck the cap back on. He put the water bottle back on the nightstand. “I changed my mind. I’mma sleep it off,” he announced, flatly. He scrubbed at his eye with one glove, exhaling heavily. “You should go to dinner. I’m not really hungry anymore.”

Enjin grimaced. But the guy sighed right after. “Seriously?”

“Uhuh,” the boy muttered, and he shuffled into his bedding without a second thought.

His back twinged, and his leg ached, and his head was still nothing more than a carbonated can of liquid being shaken by an incessant child. He scrubbed at his nose, next—then his eyes again—he wasn’t going to cry over the dullness of his situation, or the fact that the pain was still present, or anything else.

He dragged the covers up over his legs, tucking them underneath the blanket and then flopping onto his side. It felt very dramatic and final. If Regto were here, he wouldn’t hover. He would have already reached over and dragged another layer over Rudo’s body. Unless—unless it was summer. Move over, bud. Make room for me. C’mon, I got a new book to share. You’ll like it. Echoing and twisting, over and over, and… If it were summer and Rudo was under covers like this, Regto would just sit there next to Rudo and read, or write, or talk about nothing important. He missed it. That—kind of care—simplicity—the stretch of the blue sky and the darkening clouds and the quiet chatter of the slums and the way Regto would meet his gaze and smile so easily, unwilling to bend to anyone, unwilling to let Rudo see a flicker of anything unpleasant. Rudo could feel it build up in his chest. The emptiness from before, the one that consumed and shuddered and groaned—the creak of metal or the crackle of an electric lamp.

He sucked in a breath, curling his fingers into the sheet underneath him, and closed his eyes.

For some reason, he expected that to be that. He expected to just—blink and be asleep—blink and have a new day, ‘cause he faded in and out half the time, regardless of anyone’s efforts. But he didn’t. He breathed steadily and ignored the way his body throbbed faintly. Sore, achey. His arms weren’t so bad now, at least. But—he couldn’t… go to dinner like this.

He didn’t really want to.

Somethin’ is wrong with me, he thought. Fucking god damn it.

The room buzzed, and Rudo almost wanted to sit up and crawl into the bathroom again. It was still too bright. A waste of electricity… Am I a waste of—but he grit his teeth, shut his head up, closed the dumb door where words started to bleed into his mouth. His stomach churned. Ah, fuck. What a joke.

What a—

“Hey, Rudo,” Enjin said, and maybe his voice hadn’t ever steadied, maybe it had stayed in that weird octave that Rudo associated with faraway concern, “Ya gonna be okay if I leave ya here for a little bit?”

(I’ll be right back. Hold on.)

—joke.

3R was resting comfortably on his hands but he felt bare. He didn’t—like it. He didn’t like that Enjin had seen his arms. It made his stomach sour.

It wasn’t—

His head felt wrong. Rudo shivered, and he felt sweat bead along his neck and down his spine. Something twisted, something warped—his arms peeled up, he got sliced, he scraped half his body off his bedroom floor—dirt and ash and gunk clinging to him. If he opened his eyes, the room would be spinning and the lamp next to his bed would warp onto a terrible thing, the eye of the son—a smothering color that would haunt him.

(Back. See? I know your arms hurt, Rudo. I know. I’m sorry. Hang on, okay? Only a little longer. I’ll figure something out. Have some faith. I… I won’t half-ass this.)

Sluggish. Something wasn’t… right. He was so fucking tired again. This always—always—happened.

Rudo mumbled. “Ghuh?”

The bed dipped. It lasted less than a second, and Rudo’s mind swirled and circled the drain. Man. He needed to fix that mirror when he was certain he wouldn’t drop dead and throw up. He thought about nothing. He thought about something and then nothing again. Enjin might be sittin’ at the foot of his bed, being… fucking weird. Rudo’s head started to hurt again. He should drink more water. Fuck. Stupid headache, stupid.

Enjin leaned in another direction. He dragged the blanket upwards—fucker—and it draped across Rudo’s body. The guy hummed. “You gonna be okay if I go?”

“Mhmgmm,” said Rudo, who had turned his face into his pillow. He cracked an eye back open, heartbeat pulsing in his ears. “Uh,” he mumbled, “Yeah?”

Why ask?

(—wanna die.)

Oh.

Rudo almost faltered. But, well, between—him and his Dad—the whole death thing hadn’t been that serious, it had just been—an unspoken conclusion—that Regto hadn’t wanted Rudo to ever reach. It was never actually mentioned as a possibility. But Rudo had run his mouth and—Enjin was looking at him, now, waiting, and Rudo wondered how long the guy was gonna act like this. When it’s actually bad, I wanna die. It wasn’t bad—right now—it wasn’t bad enough to want to die. It was bad enough to hurt, and now nausea killed his appetite, but it wasn’t like that all the time. And he—wouldn’t just… die. Rudo’s face contorted. He didn’t really know how to explain that.

He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, still blurry.

He was wearing out. This always happened after he changed his bandages. It always got tiring and annoying and then everything grated on him and then he threw up—if it was nauseating enough—and then he basically felt sick for a few days while 3R worked whatever magic—anima—it normally did.

“Man,” he said, all whispery, “I’m not gonna, like…” And he didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to name the inexcusable, ‘cause that might make other people hound him. I’m not going to kill myself, sounded too serious. He bit his tongue, rolled his head closer to the pillow. His hand squeezed at the edge of the blanket, gloves crossing over his skin, his bandages. “It’s fine,” he ended up saying, very quietly. “Jus’ go to dinner.”

“I will,” Enjin snorted.

Rudo hummed, “‘Kay, go.”

There was a pause. Huh. Fucker. Stupid liar. See? Rudo knew it. He closed his eyes again and tried to forget the way half of his body was complaining about something he regularly dealt with.

“I’m gonna get something from the cafeteria,” Enjin clarified after a few seconds, “You and I are gonna take a raincheck on the dinner trip. When you’re feeling up to it, we can go out and grab a bite.” He reached over and patted Rudo’s shoulder, which was swaddled under the blanket. It was very stiff. “Sit tight, okay?”

It took a few seconds for the declaration to register.

“Huh?” Rudo blinked groggily. “‘M not hungry.”

“Too bad,” said Enjin. He took his hand away and made another gesture, before turning on his heel and walking towards the door. On his way out, he smacked the main light switch—leaving only the lamp on. “Be right back,” he said, over his shoulder. “Call if you need somethin’, kid.”

Rudo hummed again, watched the guy leave—and the darkness was much better than having all the lights on.

The door thwacked open but was closed quietly. Rudo laid in bed and curled up and stayed tucked underneath the blanket. His stomach coiled and churned and he didn’t think too hard about it. His throat bobbed. It clicked and clicked and clicked every time he swallowed. Aren’t I, and he couldn’t finish the thought. He breathed very slowly—trying to keep the pattern—and it rounded inwards and twisted up inside of his chest, and it weaseled its way into his diaphragm and settled uncomfortably in between two of his ribs. Rudo stayed perfectly still and waited. His arms were mostly numb by now, 3R taking most of the pain away. Rudo couldn’t begin to imagine how bad shit would be without his jinki. Especially with the pain—it came in waves, like seasons—some sicknesses got worse in winter, Regto had told him—like a cycle—and while Rudo’s pain was pretty unreasonable and all over the place, having that explanation float around in his head did help him. It wasn’t just him who suffered. Whatever. There were plenty of people who… had these kinds of issues. Even if they weren’t cursed. Sort of. Regto said the term was chronic, but he had looked rather—wrong—when the word spilled from his mouth. Rudo assumed it was because his situation was different compared to everyone else’s. After all, no one had the same scarred arms as him—darkening, rivulets of red coiling in the areas his veins should be—placements.

(C’mere, came the echo, and Regto had been careful to clean his arms the first few times Rudo was young. When his eyes were wet with tears and not yet hollowed out by the pain. The older he got,the worse it became. Rudo, said the man, trekking, and then he presented the boy with gloves over their busted coffee table, and said, tell me if they help.)

Rudo pressed his face further into his pillow and sighed. The room would be spinning if he sat up too fast.

If Enjin came back, Rudo wasn’t sure if he would still be… thinking like this, or not.

He squeezed the bedding with one hand, and his other slid to his neck. His glove brushed over the choker that rested loosely at his collarbone. It was only a little big for him—like he wanted—but he almost wished he could tighten it, choke himself out a little. It would be more secure if it were pressed around his esophagus fully.

Maybe. Huh…

The room lulled him to sleep again—twisted amongst the softness of the bed.

Something buzzed again. His shoulder throbbed once. His head spun, this way and then that way, and he didn’t really know why. He sighed. Wrong with you, choked that voice. He blinked blearily against the pillow, then shut his eyes again. Rudo drifted for a little bit before he heard someone knock four times at his door. Maybe the door frame? It sounded metallic. He breathed steadily. The door clicked open right after.

Something shifted, and someone entered. Rudo didn’t even bother lifting his head.

“Hey, Rudo,” and something brushed over his shoulder. It wasn’t light enough to ignore, annoyingly enough. Rudo grumbled into the pillow, pressed his face further against the fabric, and pulled at the blanket until it covered his neck. “Ah, come on kid, I brought back something for you.”

“Ghgh,” said the boy, and he ignored it. He was too tired. He wanted to sleep.

Enjin patted his shoulder again, and then gently shook it. “C’mon,” he urged, “Wakey-wakey, my guy, join the land of the living.”

The boy turned his head to the side, hair catching static on the pillowcase. Living. Living. Living. His eyes peeled open. The only light was still coming from his lamp. That was… nice. He looked over at Enjin. The man barely did anything, even when Rudo’s expression shifted into something faint. The kid… struggled to recognize what the hell was happening for a solid two minutes before his nose wrinkled.

“‘M alive,” said Rudo, scratchily. “What?”

“Glad to hear it,” Enjin said, easily. He was sitting on the side of the bed, body turned halfway to Rudo’s curled form. He crinkled something wrapped in plastic, still smiling. “The team sends their regards, y’know.”

“I know,” Rudo blinked slowly. “‘Cause I missed dinner.” He paused. “So did you.”

“Nah,” Enjin waved his free hand—the smear of ink caught Rudo’s attention again, and he followed the movement for approximately three seconds before growing bored and looking back at the packaged item that Enjin had dragged into the room. “I’ll have dinner later. You should eat something now, though, before you take any medicine.”

“I don’t have any meds,” Rudo muttered, shifting. He pushed upwards with one arm, curling awkwardly. He fumbled into a sitting position, squinting at the small… packet of crackers?

“Well, about that. I talked to Eishia,” Enjin clarified. “She sent me back here with a few things that you might be familiar with. Anti-nausea tablets and painkillers. She would have come in here to check your injuries, but I told her you’d stop by tomorrow.” He did a so-so gesture, and his face twitched. Rudo didn’t have the chance to say so much as a single screw you I’m not going before Enjin continued. The guy extended the package, showcasing the little crackers inside. “Ya ever had these before?”

“Uh,” the kid looked at them for a long second. “No?”

“They’re called saltines,” Enjin peeled back the wrapper, and then fished a cracker out and handed it over between two fingers. “Sometimes they’re actually made on the Ground, but normally we buy ‘em from the Vianders.”

Rudo, sluggishly, pried his hands out from under the blanket and took one cracker. He frowned at it. “‘Kay.”

“Try it,” Enjin gestured, “It should be easy on the stomach.”

“Like I’ll throw up again,” Rudo said, but he did as he was told and put the cracker into his mouth. It was—unpleasant. He chewed it for way longer than necessary. Enjin raised his brows when the appropriate amount of time for chewing one cracker surpassed its threshold, and he was about to say something before Rudo forced the cursed thing down his throat. “Uh,” he mumbled, face blanching. “Yeah, it’s… bland.”

At Rudo’s expression, Enjin snickered. “Ah, man. Zanka said you’d react like that.”

The boy glowered, and he scratched at his cheek with another frown. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“You really are a sugar fiend,” Enjin clarified. “But, sugar will probably hurt you more than help you right now. So.” He gave a half-assed shrug, pried another cracker out of the package, and deposited it into Rudo’s other hand. The kid forgot he still left it between them, half-open, palm-up. He blinked at the offensive square of blandness. “Go on,” Enjin ushered, only a little teasing—that normal voice—and it made Rudo’s head spin, and his ears burn—he wasn’t a baby. He didn’t need to be coaxed. “Then try some water. If you still feel okay, you can take your pick from the meds.”

Enjin patted his coat pocket, and something rattled. Holy hell, he was serious.

Rudo chewed his second cracker and swallowed it. He reached for his water bottle, groggily, and drank half of the remaining water before taking a third cracker before Enjin could offer it. “Gimme,” he huffed, two seconds away from prying the plastic out of Enjin’s grasp. “I don’t need ya… keepin’ crackers from me. Damn.”

His team leader snickered, but dropped the package next to Rudo’s hand. The boy pulled it into his lap, over the blanket. It was quiet for a little.

“Any nausea?” Enjin commented.

“You aren’t subtle,” Rudo said, after he swallowed what remained of his fourth cracker. “But,” and he thought about it, and then shook his head very minutely. “No, ‘m fine.”

“Mmkay,” Enjin leaned forward, dug in his coat pocket, and then pulled out two small containers. They weren’t the over-exaggerated pill bottles, with orange coats. They were just tiny little… travel-sized compartments. Rudo squinted at them, but Enjin displayed them in his palm and let Rudo stare. The kid chewed his crackers. He took another sip of water. His stomach, for some gracious reason, did not erupt into agony. Enjin rattled one container. “This should help with nausea. Wanna take one?”

“Uh,” said Rudo, swallowing the last bit of saltine mush in his mouth.

They weren’t the worst thing in the world, but the salt—wasn’t great. He shrugged, but unfolded one hand and let Enjin place one smooth white pill into the center of his glove.

“With water,” Enjin nodded.

Rudo scoffed. He knew that. He looked at his water bottle—glad he left the cap off this time. Too much fucking work to keep popping it off and screwing it back on. His fingers weren’t cooperating the way they should—would, if he had slept things off, like he said he was gonna do. But Enjin came back, so. Whatever. Rudo rolled the pill once in his glove, but put it into his mouth and took a swig of water. The pill went down easily.

“Take a break from the crackers for a bit. In around ten minutes you can eat a few more and take one of the painkillers,” said the guy, and he stretched with an exaggerated motion—leaning backwards, and more, and then he was resting on the bed with his hands folded over his midriff. He smelled like nicotine.

Up on the Sphere, not a lot of people smoked. Even in the slums. It just… wasn’t a thing. Down here on the Ground, Rudo had originally been bombarded by the smoke. He hadn’t really liked it. Rudo blinked sluggishly at Enjin, frowning again—he clutched at the packet of crackers and looked away. He would just wash his bedding after this. He probably needed to, anyway—blood stains and sweat and whatever. The smell of cigarettes was, kinda, the least of his worries.

“What kind of painkiller is it?” Rudo mumbled, and he shuffled backwards on his bed so he could prop himself up against the headboard. He wanted to go back to sleep.

Enjin shot him a look, “I don’t think it’s one you’ve had before.”

“Dunno,” Rudo shook his head. “I know lots. ‘S not that I’ve had them before. Most of ‘em were outta budget. Or, like… not sold to us.”

There was a small pause.

“Right,” Enjin contemplated this with a mild tone.

Rudo knew he might’ve made things awkward or complicated. It was like when his anger got the better of him—brief flashes—the consumption of bitterness and wrath, something swirling and going wrong and seeping into a drain.

The boy wasn’t good at these kinds of things. He broke his body—it was already broken, already breaking—he felt it, everything, digging into skin and muscle and sinew. Sometimes he could see daylight so clearly. He could see the look on Regto’s face when he first tried to bash his head open. The slight scars on his temples—shiny and much too obvious to Rudo’s gaze. Staring at the mirror, at himself, at what became of him in his early years. He had never told Regto he wanted to die, ‘cause he didn’t. But the feeling was real. When it was bad. When he was feverish and tossing and turning and throwing up and crying and seething and clawing at his skin, yanking at the bandages, yanking at his hair. Gonna, choked and sputtered, stop—help, gotta—now, stop. Make it stop. Shivering and fighting and being such a mess, such a ruckus, and Regto had took it in stride and had grown accustomed but had never accepted it—didn’t want to—there was guilt and grief and bitterness in that house, between the things Rudo stole from the rich folk, between the patchwork quilts and staticky radio that Regto and him had been ecstatic to get working. The painkillers that Regto spent a great deal of money on. The different kinds Rudo knew of—from the trips to the doctor, from the knowledge that Regto read out loud from thick and worn books.

“Ya do that often?” Enjin asked.

The stretch of silence didn’t last very long, maybe, or Rudo just wasn’t taking in time the way most people would. Perception. Eternity passed quickly. Regto always said that—one moment ‘til eternity, but then it’s gone—and Rudo had mostly understood how absurd it was, but agreed.

He tried to figure out what the hell Enjin was talking about. Rudo squinted at him. “What?”

Enjin slid his gaze from the boring ceiling to the boring boy, who had bandages wrapped around his head and arms. Enjin blinked once at him—unnervingly calm compared to his normal personality. “The, y’know, head-banging stuff?”

“Oh,” said Rudo, who really should have seen that coming. He smoothed his thumb over the plastic of the saltine packet. “Not often.”

Enjin hummed, and pressed further, “How long were you smackin’ your head against the mirror?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Rudo muttered, and he became defensive. “Ya interrupted me. I dunno how long I was in there—since, what? The mission from earlier.” Rudo scoffed, and he looked away from his team leader and back to the crackers in his grasp. Ten minutes… bleh. Then, some kind of relief? He flexed one hand. 3R rippled—the anima rippled—it was familiar and steady, seeping into the bandages and into his warped skin. “I didn’t start bangin’ my head ‘til my arms really hurt.” His face contorted, and he was frowning again. “Ya asked me earlier, didn’t you—when I was still… outta m’ head.”

“Eishia said it could give you lasting damage, is all,” Enjin said after a few seconds. He seemed like he was rehearsing something. “That’s why she wanted to stop by.”

Rudo grimaced. “You didn’t need to bother her with this. ‘S not a big deal.”

“Kinda is,” Enjin sighed. “I’m no good with this type of shit.”

“You patched me up fine,” Rudo kicked one leg out, muscles flexing uncomfortably. “You seem better at it then you’re sayin’ you are.” He was too tired to get up. He had wanted to fix his arms and then go to dinner with the team, but now he didn’t. Now, he just wanted to stay here and curl up and sleep it off. His arms weren’t stinging. He could breathe without needles digging into his lungs. Goodie.

“Nah, medical stuff isn’t so bad,” Enjin chuckled. “I meant the other shit. I’m not the one normally dealing with kids and their…” He drummed his fingers on his abdomen, made a contemplative sound, “…problems. No shade, though.”

Rudo snorted—that was a little funny, actually. “You don’t gotta ask ‘bout it. You could… just patch them up and go.”

“Hmmmm,” said Enjin, in that stupid tone of his.

Rudo understood that, and kept it pretty close to his heart. He got angry and wasn’t good with complicated shit, either. Regto was better at it. Regto had taught him manners, but Rudo had discarded most of his ‘cause everything was shitty and he didn’t see the reason to get involved if he was just gonna get beaten down. But, on the Ground, it was different. And the Cleaners were different, too. It was like they did care about each other, even if they weren’t on the same team, or didn’t see each other often—like, okay, maybe. If someone else had walked in on Rudo losing his mind like a crazy person, throwing up and tryna bash his head into a pulp, they would probably intervene, too—even if they didn’t know Rudo personally.

“If you’re not good at the whole, problem thing, then don't ask?” Rudo shrugged. “‘S okay to just—like—not be the emotional guy.”

Enjin drummed his fingers again, and laughed. “Man, you make it sound so easy. I should totally leave y’all in the dust whenever there’s an issue that extends beyond physical limitations, is that it?” There was barely a pause before he answered his own question. “Nah. That’s shitty, especially comin’ from someone you’re supposed to trust.”

“Is it?” Rudo huffed, too. That sounded too fucking dumb. It came out in a croak, and a ricochet, and he tried to scrounge up some kind of comparison. A memory or a lesson. Nothing appeared in his head, so he pressed forwards hesitantly. Something crawled up his spine and dug into his nape. Rudo didn’t look at Enjin when he twisted the saltine packet in his hands. He focused on the weight of 3R around his fingers, pressing down on his knuckles. “I don’t need a long talk about… trust and not breaking my skull. I know that stuff already.” He paused again, and added hastily, “You… don’t have to bother with that, if it’s for my sake. Seriously.”

“Wow, you have way more problems than I thought,” Enjin said after a long moment, and he sat up. He gave Rudo a smile. “More to work on, I guess.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Rudo snapped, and he leaned away from the guy. “You’re the one who said you didn’t do the whole emotional stuff! And I literally just told ya you wouldn’t have to do any of it with me!”

“That’s why I gotta!” Enjin laughed. And he reached out, patted Rudo on his shoulder—not his head, too risky, not worth the potential harm. His smile was easy going. “Here,” and he offered the painkiller. “This is acetaminophen. It’s normally used as a… shit, what’s it called—a fever reducer. But this thing,” and when he shook the container once, the pill went clunk is on the heavier side. Eishia got one from the good supply.”

“Okay,” Rudo said, and he stared at the pill before frowning. “I don’t think I have a fever, though—it’s not… sickness.”

“I know,” Enjin nodded. He popped the lid and then dropped the painkiller into Rudo’s waiting hand. Then gestured for the boy to drink water. Which, well, was easy enough. “This has hydrocodone in it. So—fever reducer and painkiller.”

“I—I’ve had hydrocodone before, though,” Rudo blinked. “You said this was one I probably haven’t had.”

“Yours was probably different from ours, y’know,” Enjin shrugged. It came across rather haplessly. “Ground versus Sphere and whatnot.”

“Oh,” Rudo said, faintly. He stared at the white oval in his glove. Then, without waiting much longer, he crammed it down his throat and took a long sip of water. When it bobbed down, swallowed and disappeared into his stomach, Rudo nursed the water bottle and drank a bit more. He stayed quiet. Regto had tried—truly—always. But medicine was expensive. All things were, and Rudo was always in pain—and painkillers didn’t help him for long, as the pain never actually disappeared. It would become muffled, locked in a room somewhere in his soul, but when the drugs wore off, the pain would come back with teeth and snarls.

Enjin hummed, sitting all calm and shit. But he turned to face Rudo and did another gesture with his hand—could the man not sit still? “Tomorrow, when you’re feeling better, you should talk with Eishia ‘bout this stuff.”

Rudo sent the man a glare.

“I mean it,” the guy insisted.

“I—she doesn’t needa… see all…” Rudo shook his head instead. “I’ll thank her. But I don’t—she shouldn’t be dealin’ with this stuff. It’s my problem. She’s already busy as hell.”

“You don’t have to explain everything to her, Rudo,” Enjin said, in a very reasonable way. “Just, like, some of it. So you can get meds or bandages without sneaking around and causin’ inventory issues.” He paused. “Or so you don’t have to go without some kind of treatment—jeez, that just crossed my mind, too. Don’t wait so long to get help. If shit’s bad, sayin’ a single line would be preferable to… doin’ this kinda thing.”

“I don’t wanna,” Rudo said, in a very unreasonable way. He clenched his hands, then moved them upwards to drag against part of his head and through some of his hair. He sighed heavily, and the defensiveness turned into mushy slop, and he muttered, “It happens—and, I’m used to it. And I wouldn’t steal anything from medbay, regardless of the fuckery my hands might be puttin’ me through.”

The guy waved a hand loosely, and then flopped backwards back onto Rudo’s mention. He groaned, “Wasn’t tryna imply otherwise.”

Rudo frowned some more. “You said inventory issues.”

“Slip of tongue,” Enjin groaned again. “You’re giving me a run for my money.”

“There is literally, like, no money involved in this,” Rudo muttered, grouchily, and he glanced at the crackers in the plastic wrapper. His stomach coiled tightly again—abrupt and uncomfortable. He reached for another cracker and nibbled on it like a mouse.

Enjin snorted at the comment.

Rudo knew that Enjin was using one of those Ground phrases—an idiom that wasn’t exactly present up on the Sphere—one of those many sayings that took Rudo approximately eight seconds to realize wasn’t something he understood, ‘cause of cultural differences—blah blah blah. Even so, there wasn’t a betting pool involved in this situation. Not one Galla.

“You aren’t a problem,” the guy said, facing the ceiling.

And wow, yeah, Rudo would never have expected any of this to come from one—stupid—incident of trying to clean his arms and rewrap them.

(And whatnot. Fucker.)

Rudo side-eyed him. “Uh. You sound like you’re pullin’ your teeth out.”

The blonde sat back up again. “No, I’m tryna tell you—oh, for fuck’s sake, Rudo,” Enjin huffed—dragged a hand down his face—made such a strange expression that Rudo frowned and squinted harder in response. He sighed again. “I don’t know how to get you to understand where I’m coming from.”

The boy blinked again, taken aback. “Okay?”

“Don’t pull this shit again,” Enjin said, and then shook his head and backtracked, “Or—well—try not to. Damn. Did you, well—want—to do what you did?”

“Uhm,” echoed Rudo, “It just kinda happened, so—”

Enjin cut him off with a nod—so much fucking movement from this guy, you’d thing he was one of those zippy-bugs up on the Sphere, with their big heads and maws and helix-lookin’ wings. But no, Enjin was a blur of gold, and Rudo was a kid waiting for some kind of slammed door. He blinked rapidly when Enjin leaned forwards, put his head into his hands, and sighed very loudly again. “Great, then let’s try to make sure it doesn’t just kinda happen again, alright? That’s what I’m tryna say. Reach out before you feel like you needa… slam your head in a wall.”

The man looked kinda… messed up. Was it weighing on him? Huh. Man. Semiu always said Enjin would lose his mind if he didn’t have a pack a day, but Rudo thought that had been a gross exaggeration. Zanka and Riyo, however, had bitched about Enjin’s inability to go without a cig every six hours—any time there’s anythin’ with an inkling of stress goin’ on, he lights one up—and Rudo was starting to think that maybe Enjin should have brought his lighter in here.

Hah…

“Do you,” said Rudo, blankly, “Do you need a smoke?”

“Yes,” Enjin said, “I’mma smoke in two minutes, trust. But, first, tell me you understand what I’m saying.”

“I understand,” Rudo parroted, dryly. And he plucked the packet of saltines off his lap and deposited them on his nightstand. The stretch made his shoulder burn and begin to ache. “Jus’ enough, okay? I get it or whatever.”

“Do you?” Enjin asked.

“Yeah,” Rudo said, but it came out awkward.

Achey. He thought about Regto, who had always intervened when he saw Rudo partaking in bad shit. Ghost town, came the reminder. So dramatic and so lonely in his own skull, wrapped in dirty bandages, wrapped and hugged and held down—away from hot water or buckets or the anger of a stranger across the street. Enjin wouldn’t know any of it. Rudo didn’t think he would ever—ever—say anything about any of it, either. My Dad tried. My Dad did. And that was all. ‘Cause he didn’t want to drag up those wounds, the salt-stains. Rudo was sitting in bed and his team leader was looking at him funny, and Rudo knew that his history was fucked up and that meant people would look at him weirdly, at some point, for some reason. So on and so on.

The kid raised his hand and rubbed the side of his head, then his cheekbone, then the divot behind his jaw. There were tiny scars, he was certain—under where his bangs would rest, or frame his face. He had gotten a concussion a few times in his life—Regto had explained it in the aftermath, each time—and Rudo had always been dazed for a little while after. He looked down at his bedding again, grabbed onto one corner with his free hand, and pulled it over his lap.

Rudo cleared his throat.

“‘S okay. I’m—you did your part, talked, got me food, got me—meds—and stuff. I’m good.” He tugged the blanket one more time. His mouth felt a little weird, like he was dragging his words. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. I get it. So, you can… uh, go smoke. And eat dinner with the team.”

His brows furrowed. Huh. Maybe it was the—the pill? He didn’t know how fast they were meant to work. He couldn’t remember. Enjin didn’t say.

(Something has to be wrong with me for me to be like this all the time.)

Before Enjin could respond, Rudo coughed.

Out came from his mouth the very question, “How fast is this thing s’posed to kick in?”

“Oh, shit,” said Enjin, and he reached over and frowned. His hand came up to Rudo’s shoulder, almost heavy, and the boy blinked a few times but let it happen. Enjin stared intently at his face before his frown smoothed into something less complicated. “Sorry,” he said, a tad dryly. “It doesn’t take too long, thankfully. I forgot to warn ya. It’ll make you feel loopy, maybe dizzy if you move too fast. It should take the edge off of any pain, but if it doesn’t, lemme know. We can take ya down to Eishia and she can see what might help.”

“Hot water helps,” Rudo mumbled, a little grumbly—but it came out poorly, and he knew the first image that would pop into Enjin’s head would be laced with violence, and not something… neutral or actually helpful. He wiggled further into his bedding, sliding down from the headboard and further against his pillow. “And I don’t feel dizzy.” He thought about it some more before mumbling, “I’mma lay down.”

Enjin’s hand didn’t pull away, even as Rudo moved and slid into a more comfortable position. “Yeah, you’re already doing that.”

“Gh,” muttered Rudo, who shimmied a bit more and managed to tuck himself up like a pill bug again. He curled onto his side and buried half of his face back into his pillow, shoulders hiking up around his ears. His arms slid under the covers and he grabbed onto the front part of his shirt, one palm pressed heavily against his sternum, where his heart was thumping. It sounded much louder in his ears all of a sudden.

“I can get ya a hot compress,” Enjin said, slowly—through cotton, or fluff, or invisible walls. “Or a cold rag, if you think that might help. We got actual ice packs in the kitchen, and medbay…”

His hand was heavy on Rudo’s shoulder, but he was already coiled up and growing distant from the world. Maybe the painkiller was working? Maybe it was working in tandem with 3R? Maybe it wasn’t going to suck absolute dick later when it wore off?

“Hmmmm,” muttered the boy.

Enjin squeezed his shoulder—was this an attempt at comfort?

“Ow,” Rudo blinked groggily, pressing his face further into the pillow. The word was involuntary and useless. He didn’t actually feel any pain, not even a pinch.

“Sorry,” Enjin let up, but his hand hovered.

It hovered and Rudo was struck by a memory of Regto, of his Dad, the waiting and the hovering and the stretches of silence where Rudo’s eyes were inflamed and battered with tears and his whole face was red with irritation, and all Regto could do was sit with him and murmur empty things, empty words that were a weak attempt at soothing. Rudo’s eyes started to sting, now—just at the idea—and his mouth filled with a little spit at the memories forming in his skull, jostling.

Enjin’s hand settled at Rudo’s back, and his side. It was very light. It traced around the heaviness of the blanket, curling across the seam and then traveling up Rudo’s spine, long and slow.

It was kinda nice.

Rudo, through the sudden mist that was taking over his head, hummed. “Where… didja learn to do that?”

“Oh?” Enjin faltered for a very brief second before continuing his pattern. He was sitting closer than before, like this would make it easier to see if Rudo was showing signs of anything. “Well,” the guy mused, quietly. “You might not believe this, but back when Zanka first joined—hell, even Riyo, they were both… not chill with touch.” He laughed a little. The sound reminded Rudo of home—scraping over a throat, into a soft palette. “Riyo got a terrible variation of the flu once—just shivers and sadness, shit I’d rather never see her have again, y’know, but I sat with her like this. Same with Zanka, when he inevitably caught the same bug.”

Yeah, Rudo couldn’t believe it. Exactly.

He couldn’t—quite—place it. His face crinkled. People got sick, but… well. The idea that Enjin would do this, well, that wouldn’t settle into Rudo’s head—hah—the idea that Zanka would let him? Or Riyo? Rudo made a doubtful noise, contemplative and baffled. All at once.

“Ha,” Rudo breathed, into his pillow. “Stupid flu…”

Enjin traced up Rudo’s spine and settled at his shoulder again, the one not crushed into the mattress. “Very,” came the dry response. “Betcha you’ll catch it this spring, man. Shucks.”

Rudo’s eyes burned a little and he huffed. “Nnn…”

He traced the bone—prominent—and then went back down the seam of the blanket and found his way into a maze of patterns across the better half of Rudo’s back. The boy didn’t react, just breathed slowly. Very slowly. It was familiar. It was soft. He didn’t think anyone would do this kind of thing. Rudo hadn’t expected it—he just—kinda—decided the pill was kicking in and he didn’t need to throw up or claw his skin off, so curling up was the wisest choice, regardless of the fact he missed dinner. But Enjin had come back and stayed and was still here. Rudo hadn’t been… comforted like this in a while. Not since Regto. So—ever, basically—and Regto would never do this for Rudo again, because—you know why.

Rudo’s breath warbled. “At least not yet,” he said, weak and mild and incoherent.

“Not yet,” Enjin chuckled.

Rudo made a garbled sound, but kept his eyes shut. He was really tired. Enjin should leave. This wasn’t a big deal. This wasn’t a big thing—barely constant—nothing new. He had his ups and downs. Some days were worse. Sometimes changing the bandages went really badly. Sometimes he hit his head. Sometimes he threw up. Sometimes nothing like that happened and he carried about with living and had no complaints or whines or weak little sounds escaping his throat. No busted lip, no sad face. He breathed slowly, so slowly. He tried to become one with his blanket and the mattress and the pillow that he oftentimes held to his chest, collapsing, colliding. His gloved pressed against his shirt, his sternum—the jitter of his heart. He held it steady.

Sometimes he thought about crushing his heart in his hands.

The gooey spillage would stain everything. He would die if he touched the organ beating in his chest. He was sure it would be death that greeted him.

(You can’t keep this up, bud. It’s not okay. C’mon.)

Rudo dreamt about it, sometimes—blistering—all wrong—and he would hear Regto’s echo, the garbled speech, the blood choking on his Dad’s lips—curses and promises and the strain—go change the world. Pulling himself out of it, putting himself back into it.

Rudo felt his heart pulsate. He tried not to hate it.

His next breath rattled—almost a whistle. Enjin’s hand smoothed up his shoulder. It never went down his arm, never followed the inevitable path that led to bandages and ruined skin. Then, after a second, Enjin’s hand came up and smoothed through Rudo’s hair, barely catching on a knot. His fingertips barely snagged the strewn bandage. He did this a few times, and Rudo’s lungs expanded and expanded and deflated and deflated. He might as well be a balloon—drifting, popping. Enjin’s hand rested aimlessly at the top of Rudo’s head, and the boy stayed face-first in his pillow, trying to let the medicine take him further into that mental place he never got to visit for long unless he was bleeding or sickly.

“What are we gonna do with you, man,” Enjin asked—but Rudo knew it wasn’t a question that needed an answer. His Dad used to ask questions like that, too, right before Rudo crawled into a dreamless state. There was barely a pause before the blonde sighed again. “Fuck, I needa smoke.”

Rudo chortled, the faintest little laugh that was more of a hum than a real response. Sleep called to him.