Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The pain was fucking awful.

That was the one thought going through Rudo’s mind, and it had been going through his mind on repeat for long enough to make him dizzy. Not a good sign—the agony of it—the way his arms were curling and he was clenching his hands into fists. So tightly, digging inwards—if he tried hard enough, he could feel his body start to slither away from him—mind and matter and thought and heart—he tasted something acrid in his mouth. Rudo was used to the pain. He really was. This wasn’t a new thing.

Up on the Sphere, this was fucking normal, too.

The random bouts of agony that struck him so hard he fell down. He couldn’t pick anything up. If he uncurled his hands, it would get worse. If he flexed his arms, it would get worse.

(Worse than this?)

Pain so bad that he would vomit. Pain so bad that he wanted to—

Did you, asked Regto, unable to finish the question. Rudo had blinked so slowly, and then turned his face into a dingy pillow, and slowly shaken his head. Regto had stayed by his side for the rest of the day—week—month.

(Did you?)

—anything at all—

Crushing, now, Rudo wished Regto was around to rustle his hair or tell him to stop. Because this was shit. Because this wouldn’t actually help, would it? Rudo felt disconnected. He knew it wouldn’t help, but he was—always forbidden—from doing this back home—Regto never let him burn his arms, never let him cut or scrape or hit or bite or burn—nothing like that—can’t hurt his arms or any other part of him, it just wasn’t allowed—Regto always stopped him when he had acted out, when he was younger—and now Rudo was alone, and he didn’t need to have his Dad stop him.

There was no way for Regto to stop him now.

(Did you want to die?)

Did he?

(This is serious. I know it’s a rough question. I’m not mad. Rudo, I’m not mad.)

Rudo was mad, though.

Sometimes Rudo thought it would be easier to cut his arms off and pray that one of the gods would let him regrow his limbs without the presence of pain or ravished tissue—violated, a spiritual wrongdoing—some sin that Rudo wasn’t privy to, something he never committed. When his arms hurt like this, he daydreamed about lopping it all off. He wouldn’t, but he thought about it.

Instead of anything productive happening today, right now, pain flared up his right arm, and his grip started to waver on the metal. He sucked in a watery breath. His choker wasn’t on his neck, instead cast aside to the floor. 3R was set down beside him, both gloves in one pile—left on top of right—the way clothes were set down on the Sphere—left on top of right—and his lungs started to heave.

Rudo’s mouth was full of spit.

Fuckers.

“Maybe,” he said out loud, to answer the echoes vibrating in his skull. Like dragonflies—he didn’t see them down here, on the Ground, but closer to the nice part of the city, there was a fountain with plants in the crystal clear water. Weirdly-winged bugs had darted across the surface. Dragonflies. “It’s only…”

An image passed into his head.

More tremors. He stared at the metal in one hand, the way his bandages had mostly unraveled on his right arm. His grip was gonna go slack. His left arm was fucking bleeding. He should put the metal to that, let the heat sear and cauterize—that was urgent—that was dangerous. Did he have a medkit in his bathroom? He didn’t check. He should have checked.

Fuck.

Rudo blinked, pressing further down.

He needed this to stop. He had needed it to stop hours ago, when the first twinge down his left arm made him drop his half-finished radio, fucking breaking the damn thing after he spent hours gathering the materials and adjusting the wires by hand. No anima needed, just his head, and a manual in a language he couldn’t fucking read. He eyeballed it. He mostly got it. Hopefully.

Instead, he was curled up in his room next to his bed. Half-sitting, more like kneeling, shivering. He gave up on working on anything after his body started to give out. Sweat was beading his neck and he had been sitting here for too long already.

But—

(Too much heat could hurt you, Rudo. That’s why I’m not giving you the whole thing. Sorry.)

—he pressed harder, even more, and the sear almost stopped him from starting to cry. His teeth were digging into his tongue and cheeks.

When the pain got bad enough for him to stop working, Rudo had made the wisest decision of his career.

He went to his desk, lit his candle, and then held a long piece of metal over the flame. This was wise in the sense that he didn’t need to leave his room to get the heat. This was… unwise, in the sense that no one could know about his whole—fucked up arm, fucked up way of dealing with it—thing. Could, should. It was bad enough that Riyo saw that one night. Rudo didn’t know if she ever said anything to anyone about it, and he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want her to think that he—was worried or scared or—anything. What a load of shit. A bad situation.

(Would Regto be angry? If he saw Rudo doing this? Would he be scared?)

Rudo had hot water in his bathroom—a real luxury—and he took advantage of that, too. There was a wet rag bleeding into his neck. His head was ducked down, hair clinging to his forehead. He was pressing the thin metal piece to his forearm, over a tangle that looked especially wrong. It was an ugly knot. His arms were ugly, down to his hands, to his fingertips. The coils and wooden-look.

The lankiness that looked… wrong.

Rudo knew. Rudo believed it. Sometimes.

Sinful, wasn’t it—that was what people had said—Rudo hadn’t believed them, and Regto had always frowned and shaken his head. No, came that echo, and Rudo couldn’t hear it correctly. But he could see Regto’s mouth move in his memories. Denial. There was never an inkling of doubt in Regto’s mind, apparently, that Rudo wasn’t the one to blame. Rudo grew up hearing all kinds of nasty shit about him and his biological father. Regto had taught him to block most of it out. Regto had certainly tried. But when the pain grew—and Rudo grew up, you know—so the pain in his arms grew too—and so when it became so bad, so fucking bad the kid was throwing up and seething and unable to stand up straight—collapsed, always stuck somewhere in corner, like a dust ball—Regto must have grown wary. Something wrong. Being wrong, unclean, unworthy—a strange thing, because Regto acted like it was just another illness, but Rudo knew otherwise, regardless of what his Dad had said or done. Otherwise… Rudo had known, not now, he even believed it—the Ground had started to warp him, and he knew things weren’t so black no white, and so he knew things were fucked up and his arms were an example of that.

But sinful? Yeah, right. Like God decided Rudo was a problem at the young age of fresh-outta-a-womb.

(I know it hurts, Rudo. I know you think more heat will help. But it’ll be much worse—you’ll have burns on top of the… tissue. The damage won’t stop the pain. That’s why I—you can’t dunk your arms in there, okay? I’m sorry. I know.)

Rudo’s mouth was full of spit. His arms fucking hurt, and nothing had been helping earlier. No. Obviously not. Obviously not—

“Shit,” said the boy, as he watched his body from above. He felt a little numb.

Regto used to get hot rags and wrap Rudo’s arms in them, letting the heat do natural wonders. Unfortunately, Rudo was a little shit, and Rudo was a cursed thing who grew too comfortable with the ache and the burn of warmth. He wanted more heat the longer the warmth seeped into his arms. Pain for pain. Simple exchange. He, apparently, begged for hot water and begged for something to wear his flesh with. Regto had only told him the story once, when Rudo worked himself into such a fit that he fell ill. A fever and shivers for days, almost an entire week, after the flare-up hit. And Regto had never said the words you scared me, but Rudo had known—the look on the man’s face as he applied fresh bandages, ointment that smelled weird—the sting from before had climbed into the crook of Rudo’s elbow and nestled there.

Even now, he wasn’t able to get the pain to stop. The thin piece of metal wasn’t silver. It was burning. If Rudo wasn’t shoving the damn thing against his arms—unraveling and ruined—if he was putting the molten thing against anywhere else, like his thigh or neck or chest—bare skin, normal skin—the damage will be worse, do you understand?—he would be screaming or crying or both. Anywhere else. Some agony there, in his heart. He could hear his pulse rattle in his head.

He stared at the place where the metal strip dug into his skin.

Smoke—no, not smoke, not vapor. Wisps of heat retracted and fluttered. Fumes. He couldn’t smell… burnt flesh? There was a scent that came with burnt skin, burnt hair.

He knew the scent.

This wasn’t that.

“Huh,” he said to the room, and his eyes were stuck on the ugliness and the wound that would grow.

The heat was helping. The wet rag wrapped around his neck was serving as a small distraction. The other rag, still kinda warm, was wrapped tightly around his elbow—and his right arm was wrapped much too messily. He should get another hot rag.

He wondered—burning, burning, burning—and he pressed the thin metal piece down as hard as he could. His grip faltered. His fingers slipped, and there were no bandages on his left arm. Just skin and scar tissue and whatever darkness had clung to his sinew and flesh since birth—grown and grown and grown—like dipped into hot wax, over and over. From his fingertips to his elbows. When he was younger, he distinctively remembered Regto pacing around the couch—a bad flare-up—a terrible streak of anger and grief—the way his Dad had been mumbling about something urgent, so fucking urgent. The words outta his mouth had been too soon, and Rudo never knew what it meant, and he never asked. He should have. He should have—even if it had taken him years. Because now Regto was dead, and his book was gone, and Rudo knew that his Dad had known something about this entire mess, and Rudo should have been privy to it.

The metal piece slipped right out of his grasp. It was silver at the edge, but orangey-red near the other end.

When the room’s air hit Rudo’s skin, he flinched and curled down—a high-pitched sound trapping itself in his throat, bleeding, fucking weak.

“Fucker,” his mouth moved, his lungs heaved.

(I know it hurts.)

Pain split him open in the absence of damage. His arms complained and complained. He stayed there on the floor, breathing shallowly—fucker, shit, fuck, goddamn it—his arms flexed, and he coiled, and he curled his nails into his palms and let the natural sting of things bite and bite and bite. Tears were starting to pool in his eyes.

His gaze flicked upwards, wildly, and the oversized candle that had been given to him was still burning.

He should reheat the metal.

(Do you?)

And in his head, Rudo’s thoughts jumbled and smeared together. Move. Move. Move. Move. He couldn’t get up. He couldn’t fucking get up. His mouth was full of spit and he coughed into his floor, onto his side—twisted and curled up. He shimmied around like a maggot. His back was hurting, too. He didn’t get it. A center-split, the deep bruising—like a knee holding him face-down, mud down his throat. Wildly, he reached with his right hand for the metal piece. It burned at the contact of his fingers, the strewn bandages that left gaps—and he didn’t care. He grabbed it and scrambled to press it back down. He pushed it against the length of his left forearm, vertically, and the warmth bled right back into his nerves—swirls of skin, of whatever it was that was rotting him. His stomach coiled and tightened and he didn’t want to throw up. He hated it. He hated throwing up. The heat bled inwards and it burned and burned and burned and he—

(Come with me.)

There was no end. There was never a way to get the pain to truly stop.

Rudo knew that. But he hoped. He begged. When he was younger, he prayed—selfish—so selfish in his desperation—and he didn’t get an answer, and his pain kept going, and so here he was at fifteen, same shit, different year.

(Did you want to kill yourself?)

—thought and stopped and couldn’t quite see anything and his vision tunneled and he breathed wetly and his head was tucked down and then up and then he was slamming it into the bed frame and wall—crawling—he moved between two spots on the floor and couldn’t stop choking and gasping—arms shaking—blood smeared under his palm and he worried about 3R, worried and worried and—

Over the next few minutes, Rudo realized it wasn’t changing.

(It might help.)

Rudo’s arm seared. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed down harder. Trying, always trying—the metal wasn’t hot enough, nothing was helping—the pain was this constant, bubbling thing—he needed it to stop.

His heart thumped in against his sternum, so earnest. He didn’t have a new job or anything—no one was ringing his choker—he glanced at it—across the floor, set down next to his gloves. He would hear it, if someone were calling. He breathed slowly—spit in his mouth, on his tongue.

(Rudo, said Regto, and Rudo had turned his face away and said nothing about the way he had felt.)

Rudo’s eyes spilt. He was in pain. Why the fuck was he still in pain?

The kid closed his eyes for less than a second, breathing in—sharp, so sharp—where was the clean air—where was the sound of birds? He hiccupped. He snapped his eyes open, shoved at his own arm—he wanted to cut this fucking thing off, he wanted to just—

(Did you want to die?)

—break it, break it, fucking break it—

The metal wasn’t warm enough. The rags weren’t warm enough. Did he need to go to the kitchen? There was an oven down there. He knew that—should he climb inside? It would fucking hurt. He might die. He could cram inside between the metal racks, let his body get consumed by the electrical throes.

Would that stop this?

Would that stop this?

And the question loomed, and it loomed, and he was trembling and Rudo was suddenly shoving backwards—teeth—sinking into—and the back of his head slammed into his bed frame—rattling—Rudo, did you want to die?—and the sound was so loud and Rudo thought he might be cursing, thought the blood might be swelling under his skin and between the surface of his skull and the surface of his soul—and he knocked his head backwards several more times before his mouth started to taste like something other than stomach acid—copper, the tang—he bit down on the palm of his hand and bit and bit and bit and bit and it didn’t help—why wasn’t it helping—the metal was pressed against his skin and the texture was wrong, the body he lived in was wrong—he was so fucking tired of this—Rudo’s eyes burned, and his arm did—don’t do that, please don’t do that—and Rudo wanted to cling inside the rumored Pit, wanted to fall beneath the darkness again and see the smudges oftheBorder and the lawless sky and the openness of life—cling into it—traverse—he wanted the agony in his arms to stop being so fucking common—everywhere—he wanted to trap himself inbetween the rocks and the noise—Rudo wanted to crawl next to his Dad, sitting up at the couch—sunrise over their faces—hear the birds—where the hell were the birds—burning, burning, burning—Regto had once said you did a number on yourself, and Rudo had mumbled what’s the number?—he wanted to break his fucking head—he wanted to—Rudo bit down at his hand, then released, and the tension in his jaw wasn’t helping and he snapped at his wrist and suddenly he was clawing at his other hand and rolling onto his side and there was blood in his mouth, blood everywhere, blood in places it shouldn’t be—in his room—the warm rag on his neck had fallen away at some point—Rudo was going to fucking die, he was going to die, he was going to die—do you wanna—he wanted to die, he was going to do it, he was going to—

Something slid and clattered.

Rudo clawed at half his neck, where he felt his pulse echo the loudest, and his body convulsed and the agony was wrapping itself so tightly—noose, this was a fucking noose—his existence was always called a sin or a punishment or a terrible thing—he felt snot and tears spill down his face,and when he stumbled upwards with adrenaline, he snapped his head upwards and saw—his window was open.

—kill himself, he was going to die if he didn’t get out, if he didn’t climb, there was a need and he needed time and he needed the sky and he couldn’t fucking feel it—

Rudo’s vision wouldn’t steady. He hiccupped, breathing wetly. His back was splitting spilling—something was pushing against his skin and he hated the shirt he was wearing, despite how soft it was.

A girl was in his windowway, red hair down—and she stared right back at him.

“Hey, Rudo,” the girl said, and she said it so slowly.

Rudo, in the haze—stumbled to the left—to the candle and nightstand—and he knew 3R was on the floor with his choker, and he choked out, “Hey, Riyo.”

Blood was over his mouth, pooling.

“You seem a bit busy,” Riyo said, and her tone had no inflection.

Rudo managed to bump into his dresser, chest heaving, and his arms were coated in a thick redness. The metal was on the floor. He didn’t care to look at it—couldn’t—if he drew more attention to it, Riyo might decide to look further, too. She was that kind of person. She was that kind of person, and Rudo wasn’t like that, Rudo didn’t understand it. His throat was too tight. He felt like he might die. He felt—wrong. Oh, God. God. His hands struggled, weak and shaking and spasming—the muscles constricted—involuntary, he couldn’t get them to stop—and he leaned heavily against one side of his dresser and with both arms he grabbed onto the hem of his shirt and started peeling it off.

The struggle was so fucking—it was just a—mess, he was a mess, he was so fucking stupid.

“Do you,” Riyo said, and she was further into his room. “Need help?”

She was being so calm, so quiet. She had clicked the window shut, and the evening light was spilling onto the floor. No air. Just the light. She took one step closer, body lifted towards Rudo, body blocking his vision from the dropped piece of metal that—was gonna—burn through the floor? He blinked. He saw God—maybe—the way all the rich folk used to say they saw God—where life flashed before your eyes—but Rudo blinked and it was just Riyo; red hair, thin body, blank face, carefree posture that angled herself between Rudo and Rudo’s discarded choice of self-harm.

He couldn’t fucking breathe.

Rudo yanked his shirt off—something pulled and stung. Something awful erupted down his spine, and vomit filled his mouth, and he gasped, “No, I have it handled.”

Then, he threw his shirt onto the floor, stumbled into his bathroom, and slammed the door.

He didn’t hear Riyo say anything on the other side. She didn’t follow him in.

Rudo stared. The noise swarmed in his head and he stared at his bathroom door. Staring—eyes empty—where was he going to go? What the hell, he thought, shakily, and he took a step backwards and couldn't stop looking at the smear of red over the doorknob. His breath got choked up. The floor was cold. He wasn’t wearing shoes. His back stung. He needed to get out—of what? His head was spinning and his arms hurt so fucking bad. His gaze flicked in every direction.

Rudo stumbled into the tub and somehow shucked the door—heard it rattle shut—mostly shut—and then fumbled further against the thing meant to produce water. Please. Hands smacking; blood spread out on the knob, on the side of the glass door. His shoulder scraped over it. His heart was up to his ears, beating and pattering and causing such a ruckus. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. He shoved at the shower knob, legs growing weak again—adrenaline, rushing, moving—you need to move—and the water came on with a trickle and then a spray. It poured instantaneously, and Rudo got hit in the face with it. Cold, so fucking cold—he scrambled and turned the knob, forced as far over into warmth as he could. Ice cascaded down his back.

Clattering—

(I don’t wanna, said the boy, I don’t wanna.)

—that heaviness from before was returning and Rudo felt distant and he felt sick and he might—

And Rudo’s arms twinged and he keened, and he slammed his head into the wall next to him, shoulder pressing roughly. His arms flung out under the spray of water. Listen to me, okay, you have to listen to me. Everything hurt. He sucked air into his lungs like a vacuum, but nothing showed up—smears of color—his shoulders shook and he clawed wildly at his elbows, at the skin, his mouth fell open and something rancid fell out. His teeth ached—he was biting down at his lip, coughing sporadically. Look at me. Come on. Meet me head on, Rudo, it’s fine. And the echo stretched out—agony all around him—glass to his mouth, no food in his belly, his body was jerking and he couldn’t understand it. The water was getting warmer, and he ducked his head under the flow. It went all over, soaked into his hair and rattled down his back. It started to burn again, and he breathed and jolted—burning, he needed it—the warmth seeped into his muscles and he leaned against the front of the shower and rested his head on the tiled surface, unable to get his vision to clear.

—get worse, something was going to get worse.

Pain was splitting him open again, unceremonious. There was nothing good about this. There was never going to be anything good about this.

His arms were aching and he felt the skin flex and pull and it was too fucking taut—bite, bite, bite—and his teeth sunk in and he scraped over the back of his head and he hiccupped and he leaned away and leaned back and let the water pelt him, beat against his skin—cursing, this was all wrong—his stomach heaved and he was gonna throw up, he was gonna—choke, die, choke, die—Rudo’s eyes moved left then right, his arms twisted and he clawed at his chest, then his sternum, along his ribs and to his heart—help, Dad, help—Rudo couldn’t think—where was he meant to go to get this fixed—was he going to lose it—Dad never let him lose nothing—Dad helped—what was Rudo gonna do now—and the ache was everywhere and Rudo whined so fucking loudly—he was a stream of sounds, a constant block of noise, and his mouth opened and closed and when he dragged his arm across his face—scrubbing, shaking—his teeth dug over the warbly and wobbly flesh and he pulled and snapped and tried to get rid of the wrongness—all over him—he reeked of blood again and that pain was erupting and he had never seen fireworks but he had heard about them—loud, ceaseless, colorful—the sear of his skin was getting louder and louder and the water roared over him and drenched him from head to toe, and he smacked his palms into his face and cried—wept—seethed and sputtered and clawed and choked and saw red smear over the water and down the drain and down his arms and his pulse was a violent thing and anger built up in his belly, the madness, the ache and guilt—suddenly he was nine, and then twleve—and then he saw Regto die-and his mouth was screed shut and his wrists hurt and the center of his back felt as if someone had prodded him with an electric stick—kill it, came the echo—who was gonna kill him like this?

(I want you to try these, said Regto, do they help?)

Steam pulled at him. The heat was unrivaled and his shoulders were hurting. The back of his neck ached. He hooked his hand into his mouth and bit at his thumb, down to the knuckle, and the hot water poured over him and he wished he could climb into an entire pool of it—burning and severing—and the pain came up and up and up and then—

(Tell me if you ever feel like… this. Tell me.)

Rudo’s lungs heaved. His vision was spotting in disorganized patterns. His heart was halfway out of his useless chest.

—he shoved one hand at the faucet of the shower, and the water stopped.

(Okay?)

And then it was quiet.

Rudo stared blankly at his arms, at the fallen bottles in the shower. His eyes were hazy. Somehow, a twist pulled at him, and he slowly moved. He stepped outside of the tub, away—and the water was still dripping down half the shower, and his arms went drip, drip, drip onto the floor. The rawness remained. He blinked.

The blood was… gone.

He stared.

Something was wrong again. The distance was back.

He wasn’t under the spray of water anymore, but something had lodged itself into his spine. He stared at the shower. He stared at the dark colors that swirled at the drain, starting to disappear. His back stung. Clawed, aching, down his body—like someone had started to hammer something upwards and then out of his flesh, in between each vertebrae—like—don’t move, I can’t move, Dad, it hurts so bad, Dad, it hurts. His arms… did, too. Breaking, just a bunch of tangled feelings and now he was standing here, blank-faced, breaths weak.

Did he break something? Rudo glanced down, slowly, and looked at the wounds on his arms—deep—there was a… he stared. Chunk?

Was that…

His lips moved, opening, and when he tilted his head down, he had the urge to throw up. He took a weak step back towards the shower, knocking his head back into half the fucking wall, and then made sure he threw up directly into the tub. Red fluid. Red, very—red—copper strung itself between his teeth, and he kept heaving for a little while.

It was coming out very pathetically.

Splitting, and his lips were numb and he couldn’t figure out why today was so bad. He breathed very slowly, erratically—in and out—held into his lungs and then given up.

His stomach hurt. His jaw was sore. He blinked several more times, shoving his shoulder against the rough surface of the wall that connected to the… shower tile wall? It was a weird setup. He didn’t know why the Ground did things like this. He leaned against the wall and slowly lowered himself down. His knees creaked, and something ached and ached in the back of his neck. Rudo should go to bed. Rudo should put out his candle. Rudo should get something for his arms—did he need antiseptic of some kind? Would it be necessary? His arms and hands had never gotten infected before. Regto would have told him, if they had. He had bitten his arms in the past—and tried to burn them, scrape them—he never went into cutting, but he knew that Regto kept the singular paring knife away from Rudo’s grasp.

He stared blankly at the shower.

Huh.

There was blood on the wall from where Rudo tumbled into it. There was blood on the faucet knob from where he struggled to turn the hot water on—heat—more heat—more fucking heat, just kill him, boil him alive, take all the hot water and make it less awful.

A loud knock rattled half the doorframe.

There was a voice, droning—it was too high-pitched to be Dad. “Rudo?”

Rudo couldn’t lift his head. It pressed halfway against the shower door, untethered. He didn’t know how he got into the bathroom. He didn’t—remember—just saw the flashes of color and the words that got trapped—someone had come into his bedroom and he had discarded his metal piece with as much urgency as a dog asking a piss after holding it in for nine hours. Rudo’s mouth moved, opening and closing. His stomach cramped again. The heat had helped and now he was… this. He couldn’t remember how he got here.

His arms hurt. He wasn’t wearing his shirt. He had clawed it off in his haste to get out of the—feeling—trapped—contained.

(I know. I’m sorry. I know it hurts.)

“Rudo,” someone said, through the door, “You have two seconds to let me in.”

Rudo squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted his Dad. He wanted the metal piece. He wanted 3R again—wrapped over him, safely, where his anima would bubble and pop and stay within reach. “I’m fine,” he said, so quietly—each word shook and shivered, “Don’t come in.”

“I’m already here,” the person replied, “Unlock the door, dude.”

“Can’t,” said Rudo, and he didn’t bother to move.

Dad wouldn’t break the door would he? But… at home, there weren’t any doors, so… Rudo felt foggy. Where was he?

There wasn’t much of a pause before the handle rattled and then swung open. It came open with so much force that Rudo almost flinched. Something banged against on another—the door and the wall? He felt so far away, half-crumpled like this, blood drying on open wounds—no bandages, no ointment. His hair was clinging to his face and neck. His skin was warm to the touch. His pants were soaked. He had walked into the shower without stripping—excluding his shirt. Where the hell did he put it? He took it off, somehow, and…

“Oh,” and someone breathed. “Hey, you said you couldn’t unlock the door.”

“Can’t,” Rudo mumbled again.

“It wasn’t locked,” said the person, and there were quick but quiet footsteps. The person knelt down next to Rudo, “I didn’t mean to kick the door in. Sorry, Rudo.”

“Okay,” said Rudo, and he kept his eyes shut and tried to let the air fix him. He breathed steadily. He didn’t feel like he was going to die anymore. The pain had passed. His arms had residual aches. Everything was distant. He could probably go to bed and be fine tomorrow morning. If they had a mission, he could probably do it without issue. Bluriness. He was… at base. On the Ground. Not—home. Something clicked in his throat, and he worked his tongue for several moments. He might need to throw up again.

Not because of pain, but something else?

I think I’m sick, he wanted to say. Go away. I’m just sick. But it wouldn’t come out. He gave up on trying to say anything about it.

“Shit,” the person said, and the voice was picking up at the end. It didn’t sound like Dad. Rudo couldn’t figure out who it was—he should know—this just happened, didn’t it? He should open his eyes. He didn’t. “Rudo, hey, c’mon. Open your eyes. This is a lot of blood, y’know?”

But he had showered. He had washed the blood off.

And something touched his shoulder—barely—and Rudo ducked and twisted away like a work avoiding the dry soil. Stinging, burning—the way his body rejected this—everything. He shuddered. “Stop,” he mumbled, and just saying that took so much effort. “Don’t touch.”

“You’re still bleeding,” came that voice, “I didn’t call anyone yet, because you said you had it handled, but this is not handled.”

That—hand—came back, and it touched Rudo’s uninjured shoulder and then reached up for part of Rudo’s head. The hand was soft, and frigid in comparison to Rudo’s body. He winced again, made such a pathetic sound. “It’s handled,” he mumbled again. “I… you saw?”

The hand settled at the base of his neck, and there was a hiss. “Rudo. It’s Riyo. Remember?”

Rudo peeled his eyes open, and he breathed out. “Sorry,” he said. “You already… saw this stuff before.”

When she came to his room that first night—through the window. She saw his arms after he had just gotten out of the shower. Bare arms. The damage.

“Uhm, not to this extent, man,” Riyo replied. “This is fucking shitty. Genuinely. And I’ve seen some shit. But this?” And her other hand came up to Rudo’s arm, from where it lay limply in his lap, and she gestured—weakly—she wasn’t grabbing him yet but—her movements jerked. “This is, genuinely, and no disrespect, but the worst wound I’ve seen in eight months.” There was a little laugh, barely amused, more—concerned, than anything—and Rudo blinked several times to try to clear his vision. “Hold on. I’m gonna get a towel. Okay?”

“Okay,” Rudo said.

Then she got up to do just that. The bathroom felt dreary. Was this death? No, never. Dumb question. Something struggled to sit up—Rudo, he pushed himself against the wall and tried to straighten. He felt all weak again, like his limbs were jelly. He needed to sleep this off. His mouth was filling with spit again. Was his candle blown out?

Two seconds passed and as Rudo tried to come back to himself, heart beating loudly in his ears, he pleaded, “Don’t call anyone.”

Riyo didn’t fumble at the wall from where she dragged the towel free, but when she turned to face him—he caught her expression. It shuttered and twisted—her eyes were empty, unknown—but she frowned at him without any malice, “Rudo.”

He swallowed. “Please.”

“You have to go to medbay,” Riyo said slowly as she came back to his side. “I can’t treat this stuff.”

She didn’t grab either of his arms, but she extended the towel and leaned close enough for her hair to tickle part of his shoulder. Rudo shivered, but he managed to pull the towel from her grasp and let it cover both his arms. Riyo watched the mess unfold, and then deliberately put her hands over his arms. She applied a little pressure, and Rudo’s shoulders tensed. When he didn’t pull away, Riyo maneuvered the towel and started to wrap it around both arms at once—Rudo’s mind twisted, aware, and he didn’t like how the pressure pressed against every aching part of his skin—but then he stopped disliking that and started disliking the fact that she was practically stopping him from moving his arms and shit.

“I hate medbay,” His face contorted, sour, and he didn’t have enough energy to fight, but he murmured, “I need 3R. I can’t… leave them.” His eyes darted to the door—where his gloves rested—in the other part of the room. “Riyo.”

Riyo looked up, done tugging the towel into a makeshift—thing.

Fuck if Rudo knew the term. Bind? Bandage? The pressure was consistent, and the pain would start up soon. His hands were halfway covered, too. Blood. But not blood, not all of it. It was… like the clear fluid in a shallow wound. Not blood, but something else. He didn’t know the name for it. Regto would know. Rudo didn’t.

(Do you? Do you want to?)

After two seconds, which was enough time for Rudo to wiggle his fingers and feel pins and needles creep all along his limbs, Riyo nodded. “I know,” she said, and her hands were heavy over Rudo’s tied ones. “I don’t leave Ripper anywhere, either. Can you…” and her eyes glided down, lips pulling. She looked back up and gave him a weird smile. “Up and at ‘em, big boy, I’ll help you stand. We can get 3R and then I’ll help you get to medbay.” She sounded contemplative, almost idle. “At the very least, there are supplies there.”

“I don’t wanna bother Eishia,” Rudo said, and his words slid together uncomfortably, and he slowly started arranging himself into a better position.

Riyo hummed, and she crouched next to him. Teetering. “Did you hit your head?”

“Yeah,” Rudo said, without thinking.

“Yikes,” said Riyo. “Was that all the thumping?”

(I’ll help you up. Here, like this. Like this. It’s fine, seriously.)

His head throbbed. He saw the room double—darkness crowded, but the lights were on—did he hit his head by accident? Outside of the bed frame event, technically? He made a move to stand up. Riyo’s hand left the towel—was that a fucking knot in the fabric—and suddenly he was blinking rapidly, and suddenly her arm was hovering in front of him, and he was leaning downwards again. His knees touched the floor and he didn’t bother in holding himself up. He made a sound that was unsimilar to a tea kettle—between teeth, whistling, the air screaming—and his body tilted down, down, down, and just like that, Rudo was back to being half-crumpled with his arms pressed against his lap.

The room was cold. The heat was wearing off, and without 3R, his arms would start hurting again. Agony that would be nauseating. Rudo didn’t know if he had enough energy to throw up again. He couldn’t remember how Regto handled all his episodes—some were just, well, worse than others. Rudo never remembered all the details. Just words, mostly. Maybe some actions. Certain feelings.

Riyo’s hand was back on his forehead, and one was pressing carefully at part of his arm—his bicep, which wasn’t wrapped in the strange tissue. She barely touched it, and he hissed. Her hand moved away.

The chill pressing along his hairline wasn’t unpleasant, but he didn’t like it—right now.

“Okay,” said Riyo, in that easy going voice. “Maybe you can’t stand.”

“Can,” Rudo said, but he didn’t even bother trying to get up again to prove it. Medbay was far away. He wanted to go to bed. What would be better than walking to his bed, actually, was not walking or moving anymore. He just wanted to stay here, curl up against the wall, and half the tub’s side.

Riyo looked at him, darting. Calculation, again. “Rudo,” she said, very calmly, “I think we should call Enjin.”

Rudo opened his mouth and said, vehemently, “Hell no.”

“Well,” Riyo murmured, and she carefully pushed some of his hair away from his forehead. She tapped the center of it, over a tender spot—ah, maybe he had hit the front of his head?—and when Rudo squeezed his eyes shut again, she kept her voice low. “If not Enjin, then someone else. I can’t carry you. There’s no shame in getting help.”

“It’s not shameful,” Rudo hissed—it wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t—but his throat was warping, and he hated the idea of anyone else knowing, of seeing—and his lungs expanded, and he was half-folded down, and the towel was holding his arms stiffly and he knew Riyo did it on purpose, and Rudo didn’t know if she knew—if she saw him poorly or differently—if what he had done had made her think he would do it to someone else—but he was—I just wanted the pain to stop, please, please make it stop—and back on the Sphere, Rudo never fought others, he let them beat him down and he walked home with bloody noses and split lips and he would let Regto patch him up and he wouldn’t choke or hold anyone down, he never spat curses where others could hear him, he was good, he was even civil—and he knew there was no shame in getting treatment, because it meant you wouldn’t suffer, and if you weren’t suffering maybe you wouldn’t be miserable, and that meant—more—but Rudo wasn’t on the Sphere, and he was alone in this culture—this idea—with those arms, you won’t be able touch anything without the gods reminding you of how little you’re worth—Rudo wasn’t willing for anyone else to see him without his bandages.

Riyo was never meant to see. It was by chance that it ever happened. This was—cursed—wrong, he was wrong—he should have done all his methodical coping mechanisms in the bathroom, with the locked door—should have. Didn’t.

(Rudo?)

“Right, no, yeah. It’s not shameful,” Riyo repeated. “Cool. If it’s not shameful to get help, which you need, then what’s the hold up?”

She combed at his hair, parted it down the middle. It clung to his forehead and her fingers. Damp. He should dry it. He should. He wouldn’t—too much fucking work—and Riyo didn’t seem to care.

Rudo’s eyes burned. His hands curled uncomfortably.

“I don’t want anyone to see,” his eyes stayed down, he couldn’t meet Riyo’s gaze. “It just really—fuckin’ hurt, it hurt, and I—no one is meant to see it, me, when I’m…” Rudo’s voice grew faint, air without anywhere to go, lungs without anything in them. He wanted to—die again—all of a sudden—the collapse of faith and numbness, because now Riyo was lingering, and no one was meant to do that shit. “No one should see me when I’m like this,” Rudo mumbled at last. “It’s been a while. Since—it happened. I have it handled.”

His throat bobbed. Acid built. He might die after all. Feeing like it. Ah. It wasn’t shameful to get help. The shame was all on him, in him—he was shameful.

“Well, I dunno if you can feel all this,” Riyo didn’t stop combing through his hair. Her nails scratched briefly at his scalp, gentle—like soothing an animal—and then her hand rested heavy at the back of his head. “But it’s not just your arms. I saw the burn, and that’s bad on its own—yikes, man—but you must’ve stumbled into here and done even worse damage. Your skin is all pink.” She paused. “Hot water, yeah? Damn. There goes the week’s supply…” But her voice wasn’t teasing, and it wasn’t solemn, and she kept talking, “You clawed your arms real bad, bit a few places. Your back, too. Your tenth and ninth ribs got the violent treatment.” And there it was again, a pause—and her other hand pressed so lightly at the center of Rudo’s back, and she said, “Down your spine, right above where I’m touching, there’s a deep mark. It kinda… kinda looks like the texture on your arms.”

Like the…

(I know it hurts, Rudo. I’m sorry. I’m not mad. I swear I’m not mad. Please don’t do it again. Don’t do this again.)

His arms. Was it…

“No,” he said, very quiet, and it was a whisper and a hiccup.

Riyo made a sound. “Sorry, Rudo. I thought you…”

Rudo sat perfectly still, mostly bowed down, and didn’t say anything. He sucked in air, and then exhaled. He breathed like that for a while. Wet, gasping sounds—his eyes weren’t weeping yet, but everything was starting to get bad again. He gagged—and Riyo almost pulled away, but nothing came out of Rudo’s throat. He heaved blindly, senselessly. Riyo let up on his back, shuffled closer, and ended up sitting next to him. Her hair was down. That was why he felt it tickle his shoulder every now and then. He choked. He choked and coughed. Texture like his arms… tissue that was… sinful.

What sin could he have committed as a baby to be punished like this?

Huh? What could possibly—

He sucked in air through his nose, snot scuffing. He coughed a little. “Can’t stand,” Rudo mumbled at last. “I wanna go to bed.”

“You can go to bed soon,” Riyo said quietly. Her voice was distant, and she petted Rudo’s head another time and smoothed out the wet hairs at the base of his neck. He winced a little—he had slammed his head into his bed frame—it was tender. She faltered, and then went back to petting the top of his head instead. “I really should call someone, though. To help you up, and help treat your wounds.”

Rudo didn’t have the energy to shake his head. He flexed his arms and winced. Pain bubbled up. His stomach dropped, and he struggled.

“Riyo,” he choked out, “Please—3R, please.”

Riyo withdrew her hand from his head and got up without another word. He saw her from the corner of his vision, blurry and fragmented. She left the bathroom and went into his bedroom. In less than ten seconds, she was back with 3R. She held his gloves delicately and came right back to his side, placing the gloves in her lap while she reached to unfurl part of the towel.

“You have to keep the pressure on the wounds,” she murmured, almost too quiet, “But you can slide your gloves on like this, right? It won’t hurt your hands too bad if you wear ‘em now?”

“Don’t care if it hurts,” Rudo said, and it was embarrassing how his voice waned and turned into a whine. “Gimme my—my…”

When the towel was unfurled at the front—no longer a smear of dirtied fabric bundling his dirty skin—he pushed his hand out from under and spread his fingers wide. Riyo slid the glove onto his right hand, and suddenly Rudo’s heart beat like a fucking drum, and his pulse jittered wildly in his neck. He opened and closed his jaw a few times, feeling the way anima wrapped over his skin, melting into him again. Riyo slid the other half of 3R onto his other hand, and as soon as it was on, Rudo hiccupped.

“Who do you want me to call?” Riyo asked, as soon as Rudo had his gloves on. “I gotta call someone. I’m serious. I’m giving you—that choice, okay?”

“Dunno,” said Rudo, and he was breathing strangely again. He stared at 3R on his hands, and at the awkward shape of the towel that was wrapped from his wrists to a little above his elbows. The buzz of 3R’s anima wasn’t killing him, but he couldn’t stand it—breaking open—he felt like a shaken egg, scrambled and poured out—not even into a pan, just purely wasteful. 3R was like a heavy blanket, shielding him—but now his fingers were burning inside of the gloves, and he felt bad about it. He was gonna get blood inside 3R. Fuck. His mouth tasted like copper again. The thickness at the back of his throat made speech difficult. “Not… not Enjin.”

“Okay,” Riyo said. “Gris? Tomme?” She paused, and then said, “I can call Zanka.”

Rudo’s eyes wouldn’t focus, but he glanced at Riyo and tried to convey his confusion and, sorta, horror. “Are you serious?”

“Zanka wouldn’t judge,” Riyo confirmed. “Also, he has enough strength to carry you if needed. I don’t.”

“You’re strong,” Rudo shuddered. “I… You carried Zanka, once. I think.”

“Yes, I’m strong,” Riyo agreed. Her hands came back—and then suddenly they were on either side of Rudo’s face, and she tapped both cheeks with her thumbs, smoothed over the skin, and said, “You’re strong. Plenty of people are strong. But I’m not carrying you when you’re like this. Helping Zanka walk is one thing, but this is… worse. Sorry, man, not tryin’ to guilt you.” Her smile was small, and she let go of his head and carefully pushed his hair out of his face again. “I’mma call Gris,” she said, “Okay? And because he’s crazy strong, he’s gonna help carry you to—medbay, probably—you look rougher than shit—and then we can sort out the details of… this situation, okay? Do you get me?”

Rudo’s mouth was full of lead. He blinked several times, and tried to focus on how Riyo had gone back to petting his head methodically. She played with everyone’s hair—he knew—but she was observant and there was no way she hadn’t figured out that Rudo was a pathetic creature who liked—the comfort—the oddity of it.

He sniffled again, eyes stinging, “I’mma say I got attacked by… by, uh…”

“A trash beast?” Riyo offered, one hand hovering at her neck. She shuffled closer to him, and Rudo turned his face towards her, then ducked a little.

His legs wouldn’t unfold. The position was awkward and uncomfortable, and he couldn’t undo his arms like this. He lulled his head to the side, sinking against her. Her clothes brushed against his side, and it was terrible. It made him wince, but she didn’t call him out on it. If anything, she let him collapse against her—wasn’t this too close for comfort—and when Rudo’s eyes kept stinging and streaming down, Riyo just hummed and slung her arm carefully across his shoulders to envelop him while she played with his hair.

Any second now she was gonna call Gris. And if Gris didn’t answer, she would call Tomme, or Zanka, or… anyone else, really, who might be of use. Rudo didn’t want anyone else to see but—why would—Enjin? No. He didn’t know why he wanted to avoid dragging Enjin into this.

His head felt fuzzy. He hiccupped. “No,” Rudo’s tongue was heavy. “Not a beast.”

“Hmmm,” Riyo went along with this, still rather easygoing. “A cat? You have a few… scratches, I think.”

“No,” Rudo shook his head, and his cheek was resting against her bony shoulder—and it dug in, and he could dig into himself and pry open his body, pry open the redness of his gut—he could if he just—if he tried—would he ever try?—and his voice rattled and it sounded like a child, weak and useless, mumbling, “I’ll just—a monster, or something, got to me, and…”

Riyo let him rest fully against her, and shockingly didn’t get displaced by his dead weight.

She hummed. “A monster, huh?”

The boy hiccupped again, finding this incredibly awful. “Fuckin’ monster under the bed.” His eyes were full of water. “Do’ya have that here? Monsters under the bed? The—Sphere has stories, and I…”

Breaking his own neck. Scrambling and clawing and begging and pleading—universe, God, please. The ache that consumed. Wanting everything to stop hurting. Hearing the sound of rain and knowing his arms would ache for days afterwards. Breaking down where Regto could see, could find him—staying in the house and weeping and weeping and weeping. Anger that erupted—smashing his head against the wooden wall of his bedroom—losing it—had he lost it? Had he? Drowning, thinking about flying. Would the birds sing? They used to. Down here was different. Rudo saw crows and black-feathered aves, but he didn’t see doves or pigeons or anything like what used to live back home. Certainly no parakeets or budgies. He couldn’t imagine.

“We have plenty of stories like that,” Riyo said. She patted his head, rather gentle. “I bet yours are way different than ours, though. When you’re feelin’ more like yourself, you should tell me some, mm’kay?”

“Riyo,” Rudo said, rasping—he might die—he might. “Why did you—s-stick around? After I… why now?” His eyes burned. He couldn’t get the words out. “Why’d you…”

Even after she saw him in his mess, and he stumbled into the bathroom, she hadn’t left. Rudo had lost his mind, or something, and he had thrown up and clawed and stolen and broken all kinds of versions of himself. He had bitten and scratched skin. He had gone after his ribs and shoulders and neck. He had slammed his back into part of the wall, had tried to claw at whatever agony erupted in the center. He had done all kinds of shit, supposedly—no recollection of the rage and desperation—and when the thumping was done, and his head was quiet, and the sensations stopped clouding his head, he had stepped out from the shower and crumpled to the floor on the rug. He was still on the shower rug. Riyo was next to him. Riyo—had stayed—and had kicked the door down as soon as he was done with the shower. Why then? Why…

“I know how bad it is to be surprised by help,” Riyo blinked—eyelashes over her cheeks—and she might’ve squeezed his shoulders in a side-hug if it weren’t for the fact that Rudo would start to cry in earnest. She could probably tell it wasn’t wise to put too much pressure on the rest of him. Rudo hadn’t unraveled the entire town, so she didn’t need to squeeze his arms, either.

The boy was letting the towel take most of the damage.

Rudo blinked sluggishly. He tried to imagine it, and found that he couldn’t. “Really?”

“Really. I was waiting, you know. I had thought about calling someone right then, or breaking the door down, but I wanted to see if you were gonna handle it.” She paused. “Not that the burns and bite marks are exactly, well, normal to see, so. I was probably gonna call regardless, actually.” Riyo smiled a little again. “Nasty stuff, huh?”

Rudo made a sound.

But Riyo still didn’t call anyone yet.

Her voice was soft despite the way something in each word got propped up with humor, “A candle and a piece of scrap metal… man, you are creative as hell for that, Rudo. Scary, but creative.”

“Why didn’t you jus’ break the door?” Rudo mumbled.

He was very cold. He felt so cold. The warmth had held out, and he couldn’t return anything. 3R was helping.

This was such a mess. He might need to… throw up. Did Eishia give out nausea medication? Was that something he could ask for? Maybe he should ask if anyone knew a place to pray—purified or whatever. Was that a thing on the Ground? He should have tried harder to figure it out, but, well, now he was here and…

(Did you want to die?)

“I’d hate it if it were me,” Riyo said simply, “Also, I was listening the whole time through the door, with the bottles being knocked over and whatnot. When it was finally quiet, I needed to make sure you weren’t passed out. Or, ah… worse.” She cleared her throat, tapped his head like she was trying to teach something. She hummed. “You were causing a ruckus—that’s why I stopped by. All the thumping. Heard it from my room, and I’m above you. Guess I know now that it’s just you having a bad fuckin’ day, yeah?”

Barely, then, a nudge against part of his body.

Rudo shuddered, and it was embarrassing and stupid, but he let his head slip further and then he was pressing it wholly into her shoulder. Rudo sucked in some air, and when he exhaled, it came out very shakily. “I haven’t done anythin’ like this in… two years, or something,” he mumbled. “Dad never let me burn m’ arms.”

“Well, damn, ‘s not like we’re gonna let you either,” Riyo laughed—sharp—but it wasn’t mean. Her hand was still hovering at her neck.

(I wanted to. I want to.)

“Figures,” Rudo breathed again, kinda pathetic. “Did you… put out my candle?”

“Yeah,” said Riyo, “And I moved the metal thing off the floor, don’t worry. Nothing got burned.” She blinked, made that contemplative sound that she always made before she said something that would make any normal person tweak out. “Well, nothing burned, except you. Hah…”

The boy grunted—his cheeks felt a little warm—her jokes were too casual and he couldn’t tell if it was helping or making him feel worse.

His throat felt like it was full of glue, but he finally mumbled. “You can… call.”

“Oh, good,” Riyo agreed, and gave him another pat. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll cover the details. You can just focus on making sure you don’t bleed out, okay? It’s, well, I would say it’s not a big deal, but you know otherwise.” She snorted, and her hair was so vibrant. Rudo liked her eyes—everyone down here had such colorful eyes, dull in the way a Giver’s eyes always were—but so bright in terms of life. “I’ll talk with Gris, you can just zone out, hmmm?”

Did she joke to cope? Regto hadn’t been too fond of joking about serious matters, though he had possessed his fair share of phrases to use when Rudo was sickly.

His thoughts were moving slowly. That never happened.

“Okay,” Rudo said quietly. “I’m not a baby. You don’t have to coddle me or anythin’ like that.”

“‘S not coddling to reassure a teammate,” Riyo corrected. “Tell me if you need to throw up, though. You might have a concussion or something.” There was a brief pause, and she muttered, “I should have checked you for one earlier—sorry.” She mumbled something-something, at least you’re talking. But Rudo couldn’t be sure if that was what she said. Then, without waiting any longer, she pressed her fingers to her Choker and started to call Gris.

Rudo leaned against her. The cold was getting to him. The emptiness at his spine prickled, and he screwed his eyes shut when the pain started to throb along his knuckles and into his wrists. Riyo, without any complaint or hesitation, kept combing her fingers through his hair.

(I know it hurts. You’re gonna be okay. Forgive me.)

After a few seconds, he heard the static clatter of Gris’s voice through Riyo’s choker.