Hey, it’s me again! I really hope you like this one, I had a lot of fun writing it! hehehe
TW: severe burns, graphic injury description, medical trauma, blood, panic attacks, implied self-blame / guilt, violence.
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His mouth was dry, so dry his tongue stuck to his palate and peeled off, leaving behind that viscous pull. At first, he didn’t feel pain. Honestly, it surprised him not to feel pain after being hit by a rocket launcher. But then he noticed it: the way his throat clenched in a silent snarl, nerves exploding all at once. Even the faintest touch of air made his skin prickle, nerves laid bare like magma—red, burned and blistering hot. Hot enough to bubble the flesh, with no blood left because it had all been burned away. He couldn’t move, not when he felt them shifting him, and the pain was so sharp, so overwhelming, he couldn’t even pass out. It had gone past the point where death even seemed possible.
The sharp clack of metal boots echoed through the ruined mall, mixed with Arthur’s desperate shouts telling survivors to clear out, and Lettie barking for space. Soon the sting of antiseptic filled the air, mixing with the stench of burned flesh and salted fat that made anyone nearby retch. But Lettie couldn’t let herself gag. Couldn’t let her hands shake, even as the rhythmic sound of metal tools blended with the broken, muffled whimpers coming from the victim of that cruel blast. It had to be mechanical, methodical, steps drilled into her from militia training. This wasn’t the first time she’d treated burns this bad—but it was the first time she truly feared she might fail.
“Call Vell. No, I need him” Lettie’s voice cut through the noise. Sure, forceful, edged with a desperation that meant she didn’t even look at anyone when she said it.
An almost animal growl ripped through the air. “What the fuck do you mean by that? We ain’t got time to bloody find—” Quincy’s words were slapped out of his mouth by a single sharp strike. His eyes, wild with rage, met Aoi’s, and that fury dissolved into raw confusion.
“If Lettie says go get Vell, then you go get Vell” There were tears in Aoi’s eyes, caught on her lashes, threatening to fall. Maybe it was the way she looked at him—like they’d already lost, that finally pushed Quincy into motion. If Vell was anywhere, it’d be with Amir.
He reached the arcade. For the first time, it stood silent, lights off except a single lamp in the back office that threw moving shadows of those inside. Quincy made sure his steps were loud so he wouldn’t startle them. Inside were Amir, Eleanor and Vell. The sight twisted something sharp in Quincy’s chest.
Amir, shaking uncontrollably, clung to Vell and Eleanor, crying so hard static sparked across his skin like racing lightning, fingers twitching as they dug into Vell’s jacket. Quincy knew Amir needed them more than anything. He’d been in that same dark place, guilt turning your insides rotten. Except unlike him, Amir’s guilt still breathed—for now.
“Hey, they need you outside. Now” Maybe he sounded calm. Like he wasn’t seconds away from tearing himself apart from helplessness. Vell’s look was clear as day: Not moving. Even at gunpoint. Quincy dragged a hand over his scalp, breath ragged. “I’ll stay with him. Lettie needs you. She asked for you, herself”
Vell studied him. He knew how complicated things were between Quincy and Amir, enough to say no outright. He was about to, when Quincy slammed a hand into the wall, voice shaking. Quincy’s eyes burned with desperation, not hate. Hands trembling. A breath so ragged it might break. And in his gaze, a plea so raw it nearly split Vell in two. Eyes so close to tears that Vell had never seen before.
A sigh was Vell’s only answer. He turned to Amir, pressing kisses to his tear-wet cheeks, hands brushing trembling skin. He promised he’d be back as soon as possible. Amir collapsed to his knees, clutching Vell’s clothes, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he whispered broken words, begging Vell to stay.
Eleanor had to pry Amir’s hands free, gripping them firmly, while Vell ran off, bile rising in his throat at leaving Amir like that. Only Eleanor, Amir, and Quincy stayed behind. Maybe Quincy had never shown what Amir truly meant to him, that bond, that quiet brotherhood. But now wasn’t the time to hold anything back. They needed each other as badly as lungs needed air. They fell into a desperate embrace: sniper and runner, holding each other like drowning men while Eleanor quietly slipped through their minds, humming lullabies to soothe them. None of them were usually physical, but in that moment, they stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, facing the unknown together. Like the family they’d become.
The next twelve hours crawled by, heavy with dread so thick it felt like it dug under the skin. Hunger gnawed at them, but the real weight was fear… fear that the doors would open with the worst news. When the makeshift infirmary doors finally opened, Arthur was waiting.
“How’s the drifter?” Arthur’s voice was rough, weary, but edged with hope. “He’ll live. Should wake up in a few hours. Though if it were me… I wouldn’t want to” Vell answered, peeling off blood-soaked gloves, tossing them into the trash.
Vell felt drained, not just from the surgery, but from the thought that kept circling him: maybe it’d be easier to reset him, to let Aetherion forget what lay ahead. But he couldn’t do that. Not without talking to everyone first, to his pillow, to Amir. Lost in thought, Vell didn’t even realize his knees were about to give out, adrenaline gone. It wasn’t the hand on his waist that pulled him back, but who it belonged to. Amir.
“Hey pretty boy, you look like you could use a break” Amir’s voice was playful, like he hadn’t just almost torn the arcade apart in panic. Vell exhaled, shaky, surprised but grateful, pressing a kiss to Amir’s lips. “We both should” Amir added, quick as always, dragging them off toward their room, ducking away from everyone’s eyes, especially Quincy’s.
Eleanor’s voice reached everyone’s heads, a soft warning: They’re here, just before a loud crash echoed from the loading bay. Everyone except Amir and Vell ran to see what happened, smoke curling away. There, in the center, stood two young, hooded figures. One with a long braid, posture sharp and threatening; the other just behind him, calmer but not timid. “Where is he?” asked the one with the braid, leveling a pistol at Arthur. Behind them, something that looked like an alien dog growled low.
“Identify yourselves!” Arthur barked, sword raised. The rest of the Hex held still, not wanting to provoke the beast.
“Aetherion. Where is he?” the braided one demanded again, lowering his hood to reveal a face that looked exactly like Aetherion’s, only younger. Quincy felt the blood drain from his face; he couldn’t tell if it was shock or leftover adrenaline. Because when the other figure lowered his hood… he looked just like Vell.
