i like when fictional boys cry

Henchman took them to a massive secret underground civilization located beneath the city that was villain-specific; a hidden place where anyone wanting to stay off the radar could go to shop and have a good time like regular people without fear of government intervention or nosy heroes arresting them. While most of the people running shops were criminals, there were also some illegal refugees as well.

Henchman led the team to an arcade, and Sidekick could even daresay he was having fun for the first time since Villain's suicide by the time they were moving to the next activity. They spent hours exploring all the different shops and places, and it was a great way to bond as a team.

Sidekick was shocked by how open and friendly all the strangers were, given their criminal histories. When Hemchman first suggested visiting the underworld, he'd expected it to be full of scary villains with tattoos all over and violent reputations -- but so far everyone he'd met had been chill.

A few who knew about Sidekick's past career as an Agency member were wary in the beginning, but all it took was Henchman explaining the situation for them to warm up and strike conversations with the ex-hero. It made Sidekick feel welcome and safe.

Everything had been going well, and the team eventually ended up in a simple café waiting in line to order food.

Assistant, Vigilante, and Henchman had already made their orders, and it was Sidekick's turn next, but before he could open his mouth to talk to the woman behind the counter... he felt a sudden shift in the atmosphere.

A familiar tingling sense of dread raced up his spine, setting his hair on end. It was an ice-cold emptiness that crept into his being, like his body knew something his mind hadn't caught onto yet. His subconscious self somehow recognized a form of energy he'd only ever felt with one person; one person whose presence he'd memorized entirely.

He frowned in confusion, glancing toward the table the rest of his teammates were sitting at.

Vigilante was laughing at a joke one of the others had said, but met Sidekick's gaze, face falling into worry at the anxiety he saw there. He looked like he was about to stand up and come over to ask what was wrong, but his eyes darted to the side, fixing on something else, and his whole face suddenly blanched.

Sidekick followed his gaze, tracking it to a man standing next to him in the second line ordering from another employee. Not even five feet from where Sidekick stood.

The guy wore a cloak with the hood pulled up, obscuring his face, but when the employee handed him a bag with his order he turned to leave, and Sidekick saw what Vigilante had spotted.

The man stiffened at the same time Sidekick did when they locked eyes.

It was Hero. He looked a bit different now, face still mostly shadowed by the cloak, but Sidekick would recognize his former mentor anywhere, and the aura surrounding him.

Sidekick's heart stopped dead in his chest. The last time he'd seen Hero was when Villain had handed him over to Other Supervillain as a bargain. How was he here???

He half expected Hero to attack him on the spot. To try and get revenge for him allowing Villain to trade him like he did without making the smallest effort to stop it from happening.

What Sidekick wasn't expecting was the look of abject terror that crossed Hero's face instead of anger or malice. The eyes widening with something dark and haunted.

Hero looked very, very afraid.

Is he scared... of ME? Sidekick thought, baffled and still reeling in shock at seeing his ex-mentor again.

The fear in Hero's face confused him, but he didn't have a chance to analyze it further, because Hero suddenly bolted. Whipped around and sprinted for the door to escape, his gait oddly stumbling like he had a limp.

Before Sidekick could register what he was doing his own legs were moving, launching him into hot pursuit after the fleeing man. He nimbly dodged around the other patrons in the café, frantically trying to keep eyes on the back of Hero's cloak; desperate not to lose him in the crowd when they finally burst outside where foot traffic was heavier.

But Hero was fast despite the obvious stagger in his stride, and half the villains on the streets wore cloaks identical to his -- Sidekick knew he'd quickly lose him.

But then, someone came rocketing past him at full sprint and tackled Hero from behind, driving him to the ground.

Sidekick caught up, and realized it was Vigilante. He was fighting for control, trying to pin a flailing Hero down and uttering a string of curses under his breath.

The crowd parted around them as they struggled, but none of the criminals seemed to bat an eye, going about their business as if there weren't two men actively battling it out in their midst. As if it were just a regular Tuesday.

Hero rolled over under Vigilante so that he was face up, raising his hands defensively.

Sidekick's breath caught in his throat. Vigilante was about to be blasted by Hero's powers, and there wasn't enough time for him to get out of the way.

A tiny bit of fire sprung to life in Hero's hands... but immediately sparked and fizzled out of existence just as quickly as it had come. As if he didn't have control over it.

Vigilante socked him square in the jaw and managed to grab both his wrists right after, pinning them above his head and straddling his waist to keep him down.

Henchman and Assistant arrived mere moments later, standing on either side of Hero and staring in stunned silence at the scene before them.

Vigilante's chest heaved from the physical exertion of the struggle that left him breathing hard, but his eyes burned bright with hatred. "YOU," he snarled, spitting the word like poison.

And to Sidekick's shock, Hero actually flinched, seeming to shrink in on himself -- his wide eyes darting between the teammates surrounding him.

He looked absolutely terrified.

Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @whumpages-things @togzy @whump-till-ya-jump

@cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @written-in-the-stars135 @neverthelass

@starz8nk @redwinesupanover @whumpisgoodwhumpislife @theforeverdyingperson @whatwhump

@whumplicity @flsh-bone @yougivemewhumperflies @soraksorak @doctorsawyer

@dinobasherr @galactic-worm @harperglitterheart @turtlesnap1 @whumpcave

@seraphmolar @yourlocalurbanlegend222 @hiddencowboybarbarian @thevegetablenoonedaresname @arsonfrogger

@sondersunbeams @stars-hide-our-fires @yellowcatcallshome @pigeonwhumps

@rainy-fizzie @hueningplushie @lazytoshiko @noctemys

@oldspruceinn @haipasa @neptunic-chaos @bookishbOrgid @hellodecisionparalysis

@tyronethemurderer @claire0934 @gods-mistaken-existence @thekitten-hoarder @stars-hide-our-fires

@writing-with-olive @autumnstar06 @arsonfrogger @thewhumpthatbitesback @dreamingofviolence

Grav insists on laying down towels. On the floor. On her seat. “So you won’t have to mop up later,” he says.

His eyes flick up at her, assessing her. She knows the look. The medic checking whether she can adequately care for herself.

"You don't have to do this," she says. "I'm not delicate."

"I know," he says, his hands smoothing out the towels at her feet. "I'd like to, though. Helps me calm down."

His feet are bare. So were Grimma's, come to think of it, when she'd followed the medics who took Riko.

“Do you want me to stay?” Grav asks her. He's still looking up at her from where he’s crouched in front of her chair.

She almost lets out the "no" too quickly. She makes herself pause a microsecond before saying it.

Mish feels so strange, having this hulking man in her room, taking care of her so gently... he's taking up so much space.

She wonders how him and Grimma fit in his room together.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a problem if they’re always occupying the bed—

And here Mish has to press her mouth tight so she doesn’t smile inappropriately.

After everything that has happened, the blood on her clothes, the stupid sock she insisted on holding on to and only just let go of… if she starts smiling like she's tempted to right now, Grav is going to think she’s cracked.

And that would be the funny part. Because she’s not flimsy.

A flash of Riko shuddering under her hands, bleeding onto tile, making choked animal noises-- Fuck.

"No," she says again.

She manages a smile. "Thank you for helping me with Riko. And for taking care of me."

Grav holds her gaze a moment more, looking no less doubtful.

"Grimma will have my hide if I can't convince her that I was absolutely sure you were alright before I left," he says.

"You can tell Grimma I was shaken but finding my footing by the time you left," she says.

And then she simply lets the moment draw itself out. Lets it get uncomfortable.

To his credit, Grav doesn't take the bait. He simply shifts on his haunches and waits her out. He watches, taking in her state. Studying her.

"Okay," he says finally, as if he's completed some internal checklist. He puts his meaty hands on his thighs and pushes himself upright.

"I'll leave you then," he says. "Grimma will be in touch via comms. Is your bud-- oh good, it's charged."

He's looking at the tiny device nestled in its charging slot on her bedside unit, blinking its tiny blue light.

Mish remembers her hands plunged deep in Riko's pockets, wrestling him to search for his comm bud while he squirmed away from her on the floor and insisted, deliriously, that he wasn't ticklish.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

If she had brought her own, hadn't left it in her room, she would have gotten help for him sooner, wouldn't have had to drag him out the door...

She remembers the coconut thok his head made when it smacked into the door frame.

She presses her lips together again. She must not laugh. She mustn't.

A deep breath.

"I'll keep it turned on," she promises Grav.

"You should eat," he says, looking at the two food trays on the table. "I haven't had dinner myself, I could keep you company--"

Mish hates waste, but the thought of someone else eating the food she had brought to Riko's door, expecting to eat together and then finding him--

Mish's throat clenches.

It's Riko's. They were supposed to eat together.

"I need to change out of my clothes," she says, trying to sound normal. "I'm getting cold."

She stands up, letting the towel sag off her shoulders. Letting him see the blood on her uniform.

"Ah," he says. "Yes, sorry, you should, I'll let you--"

She feels terrible about the apologetic tone in his voice. She takes the single step forward in her tiny room.

"Thank you," she says softly, her arms wrapping around him. "For everything. You and Grimma both." Her clothes are leaving damp patches on his t-shirt. He is so broad her hands don't meet around his back.

"About that," he says, suddenly sheepish. "I know it's the last thing you should be thinking about, but if you could... you know, about me and Grimma, just--"

Mish pushes off him, and looks at him. The man is blushing.

Blushing.

The tips of his ears are so red she wonders if they'll sizzle if she touches them.

"Only person I'll tell is Riko," she says.

A series of emotions travel over his face, glacier slow, one after another.

Mish watches as he moves from wanting to negotiate, to thinking better of it, to remembering where Riko is right now, to arriving the thought that he might not-- that Riko might actually end up--

He eventually lands on carefully-schooled agreement.

"Okay," he says. "Only Riko."

And then he very kindly adds, "Tell him not to tell anyone else."

As though it's a given that he'll be able to.

Mish feels her throat constrict and her eyes prick at the possibility Grav is inviting her to entertain.

When the door slides shut behind him, Mish stands alone in her pod, staring at the towels on the floor.

She hopes they towel him down properly. He never did like being cold and wet. The time he got splashed by freezing med gel while he was fixing the pressurised goo pipes, he'd whinged about it for hours. Hours.

But of course they are going to keep him wet. They're trying to cool him down. Riko is going to hate it so much.

He's such a baby-- actually not really, he's only a baby with her. It's weird because he's fallen out of a catwalk before and walked it off with a shrug, and when Mish asked why he only whined around her he had said, "I'm only a coward around you--"

She wants to hack into the crit care cameras, to see what's happening. She wants to zoom in to his face, and see if he's awake. To see if he's still seizing, to see what meds they're giving him, maybe she can catch it if they slip up and make a mistake, and she can--

Mish realises she's spiralling. Grimma was right-- she's not a nurse right now. She's terrified, and she scared, and she wants him to be okay. She can't think straight. She just wants him to be okay.

It'll take minutes. All it would take is a minor security override-- She just wants to see if he's awake--

Stop. Stop.

She needs her mind clear. She needs to eat.

She fills her mug full of water and gulps most of it down. And then she trickles the leftover into Riko's plant.

Its leaves are green and perky. To his credit, he'd been watering it ever since she yelled at him about it, and she'd been taking care of it in the days he'd been away outfield.

Her hands are moving mechanically; she pulls out a food tray, sits down and peels the wrapper back. She spoons the food into her mouth. Chews.

Her mind starts to whir.

When she'd seen him at the vending machine, had he already been febrile? He'd certainly been pale. And there was that weird moment it looked like he'd been about to cry.

He'd been aphasic; stumbling over his words. She thought it was just the usual brand of Riko stupidity.

So post-ictal then? How had she missed the signs? She had thought he'd just been tired. Distracted.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

How about before his shift in the emergency room?

She remembers how she and Niah and Grimma had been so amused at his clumsiness while he was gowning up, how he didn't see her even though she'd be waving at him. How his fingers had fumbled while he had taken off his medkit and his vest.

The vest.

The one that hadn't been in his pod when she had asked Grav to grab the food trays from Riko's room so she could look inside and check.

His room was small enough that she would have seen it if it'd had been there. The vest with the standard issue field cam strapped on it.

Mish puts down the spoon. She's only halfway through the dinner tray, but it's enough for now.

She had needed the act of eating to ground herself, and enough calories to get her through the next hour. Glucose, so her brain could think and remember and make sense.

The last time she'd seen the vest, Riko had tossed it behind the nurse's counter in the emergency department.

Riko hadn't been okay from the moment he'd stepped through the door.

She's going to find that vest cam, and she's going to find out what happened.

She is putting the tray aside, when there's a knock on her door.

When she opens it, Grimma is standing there. She's still barefoot, still in the towel.

Mish feels an awful wrench inside her chest.

"Is he--?" she starts.

"He's alive," Grimma says quickly.

Not "okay", not "recovering", not even "stable".

Just "alive".

It's not good, but it's better than what she feared she'd hear, after seeing Grimma turn up personally at her door.

Mish lets loose a breath she didn't know she had locked inside her chest.

"I wanted to bring you this," Grimma says. She's holding out a bag. Mish recognises it. The zipped bag they put patients' belongings in. The things that need to be handed over to someone else when a person becomes a patient.

The bag is heavy. The clothes are still wet.

"I brought his boot too," Grimma says, and she bends to retrieve something from the floor, behind the door frame.

Riko's boot, the laces cut. Mish stares at it.

How many shoes has she cut off people and yanked off them as she administered care? Dozens. She does it without second thought.

She hadn't been there, but she knows exactly what it sounded and felt like when they scissored through his laces.

She wonders if he flexed his foot when they pulled it off, the way one of her patients had done last week when she'd pulled off the man's bloody shoe. That patient hadn't survived.

Mish's chin wobbles. Fuck. Fuck.

"Hey," Grimma says, and she steps into the room. She puts the boot on the floor against the cabinet.

"You did so good, finding him when you did," she says, running her arms soothingly up and down Mish's arms. "You gave him a fighting chance."

Mish lets out a strangled noise, which she tries to wrestle down, but she nods. Her hands go tight around the bag of clothes.

"I hit him on the head," she whispers, as if she's in a confessional. "When I was dragging him out the door."

Grimma laughs. "So that's what it was about," she says. "They were putting him under the cooling grid, and he pulled Thea under the spray and told her, 'Mish was mean to me. With the door.'"

Mish smiles, relieved. She can imagine his peevish stage-whisper.

"He woke up? He spoke?"

Grimma's smile fades. "Just for a few seconds," she says. "And then he seized again, and they decided to put him in the cooling pod."

"Shit," Mish says. "So he's--"

"Yeah, induced coma."

"Shit," Mish says again.

There's a strange look on Grimma. It looks out of place on her, instead of her usually unflappable expression.

"What," Mish says. "Tell me."

Grimma looks at her, reluctance evident on her face. "It's not important," she says. "Really it isn't."

"Grimma," Mish says, insistent.

"They... had to submerge him as quickly as possible, and the sedation hadn't kicked in entirely when they put him in. So he was still awake, and..."

Mish takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "He fought."

Grimma nods slowly. "He tried to climb out. It took four med techs to get him in. He was... combative."

Mish knows what "combative" looks like, when someone is half-sedated and confused and scared out of their mind.

"He punched Blonter in the face," Grimma says.

Mish imagines Riko trying to pry himself out the pod, his fingers in a death grip around the lip of the capsule, while multiple gloved hands wrestle him in. Flailing at the people trying to contain him.

She can almost hear his animal sounds of distress as he's pushed forcefully into the freezing goo, his bare feet slipping on the bottom of the pod.

"It's a good thing you weren't there," Grimma says. "It was hard to watch."

"Yeah," Mish says softly.

Did he crane his head back to avoid the oxygen mask? Push his hands against the lid as they closed it on him?

Her hands are starting to cramp with how hard she has them gripped over the bag. She forces them to loosen.

Grimma rubs Mish's arms again. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

Mish shakes her head, and she brings a smile to her face. "You and Grav ask the same questions."

Grimma smiles back. "Speaking of which," she says, looking around the room, as if Grav might somehow be hiding his hefty bulk in her tiny room. "I told him to stay with you. Did the man just leave you by yourself?"

"I made him go," Mish says. "He tried to insist on staying, because he said you'd have his hide if he left me while I wasn't okay."

Grimma smiles, almost proud. "He's a sweet one," she says, and there's a tender look on her face.

"He really is," Mish says. "The both of you are really good together."

Grimma sniffs. "We'll see," she says nonchalantly. But a small smile plays around her mouth.

Mish is still smiling when she glances down at the bag with the clothes. There is pink water collecting in the corner of the bag.

Mish's smile fades, slowly.

Grimma gently taps her arms. “Riko is lucky to have you,” she says. "You really love him, don't you?"

Mish can't help it. She laughs. "I do. But not in that way."

Grimma tilts her head. "What do you mean? Is it just a physical thing? Because Riko has certainly been very vocal about your... activities."

Mish closes her eyes. It feels like an artifact from another lifetime, the ridiculous sex stories Riko has been inflicting on unwilling ears.

"We're not hooking up. We just tell people we are, so things are... easier," Mish says.

It's such a ridiculous thing to be talking about, but Mish feels such a sense of relief sharing it with Grimma. It's like the air she's breathing in is reaching the bottom of her lungs for the first time in hours.

Grimma is shaking her head. "That liar," she says, admiringly. "He had me convinced."

And she looks at Mish, "How did you keep up the lie-- oh, oh wait... You never confirmed or denied anything."

Mish smiles, hiding her teeth.

Grimma is shaking her head. "People will accept the most absurd things when they want to believe."

Mish grins. "If you tell anyone, I will leak your secret. About Grav."

Grimma looks at her with new respect. "Never pegged you for the crafty sort. You sly little minx."

They laugh gently into the moment. Mish feels a warmth rising up in her chest. It feels good that someone else knows.

"Okay," Grimma says. "I'm heading off. I'm available on comms if you need anything."

Mish nods, and walks her to the door.

"They will contact you if there are any updates on Riko," Grimma says, as she slides open the door.

And she stands there for a beat, her back still to Mish.

"Mish," she says slowly. "I don't know if I should be telling you this." And she turns.

The expression on her face is careful. "I figure they'll talk to you soon enough, since you're listed as his emergency contact..."

Mish cocks her head.

"You know Doctor Sorren? The one I used to date?"

Mish nods, recalling a tall, ice-blonde doctor, who had been devastated when Grimma dumped him.

"Sorren says they found something odd in his bloodwork."

Mish frowns. "How odd?"

"Odd enough that they ordered more tests," Grimma says.

"Do you think that was what made Riko crash?" Mish says.

Grimma shrugs. "That's all Sorren said. I just wanted to give you a heads up."

Mish nods, and Grimma is gone.

Afterburn Arc: Purgatory ▸ F is for Functional ▸ Something Stupid ▸ Cold Spray ▸ Unlaced (an ongoing series) Signal War >> Main Masterlist

Note: Sorry the follow up to this arc has taken a while! The story decided it didn't want to just be a recovery arc and exploded by way of chapters. And at one point I came up against my usual writing nemesis, the dreaded POV monster. I rewrote the beginning of one chapter FOUR times before it finally clicked. Anyway this part isn't very whumpy, but I hope it's still enjoyable.

The sensation flashed through his mind. Bones separating. He could've sworn he tasted iron in his mouth. He removed the damp finger from his tongue, sweating and disturbed. There was a deep, pink divot in his flesh where his teeth had pressed, a little gap in the line that reflected the missing chip of his front tooth. No blood. He watched the skin slowly raise with memory and the mark fade like it had never happened at all. 

Port knew, for a fact, that he could do it if he really put his mind to it. The idea did not scare him as much as it should.

He allowed his focus to shift to the sensation of the raw burn on his thigh— the one he had given himself not long ago, with a heated fork like a four-pronged brand. 

The utensil he had used lay abandoned on the table beside him. It was blackened with soot, now, dropping to the temperature of the night air. The insistent heat on his skin lingered long after he’d pulled the scalding metal away. It was a familiar feeling, stomach-turning and honeyed and numb all at once.

A faint gust of wind like a tail wrapping around his ankle sent a soft wave of goosebumps running up his bare leg. The night was nearly silent except for the wind chimes like bells as he dragged a feather-light fingernail from his knee to the midpoint of his thigh, drawing a shiver out of himself. The hair on his legs rose like with magnetic attraction to the surrounding air. His chilled and buzzing skin, in all its minuscule peaks, was the texture of tongue.

He was not cold. At least not anymore, and not yet. The rapidly cooling sweat was still prickling on his neck. His heart was slowing to relative normality.

He stared into the flickering flame before him, the small form of Rida’s lighter gripped tenderly in his hand. His eyes went out of focus as it danced for him, mesmerizing. In spite of the breeze, it did not go out until he snapped the lid shut and stifled the glow that fell upon his face. In its absence, he let his hand fall to the arm of the chair.

He’d never been branded before, though the old circular burns littering the insides of his thighs were proof of the cigarettes, and the warped texture on the bottom of his feet was proof of the way Ginny had held her lighter there to make him squirm and scream. His heart rate picked back up at the mere memory.

He brushed his thumb over the inside of his wrist, pressing into the tendons there, feeling his fingers curl involuntarily. There were not so many scars there, and they were faded, but it was the first time she had ever put the fire to his skin. It was also the first time he had ever betrayed himself like this— and for that, they were special. He wondered if Sonny had ever noticed them and elected not to mention it. Probably. Definitely. He could be subtle like that.

Port wondered how he had ever thought he was being subtle, himself. 

He realized he was gripping the fork again at the thought of Sonny and everything he had done to him. There were so many things he wished he could take back. 

The flame was at his fingers once again. He dipped the tines into the heat. He imagined it was alive and screaming and he was torturing it, forcing it into the fire until it begged for him to stop. The image made something sick settle in his stomach— he could not tell if it was thrill or disgust. When he felt it was hot enough, he flicked the Zippo shut. Without giving the fork a chance to cool, or himself a chance to rethink, he pressed the metal to his flesh.

It burned. God, it burned like a motherfucker. A little taste of hellfire.

He kept it there until he could bear it no longer. He tore the fork away, teeth clenched. He shut his eyes and pressed the back of his head to the rough wall behind him, basking in the pain. He inhaled deeply, breathing through it. It felt sticky, almost, if pain could even be such a thing. Like hot tar or syrup clinging to his skin. 

He deserved the pain, of course— even if it would not atone for anything. He liked to think of it as proof that he was still alive. Gore played out behind his eyelids. Barrel to temple. Brains on carpet. Blood from nose.

Eyes open, he looked at what he had done to himself. The burns were raw and blistering. Three sets of uneven four-pronged shapes marring his leg. 

He decided he was finished. Somehow it was not as satisfying when he did it to himself. Ginny would not have waited for him to be ready before bestowing him another mark. She would’ve had him pleading for her to stop, or wait, or at least give me a second to breathe.

He should not be out here, outside, at all. But everyone was asleep, and no one was here to tell him no.

Scarcely any light filtered into the backyard from the street that ran along the front of the house. Port thought he might be on the very edge of the city. He knew beyond the fence was desert. Beyond that were mountains. Beyond that…?

The lighter went in his pocket. The soot-covered fork, too. He stood from the chair. The fabric of his shorts, which had been hiked up, slipped down his thigh and brushed against the burns in a distracting way. Every step and swish of fabric stung all over again, breath-catching pain that made him wince. He told himself to embrace it.

Port pressed his hand to the old wooden gate until a gap appeared wide enough for him to fit through. Though his feet were planted firmly on the ground, he felt he was standing on a ledge. Fighting vertigo and the assured plummet, he crossed the threshold. Confined no longer. 

He nudged the gate shut behind him. For the first time in five years, for the first time in all the life he could remember, there was nobody he needed to follow. His head spun.

It was very dark out, but the moon offered just enough light to see the western landscape spread out before him. Barely, just barely, he could make out the mountain peaks in the haze, scraping the firmament. He wanted to go there.

Once he passed the wooden telephone poles, he had left the realm of man-made creation. The sound of the spinning wind chimes faded into the ether. There were only cacti, bushes, dry trees, and a whole lot of rocks and sand. There were surely creatures as well, out of sight, scuttling or slithering away from his footfalls. Maybe he would step on an unsuspecting serpent. Maybe it would send venom into his veins. He did not particularly care. His body moved of its own accord. He was little more than the thin vapor that permeated his limbs.

A sharp scrape at his ankle momentarily distracted him from the insistent burning on his thigh. Fangs, he thought— razor-sharp pinpoints. He pulled away instinctively, looking to see what had hurt him. Not a snake, but a cactus. 

He knelt and used the lighter to bestow enough light to see the minuscule spines sticking out of his skin, each one the width of a strand of hair. He doubted he would have much luck trying to remove them with his fingers, so he accepted that they would have to stay. That was fine. He kept going. 

He did not know how long he had been walking towards the horizon when a coyote’s distant howl like a mourning cry traveled across the land and cut through his haze. It struck a cold fear into him that, wrapped in his blanket of numbness, he had forgotten he was capable of. He froze in place, halfway between steps. 

A second, high-pitched howl, from a different direction. Suddenly the idea of walking until he could touch heaven did not seem so appealing anymore. He noticed he was cold. He wrapped his arms around himself, taken by a shiver. His heart beat rabbit-quick.

When he turned around, the house was simultaneously further and closer than he had expected it to be. He would not have been able to estimate the distance if he tried. The walk of shame back to the glowing beacon of the neighborhood was like wading through water or shifting through a dream, no matter how hastily he moved. 

It hardly seemed to draw any nearer until seconds, minutes, or hours later when he realized the fence was already directly before his eyes. He had been to the other side, and now wanted to return. He pressed his hand to the gate once again, but it did not budge. The latch had closed.

Well, there was nothing to do but climb it. He tested his weight on the horizontal slat of wood running near the bottom of the fence, a perfect foothold. It seemed sturdy enough, so he stepped on to it, only room for his toes. He gripped the top of the fence and winced at the new wood splinters in his palms, blooming pain like the needles of the cactus. How could something so small be so painful? He hoisted himself up and swung his leg over, pressing his foot against the other side, then the other foot, and then he was back in the confines of the backyard. He twisted and dropped down, but lost his footing at the landing— he stumbled forward and ended up on his knees in the dusty earth. 

The marks he had given himself still burned like hell. What an insistent pain it was, impossible to ignore. He stood up, brushed the pebbles from his legs, and made his way to the back door. 

Inside the house was wonderfully warm, but it did little to assuage the chill within him. He stepped out of his sandals and crept to the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the light.

He was a mess. It was obvious without the shroud of darkness. He wet a washcloth and swiped it over his legs to wash the dirt away, avoiding the burns. He wasn’t quite sure how to tackle them. Just water? Soap? Alcohol? He used another clean cloth to wet them gently, hissing through his teeth at the sting. Even the soft pressure sent pain radiating, though the cool water was somewhat relieving. 

He searched through the drawers, looking for some sort of bandage. He found a box of them in various sizes and a few small tubes of ointment. He tried reading the labels on them, but they were impossibly long and tiny in text. He unscrewed the cap of one and squeezed some onto his finger. It was clear, gel-like, and did not have any discernible smell. Maybe this was what he was looking for. He spread more of it over the burns and topped them off with the plasters. There. He was not completely far gone— he was taking care of himself. 

His splintered palms still stung, as did his ankle, but when he tried to pick at them with tweezers he realized they were too big, or the spines were too small, or his eyes were too blurry or his hands were too shaky. Horrifyingly, he found himself so frustrated that he could cry, if he only let the tears out. He refused to.

He threw the tweezers back in the drawer and just sat there on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, wondering what to do. This was his own doing, like everything else. He would just have to sleep with it, maybe, and shamefully ask someone for help in the morning. But he did not want to put this upon anyone, let alone have to explain how he had suffered them in the first place. Really, he did not want to have to face anyone at all. He did not want to look Sonny, Rida, or Talha in the eyes. He had wronged all of them in ways they didn’t even realize. 

For a few minutes he stared off into space. I want to leave again, he thought. When his eyes came back into focus, he realized they where they were aimed— at the porcelain. That was when it dawned on him.

“If you need anything,” Beau had said, “and I mean anything, you can call me.”

He had never thrown away the card the social worker gave him— the one with the phone number. He had not flushed it, nor ripped it up. Despite wanting to, something about it felt harmful, like within the fibers of the cardstock and its black printed text was some essence of the man’s soul that he would be destroying, and Beau would be able to sense it torn in half and hate him for it. 

Now, in his desperation, he was grateful he had kept it intact. If Port remembered correctly, the card must still be tucked within his old pair of grey clothes from the facility, which he had folded neatly and not yet had the chance to wash.

When he slipped back into his and Sonny’s shared room, his companion was still sleeping soundly in bed, covered in blankets and facing the wall so that all Port could see of him was his black hair. He was not sure whether to be thankful for it or not. On one hand, he did not want to have to explain himself. On the other, it would be wrong of him to leave without a word. 

“I want us to go back to how we were before all this,” Sonny had said.

He had been unable to explain to Sonny, at the time, why he’d done it. Right up until he put himself into motion, right up until he did not stop himself, right up until the warm contact with Sonny’s lips, the idea was nothing he’d ever entertained before. The thought had been so sheerly foreign and exotic, that in that moment, he could not help but want to try it.

Looking back on it, one reason he’d done it was the hope that it would quash any misguided feelings Sonny was harboring for him— get it out of both their systems, as opposed to fueling them.

The other reason he had done it— the reason he hesitated to articulate, even to himself: He had wanted to see if maybe, just maybe, Sonny had the right idea. He’d wanted to see if it would do anything for him. He’d wanted to see if something would ignite.

It only succeeded in making him guiltier. And that was that.

Port really hadn’t made it easy, had he?

He opened the dresser drawer as quietly as he could manage and found his pile of grey sweats. He slipped his hand inside the folds and found it— the sharp corner of cardstock. He layered a warm sweatshirt over his clothes, stepped into longer pants, and peeled the dusty socks off his feet to replace them with clean, white ones. He slipped Beau’s card into his pocket.

The blankets rustled behind him, and he turned. Sonny’s eyes peered at him through the dark. Port froze the same way he had upon hearing the coyote’s howl. 

“Where were you?” Sonny asked. There was no discernible tone to his voice, other than the low and quiet inflection of tiredness.

“Outside,” Port admitted uneasily.

Sonny’s gaze flicked up and down. “What are you getting dressed for?”

Port’s hand tightened around the card in his pocket. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you left. Are you gonna answer my question?”

Port brought his hand to the back of his neck, cupping it nervously. He could not exactly lie about this. “I’m calling Beau,” he said. “I was gonna wake you up and tell you."

Sonny lifted his head, the concern that appeared on his face making him seem more awake. “What for?”

“I— I wanna talk with him. And… see if he’ll... take me out.”

“Huh? Where?”

“I don’t know, IHOP?”

“Are you serious? Did you tell Rida?”

“No,” Port said. “She’s sleeping.”

Sonny stared incredulously. Port stared back, unwilling to give away anything he didn’t need to. His ankle prickled, and his palms stung, and pant leg rubbed against the burns in an uncomfortable way. He subtly shifted his stance.

Sonny put his head back on the pillow. He had given up. “Okay. Whatever. Have fun.”

“Are you gonna tell Rida?” Port was acutely aware of his own insubordination. A year ago, he never would have even dreamed of this, but lately, rules did not feel so important to him anymore. This would be nothing in comparison to what he’d already done and gotten away with.

“No,” Sonny sighed, rolling his eyes. “I ain’t no snitch.”

Port dipped his head. “Thank you.”

Sonny only rolled over and pulled his blanket back up to his chin. Port took a final look at the rise and fall of shoulders before leaving the room and gently shutting the door.

Standing before the landline, Port turned the card over in his hand. He ran his thumb over the print, illuminated by the dim lamplight. 

He unhooked the phone attached to the wall with a cord like a curling strand of hair. Port stuck his finger in the ringlet, testing the elastic stretch. He held the receiver by his head and got an earful of the droning dial tone. He was compelled to wiggle his toes, feel the solid floor beneath him. 

Before his vertigo could get the better of him, he punched the first digit. He remembered the last time he had used a phone, when his hands trembled so badly he could hardly make the three button presses. Now was not nearly as bad, and that was some consolation. Ten presses. Ten musical tones. The tinny ring shook his eardrum. It rung once, twice, three times… Was Beau even awake at this hour? It was a stupid idea. He should just suck it up and ask Sonny to help him— face the consequences of what he had done and explain himself. 

He was close to tearing the phone away from his ear and setting it back in the holder when the ringing abruptly ceased, cut off unfinished. 

A faint click. A familiar voice. 

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

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