Jenny
*[DISCLAIMER: little of this is healthy/well-adjusted. Mboy is Going Through It and his ridiculousness is not to be romanticized. Drink your therapy, go to water, take a nice walk maybe <3]*

The night is dark and stifling in the mess of covers and sweat and nauseating heat that Owen found himself wide awake in. The noise in his head, slurred and chaotic, hadn't stopped. Of course it hadn't. His skull was a radio losing its signal, the music and chatter stretching and clashing together, the volume only growing in contempt for the dying batteries. 

He let a strangled groan escape him freely in the dry darkness, trying despite himself to not think of why he was untangling his limbs from the heavy blankets, why he was feeling around for the shirt he had tossed across the room a few hours prior, why he was grabbing the keycard that most certainly wasn't his. 

The channels switched rapidly and spewed static into his vision and his chest- he knew that no tapping or humming or the like would mellow it out. Laying still at least gave the illusion of calm; pulling the tank top over his head, climbing the stairs in the dark, fiddling with the handle, those all called attention to the molten rivers hitting whitewater in his exhausted body. 

And there lay Uriel. 

There, nestled deep in their sheets, soft white curls framing their face like a sleeping fae in a storybook. Their arm had shifted since the last time he had done this, since the last time he had sworn off of it. No one to hold him to it now.

On their desk sat their water bottle, still full to the top, not quite as cold. On their bedside table lay their phone; he carefully unplugged it, wincing a little at the stack of messages that flashed across the screen. His. He was explaining where their keycard was, what had happened in the days they'd been gone. How much he missed them. *The last one was from a full day ago*. Another wave of needle-ridden nausea, and he placed it face-down once more.

*Should he?*

.

Really, no. Really, he should go back to his room. Really, he should place a tablet of melatonin under his tongue and wait for his consciousness to dissolve along with the minty dust, into another day without them waiting for him. It was pitiful, how quickly he had crumbled. Pitiful how easy it was to sink into the static flooding his limbs, pitiful how dramatically his world had tilted under him the moment they had removed themselves from it.

Owen was thinking things he shouldn't. The boy his mothers were so proud of wasn't this lost, this angry- the friend Uriel had waiting for them wasn't this exhausted, this scraped raw. He just couldn't be.

The familiar hot pressure gripped his face once again, pinching his red features, running down the back of his throat; the feeling ran its fingers along his scalp and over his shuddering shoulders when nothing else would as he desperately counted his virtues, gripping the back of the all-but-empty shirt that hadn't moved in far too long.

*Pitiful, weak stray thing, curled up next to dead air. How many times have you done this, love? What good has it done you?*
Robert
In a completely white void sat three things. 

Two were red strings, nearly an inch apart, cutting across the empty room like a horizon. They didn't have name tags on them, but the resident sitting criss-cross on the ground could tell which was which simply by running a hand against their surface. One, *Mattias Gates,* The other, *Margo Killjoy*. 

They laid still, at peace for now. No disturbances, no vibrations— nothing that would suggest an external influence had colored the beings who pranced around in the waking world. Perfectly still, just like Uriel, hands still stained in soot and lighter present in their hand. 

They watched, and time passed. 

As they watched, unblinking and unwavering, the edges of the dream solely began to denature. Uriel's tightly woven world began to unravel at the seams, as the ringing static and loud whispers began to creep closer and closer to where the teenager sat. *Leave*, the whispers said. *You can't continue this for long— it's already been four days. The lack of water has already weakened your strength and lessened your control.*

*Do you want to die here, Uriel Melançon?* 

It was a simple question, and yet they paused, sitting still, manually sucking down a breathe in a world with no oxygen. Uriel was about to answer, when... 

*A tug.*

Something tugged against their back, and their weakened control *Snapped* Like a shoestring, unravelling the remaining bits of their handiwork around them, tumbling and tumbling like a ball of yarn falling into a deep, unforgiving abyss.

—

Grey, tired eyes blinked open for the first time in four days to the sound of muffled sobs. Snow-white eyelashes were heavy with sleep and *Fatigue*, the strength in their body completely sapped from their weakened, unused muscles. 

Slowly, Uriel's neck cranes to look over at the familiar, warm presence pressed against their back, catching a glimpse of red hair. 

"Why... Are you here?" It's curious, *Confused.* Their voice crackled, barely choking out more than a whisper as the rust on their unmoving body made itself known. A cough, than two, sounding like harsh gears grinding against one another, or nails on a chalkboard. The sound of *Rust*, of dried vocal chords and harsh re-awakenings.

"You're crying." Uriel said, pausing. "Why? Margo and Matti... They're not dead, or controlled. Did— did something else happen?"
Jenny
"I-I don't know about- I don't know! Y-yyou. *You-*"

A handful of sentences, strangled milliseconds after conception, fought their way out of Owen's mouth. The chatter grew louder still, all reason without the necessary rhyme; another sob shook his frame, and he lowered his disoriented and heavy body to the carpet from its already precarious position. It would be a little ridiculous to stay there, now that they were awake.

"Why- why'm I-" He choked, eyes squeezed shut. "Four days. *Four days*, you *Left*, y-you left me-"

The radio static coalesced into words, haphazard and shaky. It spilled out fast, but it had been ramming against its cage of nonexistence for far too long to stop now.

"Without a w-word, Uri. I c-couldn't even *Read the note*, had to ge-get F-Fin-Finley! Have you- did-did you even- you didn't even text me!"

He was a stammering mess now, the childhood speech impediment working itself too well into the heavy spasms wracking his chest. The next piece had to be torn from him, coming out in barely more than an agonized gasp.

"Y-you sw- you said we would stick together, you said-"

*Gulp.*

"*You left me here and I was so worried and you didn't eat or drink or *Move* Or ff-feed the animals or-"

A pathetic kick at the ground.

"You jus-just left me."

Owen curled further into himself, fingers tipped in chipped black polish digging into his scalp and his arms on the level just below pain. His power, reacting to the distress, pushed insistently at his skin; another wave of frantic nausea rolled through his belly, the ever-latent fear of it rushing out to cause its pain joining in the horrible rush of white-hot chatter.

.

*Selfish, pathetic, out of control*, he screamed into his own head, stinging with the realization of how hopelessly stupid this was. He could've fallen asleep if he had lain there for another few minutes. He didn't have to come here and break down, in this room that he was (suddenly, and vividly) aware was *Not* His own, over what was probably a routine occurrence for them. *Did he know anything at all? Did he think, even once, throughout his entire life?*

Owen pulled himself together (the best he could, at least) and fixed his eyes on Uriel's tear-blurred form once again. His face, or what was purposely visible of it from behind his dishevelled hair and raw, sensitive hands, was red and hot and streaked in salt water. The dark smudges under his eyes were darker than Uriel would remember, made more dramatic by the low light. 

Stifling a whimper and a remark he would most certainly regret, he waited for them to explain themselves.
Robert
"You're—" 

Uriel sits up, propping themselves on their arms to some difficulty. They turn to face Owen, shaven legs dangling off the side of the bed. 

"I... I left you?" Uriel's head begins to swim as they echo Owen's sentiment back at him, the foreign, unexpected words rolling off their tongue and taking seconds to process fully. Whatever they were expecting Owen to say, it wasn't *That*— but as they ponder what else he could have said, nothing else seemed more uniquely Owen than what was unfolding in front of them. 

"No, I— I kept you safe, I quarantined myself away, I made sure not to hurt anyone with my feelings or be a distraction or lash out or—" The justifications they had for locking themselves away in that bright-red cage seemed to break and crumble apart while repeating them to the grief-stricken, damaged Owen. The words left their lips, and Uriel's ears grew hot with shame as they realize, suddenly, how *Foolish* They were. 

What did they think, all those days ago? *Fall asleep, and they'll breathe a sigh of relief to deal with one less wrench in the machine.* A voice had whispered to them. *Slumber, and relieve yourself of those evil, twisted feelings.*

*Fall asleep as an uncontrollable, afraid beast, and wake up an enlightened man.* Foolishness. Weakness. Cowardice.

"No, I... I left you." They barely croak out, a horrified expression growing on their face with the realization. "I left you, and I promised I wouldn't."

Uriel took a good look at Owen, opening weary eyes to properly *See* The boy in front of them. He was shaking, wet tears pouring out of his eyes and tracing the contours of his red face. He looked... Miserable, the bags under his eyes making Uriel let out a pained noise in sympathy.

"I'm so sorry." They exhale, and— "I... I can't believe I thought something so foolish. I— I am *So, so sorry*, I—" Uriel stifles all the instincts they have to hold the other close to their heart and relieve Owen's heart with a hug— their usual strategy when Owen was upset, thrown completely out the window now that *They* Were the source of his pain. 

God, they *Hurt Owen,* And the panic accompanying that fact made Uriel freeze in place. Panic, adrenaline seeping into their bones and making their hands shake and snaking its way into every vein, every artery, every cell that made up the fleshy *Thing* Uriel piloted in their waking hours.

A silence, as Uriel's wide eyes watch with horror at the damage they caused. *Do something, don't leave him again,* Something says, and they shakily grab the (suspiciously full) bottle of water on their nightstand. 

"You're—um, you should... Your throat." Uriel timidly offers the bottle of water to the emotional, crumbling mess of a *Friend* They abandoned.
Jenny
For a moment, Owen stopped his sobbing to look at Uriel with the most incredulous look his face could muster. And then, a *Very* Slow blink.

"Y-you. Haven't drank any water. In *FOUR DAYS.*"

He raised a hand to shove the bottle back toward them, a little harder than he usually would. A piece of him wanted to rattle them a little further, but that thought was swallowed up by the chatter like a tiny boat in a storm. He could hear their voice, rusty from disuse and dehydration; upset though he was with them, all the months of care he had built up for them ached when he heard it. *It sounded like it hurt..*

The mess of a boy sat back as he let their waterfall of apologies run through his head. Did it feel pleasant, like cool water running down the back of his neck? Or was it an insult, half-formed reassurances meant to keep him and everything he gave to them close by for a little longer after the inevitable? A cat and a dog fought in his chest; one physically ached to lean into them, to bury his face in their arms and sink into safety, and the other, skittish and wounded, wanted to pull into a dark alley and lick its wounds in solitude.

Another pitiful sniffle clamoured its way out of him, one overwhelming wave crashing over his tiny raft giving way to another.

He felt something around the soft part of his torso, just below his ribs where all the squishy feelings were, harden. For once, he didn't focus so much on his shield acting of its own will- he felt naked, feverish skin exposing his nerves clawed to ribbons, and a shell didn't feel half bad.

In his shell, he shut his heavy eyelids and again reached for the knobs on the radio.

*The other times he had felt like this.. They didn't usually apologize. Not sincerely, anyway. He hadn't minded, not really, had he?*

...

The rest of their words sank in, bit by bit. *Selfish, wallowing in salt, how could he ignore the rest?* They thought themselves a monster, a coiled serpent, an accident waiting to happen again and again and *Again.* That was something he knew. Through his shirt, he touched the crystal around his torso, and through his tired yet startlingly bright eyes, he saw the look of sheer terror painted across Uriel's face and he knew it *More.*

There it was again, the vision of soft pillow down trailing along in the breeze, caught up in the whispers. It made him want to scream, to put his fist through the window, to ||crack open his skull and relieve the pressure.|| 

*That thought wasn't really his, was it?*

"W-we could've, *Fuck*, Uri, I was s-so worried," He coughed up, unable to bear the silence. "Icouldntevenreadthenote, I," He tried again, tuned to a channel that did little other than repeat and repeat and repeat. *They could have worked this out together, they could have been supports, they could have leaned on him, of course they could have, they could have cried and screamed and torn everything apart if only to catch each other in the end..*

Owen again lifted his head, and did something unexpected- as he scanned their wavering face, his eyes found their deep grey pools and stayed there. He wasn't aware, but the tiny veins in his scleras had become flooded with ether, glowing a low golden orange; his deep brown irises turned almost crimson due to the light, his pupils pinpricks.

**They revealed a deep sadness, locked in a chest beneath the roiling sea, anger that slept fitfully as it fought for breath below his heart, and a scared child holding together a wound that had been open for far too long.**
Robert
They meet Owen's faintly glowing eyes, and instantly feel the wind rush out of their lungs as the emotional equivalent of a frying pan clocks them in the jaw.

Uriel *Felt it*, the all-encompassing sadness, the torrent of emotions all vying for their turn at the wheel, whirling in a chaos that raged and screamed and begged to be known— the worst was the *Vulnerability*, old wounds that never quite healed correctly re-opening at Uriel's betrayal. *Betrayal*. A funny word, a horrible one, each syllable toying itself in the inside of their cheek making something in their stomach flip. 

Their vision blurs. Uriel looks down at their hands, and watches silent tears slide against their clenched knuckles.

Ah. They were *Crying*— it certainly didn't feel as if they were, but the tears dripping like rain onto their legs proved otherwise. Besides the time with Margo, they couldn't remember the last time they wept so openly. It was long enough where the emotion spilling down their face felt strange, a shell feeling things it shouldn't.

"I..." They take a moment to semi-collect their thoughts, only now noticing the feeling of wet against their cheek. "I hurt you like this?" Apprehensive, abject horror at what they've done fills their voice. Uriel covers their mouth to muffle a sob, breaking Owen's gaze to look down shamefully at their lap.

"It's no wonder you're crying. I... How do you manage to feel all of this and still stand...?" Horror, once again; not towards themselves, but the realization of the magnitude of *Feelings* And scars that run down the length of Owen's spine and soul. "I'm—I'm so sorry." It's barely a whisper, but the sudden empathy they feel for the teen constricts their windpipes, making the tiniest of noises into a chore to vocalize.

"These aren't my tears to cry, and yet..." Uriel wipes at their face, brushing away the pinpricks at the corner of their eyes that always seemed to find a way to re-appear moments later, "Why are they coming back?"
Jenny
"Because it hurts, Uri," Owen assured with a strange clarity. *It hurts, it hurtsithurts*, chattered the static, currents pulling at his chest as his dear friend sobbed in their achingly quiet way because of.. *Oh no.*

"F-ffyc, I forgot ab-about your eye contact thing, I'm sorry for-"

He shook as another wave crashed through his chest. They had seen it, and it brought them to tears- he understood, for a moment, why hiding away to process one's emotions for fear of hurting someone would be so appealing. Every sob sent the riptide jolting back, dragging him back under.

Somehow commanding his body to move, Owen shifted closer to them, curling up in the space between the bedside table and their legs. A small space to fit himself into, close and comforting despite everything. He rested his head against the mattress, seeking to relieve himself of having to hold it up himself. Seeing his pain reflected on their sweet, cool features shook an important pillar holding him up. How *Did* He feel like this and still stand?

"Please, please don't.. It's not all you," He managed to squeeze from his trembling mouth. 

He pressed his cheek into the sheet harder, and hugged his knees closer to his chest; as caterpillars spun themselves cocoons before their metamorphosis, and as cats found dark, quiet places to curl up when they knew it was their time, Owen sought comfort in feeling small, in being enclosed as he allowed something ugly and shadowed, thick and choking as coal smoke crawl up to his brain. 

"I-I'm not," He started, the nausea becoming pain in his stomach. "I'm not healing, am I?" A too-quiet breath. "It just keeps *Bleeding*, I-"
.

A thousand things he could say, that would tear the rest of the blind stitches. Things that he refused to give form. Uriel had felt enough of his pain. They had *Blamed themselves* For enough of it, *Fuck*. He wanted to grab them by the shoulders and beg them not to, to look into their eyes again and drag up every bit of love that was just as intense as his sadness, all for them to bask in and never worry again. He could almost see himself doing that, in his mind's eye, his trembling body lifting from the floor like it weighed nothing and throwing its arms around them, carefree and content and stable. He admitted, in the swirling firestorm of his chest, that he loved them, he needed them, and would do just about anything to make them smile and laugh again in their odd little way that had become so dear to him.

All he could do, though, was sit in the crashing tide of static and noise, heavy and aching and so, *So* Tired.

"F-forgive this, you're a saint, you shouldn't have to deal with this- I missed you so much, I- I wound myself up, I don't know what to do when I worry this much. You were so st-still, and it scared me, I just.." *Sigh.* He supposed his outburst here spoke for itself.
Robert
"Please, look at me." 

Uriel gently prods Owen's head up— the motion is gentle as they look to meet his gaze, a small, smile on their face. 

"I'll take it—all of your emotions and feelings raging through your head, all the parts of you you're trying to say I don't deserve to deal with. I... I want to feel them alongside you, alright?" Uriel whispers.

Their tears don't resume, even as Uriel looks into Owen's eyes. Like the waves of a tide, *Breathe in, breathe out*, one emotional swell granting brief reprieve before drowning their mental in the other teenager's feelings. The crest of a wave breaks against the shore, and despite foreign emotion wracking their body, Uriel remains stalwart. They let out a deep, steady inhale, anchoring themselves to the present despite the heavy tsunami of feelings threatening to whisk them away. 

"Let yourself *Feel them*, without trying to bottle them up or excuse them away. You're— it doesn't matter whether or not you don't agree with their origin, you're still *Feeling emotion,* And you can't start the process to heal a wound if you pretend it doesn't exist, or shame yourself for getting injured."

Tidal waves crashing against their body. They suck down another shaky breath, and steel their resolve.

"I... I'm not a saint. I didn't think this whole thing through, did I? I— It's an old habit from my high school days, one I fell back into at the first sign of trouble. Back then. I'd—I counted down the minutes until I could be back in my own world and abandoned everything that was real. I nearly broke my relationship with my mother because of it. I— I lived in a world made up of reflections of myself, and I forgot to think about anyone else but myself. And I did it again, here."

It's not a pleasant admission, but one Uriel makes nonetheless. To properly heal, one must *Burn* Everything away first. A forest fire raging, devouring the landscape before new life springs from the dirt.

.

"I just... I want to make you happy. I... I don't know what you want from me, now that I've gone back on your promise, but... I'll do whatever you need from me, even if you want me to never speak to you again, or—" A shudder at that possibility, with no attempt to hide how horrible the thought of having their closest friend leave them because of their mistake. "It's been about my emotions for far too long; my selfishness is what landed me here, so... I'll do anything to help you heal your aching scars."

If only Owen could feel their emotions, Uriel absentmindedly thought. Then he'd be able to see the extent to which Uriel cared about his happiness.

"Please, let yourself heal." Uriel begs the other.
Jenny
Uriel's hand, cool as marble against the soft, fever-hot curve of his jaw, was a welcome interruption of the waves of hot pressure. He started to mumble a protest, but was pulled into a stupor almost comically quickly. Owen nodded slowly as his pinprick pupils traced down-feather eyelashes as he let them speak, letting the tremors come and go as they did.

It was bizarrely intimate, even more so than eye contact typically was for him- usually, it felt like prying fingers tickling his brain, a barrage of information flying at mach speeds in both directions; it was decidedly unpleasant, and he did his best to avoid it. This, though.. *"I want to feel them alongside you, alright?"* Alright. 

He watched as they reacted to it, to *Him*, their breath hitching in time with the waves of nausea-inducing chatter.

And he breathed, in and out, still unsteadily but much deeper now.

*They were telling him something important.. This was difficult, wasn't it,* A gentler voice in his head murmured from its corner. A concerned hum rumbled in his throat when they turned in on themselves again, the curled-up boy still bristling at any hint of self-deprecation (the irony was not lost on him, but that didn't hinder all that much). Still, he followed the smoother currents of their voice as they reached their point.

A heavy tired-dog sigh, to let them know he was still hanging off their every word, somehow everything he needed to hear. It twisted in his stomach for a moment, wondering when the other shoe would drop, when they wouldn't mean what they said anymore, but the last pang never came.
.

He averted his gaze, a twinge of embarrassment not being something they needed to see. Besides- they had seen enough, hadn't they? It was *Intense*, that sort of embrace, the empathy that they offered him so calmly and freely.. It baffled him, how they could peer into what made him despise himself in the dead of night and still look upon his sniffling form with all their gentle sweetness in their eyes. 

The voice that wondered if he deserved that was drowned out by the one that desperately craved it. 

"Thank you," He croaked, wiping the slowing streams of salt from his eyes. Rising to his knees, Owen gave in to an impulse, wrapping his arms around their waist and pressing his face into the soft hollow below their ribcage. Something still yowled about weakness and pathetic clinging and sheer idiocy, but Uriel smelled like lavender and sleep and holy shit, *He was so happy they were back*. He couldn't help but snort a little, though, at their nervous backtracking. Yeah, this was Uri alright.

"This whole m-meltdown was cause-*Because* Of you not speaking to me," He grinned into their shirt. "Haven't you *Just* Peered into my brain? Ah, what'll I do with you, Uri."
.

The change in tone was a little jarring, but not unwelcome. His voice still wavered, his throat still slick with phlegm and crusted in failed sleep, the ripped stitches still littering the floor, but he had his dear friend back at long last. The smile pressed into them fell just a bit as he made himself hear the rest of what they had said.

"I.. I don't know what I need," He tentatively admitted. "I ache, and, and *You* Ache too, and now we're both hurting. It's.. It's worse when we try to.. When we pull away, isn't it. Maybe, that's a feeling worth listening to?"

A dry gulp. It was another uncomfortable truth- they were both hurting, and they were hurting *Each other* Like this. In the clarity of his post-cry exhaustion, Owen thought he saw what might need to change.

"We-we'll do this together? *Really*, this time?"

He wanted nothing more in that moment. They had something to prove to him, something tangible, and he swore not to let them slip away from it again. They were right, they weren't a saint- they were wounded too, aching and scabbed over wrong, and, *Damn it*, the stray puppy thing whimpering in the back of his mind was terrified of being alone.

"And please, um, drink some more water." A smaller voice, now, almost embarrassed. "You're.. Probably hungry, and, um, haven't.. Gone to the can in four days, have you."

...

What was the point of even saying that if he made no move to let go of their torso?
Robert
"You... Ok, you have a point there. It was... A bit of a silly suggestion, hm?" They laugh, relaxing into the touch now that the mood had lightened itself.

"Together... That sounds pleasant. I'll devote myself to you, then." *Devotion*. Uriel could do that, they think to themselves, toying with the fiery red locks of hair streaming from the teen's scalp. They were devoted to everyone, yes, but they could be devoted to him a bit more than usual, right? *Devotion*. Sticking by his side, no matter the events of the coming weeks, or the trials that plagued them both. A commitment to follow him where ever the world took the two. 

It was a pleasant thought, one that made a contented hum sigh from their mouth. 

"Would you like to pinky-promise on it, then?" Uriel smiles at him. It was a gesture they used to do with their mother, whenever she'd leave the house to work one of her many jobs and had to leave them with chores to fulfill while she was away.

*Never make a pinky promise you won't follow. If you break a pinky promise, you break your pinky too, my little lamb.* She'd tell them, gently cupping their face in her hands before leaving for the day. Uriel would nod, and dutifully carry out whatever tasks were asked of them with slight giddy— after all, it was a *Promise*, and their mom's look of joy when she'd come home to a clean house only made them smile wider.

Owen brushes against their torso, and— a jolt of electricity running through raw skin, pressure brushing against the old wound that left an ugly, twisted dent running along the side of their stomach. Their shoulders hunch up, torso elongating to twist the still-sensitive scar tissue away from the redhead's cheek. 

.

"Ah—sorry," They murmur, "There's, um, something there. " Uriel gently moves Owen's head closer to their center, settling back into their relaxed position once the touch against their scar fades away. A small twinge of guilt— hopefully, Owen wouldn't take the motion as them turning away from him— and Uriel resumes running their hand through his soft, red hair.

"Oh, *Dieu merci*, you gave me the go-ahead." Uriel sighs in relief, hands grabbing the water bottle sitting on the nightstand before *Chugging* The damn thing for an excessive amount of time. *Surely, this wasn't polite,* The properly-hydrated part of Uriel's brain thinks, as the contents of the water bottle quickly disappear down their throat. They didn't particularly care, though, the sweet sensation of water dribbling down their parched throat too temping in its relief to care about restraint, and figured Owen wouldn't either. He wasn't their *Mom*, after all.

They wipe away the water at the corners of their mouth, and set the bottle down to where it belonged with a *Thunk*.

"I, ah, I can wait here a bit longer. It doesn't seem as if you're going to move." A soft chuckle. It was a... Bit of a white lie, the physical affects of being *Asleep for four days* Already catching up to them. Hunger clawed at their stomach, deep pangs of physical needs making nausea swim in their head.

*Still*, Uriel mused, *Being here with him once again far outweighed that.*
Jenny
Owen was glad that it was dark, because the colour on his face when Uriel just.. *Said* Such fantastical things like river water pouring over smooth stones was one that burned at his skin from the inside. Flickers of muted red and gold ran beneath his skin as his head swam; that one word, devotion, *Devotion,* **Devotion**... He wondered if he was the comatose one, sinking into a state of saccharine reverie while the world passed on above him.

More hot tears prickled at the corners of his eyes as he let the sentiment fill him; dare he think it, everything he craved. As much as he shoved it down in favour of what was reasonable, even *Possible*, a wriggling need still nibbled at him, aggravated painfully by his separation from everything he knew and loved. 

Barely reacting as Uriel gently pried him away from a sore spot (something there? A mental note..), the befuddled boy squeezed his eyes shut as a dry sob shook his chest. 

*Fingers running through his hair and promises of devotion...* It scared him a little, how willing he was to cling to that, to them; he had been told many a time that all he saw were roses, that he was naïve, and reckless with his heart. Was that true?

Still, though it scared him, didn't it feel so *Good*? Weren't things like this leaps of faith? The world needed love, he needed love, and Uriel needed love, so what was the good in tamping it down? Heartbreaks always healed, but the emptiness only gnawed. Was it about staying in the eye of the storms he weathered, if only to savour all he could from the bliss before it all crashed down on him?

He held them a little tighter.
.

Despite himself, Owen hoped that Uriel wasn't a storm. He knew by now that harsher winds and terrifying currents ran beneath their cool, gentle gaze than they would probably have liked him to know, but they held him so dearly (literally and otherwise), they had seen *So much* Of him and yet spoke of *Devotion* And *Apologies* And ~~*Playing with his hair*~~ as they murmured kind things into the stillness surrounding his trembling form. 

His gut twisted with another pang of sea-urchin-bitterness. One more thing, before he leapt off the ledge completely. Carefully untangling himself from their torso as they (finally) chugged some water, Owen rose to sit next to them. His knees disagreed with being pressed into the floor for so long, and he sucked the air in between his teeth as he sank into the mattress next to them.

Seconds wore on unbearably as they drank, the question that had returned to him becoming more pressing with every moment it beat against his chest. The shield protecting his torso from some unseen boogeyman crackled quietly, shifting over his ribs.

"Uri?"

A beat of silence as the built-up tenderness was tainted with an ugly, unwound feeling.

"W-why was your note in French?" His voice shook, as though even his body itself didn't want to know the answer. "Was-was it for Finley only? It was the only thing you left.. Why couldn't I read it?"

Deep brown eyes like black holes in the dark scanned sleep-dishevelled yet still otherworldly features for any hint at all. A small tapping noise filled the room, an errant foot venting the coiled nerves building up in the rest of him.

*Please, Uriel, say something that won't sour this light guiding me through the tunnel..*
Robert
"My note..." 

Uriel takes the note they had written from where it laid on the bedside table, looking at the lined notepad sheet with newfound clarity. 

"I don't really remember writing it, actually." They trace a thumb over the indents of the words, ones they'd written many times before. *I'm asleep,* They'd write in the past. *Don't wake me.* 

"I... She left, and everything else was a blur, really. It was a familiar motion, one I've done many times before, so I just went into auto-pilot. I used to leave a lot of these notes for my mom. I suppose the French just came naturally to me, and I... Forgot."

Uriel lets out a tiny laugh— a laugh, and yet it's devoid of happiness. It's small and pathetic, and a bit self-deprecating. How could they respond to Owen's feelings? *I forgot about you.* It wasn't a good excuse, but it was the truth. They forgot about *Everything*, the world outside of their skin slowing to a crawl, the sphere of influence they had retreating until the only thing that existed was what happened in their head. The world was terrifying, and Uriel had turned a blind eye to it— and everyone in it.

"Isn't that a bit... Silly? I forgot how it might come across. For someone who can go into people's heads, I sometimes... Forget about how things might appear to others. It's... I'm sorry. For writing it in French, and for not giving you a warning. I should have done something else. I should have done *Many things* Different, it seems."

There was something else... Something else that was nagging at them, pinching and pulling at the front of their mind, stretching it like putty. Something important, something that Uriel was specifically told to remember...

"Forgot, forgot... *Merde*, Cosmo and Sadie! Are they alright!?" Uriel's head *Snaps* To the side, eyes squinting (damn, albino vision, no they did *Not* Need glasses yet) towards the cage that contained the two reptiles.
Jenny
*Ah.* Yeah, that sounded right, especially next to everything else they had said. Muscle memory was a hell of a thing, especially when distressed- he knew that well, his own body retracing the same ruts in the sand thousands upon thousands of times. There was comfort in routine, in knowing what came next.

He understood a lot of what they were saying, now that he was cooling off a little. Recalled how the time *He* Had done this had gone, how he had retreated and rotted away in his room, in his head for so long... He didn't feel the chill much anymore, but he retained the memory of the permeating cold.

He had sworn, sitting on the concrete floor with his fingers buried deep in the happy stray's fur, that he would never do it again.

But Uriel didn't see it that way. Granted, their internal world was very different from his, but.. They weren't as scared of it as he had been. They were apologetic, certainly, but the chill did something else to them, something he could almost understand but just *Didn't*. 

*Owen recalled hearing somewhere that when one's heart rate slowed too much while asleep, the brain sends a shock to the heart to jolt them awake. He would trip on a wire and awaken just before hitting the ground, rattled but safe and sound. Did Uri get that? Was there a failsafe in the realms they ventured into every night, or did they just keep falling through the floor?*

When his own heart had stopped, it had been panicked and frantic, straining in the some 300 million volts that it was never built to handle. It had gone before he had, static in his chest, the last sensation of terror left before [...] with his ears ringing horribly and his eyes squeezed shut. 
.

Since then, it had beat harder, he swore it did- and his veins ran hotter, his voice rang louder, the sweat prickled more insistently at the back of his neck. Life had been crushed back into Owen so hard that his ribs still ached, and the thought of tilting so far from it on *Purpose* Frightened him. *That was it.*

A flutter of worry, irrational as those came, but alleviated by tuning back in to what Uriel was saying. A low hum in the middle of their sentence to say that he was still there- and then, despite the heaviness in his bones, the boy perched next to them laughed a little. It was about as honest as theirs was just then, but it felt a necessary sound to make. 

"Yeah- ah, me and Amelie took care of them," He assured them. "We found the instructions she left, but um, I'm glad we found them when we did. They're doing good, though. Just.. Lacking in mango."

In the dark, Owen could vaguely make out Cosmo's form, snoozing in his little spot. He seemed content enough. Sadie, who was less sure about him, was at least healthy. 

The night wore long, and the boy sitting in the still mist that came after crying was again aware of how tired he was. Four days of fitful sleep, if sleep at all, was catching up to him. 

"Uri?"

He asked once more.

"Can I stay here tonight? You, y-you don't have to sleep i-if you don't want, you can go and, and stretch your legs for a bi-a bit but I just." A deep scratch along his scalp. "I, um.."

Trailing off as he brought his legs up onto the bed, he watched the remnants of whatever that sentence was supposed to be dissolve in the hazy murk. He knew why he wanted to stay without putting words to it, and likely so did Uriel. 

*The sea must be heavy,* He thought, blinking slowly. *All that water. All those whales...*
Robert
"You and... Amelie? I'd hate to have caused her so much trouble, considering how difficult it must have been to open the tank from a wheelchair. I'll have to apologize in the future, when I see her next." Their voice is a bit muffled, the sudden embarrassment creeping up their spine and making them talk into their shirt. 

Amelie... While Owen was not one to stay mad or hold a grudge, Amelie *Certainly* Was. A slight shudder— would they end up alongside Ares in the doghouse, forever doomed to angry German wrath delivered with the eloquence of Shakespeare?

"Now that you're not clinging onto my torso... Let me quickly, ah, use the bathroom, and get ready for bed. My morning breath must be awful, so I really should brush my teeth." Uriel's hands grip their fluffy comforter surface as they slowly slide off the edge of the bed, legs barely making contact with the ground before buckling under their weight.

*Oh. Right, I weigh something here.*



"I'm alright, don't worry. That's, uh, that's why this is here." Uriel's fingers pluck at the soft, shaggy carpet, using the tendrils of wool tickling their face to emphasize the ~~safety net's~~ rug's use.

.

They clutch onto the side of their bed, wooden bedpost acting as a temporary anchor as they slowly rise to their feet. Dusting off the aches of atrophy didn't take long; it was like riding a bike, you never truly *Forgot*, the rusted connections in their brain lighting up once the familiar motions took hold.

"Of course you can stay. It's been four days since I've talked to anyone else besides myself, so I would... Greatly appreciate your company." A large smile, barely visible in the darkness of the room, but present nonetheless.

*Greatly appreciate* Wasn't nearly close to the true depths of how they felt. Owen's presence was like an *Anchor*, both literally and metaphorically. Existing in a house of mirrors, surrounded only by echoes of yourself bouncing around like sunbeams with no exit; rebounding faster and faster off of their own reflection, each refracturing of the echo losing *Something* In the process, the entropy undetectable in the moment but plainly obvious once Uriel took a step out their own head. 

It was enough to drive someone *Mad*, seeing nothing but reflections of yourself in every wall, every floor, every sunrise, dusk, and dawn. And, they'd be hesitant to admit, it very nearly *Did*.
Jenny
The soft, disgruntled *Thump* Of Uriel falling onto the carpet ruffled Owen a out of his growing cocoon of drowsiness a little. He'd seen them wipe out before, like a baby deer still learning where their legs were, but it didn't get much less jarring. A voice that sounded suspiciously like his mama's bugged him to help them up and putter about looking for injuries, but his brain and his reaction time were floating in a thick brew of molasses and melatonin.

Still, he leaned closer as they got themselves back upright, outstretching a hand when they appeared to falter. Exhausted and unsteady and still a little hurt though he was, Owen did worry quite a bit.

"Yea-yeah, you go, I'll be, I'll be here," He murmured. Though he couldn't really see much, he could hear the smile in their voice. Something in his heart ached upon hearing it again, as though they were still gone and he was still missing them. *They're back, they're sorry, they're.. They're all sorts of things, aren't they...*

It seemed that his friend would have to back up their mind- swirling speak of devotion.

In the room by himself (well, and the reptiles), the hazy figure wrapped in a now-uncomfortable shell of faintly crackling ether flopped back onto the still-warm sheets. His legs hung off of the edge, but he habitually flung them up with the rest of him. He no longer feared the dark like he had when he was small, but he hadn't quite outgrown the age-old worry concerning monsters under the bed poised to nip at his heels; at least, not the muscle memory.

He spent his time alone in the dark breathing, counting, painting shapes on the ceiling with his eyes, attempting to untangle the lingering mess of nerves holding his shield outside of his body. It shifted, and made some *Interesting* Noises, but it didn't quite dissipate. A huff into the dark, as it became increasingly clear that focusing on it only made it stick around more insistently. He was far too tired for this.
.

Sinking deep into the mattress, the boy let a quiet tune drift into the stillness. His voice was still shaking and streaked in mucus, but it was one path for his mind to follow, one melody to stand out in the cacophony. 

The radio still chattered and changed frequencies fast enough to make his head ache, but the tense coils around his stomach loosened just enough to allow the dim red layer of glassy crystal to melt back through his skin. It still felt strange, if he focused on it; though he had adapted, the feeling of something warm and just.. *There* Working its way through his layers of muscle and fat to his veins was bizarre indeed.

The skin and soft matter below his ribs felt raw and delicate still, and so he let his arms flop back to his sides as he repeated the same verse into the night a few more times for good measure.

*...Like a leaf that's fallen*
*To the ground*
*Carried by the flow of water to my dreams,*
*And woken only by your sound..*

Music helped. It had always helped. With his stammer, with his restless hands, with the springs in his stomach, with making sense of anything and everything. It was a good feeling, a safe one, and he felt himself level out a little more with every familiar vibration in his throat.

The door clicked open again, and a smile crept across his face, delicate but genuine. A little lighter, now.
Robert
./ sorry will respond soon!

Uriel had washed their face and brushed their teeth, taking longer than usual to do the tasks required of them— the swirl of water washing down the drain was a hypnotic allure to their tired eyes, as they attempted to will the water off for a solid minute and a half. 

*Ah, I forgot— it doesn't work like that, does it?* 

They reached out with foreign, unfamiliar hands that didn't quite feel as if they were attached to their body, turning the faucet once again and shutting the water off. 

Exiting the bathroom, walking down the hall— a familiar routine, something that would normally give Uriel pause. *Normally*, that is, the soft crooning coming from inside of their dorm room causing the hand hovering outside of the keycard to momentarily pause and retract itself back to their side. 

*Maybe I can wait until he's done*, Uriel thought, taking a seat at the foot of the door before waiting patiently until Owen finished his song. They shouldn't read into the lyrics, Uriel reminded themselves, but as the familiar (did he show them this song before?) words washed over their ears , muffled as they were, they couldn't help but cling onto the words coming from Owen's mouth like a lifeline, their breathing soft and quiet as the only thing they focused on became the teen's soft, sweet voice. 

*It really is a beautiful voice,* They idly think. 

It stops, and Uriel remembers where they are. 

A shaky moment, their heart beating out of their chest— *He didn't notice them sitting outside, did he?*— before Uriel opens their door with unsteady hands and enters the dorm once again. 

With barely a moment's hesitation, Uriel lifts the covers and climbs onto their bed, discarding several of their many duvets to accommodate the company that ran warm. A small noise, a pleasant contented hum as they went through motions they've done tens of times, and they settle in— wrapping an arm around Owen's torso, positioning their head on his shoulder and shifting the covers up to their chin.

.

"Is this... Ok?" Their voice was nervous, wavering slightly as they looked up at the other teen with large, pleading grey eyes. It was *Familiar*, yes, but was familiar appreciated after an incredibly *Unfamiliar* Set of events? 

If Owen wanted to push them off, so be it— but in the moments between his response, they savored the warm, steady hum of the shield in his chest, and the soft rising and falling as he breathed in and out. The pleasant feeling of being held spurred a breathy sigh from them, digging their cheek further into the soft skin of his shoulder. 

It was familiar in all the best ways. It was home, and Uriel surrendered into the feeling, letting the comfort consume them without a fight. 

*Did they deserve this?* Deep down, they knew the answer— but they were *Tired*, so tired, and questions about morality and karma and debt seemed to fade into the static buzz permeating their mind in the face of a prospect of a nice sleep. 

"Your singing voice is beautiful, you know." They barely mumbled, the barrier between thought and words jumbled as sleep once again tempted Uriel. 

Was it odd, that after four days of unconsciousness, they only desired to fall asleep? Perhaps they were *Not awake*, yes, but they weren't sleeping, either— four days of consecutive power use had drained them of any energy they'd normally find by sleep, and the only thing on their lizard-brain was their warm friend's hauntingly beautiful voice and the overwhelming call of proper sleep.
Jenny
Owen felt a murmur of heat bloom in his face when Uriel quietly puttered around, shedding the top few layers of their (frankly, impressive) blanket nest of a bed, and arranging themselves just so. His bones were heavy with all the sleep that he'd been chasing, finally *Relaxing* After being so restless.

He marvelled to himself, where no one could hear, how lovely it felt to fit together with another so nicely; their head curled into his arm, said arm around their shoulders, in just the right way that they'd figured out wouldn't cut off the circulation, the soft weight of their chest on his gently crushing the choppy, stressed riptides into smooth currents beneath his skin. 

*Was this really as 'gay' as the others had been teasing them for? Surely, at least, this couldn't be bad. Little else felt right; at least, righter than arms around his torso and blankets pulled over his tired body and soft breaths against his skin. That, he was certain, could be nothing but good.*

"Hm? Ah, yeah, y-yeah this is ok," Owen murmured. He could feel the rumbling in his chest as he spoke against their added pressure; it was neither here nor there, just something he noticed only in moments like these, on the edge of sleep and awareness where everything was quiet enough.

"A-a little closer, actually?" 

His turn now to be tentative, unsure. Owen knew he was always a little more enthusiastic about the physical affection, and tonight he just *Really* Needed to be held. He shifted slightly, his other arm wrapping around their back, pulling them closer just gently enough to allow them to wriggle away if they wanted to.

"Awh, y-you're a flatterer, you." The ghost of a chuckle, bubbly and childishly bashful.

...
.

"I'm s-sorry you had to s-see-wake up to that," He just barely whispered into their mane of white curls. He both wished they hadn't seen it, and was.. Glad that if someone had to, it was them. He had more to say to them, come morning, more to ask, more to work through, but in their quiet little pocket of nighttime, the only thing that reasonably mattered was them *Back again*, near-silent but alive, tucked safely into his side once again.

All sorts of pesky thoughts and complicated feelings and sore spots aside, the only thing left to do was sink into the blissful silvery haze waiting in the back of his brain. 

"'Night, Uri."
Robert
From the deepest echelons of sleep, Uriel curls in closer at the other's request, letting out a content hum at the arms around their chest. 

"Don't apologize." They barely murmured into the other's shirt, the words coming out muffled from the fabric against their mouth. 

"You do that too often. Apologize, when you don't have to, that is." Before those words could fully process themselves in Uriel's head, they turn the other cheek and let out a soft whine at the pleasant warmth. 

"Goodnight, Owen." A small sigh, and they roll over, asleep.

This was nice. This was... *Nice*. As the thick blanket of warmth and comfort lulls them into a dreamless slumber (thank god for that. They hate to say it, but... They were a bit sick of dreaming, at least for a bit.) , an idle thought bubbles to the top of their mind, unobstructed by the filters of filters of colored glass that tinted their world view. 

*Why did I ever run from this?*