thinking about robby being the kind man who keeps it together until no one can see him anymore, however he thinks that no one clocks his behavior. no one but one jack abbot.
he's steady during traumas and calm during codes. his voice is mostly even except for when strictly necessary and it doesn't bother him when monitors scream or the room smells like blood, antiseptic and fear. after all, that's just part of the job description and he's good at his job. terrific even.
because robby keeps it together, he never breaks in public, wouldn't even dream of doing so in front of interns or nurses or... anyone who could ever begin doubting him in the first place.
no. when he lets it happen, its in the sweet privacy of the nearest supply closet or stairwell or... in those thirty seconds alone at the sink, when the water runs just a tiny bit too long and his hands brace against cool porcelain, his knuckles whitening under the weight he needs to put somewhere.
there, he inhales, he exhales, he counts backwards from twenty.
anything at all that makes robby reset. that calms his brain and stops it from spiralling out of control before it is too late.
and then... then he goes back out like nothing ever touched him. or ever could.
nothing other than one jack abbot who has clocked that pattern of his years ago, watching it unfold countless times before. that way robby disappears for no longer than a minute at a time after a heavy-loaded case; how his shoulders rise just an inch before he slips out of a room, not even speaking of the tightness around his mouth that just screamed discomfort.
but jack never followed immediately so that he could grant him an illusion of privacy. he used to just watch him from afar, observe and wonder if he should try and help.
The first time he does went much better that he expected it to. he followed him into the bathroom, catching him at the sink just before he manages to rebuild that mask he put on time and time again.
There was no big speech, no 'talk to me' and no big confrontation, nothing but Jack stepping in close enough that their shoulders touch. his hand a warm firm and steady touch slowly sweeping between robby's shoulder blades, grounding him, anchoring him.
Just being there.
and finally, robby stills, exhaling that breath he'd been holding inside ever since jack first stepped into the room. his spine, locked tight before easily loosens under jacks palm and suddenly there was no need to collapse, no need to fall apart. robby wasn't alone and that was enough for him to calm down, his muscles loosening and knuckles gaining color again.
jack doesn't try to stop him from carrying the weight glued to his soul, because both of them knew he couldn't. he just made sure robby didn't need to carry it all by himself.
now the thing that got robby, this time and every time after?
he lets him.
for those few unseen moments in the bathroom and the countless ones following in the future, he lets himself be steadied, grounded and cared for before he steps back into the light and hols the ED together again.
because robby is the kind man who keeps it together until no one can see him anymore... no one but one jack abbot.
soft vocalist boyfriend x hardcore rapper girlfriend
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dk falls for you long before anyone else realizes it. the contrast is ridiculous. he sings like he was raised by sunlight and warm kitchens. you rap like you grew up on broken concrete and bass that cracks ribs. somehow it works. behind the scenes, he is the one slipping extra honey packets into your bag before shows and you are the one gripping his mic hand when stage fright hits out of nowhere. everyone sees the differences. only the two of you know how clean the fit actually is.
studio nights turn into half-asleep harmonizing on the same couch. his members tease him for dating someone who could outrap half the industry. your fans tease you for melting every time he laughs. he calls you mean on stage. you call him dramatic off stage. neither of you mean it.
it’s messy, domestic, competitive, tender. he helps you warm up your voice with silly scales. you help him write sharper lines for his adlibs. people say the pairing doesn’t make sense. you don’t bother correcting them. it makes perfect sense to you.
summary: (young!sirius black angst) - before a chance at running away, 16 year old sirius carried a storm that constantly brewed inside him, but it was one piercing remark from Walburga that finally made it boil over.
Part 2 here!
author’s note: english unfortunately is my first language, i’m just used to writing more descriptive stories than ones with dialogue. so please lmk how this is with kind words. thank you <3
word count: 2.8k words
! content warnings: lot of angst, hurt, mentions of inflicted harm but no actual content, slight comfort towards the end, i mean it’s about the Blacks so ofc it’s depressing
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Toujours Pur.
The most ancient and noble house, defined by rigid pureblood values that seeped into the confines of the house walls.
Sirius loathed it, explicably. Of course he had, and it wasn’t just because he no longer aligned with the crude values set out for him, but also the words that came along with it.
It was the summer of 1976, and he was sat at the lavish wooden table. The legs with runes dug into his mind like they were carved just to mock him.
The table stretched endlessly, its polished surface always cold beneath their hands. It could accommodate up to twenty guests whenever the Blacks pleased — but even when every chair was filled, Sirius felt the weight of loneliness more keenly than when it sat empty.
Besides that, he despised having to sit with the house of Blacks. Walburga and Orion sat rigid with their chins held high, chewing with a quiet deliberate defiance, while Regulus merely spared a glance at Sirius before carefully bringing a piece of roast pheasant to his lips.
The dark green tapestry was draped onto the walls, his own face staring back with a sneer, like a silent reminder he could never live up to their legacy. In front of the walls lined delicate fine china in cupboards that were forbidden to be touched or used, unless it was Salazar Slytherin himself who was dining.
Kreacher floated pieces of silverware, so polished that the gleaming mirrors had caught every flicker of Sirius’ anger whenever he was at the table.
“Elbows off-” Walburga had snipped in from across him.
“But it’s quite nice like this, comfortable.” Sirius was quicker, meeting her eyes with a sliver of a smirk.
He leaned back in his velvet chair, letting it tip back while he finally lifted his elbows off, just to put his arms behind his head.
Walburga’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Do not interrupt me. You will sit properly, or you will leave the table hungry.” There was no drawn out scolding, just icy correction towards Sirius, who met it with a simple shrug and that infuriating grin.
He kept tipping his seat back, causing as much irritation as possible. That’s what Sirius Black was best known for anyway.
Orion pierced a piece of parsnip with his silver fork in immaculate precision, pausing briefly to see the look on Sirius’ face with a levelled stare, before he took a slow bite.
Kreacher dragged his feet along the wooden flooring in little mutters, “Stupid filthy little Black…pathetic…ruining Master’s chair…”
“Oh shut it! You little-” Sirius started, watching the creature sneer, before he disappeared with a pop.
“Sirius!” Walburga glared so sharply at him that he swore a vein was pulsing on her forehead. Sirius could imagine it popping, and he had to hold in his breath to stop himself from snorting.
Just when he was about to verbalise something so cruelly irritating, his body snapped forward. “Bloody!-” he blurted out as the chair fixed itself with a small thump. Walburga set her wand down.
“…Hell, woman.” Sirius finished his sentence with a mutter, looking down at his exquisitely roasted game bird.
“You dare to defy me in this household?!” Walburga’s voice struck the dining room so loudly, that Orion almost choked on his piece of mashed potato, clearing his throat with a small hum.
“I didn’t defy you.” Sirius spat back, like he always did, but didn’t meet her eyes. In truth, he couldn’t. “I just didn’t feel like sitting like everyone else.” He mumbled and took a glance at Regulus, who looked down at his goblet without a word.
It was like Sirius was silently asking for help, but it never came from his brother. He was meant to face things alone, and alone he did.
Walburga gripped her fork so tightly that it bent slightly, and she spoke again, lowly. “Seven slashes. Tonight.” She then looked back at her food with strange calmness. “Speak again, and it will double. Understood, Sirius?”
Sirius clenched his jaw. He glared up at her, wondering how it was ever possible for a parent to be so cruel. He didn’t dare to speak again, because as reckless as Sirius was, he knew what those cuts felt like. The ones from before stung across his calves in a sore reminder.
“Fine.” He managed to say back, unable to obey silence, as he picked at his stupid parsnips that tasted like a stale carrot trampled on by a niffler.
Orion this time, gave a sharp glare, enough for Sirius to fully quiet down as he averted his gaze. He wished for one of Remus’ fags right about now — anything to get him to forget this absurdity of this dinner.
“Regulus?” Walburga spoke with such calm and the ends of her lips curled up — like the mere concept of his name, sparked perfection to her.
Sirius loathed it, obviously, exhaling sharply through his nose as he watched Regulus quirk his head up immediately into a slow nod.
“Yes, Mother?” Regulus spoke levelly.
“I heard you have passed your Potions test with ease.” She said as she cut into the bird. “And not just passed, Professor Slughorn has told me you’ve received the highest he had ever seen. Even higher than Severus.” She exclaimed with a certain twinge of delight, as if it were even possible to exude any other tone besides monotonic.
Regulus gave another nod, and Sirius gave the most drawn out eye roll, combined with a sigh. Walburga didn’t even spare a glance at him, too indulged with what it seemed like, her only son.
“That’s right, Mother. It was….simple to say the least.” Sirius finally met his brother’s eyes for a moment, and noticed the slightest movement to his lips.
Regulus was…smirking? Sirius raised a brow, going back to his food before he remembered exactly what happened in that hall.
Oh yeah, how could he forget? That very day, James had insisted on a simple prank, just to cause enough chaos. It started with dungbombs under every students’ seats, all but Regulus’s. Sirius had argued with James on it, and didn’t list the reason why.
As much as he loathed his baby brother for being everything he wasn’t, he couldn’t bring himself to trouble him — perhaps because he knew someone had to continue living up to his parents’ expectations, especially when Sirius had no way out for him.
Though, the look on Snivellus’ face in the Great Hall had sparked so much laughter between James and Sirius, that he now had to dig his fingers into his palm to stop himself from bursting out again at the thought.
Orion then proudly chimed in, a smug look on his face.
“Of course it was simple, son. I would expect nothing less than from a Black.” He raised his goblet to Regulus, before taking a sip.
“Indeed. Though I cannot say the same about you.” Walburga spoke immediately, and her eyes landed back on Sirius. “Participating in such useless endeavours. What shame you bring onto us, Sirius.”
“Well, someone has to be the disappointment.” Sirius spoke back with his mouth full, completely on purpose as a smug look appeared on his face.
“It is truly a wonder how you’ve turned out.” She cut in with brash disapproval. “And all because of those filthy blood traitor Potters.” She let out a bitter laugh, and that’s when Sirius’ smirk dropped.
What made it worse, was that Orion had chuckled alongside with her. Sirius’ fist clenched around his fork, creating indents right into his palm. This was a common occurrence when they spoke of James, Sirius knew it was. He knew it was a way to rile him up, and he had to fight it before his impulses took the better of him.
“Oh yes, crass little boy-”
“Better than you’ve ever been.” Sirius snapped before Orion could even finish, his voice low but shaking.
To talk about himself was one thing, and a thing Sirius could handle. But to talk about his best friend? That was asking for a death wish. That was asking for the place to be burned down with them in it.
“And yet you measure yourself against worthless muggle-loving boys. How fitting.” Walburga said flatly, sipping her goblet.
She had retorted back with an insult just like Sirius had. They were similar in that way, and Sirius loathed the idea of a comparison with her at all. Even with the anger seething off of him and his bitter response, they continued like nothing. They always did.
“He is a true disgrace to pureblood lineage. Just another loud mouth fool-”
“Oh we’re back to that? Thought you’d surprise me with a new insult this year.” Sirius interrupted again with a mocking tilt to his head and let out a bitter scoff.
“Surprise you?” Walburga’s brow quirked up highly, her voice unnaturally calm. “Very well then. Fourteen slashes tonight.”
Sirius scoffed, his arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t care less at this point. Seven wasn’t that much less than fourteen when you’ve been struck with more in the past month.
But what ticked off Sirius, was that Walburga couldn’t seem to stop. As soon as she opened her mouth, Sirius’ hands balled into tight fists in anticipation.
“And to think about that wretched scarred half-”
Scarred. That was it. Sirius’ vision tunneled.
The words were still forming when his chair screeched back. Her mouth kept moving with sharp little shapes, but all Sirius could hear was blood roaring in his ears.
“What the fuck did you just call him?” He seethed lowly, almost steady, but his chest felt like it was going to split with how quickly he was at his feet.
A pause. Walburga’s eyes narrowed and she tilted her head, not to mock, but out of curiousity. Perhaps to her, it was intriguing to see a string tugged at Sirius, to be so hung up on a halfblood with sandy scars that lined his face.
“How dare you use that lang-”
“I SAID- what the FUCK did you just say about him?!” It came out as a snarl, and even Regulus gave the slightest flinch of his shoulders. “Don’t you ever say that about my friends! They’ve been better than you ever pretended to be!”
Sirius could feel the heat on every surface of his skin, stinging. His sight was blinded by flecks of white and black, fizzling like smoke in a warning. His chair scraped even more behind him, biting into the wooden floor like it was bracing itself.
And Walburga? her smile was tight, poisoned. She stood up slowly.
And that made Sirius’ world spin. His wand was in his hand in a swift movement. He knew he couldn’t use it. Knew the Trace would scorch him, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care.
Walburga didn’t move back. She didn’t even blink, and her sick smile remained. “Try it.” She breathed. “I dare you.”
The air in the room wrapped around Sirius’ neck. It was choking him with a squeeze, heavy with the smell of candle smoke and the stink of their rot. His hand holding the wand shook from vexation, his ribs feeling far too tight to even take a breath.
Somewhere deep within Sirius, a thought broke the surface: If I stay here another second, I’ll kill them.
The chair behind him toppled as he suddenly spun toward the door, shoving it so harshly that the frame rattled, and stormed down the hall.
He could hear the cutlery clinking in the distance, chairs scraping, but he lost all conscious. He was already up the stairs, his boots thudding on the wood — loud, heavy, like thunder.
Jacket. Boots. Wand. That’s all he needed.
The bedroom door slammed open. The Black family tree leered down, eyes stitched in gold thread, all of them sneering as Sirius tore open the drawers. Clothes came out in fistfuls, some hitting the bag, and others huddled on the ground.
His fingers shook as he stood in front of the wardrobe and yanked on the closet doors, picking up a pair of boots with laces that dangled like veins. He threw them on top in his bag, before hearing the smallest of footsteps behind him.
“Merlin, Kreacher, I swear to fuck-” Sirius spun, ready to snarl — and stopped.
Regulus stood near the doorframe solemnly.
“Here to rat me out?” Sirius muttered, his back turned to the mess, shoving certain pictures and assortments away.
No answer came. Just the soft creak of the floorboards under his brother’s weight.
Regulus scanned Sirius with watchful eyes, stood exactly behind the doorway into his room — never daring to step inside it, but he lingered, like he couldn’t exactly let go.
“Will you come back?”
The words landed in him like a thrown knife. Silent and quick at first, then hot and painful. Sirius’ hands stilled over his drawer. The answer was no. It had always been no — but saying it would mean another cut between them. He had made too many already. His head dipped, his vision starting to blur.
The heavy guilt of leaving Regulus reeled Sirius in. He could’ve saved him, they could’ve ran away. He had chances, chances that were now fizzling out of his hands. Even then, he imagined it anyway — dragging Regulus with him. James would be laughing, trying to rope him into Quidditch. Regulus would scoff and refuse out of pride that curled in his lip. Sirius would’ve nudged his shoulder until he gave in. And maybe, Regulus would’ve won like he always did.
For a second, it felt real. Sirius believed it all.
His knuckles turned a blaring white with how hard he gripped his drawer, before he let out a soft breath, his shoulders slumping.
Sirius nodded to himself with a swallow and turned, his eyes still flickered down. “Listen…Why don’t you come with-”
The floorboard creaked again, and Sirius glanced at the doorway. Empty.
Salty hot tears stung at his face in a stream before he could stop them. That had been the last cut between them, and there was no going back.
Heavy footsteps echoed downstairs, and Sirius wiped the tears with the back of his hand, zipping up and slinging the bag over his shoulder. He slipped out his bedroom window, climbing down on the makeshift rope ladder he had made for those nights where he craved fresh air.
He stormed out onto the London streets, the strange and quiet air curling into the black sky. If he didn’t know where he was headed, perhaps he wouldn’t have walked with such determination. How lucky he was, that he had found a new home already in a state like this.
With a bit of sweat and anguish, Sirius was there, right outside the Potters’ door with a deep breath. He gave it a few knocks. Some shuffling was barely heard before the door creaked open — a boy stood there with unruly black straight hair, and a pair of slightly skewed glasses.
“Heard your parents needed a handsome son.” Sirius flashed a crooked grin, tired, bag slung over one shoulder.
James rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, squinting.
“Twat…it’s midnight.”
“Brilliant.” Sirius strode in like he owned the place and shouldered right past James, the bag hitting him square in the chest with a soft ‘oof’.
He could hear distant movement coming from the stairs, and Euphemia Potter appeared at the landing, frantically tying her robe.
“Sirius?” She said with a little exasperated laugh. “My dear, what are you doing— It’s well past midnight!”
His grin softened and he let his shoulders drop, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her. She kissed his hair a couple of times, which only made Sirius’ cheeks flush dizzily.
“So I’ve been told.” He nodded off to James.
Sirius wasn’t asked why he was here, and he chose to shrug it off anyway. It wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have now, but the Potters’ already knew that. They always knew, and so Euphemia just kissed the top of his head again.
“Well, James’ room then. Don’t stay up too late, you two.” She said before she yawned and made her way back upstairs.
James sighed and Sirius glanced at him with a quirk of his lips. Here he was, finally in a place where he belonged — and someone stubborn enough to adore him.
“Don’t look at me like that.” James grumbled as Sirius slung an arm around his shoulders with that same look.
“What?”
“It’s too late for your bloody antics.”
Sirius laughed, a real one he hadn’t had in ages. “Think it’s too late to adopt another son then?”
As they crept up the stairs, James pretended like he didn’t want Sirius tagging along. Yet, he took a breath and forced a reluctant smile — one that quietly warmed Sirius’ heart.
Summary : Cardinal Copia has been working tirelessly to a point where he is beyond exhausted, somehow ending up in the Ghoul Wing of the Abbey.
CW: None that I can think of, perhaps working to avoid dealing with emotions ?
Light angst with light comfort ♡
The Cardinal wasn't sure how exactly he got here. One moment he was walking from the library, arms laden with books, and the next he was standing near the Ghoul wing of the Abbey, books gone.
He was so tired, he hadn't even registered setting the books down and leaving them. Hell, he couldn't even remember where he left them. Sister Imperator scolding him for loosing Abbey books was the last thing he needed. He still had so much paperwork and research to do.
"Cardinal Copia?" A voice rang through his muddled thoughts. When he looked up he realized it was the voice of Dewdrop, the recently changed ghoul.
A fond smile formed on the Cardinals face, as he stepped forwards towards the ghoul.
"Ah, Dewdrop." He smiled warmly. "How are you? An elemental transition is no joke, are you healing?"
The fresh fire ghoul looked at him with something akin to worry, meeting Copia halfway as he got closer. He took the Cardinals outstretched hands, holding them in his.
"I am fine, thank you, Cardinal." Dewdrop returned his soft smile with one of his own, though it was clearly a worried one. He rubbed his thumbs against Copias hands, soothingly. "The pack is treating me well, and I feel fine."
Dewdrop paused, holding the man's hands tighter. "But what about you?"
Copia blinked, staring for a moment before tilting his head. "What do you mean, piccolo demone?"
"You look awful, Cardinal. When was the last time you slept?"
Copia paused, his brow furrowing as he thought about it. He was certain he hadn't slept yesterday but he couldn't quite remember if he slept the previous day or not. "It was...the day before yesterday, I believe."
The silence between them was deadly.
"You...believe?" The fire ghoul parroted back, clearly unimpressed.
"Yes, I believe so." Copia offered with a guilty smile, hoping it would soften the ghouls wrath.
Before he could further defend himself (dig his hole deeper), the fire ghoul was grabbing him by the cassock and all but dragging him into the Ghoul wing.
He was pulled further in, waving undignified to passing by Ghouls who looked at the duo quizzically. Before he knew it he was sat down on a couch in their common room. Dewdrop sat him down and all but yanked him down into his lap, his head resting against thin legs.
"....Dewdrop?" Copia spoke softly, rolling onto his back. He was minutely aware of how nicer this couch was than his own twin bed in his room. Something he hadn't seen in a long time now.
"You're going to lay here and you're going to rest." Dewdrops voice left no room for negotiation, and Copia, being the doormat he is, complied.
The Cardinal sighed deeply, letting himself relax, staring up at the ceiling.
"I just," Copia began, folding his gloved hands over his sternum. "I've been so busy as of late. Sister has been giving me reports to type up, wants progress reports on how well the project is doing on a quarterly basis. It's good, by the way. Terzos Papacy has been good for the project, even if he just became Papa."
Copia was rambling and he knew it, but it felt like it had been so long since he had anyone to speak to. Sister never wanted to listen to him speak unless it was productive or held importance to her. Papa Nihil was no better, but Copia held a dislike for the man, so even then he didn't really count. Sure, there were Siblings of Sin and Ghouls he could speak to, but none of them would want to listen to anything he had to say.
"Why do you take on such a workload. You know it's optional." Dewdrop asked after he finished rambling, his fingers having taken off his biretta and his nibble fingers coming through the Cardinals dark hair.
"I'm..." Copia paused, glancing at the fire ghoul before sighing. "I guess I'm working to keep my mind of some things."
"Like what?" Dewdrop asked, never one to beat around the bush.
"....I think...I think I'm homesick." Copia said softly.
"Homesick? But, this is your home."
"Ah, sí. I mean, where I grew up. In Italy. The winters here are so cold and dreary, it seems lifetimes away on days like these." Copia sighed. "Wouldn't you agree, il mio piccolo demone?"
Dewdrop didn't answer, not right away at least. He let them sit in silence, and Copia waited patiently.
"Yeah...I guess I can understand what you mean." Dewdrop agreed, his voice low and melancholic.
"Yeah... I suppose you can, can't you?" Copia nodded, just as low and soft.
A clap of thunder booms and Peter flinches violently, shaking the metal structure around him.
He’s huddled on a fire escape outside of an apartment that he knows is empty, knees to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them to make himself as small as possible. He’s mostly out of the rain, but no amount of hunching can get him away from the thunder.
As soon as he lets himself relax, another booming crack of thunder has him tensing up again, and this time he covers his ears, pressing his palms tightly against his head and trying to ignore the way his arms are shaking.
He’d started the day out feeling exhausted, and now it’s early evening and he feels like he could fall asleep perched outside of this abandoned apartment. The only thing stopping him is the loud thunder, which comes in unpredictable intervals with just enough time in between each bang to let his guard down before his whole body goes stiff again at the sound, the exhaustion making his reactions to the thunder happen against his will. It has him completely on edge, and he spends what feels like hours sitting there trying to catch his breath but not fully being able to.
Sometimes, having heightened senses really fucking sucks.
Boom. Another clap of thunder, another increase in his heart rate. His breath is coming up short again, like his chest is being squeezed by some invisible force. He hadn’t planned on staying up here so long, but now that it’s been a while he reaches up and pulls the mask from his face, greedily sucking in cold air and hating how shaky the inhale sounds.
He doesn’t get a break before the next rumble, and his hands tremble where they’re already held over his ears. His usual fear response is fight, or sometimes flight when he knows he’s up against something he can’t take on by himself, but sitting here now he feels stuck, like the more times he’s engulfed in the startlingly loud noise, the more he feels like he’s frozen in place, as if it’s getting harder and harder to move. When he comes to the realization he maybe can’t move, he’s suddenly overwhelmed with an intense dizzying feeling. His vision blurs.
“Incoming call from Tony,” Karen tells him, her voice hard to hear over the sound of his own heavy breathing.
“Hey, Pete.” Tony’s voice sounds muffled and faraway. “You out patrolling in this storm?”
Peter squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on trying to breathe.
“FRI alerted me that your heart rate and blood pressure are through the roof right now. What’s going on?” Tony is trying to sound casual, but even through his panic Peter can hear the worry in his voice. Peter doesn’t answer. It’s been a few minutes since the last crash of thunder, and his whole body is tense waiting for the next one. The rain has stopped, and now there’s a light wind that has him shivering slightly.
“Peter? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Peter squeaks out a reply, something he hopes is enough to get Tony off his back, and then there’s a long, silent pause. Eventually, Tony sighs heavily. “Karen?”
For a moment, Peter thinks Karen is going to betray him, but she simply tells Tony that he’s not injured and he isn’t facing any threats, and Peter feels himself sag in relief. His shivers pick up, his body trembling from more than just the cool wind now.
“Well…let me know if you need anything,” Tony says, and Peter finds himself nodding even though he knows Tony can’t see him, nor does he intend to let Tony know if he needs anything.
As soon as Tony ends the call, Peter stands. His legs shake like they’re about to give out. He swings between skyscrapers until he arrives at this apartment, clinging to the side of the building just outside of his window for a good minute or two while he catches his breath and listens carefully to see if he can hear May inside. When he’s sure she isn’t there, he lifts his window open and crawls into his room.
Once inside his room, he peels his suit off and pulls on a warm pair of sweats and a t-shirt, barely registering the fact that he’s shivering hard now or that his skin is cold to the touch. When he climbs into his bed, it’s as if his body recognizes the chance to relax, and he slumps under his covers with a sudden exhaustion that makes him feel weak and sluggish. He pulls the blanket all the way over his head, until he’s enveloped in darkness, and lets the tears that have been threatening to erupt finally spill down his cheeks.
Peter is sound asleep an hour later when a figure comes into his room, crossing over to the bed and pulling the comforter off his head to smooth his hair back from his forehead and dry the still-wet tears on his face.
CW: angst, breathing difficulty, wind knocked out, blood tw, bullying, thrown off a horse, comfort (light), name calling, just being plain mean, collapsing, modern au, insults
Wednesday Ride
He always looked forward to Wednesday, he had had a long week and the chance to just spend some quality time with his sweet girl was what he lived for. Granted, he saw her daily but Wednesdays were the day that just the two of them could just, be together.
He wasn't supposed to run so he kept a quick walk that couldn't contain his excitement. He finally arrived, she was there waiting for him a greeting already on her lips. A large grin broke out across his face as he wrapped his arms around the horse's neck.
"Echo! My darlin' ah think ya already know what day it is." He said as he fished a peppermint from his back pocket.
The red horse nickered softly as she accepted the treat, she was happy to see him. He opened her stall gate and grabbed her halter to lead her into the walkway, stopping at a point to clip a rope to each side of her halter. He patted her shoulder as he grabbed his brush box to start grooming her.
"So Miss. Echo, what d'ya wanna work on t'day? We could try somethin' new or stick ta somethin' we know." He said to her not really expecting a response.
"Hey American! You never cease to amaze me." A distinctly British accent called out.
Ritz scowled, his good day ruined by Krissy, she was a real spoiled brat who paid to be a captain of the equestrian team. He sighed before deciding to address her, Echo hated her and pinned her ears flat aggressively.
"What amazin' thing have ah done this time Krissy?" He tried to keep the irritation from his voice.
"You haven't dropped out, for one. And second, the fact that you somehow managed to get the spot as the other captain is shocking. I didn't think you were smart enough for it honestly." She said cruelly.
He glared at her, he knew she liked to make fun of his accent equating it to him being stupid. He, unlike her, had worked his ass off to earn the title as captain and much of the team respected or seemed to respect him. He threw his saddle pad over Echo's back before going to grab his saddle.
"Y'know ah'm not as big'a idiot as ya think ah am. Also, one'a us actually worked ta be captain instead'a payin' with ya daddy's money." He retorted as he pulled Echo's bridle on and tossed his hat to the side to buckle his helmet on.
He flipped her off as he led Echo to the arena, as the pair walked past Krissy, Echo reached over and snapped her teeth at the girl. He got inside the arena and climbed up onto Echo's back, he let out a deep sigh just relieved to be on his beloved horse's back. The pair worked for a while just warming up, when a loud sound made Echo spook and buck. Ritz managed to stay on and get her back under control but now she was jumpy. He looked around but couldn't see anything that would've made that noise, he leaned down and patted Echo's neck as they worked on some exercises.
Suddenly Echo seemed to spook at something, Ritz struggled to keep her calm as she bucked. One moment his horse was under him and the next he hit the ground hard.
Unfortunately, he had hit part of the wall on his way down and now lay in the dirt gasping for air that his lungs wouldn't take in. He was sure he could feel blood seeping through his shirt sleeve, but that was the least of his worries as he had gotten the wind knocked out of him. He managed to force himself to roll onto his side, still struggling to breathe, his eyes screwed shut willing for his body to work.
After what felt like an eternity, air rushed back into his desperate lungs. He immediately started gasping which resulted in him coughing hard as he got used to breathing again. He wheezed as he pushed himself up to his feet, he tried to take a step and ended up falling back to the ground.
He took a moment to catch his breath, while he sat there in the dirt trembling, Echo came back over to make sure he was okay. She gently pressed her nose against his face, he was hurt but she knew he would get up when he was ready, he always did.
Finally after 10 long minutes, he shakily pushed himself back up and grabbed onto the saddle to help steady himself. The pair made their way back to the arena gate, Ritz moved from leaning against Echo's shoulder to unlock the gate and saw a large smudge of blood on her coat. Luckily it was only his blood and she was fine, he would've been beyond upset if she had been hurt.
Krissy was standing near Echo's stall with her arms crossed and a smug look on her face.
"Back so soon? That glue factory reject you insist on riding, throw you off?" She sneered.
He just shot her a dirty look and took Echo back into her stall to take her tack off. Yet, Krissy leaned against the stall doorway.
"Well if you hit your head, maybe that solved your stupidity problem."
"Can ya jus' leave me alone?!" Ritz snapped with a wheeze.
She rolled her eyes and backed off.
"Fine I'm leaving, if I stay any longer I might lose brain cells then I'd sound like you. A fucking idiot." She called as she walked away.
As soon as she was gone, Ritz wrapped his arms around Echo's neck tightly. Tears slowly rolling down his face and he quietly cried. Echo gently nuzzled him, sensing his pain.
He hated that girl but sometimes he wondered. He wondered if what she said was true. Did people think he was stupid, did Alex think that too? He let out a shaky breath and buried his face into the horse's neck.
