emilia

You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, your knees pulled tightly against your chest, trying to anchor yourself to the cold porcelain beneath you. Without your eyes, the bathroom felt ten times smaller than it actually was, trapping the heat and the heavy, humid scent of soap until the air felt thick enough to choke on.

"Alright, the water’s warm," Tamsy’s voice cut through the steam, bright and entirely casual. You heard the distinct clack of his oversized sleeves being rolled up his forearms, followed by the soft rustling of noises. "Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up before the pipes go cold."

You didn't move. You dug your fingers harder into the fabric of your pants. "I can do it myself, Tamsy. Just... leave the soap. Tell me where the handle is."

A soft sigh from him drifted through the mist. You heard his footsteps approaching. Two steps. Three. 

"We tried that yesterday, remember?" Tamsy reminded you. You felt the ghostly suggestion of warmth as his face neared yours, the silver line of his scar probably catching the dim light. His fingers closed around your wrists, gently parting your hands from your legs. "You nearly slipped on the tile and bruised your knee so badly you couldn't sleep all night. I’m not letting you hurt yourself again."

"I can manage," you whispered, your throat tight with a sudden, hot surge of humiliation. "Please. Just turn around."

"There’s nothing to be ashamed of," he cooed, his thumb smoothing over the back of your trembling hand. His tone was so saturated with genuine, brotherly concern that it made your stomach turn violently. "I've seen you covered in trashbeast slime before. And I'm your teammate. I'm just looking out for you, I always do."

Before you could protest further, he stood up, pulling you upward with him; you couldn't help the small, ugly flinch that went through your spine. You stumbled, your shoulder catching his chest. Your instincts screamed at you to fight, to claw at his face, to find those dual-colored eyes and tear them out—

​But instead, your hands frantically grabbed the lapels of his shirt, clinging to him like a drowning person catching a piece of driftwood.

"See? Still a bit clumsy," he chuckled softly, guiding you toward the edge of the tub.

The heat of the running water hit your skin first, a sharp contrast to the cold air of the room. He guided your hand to the plastic grab bar on the wall. "Hold onto this. Keep your feet planted right there."

Then, a warm, wet washcloth met your shoulder.

The sheer intimacy of it burned worse than the threads that had blinded you. You stood there, completely exposed, your useless eyes staring wide-open into the static while your former friend carefully washed the grime from your back. You hated yourself for how small you felt. You hated that you couldn't even wash your own face without needing his permission, his hands, his guidance.

He worked in silence for a while, the rhythmic scrub of the cloth against your skin the only indicator of his presence, until he reached your neck. His fingers brushed against your collarbone, turning you slightly.

"You're completely rigid," Tamsy noted. "You need to relax. I told you, I’m right here. I’ve got you."

The cloth moved over your forehead, dragging a heavy trail of warmth across your brow. You braced yourself, wishing to snap at him, to bite his fingers even. And suddenly, a wave of familiar sweetness hit you. It smelled of wild berries and cheap sugar—the exact soap Delmon had accidentally bought in bulk three months ago.

"Is that...?" your voice tripled.

"The berry soap?" Tamsy chuckled, the sound bright and effortless, and entirely unbothered by your rigid posture. "Guilty. I managed to snag a few bars before I left today. I knew you hated that industrial grease-stripper we usually get." 

"Because it literally smelled like burnt engine oil, Tamsy," you shot back.

The retort popped out of your mouth before you could stop it, the one you used to throw at him whenever he said something stupid over breakfast.

He didn't wait for your permission. His fingers—slick with the lather—pressed gently against your temples.

Your immediate impulse was to yank your head back, get his fucking hands off you. But as he began to gently massage the tension from your temples, his touch was so warm that your shoulders involuntarily dropped. It was humiliating how easily your biology succumbed to comfort. 

"You've always loved that scent," Tamsy murmured.

A breathless, tiny laugh escaped your lips before you could choke it down. You can’t help but leaned into the rhythm of the old banter of the person you used to be before the world went grey. "Loved it is a strong word. Delmon smelled like a strawberry patch for a week."

"A week?" Tamsy snorted, the wet crinkle of the cloth following the sound. "Try a month. Riyo refused to sit next to him on the transport truck because she claimed the scent was giving her a migraine."

"To be fair," you murmured, a genuine, fond smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, "Riyo just wanted an excuse to take up the entire back row for her nap."

"Oh, absolutely," Tamsy agreed.

The water rushed on. Tamsy paused, the wet cloth resting heavily against your shoulder. Instead of answering you, he patted your shoulder—a casual, reassuring gesture that looked entirely normal, an act of pure camaraderie.

"Now, lean your head back. Let’s get the soap out of your hair before it gets in your eyes. Close them tight for me."

"In order for something to grow well, you must feed it good things." You seemed a touch ditsy as you spoke, not directly responding to his question, voice flighty as you stared into his eyes with a somehow absent look to your own, happy smile stretched across your glossy lips.

He could see it. The lack of malice, of want of something in return. You weren't expectant. No no. The look in your eyes were similar to Zodyl's, vacant and ready to be filled with what you envisioned.

You were bidding your time and waiting.

"Fertilizer for plants, love for children, and treats for pets. You Cleaners are all so skinny even though you eat well, so clearly someone must ensure you all get your proper nutrition."

"Ah." He hummed. "You're trying to make sure we're all strong?"

Your smile stained just a tiny bit. You wanted to laugh but didn't, he thinks.

"You're all plenty that already." You shook your head. "What I want most is to see pretty things."

Now that came as a shock to Tamsy. You gave them fruits because you wanted them be pretty? The question and confusion was written all over his face, so of course you further explained yourself.

"Imagine if that Riyo girl was able to put meat on her bones. I could gift her such pretty dresses in green and white to compliment her lovely hair! But alas, she is much too skinny to reach the height of her beauty... "

You sighed in disappoint, lip jutting out in a pout as you rested your head in one of your hands.

"Semiu would look so divine if only she gained a few more pounds, and I'd love to see that Zanka boy do the same. He is as much a stick as his vital instrument. He wears the thin look well, but nothing truly matches a healthy body."

Oh. Tamsy's lips pressed into a fine line. You want them to gain weight so they can be more pretty in your eyes. It's not so much for their benefit is it as for your enjoyment.

He can appreciate the selfishness in that want of yours. You're willing to play the long game, wait patiently until the literal fruits of your labor come to fruition.

He's not so dissimilar to you. Tamsy himself takes the smallest of actions to help build Rudo up. You're one in the same in that manner.

"And what do you think of me?" The question was more to probe your concept of pretty than it was to find out your opinion of him, his head tilted and hands held behind his back. "Do you think I need to gain some weight too?"

You didn't answer right away, hand moving from your cheek to cover the lower half of your face as you looked the man over.

It made a shiver go down his spine with how thorough you were. He could feel you picked him apart as your eyes traveled over his form.

His hair, his face, his eyes, his lashes, his lips, his piercing, his scars, his shoulders, his clothes, his shoes; his everything.

How to describe it?

Like he was a feast and you were dreadfully starved? Yeah, that's the closest he could get to putting it into words.

You liked- no, you loved what you saw. A grin tore across your face, the corners of your mouth tugging up past your fingers, eyes creasing, pupils dilating in the pure joy you got from looking at him.

"You're perfect." You hummed, voice wistful as you set your eyes back onto his own properly. "I wouldn't change a thing except your face."

"Is it the scar?"

"No no. If anything, your scars help elevate your looks." You waved the thought of his off as if it were nothing, puffing at the meets accusation of it. "What I mean is the face you're wearing. Such fakeness is nice and all, but I'm sure your true personality is far more beautiful than this nice act you've been putting on."

Tamsy was quiet for a long moment after your response. He dropped his smile and just stared you down. You saw straight through him even when Semiu couldn't. Part of him wondered how you found out, but he was more curious as to why you didn't tell the others of your discovery.

Was it because you thought that no one would believe you? Tamsy is a trusted member of the Cleaners by everyone even if Corvus is suspicious of him. People in HQ are more likely to take his word over yours.

But that could be solved by having Semiu check you, and you happen to be good friends with the woman despite your eccentric and (what he previously thought) dumb nature. She wouldn't mind using her vital instrument on you to verify your words.

Were you scared of the consequences? Of him? No. That can't be it. You had just told him straight to his face when the two of you were alone that you saw through his act.

You weren't afraid. He'd say you didn't care. When he looks at your face, when he really looks at you, Tamsy sees how relaxed you are in what should be a life threatening situation.

He could easily kill and dispose, or at least, hide your body before the others could find out what was happening. The two of you were alone in an isolated part of HQ. Yet you still had the balls to say to his face that you knew he was being fake.

That leaves him with only one conclusion.

You like pretty things. You said so yourself. So, you must find the fact that he's hiding part of himself to be 'pretty' to a great extent.

Tamsy grinned, a genuine delighted grin, at the revelation and he saw you shudder at the sight, further proving his theory to be true.

"I like you." He said, reaching out and tucking a stray hair behind your ear before leaving over to whisper in it. "I think we're going to get along well."

In a squad like the Cleaners, you were supposed to have each other's backs; you, Delmon, and Tamsy were a team. And three of you had spent years in the trenches together. He was the crap-tastically good guy who always had a witty remark or a helping hand when the trashbeast tried to swallow you whole.

But you knew. You knew he was the one behind Amo's disappearance and torment.

"Don't you think Tamsy's been... a little too calm?" you began. "Even after everything with Amo?"

"Give it a rest," Riyo groaned from where she was lounging.

Zanka didn't even look up from polishing his Jinki. "He's always calm. Tamsy has been doing his best to keep everyone's spirits up," he replied dismissively. "Stop throwing around accusations because you're freaking yourself out."

Across the room, Enjin sat slouched in a chair, reviewing mission notes. He hadn't joined the conversation, but you could tell he was listening. That alone gave you enough courage to continue.

"You seriously haven't noticed anything—"

Right at that moment, the door slid open.

"Did I hear my name?"

Tamsy stepped inside, a paper bag tucked under his arm and his blond hair swept back in effortless disarray. The overhead lights glinted off his scar just before he smiled brightly at the room. "I brought food before Riyo ate everything again."

"Too late." Zanka snorted despite himself.

He hopped off a crate and moved toward you, his oversized sleeves swinging. "You look absolutely exhausted. I told you, I can help you with some meditative work later."

He reached out, his hand hovering near your face in a gesture that looked like a comforting pat to the others. You flinched, the movement sharp and ugly.

"Whoa, easy there," Tamsy laughed, a soft, genuine-sounding chuckle as he looked at Zanka, Riyo, and Enjin. "Don't get so worked up, you know I'm always looking out for you, right?"

Riyou sighed, finally looking at you with genuine worry. "See? Even he's worried."

For one second, you thought you saw amusement flicker behind his eyes.

Then it vanished.

"I got your favorite, too." Tamsy held the paper bag out toward you.

The sheer audacity of it nearly made you nauseous.

You hesitated to reach out, and Tamsy's expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"You really don't trust me that much?" he asked quietly, almost like he was wounded. "I even sent Delmon off to finish the perimeter checks so we could have a moment of peace. I know how much his... fretting over you has been wearing you down lately. But if you'd rather have him here than me, just say the word."

You knew if you refused, you'd only look more unstable. So, you took the bag. "Thanks, Tamsy. I guess I am hungrier than I thought."

"That's more like it," he smiled.

Frustration clawed at your insides, a frantic, trapped bird beating its wings against your ribs.

Behind him, Riyo went back to his lounging, and the sunlight hit the iridescent fabric of Tamsy's oversized sleeves. He looked so normal—so kind.

Tamsy glanced around the cramped, dimly lit room, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "You know, it's getting a bit stale in here," he said, gesturing toward the door with the paper bag. "Why don't we finish this outside? Some fresh air might help clear your head."

"Definitely," Riyo chimed in, leaning back. "Go bond a bit. You guys used to be inseparable before all this Amo business started."

You stiffened, the knowledge of what he'd done to Amo burning like acid in your throat. But when you looked at Enjin and the others, they only gave you encouraging nods.

"It'll be good for you," Even Zanka paused, gesturing with his staff toward the exit.

"See? Everyone thinks this is a great idea,"  he chuckled, a soft, genuine-sounding sound that almost made you believe your own clue was the one that was wrong. 

Your boots felt like lead blocks as you shifted your weight. Every instinct in your gut screamed at you to root yourself to the floorboards, to grab onto the edge of Enjin’s desk and refuse to move. But another, uglier thought slithered beneath it: If he really wanted to hurt you, wouldn't he have done it already?

So eventually, against your better judgment, you followed him.

The heavy steel door slid shut behind you with a definitive, mechanical thud, cutting off the low hum of the bunker’s generator. The alley air was cold, smelling of rusted iron and damp stone. For the first fifty paces, you stepped a deliberate two feet to the left, keeping your shoulder away from his.

"They changed the baker at the shop on Fourth Street, you know," he casually threw over his shoulder, his voice completely unbothered by the tense silence trailing behind him. "The new guy keeps burning the sugar on the cinnamon rolls. It’s a tragedy, honestly. I told Delmon we should boycott, but you know him—he’d eat wood shavings if you put enough syrup on them."

As you continued to walk, he talked about mundane things—the best shops for sweets in town, how Delmon's snoring was getting worse, and how he missed the feeling of roller skating. It was so normal. It was so entirely, infuriatingly him.

"People are avoiding me," you snapped, gripping the bag so hard the paper crinkled.

The sheer amount of adrenaline you had spent over the last three weeks felt like it was suddenly evaporating, leaving your muscles hollow. Your tightly wound shoulders dropped an inch. Why was he acting like this?

"You've been avoiding everyone," he noted, stopping by the rusted metal railing.

"I don't think that's true."

"Of course you wouldn't."

"Hm." His smile turned faintly amused. "No. I think people just don't know what to say to you lately."

"Because they think I'm insane," you let out a dry laugh.

Tamsy didn't laugh back. He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the distant whistle of the wind through the exposed pipes overhead. Then, he spoke. "I don't think you're insane."

The answer came so gently, your chest tightened unexpectedly.

You looked at him, bewildered. To stop the trembling of your lip, you tore the sandwich from the bag and shoved a massive, clumsy bite into your mouth. You chewed aggressively, the taste of the bread like dust, using the food as a barrier to keep from saying anything else.

Tamsy watched you, the streetlight reflecting off the silver line of his scar. "You've been anxious for weeks," he said softly. "Anyone would start unraveling eventually."

As you chewed, the edges of your reality began to blur. Were you imagined everything? Maybe they were right, stress had poisoned your head, and you were trying to create a villain because uncertainty felt worse.

You stared ahead at the dim alleyway stretching before you and swallowed hard. "I don't know what's wrong with me lately."

Tamsy didn't mock you. He just looked at you for a long moment before offering a small, tired smile—a smile that looked nothing like the monster you'd spent weeks building in your head. He moved to the railing, and for a while, the only sound was the wind.

"...Do you still think I hurt Amo?"

The question struck so suddenly your pulse stumbled.

You looked at him sharply, but Tamsy was just leaning lazily against the metal, his gaze lost in the dark abyss below.

"I..." Your voice faltered.

He glanced back at you, and suddenly you felt ashamed.

How could you have been so sure? You felt monstrous for projecting such vileness onto a teammate who did nothing but look out for you even while you treated him like a leper. Maybe what you saw the other day was just—

"...I don't know anymore."

The confession tasted awful, but also strangely relieving.

Tamsy's smile softened.

Before you could even flinch, his hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your scream, while the other moved with a blur of motion you couldn't track.

"You see too much," he whispered into your ear, his breath warm but his tone as cold as ice. "It's your best quality, and your worst. I just can't have you ruining the masterpiece I'm building for Rudo."

You didn't see the distaff of Tokushin appear, but you felt a sensation like a cold splash of water across your face, and then the fire. It felt as if two red-hot wires had been dragged through your sockets, slicing through the surface of your eyes.

Violet and gold light flared in a final, agonizing strobe before bleeding out into a thick, featureless grey soup that swallowed the world whole.

You collapsed, clawing at your face, but he caught you before you hit the ground, cradling your head against his chest.

Why couldn't you see—

why couldn't you—

You whimpered, "Tamsy—"

"There," he cooed, his hands gently caught your wrists before your nails could dig into your ruined eyes. "I didn't want this for you, but you wouldn't stop."

You tried to blink, to rub whatever is covering your vision. You were staring wide-eyed at the man who had just unmade your reality, and all you could perceive was a milky, throb of light where his dual-colored eyes used to be.

​This isn't happening, you told yourself. The thought was the only greenlight, and you grabbed it with both hands. He’s playing a prank. A sick, twisted prank. Any second now, he’s going to laugh, snap his fingers, and the threads will dissolve. My eyes will clear. I’ll see the stupid, smug grin on his face and I’ll punch him, and we’ll go get drinks with Delmon.

"Tell me you wouldn't... you couldn't do this, Tamsy," you pleaded, your voice rising to a jagged edge of hysteria. "You're my teammate. Please. I’ll take it back—everything I said about Amo. I was wrong. I was just tired. Just tell me you're still Tamsy."

His thumb brushed carefully against your shaking hand:

"You're messy and you're loud and you're right. I really do like passionate people."

_

The "nothing" wasn't the black you expected.

It wasn't black. Black was a color you remembered—the ink on a page, the depth of the Pit, the shade of Tamsy's cruel, clever eyes. What you had now was just an absence. It was like trying to see through the back of your skull. There is no visual field at all, just a lack of any sensation in that area where your peripheral vision used to be.

At first, you refused his help, but blindness makes every basic task humiliatingly difficult. He hadn't taught you a single thing about how to live like this; he hadn't taught you how to count steps or to read Braille. Eventually, the exhaustion won, and Tamsy was always there, never once angered by your resistance. He successfully forced you into a state of total dependence, unable to even find a door without his hand on your elbow. He has become the sun and the moon of your existence; he feeds you like a child and takes care of every single aspect in your life. The shame of it—the sheer, staggering humiliation of needing him to even wash you—burns hotter than the threads that blinded you.

Without vision, there's no easy distraction. You can't read, wander freely or track time naturally. Your existence has narrowed to the sound of his footsteps and the texture of the fabric beneath your numb fingers. To keep your sanity intact, you spoke aloud to yourself. Today, you told yourself the last time you went to the Canvas Town. But halfway through, you couldn't remember what it looks like. A lot of colors? Was there mold on the walls? You still knew your name — you said it sometimes, just to be sure. But a terrifying thought keeps you awake in the grey: if you ever forgot it, would anyone even know you were gone?

With nothing to do throughout the day, depression and sensory deprivation make you sleep a lot. You'd attempt to escape a few times by fumbling for walls, weeping as you feel for locks, but the failure is always the same.

You sat on the edge of the bed (or what you assumed was the edge) and stared into the static. Your eyes ached with a phantom itch you couldn't scratch; it was a stinging reminder of the threads that had sliced across your vision before the world snapped.

Then, the light changed.

You didn't see the door open. But suddenly, the "nothing" on the left side of your face felt thinner. A pale, milky grey filtered into your consciousness. It was a ghostly suggestion of heat that told you the sun was up, or perhaps he had entered with a candle. It wasn't a color—you couldn't tell if it was white or yellow or the orange-blue glow of his dual irises. It was just a dull, throbbing sensation that made your head swim.

You flinched, pulling back until your spine hit a wall you hadn't realized was so close. The rough stone bit into your shoulder blades.

"Is it too bright?" his voice drifted over you, sounding far too much like a friend's concern.

You didn't answer. You reached out a hand, fingers trembling, trying to find a landmark. You touched something cold and ceramic—a plate? You moved too fast, and the clatter of it hitting the floor.

The grey smudge in your vision moved. He was walking toward you.

"You're making such a mess," he sighed, and the grey light grew stronger as he leaned in. "Don't touch that, you'll cut yourself. Let me."

You sat there with these useless, open eyes, looking at nothing and seeing everything that was now lost to you. They were marvelous organs once, windows to your soul, and now they were just unmoving opaque walls. He hadn't just taken your sight. He'd taken your hands, your feet, your very ability to cross a room without falling.

You closed your eyes (as if that made a difference) and felt the hot, frustrated tears track through the grime on your cheeks. You felt the bed dip, the mattress groaning slightly under his weight.

"Oh, look at you. Don't cry," he cooed, his tone genuinely pained by your distress. You felt a damp, warm cloth touch your face. You tried to jerk away, but his hand was already on your shoulder as he began to wipe the tears from your cheeks.

"I made some soup. It's the kind you like, with the little noodles," he said, as if he hadn't spent the morning ensuring you'd never see a bowl of soup again. "I'll leave it on the tray. It's right in front of your knees. Don't reach for it yet, it's still steaming."

"Why are you doing this?" you whispered.

"Doing what? Cleaning up?" You heard the soft clink of a spoon against a bowl. "Someone has to. You've always been a bit clumsy, but this is a new record, even for you."

"There," he said, and you felt his thumb brushing a stray tear he'd missed. "I'm going to go get a broom for the plate. Just stay exactly where you are. Don't move an inch, okay? I don't want you getting hurt."

He stood up, the grey smudge of him moving back toward the door.

"I'll be right back," he called out, his footsteps receding. "I found a book of poetry I think you'll like. I'll read it to you after dinner."

You sat exactly where Tamsy had left you, your useless eyes tracking the phantom heat of the grey smudge that signaled his presence in the room. You still didn't know what to do with your eyes—should you keep them open? Should you close them? Either way, the static was the same.

After a while, the light shifted as Tamsy knelt before you. You heard the soft clink of ceramic against a tray.

"Open up for me," he murmured, his voice cheerful and bright, as if he were simply waking you from a midday nap. "I made sure the noodles were soft. You haven't been eating enough lately, and I can't have you getting thin."

You felt the warmth of the spoon against your lower lip. You wanted to fight, to spit the food back at him, but your hunger was a desperate, ugly thing that forced you to comply. You opened your mouth, and he fed you with a careful hand, waiting for each swallow as if he had all the time in the world.

"There. Good as new," he said. When you were finished, he used a warm, damp cloth to wipe the corners of your mouth, his fingers lingering for a second against your jaw.

He didn't get up to leave. Instead, he shifted onto the cot, pulling you back until your spine was pressed against his chest. You felt the weight of him as he leaned back against the headboard, effectively turning his body into your new horizon.

"I found that book I mentioned," he said, and you heard the soft rustle of pages turning. "It's some old poetry. I think you'll appreciate the imagery, even if you can't see it right now."

You flinched as he leaned his head against yours, a sickly sweet gesture of affection that made your stomach churn. His voice was steady and calm, the words of the poem flowing over you like a gentle tide.

"Rudo asked about you again this morning," he added casually between stanzas, his cheek nuzzling against yours like a cat. "He's so earnest, it's almost heartbreaking. He wanted to bring you some interesting scrap he found in the disposal zone. As for Delmon—"

"I don't care."

"Don't be like that," he whispered, his head finally coming to rest in the crook of your shoulder. "I've already told the Cleaners you've left for a long journey. They were so supportive because you were so stressed out lately. They really are a great family, aren't they?"

"Though Enjin was a bit more difficult, of course. Always the watchful father," Tamsy continued, pulling you tighter into a suffocating cuddle. "But I just showed him a few 'notes' I wrote in your handwriting—well, a close enough approximation—saying you needed time to process everything alone. He's so busy with the higher-ups that he was actually relieved to have one less person to worry about."

He nuzzled into your neck one last time. "See? Everyone is happy. Don't be so bitter."

You squeezed your useless eyes shut until the poem trailed off. You felt the bedframe groan as Tamsy shifted his weight again. Without a word, he pulled you down with him, maneuvering your limp body until you were lying flat on the narrow mattress.

You were too exhausted to fight him. Until now, his hair had always been styled up. But as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, a curtain of heavy, silken strands cascaded over your shoulders. It was far longer than you'd imagined, cool and fine like spun glass.

The white-blond strands (from your memory) draped over your throat, across your chest, and tangled between your fingers. It wasn't his Jinki—not technically—but the sensation was identical. Every time you tried to shift your arm or tilt your head away from his persistent, cat-like nuzzling, the hair snagged. It clung to your skin, wrapping around your limbs in an organic, suffocating web.

"You know," he said. "I've been wondering. How did you actually figure it out?"

You lay there, staring at the ceiling you could no longer perceive. You had nothing left to lose, there was no point in struggling in the grey void.

"The threads," you whispered, your voice sounding thin and jagged in the quiet. "I found a single strand snagged on Amo's collar after she was rescued, and another one at the site where she struggled. It was a color I'd only ever seen on your Jinki, Tokushin."

Tamsy didn't flinch. He actually let out a soft, delighted hum, his nose brushing against your temple. "That's it? Is that all? Seems a bit flimsy for an accusation."

"I know," you said, the bitterness rising like bile. "The silk didn't really prove much. But it was the way you looked at me when I showed them to you."

You remembered the way he had watched you handle those threads—not with the concern of a comrade, instead, it was the look of a spider that had long ago ceased to fear the escape of its guest. You felt him watching you bridge the distance between suspicion and certainty, his eyes drinking in your dawning horror.

"You didn't even try to hide it once we were alone," you said, your breath hitching as his hair tightened slightly around your neck. "I know it was you, I saw the way you looked at me then, you watched me realize it was your silk. You wanted me to see it."

Tamsy let out a long, contented sigh, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck. His hair felt like a shroud now, weaving you into him strand by strand.

"I really do love how observant you are," he whispered, his voice thick with a terrifyingly genuine warmth. "It's a shame, really. If you'd stayed quiet, we could have shared the joke together."

He moved his face against yours again, rubbing his cheek over your skin. With every brush, more hair caught against your clothes, weaving you into him. You understood then, that he hadn't merely been hiding his crimes—he had been nurturing them, savoring the secret that you were the only one who truly saw him.

A new wave of hot, bitter tears spilled over once more, jagged sobs racking your chest as you gasped for air in the hollow nothingness of your vision.

Tamsy didn't pull away or mock you. Instead, he adjusted his hold, shifting so that he was cupping the back of your head, his long, white-blond hair still weaving around your shoulders like a silken shroud. He was so patient, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone to catch the salt before it could reach the mattress.

"Shh, there now," he whispered, his voice as calm and melodic as it was when he was the crap-tastically good guy everyone relied on. "You're overthinking again. It's exhausting, isn't it? Just let it go."

Your hands, once trembling with a futile need to push him away, slowly went limp against his chest. With a shuddering breath, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as your arms moved upward to finally return the hug.

You felt his entire body go rigid, his heart hammering a frantic, ecstatic rhythm against your own ribs. Then, a low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest. His fingers were digging into your back as he pulled you so close you felt like you were being absorbed into his very skin. The grey static of your vision throbbed with his proximity, but he didn't pull back.

"You've been cooped up in here too long," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll let you go out tomorrow. I think you're ready for a change of pace, since you were so honest with me today."

The promise should have tasted like wine, but they felt like a new kind of cage. You couldn't move without him, nor could you perceive the world he so gallantly offered to show you. You would be out, but you would still be entirely his, a bird with broken wings and no eyes to find the horizon.

"I'll be right beside you the whole time," he added, leaning back just enough to brush his nose against yours. "I'll be your sight, and I'll make sure you don't trip. Doesn't that sound nice?"

If it had come from anyone else, it would have sounded blatantly sarcastic. And maybe, just a little, it did. But this was Tamsy. Tamsy was usually so nice, so you told yourself the faint edge of sarcasm had to be in your imagination.

You looked away quickly, pretending to check the horizon instead. The polluted fog blurred everything past a few dozen meters, turning the wasteland into shifting silhouettes.

“I was just making sure there weren’t more,” you muttered.

“Mhm.”

He nudged the beast’s head with the tip of his boot. One of the glass teeth cracked with a dull crunch.

“You supporters worry too much.”

You were glad you were here, and not one of the other supporters. Follo especially would’ve taken very heavy offense to a comment like that. It implied the worry was unfounded, as if it was unnatural to worry when faced with a sharp, sludge-drooling behemoth that wanted to kill you. Instead of saying all that, you just let out a simple: “That thing was huge.”

“And now it’s not a problem.” Tamsy stretched his arms over his head lazily. “See? Easy job. Just like Semiu said.”

Easy.

Right.

You adjusted the strap of your mask, suddenly very aware that you were the one here who hadn’t actually done anything useful. The mission had been simple: escort Tamsy into the zone, observe, and write down anything that was even remotely interesting. You’d written some small stuff down, but the fight had been done too quickly for you to find anything really worth commenting about. 

Tamsy lifted his foot off the trash beast corpse, and turned to walk your way, vital instrument lazily swinging side to side in his grip. 

That said… Why was the beast still twitching? Was the core still int-

The windmill flank of the trash beast suddenly screeched as it whipped around in a final effort to kill tamsy, flinging a slab of debris outward. Tamsy dodged it, and hit the trash beast with his distaff, the damn thing finally getting flung around and decomposing like it should’ve done to begin with. 

The debris, however, was still heading your way.

Your brain reacted before the rest of you did.

No problem. This part you’d practiced. Supporters weren’t frontline fighters, but you still had to survive long enough to observe and give actual support. If one thing had been drilled into you, it’d been on how to dodge trash like this. Your boots landed down on solid ground, a good way’s off from where the projectile had landed, meaning things were gonna be just fine-

Your balance vanished instantly.

“Wha-!”

With an immediate shift in trajectory, you went down hard, suddenly face to face with a very large pile of sharp and rough trash..

Your leg twisted underneath you as you fell, pain exploding up to your thigh as something tore open against the jagged metal. Your arm slammed against a rusted pipe with a sickening crack that echoed through your mask.

For a moment all you could hear was the roaring in your ears.

Everything went white with noise. Your ears roared so loudly it drowned out the polluted wind, the distant creak of shifting scrap- everything, though you were pretty sure you’d let out a cry loud enough to alert any trash beast in a hundred mile region. 

It was one of your worst habits, one that the other cleaners hadn’t managed to train out of you yet. Whenever you got hurt, you cried out like you wanted everyone in a wide radius to hear you, which wasn’t an ideal quality in a career where being sneaky and getting hurt often were part of the job.

When your vision finally steadied and you were no longer screeching out of instinct, you raised your head to assuage the damage.

That… that was a lot of blood.

Somewhere nearby, footsteps crunched across rubble.

“Oh dear, you’ve tripped?” Tamsy covered his lower face with his sleeve, in shock at the state of your leg. You couldn’t bring up the energy to snap at him, knowing he didn’t mean it like that, and also you were a bit too focused on the fact that part of your femur was sticking out of your skin. “For a supporter, you sure are clumsy.”

Shame burned inside your stomach, and you couldn’t lift your head up far enough to make eye-contact with the giver. “Yeah, haha, my foot must’ve… must’ve caught on something.”

You huffed out and shakily sat up and grabbed at the top-part of your leg, trying to squeeze your upper leg so it would stop bleeding so profusely. There were protocols for this, but they seemed to elude you at the moment. Calling for back-up was the best option, right? But it was just you and Tamsy here, and he was way more experienced than you, and he’d yet to even touch his choker. Was there a reason… not to? 

Were you missing something?

“I should… call back-up, right?” What you should’ve done in the first place was accept Gris’ offer to come along back at the base. He’d have you bandaged and in a car within mere minutes. But you’d been prideful, telling him Semiu had specifically said the job was supposed to be an easy one, one that only needed a single giver and a lil back-up just in case. Tamsy had even specifically asked for you! “That’s what… I should do.”

“Are you asking me?” Tamsy said softly, sitting next to you. “What do you think?”

You tried to focus. No problem, of course, you’d been trained for this. 

You tried to recount the moment. You’d dodged, your foot had caught on something, and then you’d gone down hard, straight into a heap of broken concrete and twisted pipes. In a strange stroke of luck, it was only your leg that had broken so badly. Still, the pounding in your skull and the nausea curling in your stomach made it pretty clear you’d hit your head too.

A trash beast had been killed. You had been sent to observe.

“My head feels weird,” you murmured, reaching for your notebook to record the observation. Your fingers fumbled for the pen, your grip unsteady as if the thing had suddenly become too heavy to hold. You tried to write, aware of Tamsy watching while you struggled to form the word concussion.

He came closer and his hand slipped around yours, steadying it. Through the blur in your vision, you watched as he guided your hand across the page, helping you finish the letters.

When the last squiggly ‘n’ was written, you smiled at the notebook, before smiling at him as well. “Thank you for your help.”

His eyes crinkled over his mask. “It’s my pleasure.”

A few more moments passed.

As if realizing you needed to complete the next part of your internal mission, you clumsily raised your hand to try and touch your choker to reach Semiu. Tamsy grabbed your hand and lowered it again, gently. You looked at him, confused. 

His eyes crinkled, still smiling. 

“Tamsy?” You said softly.

“Yes?” He replied, cheerily.

“Why aren’t we calling for back-up?” Your gaze dropped to your ruined leg. A wave of panic twisted through your stomach as you noticed the bone jutting through the skin again. God. Once the haze wore off and you weren’t half-dissociated anymore, that was going to hurt like hell. “I’m hurt.”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Oh dear… did you hit your head that hard?”

Before you could react, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. He nuzzled his forehead gently against yours, making sure the mask didn’t get in the way. 

“You must be in a lot of pain.” He said breathlessly.

“Huh?” You officially lost it. What was going on? Why was he acting this strange? Was he twirling around the subject, or were you really that concussed? You struggled a little to get out of his embrace, but to him, it probably felt like you were settling into his embrace. You could do little but let out another. “...huh?”

Tamsy pulled away from your face and your eyes widened as you saw blood on his mask. Was your head bleeding? That did make things way worse. Why wasn’t he panicking like you were?

“Tamsy? Why aren’t we calling back-up?” You asked again.

“You just asked me that.” He replied. “Are you dizzy? Why don’t you lie down for a bit.”

“You aren’t answering me.” 

The wind dragged through the polluted zone again, pushing gray dust over the broken concrete around you. Somewhere behind Tamsy, the corpse of the trash beast shifted as pieces of it settled, metal clinking softly against itself.

Tamsy tilted his head a little, like he was considering something amusing.

“Oh,” he said lightly. “Didn’t I?”

“No.” Your voice came out weaker than you meant it to. “You didn’t.”

Your head swam. The world kept tilting slightly to the left, like gravity was having a disagreement with itself. You tried to focus on his face, on the familiar curve of his eyes above the mask.

Something about the red smeared across the fabric kept pulling your attention.

“Tamsy,” you tried again, slower this time, like maybe clarity would come if you spoke carefully. “There are protocols. If a supporter is injured during…during a giver operation, we…”

His gloved fingers brushed your wrist where he still held your hand down, his grip gentle but firm enough that you couldn’t lift it.

“We call back-up. That is protocol, yes.” He nuzzled your forehead again. “Good job remembering that.”

You swallowed.

“That’s…my job.”

“Mhm.” He pat your head, and it made you feel even dizzier for a few moments. “And you are so good at it, aren’t you?”

Another pause stretched between you.

Your leg throbbed violently now, the shock starting to thin out. Every pulse of your heart sent another hot wave of pain up your body. You squeezed your thigh again instinctively, though your grip had gone weaker with only one hand, the other still firmly held by Tamsy.

“Tamsy,” you said again, more urgently this time. “I’m bleeding a lot.”

“I noticed.”

“So we should call-”

“You’re very observant today.”

Your stomach twisted.

You blinked at him.

“What?”

Tamsy leaned back slightly. His posture was casual.  Like you were huddled together watching a movie during a break instead of in the middle of a polluted zone with your bones sticking out.

His eyes crinkled again.

“You wrote it down and everything,” he said, nodding toward the notebook in your lap. “Concussion. Good job.”

Your gaze drifted to the page automatically.

Your chest tightened.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Because I think I have one.”

“Probably.”

“Which is… bad.”

“For you, yes.”

Your brain tried to follow that sentence and stumbled.

“…for me?”

“Mm.” 

Another gust of wind rolled across the wasteland, carrying the sour stink of rot and chemicals. Your mask filter buzzed harder for a second.

Your thoughts felt sticky. Like they were moving through syrup.

“Tamsy,” you whispered, suddenly very tired and very very scared, “can you please call Semiu?”

His eyes softened.

“Oh, dear.” he said quietly.

There was almost something blissfully fond in the sound.

“You still think we’re doing that?”

Your stomach dropped. Your breath quickened a little. You stopped trying to put pressure on your thigh and instead tried to push yourself upright, planting one shaky hand against the ground. Your arm trembled violently, matching your breathing.

The strength simply… wasn’t there.

Your elbow buckled before you could lift yourself even an inch, and you sagged back against him.

You swallowed hard and tried again, slower this time, willing your muscles to listen. Tamsy tilted his head the other way now, studying your face like he was watching something incredibly fun. 

“I did tell you,” he said.

A thin, helpless panic fluttered in your chest, beating faster and faster as the realization crept in that you weren’t able to get out of this. “Tell me what?”

“That you should lie down.”

Your vision swam again.

“I can’t lie down,” you muttered. “My leg…”

“You’re already halfway there.”

It took your brain a few seconds to process that.

You looked down.

At some point during your struggle, you had slid sideways against the broken concrete. Your body wasn’t upright anymore. Tamsy’s arm was loosely around your shoulders, keeping you propped up into the embrace.

You didn’t remember sinking down so much.

Panic fluttered weakly in your chest.

“Tamsy,” you said again, voice trembling now, your hands desperately clinging at your leg to keep pressure on it. The pool beneath you was growing. “You have to help me. Why aren’t you helping me?”

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then his eyes crinkled again in that same pleasant smile.

“You just asked me that.”

Were you going insane? Why was he acting this way?! Tears welled in your eyes and your lips wobbled as you tried to repeat your question again and again, still unsure why Tamsy was acting so crazy. Your bloodied hands couldn’t reach your choker, nor put enough pressure on your leg. He was just sitting there… watching!

You were going to bleed out.

With pure fear in your eyes, you stared up at Tamsy, knowing there was nothing you could do but bleed out into his arms if he didn’t allow you to call help. Even if help was called, you were quickly losing consciousness. They wouldn’t be here in time. You’d die. You were going to die. 

A distant engine cut through the wind.

Both of you turned toward the sound automatically.

At first it was just a low mechanical growl somewhere beyond the gray fog, vibrating through the piles of scrap and broken concrete. Then headlights pushed through the smog, two harsh beams cutting across the polluted landscape.

A truck.

Your brain lagged behind the obvious conclusion.

“…what?”

The vehicle rolled closer, tires grinding over rubble until it stopped a short distance away. The side door slammed open.

“Afternoon,” a familiar voice called out. “Cavalry’s arrived.”

Gris jumped down from the truck, already moving fast. His boots crunched across the debris as he crossed the distance between you.

Your brain stuttered.

“…Gris?”

He crouched immediately, eyes sweeping over your injuries with efficiency.

“Well, damn,” he muttered. “You really outdid yourself this time, huh?”

Gloved hands were suddenly everywhere: checking your leg, your arm, your pulse. Gris worked quickly, movements precise and practiced. He’d already brought a medkit.

“Your arm is broken. Head is bleeding,” he said aloud, half to himself. “Leg’s a mess too. Femur stickin’ out like it’s trying to escape-”

You blinked at him.

“How…?”

Gris looked up briefly.

“How what?”

“How are you here?”

Gris frowned slightly, like the question was odd.

“Tamsy called it in.”

Your gaze snapped toward the giver beside you.

Tamsy was still sitting exactly where he’d been, posture relaxed, hands resting loosely around you to keep you upright, looking like an angel keeping you company in your dire time. 

His eyes crinkled cheerfully when he noticed you looking.

“…you did?” you croaked.

“Of course,” he said affectionately. “It’s very important to me you make it out of here safe.”

Gris snorted.

“No flirting with my patients, Tamsy,” he said while wrapping a band around your thigh. “But good lookin’ out for her. Any later and she might’ve bled out. Couldn’t you have stopped the bleeding yourself, though?”

Tamsy shook his head. “My control over my vital instruments is not that delicate. I was worried I’d hurt her more if I tried to do something like that.”

Your brain still tried to reconcile everything with the last several minutes of conversation, not truly grasping the conversation the two men were having about you.

“But..” Your voice came out weak. “You…”

“Hold still,” Gris said, tightening the makeshift tourniquet. “This’ll suck.”

It did.

Stars burst behind your eyes as he secured the pressure band. You screeched wildly, for a moment completely out of control with the amount of pain coursing through your body. 

“You’re lucky he called when he did,” Gris continued matter-of-factly, like you’d not just metaphorically ruptured an ear drum. He was probably used to it. You did have a penchant for getting hurt, though never before like this. “We’ll get you to Eisha in no time.”

You stared at Tamsy.

He tilted his head at you, still smiling with his eyes.

“What a relief, isn’t it,” he said.

Your thoughts slid uselessly against each other.

Had he…?

But you’d asked him.

Multiple times.

Why hadn’t he just said-

Your head throbbed violently and the question dissolved before you could finish it.

“Alright,” Gris said after a moment. “Let’s get you in the truck before you start passing out on me.”

The ride back was bumpy.

You were half-propped against the side bench of the transport, Gris driving while Tamsy was keeping your leg raised, checking the bandages every few minutes while the engine rumbled beneath the floor of the car.

Your leg had been stabilized as best as possible. Your arm was splinted tight against your side and some impromptu stitching had made sure your head hadn’t bled more than it already had. The total pain had settled into a deep, throbbing burn that pulsed with every movement of the truck.

Your notebook still sat loosely in your lap.

You stared at the word concussion for a long time.

“…Tamsy,” you murmured eventually.

“Hm?”

He was sitting beside you, one elbow braced against the wall of the truck like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“You didn’t tell me you called backup.”

“I didn’t?”

You turned your head slowly toward him.

“No.”

“Huh.”

He sounded mildly surprised.

Gris snorted from behind the wheel.

“You’re concussed,” he said. “Memory’s gonna be a little scrambled.”

Maybe.

That had to be it.

“Oh… I’m sorry.” You said, feeling ready to cry by the relief of it all. You’d been scared to death, sure you’d die on a pile of polluted garbage. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself any further, so you looked away, trying to ignore how Tamsy’s gaze had been zeroed in on your face the second you got emotional.

Tamsy pat your good leg comfortingly. “Don’t worry about it.”

You exhaled weakly and leaned your head back against the metal wall.

Something tugged at your skin.

Your eyes drifted downward.

For a second your brain didn’t quite register what you were seeing.

A thin strand of blue yarn wrapped around your ankle.

Tamsy’s hand rested loosely nearby.

And very casually, like he’d been doing it the whole time, he was slowly pulling the thread free.

A little more blue yarn slipped out from your ankle, disappearing into his sleeves.

Your eyes widened slightly.

Tamsy glanced over.

For just a second, his eyes met yours.

Then he gave you a small, playful wink.