#angel;starter

[mumbliingsarchive-blog]

He’s got one hidden paintbrush on him, the last reminiscent object of his life outside room 112. It’s not on him now, though, as he slowly makes his way out of the little haven he’s made. Just the thought of being around people made him nervous. His finger tips itch for a pen or pencil or paintbrush, his shoulders shrink, making the small boy appear even smaller. The first week he was here, he wouldn’t talk to anyone, but one of the nurses pulled him out by his clothes (a whimpering Angel trying to protest the entire time), and sat him in a chair. He was going to go back to his room, hide under the bed, maybe, but then someone else walked in and he curled his knees to his chest, eyes following the other’s every movement like a rabbit, ready to dart at any time. 

When they turn their head, he’s certain he’s caught their eye, and closes their eyes immediately. Maybe if he pretended he was invisible, he would be invisible. Maybe he could make this like Daniel in the Den. But, no, he heard their footsteps coming a little closer, and all he could do was squeeze his eyes tighter and hold his breath.

[mumbliingsarchive-blog]

“P-p-please? I’ve b-been g-good! And, and I’m wo-work-king on the sp-speech! C-can’t I have, have a ki-ki-kiss at-t le-least?”

[mumbliingsarchive-blog]

@gingcrsnaps

He liked having this quiet time with Kellan, shut away from the world. Angel had his room for art, and Kellan could have Angel’s undivided attention any time he wanted. It was peaceful, calming, heavenly. 

He stands in the kitchen, making sandwiches for the two of them, when he feels Kellan’s arms wrap around his waist, feels his chin rest on his shoulder. “Hi,” he mumbles quietly, pressing a kiss to Kellan’s temple. That was another nice thing about being here - Kellan was helping his speech therapy and it was less stressful when there weren’t so many people around. “Hungry?”

[mumbliingsarchive-blog]

@insiinceretruths

The first day he woke up in the hospital, Angel had such a severe panic attack that they’d had to restrain him, putting little cuffs on his wrists and his ankles, and sedate him with some medicine that made him sick when he woke up. The third day they took the cuffs off, because he’d promised to behave himself, and asked him to talk to one of the officers that had brought him in. He ended up crying with frustration because of how bad his stutter was, and the officer was asked to leave so he could sleep. They returned the next day to a much calmer Angel, who wrote down his information and begged not to be taken back home, only to find that he wasn’t going anywhere, not with a fractured spine. He’d been lucky he hadn’t died. The seventh day, they did a spinal tap, and that’s when Angel first saw him. It was quite embarrassing, meeting someone while they take fluid from your back, but this person seemed different. He was less focused on the actual procedure and kept looking back at Angel’s face, despite how black and blue it was. He even gave the small boy a reassuring touch before leaving. 

Angel went nearly a week without seeing him again. He was being wheeled to the operating room for something or another in his vertebrae, and could’ve sworn he saw the other just before he fell asleep, still entirely unaware of who exactly the other was, student or nurse or doctor or patient. And then Angel started losing count of the days, sketching on little sheets of paper the nurses left, waking up to a new sketchbook and pencils from someone one day. 

Some time later, he started therapy, and he started walking once more, though uneasily, and constantly clinging to someone. That’s when he saw him again, though he had nearly forgotten about the stranger. This time he was wearing a name tag, Alex. No longer was he some faceless person that Angel had seen in passing. He had a name, and he was looking right at Angel, wheelchair and all. The dark haired boy wheeled himself over at lunch, sitting a short distance away from a group of - what appeared to be - medical students (and Alex) who enjoyed their lunch. Unsure of what to do with himself, he just ate quietly, until Alex joined him. 

“He-he-hell-l-lo...”

[mumbliingsarchive-blog]

based off this

angel’s not really used to having attention from a football player, of all people, but he isn’t really complaining. the other is tall and handsome, almost unfairly so, and angel’s this tiny little thing who still doodles in the margins of his notebook. which is why he finds it kind of odd when the other sits next to him in math. “um… h-hi?”

[mumbliingsarchive-blog]

He doesn’t even know what he was rambling on about, even if he thinks about it. Perhaps something about church, or art, or the weather? Who knows. All Angel is aware of is the fact that their lips are pressing against his, cutting him off midstutter, and, after a minute or so, he’s pulling away. Angel manages to avoid eye contact after the kiss, though his mind spins a little with the abruptness of it all. “Um… I’m… I’m g-gonna g-g-g-go… make some, uh… some sandwiches. D-do you… want anything?”

[mumbliingsarchive-blog]

@gingcrsnaps

He rubs at his eyes and yawns a little, pulling his sweater tighter around his shoulders. “C-cold-d wea-weather c-com-coming-g.”

[mumbliingsarchive-blog]

@feelsmol

Angel liked Christmas, to an extent. It was good for business. But he didn’t like the religious affiliation, or the Church sermons (yes, he still went from time to time, despite how much it hurt). They all spoke of love and forgiveness during the holiday season, and yet Angel knew that many felt that was simply not the case. Still, he had a little extra money, and he was ever so excited to spend it on Noah. “Wh-what d-d-do y-you wa-want-t for, for Ch-Chris-stma-mas?”