He stumbled, trying to walk even though his legs were stiff like boards. The stiffness was accompanied by a sharp, ongoing pain in his hips and knees.

…

Everything was so… heavy..

Flint steadied himself against the wall of the school building, leaning against the bricks and pushing against it to increase his pace, desperate to keep up with the others.

…

“Come on, - - - - !”

“I’m… I am -!”

He stood in place.

“I’m! - Uhhh,,, just… I need a.. moment…” His voice grew quiet.

…

Ah-

His knees nearly buckled.

He felt weak and flimsy, similar to a piece of paper or a leaf. Yet he stood very still, legs shaking, refusing to give in.

But no matter his perseverance or strength - his friends had already ran far away.

Without him.

He dragged his palm across the bricks, feeling the grit scrape his skin.

…

It was as if the thought came from someone else, chastising and hateful-

Gasping for breath, his fingers twitch, trying to fight the pain in the rest of his arm. His forearm had turned into a fleshy, gaping opening, welling up with shining golden blood. It’s unclear to Oath whether Flint hit muscle, but it feels like it, stabbing pain arcing through the wound and up his shoulder.

With a groan, he clutches his arm.

Flint watches, and Oath expects either a sick satisfaction or annoyance at his mistake, but instead, Flint’s face is contorted into an expression of horror. He has blood on his hands – literally – metallic ichor dripping from his fingers from his messy knifework, and maybe that’s why. Oath has no reason to believe it’s anything more.

“Shit—”

Oath sees through his eyes, watches the way Flint jerks his hands away from him, dropping the knife, letting it clatter to the ground.

Flint has the nerve to wince at the sound, and Oath narrows his eyes, gritting his teeth.

You’re scared.

Flint fumbles, stumbling as he backs away and leaves, running to find what he assumes are first aid supplies.

His footsteps thud in the distance, and Oath flicks his cephalic wings towards the sounds, envisioning where Flint is in with every movement.

Finally, they become louder again, and Oath looks to see what Flint retrieved.

A single sewing needle, fishing line, towels and water.

No painkillers.

I’m so fucked, Oath thinks. …But better stitched up than not at all.

Flint struggles to thread the needle, his fingers shaking and clumsy, and oath watches, his vision clouding. From pain or blood loss, he can't tell. A small pool of molten gold ichor has already begun to form beneath him.

Flint finally succeeds, and he takes the flaps of oath’s skin and holds them together, jabbing the needle in.

Oath bites his tongue, letting out a keen as flint joins his skin together, hands rough and stitchwork sloppy. Blood wells up where the needle pricks his skin, and Oath tries to keep his eyes on what Flint is doing, his gaze hardening. He’s using some… alternating stitch? Back and forth, like the pattern of a shoelace. Definitely not something that’ll stay if he pulls on it.

Every stab of the needle pinches his already burning skin, intrusions that he fights himself not to resist. The thread running through makes Oath shiver, nausea pressing at the back of his throat. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Oath moans.

Divine, please…

Flint finishes his stitching, and he droops. He’s lost so much blood. And Flint has the nerve, again — to hold his limp body, keep him steady.

When Oath thinks Flint isn’t looking, he slinks closer to the fireplace. With his wings shielding his body – as much as he can with them clipped – he crawls to it, watching Flint from behind with sharp blue and brown eyes. Hunched over, he stays low to the ground, cephalic wings folded against his face.

It’s a totally selfish action – but Oath deserves it. After everything, the least he should have is some comfort by the dirty fireside.

Flint is usually absorbed in his own work when he’s not using Oath for… his ingredients. He usually sits at his desk, the wooden surface creaking with the weight of the alchemical concoctions he brews, bubbling over onto the floor beneath. Sometimes the little clinks of vials hitting the table hit Oath’s ears, ringing out like the sound of little pixies. More often than that – the sound of Flint cursing under his breath when they spill.

Whenever he speaks, Oath tenses, freezing up …like that would help if Flint noticed him. Or if he decided to take his anger out on him.

Thankfully, Oath has known Flint long enough to know he wouldn’t. He needs his little feather supply unharmed, after all. That and … he’s not really that type of guy. Flint tears his own hair out of his head but never Oath’s, he kicks his chair but never Oath, he slashes and rips his notes apart but never lays a hand on Oath. The lack of violence allows Oath respite from whenever Flint takes more than Oath can give.

It makes Oath’s efforts to creep to the fire barely needed. It’s just a precaution, really.

Flint wouldn’t mind anyway.

He’s sure of it, especially when the fire is so kind to his injuries, soothing the irritation of the poorly done stitching on his arms and the dull ache of his unused wings. He tells himself Flint will just yell if he doesn’t like this, maybe drag him away if he really cared. Nothing too wrong with his feather supply having a warm rest by the fire…

He drifts off into dreamless sleep, the crackling of the fire and Flint’s work fading into the background as he curls his wings around his body.

Of course, good things must always come to an end.

Laying at Flint’s feet, Oath wakes up, blinking away the fog of sleep. He’d fallen asleep in the most uncomfortable position, laying on one of his wings. It tingles as he sits up, pins and needles radiating throughout it and sending sparks up his back.

He’s also coated in a fine layer of ash, the dust covering his skin and trapped in the layers of his hair and feathers.

Oath expects Flint to kick him or prod him away with his crutch. He really shouldn’t have underestimated him, after all he always seems to be having bad days despite his newfound luck. Well… “luck.” Business has been slowly rising for him now that he has an angel to use for potion ingredients. Key word, slowly.

Instead, Oath watches as Flint grabs a blanket and drapes it over his body. For a moment, Oath doesn’t move, he only stares up at Flint’s deep brown eyes. Then he tugs it closed, gripping the fabric.

“…Why?” He asks, running the fabric between his fingers. The blanket isn't very soft, but Oath wants to know why Flint even cares to give it to him.

“I dunno,” Flint says. “Just take it.”

He obeys, not giving it back, but he hunches inwards, thinking hard about it.

Why would you let me dirty your blanket?

Flint’s answer doesn’t satisfy him.

…He’s been oddly kind to Oath for someone who only wants to use him.

Oath sighs. Whatever. He can think about it later. For now, he’s content to lay, satisfied like some stupid pet. After all, the fire is nice, he has a blanket – things could be worse.