#d:cary

i.

Going home had never felt this lonely before. 

Before, going home after work felt like triumph, like crossing the finish line after a marathon. Every muscle would sparkle with the blissful, bubbling seafoam of being consumed. He used to be able to fall into his bed, moan into his pillows as the sun came over the horizon, and sigh over the delicious silence of his own space. 

Now, Lear sat in a fucking pew, beneath an effigy of a murdered demigod, because going back to a silent home was just not an option. But walking back into the parish house felt just as much like not-an-option. The compromise seemed to be, logically, if he couldn’t stand to be alone, to keep company with the figure of a corpse hanging above an altar. 

As Lear stared up at Christ’s somber face, his body buzzed traitorously, the feel-good chemicals ravaging every inch. It was--nice. But it didn’t feel good, not like it used to. Still, it made his brain quiet, at least, his eyelids heavy. He did not bother to pull the collar of his shirt closed when he slumped down into the chair to stare up at the statue under the long, repetitive gothic arches. It was cool--not cold--in the spring; the cool--not cold--air felt good on the wounds along his neck and shoulder and that’s all that really mattered.

The pew behind him creaked. Lear had sat there, silently in a trance, unburdened from the loudness of the shoreline crashing in his ears, trying to convince himself the heaviness in his body felt good, and he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching. He thought he should panic, startle, but he didn’t. Instead, he stared ahead and whoever sat behind him leaned forward and rested his arms on the back of Lear’s pew. Lear didn’t even have enough energy to glance to the side to get a look at whoever it was, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw soft blonde curls.

“Are you okay?” the boy asked. He didn’t have the voice of a boy, but his presence felt boyish and distantly familiar. 

Lear didn’t answer. He mostly lacked the energy or interest, but part of him hoped if he didn’t engage, the boy would just go away. 

“You’re bleeding,” the boy whispered. 

Lear felt him reach out and he moved away. “Leave it.”

The boy withdrew his hand and it disappeared behind the back of the pew. A shadow felt heavier somewhere in the corner, but Lear didn’t pay it much notice. Shadows in churches.

Lear finally glanced over, hoping to watch the boy leave, but the boy stayed, watching, his blue eyes startlingly clear in the darkness. He had to have been practically off his own seat leaning so far forward to try to talk to Lear. 

“My name is Abraham,” he said. Lear finally recognized his voice, his halo of gold curls. He’d only seen it in the miasma of his delirium, the shouting, the panic, but he remembered thinking he was beautiful and warm.

Lear didn’t answer, a muscle in his jaw jumping from the force of clamping his teeth shut even tighter. 

“I like coming here, too. When I just need quiet time to think.” Abraham flinched. “I guess I’m not really helping with that.”

Lear huffed and Abraham smiled and scooted a little closer. 

“Why don’t you want to go to bed?” Abraham asked, quiet and sincere. He was so honest, Lear could feel it, that same warm feeling he felt that night in the club. It was purely instinctive, as if his soul was fighting through the weighted blanket of his body to scream out that this boy was safe, home, protect, accompany, revere. Millions of years of genetic code written into his body wanted to take this boy into his arms and swear fealty. 

He felt the same way about the boy in the grave, from the very first moment he had told him he was beautiful. It was honesty. Real honesty. 

Overwhelmed, defeated, Lear finally whispered, “I don’t know.” 

“That’s okay,” Abraham said. He reached out again to put his hand on his shoulder and Lear didn’t move this time. The shadow in the corner relaxed and Lear’s lashes began to burn. 

Abraham hadn’t carried him, but he had stayed near Lear’s head the entire journey to the church. Lear couldn’t make out what his companion said between the ringing in his ears and the howling, frothing pain that shot through his body from two little pinpricks in his neck, but he remembered Abraham’s voice, clear as a bell, just once. I know it hurts. It’s going to be okay.

“How did you know?” Lear asked, his breath catching in his chest.

Abraham didn’t need an explanation. “I saw it. In a vision.” He sounded sad and Lear’s brows knit even further. He finally turned away from Christ to look at His prophet.

“But--why? I don’t--” I’m nothing, Lear wanted to say, but couldn’t. Because he knew Arlo would be upset. Because he’d learned, in two short seasons, it wasn’t true.

“Because you needed help,” Abraham answered so simply it felt like devastation, like God leveling Gomorrah with only a whisper. His thumb swept peaceful, gentle arcs over the little stars embedded in Lear’s shoulder.

Lear tried to clamp his jaw shut once more, tried to keep it all in and protect it from the stone walls and the rectory, but Abraham breathed. He breathed just in the right way and stone walls became a rocky shore and a prophet became a prince. Once the transfiguration occurred, Lear could keep no secrets.

“I don’t want to go to the house because I don’t want to see the venom in Alioth’s arm,” Lear admitted. Saying it felt like tossing a boulder off his chest and he finally took in a belly full of air, even if the exhale came out broken and guilty. He was crying then, the salt forming little crystals on his cheeks. “And I can’t go home, so I just--” Lear’s lip wobbled, “He wasn’t supposed to take it. No one was. It was supposed to be for me. I wish--I wish you’d just left me there. I wish you’d just left me there.”

Lear leaned forward onto his knees. He hadn’t meant to move out of Abraham’s reach, but all the better. He buried his head in a cage of his arms, his fingers digging into his cropped hair, his profuse shame finally piercing through the armor of his numbness in a thicket of ugly, vengeful red blossoms. It felt like a boy getting into a car at the coast and driving away. It felt like all the animals in the forest turning away from him when he wanted to play. It felt like spears thrust through the bars of a cage, like his horn through a fleshy stomach.

But just as the squelching in his ears became too loud, warmth surrounded him and the noise vanished. Abraham moved quickly from the pew behind to drape his body over Lear’s hunched back in a tight embrace. He let Lear cry just like that for a little while before finally speaking.

“You would have been missed too badly,” Abraham said. Beside Gomorrah, Sodom fell to the earth in pillars of salt. He pulled away and rubbed little circles over Lear’s back. More complex than circles. Symbols. Lear didn’t recognize them, but something in his soul sang for them. “And Alioth is going to be okay. He was never going to let you suffer.”

Lear sat up finally, the cool air rushing to his reddened face. He ran the back of his wrist under his nose and shook his head, sniffling, “I didn’t deserve to be helped.” He cast his eyes down, the garden of his shame turning into a mass of thorns beneath the tremble of his confession, “I let him poison me.” Lear’s throat closed, choking on the words, “I didn’t deserve--” 

“Don’t--” Abraham interrupted, gentle, but firm, “No one needs to deserve help. Ever.”

Lear didn’t look up. Instead, he stared down at the woven fabric of the thin seat cushion below them. His jaw trembled, but he nodded, though he wasn’t sure he really believed him. 

Abraham lowered his voice, like he was telling a schoolyard secret, “Bronn is probably going to make miso for breakfast. He always does that when he’s worried.” Abraham had the decency to look a little ashamed, but his eyes sparkled with excitement.

Lear’s laugh was wet and pathetic when it bubbled up. He ran the back of his wrist under his nose again. The thought of them worrying--caring. His lashes burned anew.

“Do you want to go to bed now?” Abraham asked, his hand warm against the small of Lear’s back.

Lear worried his lip. He was still scared, still ashamed, guilty. He glanced down to Abraham’s hand resting on his knee to find the spot on his wrist that shimmered pale white all the way around. He’d seen the scar on the night he was rescued. He remembered thinking, Another caged bird. Lear looked up to Abraham’s eyes, bright and hopeful. And he thought, maybe, just one more time, he could be strong enough to hope a home could last. 

--

ii.

Cool air bit into Buck’s cheeks when he pushed the door open to the roof. He had sprinted up the stairs, some six or seven flights, but barely lost a breath. When John had woken him in Monty’s spare bed, worried that something was wrong, Buck didn’t waste time changing, just followed him into the night in long flannel pants and nothing else, unquestioning, with singular purpose. 

John had looked panicked, searching up and down the street until he paused and stared out into the night, farther than Buck could see. He was beautiful like that, hunting. If he didn't respect John's work so deeply, Buck would have stolen a kiss. Instead, John turned, pretty eyes as deep as molasses staring up at Buck, scared. Buck understood the look immediately, even if John was too polite to say.

“Go. Call out to me. I’ll hear you.” John disappeared and a moment later, Buck felt his own name pet his cheek and he stared into the same spot in the night John had locked onto just moments before. 

John was right to leave. It took Buck a little while to get to the roof and by that time, they had already devolved into shouting. The sound of the metal bar clanging against the door made the two of them look up. 

Cary narrowed his eyes and hissed at John, “You brought your fucking dog?!”

Buck ignored the slight and crossed the short distance across the roof to crouch down beside him. Cary sat in a mess of his own feathers, his back curled over one of his wings tucked up into his chest, like he was protecting it from John. Buck had never seen his wings before--he’d never seen any of their wings before--but he was surprised to see they weren’t white like snow. They were always white like snow in the pictures on Cyrus’s phone. 

“I thought you were being attacked!” John defended, reaching out for Cary. Gravel skittered under Cary’s foot as he kicked himself away, baring his teeth in a snarl. 

“I’m. Fine,” he growled, gathering his other wing under his arm and away from John’s touch. He realized, instantly, he had only moved closer to Buck and he squeezed his wings tighter to his body. Buck caught him flinching, some sharp pain moving up his back, making his eyes clench tight and his breath stop in his chest. 

When he froze, Buck finally had a moment to really look over his injuries. He was missing a lot of feathers, and the ones still clinging to him laid askew in all different directions. He spotted hard, grotesque ivory peeking out between the soft downing and Buck couldn’t stop himself from wincing sympathetically. Cary caught him at a glance. 

“You see?!” Cary accused, his glare sweeping from Buck to John, “So just-- go the fuck away and mind your fucking business!” 

John opened his mouth to argue, but Buck interrupted. “You must be in so much pain,” he said quietly, reaching out.

Cary kicked himself away again. “Fuck you!” he spat. “I don’t need your help!” He dropped his wings to twist down onto his hands and push himself up, “No, you know what, fuck this, if you won’t leave me the fuck alone--” He tried to stand, but his legs crumpled under him and Buck quickly followed to catch him. 

“Get off me!” Cary ground out through gritted teeth, fighting to push away from Buck’s chest. Buck held him loosely. Cary wouldn’t have had to try too hard to break free, but he lacked even the strength to pry himself from the loose cage of Buck’s arms. “I don’t need your help!” he yelled again, but it sounded more like a sob.

“We’re not helping you,” Buck said, soft and kind, as if to a pup. Cary struggled, but less than before, so Buck slowly lowered him to the ground. John followed, his hands out as if to cradle Cary’s wings as they fell. “We’re not helping you,” he repeated, the cage of his arms closing a little tighter around Cary’s waist. He moved his hand up Cary’s back and pressed him down further into his chest, until, finally, after pushing away even as they sat, he could no longer resist the warmth of Buck’s skin and he stopped struggling. Cary’s fists shook under his body and he groaned, but he stopped struggling. 

Buck stared at John and without prompting, John bit into his lip and pressed his fingers into Cary’s wings. Cary reacted immediately, gasping, his body pressing up into Buck’s. Cary’s fists splayed out over Buck’s chest as he whined, his insults and coarse tongue turning into whimpers and sobs. 

John stopped when he found something. Cary stiffened and made a noise as if begging him not to.

“God, I’m sorry,” John mumbled. Silence.

John yanked. 

Something snapped.

Cary screamed something strangled and horrible.