The glass shimmers. The small shards twinkling like the most terrifying little stars littering the kitchen floor, lighting up from the fluorescent bulb ahead. They spread out from the blast point like the big bang he’s been told created the universe billions upon billions of years ago
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. THUMP. THUMP. THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP.
He forgot what his heart sounded like. Fear rises like the air in his chest. The beating goes faster. The breathing goes faster. The shaking starts.
One hand grasping and clawing at his chest, at his shirt, trying to get a grip on such an intangible idea as "calm". The other moving from pulling hard on the roots of his hair to picking and swiping, wild gesturing at the glass shards on the floor. Knees getting weaker. Crouching down. Realizing his own muttering getting louder and louder, no, no, no,
"Great-fucking-great, Bleau! You broke a fucking glass! He's gonna yell at you! He’s gonna kick you out!
He's-...." The crying starts.
He backs away to the bed, trying to sit down, calm down, slow the breathing down. He misses the glass, thankfully. Hopefully? He's not sure. Would that garner extra points of sympathy? How long would it take for him to notice a broken glass if he cleaned it all up now?
His thoughts race to the image of his guardian's sister, Aunt Maritha.
He's small and he's young and he just wants a glass of juice. She is just outside, gardening. The curtains in the kitchen are drawn closed. She shouldn't see him, right? It's just a glass of juice. She doesn't like him in the kitchen without her permission, but he's afraid to ask. If John isn't home she's not likely to say yes. She's more likely to tell him to stick his mouth under the faucet upstairs like an animal. In her opinion there's no difference between him and such things.
He's just tall enough to reach the cabinets. He stretches his toes. He moves slow. Listening to every sound in the small tiny room. Hearing the clock. Hearing his breathing. The thumping of his “sister” upstairs. Playing with the toys he can never touch. It distracts him for a split-second. He forgets where his feet are. The most gentle of presses on the floorboards and a soft squeak comes out. He prays to every god he’s ever had the pleasure of learning the names of that Maritha doesn’t hear. He waits. He doesn’t breathe. He waits. And nothing comes. He stretches but inches further, grasping a glass very gently, making sure he’s holding it so that it doesn’t knock against anything in the house. He runs back through the plan. Step 1:
Pour the juice, and hide it upstairs. When she comes in and goes to the bathroom rinse it upstairs at the same time so she can’t hear the water. When Maria comes down to talk to her mother, slip the glass into her room. Maritha and Maria won’t notice. Maria uses way too many cups for her own good, and Maritha takes them all out of her room without a second thought.
Perfect plan. Except he doesn’t notice the water on the floor when he steps backwards to quickly head towards the fridge. He slips. He falls. He drops the cup. A million, trillion twinkling stars across the floor. Even if he could get out of the kitchen, even if he could hide, hide the glass! Clean it up! Nothing, she heard it. Her shadow pops up from the front garden. He hears her drop her tools. Getting up’s to dangerous but he tries anyway. There’s no escape. The screen door swings open making that ugly creak.
That worried tone is not something he ever hears directed towards him.
She steps into the kitchen doorway. Her faces changes instantly.
Had he known death like this before? Fear like this before? Surely. He’s done far worse. This is certainly new, though.
“Get up. Get the fuck up you filthy little thieving monstrosity! Get up!!!”
He’s familiar with the pain of being pulled by his ears. It seems like it gets worse overtime though. He’s not getting used to it. It still hurts. He knows it so well but it still hurts? He feels like it shouldn’t work that way. Maybe an infection? He’ll ask John later.
She’s screaming at him. The glass hurts more than her loudness so he almost doesn’t care. He knows what’s coming. She’s flipping him across her legs. She’s hitting him like every time he disobeys. It hurts. He’s crying. He can’t remember that feeling anymore, he’s losing the memory. It was too long ago. And he hasn’t been hit like that recently enough to continue reliving it. It just feels ghostly and vacant. He’s still scared though. Just scared. Because he knows what it means now that he’s broken this. He knows what it means.
But he’s also forgotten to listen while reminiscing. Poor choice. The key to the door is being opened. It’s a new noise he’s not trained to yet. He’s working on it.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no ,no.
“Bleau, I’m home! My meeting got out early and-“
He’s coming into the bedroom, not good. Not good!
He sees him. He must look like shit. No way of getting out of this. His face is so wet from crying you could wipe down a table with his tears.
He’s worried. Pheon’s always worried. Worried about something. Sometimes he’ll tell you what, other times he’ll just stare off into the distance and look sad.
Bleau’s crying. Bleau’s never crying. What happened? What did I do? How did I hurt someone now? I just wanted to come home. I just wanted to see your silly, smiling face again. Why are you crying?
“What’s wrong? What happened? Did someone hurt you? Are they still here?”
Where did they go, can I send a guard after them, should I chase them myself, I know where my knife is, do you need medical attention, can I help you, where does it hurt, why are you crying?!
He’s walked all the way to the bed, he’s reaching out to touch him. He wants to, he know’s Bleau doesn’t always like it. He stops halfway. If he touches him he’ll feel safe, but Bleau might get more scared. Might get more uncomfortable.
He’s holding his hand over his mouth. He’s scared, doesn’t wanna say anything. He’s programmed to. He tells him.
“I..b-broke..glass..” He vaguely points with the other hand. Towards the kitchen. Towards the floor.
Pheon is calm. Pheon sits down.
“Are you okay? Let me see your arms. Hand me your arms. I’ll be gentle.” The arms are given.
“Geez you really scared me, Bleau.”
He doesn’t understand. This doesn’t make sense. Where is the yelling? Where is the hitting? Where is it? When will it come? He doesn’t like not knowing.
He gives him his legs to graze over with his hands, checking for any shards of glass.
“You don’t look hurt anywhere. Were you just really startled?”
“Aren’t you gonna hit me?!”
“What? What, no! What on Silara gave you that idea? Why would I hurt you? Did you hit your head? You should let me check there too.” He leans over, shimming around to Bleau’s side. Gently picking through his hair. Carefully checking for wounds or bumps.”
“Yeah, so? I drop shit all the time. It’s annoying but stuff happens. Your head seems fine. Do you want a hug?”
He sits there for a few moments as Pheon’s fingers leave his nest of blue hair. He’s stopped crying for the most part now. His heart beat doesn’t make him feel like he’s gonna die. Maybe it won’t come. Maybe the pain won’t come. Maybe it just won’t come.
“Yes. Yes, I want a hug.”
“Okay. Why don’t you scoot up to the head boards so you’re more comfy.”
Wings relax, arms lay slack, he curls his legs up over Pheon’s lap. He lets him hold him still and close.
“You’re safe now, okay? I don’t know who ever made you feel like you shouldn’t be, but they’re not here now. You’re here with me now and I’ll protect you for as long as you want to stay here with me. Okay? You can stay as long as you like or leave whenever you want. You should be comfortable and safe here. I care about you. You can even fall asleep now if you want. I’ll clean up the glass.”
“Yup, yes. Do you want me to leave you be or stay until you doze off?”
“Whatever. You’re voice is nice.”
“Hmm. Weeellp. This one time, Nekura broke a glass. She was so sad.”
“She’s my sister. The White Warrior? You know?”
“Eh, it doesn’t matter right now. Anyway. So she breaks a glass too, ya’know. It’s her favorite mug. Mint green. Pretty handle. She’s so sad. I have to explain to her that things break. She’s too little to really understand that I can’t fix it. I tell her I could if the pieces were big enough. But, man, this thing is shattered. Shattered. Beyond repair. So I tell her that we can keep the broken bits if she wants and I’ll make her a new cup. A new mug. Mint green. With an even prettier handle. I tell her we can make lots of cups. It’s easier that way. We can make them together. She likes that. She likes making things. It’s nice. Anyway, you and I can make a cup if you want. I have lots of mismatching things, I like it that way. I prefer plastic though. It doesn’t break and it isn’t as loud or as heavy.”
“Me too, I like plastics. But why would we make a cup? Why are you rewarding me for breaking something?”
“I-… I’m not trying to-…. I don’t exactly mean to reward, more to make you comfortable. I just want to make people happy. Comfortable. I want them to have everything they need. So if you need something, you can tell me and I’ll get it for you. Like a new shirt or shoes, or… a cup. We can make one. Or I can get a whole new set if you like that better. We can get plastics. You can pick them-“
“I don’t need you to do that stuff for me. I’d rather you didn’t. It makes me feel guilty.”
“Okay. Do you want me to just go clean up the glass then?”
“I broke it, I should be doing it.”
“You’re emotionally drained. You should be sleeping. It’s better for you.”
“Fine. I’ll sleep, you go clean if you want to.”
He moves a pillow under Bleau’s head and slides his legs out from under Bleau’s ridiculously long set. He tucks him in a little. He leaves him be. What could he have done better? There’s no use, he can’t change it. He can’t change what he said or what he did. Did he touch him too soon? Too much? It doesn’t matter, you can’t change it. Do I come on too strong? Too aggressive? Too caring? Was it my fault? Was it his fault? Was it?
Probably not. Probably nothing he could have done about it. He was just saying what he felt.
But if he waited? If he waited to say what he felt?
It doesn’t matter, it wouldn’t have changed.
