(scaramouche/wanderer is referred to by the name zerah, modern au, hurt/comfort, reference to trauma, codependency, spirals/panic attacks, zerah threatens to spank the reader (once), self deprecation, abandonment issues)
you and zerah exchange comfort like the way a cat chases a sunbeam from east to west. slowly, sleepily, and with warmth that waxes high and wanes low. you both cherish moonlight.
the first time zerah crawl into your bed, it's late. early morning, perhaps, though the city light has hidden the stars. only neon spills through the slits in the blinds. you toss and turn, half-awake, a bit too cold with the winter chill.
a knock on your bedroom door startles you, pushes you to rise and regard zerah in your doorway.
"can I sleep with you?" he asks, abruptly, not looking at you but instead examining your floorboards with rapt curiosity.
the questions sends heat to your cheeks, "... just sleep?"
"yeah."
you like to think you know his moods well, and you're too tired to parse this one. zerah is a mildly avoidant, somewhat foul-tempered folk with a personality befitting a recently captured feral kitten, rather than someone of his title, stature, and lineage. you find it cute, really. his lack of eye contact, the shifting from foot to foot— his nervousness is almost charming.
you scoot to one side of the bed and pat the other. "you can."
zerah visibly deflates, slipping under the sheets with you. he fusses with the duvet and you turn to face him. watch the shadows that slope with his nose and cheekbones. you link your pinky with his, hidden under layers of bed linen. something secret, just for you and him.
you trust zerah in a way you don't anyone else. it's hard to admit, sticky and honeyed in your mouth in a way that makes your teeth feel glued together. so thick on your tongue, that you couldn't possible form a proper verbal statement about it. to him. you try show him in little ways.
(linked fingers. the way you linger closer to him than anyone else. meals in the fridge. allowing him in your bed at all. the occasional kiss you'll press to his forehead. leaning against his shoulder during sleepy movie nights.)
you face each other and zerah frowns, "come closer."
"why?"
"i need to hold you. come. on." he knows better than grab you and pull you close. you're easy to spook, in that way.
you shimmy over yourself, hovering an inch or two away. the heat of him radiates into your skin, better than a sunbeam. zerah wraps an arm around your waist, becomes you a bit closer with it. your head tucks just below his chin, lips against his sternum through his worn sleepshirt.
he rubs little circles on your back, let's you relax against him (it's just me. it's only me. no need to be wound up.) it takes you some time, to loosen up as he wants you too. to roll forward to press your weight into his own, and he meets you.
"are you okay?" you ask zerah.
he grumbles, pressing his face into your hair. digs his nails into the small of your back. you refrain from asking him further.
(he's not fine. clearly. you don't mention how he shakes against you. he's fragile, really. precious thing.)
it takes bravery, fighting through a screaming thing in your chest to press closer. your palms lays against his back, under his shirt, skin-to-skin so he knows you won't waver. you rub into the muscles.
"we can sleep in tomorrow." you tell him, tilt your face against from his neck and racing pulse so your breath can mingle with his. "go get pastries from that cafe i like. you'd like their matcha."
"would i?" zerah asks, an edge to his voice. you wish he was sleepier.
"yeah, and if you don't, i'll drink it. you can have mine instead."
it's the assurance. the thing in zerah that throbs and aches and fears that you'll slip away, turn your back and leave him to shatter like a porcelain doll. he used to shove you away so violently, you couldn't have imagined his truer nature was so needy. grabby. you'd say possessive if you weren't intimidated by the word.
he squeezes you, hard enough that it hurts but you revel in it. the tips of his toes trace the top of your foot beneath the duvet. you chew your lip.
"fine."
...
the first time you seek zerah out past sunset, it's in desperation.
religions worship society, they say. that's why the old desert religions worship thirst, hold starvation and suffering as the pinnacle of faith. if all you have is scraps and the dredges of a drying well— you will make it your god.
you suppose, that's what happened to you. lesser than religion, but a exhalation all the same. when it happened is harder to place. you can't recall when you started to white-knuckle your hardships so fiercely on your own. reaching out became a last resort. something to do if you could sense yourself on the ledge of 'doing something really fucking stupid' (as zerah would say.)
you clung to your own suffering because it made things make sense. however painful. however truly awful and probably wrong it was. in your worst moments, you dug your fingers into your own wounds and pulled until you saw blood.
(there's something wrong with you. you're cursed. cursed. something's wrong with you. something is not right with you. that's why it keeps happening. it's the only answer, isn't it? that something is intrinsically amiss with you. it leads to the same conclusion, over and over, unescapable like a song you know the melody and harmony too, but forget its a canon. the song cannot exist without both parts layered.)
you muffle a scream into your palm. drag your nails over your scalp. your nail beds are bloody and picked raw. you shove the meat of your thumb into your mouth and bite hard enough to leave indentations.
(why try? you know how it ends. you'll be left bloody with only your own hands to pick up the pieces.)
tears dribble from water line and paint your cheeks sticky.
you should get zerah. you don't want to, you don't, but you probably should. the tv hums from the living room, and you know he's posted up or dozing off by this point in the evening. he'd help. he'd ground you better than tearing at your own flesh.
(but, what if you bother him? what if he hates you? what if you trouble him so much he leaves? he'll leave you. he'll do something awful and leave you. everyone will. you should go. hide. bite any hand—)
you're already up, stumbling, tripping into the living room.
"zerah."
he turns to you with a pinched brow and a scowl deep enough to show the dimple that carves his cheeks. a documentary plays, bathing the room in fluorescent light that burns your eyes. the sound of it turns into white noise as his expression hits you.
(bad. you bothered him. he's going to leave. he hates you—)
he says your name sharply, pulling you from your thoughts, "what the fuck is up with you? you there?"
you open your mouth and all that comes out is a gasping wince. no words bounce around between your eyes. you can't feel right. numbness echoes from your fingertips, and the world looks blurry. glassy.
you vaguely hear zerah curse before he rises drags you to the couch, tugging you down into the cushions and up to him.
"fuck, what happened?" he asks. you don't have an answer for him so you just shake your head.
(you're bothering him—)
the thought makes an apology burst from your lips, then another, and a few more. you start blubbering out half-baked 'sorry's for things you don't need to apologize for. taking up space, time, air.
zerah grabs you by the waist. hauls you closer and into his lap. his hand claps over your mouth and your eyes go wide.
"stop talking. you have nothing to apologize for." zerah placates. his expression hardens. "i'm not letting you go until you calm the fuck down and talk to me. get comfortable."
it's demanding. rude. maybe in a normal circumstance it would've scared you off. instead you pitch forward, bury your face against the side of his neck and clutch at the back of his shirt.
"'m sorry," you tell him again and he nearly growls, pulling you back by your hair.
"if you apologize one more time, i will put you over my knee until i see bruises. and stop. i don't know what the fuck is up with you but i know it's nothing you need to be sorry for." says zerah. it's an edge you need, he opts for threats of pain and you grasp at it.
"... 'kay." you slur. you feel woozy. nauseous.
when you stop talking, he lets out of a sigh of relief. you both relax, him into the cushions and you into his chest. your lips brush his throat, make it warm and moist with your breath.
zerah's hands run up and down your back, squeezing your hips and thighs, up to your shoulder. he tugs on the hair at the base of your skull when he feels you get too slack and close to sleep. he wants you there, with him, as present as your state will allow. you swear you feel his lips brush your temple and forehead a few times.
it's an overwhelmingly safe feeling.
safety as a concept isn't one you dance with often. you never feel safe, no matter how much deep breathing and coping you do, you never feel truly safe.
but this— this—
it's close. it's as close as it gets and that sets off alarms bells in your skull that are loud and violent. you struggle against zerah suddenly, but he holds you chest. he spits a curse or two at you, demanding you hold still while he squeezes you to his chest until the air is forced out of your lungs.
"i d-don't wanna be bad and fuck this up." your words crack. shatter with your lack of breath. you suck in air when zerah lets up. you holds you tighter, but less restricting. you ball your fist in the front of his shirt.
"you're not bad. you're not fucking this up." zerah tells you, blunt and a bit abrasive. "it's fucked that you think that to begin with. how the fuck could you think you're bad? what does that even mean to you?"
"it- because—" you bite your own tongue. the flood of panic driven reasons stay locked up by your sheer will.
zerah pokes at your side. "tell me why."
"no."
"tell me."
you hesitate. zerah coaxes your face up to his and leans so your foreheads touch.
"not right n-now." you tell him. meet his eyes even though its like pulling teeth. "another time, when i'm not so unwell. please? you feel good. please let me be close to you."
zerah considers, sharp-eyed, then relents.
(you're not aware you're tugging at his most tender chords. more lucidly, you could've identified it, perhaps. but then you're too foggy. you don't put together that begging for zerah is the easiest way to make him melt. he wants nothing more than to be wanted, and you're nothing if not earnest in your state.)
he tugs you back into his neck and you adjust yourself in his lap to sit comfortably. even just saying the root of your spiral helps release some of the tension. you're exhausted by the time you lap your cheek against his chest, and he clicks around for something to new watch.
he presses a firm kiss to your forehead.
it's zerah, so you accept. it's zerah, so you let him pull and poke and prod you because you trust he would leave you broken. despite all of your instincts and traumatic conditioning, you believe zerah won't obliterate you. his bed will be just a bed, not grave or a mattress to be thrown away.
"can i sleep in your bed tonight? with you?" you ask.
zerah freezes, then squeezes you so hard, it hurts. you like that it does.
"yeah, you can."
Fuck I love this fic.
