Desperate, Bruce tried to peel reality away from sensation, but all he felt were claws tearing open his chest. He braced himself against a wall with both hands, unable to stop the burning, as raw as if heād been flayed alive. Every tremor, every shift of the air stung like knives on raw flesh. He forced breath into his lungs, shallow, ragged. His nails tore the paint, then dug into the fabric of the shirt he had just pulled over himself, clutching at it as if it might keep him from falling apart completely.
Something shifted. Heat, motion at the edge of his vision. A weight pressed into his shoulder, too strong, almost painful.
āBruce.ā The voice came distant at first, closer the second time: āBruce!ā
He lifted his head, just enough awareness left to see Clark.
Clark was here.
āBreathe.ā
He couldnāt. If he did, everything would break loose with the pressure in his throat. He had to hold it, keep it locked down, repress it until it suffocated back inside him.
āIām here,ā Clarkās hands were warm against his face. āPlease, Bruce, breathe.ā
He couldnāt. But Clark sounded desperate, and the pressure on his throat only grew, sharp as a collar of knives. Something rose inside him, hot, searing, tearing its way up his chest, his lungs, his throat.
āPlease.ā
And then Clark pulled him into an embrace, and Bruce couldnāt fight it anymore. There was nothing that could stop it. He resisted, tried to push him away, but Clark held steady, solid and unbearably warm. And Bruce broke.
He clutched at the cape, his fists knotted in it, burying his face into Clarkās chest as everything ripped out of him all at once. He sobbed and growled, his face wet.
Once the first tears fell, there was no stopping the rest. He tried again and again to contain it, but every attempt only made it worse. His chest burned as if filled with a million shards, as if someone were strangling him from the inside, and the sobs only deepened, crippling him.
He wanted to scream, and maybe he did. He wanted to run, but instead clung harder to Clark, because his warmth was the only thing that felt real, the only anchor in the middle of pain and emptiness tearing him apart.
āHeāll be okay,ā Clark whispered again and again, and sometimes Bruce heard something else: āYouāll be okay.ā
Fic: Cold Strategy, Warm Heart by Krxstian on AO3.
Artist @/bananita._stay on Instagram
