#cw flashbacks

Two-Bit bursts in the door, followed by Steve.  “God damn, it’s colder than a witch’s teat in here,” he crows.

Darry rolls his  eyes and groans.  “Not you, too.”  He glares at Steve, who’s now next to the thermostat.  “Don’t touch the thermostat, Randle!”

“Well, hate to tell you, Muscles,” Steve drawls.  “But either the thermostat’s broke, or your heater is.”

Darry goes pale, and stalks over to look at it.  Then he starts cussing up a storm.  Then he runs his hand through his hair aggressively, and when he turns he looks panicked.  “What are we gonna do?  We got a cold snap tonight.  And they’re gonna charge me my left arm to come out at this time of night.”

“At least you jerk it with your right?” Two jokes. 

Darry glares at him.  “Ain’t funny right now, Keith.”  He’s hyperventilating a little bit.  “Steve, you think you can help me fix it?” he asks desperately.

“I fix cars, not furnaces.”  Steve shakes his head.

“Dar, we’ll just have to huddle up tonight,” Soda tells him soothingly.  “We’ll turn the water on a trickle so the pipes don’t freeze, and we’ll stay warm.”

“The water bill…” Darry moans.

“It ain’t gonna be as bad as the emergency furnace man,” Soda tries to reassure him.  Then he grins.  “Pony will just have to cut down on the 45 minute showers.”

Steve gives Pony a shit-eating grin.  “What you doing in there for 45 minutes, Ponyboy?”

Ponyboy turns bright red.  “Shut up, Steve.”

“Anyhow,” Soda interrupts before they can go any further with arguing, “you know what this means?”  He has a huge smile on his face, and he bounces on his heels.  Everyone just looks at him.   “Cuddle puddle!”

“That’s it,” Steve says dramatically.  “You’re outta the gang.”

Soda pouts.  Actually pouts.  “Would y’all be more excited about it if we called it a blanket fort?”

“Slightly, yes,” Steve says drily.  “Last I heard, tough guys don’t cuddle.”

Soda grins mischeviously.  “That ain’t what Evie tells me.”

“Stop gossiping with my girl!”

“But it’s fun,” Soda sighs.

“Well, at least quit gossiping about me.”

“But you’re our common interest!” Soda protests.

“I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t,” Soda says with a grin.  “Anyway, blanket fort it is.  Darry, you can reach the top shelf-“ Darry snorts at that.  “So you’re on supply runs with me.  Pony, you and these jokers are on assembly."

“On it,” Two-Bit says with a salute, and Ponyboy grins as Soda drags Darry toward the bedrooms.

Approximately thirty minutes later, Soda is still dragging Darry around the house lamenting that “surely there are more blankets,” while Darry continues to protest that they have gotten “every damn blanket in the house already, and they got more than enough.”

Pony is securing another part of the blanket, with Two trying to help from the inside.  Steve is mostly arguing with Pony about “structural integrity.”

“Pepsi, I ain’t going up to the attic,” they hear Darry say, exasperated, and Ponyboy and Steve both stifle laughter at that.

“But you’re our guardian, Darry,” Soda moans.  “We need warmth.”  Soda gestures wildly.  “Look at our poor kid brother, man.  He’s freezing.”

Ponyboy bites his lip to keep from laughing, giving Darry a sad look and a nod.  Soda gives Ponyboy a thumbs up behind his back.  Darry groans, and starts to trudge up to the attic with Soda bounding behind him. 

Ponyboy enters the fort, while Steve complains that it is “absolutely structurally unsound in there” before following him in.

They sit, and Ponyboy immediately feels uncomfortable.  He can’t put his finger on why, exactly, because they used to do blanket forts all the time when they were little.  He looks around at the small amount of blankets they decided to leave inside the fort, and the pillows, and at Steve and Two-Bit.

It hits him like a sledgehammer to the chest, and then suddenly he can’t breathe.  He feels lightheaded, and kinda like he’s underwater.

He used to make blanket forts all the time when he was little…with Johnny.

The last time he slept on a blanket on the floor was at that church in Windrixville.

His mind starts to cycle.  The fountain.  Dally’s room.  The train.  The church.  Then he’s remembering how terrified he and Johnny were, and how Johnny held him and they just cried.  He’s remembering the fire, and he swears he can smell the goddamn smoke.  He’s seeing Johnny’s last breath, and watching Dally break. 

“Pony!” Steve is yelling at him almost, shaking his shoulder.  Ponyboy startles and looks at him, wide-eyed.  He looks between Steve and Two-Bit, hyperventilating and trying not to break down and bawl.  Steve looks worried, and then pulls Ponyboy into a hug.  Pony is still trying to calm down, but he clings to Steve, fisting his shirt.   He wonders for a second if he’s hallucinating, or passed out or something, because Steve is rubbing his back trying to be comforting, and talking to him in a soothing tone that Pony has never heard from him. 

He reaches a shaking hand up, wiping his face, and is embarrassed that his cheeks are damp.  He tries to stop his breath from hitching, and stays pretty much collapsed against Steve’s chest.  And then he feels Two-Bit wrap an arm around him from the other side.

Gradually, he starts to really breathe again.

A few minutes later, Soda pops into the fort with a couple of blankets in his arms and a very annoyed Darry trying to crawl into the fort behind him.

“You started the cuddle puddle without me?!?!” Soda shrieks.

Steve just reaches an arm over and tugs Soda down next to him.  “Just get over here.  Good Lord.”  Soda still looks offended, and Steve wraps an arm around his neck and pulls him into the pile.  “Quit being a baby.  Over there in hysterics.  Just get in the damn pile,” Steve says with fond exasperation.

“Come on, Darry.  Over here on the other side of me,” Two-Bit says, patting his hand on the floor.

“You just want to be in the middle cause it’s warmer there,” Darry retorts.

“Exactly,” Two-Bit says with a grin.  “Now get a move on.  Faster than a speeding bullet, my ass.”

They make it through the night reasonably comfortably, despite the fact that the fort gets knocked down twice and has to be rebuilt due to too much horsing around.  Or as Two-Bit insists on calling it, “Ponyboying around.” 

Steve and Two-Bit don’t say a word to Soda or Darry about what happened when Pony first got into the fort.  Ponyboy doubts that he, or any of ‘em really, will ever stop missing Johnny or Dallas.  But he’s awful grateful for the family he’s still got.

---

It had been a good night.

   Mikey had just returned to the lair after his third Wednesday of every fourth month shift as the Turtle Titan with the Justice Force. His duty had been a breeze, and he was still hyped up from helping to stop a burglary with Silver Sentry and Ananda. He was very much looking forward to telling his brothers all about it, and, of course, how Turtle Titan had absolutely saved the day yet again. Please, please, hold your applause until the end of his story. Why, of course he’ll sign your bike helmet, Raphael. It would be his pleasure.

   Michelangelo was so caught up in his daydream that he almost missed the voices coming from Donnie’s lab.

   “-just can’t think of a good enough idea! I need to pass this class, Don.”

   “Well, what about the supersonic frequency of the Y’Lyntian crystals from our old lair? There’s bound to be no one else writing about that.”

   “Uh, yeah. Because it sounds totally made up. No offense, Donnie, but if I bring a paper about magic crystals to class, the professor is gonna flunk me for sure!”

   Mikey padded softly up to the open door to his brother’s workroom. Sure enough, he found Donatello sat at his desk, with Angel perched beside him. She looked utterly frustrated, though he guessed that was more to do with her homework and less with Don’s suggestions. From the crumpled-up papers littering the floor, he could guess they’d been at this for some time, now.

   Mikey decided they could use a break. “Hey, guys,” he called, as he stepped into the lab, “Who’s up for a movie?”

   Two heads – one turtle, one human – turned to look at him. Don looked relieved to see him back unharmed. Angel’s eyes, on the other hand, widened at the sight of his get up, before a massive grin broke out over her previously tired face.

   “Yo, Mikey! You holding out on me?”

   Turtle Titan could take anything in stride. Dr Malignus’ nefarious mind control bots? Easy. Big Bad Binky Boy’s de-aging beam? Child’s play (pun very much intended). An evil alternate dimension version of his father? Ha! Just let Sliver return for a rematch!

   But this? Mikey was forced to admit defeat.

   “Uh…what?”

   “This!” Angel hopped up from her chair and tugged lightly at his cape. “Have you been to a comic book convention without me? Dude, I’m hurt! And here I thought we were friends…”

   The twinkle in her eye and the smirk on her lips revealed that Angel wasn’t actually offended. Realisation slowly dawned on Michelangelo that he’d never told Angel about his part time gig as a superhero. In his defence, it hadn’t really come up. And he had no reason to believe she’d even be interested, before. But now…

   “Angel?” he gasped, eyes sparkling wide with hope and excitement, “Do you like superheroes?”

   Angel scoffed, playfully. “Like them?” She tossed her purple locks sassily over her shoulder and shot him a wink. “I love them!”

   “Me too!!!”

   Poor Donnie could only shake his head fondly as his private tutoring dissolved into a debate over which superhero was the best.

   “Silver Sentry’s got all the powers!” Mikey boasted, showing off a signed autograph he’d gotten from the caped crusader himself.

   “Nobody doesn’t even need powers to be a hero,” Angel shot back, hands on hips, “And he’s way cooler!”

   Mikey gasped in mock offense. “No one’s as cool as Sentry!”

   Don could see this devolving into a full-blown argument if he didn’t step in. “So, about that movie…”  

   To absolutely no one’s surprise, Mikey and Angel immediately picked The Avengers. Donnie didn’t object, even though his brother had forced the whole family to watch this film a dozen times in the last six months alone. What? It was a good movie! So, what if Mikey could recite the entire thing in his sleep? That just went to show what a modern-day classic it was!

   There was nothing better after a day of fighting crime than being tucked up on the sofa beside his brother and one of his good friends, with a bucket of popcorn and a great movie on the TV. And, even better, he could totally nerd out about all things superhero with Angel! Mikey was so taking her to his next comic book convention!

   “Y’know,” Angel commented, right as Bruce Banner revealed the secret to how he transformed at will, “If they wanted to make, like, a new evil Hulk clone, or something, they could just spell ‘Hulk’ backwards. The Indomitable Kluh, Pulveriser of Bone. Kinda cool, right…?”

   The world lurched violently. All he could hear was the roar of the crowds. Blood thumped through his head. His palms were almost too slick to hold his nunchaku. Sweat and grime mixed with the dust of the arena to coat his tongue in a vile paste. The sun was in his eyes. How did the Battle Nexus even have a sun, anyway?

   A flash of purple. He flinched back before he even registered what he was doing. The movement yanked at the spiderwebbing cracks growing across his plastron. It hurt. Shell, it hurt! His chest was so tight! Every breath was agony. Mikey found himself doing a surprisingly good impression of Leo’s tea kettle with every searing inhale.

   A scowling purple face filled his vision. Kluh. Now Mikey remembered! He could see Kluh’s fist, drawn back for another strike, little fragments of Mikey’s plastron clinging to the clenched knuckles like sprinkles on a horrible, disgusting donut. Great. Now he could never eat donuts again. Thanks a lot, Battle Nexus!

   The grip on his arm tightened. He struggled to pull free. No, please! Don’t hit him again! Mikey didn’t know if he could take another punch. His whole body felt so taut he’d surely break into a million pieces if he was struck just one more time. Mikey didn’t want to be a pinata. He couldn’t be the Turtle Titan anymore if he was reduced to tiny little Mikey pieces!

   “-ikey!”

   No! Please, stop! His family was counting on him! They were all going to be so disappointed if he lost. And after Leo put in all that effort to train him, too…

   “-ike!”

   He couldn’t help it. He squeezed his eyes tight, bracing for the blow that would turn him into the turtle equivalent of a busted window…

   “Michelangelo!”

   …That…that wasn’t Kluh’s voice…

   …It almost sounded like…

   “Mikey, it’s me! Donnie. I’m here. You’re ok. You’re safe. Please, just breathe.”

   The room faded back in, slowly. The roar of the arena muted, replaced with the familiar sounds of creaking pipes and drafty tunnels. The blinding sun eased back to the flickering television screen, now silenced and paused. He could still feel the cool tiles under his feet, but now it was joined by the texture of their scratchy old sofa against the backs of his legs.

   “That’s it, Mikey. In, and out. Nice and slow.”

   He blinked, and the purple in front of him retreated to a thin band across an olive-green face. Donatello. His brother. But where was…?

   “You’re ok, Mikey.” A female voice. April? No, younger than April. More purple, but this time framing a tan face. Dark, concerned eyes scanning him anxiously. Angel. “Just breathe, ok?”

   But… But his chest… His eyes swivelled downwards before he could stop them, narrowing in on… His plastron. His solid, complete plastron. Only the faintest of scars remained to tell the story of what had happened a few years ago.

   He was whole. He was complete. He wasn’t about to become turtle confetti.

   Clarity returned like a rush of cold water. Mikey was home, in the lair. Don and Angel were sat on either side of him on the sofa. They’d been watching a movie with him. Donnie had put Mikey’s hand on his chest and was guiding him through some deep, exaggerated breaths in and out. Angel was rubbing his shell.

   They were here. They were safe. Mikey’s plastron wasn’t splintering into a thousand tiny shards.

   It still felt a little like he was trying to breathe through a straw, but every inhale that his brother took with him was a little easier. In, and out. Everything was ok. Just breathe.

   It was funny what random things came to mind during moments like these. The words were out of Mikey’s mouth before he’d finished processing them.

   “…Did you know,” he asked, around the rhythm of inhaling and exhaling that his brother was guiding him through, “…that turtles …can breathe …through their butts?”

   Silence. Two pairs of eyes could only stare at him in response.

   Angel blinked. “…What?”

   Perhaps Donnie was more used to his brother’s random statements, because he recovered much faster.

   “Only in water,” he reminded Mikey, “And it’s not a very efficient process. I’d rather you stuck to breathing with your lungs, right now.”

   Angel wasn’t able to brush off the non sequitur quite so easily. “I’m sorry, what?” Her gaze flicked between Don and Mikey, and back again, demanding answers.

   “It’s a process called cloacal respiration,” Don explained, easily able to infodump while he continued to help his brother calm down, “There are special organs called bursae, located next to the intestines, that draw oxygen out of the water and exchange it with carbon dioxide. But it’s not something that all turtles can do. Mostly just species of river turtles.”

   Another long pause followed. Their human friend eyed them both cautiously. “…So…Can you guys…?”

   Mikey burst into laughter.

- - -

   “Hey, Mikey,” Don called from his lab as his brother passed the open door. Michelangelo dutifully stuck his head into the room. “Angel’s coming over later. We’re going to celebrate her getting a B on her paper.”

   “Awesome!” Mikey cheered, punching the air, “What did she end up writing it about?”

   A wry smile crossed Donatello’s face.

They walked out of the room, closing the door behind them, and soon enough leaving the bunker as a whole.

In one fluid motion they took out their Dimensional Knife, slashing a portal into existence, and then they were back at GrimReaper’s forest

Reaper’s forest

… right

They took a breath, shaking their head once more before starting the trek to the cabin, taking a few more of the practiced breaths Solar taught them to steel themselves at their arrival.

It had only been a few hours over in their world, that was a day and a half here.

Nothing could’ve happened on that time.

No one could’ve died.

They fidgeted with their sleeves as they walked, repeating the assurance to themselves, youngest twin reminding their other that if anything had happened they would’ve been sent a message about it.

The assurance had little effect but the bot carried on anyways.

As they got closer to the cabin however, they started to feel something… different than the post-travel anxiety

Something caught at the back of their mind maybe. Like a tremor trying to run down their spine, foretold by a twinge of nausea

No, that couldn’t…

They looked around themselves, not catching sight of anyone who could’ve possibly been stalking them. Had a human been killed nearby then? No, the scent of human blood was missing, let alone a corpse. They hadn’t been having a bad day, not good but not bad either. So then why…?

Bloodmoon’s eyes widened as they sped up their pace, cabin soon entering their line of sight.

And so they found the source of the anxiety.

Hah, anxiety… they knew better than to try and name this

Patches of grass were covered in a black substance, heading towards- away from the cabin.

The scent of mechanical oil lingered amongst the seasonal breeze.

Empty room, splotch of oil, missing, gone

They ran into the house.

More oil. Splattered on the floorboards.

A puddle, nothing more

The source of the oil. Lying limply on the wood. dead dead dead Severed arm. Yellow and grey casing. metal tearing Ripped clean off. No denting. Blood stains on the forearm.

Torn off cables, leaking, leaking

Bloodstains. Blood.

No blood.

Reddish stain. Mixed with oil.

They can’t smell it.

It’s all oil and oil and oil and oil and oil and oil and oil and oil andoil and oil andoiland oil and oilandoilandoilandoilandoiland—

They felt their back hit a wall.

It’s oil.

It’s all oil.

There’s only oil. It’s all blurry but the oil.

It’s too much of the oil.

Too much

They didn’t know that.

How couldn’t they.

They never saw the amount.

They didn’t need to.

Smell isn’t reliable alone.

There’s more outside.

There’s more outside there’s more outside there’s more outside there’s more outside more outside more outside more outside more outside more outside outside outside helphelp help gone help thats all gone help get help get help not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead NOT DEAD NOT DEAD NOT DEAD NOT DEAD NOTDEADNOT DEADNOTDEADNOTDEADNOTDEADNOTDEADNOTDEADNOT

Claws on throat.

Hurts.

No air.

All oil.

Rid of oil.

Get rid of oil.

Get rid of the oil.

Clean up the oil.

A blink

Yes, clean the oil.

Cabin can’t be dirty.

Cabin?

Yes cabin

Her cabin

Her cabin can’t be dirty.

They can clean it. Right?

Right

Clean

Clean and she’ll return

Clean and she’ll be happy

Clean

They have to clean

Nodding

They nodded.

They can clean

On shaky legs but they can clean. Wanting to puke but they can clean. Can’t see well but they can clean.

Good.

Good good good good good

Clean the cabin

Terror crept up his spine and sheer dread pooled in his stomach only to climb the ladder of his ribs to grip his heart in it's ice cold grip. He couldn’t stop the shaking even if he was aware of it. And Wild very much wasn’t aware of much beyond the fear that engulfed him and the booming sounds of violence overhead.

Thunder rumbled as if the Goddesses themselves were waging war in the sky, lightning so frequent it may as well have been daylight for all anyone knew. Yet in the clouded haze of Wild’s mind, he’s back there, where it all ended in agony and in blood.

It wasn’t thunder that Wild heard, but the booming explosions of Guardian beams aimed at him and the kingdom he was meant to protect. Lasers lit up the sky and even the mechanical sound of marching, spindly legs can’t drown out the sounds of carnage and destructive terror the machines bore down onto Hyrule.

Twilight found him huddled between two beds in the stable they sought shelter at, Wild’s white knuckled grip grabbing his own hair so tight Twilight was scared he’d actually pull it out at the root. Wild’s eyes may have been open, but it was clear for anyone to see that he wasn’t there with them, not in the present.

Gesturing nosy guests away, Twilight asked the stablemaster to bring privacy screens over while one of the stable hands encouraged other patrons to the other side of the stable to leave the two in peace. Once privacy (as much as could be) was gained, Twilight was carefu to approach a rocking Wild.

“WIld-?” Twilight’s voice kept low as to not startle his friend. Although a gentle soul, Wild wasn’t in the mindset to be accountable for his actions right now, and if his mind was where Twilight suspected it was, then he needed to tread carefully for both their sakes.

After a moment of no recognition from the younger hero, Twilight tries again, this time adding a gentle judge of his foot into Wild’s bent leg to gauge his reaction, it was a technique he’d learned back in Ordon to ensure he wasn’t about to be charged by an injured goat. When he’s met with a weak whimper, Twilight’s heart broke all over again for his friend.

“Oh, Wildflower…”

Twilight somehow managed to wedge himself in the small gap that Wild had found in his panic to escape the monsters in his mind; a lull in the storm allowing enough cognition to return to Wild for him to realise that Twilight was a friend and was there to help him so Wild did the only thing he can in that moment, and gripped Twilight for dear life.

Wrapping his arms tightly around Wild, Twilight cupped Wild’s head in one hand, encouraging Wild to rest his head on his shoulder while his own work calloused hand covers Wild’s ear to try and block out the worst of the storm.

“It’s okay, Wild. I’m here. It’s just a thunderstorm, everyone is safe and the guardians are long gone.”

There’s a rigidity beneath Wild’s skin with the indecision of whether to choose fight or flight, but with no visible enemy to fight, Twilight fears that Wild may bolt in his confusion. He needs to find a counterpoint for Wild to latch onto, something to keep him grounded and in the present.

Another loud clap of thunder has Wild set to panic, tension coils in his body as if deciding that moment was when Wild needed to act, to do something, anything to protect a kingdom so dependent on his success.

The motion is halted when Twilight pulled Wild onto his lap, gentle kisses placed to his hairline as he’s faced away from the stable entrance to shield him from the view of the lightning; one ear cushioned against Twilight’s collar and the other being gently held by his partner. “Shh, now. Just listen to my heart and my voice, can you do that for me?”

Kisses like raindrops litter every inch of Wild’s face that Twilight can reach, gentle words and soft hums filled the space around them as the storm raged on both outside the stable and in Wild’s heart.

They stayed like that, with Twilight holding Wild close and safe, all the while placing calming kisses and promises of safety and love into Wild’s skin in the hope they will penetrate his very soul.

For Twilight would do everything in his power to make sure Wild never has to endure pain and destruction like he had before; he’d even fight Hylia herself if it came to it.

He can’t be here. 

Could he? 

Are they both living? 

Are they both dead? 

“Solas?” He doesn't move, not like he should. Instead, it is a disjointed rhythm in which the shadow moves, a disjointed time in which a hand reaches for his, and it stains his skin. He's falling through the ground, falling through the glass, through memories, through the death threats, into loneliness, into that grey abyss. In that stress that he writhes against

“Wake up, Varric,” Solas states, his words creeping out against the darkness of the world around them. Varric’s ears ring, and his chest hurts; it's explosive. It's like his insides are being torn apart, like that knife, like how he remembers looking at different brown eyes as the world went dark and there was an order for him to live. He had been ordered to live.

He was never good at orders. 

He writhes, stuck to that floor - eyes on the door, hand still up in the clutches of that shadow, the shadow that is not there, the shadow that should wretch a scream out of him, rather the grip is one of an old friend, it is warm, it is fond. Solas turns his hand over, tracing the lines for him as Varric breathes, begging for mercy, begging for him to kill him. Begging time and time again, as if he sees his brother with Red Lyrium coursing through his veins and angering the song in his heart. He begs, and it comes out in waves crashing against a timeless stone. 

“Varric.” Solas pauses somewhere in the median; his gaze shifts, the way it does when he has a winning hand, the way it does when he has the answer, the way it does when they have bested them all. “Let it go.” 

“You first.” It is choked out, gurgling even. He can feel the blood in the back of his throat, the acrid and metallic taste overwhelming him, how it drowned two lungs, how he fell into darkness, how he drowned in choppy waters, weightless and feckless. Sweat beads and pours down his face. A bead catches on his nose, and that shape reaches out and brings one long forefinger forward, swiping it clean. He doesn't understand him; he doesn't understand this. “Why didn't you?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Varric.” It is more mournful than any white lily on a pyre, any white rose that Varric could clutch in death. The motions are too kind. Something is wrong. He is on the floor of the rotunda, and his head is swimming for one reason or another. 

“Varric,” Solas states, not from beside him - rather, he's leaning against that ugly settee that Vivienne once threatened to set ablaze. “What did you drink?”

He picks himself up off the floor, hand against the stone. It's just like the flagstone in the rotunda. It’s a memory where he and Solas cleaned Bull out and Dorian out, and they even took Josie for a ride. 

“Firewater.” Varric states, stretching and pulling himself to lecture, “And whatever Tiny was pouring after midnight.” He reminds the apostate that Cabot would disappear and Bull would take over the bar every once in a while; it pulls a laugh from Solas, one hand still dramatically on his head as if he's blocking out the lamp light as well. “And then whatever else Tiny poured.” It could have been anything from an Antivan White to a Moonshine brewed in the heart and heat of Kirkwall. 

He feels good, his shoulder rolls into place, and he inhales. He feels good. “We win?” Varric asks, rather than rifling through Solas’s desk. He pays no mind to the papers or missives; rather, he pulls the key hidden among into his hands. It slots against the top drawer, rather than the one on the bottom that hides honey whiskey and a deck of cards they pass back and forth. They are thirty years old, and the deck lingers in this in-between space. 

“Barely,” Solas states, forcing himself to lecture, and that doesn't work; the man ends up hunched his head between his knees as well. “You poured the last hand.” 

“Who allowed that?”

“You, you insisted with your endless generosity,” Solas states, it sounds pained. Varric laughs, and that pains him. Fucking hangovers. Varric laughs through it, counting the notes that are present; he always counts. Then, the silvers are counted next, split and set aside. “Even?” Solas asks.

“More than that.” Varric states; the coins come into his hands, and they are more than even. Varric knows he will pour the gold into coffers worthy, and Solas will do what he does with whatever paltry winnings they get. “We are up.” He states, scratching something against the parchment. Something to remind them that they are both gambling together - like some gambeson that was meant to protect. “Up by…ten percent.”

Something summons a time of peanuts on the floor, of sawdust in every corner, a cat stretching up into his pant leg. A darkness pulling him back. 

But it is also the unknown.

It is sulfuric.

It is him floating.

It is him half-blind to the past, the present, and the future. He doesn't know what is true, as he can feel the hardwood, understanding his fingertips - how they scrape the hardwood floors and claw at them, blind and knowing he was destined for something more.

He's on the floor, and Sidri finds him, quelling fears. 

“Varric.”

It doesn't sound like his name; it is just ringing, just that haze, just that haze that shifts into man, a man he considered among the most trusted in his life, a restart in his life - and then with poetic metre he falls, through that glass, the wood, through Sidri’s fingers and her words, he falls, it is grey, he slips, he is waiting for something to break the cycle, something that swirls and nearly drowns him, like an endless pave to follow forever, like a curse he falls limp, falls too and there is a scream like a knife like something else like Solas again, this time in the Frostbacks.

Varric is carrying two packs, about to be three if Solas needs the hand. But he’s leading and forging the path ahead for them all; Varric squints, and the first sunrise over Skyhold greets him. All of them cheer at that moment, even him, a great wolf whistle that Fenris taught him.

That whistle sends him back, and he gasps, lurching forward against the hands on his abdomen rather than his chest, a familiar face, a face that always gives him pause, and he is weak; he is the weakest he has ever been. “Sid?” It is not a question of identity; he knows her. The way her heart beats, rather it is also the song he hummed somewhere when a seizure took her, somewhere where magic ravaged her and eyes glowed green and burned through him, and he could feel him conducting the magic, willing it out of him and into the ground. 

She's not that woman in his arms. The roles flip. He is in hers, and he is still on that floor, but Solas is not in that door frame; he does not linger yet. Yet, Varric’s voice haunts himself. Some great grey echoes against her, something, someone he considers the saint and holy lady of the mundane, and he seizes.

Was this destined?

Something half-blind, remembering second-hand smoke and a home long reduced to rubble. 

“Varric!” It’s three voices, someone tipping his head back in the Hinterlands and pouring a potion into his mouth, it’s the hand in the back of his jacket stopping him from running into flames, it’s a far-off song, a love echoing in his ears. 

He's alive, still plastered against that floor, his fingers slipping through something that is not there. His head aches, and it settles against warmth. His eyes are still unfocused, and he hears the echoes of someone barking orders. It reminds him of a canopy where he first found his voice, that Eden giving him the second wind and his voice as the Viscount.

Kirkwall. 

Home.

A garden spread wide, lying somewhere hidden in Thedas.

The ringing in his ears plays, dying, one key at a time as the pops of colours, the memories against his eyes fade, and the dark shadow on his wrist is identified as a shadow; he's alive. 

He's alive.

He gaps, breathing, air filling lungs. That's more steady, but his eyes dart and find the hand in his. It is not cool or the man who traced his palm and outlined his death in one cool breath, words not ice, but rather Solas had outlined them in a way that melted every ice-filled word to water, cascading across him. So he reaches, pushing Sidri’s hair out of her eyes, pushing tears from Solas’s.

“I’m alright.” His vision clears, it clears, it clears, and he breathes, air stinging his lungs. “I’m alive.” It is Minrathous, it is her. It is colour, he begs.

It doesn't negate the panic, the flicker.

The blood on the faces.

But Sidri speaks; it is not orders, but he finds himself grounded to that floor. 

He's alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.

Solas is also alive.