Today we have our first creation prompt! You can write a drabble, draw some art, make a moodboard, or create anything else that strikes you!
How's your whumpee's sleeping been lately? Is it the fitful sleep of someone who can't let their guard down, or the deep sleep of someone who realizes they're finally safe at last? Unable to sleep from the pain, or unconscious from anesthesia? Alone, or in the arms of a loved one, or in a hospital bed, or in the dungeons of their enemy?
Do they have dreams? Or, if we're very lucky, nightmares?
Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to tag us @whumpmasinjuly and #whumpmasinjuly when you do!
CW: Implied whump of a minor (OC is 17), drugged whumpee, isolation, captivity, pet whump
Baldur lay in a tangle of limbs in the center of the bed, drifting in and out of a doze he couldn't escape. His thoughts drifted like fog, dissipating entirely when he cracked open his eyes to watch the light as it moved shadows along Sir's balcony, coalescing again when he closed them and let himself be lost in the warmer, soothing darkness.
Get up, his thoughts whisper. Walk out the door. Show the security guards at the stairs you're here. Let them see you. Maybe someone will help you.
No one will help him, the stronger thoughts know. This is what he is. They'd only look, with cold disgust, the way Miss Nancy looks at him. Then they'd push him back into the hallway, close the door, and call his Sir to tell him what Baldur has done.
He couldn't stand up if he wanted to, anyway. The most he can do is tap, fingertips dancing over silk sheets and soft mattress, making no sound at all. He watches his fingers for a while, tapping in rhythms, allowing himself the worst of rebellions-
A low, tuneless hum, a soothing sound underneath the roiling slow-moving turmoil in his mind.
Sir would punish him for this, but... he's alone here, right now. He's so quiet Miss Nancy won't catch him, and it feels good to tap and to hum. It feels so good.
Tears build in his eyes, leak out over his nose and down the corner to soak into the sheets below him.
It feels so good, to tap just a little bit.
Just a little.
Just while he's all by himself.
He's alone today - and tomorrow - and the day after that. His Sir has gone and left him here, he's on some kind of trip to see the survivors of a mudslide during a wet and rainy year.
Sir had patted him on the head as he slipped on his favorite suitjacket, practiced rolling up his sleeves for the cameras, parted his hair just so. Baldur had watched, dazedly, while he gave his camera-smile to the mirror at this angle and that one, until he was satisfied with its image of sincerity.
You'll stay nice and quiet while I'm gone, darlin'. Miss Nancy'll keep you fed, and I'll see you when I get back. Won't some time to yourself be nice?
Yes, Sir, Baldur said, because he was supposed to.
But... it isn't nice, being alone.
It's horrible.
Miss Nancy comes in to leave a dish with some food on it, returns to take whatever he hasn't eaten a little bit later, and otherwise... it's just Baldur, alone on the bed, in a room where nothing happens but the sun shifting with an awful deliberation along the floor.
He misses his Sir, if only because Sir would talk to him, and Miss Nancy only stares with her cold eyes and calls him names she doesn't dare say when Sir is right there to hear it. She leaves Baldur crying and guilty for what he's done, and he doesn't know what he's done, only that it's his fault he's here.. He signed up for this, anyway.
There's nothing to be done, now, Miss Nancy snaps at him, holding out the glass of water for him to drink. You made your bed, didn't you? So lie in it.
He wants his Sir to come home.
The pills Miss Nancy feeds him are different than his usual ones. They leave him shivering with a false cold and nearly motionless. He has to crawl to the bathroom, even just standing is too exhausting to even think about. He doesn't have to fight the energy inside of him to stay still, but somehow this feels even worse.
His limbs feel like someone has tied blocks of concrete to them to weigh him down.
His eyes slip closed against his will. His hum is silent. His fingers stop moving. Sleep comes for him with an iron grip. It's dreamless and suffocating and feels like drowning, not rest.
He takes in a deep breath before he's once again dragged under.
I took some liberties interpreting the prompt "sleep" but I think it still fits. Super excited since this is my first fiction piece on Tumblr and my first attempt at a Box Boy Universe story! I'm also new to these TW tags so please let me know if there's anything I missed.
Also! The terms "boy" and "kid" get thrown around but Tinsel's nineteen, no minor whump in this piece.
Standing in front of the man was a boy, shaking so hard it looked as if he might rattle his joints out of place. Unbuttoned, the white button-down parted to reveal a ladder of red welts. His skin looked as if it had been vacuum-sealed, his bones and eyes standing away from his body unnaturally. Crossing his legs, the man moved the phone to the other side of his head.
"Yes. No, I won't hold. Yes, I would like to talk to her. Thank you."
The man's fingers tapped out a rhythm on the arm of the couch.
"Name?" the man said. He gave the boy a nudge with his foot, jolting him upright.
"Name," the man repeated, and the boy mouthed sorry while fumbling for his sleeve. A tag was tied around his wrist and he squinted at it a moment.
"Tinsel, six-twenty-three."
"Hello, yes, is this Miss Marrs? The boy you sent me--yes there is a problem. To start it would appear he's refurbished."
The boy shook his head, wide eyes meeting the man's stare.
"That's what I said, refurbished. Actually, that might be too strong a word, it implies that he has been restored to some kind of usable state."
"Please," the boy whispered, flinching away at the way the man hardened his eyes.
"No, I'm not going to file the form. He's got visible welts, probably lice, I do not want him in my house any longer. The shipment was two days late and now--thank you. Yes, this number is a good one to reach me at. I expect to be hearing from you soon."
The phone clattered onto the side table leaving the man's hand free to massage his temple.
"I--" the boy's voice was almost too quiet to hear. "I don't have lice. Master."
"Did I give you permission to speak?"
The boy's teeth clicked shut.
"And get off the rug."
There was the shatter of ice against the glass as the man poured himself a drink at the side table. If they'd known who he was, this would never have happened. Or if he'd been cognizant enough to realize who they were. A whimper came from across the room, the boy was desperately trying to bite back his tears. Unprofessional.
"Snap out of it before you get snot all over the floor."
"Please don't send me back," the boy said.
"Quiet,"
"They'll put me to sleep," the boy was panting behind trembling lips. Then quieter, like he was considering it for the first time. "They'll put me to sleep."
"Probably because you can't follow orders. Don't make me repeat myself."
The boy's Adam's apple bobbed but he kept his mouth shut. This was supposed to be simple, the man thought, it's what I deserve for making a spur-of-the-moment decision. He hardly knew anything about box boys, just the minimum needed for work. He certainly wasn't planning on getting one himself.
But still reeling from his last kill, and the ensuing paycheck, assassin Bartholomew Claire had splurged. Should have waited until I was sober, he thought, wrinkling his lip at the generic brand printed on the side of the box still haunting his living room, cheap wood contrasting with every other piece of furniture in the penthouse.
Whumpees-B-Us, with a B? Which was more embarrassing, the faux brand or the fact he'd fallen for it?
Another groan.
The boy would be gone soon enough and Claire could forget this had happened. It had been a moment of, not weakness. Irrationality. If he could just get the hideous thing out of his home he'd be able to forget the whole thing. Like nothing ever happened.
Claire opened a book and pretended to read until the doorbell rang. It was dark out already, stars showing through the glass wall that revealed the city below.
"Hello, no, don't come in," Claire said, "Get over here, Tinsel."
The boy shuffled unsteadily, he hadn't moved an inch all afternoon. Couldn't even remember his name, Claire thought.
"Something you're not happy with, sir? Whumpees-B-Us employee asked. Or maybe this was someone they subcontracted, either would explain the cheap beige suit.
"Yes. I'm returning the boy you sent me, here you go. And when can I expect my refund?"
"Refund sir?" The person behind the suit gave a noncommittal smile.
"I want my money back," Claire said, speaking slowly. "I want him gone. Do I need to sign anything before you leave?"
"Ah well, yes, you will need to sign this complaint of service, and if you wouldn't mind taking this short survey describing you're experience with us--"
"And then you can leave?"
"Yes, I can go yes, and then you can put your little pet to bed," they gave a knowing wink.
"You are taking him with you," Claire said, through grit teeth. "Tonight."
"I'm afraid that's impossible since the complaint of service will need to be on file for at least seventy two hours before it can be reviewed by one of our--"
Claire stared with half-lidded eyes. I shouldn't have to put up with this, he thought, I could just close the door, put down the pet myself, put down their whole stupid off-brand, this clown's neck is small enough I could probably do it with one hand--
"Excuse me," Tinsel said, hesitating. "I'm sorry but are you offering Master a return or a refund? Only, code 5.16.04 says that rebates are only issued during refunds, and rebates are the only exchange that requires an associate's signature on a complaint of service. And um, and if Master was being issued a refund he would have been read the refund fees and exceptions policy when it was issued, which would have been, been over the phone?"
The boy glanced up at Claire.
"I didn't hear anything like that, HR Representative Marrs told me he'd be out of my house by the end of the day," Claire said.
"Ah, yes, well," The suited individual rubbed their hands nervously.
"The conversation is recorded according to, to the company policy so there won't be any question in court," Tinsel said. "I mean, unless it wasn't recorded, but, um, but that would be a bigger problem, wouldn't it?"
Claire looked down at the boy, bartering in the doorway. The boy's legs were still trembling from the effort of standing at attention all afternoon, and his bangs clung to his forehead with sweat.
"Oh no, no that's quite, a return works just fine. You won't get to keep the boy though, with a return,"
"I don't want to," Claire said, "Just look at him."
The boy hung his head and let out a shaky exhale.
"Ah, yes," the employee scrambled, "It's only most people prefer refunds since they get to keep the--we have to dispose of them anyway and that costs, well, most people,"
"I'm not most people," Claire said. The employee laughed nervously.
"I see, yes, just take this then and sign here at the top, and again here,"
"Don't," the boy said, and then his extended hand began shaking worse. "I-I'm sorry, I mean you can if you want, it's just that it's a mutual safety agreement, which uh, it's saying you can't sue them even if they violate policy, so he might not, they wouldn't have to take me back or refund you."
Claire glared from the boy who wouldn't shut up to the employee babbling over him.
"Now it isn't anything like that," the employee said quickly, "This is to keep you safe! The protections go both ways, we won't sue you for,"
"You don't have any reason to sue him but he--" the boy said.
"This kid's just a slave, he doesn't know what he's--"
"You animals are the one's who made me memorize it all in the first place! And again when I was returned, and again when--"
The boy was screaming through tears now and Claire shoved him away from the door.
"Just shut up, both of you. For the love of--here," Claire picked up the cheap crate and used it to shove the employee into the hallway. "The least you can do is dispose of this for me. Goodbye."
Claire slammed the door and leaned on it a moment. It just couldn't be easy, could it? No, he could still fix this. The stupid boy was pricey but he could make it back in a week. Nothing he would miss.
"Kneel down," Claire said, "Right there,"
The boy fell on the concrete floor. The wall behind would have to be whitewashed again, but at least he wasn't near the furniture. Bloodstains were a lot harder to get out of wood. Claire drew a pistol from his shoulder holster and took a step closer.
"Look up,"
Keeping his eyes squeezed shut, the boy raised his head and whimpered as the cool barrel touched his forehead. Slowly letting out his breath, Clair let his hand steady.
"You didn't want them to take you and put you to sleep, did you?"
The boy whined.
"Did you?" Claire said, applying a little more pressure.
"N-no, no, Master,"
"So what were you doing cutting in with all that code and policy and--whatever that was?"
"I--" the boy swallowed, "They made me learn it all. It's the law, and I've been, I've seen other returns so,"
"That salesperson knew the code as well as you," Claire said, "That didn't stop him from trying to pawn you off on me, why didn't you go along with it?"
The boy was struggling to breathe, his eyes flickered open and quickly shut again.
"Please,"
"Answer me," Claire said, and a tear escaped from the corner of the boy's eye.
"I, I know I'm a useless pet. But you wanted to return me so I thought that maybe if I could help, help it go smoother you'd be happy and,"
The boy tried to lower his head but was stopped by the barrel between his eyes.
"I just want to be good," Tinsel squeaked out, barely a whisper.
Claire watched him for a moment, finger taught on the trigger. If nothing else, the boy cried pretty. Funny that I hadn't noticed earlier, Claire thought, he's certainly done enough of it today. And if Claire ignored the bloodied shirt the boy's torso had a satisfying curve to it. Even the hair, it may have been hazel instead of blonde like he ordered, but brush the mats out and. . .
"A good pet? And you make a scene on my doorstep. Really now, you'll have to do better than that," Claire said, holstering his weapon.
Just a little something from the irony of being sleep deprived.
CW// implied captivity, aftermath of torture, nightmares, ankle chain and some caring for the Caretaker.
Caretaker’s eyes snapped open in the middle of the night. Memories, the worst of their fears and the horrible truth had mixed inside their head in their sleep. Damped in a cold sweat, Caretaker closed their eyes and hugged themselves tight.
“It was just a dream” they whispered “We’re safe. They’re safe”
As the words left their mouth they stretched their neck to the floor, hoping to find Whumpee curled up in their sea of blankets in the ground, but finding them empty and going cold.
Caretaker took a deep breath before shakily swinging their feet over the bed and walk up to the door.
The shadows and the moonlight had been their only company for too long, yet the unfamiliarity of what had been their home after such a long time, still made Caretaker slide their hand over the walls to guide themselves. Yet another night they ached for being at home finally, and yet still expecting to find the locked door, the pipe to where their ankles were chained to, but finding just their couch and a fluffy carpet instead.
“Can’t sleep either?” Whumpee asked from the spot in the ground they were sitting on. Wrapped up in blankets and faintly illuminated by the small desk lamp besides them. Their cheeks were still hollow and Caretaker could see scars beginning to fade over their arms, but that had never made Whumpee stop smiling so warmly when they extended their hand to Caretaker. “I have some space for you too” they said, opening up the blanket as an invitation.
Caretaker grinned as they walked to them, finding being wrapped in the weighted blanket comfortable, but simply having Whumpee to lean onto what made their heart ease finally.
I know, I know. I missed days one and two. So to introduce myself: "Hi I am Gypsy and I am really interested in villain whumpees! Right now, I am righting a series called "Drowning" that depends if people want it continued will continue. I have a werewolf book that I am writing (guess, villain whumpees again). I love to workout, ride horses, and write. I have my cats, horse, cows, and poultry who are the loves of my life. I don't like pigs or dogs, but I have them."
And how I found whump? "I was into whump (didn't know what it was called) in third grade. I was loved Warrior Cats, especially the battle/care scenes. With Pete's Dragon in elementary school, I told my friends that my favorite part was when the parents died. *no comment*. Everyone probably thought I was a sadistic murderer in the making. Anyway, I found whump on pinterest, looked it up on google and then convinced Mother to let me get tumblr. And so here I am!"
Anyway. Here is the snippet. Inspired by this by @laurenhufflepuff2. @whumpmasinjuly do I tag this? Sorry if I don't.
Warnings: battle scene, death, self-drugging, field medicine mention
~
A fire burned deep in Villain's veins, threatening to come to the surface like a scuba diver ready to emerge. It boiled within, lapping at his self-control and nerves until he was jittery. He twitched his fingers, brow furrowing, but nothing soothed the flames. Nothing kept them down.
Nothing kept them in control.
Villain jumped into a crouching position and started to rock back and forth. He eyed his desolate surroundings. Classic war rubble with bleeding heroes and villains alike. Gosh, he should be out there counting the casualties and caring for the wounded...
It was a fight with Supervillain. Villain united his troops with Hero's just for the occasion- not that it was a permanent treaty. No, Villain was too thin on his promises for that and Hero would never allow herself to sign a contract agreeing to a villain. Nope, it would never happen.
They weren't even friends. Acquaintances at best, but even that was a bit far fetched. That's right, the correct terminology was enemy, or nemesis, or foe. They were opposites: one with golden morals and the other with none. Every thing about them was different, even their hair. But they both had one similarity and that was a woman of the arrogant name Supervillain.
Which is why they allied for one night- to stop her advances on the city and to protect Villain's special orb that gave him his superpowers, the flaming fire that was currently waiting to explode.
Villain groaned, clutching at his temple as dizziness and nausea coursed through him. He dug his heels into the ground, crying out very slightly. He was sure that someone was watching him; he could feel their peering eyes glaring into his back, but he drew his mind away from that. His body felt like one big fireball and he was sweating profoundly.
It was escaping. His powers were escaping and ready to unleash its fury. He gasped for breath and pleaded with himself to soothe the powerful surge, but nothing alleviated it.
A figure was creeping along his line a vision, obscuring his left side and leaving his right open to view the destruction and death. He groaned, collapsing forward and pressing his nose into the ground.
"Villain?" A voice, definitely, and spoken to him, but Villain couldn't bring himself to exactly register the meaning or speaker of the word. He held out a quivering hand as if asking for someone to wait- or in this villain's case, to be quiet.
"Is he hurt?"
"Are you alright?"
"Oh gosh, I think he's gonna pass out."
The voices floated around Villain's world languidly, none having any known meaning or intent of purpose. They were just there.
Suddenly, as if his last straw of instinctual push persuaded him to deal with the dilemma, Villain jumped up. He ignored the lightheaded feeling and ran to the medical tent.
Trucks held down the extra long canopy, giving the doctors plenty of shade as they stabilized the wounded. Villain could hear the rumble of nearby helicopters, whether or not they meant anything to his swimming head, and the strident shrill of ambulances.
He rushed to one of the silver fords and opened the tailgate. Rummaging blindly through endless different bottles and applies, he found what his primitive logic was searching for.
His found treasure was a heavy, heavy sedative. He also grabbed a syringe, inserted a needle and prepared the drug.
He acted without any conscious will. He got like that when his powers threatened to overpower him. But luckily, his subconscious was still intact.
He filled the syringe up. It might've been an overdose, but that was besides the point. He needed to sleep, to be unconscious, so that he could dampen his powers.
He again could hear those floating words, fixating on Villain's ears. This time around, however, as miniscule as it was, they held meaning.
"He's gonna drug himself."
"Someone stop him!"
Villain could hear the trampede of footsteps, but the deed was already done. The needle was in his thigh and the fire was extinguishing. The world slowed down as Villain collapsed face first on the ground. Blackness crept towards him in obnoxious slow motion. He breathed deeply allowing sleep to encase him in its safe blanket.
Hero ran towards Villain and quickly searched for a pulse. It was too faint, way too weak and slow for her liking. Gosh, did he take such a heavy dose...
"Why did he do that?" Someone asked, astounded.
"I-i think, now don't quote me on this," Hero replied. "I think he almost lost control of his powers. When he wakes up, well ask." Hero didn't want to think of the "when" as being a lie, but she also didn’t want to think that Villain would never wake. That was a possibility right?
Whumpmas in July Day 3: Sleep (Or the lack thereof - a slow descent into madness)
They’re not sure how long they’ve been in this cell, though they know that the guards have come and gone. They’re not sure if the woman sitting across from them now has been there before. They’re not entirely sure that she exists.
They had tried to count at first, but as the seconds turned to minutes and the minutes turned to hours, and their eyelids grew heavier and heavier, they couldn’t really remember what they were counting to begin with.
Sometimes there are voices, begging and screaming and talking to them. Telling them to give in. Telling them to hold out. At first they told themself that they were just the guards, but now the voices twist and mingle in their mind, a cacophony of noise.
Pain is a constant. Sometimes it’s sharp and bright, dragging them back into the harsh light of their cell against their will. Sometimes it’s a dull ache that they’re dimly aware of, their mind elsewhere. The only thing they know for certain is that the pain is worst if they dare close their eyes.
Thoughts slip through their mind. The harder they try to hold on, the more they run away from them, like squeezing wet cornflower. They’re not sure why they think of that, but they imagine the the sticky white substance between their fingers, the way they played with it at school. They imagine it for hours. Or maybe mere minutes.
They catch themself talking out loud sometimes, then realise they can no longer recall what it was they said. There’s things they know they shouldn’t say, languages they know they shouldn’t speak. Did they say that out loud? What does out loud mean when all the voices in their mind are now outside?
They were hungry once. They suppose they still are, though they can’t remember what that’s meant to feel like. Sometimes there is water and sometimes it drowns them but somehow it always feels like a mercy. The water is cold. The water makes them feel real.
They kneel. It hurts less when they kneel. They wait. They know eventually they will no longer be able to kneel. They hope that maybe soon there will be darkness.
Kieran had watched over him the last three days carefully. He was healing perfectly fine and eating well too. It was mentally Kieran was worried about. Elliot stopped sleeping in his room, he couldn’t go near the stairs anymore. He slept on the couch refusing any other blankets and pillows Kieran would bring. He only managed to get small intervals of sleep before waking up screaming, sobs echoing through his home once again. Tonight he wanted to try something different. Dinner was quiet as usual, aside from the gentle prodding from him trying to get Elliot to tell him what he’d done while he was at work.
“I watched cartoons...again, but I cleaned the kitchen and I mopped!” Elliot stammered, his fork trembling in his hand. Kieran told him he didn't have to clean anything at all, but Elliot insisted on it even though he could barely stand, let alone clean something. Kieran didn't bother chastising him about it though. He was scared enough about just admitting to watching cartoons.
“I can tell. You know you don't have to though, right?” Kieran spoke softly, hiding anything that sounded condescending in his voice behind a soft smile. Elliot’s brows furrowed. Kieran shook his head rapidly.
“B-But if that's what you want to do that’s fine, as long as you're happy!” he chirped. Elliot put his head back down continuing to eat. Kieran wasn’t exactly sure the message had gone through completely but he could worry about that later. On cue, after dinner, Elliot would get from his seat, pad over to the couch, and curl up. Kieran turned on the lamp he’d given him as usual. Elliot gave a small wave before turning the other way. Kieran didn’t bother staying awake himself when he got to his room. That was a scream he didn’t think anyone could sleep through.
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
It’d been barely 3 hours when Elliot’s screaming pierced through the silence. Kieran rose up groggily fumbling with the door. He slowly crept down the stairs, as if he could scare Elliot anymore. The floorboard hissed, Elliot whipped his head around.
“M'sorry I didn’t- I’ll be quiet! Please I’m sorry!” he sobbed. Hands quickly coming up to protect himself.
“S’okay, not gonna hurt you. Let’s just try something new, ok?” He started softly. Elliot hiccupped looking at him with wide eyes. Kieran lowered himself a bit, holding out his arms. Elliot’s knuckles were as white as his hair with how tightly he had the blanket in his grip.
“M’not gonna hurt you, c’mere.” His words still slurring from sleep. Elliot reached out for him shakily, Kieran took him gently from the couch. Carrying him bridal style back up the stairs. He was relieved to find that his ribs weren’t poking into him when he had to carry him anymore. Elliot shut his eyes the moment he saw where Kieran was taking him. He made the journey up the stairs quickly. He side eyed the shattered door to Elliot's room. He didn't remember much of what happened, but from the way Elliot's heart began to speed up he knew taking him inside probably wasn’t the best idea. He turned back down the hall to his room.
Elliot sniffles subsided as Kieran place him on the bed. Kieran gestured to the side on the left and Elliot scrambled to it, wiping tears out of his eyes.
“If you feel scared, you can hold onto me. I don’t think you’ve gotten more than a few hours of sleep this week.” Kieran yawned. Elliot begrudgingly moved closer to him wrapping his frail arms around Kieran’s larger one.
“I’ve got you.”
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
Kieran's eyes fluttered open, eyes meeting Elliot’s sleeping face nuzzled into his arm. He hadn’t seen him look so peaceful since he'd been brought home. But if sleeping was his only escape from whatever was plaguing his mind, Kieran was going to make sure Elliot at least got to enjoy that.
CW: This ones pretty bare, more of a dull pain and comfort rather than hurt. Medication mention, some barely self destructive behavior, does this even count as whump? Nathan Prescott.
----
Nights rarely went without being woken up.
Whether that be in a cold sweat, his clothes drenched and teeth chattering as he climbed out of bed to the shower, or with a burning pain tearing and pulling at his leg. The meds all hit each other terribly, but after so much trial and error you begin to be okay with the side effects. It was either this, or staying in bed all day doing nothing, unable to do anything. He could sacrifice a little bit of sleep anyways, it wasn’t worth it.
But now… There was him in the picture.
Nathan worried about waking him up every time he would wiggle out from under the sheets. Worry about waking up as he would slip into the shower, or pull on his shoes to leave the apartment. If he did decide on the former, like tonight, he would wonder if Warren would notice and mention it in the morning over coffee, just before he had to run off for the day. He ran through a million and one different scenarios on what he would say, how to answer perfectly.
Someone like him, it would be a miracle from god if he didn't have nightmares. Nightmares trapped behind a glass wall, being locked out from doing anything, only able to watch the blood spill and robes burn, stuck just behind his eyes through a thick haze. He turned the knob all the way to the left first, letting burning steam and water splash against his skin, opening his pours and all the dirt stuck in them from when he inevitably forgot to wash his face. It always seemed to be the smallest things, the mundane and ritualistic things he couldn’t quite get. It was better when Warren was there, someone to keep him on the schedule, on some sort of routine, but some nights just fell through the cracks.
He flexed his toes against the white linoleum floor, just to get the feeling back in his leg. His hands were just barely shaking, rubbing at his face, through dirty blonde locks that had days of product in it. Some things just fell through the cracks.
Nathan could almost melt in the heat of the steam, let it sink into his skin and follow it down the drain. Just melt away from the world, the fluorescent and disinfectants. It was a nice thought, to just step away from the world for a second, to let it all melt away from you.
But again… There was him. Warren. The dipshit that he let in his dorm room once and couldn’t get enough of. Somehow they landed out here, away from the hills of Arcadia Bay, in a studio apartment Nathan's father did not trust him with, alone at least. Warren was his little secret, someone that his old world wouldn’t be able to touch, not over Nathan's dead body.
He let out a little breathy laugh in the steam, just at the thought, then reached out to turn the dial the opposite direction, icy cold. It was just a quick burst, enough to give his skin life from all the heat had taken. He wasn’t under it long before turning it all the way off, hearing the smallest knock at the door.
“Nathan?” He heard from the other side, eyes down as he watched water drip from his body.
“Yeah?”
Drip drip drip, down the drain, anywhere else.
Conversations with the man were hardly anything to be scared of, he wasn't. But conversations at all, through a door, in the middle of the night, were generally nerve inducing.
There was a small pause, then trying to open the door, “Sorry, are you almost done?
Nathan’s breath caught in his throat, just standing in the shower with nothing else. He quickly grabbed his towel, patting himself down before throwing on a clean set of clothes. The dirty ones were thrown on the floor, he could take care of them later. Warren didn’t say anything else, the studio was silent, listening to Nate’s feet against the wet linoleum, then, the door clicked. His hair was wet and messy, face flushed from the quick change in temperature. Water soaked the neck of his clean t-shirt, on the back of his neck where his hair dripped.
Warren gave this tilted kind of smile, arms out straight, and Nathan fell right in them. The younger brunette had filled out over the years, lanky limbs finally looking right when he grew to his full height. He was definitely bigger than Nathan, enough to rest his chin on the top of his head as he held him against his chest. “How are you feeling?” It felt like a dumb question, but Warren asked it anyways.
“Just fine, Graham.” Nathan locked his hands around Warren’s waist, the others over his shoulders, holding him as they stood outside the bathroom door. “I’m just fine.” He felt the hesitancy in the others movements, and spoke again. “I’m not fucking sensitive.”
Well. It came out wrong, but the meaning got by nonetheless.
He felt the other’s hand slip into his hair, brush at oily and wet locks, push them back and away from his forehead. That water dripped down his neck, onto Warren’s hand. “Do you need some advil or something? I got those strawberry melatonin things, if they’d help.”
Nathan let out a breath against Warren’s shirt, then in again, taking in the cedar scent of his cologne, mixed with the seaside smell of their laundry detergent.
Their laundry detergent, it sounded so fucking domestic.
“You should try and go back to bed,” Warren spoke again, resting his chin on top of Nathan’s wet hair. “Just a few more hours before we gotta be up.”
We this, and ours that, Nathan’s teeth clenched together, throat warm and tight as he gripped tighter around the tall brunette's waist. Someone looking out for him, who seemed like they cared about him, who wanted to take care of him, it all feld similar. Like a sweater you meant to throw out, scratching at your skin, yet you wear it regardless, lest it go to waste.
“Nathan?”
Warren’s voice was grating, scratching at Nathan’s ears like wool. He gulped, pulling away in a harsh movement, letting his messy hair fall back over his eyes. He couldn’t even say a word, too frightened of the cracks in his voice, almost stomping to his bed, grabbing one of the blankets before stopping back in front of Warren. He couldn’t look up at him, just squared his jaw with mumbled words, “I’m sleeping on the couch. Go back to bed.” He didn’t wait to see if Warren would, chances were he would probably just start the coffee machine and leave. Nathan just took the blanket to the living kitchen dining area, pulling it over him as he fell onto the couch.
It was a cheap thing he managed to buy with his own money, dragged up the steps of his building, and into his apartment. It didn’t cost much, but nuzzling his face into the corner of it, back to the TV, the smell of mothballs in his throat, the plush blanket draped over him.
Just alone.
Completely alone.
Quiet.
It was nice.
Empty, and nice.
No one to pull him one way or the other, even if he could hear footsteps through the rooms. Warren didn’t matter right now. Nothing mattered right now. Just the few hours he could strangle until he had to be a functioning human being.
