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Strohl’s back dug against the wall, his feet planted firm, stretched out to brace himself against the opposite wall of this small washroom. His breath still rasped up his throat, forcing itself from a too-tight chest, his shallow inhale crawling down the back of his tongue and gathering in too-tight lungs. He gasped, fingers curled beneath the neck of his armor, drops of blood smearing across his knuckles from a slice in his throat. The breastplate had served its purpose in providing protection yet its cheap material had buckled under their bounty’s attack, a deep divot in the metal beneath Strohl’s ribs that bruised right up into his lungs.
At this point, delirium and desperation had long buried themselves into his veins, pulsing in his overheated limbs, and Strohl wrenched on the metal with a weak groan, but the tilt of it only caused the divot to dig further into his soft gut, and with a growl he released it and fumbled with the buckles yet again but the damned things were frayed from a lucky slash, their leather twisted up in the metal that held them together.
The gauntlet runner certainly wasn’t spacious by any means, especially so its washroom, but as Strohl plucked at his armor to no avail, his breath caught in his throat, his muscles flaring hot and tight and these walls crept closer and closer until Strohl’s mind spun or maybe it was the blood loss, too, he couldn’t place where with the pressure against his ribcage against his sternum against his neck.
He coughed, head spinning, and a whine, pathetic and keening, rolled up his throat, and Strohl wrenched himself forward, hands catching on the sides of the sink, his body trembling while the smooth, cool metal dug into his palms.
A knock came upon the washroom door. “Strohl?” came Will’s voice, muffled and soft, regardless of the barrier between them. “Are you okay?”
A moment passed, Strohl’s blood swirling in his brain, blurring his vision. “I could…use some help,” he said, almost a murmur, his breaths shallow and weak. The words hadn’t come easy to begin with, an uncomfortable embarrassment rising up in his chest alongside the tightness and the pain. What fool got themself caught in their own armor?
“I’m coming in,” Will said, and the door bumped into Strohl’s leg before he shifted over, giving Will room to come in and shut it behind him.
Shut it behind him?
Will let out a low breath at the sight, that same sadness growing behind his eyes that he’d had when they first left the dungeon. It surrounded Strohl’s heart and crushed it, bleeding down and gathering in his stomach. But Will reached out to him, fingers brushing along the edge of the divot, and Strohl could only drink in the yellow and blue of Will’s eyes, searching for his thoughts within them.
Then Will turned his wrist, fingers curling around the bottom of the breastplate and pulling, Strohl teetering forward, off balance, catching himself on the sink before he could crash against Will.
A “Sorry,” rushed out beneath Will’s breath, an inflection within the word that Strohl couldn’t place. “Let me try a few things.”
Strohl nodded, panting, unable to do anything else. He let Will maneuver him, Will’s touch gentle, so gentle, pushing Strohl against the wall, one hand splayed over Strohl’s chest while the other tested the straps at his sides, now, and the heat in Strohl’s blood rose higher and higher as each second passed.
They were close. So close. Will’s feet knocked into his as he shifted, and Will’s breath fogged across the breastplate, his hair falling in front of his eyes and Strohl wanted to brush it aside for him—
Strohl’s gaze snapped to the mirror. His own dark eyes met him, a tension in his face that caused another surge of heat to rise to his skin, and in the mirror, his pink skin was flushed, rosy.
Again Strohl looked away, turning to look at the, ah, ceiling now, but then Will braced himself against the opposite wall by his back and tugged at Strohl’s armor and Strohl choked, rocking with the motion and slamming back onto his wall with a garbled hiss.
“Sorry, I’m sorry—” Will’s apologies filled the air and he rested his hand back on Strohl’s burning chest, drawing close again, worry in his eyes. Strohl’s breath wheezed out from between his teeth, hot and unsteady. “It’s,” Will heaved a sigh, “really on you, huh? Here, I think I have an idea.”
He turned around to the sink and Strohl could almost breathe again. With a squeak, warm water began to gush out from the faucet, filling the metal basin. “We can try degrading the leather; it’s already so damaged.” Will’s soft voice filled the room, easing into Strohl’s ears. And then his voice lowered, guilt laden in his tone. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have given this to you. I just thought…I thought armor might have protected you more than your jacket.”
Strohl searched for Will’s gaze in the mirror but Will kept his eyes trained on the sink. “It did,” Strohl began, voice a little weak. “This dent could have been my skin.”
Harsh, maybe, yes, but— Saying it aloud sent a shudder down Strohl’s spine and he saw Will’s eyes flick up to the mirror before returning low. Their party had healing items, yes, and swathes of healing magic from their Archetypes, but, still, Strohl imagined Will in his place, imagined him taking the hit for Strohl with only his coat as protection and Strohl imagined the blood drenching the white fabric Strohl imagined Will collapsing to the ground and—
“Strohl,” came Will’s voice, and Strohl snapped back to the present, his head spinning, Will’s unreadable face only inches from his, Will’s hand on his collar. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Strohl’s tongue couldn’t move, his knees weak, suddenly. All he could do was nod, and, after a moment, croak out, “ You, too.”
Will smiled, pained in the edges, but a softness there all the same. He dropped his hand and shifted to the side of the sink, urging Strohl near its center. Without a word, Will cupped his hands below the pool of water and lifted some up, tilting his hands to let the water spill against one of the armor’s straps. Strohl squirmed under the warm water, almost unbearably hot compared to his cooling sweat, but he endured, biting his lip.
The pressure of Will’s hands against him and then the warm water bleeding into his shirt sent shiver after shiver up his spine, the hot and cold a discomfort he didn’t have a chance to get used to. And then Will would put pressure on the straps, making sure they were soaked through, and Strohl would make a small noise, goosebumps peppering his skin, and Will would glance up at him only to avert his gaze before Strohl could catch it.
Will took care with each of his motions, water dripping down his arms and Strohl’s side, and turned his attention to the other side, going through the same, cyclic motions. The heated water already began to loosen up the straps, and with the extra centimeters Strohl drew in deeper breaths, still not normal but a relief nonetheless. His gut ached, dull and sharp pain pulsing at odd intervals, sharper now that the breastplate wasn’t as glued to his skin.
Will ended at the strap atop Strohl’s shoulder, water squeezing between Strohl’s chest and back and the metal atop him, it teasing him, almost, almost like it were fingers, instead, fingers along his shirt, fingers along his ski—
Will shifted back and shook his hands over the sink, droplets of water flinging off his skin, and Strohl leaned back against the wall with a groan, breaths leaving him ragged, and raised one weak hand to cover his face. The dull pain from the divot rose, beginning to spike in the back of his head, impatience whorling in his gut. All they had to do now was wait, but inaction never did come easy to him, did it?
“Strohl,” Will said, and Strohl looked at him, as he always would, without a moment’s hesitation and without complaint. Will stood before him, the worry more or less gone from his expression, replaced by something darker, more determined. “Wait a moment; I’ll be right back.”
And Strohl, of course, nodded. For what was he to do?
Will left too quick, the silence and emptiness without him almost like another dent in Strohl’s armor, digging into his sternum. Strohl swallowed, reaching a hand to pick at one strap, growing flaky from its dampness. What a fool he was; he could’ve done this on his own, couldn’t he? And not needed to get Will involved, their ever-reliable Captain.
But these were empty thoughts, weren’t they.
Strohl bit his lip, worrying it until the dry skin split. What an even greater fool he was.
A knock came on the door again, and Will entered, a sheathed kitchen knife held against his chest, and Strohl eyed it, uncertainty a tiny seed in his chest that withered when he looked at Will.
“You can’t move,” Will said, firm, his eyes glinting the same, electric. “This might take a while; I don’t want to nick you.”
“I’m counting on you,” Strohl replied with a shallow chuckle, truth and humor laden in his words. His brow knit together, then. “Just…be careful.” The breastplate still felt too tight against him, almost like it’d merged with portions of his flesh, and despite how much Strohl craved unhindered breathing, he wasn’t certain how much damage the divot had given him. But…with Will, he was certain it’d be okay. It always was, with him.
Will gave him another smile, a gentle, sweet one, one that gathered a cozy heat in Strohl’s chest. “Brace yourself a little, then.” He directed Strohl to shift his legs, outstretching them to press his feet against the opposite wall to ensure that Strohl could force himself back and keep his body from shifting with the blade. Will settled at Strohl’s side, resting his fingers atop one strap. “Starting,” was his final warning before he hooked his finger beneath the weakened, flaking leather, pulling the tight armor even tighter, and worked the blade beneath the strap, cutting away from Strohl’s skin.
Silence rose up around them, only broken by the back-and-forth sawing of the knife. The back of the blade dug into Strohl’s side, but Will was slow, easing the knife against him with care, the pressure of it prickling up Strohl’s skin. The breastplate twitched with each sinew of leather Will cut. Will adjusted his weight, easing closer, brow furrowed deep and lip pulled between his teeth, his free hand keeping the fraying strap taut.
Strohl breathed against Will’s hair. Did he feel it? Could Strohl continue to crave breath yet hold it at the same time?
Will tilted the knife toward himself and pulled the blade against the strap, the damp leather stretching taut, taut, before Will slid the knife down, the final sinews breaking apart. Strohl exhaled, harsh, nearly a whine, and Will glanced at him again, looking away too quick before their eyes could meet.
“Just one more,” Will murmured, a roughness in his voice so sudden that it sent Strohl spiraling, not wishing to move an inch yet his breaths left him heavy, shallow, pained. Strohl just stared at the top of Will’s head, flicking to the mirror to try and get a glimpse of his face, but Will kept his head down, his eyes away, and brought his free hand to rest against Strohl’s neck, forefinger pulling up one side of the strap on his shoulder before sliding the knife beneath it.
Strohl tilted his head away, heart throbbing, skin hot and cold and uncomfortable and he needed to peel off this armor or he’d go mad. Because the armor was why his skin tingled, the armor was why he couldn’t breathe, the armor was why Will was leaning against him, now, so incredibly close, the tail end of his breath fanning out across Strohl’s bared neck.
A shiver wracked through Strohl so hard that Will’s motions missed their mark, the tip of the knife tilting down and pricking through Strohl’s shirt, red beading into the white.
A sharp gasp shot through Will’s teeth at the same time Strohl’s breath caught in his throat and Will drew the blade away, meeting Strohl’s gaze, his blue and yellow wavering, some. “I’m so sorry.” The words rushed out of him and he stepped back, too, the loss of his warmth leaving a hole in Strohl’s side.
“‘S not your fault,” Strohl said, words rumbling out of him, weak, timid, ashamed. “I didn’t even feel it.” He did. It had spiked heat in his gut, heavy and pleasant. What a fool, what a fool, what a fool. The desperation within him swelled, fire and shame and impatience whorling around his skull, slamming against him again and again and again. Hell, look at him, slumped, back against one wall, feet against the other, his body contorted and overheated and bloody. His voice left him small, cracking, “Please just get me out of this.”
Will let out a weak breath, nodding and moving into action without another word, so quick that Strohl flinched back against the wall but neither of them said anything and Strohl forced his eyes on his reflection in the mirror while Will worked the knife back under his shoulder strap.
Strohl’s face was red. Crimson, scarlet, cherry; full-on red. Which only, of course, sent more waves of heat throughout his body, like he was on fire, like he’d burn and leave nothing left.
But. Strohl slid his gaze to Will, his midnight hair and olive skin hiding much of his complexion in the washroom’s dim light, but…. The tips of his ears were red, too.
Vertigo rushed through Strohl’s body and he turned his head upwards, focusing on a seam in the metal ceiling. Focus on that and nothing else, nothing else, not Will’s firm grip on him, not Will’s warmth, definitely not why Will’s ears were red. Didn’t—shouldn’t the runner have an air vent in here?
A small rush of air left Strohl’s throat and maybe if he wasn’t so close Strohl wouldn’t have noticed but Will faltered again, half a second of hesitation before he adjusted his angle and his grip on the strap.
“Doing okay?” Will’s voice was rough, croaking out of him like he hadn’t spoken in days, the sound of it startling in this too-close air.
Strohl hummed in response, something short, tight. Get this over with, just get this over with. Will’s lip twitched in the corner of Strohl’s eye but Will’s motions stayed smooth, tugging up into the leather back and forth more and more until it, too, broke apart.
The inhale that filled Strohl’s lungs shot down his throat, hoarse and raw and deep. He pressed his palms against the back wall, jaw slack, body trembling with relief. Again, again, again, he couldn’t inhale enough air, each one burning as it made its way down to his lungs.
Though—the breastplate still clung to him, but the backplate hung loose, and after a moment, Strohl reached his arm to grip the broken edge of the breastplate, tugging on it, light. It didn’t budge, skin prickling where it pulled on him, and then Strohl lifted his gaze.
Will stared at him like he was starving. Unwavering, hot, needy. Needy? But Strohl couldn’t name it any other way, that fixed gaze, that set jaw.
And then Will blinked and it was gone.
“Um,” Strohl started, intelligently, “it…it’s still stuck.” He turned his attention back to the plate, shifting himself to stand a little straighter, breathe a little easier. His throat ached, bones ached, his legs shaking to try and bear his full weight, tense from not moving.
Why was the plate stuck? The straps holding it together broke, and sure, the dent curled up into Strohl’s ribcage, but it was a dent, not a hook. He could breathe, it should lift off his chest with each breath, but it didn’t—
Because that dull pain deep in Strohl’s abdomen had done more than bruise—it bled, and then dried.
Nerves welled up within him, but what else was there to do but rip it off? He met Will’s gaze yet again and didn’t need to say a word, all his thoughts pressed against his onyx irises. That… hunger in Will’s eyes had left him for something softer, something like worry, sympathy.
“Keep bracing yourself,” Will murmured, so soft between them. He moved to stand in front of Strohl, the both of them uncertain, for a moment, how they should situate themselves, but Will took action—as he always did, Strohl mused—and reached for Strohl’s backplate to move it away, his other hand on Strohl’s chest, and pressed him flush against the wall.
Strohl’s heart skipped a beat, but he certainly, definitely, assuredly ignored it.
Will’s hand was still on him as Will put his foot between Strohl’s, shifting him to open more, and again, heat flooded Strohl’s head but he did as Will wanted, confusion and anticipation and trust swirling down his throat. Then, Will grabbed Strohl’s wrists, lifting them around his neck.
“Wh-what are you—?”
“The other wall is just too far,” Will said, so even, so unbothered. “Hold onto me.”
And Strohl did. He curled his fingers into the fabric between Will’s shoulder blades, breaths quick, shallow, again. He couldn’t stop searching Will’s face, searching for anything, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum pounding in his throat like he’d choke on it and Will’s lips moved but Strohl couldn’t hear him and then—
Will wrenched the plate off Strohl’s chest and the dried blood peeled off from it and Strohl snarled his entire body tensing up from the spikes of prickling pain that flooded him oozed from his gut to his limbs and Will crashed against him but Strohl couldn’t think his eyes swimming with stars his chest on fire his mind blaring with white noise so loud that his ears began to ring and he shook, shook, harsh groans leaving him every other breath. The pain pulsed through him with each beat of his heart, but it dulled, dulled, dulled, with each second that passed.
Strohl’s lips were against Will’s neck. His arms crushed Will against him, but he couldn’t move, not yet, too dazed from the rush of pain and adrenaline. Their breaths fanned out against the other’s skin, off-rhythm, hot, raw. Will was warm in Strohl’s arms. Strohl wasn’t sure he was in his own body.
They stayed like that, for a moment.
Then Will moved first, prying himself away in slow, cautious motions, and Strohl couldn’t look at him anymore, staring down at Will’s hands, his feet. Gentle, gentle, Will stood straight, and peeled the breastplate away from Strohl’s chest, the pain bubbling up again but the worst of it had passed. Will put both pieces of metal on the floor, then rested one hand on the sink, quiet.
The silence weighed heavy on Strohl’s shoulders but he did not dare break it. It felt too thin, too fragile, this air. Could it last forever, if it stayed still like this, like a sheet of ice atop a pond?
“Strohl,” came Will’s voice, then, low, hoarse, and Strohl jumped to attention. “Can I heal you now?” His words stalled, rolling off his tongue like he needed to think about each one before he said it.
Strohl nodded, and then fumbled to stand straight on both feet. Fire flared up and down his body, but he kept his head down, his hands finding their places in the fabric of his ruined shirt. Blood, rust-old and crimson-new, spattered throughout the white, gathering dark where the dent had been against Strohl’s gut. He peeled the shirt up off his stomach, wincing before examining the damage.
But an odd noise came from Will and Strohl jerked his head up, lost, Will’s face hidden behind his hair, but his ears—red, red, red and Strohl furrowed his brow, too many stimuli warring for his attention and he dropped his shirt, crossing his arms in front of his wound, the back of his head pounding with heat. “Y-you may,” Strohl said, his own voice foreign to him, a murmured squeak of its usual inflection.
Will didn’t raise his head as he stepped closer, holding a hand out to Strohl’s chest, but not touching him this time—what was this odd weight in Strohl’s chest? Why did it feel like disappointment?—and orange filigree pulsed into form atop Will’s clothes as he called upon his Archetype’s power.
Will’s eyes were closed. The glowing filigree framed them in an almost ethereal way, and Strohl couldn’t help but stare, taking him in, the way his brow furrowed and lips parted as he focused, the way his filigree glowed beneath his eyes, then down his shoulders, his torso, his arms, as he pushed a gentle magic out to Strohl. And when the magic released, a pale, white-green glow, Strohl’s wounds knitting together, body tingling, itching, stretching, until all that was left was a thin, pale white scar.
Strohl released a breath, those coming easy to him, now. “Thank you,” he said, unable to resist itching beneath his shirt at the scar, and then clarity hit him once more as he saw Will’s gaze drift to his waist, and he jerked his hand away. “Well, ah, I owe you yet again, don’t I?” He let out a tight laugh. “I should…I should get changed.”
“Yeah,” Will croaked out, looking at the sink. He shifted back toward the door, taking hold of the latch. Before he opened the door, he cleared his throat and said, “Let me know if you need anything else.”
A moment passed before Strohl hummed a response. “Always,” the word slipped out, too close to the truth that it shot through Strohl’s chest, “Captain.”
Will smiled, glancing up at him and Strohl met his gaze with ease, for it was almost instinct. And then he turned away, the door opening and shutting behind him smooth and quiet.
Strohl sat in that silence, the heat of the room dissipating, and lifted his shirt, drawing his fingers along his scar. Then he jerked his hands to the sink, turning the water on and splashing the chilly liquid against his face. It dripped down his arms, shocking his system, and he tilted his head back, breathing out slow.
Water couldn’t shock away the memory of Will in his arms. That, well—Strohl wasn’t sure how he could do that, but he gathered up the cuirass from the floor and cleaned up the washroom before leaving that tight space, for time always marched on, and it certainly wouldn’t stop for him.