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Garrett knew he shouldn’t have watched that horror movie right before bed, but in his defense, Nightmare on Elm Street was an all time classic and how was he supposed to eat pizza without his spooky background noise? And besides, with Andrew sleeping on the couch, he’s confident that he won’t have any issues sleeping tonight.
Well, now it’s four a.m., and he’s sitting bolt upright in bed, a scream choked down into a whimper on his lips; the exact details are fuzzy now, the glint of metal and the stark crimson of blood and viscera, and they only grow foggier with every second that passes. Squeezing his bear to his chest, he’s just teetering on the edge of big and little, that uncomfy midpoint headspace that doesn’t fit quite right around the edges. The dim corners feel so much darker like this, when the only thing he has to hide behind is his blanket and his bear, and his joints are locked, trapping him in his own body in the dark, scary room, alone.
Tears pool in his fear-widened eyes, slowly trickling down his cheeks when he builds the bravery to blink. Something in the hallway shifts, and a whine rattles from somewhere low in his chest. A shiver wracks through Garrett’s entire frame, matching the quiver of his lower lip, and there’s suddenly a wet warmth spreading over his thighs and down his butt. It very quickly cools into an unbearable, sticky mess on his skin and soaking through his sheets. There’s a slight pause as his foggy, sleep-addled mind catches up to what’s just happened.
He wet the bed, for maybe the first time since he was five. Uh oh, oh no, oh god, he wet the bed.
A sob cracks through his careful composure, terrifyingly loud in the shadowy silence of early morning, but no matter how hard he clamps his jaw down on the sound, they slip through nonetheless; it only serves to spike the stress pains in his stomach further and further until it’s almost unbearable. Garrett sinks quick, the adult part of his brain shunned in the deepest corner of his brain until he’s left as a tiny, gasping thing. He’s soiled, trembling with fear and overwhelm, and his tummy is twisted up in painful knots, so now he feels all queasy on top of it. Everything feels so awful he can’t imagine anything outside of how terrible he feels, and the only muffling of his cries is the way he’s curled up, knees to his chest, chewing at his bear’s ear in a final pitiful attempt to self-soothe. It’s so scary in the dark by himself, and Garrett wants to cry and scream for Andrew, knows he’s not so far away, but he can’t bring himself to make the sound, too afraid of drawing the shadows in first. The final lucid part of his brain is also holding him back in that aspect - while Andrew doesn’t seem to have an issue with his…littleness, this was a whole new thing, even for him, too gross and weird to ask someone else to deal with - and so he scrunches tighter around his tense, aching tummy, knowing he can’t call for Andrew, even if the warring parts of his brain can’t agree why.
The floor creaks in the hallway, and Garrett squeezes his eyes shut tight; the monsters can’t get you if you don’t look at them, that was monster rules. Still, the weeping comes heavier, his breaths growing shorter as the monster drew near.
~~~
Andrew had always been a light sleeper, especially when crammed on Garrett’s shitty little couch that he’d been lugging around since at least two houses ago. A sound down the hall is what wakes him up, and, squinting at his phone, the near-blinding screen reads 4:27. Considering it’s still dark out through the back door, it’s A.M., and he squishes his face into his pillow with a grumbled huff. He considers ignoring it, to disregard it as Garrett snoring and trying to get even an hour more sleep, but the longer he listens, the more it sounds like crying. Rubbing at his eyes, he creeps out of the living room, out into the hallway, and yep, that’s definitely crying.
There’s a little pit of anxiety that opens in his stomach as Andrew shuffles towards the bedroom, the anguished sobs crescendoing with heart-rending intensity, almost excruciating just to listen to. The floor creaks beneath him, and suddenly, the sound goes muted, indistinct, although no less miserable, as if being obstructed by something soft. His head is racing, mostly with concern and a plethora of questions; he’s never known Garrett to be much of a crier, outside of the occasional sentimental moment or bone-rattling fright, and particularly not in his own home, seemingly in his own bed. Certainly not in that nasally, whiny tinge, like his voice has come unmoored from his own vocal cords, half-raspy with how forcefully he expels each breath and hiccups back on the inhale.
He’s come up with every possible worst case scenario possible, so when he pushes the door open with a quiet creak, he’s almost relieved to see Garrett sitting upright in bed, seemingly with all his limbs still attached and not being ripped apart by rabid wolves or something. Less pleasant to see is the tremor of his shoulders, the way he curls around himself as if to keep the whole world out, face buried in his duvet-covered knees so that his floppy blond hair covers his face completely. The little rush of relief Andrew’s gotten sours, goes cold and clammy in his chest as it turns squishy and sorrow-shaped.
“Garrett?” he calls quietly, voice still a little hoarse from sleep, and a pang of despair wretches through him when Garrett flinches from his voice, wrapping tighter into himself. The crying is even quieter now, like his jaw has been wired shut, but his entire frame is quaking with the force of it all. Andrew is vaguely nauseated now, a tight coil of anxiety wrapped around his pounding heart, and he slinks closer, settling gingerly at the edge of the bed. Leaning down, he tries for a pacifying smile, although it pulls a little tight at the corners. “Hey, dude. You doin’ okay?”
It’s a completely rhetorical question, people don’t usually cry themselves sick when everything is going alright, but it does what he intends, which is get Garrett to come out from the ball he’s coiled himself into. It takes all of the self-control in the world not to visibly wince as Garrett uncurls, revealing his snotty, tear-streaked face and watery, bloodshot blue eyes; his cheeks and nose are flushed red, and his jaw is clamped so tightly shut that the muscles twitch. With the low lighting, the shapes outside of his blushed skin are a little squiggly, but he realizes after a second that he’s got the ear of his teddy bear ground between his teeth, the fur matted and damp with spittle, and something in Andrew’s brain clicks. Now that he’s looking for it, it jumps out at him right away, that particular softness in Garrett’s gaze that just screams little. Andrew doesn’t comment on it, just smiles placidly and keeps his voice as steady as possible, but the anxiety dissipates somewhat. This isn’t some unknowable, unsolvable problem - just Garrett, sad and small a little too early in the morning, probably so overtired he can’t tell up from down.
“Oh, bug, what’s the matter?” Andrew asks, voice lilting and soft, trying to keep his little calm, or at least, calmer than he is now. Garrett’s eyes widen fractionally, his already choppy breathing hitching minutely, and Andrew knows he knows that he knows he’s feeling small. Releasing his poor bear from his jaws, his lips immediately begin quavering, desperately trying to hold back his bawling. “C’mere, baby, it’s okay.”
With just a little pressure against his shoulder, Garrett collapses into him, burying his face in Andrew’s shoulder. His hoodie is being smeared with snot and saliva and tears, but he just wraps his arms tighter around the shaking little, muttering quiet platitudes between low, sibilant shushing. With his chin against the crown of Garrett’s head, his blond hair smells soft and sleep-sweet, but there’s the acrid curl of ammonia, and he furrows his brow.
“Bug?” He mutters, and there’s a hum in response, a little mewl that means he’s got Garrett’s attention. Andrew pats his back gently, the words clogging his throat for a moment because god, this isn’t gonna go well. “Did you have an, uh- accident?”
Garrett freezes, so still Andrew isn’t sure he’s breathing anymore, and terribly tense under his fingertips. The terrifying stillness doesn’t last long, though, and very quickly it becomes trying to writhe away, heaving breaths and a fresh spill of tears as he squirms away. His uncoordinated limbs shove at Andrew’s shoulders weakly, but Andrew doesn’t let him retreat too far, although he has to lean back to avoid getting smacked in the face. With a shocking amount of coordination, those shaky, shoving hands turn back on himself, and Garrett smacks his temple with a dull thud. Definitely qualified as not good.
“No, ba’, ba’ boy, ‘m so’ee,” he whimpers, and a second hit lands, his forehead this time. His speech is slurred, cracking with the strain he’s put on his vocal cords, and he just sounds so small, tiny and frightened, like a fawn bleating for its mother. “‘m so’ee, Mama, don’ mean be ba’, I so’ee-”
And oh, didn’t that just break Andrew’s heart?
“Oh, no, bug, it’s okay,” he soothes, dragging Garrett to his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. Garrett flails and cries, but he refuses to release him, knows damn well that the moment he does he’s going to go right back to hitting. Even as his voice pitches up into screaming, long and shrill and ear-splitting, Andrew holds fast to the shrieking little, loose enough not to be overly constrictive but tight enough to prevent any further self-injury. “Shh, you’re okay, bug. It was an accident, ‘s not your fault. I’m not mad, baby, Mama’s not mad.”
The body pinned to his slumps, finally draining of tension, and Andrew’s neck is tacky and damp with tears that aren’t his own. Over the course of about an hour, the wails taper into hiccups, then to sniffles, and Garrett wiggles closer, now, climbing into his lap. As much as Andrew wants to let him, the ammonia scent rears again, and, pressing a kiss to his forehead, he stands. Garrett whines, big eyes watery and pleading, and he makes grabby hands at his seemingly retreating caregiver, and Andrew’s heart melts into a puddle at the gesture.
“I’m not going anywhere, bug, but you’re still icky from your accident," he explains, and Garrett deflates like a leaky balloon. His expression goes pouty and he makes a tiny mithering sound, but with the way he shifts against the mattress, it’s clearly crossed from uncomfortable to itchy. “You’re- gonna need a bath.”
He tries not to sound too displeased with the idea for the sake of the clearly very sensitive little he’s got in front of him, but in practice, the idea feels a little strange. He hasn’t…not seen Garrett naked, but it still feels strange to see his best friend so stripped down, especially like this; nudity is so far from a concern right now, but only because he isn’t even in a headspace to be concerned about any possible connotations or social intricacies making the idea weird in the first place. Andrew has no particular qualms with it himself - high school sports really desensitizes you to seeing other guys in all states of undress - but he still spends a minute or so biting his lip, considering his options before having to go through with actually doing it. Garrett is starting to fuss, whining around the fingers being ground between his teeth, and so he has to come to a decision before he waits too long and lands him with an infection. In the end, he decides not to commit to a full bath, mostly because the bathtub is currently full of clutter, and he doesn't have time to address all of that. Instead, he opts for a simple wipe-down, quick and efficient and, most importantly, low-stress.
Crucially, Andrew did not consider how he would get Garrett into the bathroom. Standing was simply not happening, taking a few wobbly steps before nearly slinking to the floor under the weight of his own body, and so Andrew has to improvise. Wrapping Garrett’s arms around his neck, he braces his hands under his slightly tacky thighs and lifts, staggering under the strain of another, much taller body completely dependent on his own. It’s not too bad, though, even as his muscles ache and complain at him, and the bathroom isn’t too far, just down the hall and to the right, thank god. Setting Garrett on the closed toilet lid, he has to stretch out his arms and shoulders. If he didn’t know Garrett was going to be obnoxiously apologetic tomorrow, he would’ve been a little cross about it; he was definitely going to have to start hitting the gym hard if this was going to become a regular thing, though.
Stripping off the soiled clothes, they end up on the floor with a sad plop, mostly because he has no idea what’s clean or dirty. Idly, he wonders how Garrett usually manages when he’s like this, by himself in the mess that his adult self has inadvertently created, and has to chase it away before he spirals into that rabbithole. Instead, he focuses on clearing up the mess as quickly as possible; Garrett doesn’t seem to even notice, just stares at the bathroom with sleepy eyes like he’s never seen it before, still suckling on his fingers lazily. We really need to get him a pacifier. Just the clothes, the washcloth too ends up on the floor once he’s done, solidly in the tomorrow problem category. After only a second of thought, the sheets and mattress end up in there too, and although it’s not really built for two grown men, it’s looking like a couch night- morning? Whatever, they’re sleeping on the couch.
Redressed in soft sleep clothes that Andrew is 90% certain are clean, Garrett permits himself to be dragged out to the couch, although he grumbles through all thirty-ish feet they have to walk. He plops down pliantly, and immediately, he begins to fuss, free hand flexing in his pj pants.
“‘ear,” he lisps around his fingers, baby blues going large and shiny, and a real spark of panic goes through Andrew’s chest. They could not handle another meltdown right now. “Mama, ‘ear, ‘ease.”
“Okay, bug, I’ll be right back,” he says, rolling the request over in his head. Garrett has a lot of kids’ stuff in his house, but not a lot of real little gear, so what could he be missing so badly? The bed- the bear! That well-loved teddy bear he drags absolutely everywhere. Andrew winces as he remembers how the ear had been chewed to hell, almost certainly soaked to the stuffing with spittle. He decides cleaning the bear would go on tomorrow’s docket, and so he retrieves it from the bedroom, thankfully clean outside of the now-cold saliva staining the ear. He’s only gone about five minutes total, but by time he returns to the living room, there’s tears clumping on Garrett’s lashes, his lower lip quivering as he clumsily rubs at his eyes. “Oh, bug, what’s wrong?”
“Mama go ‘ay,” he sniffles, finally pulling his poor abused fingers from his mouth to grab at Andrew. Setting the bear to the side, Andrew wipes his spit-slicked fingers with a spare tissue, something Garrett only barely submits to. “Sca’ee.”
“I’m sorry it was scary, bug, but look who I found,” Andrew coos, discarding the tissue to the side and setting the bear in front of him. Garrett’s face lights up, as if the tears were never there to begin with, and he squeezes the toy to his chest with a happy squeak. Shuffling to lay flat on his back, Andrew gestures for Garrett to join him, a light smile on his face. “There’s Mama’s sweet boy. Come lay down, bug, it’s still early- oof!”
Garrett’s head meets his sternum hard, nearly knocking the wind out of him, but the little doesn't even seem to notice, worming about to get comfy on top of him. The extra weight constricts his breathing just so, but it’s bearable, more than to see that sweet, sleepy face against his chest, eyes slivering under his heavy eyelids. Andrew throws his abandoned blanket over the both of them, and apparently that’s it takes to finally get Garrett to drift under; he snuffles a bit, hand screwed up in Andrew’s hoodie, and then his breathing evens out, the last little sound to come out of him a barely audible coo of Mama. Tilting his head back, Andrew stares at the ceiling, heaving out a long, deep breath. He was not looking forward to this conversation.
Whatever. Like most of the things that he’d dealt with tonight, that was going to be a tomorrow problem.