AUTHOR’S NOTE: uhhh two chapters one day? we are having our cake and eating it (to everyone who read it early, i’m so sorry the screenshots were misplaced)
𝓸r ── .✦ you weren't in a good place as his friend; his mental state was never any stronger. jumping into a relationship would only make things worse, though neither of you chose to believe it. what was once soft, calming touches, late-night talks, and sweet glances turned to something that lacked it all. only physicality. and when the final constraint snapped, it all fell apart.
⟢ 𝓻achel: i got a request to write an ilia fic inspired by wicked game by chris isaak, and my heart, like, dropped. that song is so gut-wrenching and it literally haunts my tenth-grade self's dreams. that said, this shit is not for the weak </3 i'm like...sad now. but i have plenty more requests to complete that aren't heartbreaking! happy reading (update for anyone who cares: just saw this video of ilia to wicked game!)
── tags below the cut .ᐟ
𝓬ontent: implied sex, neither reader nor ilia are mentally stable, depictions of depressive states, overworking, hurt/no comfort, stale ending
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it was never meant to work out; you were a two-hour drive away, tucked in the corner of the library at all hours of the night for school, and tied up at work almost every afternoon. yet even on the off-chance you even had free time, that was occupied, too, because all of it was reserved for him.
you don't remember when exactly your relationship's strength faltered. you and ilia had been together for two years, and you were both in dark places before you entered the relationship. ilia was still dealing with the heavy weight of not being sent to beijing. he'd been facing the pressure head-on since then, working himself to the bone just to prove himself good enough. you were there, silently, as a friend.
neither of you was in the headspace to maintain a relationship — you both knew that — but it didn't stop you from wishing, or from spending every passing second wondering. from staying awake late at night, even when you were hours away and meant to be focused on your studies, listening to ilia's soft voice tell you about his day through your phone's quiet speaker. you'd been going through the motions for months, and you both knew deep down that your feelings had always been shared, but in fear of destroying what already existed, you suppressed them.
it was december of 2023 when something changed; the air between you shifted irreversibly.
you'd been home for winter break, skating mindless laps around the rink with the newfound experience you'd gained from hours of joining him during practice sessions, just to spend time with him. he felt more at home on the ice than anywhere, yet at times, that very place was the parasite that had been slowly tearing him apart from the inside out.
you stressed the pressure that you'd been feeling in your own life, from the seemingly endless hours of studying at school, being away from everything you knew, even if it was only a two-hour drive. you knew going into the program that law wouldn't be easy. you'd fallen into a bad mental state at the end of your senior year of high school, after the messy breakup with your ex, your parents' divorce, and the creeping fear for the one person that mattered most to you; everything fell into a slow decline, and you couldn't handle it.
ilia had taken you a few blocks away afterward, buying a pair of small hot chocolates and walking on the sidewalk with his shoulder pressed against yours, cold air dusting red over his cheeks as he prompted you to speak. he listened silently, offering the easiness of his presence to you. and in that, he realized just how badly both of you had been suffering.
it started with a comforting kiss, meant to be nothing more than a sweet gesture to ease your nerves. and it was, until a one-time event turned into a handful, then became sporadic hour-long sessions, of soft touches and hands tangled in strands of hair, mouths working in slow tandem to unravel the stress knotting within your bodies.
with time, it became meaningful. you'd lace your fingers between his in public, he'd place a hand on your hip as he guided you around the rink when few others were near, and he'd whisper into your ear when you were alone, the sound of his smile wisping into the air in the gentle caress of his voice.
you never labeled what it was; it wasn't casual, it wasn't physical — it was everything. at times, the only aspect of your entwined lives that even felt like purpose. yet, you never spoke a word of it to anyone other than yourselves, locking its existence in your hearts and throwing away the key.
when you returned to school, life seemed a little easier. like a baby taking its first steps, you eased yourself into a balance, allotting time for work and ilia together and letting his presence be the positive influence it was meant to be. meanwhile, ilia spent most days at the rink. roman watched carefully, helping him through the ups and downs, supporting him endlessly at his competitions.
and by the day's end, you would be on the other end of the line, whispering soft praises into the microphone until his eyes would drift shut. as he slept, he could finally rest, even if just for a few hours. by the end of the next season, he'd won seven consecutive titles, and he intended to uphold that streak.
but that would only complicate things further.
schoolwork suddenly became heavier; you'd be awake until three or four in the morning, studying textbooks and writing papers, analyzing articles until your eyes could barely focus on the pages. your aid only handed out so much money, and with the new programs, books, and supplies you'd need, you had to apply for an off-campus job just to afford the schooling. you never told ilia, instead saying you "needed something to occupy you."
you didn't want to be a charity case for ilia or his family, so you kept it to yourself; let the days and nights blur into one, lose ten to fifteen hours of sleep a week to stay afloat. you hadn't heard from your father in months, as he'd moved away and found a job on the other side of the country, and your mother rarely had a word to say to you when she wasn't drowning herself in wine and guys from the bar.
ilia, on the other hand, pushed his body to its limits (and further). the voice in his head weighed on his shoulders, practically screaming at him to get his act together, or he'd miss his opportunity yet again. so he pushed, and he pushed, and he pushed, until the only thought left swirling around in his mind was improving.
but when the sun would set, and he'd sink into his bed, his knees aching from the relentless training, all he wished for was you. and when he'd pick up the phone, weakly dial your number, and listen to the steady ring emanate from the speaker, his stomach curled in. some nights, you didn't answer anymore. some nights, you did.
"ilia?" you'd asked one night, glasses perched at the tip of your nose as you sat in front of your laptop, books askew on the desk beside it.
"hi," he'd whispered back, voice weak with tiredness. you didn't have to ask to know he'd had a long day. you could hear it in the tone of his voice, sadness behind it that he probably tried to mask.
"hey," you replied, wearing a smile as you placed the phone onto the desk, fingers tactfully pressing the keys on your keyboard as you finished the sentence you'd been writing. "how was your day?"
"it was alright," he'd mumbled, turning onto his side. his necklace caught on his faded gray hoodie, the one he'd worn almost every time he saw you, your scent etched into the fabric. "are you working?"
"yeah…just cranking this assignment out. i might actually finish pretty early tonight."
"i don't want to bother you."
you pulled your inner cheek between your teeth, gnawing until a small shot of pain emitted. "you're not bothering me, ilia."
and that's how things became — short, dismissive, infrequent. casual.
even the little time you had left wasn't enough anymore. it couldn't eradicate the ache in your chest every time his name popped up on your phone, the loneliness that plagued your chest as you sat silently in bed, or for ilia, everything. the "golden boy" persona he'd somehow adapted just a few months before the milan olympics, the pressure that was beginning to build, like snowflakes falling onto grass, slowly covering every inch until finally, all that is seen is the white blanket.
the mask.
you'd finally returned in mid-december, greeting him at his door with a long, quiet hug. your arms had wrapped tightly around his neck, while his hands pressed into your lower back, his face buried in your shoulder. the wisp of wind fanned over your bodies, but neither of you moved, too afraid of shattering the one moment both of you desperately needed.
his breath shook against your skin. you pulled him closer, mumbling a soft apology into his shirt as your lips pressed a kiss to his chest, then his shoulder, then the underside of his jaw as you rose to your toes.
his eyes were unfamiliar when their gaze landed on your face. he leaned down, and you'd met him halfway, mouths colliding desperately while his arms kept you close.
you'd fallen into bed with him minutes later, the door snugly shut behind you as he peeled his t-shirt off and tossed it away. his hands roamed your body, refamiliarizing himself with every last inch that he fought so hard not forget with every passing day.
"i need you," he'd murmured into your exposed collarbone, the tips of his freshly-bleached hair brushing the skin around it. "please."
your compliance was voluntary because you needed it, too. amidst the overwhelming stress, the late nights, and the complete lack of control over your own life, the one thing you could always fall back on was ilia. he would always be there to absorb the weight, despite his own struggles poisoning every last thought in his head.
tangled up in the sheets, mouths devouring one another, fingers laced together with white knuckles, the worries finally released from your bodies and evaporated into the warm air. for the first time in months, your only thought was ilia; not work, not cramming, not the notion of giving up. just the person you loved, above you, all around you, consuming you with his presence until there was nothing left.
yet, something unidentifiable still sat in the deepest crevice of ilia's head; something lodged so deep that even you couldn't evict it.
as he held you in his arms, stroking your hair gently while his thumb rubbed patterns into your waist, ilia stared blankly at the wall beside him. the medals, the plaques, and the posters stared back at him like a threat.
it won't work, they screamed at him. you don't have time for her.
that thought bloomed eerily in his stomach, creeping up to his heart as every day passed.
the strain on your mind and body had become so strong that you opted out of skating with him, instead leaning over the boards to watch. you'd study every jump and sequence, the little intricacies sprinkled into his programs and practices that only you might notice. but you also watched every fall, every step out, and every disappointed shake of his head as he regained himself.
the look had returned; it was unmistakable. ilia was trapped in his head again, and as you stood by — the edge of the boards suddenly feeling as if they were bruising your forearms — you realized that this wasn't enough.
you weren't enough.
perhaps, that was when the first crack finally surfaced in your relationship. when both of you had finally come to terms with the terrifying fact that you were still far too fractured for any of this. that all the last two years had done was put a band-aid on a bullet wound.
yet, you kept trying, and your relationship slowly became a routine. you'd spend a small portion of the day with him, find something mundane to occupy yourselves with, and you'd inevitably end up in his bed. every single time.
eat a meal; fuck. watch an episode of a show; fuck. go for a walk like you used to; fuck.
by the time you had to return to campus, you realized that you and ilia had barely even talked, save for the occasional words spoken between rounds, when your minds were too foggy to address anything of substance. it was all transactional; a means to no visible end that left your lives stagnant.
and as you wrapped your arms around him, parting with a kiss that seared against your lips like punishment, an ache throbbed in your chest that you hadn't felt in years.
the only stable aspect of the relationship was sex.
and god, that stung.
you drowned yourself in your studies the moment your foot stepped on campus grounds again, as if you'd never left, only worse. with the pressure weighing down on your chest, you felt like you couldn't breathe. february approached with malice, and you'd barely had time to settle back into the torturous routine before the single worst month could begin.
ilia was everywhere; on your social media feeds, on television stations across campus, in the local fast food joint with a coca-cola promotion. but worse, he had a residency in your head that you didn't want to pay for.
you should have been there, plain and simple. you should have made time for it, after years of watching him abuse himself over and over for this very moment. you were the one person he needed, rather than wanted, and instead, you let fear crush any semblance of hope left in your body and decided to overload your own life. you used it as an excuse, yet you'd been orchestrating it the whole time.
as you watched the broadcast on your phone's small screen, condensation dripping down the glass of water and landing on your hand, a smile perked at the corner of your mouth. ilia was doing well — really, really well — and you'd convinced yourself the reason was that you weren't there to burden him, to bring him down.
but it faltered fast, for you couldn't be so naïve.
the individual free skate was the final nail in the coffin. you saw the look flash on his face before he could even take his starting pose; you'd studied every inch of his face, every small indicator of his thoughts, for years, until you knew him better than you knew yourself.
every mistake the relationship housed manifested on the ice, and you were both to blame. someone should have spoken up, rather than letting the fire burn beneath you until it all eventually boiled over; the denial, the constant suppression, and the deflection through sex. over time, you'd hollowed yourselves out. it was the exact outcome you'd feared all along, and in thinking you could somehow reverse it, you'd only made it worse.
so much worse.
you slammed your laptop shut, letting the noise echo off the library's walls. the librarian hushed you, but you didn't bother to listen, haphazardly shoving everything into your bag, yanking the zipper closed, and slamming the door behind you. tears brimmed in your eyes, but you tried to will them away, unwilling to let them affect you in front of everyone.
not a soul on the entire campus knew that you even knew ilia; that fact alone should have been enough.
your heart weighed heavily in your chest as you gathered a pile of clothes and stuffed them into a duffel. tears burned your cheeks when you finally allowed them to fall, and they blurred your vision, but you didn't care anymore, anxiously packing as much as you could fit until the bag was full, swinging it over your shoulder as you ran out the door.
"fuck," you cried angrily to no one, the car's interior muffling the noise so you were the only one to hear it, to suffer as you drove back.
the sight of ilia's broken face had been scorched into your vision. and you were blaming yourself for it.
you couldn't return to your house, where your mother would be — or maybe, wouldn't be — and you'd be trapped with your own thoughts until you inevitably snapped. so you went to the only place you knew you could survive, at least for a week or two, until you would see him.
you broke down in tatiana's arms, sobbing into her shoulder as you whispered "it's not gonna work" over and over, until your voice tore in half and shattered in your throat.
she let you stay as long as you needed, making up the guest bedroom with fresh sheets and blankets to keep you comfortable. she ushered you inside to settle in, shutting the door behind her as you dropped your bag on the mattress and let out a deep sigh. you padded into the bathroom to wash your face, let the steam rise and seep into your skin, and inhaled a deep, long-overdue breath that settled in your lungs.
you didn't know what to make of the person staring back at you through the mirror; you didn't recognize her. her hair was tousled, her skin sported dark circles, and she wore a tired expression that transcended her features. the girl you were before any of this was gone, and she'd been replaced by a shell, who worked herself tirelessly until she had nothing left to give, and who pushed the one person away that ever made her feel safe.
but most importantly, the girl looking back at you never should have fallen in love with ilia; that's what twisted the knife in your heart.
you pulled on the gray sweatshirt you'd swiped from him (though he never protested it), letting the soft fabric embrace your figure as you stepped out of the bathroom and flicked the light off. your feet carried you quietly through the hallway, past the guest bedroom, until you were planted in front of ilia's door. you swallowed, bringing a palm to the cold surface, and nudged it open.
not an item had been moved out of place since you'd last seen it. his jacket was still slung across the back of his chair, the sheets were untucked at the foot adjacent to the wall, and your half-empty bottle of perfume still sat atop his nightstand, though the cap was visibly loosened.
you smoothed a hand over the mattress and sat on the edge, turning sideways and carefully lowering your head onto his pillow as you pulled your legs to your chest. your eyes scanned the room, filled with familiarity and a darkness that blanketed over his belongings.
the medals hung neatly on the wall closest to you, alongside the poster someone had made for him. his name was spelled in shiny gold lettering above his closet, where the left door had been left a quarter of the way open. his desk was tidy, but it was lived in — a chip in the wood that you remembered him trying to fix with a paint marker that wasn't even the proper color.
and front and center — like a painful reminder — was a photo of you, perched beside the bottle on his nightstand. it had been taken a few nights after he kissed you for the first time. you looked happy.
tears stung in your eyes, and you let them run down your face, hot and punishing as the skin turned red in their wake. the pillow smelled like him: warm, sweet, a hint of coconut that you'd grown to recognize in nearly an instant.
you stayed like that until your eyes drifted shut, and your body quietly cried itself to sleep.
the following week was dull. your phone would buzz in your pocket, an occasional email from a professor, your friend who hadn't even noticed your disappearance until thursday. or ilia.
a tentative text that you never returned; a photo of him with snoop dogg (whom he'd been ecstatic to meet); a missed call just before his gala performance. a voicemail.
"hey. i'm about to go on. i knew you wouldn't answer, but i just…needed to hear your voice. even if it was just from that recording."
"i miss you. i'm sorry."
you watched the program with red-rimmed eyes, the phone heavy in your palm as you tried to keep from loosening the vice grip that was digging a mark into the side of your finger. it was a routine you didn't recognize. because you hadn't been there.
you couldn't even cry. the tears wouldn't fall. you stared at the screen with nothing behind your eyes and a hollowness in your chest, curled up on ilia's bed, though it offered no comfort to your trembling body. he showed every struggle, every thought, every last ounce of pressure he received from the world to be everything; you knew, and you weren't there for him through any of it.
instead, you'd pull him into the very bed you were shamefully sitting on to "talk."
you were on the edge of his bed, clean sweatshirt slung over your shoulders, fingers gently brushing miu miu's cream fur, when the front door creaked open. the cat jumped from her place in your lap and strutted out of ilia's bedroom, toward the noise coming from the bottom of the stairs.
the sun had set hours before, darkness clouding ilia's room, save for the dim lamplight illuminating from his nightstand. your heart lurched in your chest, and you carefully rose to your feet. your ears followed the sound downstairs: a door closing, the refrigerator pouring water, tatiana's voice a low hum as she greeted her son at the foot of the stairs.
footsteps quietly padded up the staircase and entered the hallway. you smoothed your palms over your thighs and let the heat from your fingertips linger. you felt your pulse in your chest, your fingers, your head; everywhere.
the blond tips of his hair came into view first, followed by his face, exhaustion lacing his features as if it had been brewing for years, and maybe it had.
the moment his eyes caught you, the bag on his shoulder dropped to the floor, and his arms were around your waist, pulling you against him until you could barely breathe. his body melted into yours, and his lips parted with a sigh that caught in the back of his throat. you couldn't stand the way his hand shook on your back, his breathing unsteady in your ear.
"we can't keep doing this, ilia," you'd whispered, an ache registering in your stomach when he pulled back, still holding onto you like a lifeline.
"what?" his voice small, fraying around the edges.
"us," you confirmed quietly. his eyes shifted into staleness, brows twitching just barely enough for you to catch it. you swallowed, skating your palm up until it landed softly on his shoulder. "the back and forth. this game we're playing, ilia…it's not fair to either of us."
a tear sprang to the corner of his eye; it cascaded down his cheek, catching on his jaw. your thumb lifted to brush the drop away, and ilia's eyes closed as he fought to stay composed. he could hardly speak, but he forced the words out of his mouth.
"i'm sorry," he whispered. "i should have been better for you."
"it wasn't you, ilia," you reassured him, shaking your head as your palm gently pressed into his cheek and coaxed him to lean into your touch. "it was never going to work. we both knew that, right? and we tried…but it didn't."
"yeah."
"some things other people can't fix," you swallowed as his fingers squeezed the fabric of your hoodie. "i can't keep being the reason you torture yourself, ilia. i can't watch you tear yourself in half knowing there's nothing i can do about it, because i'm broken, too."
ilia nodded and loosened his grip. "i know."
you inched closer, tilting your head up to plant a chaste kiss on his lips. his fingers flexed at your back, and he lifted a hand to your face, brushing your hair away from it. he returned the kiss carefully, as if it could somehow solve everything, and he relaxed under your touch for the last time, savoring every last second.
he looked down at you with bloodshot eyes as he removed his hands from your body and placed them back at his sides.
"i love you."
tears finally welled in your eyes, and your throat began to constrict as you nodded softly. "i know," you whispered back with a sad smile that burned itself into his vision.
you couldn't bring yourself to say it back; it would hurt too much.
ilia felt you brush past him and walk out the door, but his gaze remained fixed on the opposite side of the room. on the nightstand, your photo, the half-empty bottle. he knew that being with you wouldn't have fixed things, not permanently. and he knew that you were both foolish to ever believe that it would, even if it once felt like it had.
but it didn't stop ilia from wondering if any of this was worth it.
Could you write a part 4 to unrequited? I need to know, does reader escape and make their way to the fight ?
A/N Oh, this has been cooking for so long, let me tell you. I love this little mini series of mine. I know that the stories I've posted recently have been Vox stories, but I am returning to my roots with this one lol.
Unrequited Pt. 4 (Alastor x Reader)
Pairing: Alastor x Reader
Warnings: Canon typical violence. Some medical stuff but super minor, literally just stitching up a wound and the descriptions aren't graphic. Angst. I guess technically hurt//comfort?? in a way??
Word Count: 2,344
Description: Having been trapped in Alastor's old radio tower, Y/n ponders the threat of the angels and the nature of her relationships. That is, until Alastor appears with a gash across his chest.
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If she had been anywhere else, there would have been an answer. Even if she had been in the radio tower attached to the goddamned hotel, things would be different. The thing was, she wasn't. There was no functioning technology Y/n could work with, there was no window she could slam against that would allow her to be seen.
In a way, it was a nostalgic surprise of sorts. Y/n had thought the old tower had disappeared. She wasn't quite sure why Alastor's disappearance, re-appearance, and the creation of a new tower had lead her to believe the old one was gone, but it had. She regretted that misstep now, not that it would have made a real difference.
The first bought of escape attempts had proven all Y/n needed to know about her prison. Though the splintering floors and cracked windows might seem weak, they were far from it. Alastor had done something, had reinforced the space with his powers somehow. There was no use trying to escape because, for someone like her, there would never be an escape. The only way Y/n was getting out was if Alastor let her... or if he died, though Y/n tried not to think about that possibility.
It didn't matter, that she had sworn to hate him. It didn't matter that her anger simmered just below the surface, threatening to boil over. In some part of her, no matter how much Alastor proved her wrong, Y/n still saw him as her earliest friend, her protector. Some secret, hidden part that could not be destroyed still saw that outstretched hand of his on that fatal day and understood friendship, not trickery.
The worst part was that at the end of the day, no matter how much she railed against it: Alastor had been right. The truth of the matter was that she wasn't an ex-overlord, not like Husk and Nifty were. She didn't have some secret, magic power she could unleash in the face of danger, no. At the end of the day, Y/n had always been and would always simply be a sinner. As much as she hated to admit it, it wasn't like the tide of battle would or even could be turned by her presence.
Still, at least she would have been there. At least she would know if they were winning or losing. At least she would have had the opportunity to stand faithfully by the people who had for years been her friends, and those she had added to her repertoire only recently.
Hours passed like days, each second taking up the space of eternity. Y/n huddled in the corner of the studio, her head in her hands.
Sure, she could catch the faintest glimpses of the hotel through the old tower's windows, but it wasn't enough to do more than heighten her anxiety. The fight was still in her, but the fight was unproductive and she knew it. Y/n tried to calm herself, attempted to self-soothe.
Bathed in sickly green light, she tried not to cry as her rage slowly fermented into grief. She felt foolish, she felt so unbelievably stupid - how could anyone be this stupid?
As dawn broke, it brought with it the sounds of battle. There was nothing Y/n could do to stop herself from imagining the worst. She saw the angels, saw their blades dripping with the blood of her friends, of her family, of her home.
Y/n's mind could be a terrible thing. Now, it worked against her like it never had before.
Charlie, sobbing on her knees. Vaggie, having lost her wings once more. Angel, his teasing smile turned into pain as he tried to save Sir Pentious and Husk.... Husk.
She could see him, practically touch him, as he bled out. Nifty would try to defend and she would get a few good hits in, but the angels would be too strong. She too would fall and then-
Y/n's breath caught in her throat.
Alastor.
She wanted to hate him. She did in fact hate him but, at the same time, right now that didn't matter. As the minutes ticked on, all she could see was her friend.
Somehow, that only made her angrier still. It was so... so complicated. When he had been away, Y/n hadn't had to think about any of it. She had been allowed to move on, allowed to forget. Over the course of seven years, she had found peace and then, on a random fucking Tuesday, he had shown back up and thrown everything back into chaos and confusion.
Y/n was tired. She was tired of being angry, tired of fighting but it wasn't like she could stop. It wasn't like the anger ever had an answer, not like the rage was ever satisfied.
Almost as if the mere thought of the man had garnered some change in the universe, Y/n noticed the familiar change in the air as she stared at the floor. Slowly, she raised her head.
There he was - panting, bleeding, piled on the floor at her feet.
Y/n sat frozen for a moment, unable to think, unable to move, unable to breathe. Still trying, and failing, to catch his breath, Alastor looked up. Her eyes met his.
Though he still smiled, though he always smiled, Y/n had known the overlord long enough to know his tells. It was in the crinkling at the edges of his eyes, it was in the was his nose was crunched slightly upward in a perpetual wince.
She watched him carefully with wide eyes, her mouth ever so slightly agape. In normal circumstances, Alastor would have found this show of shock charming, endearing even. Right now, however, all he could feel was pain, all he could feel was rage.
It was then Y/n seemed to notice his staff - snapped in two, a piece in each hand. Her eyes grew wider still, her brow furrowing. She looked back at Alastor, her stare only questioning. There was, for the first time in years, no confrontation to be found.
Well? his gaze seemed to ask and Y/n shook her head slightly, as if banishing some thought or another.
"I didn't think..." she began before trailing off, clearing her throat.
"What didn't you think, my dear."
His voice was mocking, more a demand than a question. It would have set her off, lit the fuse so to speak, if not for the fact that it was also tight with pain.
Y/n got to her feet. She had spent enough time in the tower to know where the first aid kit was hidden. It was there for Husk, for Nifty. It was there for her, not for Alastor.
Popping the hidden panel out of place, Y/n was relieved to find it still present where she had remembered. Brushing the dust off, she picked it up.
Y/n took a deep breath, she steeled herself.
If she just left him, if she just watched, who was to say that this wound couldn't be fatal? She would be free, on the time of his death. Husk would be free and so would Nifty. Sure, Alastor could force her to help - if he even truly needed help in this moment, Y/n wasn't entirely sure - if she was unwilling, but then at least she would have taken a stand against him, right?
The thought was gone as soon as it had arrived. On autopilot, Y/n walked back over to Alastor and got to her knees beside him.
"What happened?" she asked, reaching out and moving the shreds of his clothing aside so she could properly see his wound.
His staff was on the floor now, its pieces flanking his wounded form. Alastor tried not to wince as her gentle fingers accidentally caught on the edge of his wound. He tried to still the racing in his chest, the stampede, the bird fluttering in its cage. He couldn't remember the last time she had touched him that wasn't to shove him away. He couldn't remember the last time her grace had been directed towards him.
"Adam happened." Alastor said, his eyes fluttering shut.
He feigned a wince, so as to excuse his unconscious action. If Y/n had caught him in the lie, she didn't show it. Almost mechanically, she turned to the little first aid kit.
The sound of the old zipper eating its way across its teeth filled the silence. As if she had done it a thousand times before, Y/n dipped her gentle hands into the bag, retrieving the pack of needles and the sutures within.
She probably had done it a thousand times before, Alastor thought to himself. She had probably patched up Husk and Nifty, maybe even given the guests at the hotel some help over the course of the time they had spent there.
It was then he realized - her hands were trembling. Y/n turned back to Alastor. She took a deep breath. With practiced grace - Alastor was now certain it was in fact practiced - she pulled a needle from the pack and separated a suture. With practiced grace, she threaded the needle.
"What happened to the others?"
She refused to meet his gaze as she asked this, fear making itself evident in her trembling tone. When he did not respond, Y/n took another deep breath. She prepared herself for the worst.
"You were supposed to keep Adam off their backs." Y/n stated, "If you're here, then..."
Alastor let out a pained chuckle.
"What, am I last on your list of concern, my dear?" he joked, though the sentiment expressed was very real.
Y/n shook her head.
"No." she admitted, "But you're here."
And they're not. The words hung, unspoken in the air between them. Alastor let them live for a moment, let them breathe, let the tension build before he put them in the ground where they belonged.
"They're fine, mostly. They're holding their own."
Y/n let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. At last, she looked back at Alastor.
"This is probably going to hurt." she announced, trying to keep her voice light and her tears at bay, "I am going to need you to hold your shirt back."
There was something so painfully familiar about it, how in the face of all this danger and doom the love, the care, seemed to bloom. Feelings Y/n had thought were long dead welled up inside her as she leaned over Alastor, needle in hand.
Y/n pushed her conflict, her confusion, aside. Now was not the time. These were things to be dealt with later.
Alastor inhaled sharply as the needle pierced his skin.
"I'm sorry." Y/n sighed, dragging the suture through, "I warned you."
The thing was that it wasn't pain, not really anyways. There was pain, both physical and emotional, but it all seemed fruitless in the face of Y/n's long awaited kindness. In this moment it almost felt like nothing had ever changed between them.
Alastor watched as her hair threatened to escape from behind her ears. Alastor fought the urge to tuck it back into place. Such a release could bring everything crashing to the floor, could make things worse than they already were. There was no time for weakness and there was never any space for it.
Still, he couldn't wrap his head around it. He was sure - positive in fact - that Y/n would only ever meet him with refined rage, with distilled hatred, again. He had broken things. Without meaning to, he had broken things and then, quite intentionally, he had fractured them further. Part of him had almost expected her to laugh when he materialized in the tower.
So no, it wasn't with pain that he took in breath, not really anyways. Alastor didn't bother to correct her.
"What was it?" Alastor asked through clenched teeth, his claws gripping the edges of his now unbuttoned shirt tightly as he tried not to tremble at the feeling of her fingers brushing against his skin.
"What was what?" Y/n asked lightly, her eyes narrowed with concentration as she tied off her stitch and moved on to the next.
"What you started to say earlier."
"Oh."
She was silent for a moment. Wether she was thinking or assessing her options, Alastor didn't know. As she tied off the second stitch, Y/n at last spoke.
"I was going to say that I didn't know you could get hurt."
Alastor was glad her eyes were focused elsewhere. He tried to keep his tone light and teasing. He prayed to gods he didn't believe in that she would take any misstep as an admittance of pain and nothing else.
"And why is that, my dear?" Alastor asked, "I am just the same as anyone else. At the end of the day, we're all flesh and blood."
Y/n remained silent as she moved onto the final stitch. When it was complete, she turned from him. Refusing to meet his eyes, Y/n replaced everything in the first aid kit before getting to her feet.
Alastor waited with baited breath. It was almost as if he could feel the rage building back up inside the girl as he watched her. Y/n's movements were too practiced, too intentional, as she put the kit back in its hiding spot, for it to be disguising anything else.
It wasn't until the panel was back in place that, with a heavy sigh, she turned to face him. Alastor was surprised to see not the usual fire of anger in Y/n's eyes but something other.
Placing her hands on the wall, she leaned back, watching him carefully. At last, she shrugged.
"I don't know. I guess I just thought you were different."
It was then, and only then, Alastor was able to identify the hidden emotion. It was grief.
