#firezalmighty

“You’vegot an arrow through your shoulder,” Fyre points out, a littlesharply, voice pitched higher as concern leaks into his words. “Anarrow! I’m fine bycomparison.” He sets abucket of water down on the chest nearest Brute with slightly moreforce than needed, water slopping over the edges and splashingBrute’s knee where he’s sat cross-legged on the bed.

Huffingdispleasure at the feel of damp fabric against skin, just anotherdiscomfort to add to a long list, Brute drags a hand through hishair. He bites the inside of his cheek to hide a wince at the way themotion jars his other shoulder – along with the arrow lodged in it,tip stuck an inch into the flesh between shoulder blade and spine.“That’s not the point.”

Demeanoursoftening a little, Fyre catches Brute’s wrist in one clawed handand tugs it down and away from his hair. “Right now, it is,” hesays, quietly, brushing a thumb across Brute’s face. The motion isachingly tender despite the way his feathers are flared with anxiety,a bright golden fluff spattered crimson. Brute hopes most of theblood doesn’t belong to either of them. “Hold still now. I needto get this off.”

Tiltinghis head to kiss the pad of Fyre’s thumb, Brute grins as thealready reddish-brown skin of Fyre’s cheeks gets even more red. Thesmile slips a little, though, when Fyre hooks a blade under thecollar of it and begins severing the seams of it in slow, steadymovements to avoid puncturing skin as well as cloth.  “Aww, I likethis shirt,” he grumbles, frowning at the growing rips. “Really?”

“Ifyou want to try and pull it over your head, you’re welcome to,”mutters Fyre, and then squeaks in alarm when Brute makes to move hisarms. “No! No! Please don’t do that, that was a joke-”His feathers ruffle even further, glinting in the torchlight, andBrute can’t help laughing again.

Thelaughter stops abruptly when the cutting tugs a little too hard atthe shirt and nudges the arrow – and then he’s whining painthrough gritted teeth, struggling not to flinch. Fyre flinches withhim, before forcing himself to stillness again. He needs a steadyhand for this, he knows, no matter how much the wet shine of pain inBrute’s eyes makes him want to tremble.

“I’msorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice quiet andstrained and as soothing as he can manage as he finishes cutting therest of the shirt, letting the ruined fabric fall to the bed. “I’msorry-” Without fabric obscuring the wound, it looks even worse,jagged-edged flint biting deep into flesh slowly purpling withbruises.

Takinga deep breath, Fyre presses a hand to Brute’s chest to keep himstill, and – before Brute can tense up – curls fingers around thearrow shaft and pulls it out with one clean wrench.

Brutecries in shock out when the arrow rips free, fingers curlingwhite-knuckled into the sheets as he doubles over his knees, thewetness in his eyes spilling over into tears that stream down hischeeks. It takes everything Fyre has not to comfort him, not to takeBrute in his arms and hold him and whisper soft words. Instead, hepushes him upright and presses a wad of cloth against the wound,kissing the top of his head with eyes squeezed shut.

“You’refine, you’re fine, it’s going to be alright,” he promises,words tinged with panic, presses harder against the wound as thecloth soaks through with blood until he can feel the wet warmthagainst his fingers. “It’s- it’s fine.”

Thepressure drags a grunt out of Brute, but he cuts off the noises ofpain by biting the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t trust himself tospeak without distressing Fyre further, so he doesn’t, swallows anywords of reassurance he has and concentrates on calming himself. Hisbreathing slows, heavy exhalations through his nose as his nervesgradually wind down from their grating scream.

Finally,the bleeding slows, and Fyre tentatively pulls the ruined cloth away,trying to ignore the way his stomach twists at the sight and scent ofblood – the acid tang of it combined with the smell of Brute at theback of his throat is sharp and nauseating enough that it’s aneffort not to retch. The blood on its own is uncomfortablyreminiscent of food.

“It’sfine,” he repeats, slowly, pressing another bundle in place andtying it there with makeshift bandages, hoping his clumsy knots willhold. “It’s fine now.” He’s not sure who he’s trying toconvince..

Brutenods, managing a shaky grin. “Thanks to you,” he agrees hoarsely– and before he has time to lift a hand and scrub the tears fromhis cheeks, he has a lap full of Fyre, a head tucked under his chinand feathers tickling against his throat. “...Fyre?”

“I’mfine,” manages Fyre, voice full of high-pitched denial andpoorly-restrained tears. He loops arms around Brute’s waist in acareful hug, clinging to him as best he can manage with their variousinjuries. “I’m absolutely fine, just- just checking you’re finetoo.”

Brutechuckles, quietly, before sucking in a small breath as the movementjolts his shoulder. He feels Fyre tense at the sound, and sighs,bringing a hand up to cradle the back of Fyre’s hair and cardslowly through the soft fluff of feathers there. “Well,” he says,gentle and teasing. “I think I’m fine. But it can’t hurt foryou to stay here and check a little longer.”