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When you are a weapon, you grow to understand that the casual customs of the ordinary person—of simple joys, and friendships, and personal pursuits outside of the single–minded chase for power—are really just a myth. Your world narrows down until there is nothing left but the battlefield, the glint of the Sun off your blade which smarts at your eyes, and your opponent.
When you are a weapon, your mind grows sharp with the paranoia of a prey animal; no sooner than the unassuming gesture of your closest friend will your own reaction be explosive and immediate. The gentle wash of a late–autumn breeze on your forearms, or the prickle of sea–salt on your lips, they cannot, do not, exist. There’s no room for tenderness, the closeness of brothers, nothing but the never–ending War, which leaves the voice breathless, the heart shallow, the digits of your hand tense and rigidly clenched ‘round the pommel or next best substitute.
And even if you decide to stop, to take a step back, to make a couple friends, speak to a couple people, travel around and find a cause you actually believe in— it’s still there. Even if sheathed, or hidden, even if you decide one day to try and be a man, there will always be missing parts. Aspects that you cannot fulfill. Things you will not understand.
As such, it goes without saying that Flame is, to a certain extent, perhaps a moderate or even substantial extent, completely unprepared when he wakes up, one night, to find Lomedy, who is sleeping a mere block away from him, caught in the throes of a nightmare.
The symptoms:
- Thrashing (uncontrollable and strangely violent; the shudder of his shoulders clear even through the thick darkness of moonlight)
- Inability to hear (“Lomedy,” Flame is whispering, and his voice is unsteady, though he tries his best to sound less scared than he really is. “Lomedy, bro, wake up.”)
- Slight crying (the corners of his screwed–shut eyes highlighted, damp, drops hanging tentatively off each eyelash)
What should he do? What would he do, given he was in that situation?
In Prince Zam’s empire, the sleeping facilities of the guard–force: muffle his face into the pillow of the bed; even fully asleep soldiers knew to do that, to not wake their siblings in arms across the room. There was always a fight to be had, even in the dead of night, and half–awakened soldiers were only twice as deadly to both themselves and others.
In the Invisible Mafia: the diamond soldiers had the luxury of solitude, and were given expansive houses, wide beds and comfortable bedrooms. So he would not need to hide it here, but still, the habit was ingrained, eroded into him like stones in rivers, and so he did as he would before.
In his base, alone: the same.
Here, now: frozen, as if he’s stepped onto a pressure plate hooked up to a TNT landmine.
“Lomedy?” He says again.
He should do something, right? Get up, try and calm Lomedy down, at least wake him up so he won’t be trapped in his own mind any longer?
It’s what he’d want others to do for him. And it’s Lomedy, who deserves the best things; even if Flame’s no good at this comforting others thing, he’s probably better than nothing at all.
Quietly, he pads across the room.
When he’s closer, he can see more clearly; it’s not thrashing, exactly, but more like Lomedy’s trying to escape something— or someone. Shrinking into himself and muttering something nonsensical, it’s really not a good sign at all.
“Wake up,” Flame whispers. He’s not quite sure why he’s whispering it; it seems counterproductive.
When he does not respond, Flame finally sets his mind to it. Reaching out, he pats at Lomedy’s shoulder, first gentle, before grabbing and shaking, not rough but it still feels that way, until he—
—with the smallest inhale, hitched breath in panic—
—wakes.
Finally, slowly as if it is painful, Lomedy stirs back to consciousness, and Flame feels like he can breathe again.
“Lomedy, you good?” he asks his friend—his best friend, even—who cracks his eyes open one by one. Eyes that settle on his face first, unfocused, before they shift to his outstretched hand.
Then they widen, sheer terror, shrunken pupils. And Lomedy yelps, or maybe it’s closer to a scream, and throws himself off the other side of the bed, scrambling away from Flame while still half tangled in his blankets.
“Loms—!” he shouts.
And Lomedy is staring up at him, still shaking like a leaf in the wind, stuttering breaths and shrunken shoulders. It’s as if he doesn’t recognise Flame. As if he’s still trapped in that nightmare.
…Oh.
“Bro?” Flame says, quieter. He forces himself to step back, tucking his hands behind his back. “It’s me.”
Lomedy blinks at that, sluggish. The fog in his gaze clears slowly, as it hones in on Flame’s face.
“Flame?” he finally says.
“Yeah, bro,” Flame says, and tries for a smile. It probably comes out wrong.
“We’re at home,” Lomedy states, though it comes out more like a question.
He nods. “We are.”
“Oh.”
Lomedy sighs; he sounds exhausted. And he’s still sitting on the floor.
“Here, let me help you up,” Flame says, reaching out with his hand.
This time, Lomedy’s reaction is less intense, but it’s still there; he tenses up, as if on instinct, and the flinch is so tiny that most people wouldn’t be able to see it. Flame halts in his tracks, and it feels like he just got struck with lightning.
“Sorry,” Lomedy says in a rush.
Flame shakes his head. “Don’t be.”
On his own, Lomedy climbs back into his bed, and Flame backs off; clearly, something isn’t as it should be today. Giving him space feels like the best route of action for the current moment.
“Did I wake you?” he asks. He looks sheepish, slightly bashful. “My bad, bro.”
“Nah,” Flame lies. “I was already up.”
Lomedy picks at the blankets, which he screws into a tight ball in his fist, before releasing. It’s an action much too familiar.
“Still, I should’ve been quieter, or something.”
The apology rings uncomfortably in the bedroom.
“No, it’s—”
Flame pauses.
He might genuinely be LT5 at this comforting–a–friend stuff. It’s— wow. This is terrible. He’s doing terribly.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks.
“Talk about…?” Lomedy hesitates.
“Like, the nightmares. Why you were— y’know. Do you want to talk? I can listen.”
But if being a weapon has taught him anything, it’s how to wait. Watching and guarding prisons, and castles, and rulers— Flame’s much too familiar with the notion that good things come with time.
So he waits, as his best friend fiddles and shifts and rubs at his eyes.
“Just…the past,” Lomedy says, finally. “I mean, it’s Unstable, so everyone’s got a past. I’m no different.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he echoes. “But, seriously, it’s fine. I don’t even think about it anymore, not really; I guess I just let my guard down, being asleep and all that.”
“Are you sure?” Flame asks, unsure where to proceed from here.
“Yes, bro,” Lomedy says firmly. “I’m fine. Let’s just go back to bed? It looks like there’s still a few hours before sunrise.”
“...Sure. But, if you need me—”
“You’re here,” he finishes. “I know, Flame. Thank you. Let’s sleep.”
Dissatisfied, Flame settles back into bed. There was probably a better way to deal with that. He’s still not quite there yet, still a poor excuse of a friend. But instead, he has let Lomedy go back to feeling unsafe, and being uncomfortable, and he has let Lomedy stifle his own emotions the same way he had to for so long.
He spends the next minutes staring into the ceiling, a dozen false starts that he forces himself to hold back from. It’s still dark outside; it can’t be any later than midnight, currently.
After about half an hour, to his surprise, Lomedy starts talking again.
“Flame?” he says, quietly, hesitant.
“What’s up?” Flame replies.
“It’s—” Lomedy cuts himself off. “Uh. No, forget it.”
“What?”
“Forget it, I shouldn’t have said anything,” he repeats himself. “Sleep now.”
Flame rolls over slightly in his bed to look at Lomedy, who is staring resolutely at the far wall, avoiding eye contact. “Wait, no, what is it? I’m not doing anything right now anyway. I can’t fall asleep.”
“Just…” Another pause. “It’s quiet.”
“It is,” Flame agrees, unsure where this is going.
“Could you, um. Could you maybe make it less quiet?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Flame says quickly. “Of course. What should—”
“Anything,” Lomedy interrupts. His voice is small. “Just say anything. As long as I can hear you. Please.”
“I— yeah, yeah okay. Of course. Sure.”
And so, Flame starts talking. About anything.
Time passes them by unnoticed. Sometimes, Lomedy will intercept, quiet hums of acknowledgement, though more subdued than his normal attitude.
The topic wanes and wanders from PvP to dog grooming to architecture. There isn’t really anything specific that Flame talks about, just vague sentences that he lets fall out straight from his mind, unfiltered.
Some hours or minutes later, Lomedy’s replies stumble to a stop.
Flame pauses and peeks over at him— fast asleep at last. He looks calmer when he’s sleeping, all swaddled up, face free of the tenseness of worry. And, one day, Flame knows they will probably have to talk about Lomedy’s ghosts; maybe even his own; else, they might never leave. But for now, Lomedy is fast asleep and they are both safe in their home, together. So it can wait.
When you are a weapon, you eventually realise that you do have a choice, in the end. It just takes some searching to see it. And for Flame, his choice is this. Is Lomedy, and the farm, and quiet nights together. Helping each other up and being—though it is alien for now—gentle, to this best friend of his who deserves only that.
“Goodnight, bro,” he says. Lomedy snores quietly in response.