Feo didn’t move.

-

Didn’t speak.

-

His entire body was rigid—stiff as if he had been frozen in place, his hands still gripping the edge of his pants, knuckles white from the pressure. He was trying so hard to control it. To control everything.

-

Lucius was talking, but the words barely penetrated the fog in Feo's mind. His thoughts were still scattered, running in circles, never quite connecting. It was a useless tangle of guilt, frustration, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Lucius was fine. Lucius wasn’t dying. He wasn’t bleeding out on the floor. He’d be okay. He’d always be okay—at least, that’s what he kept saying. But Feo couldn't stop the swirl of everything else—the tight feeling in his chest, the constant gnawing what-ifs that kept clawing at his insides.

-

The constant gnawing of Ivens at his insides.

-

It wasn’t Feo's fault. It really wasn’t.

-

But it could’ve been avoided.

-

If only Feo had been faster. If only he had noticed the way Lucius had hesitated or stumbled forward into the street. If only he hadn’t been too distracted by the sounds of the town, or by the constant storm of thoughts racing through his head. If he’d been aware, if he’d kept his eyes open, if he’d... done something. Anything.

-

His jaw clenched as the words that Lucius was speaking barely seemed to register in his mind. It didn’t matter that it was all Lucius’s fault, because it felt like Feo should’ve been there, like he should've been able to do something about it. The guilt churned in his stomach, making the air feel too thick, too suffocating. It wasn’t just the physical discomfort of the situation; it was the feeling of failure, the weight of that ever-present gnawing need to protect, and the suffocating knowledge that he had let Lucius down.

-

Blood.

-

He squeezed his eyes shut. Stop thinking. Don't think.

Not thinking was a bad idea. The last time he didn't think, Lucius got hit with a bike. So he needed to think.

-

Annoying.

-

“I... I should’ve—” Feo started, but the words didn’t come out. He swallowed, choking on them, his throat constricting.

-

Lucius was still talking. His voice, soft and steady despite the pain in his arm, seemed to hover in the air between them, but Feo couldn’t find any comfort in it. His mind kept drifting back to that moment, that split-second when Lucius had stepped right into the path of the cyclist, and it was like a weight pressing on his chest, suffocating him slowly. He could feel it, the burn in his gut, the pulse of frustration rising like bile. He couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t stop this stupid, ridiculous cycle of thoughts.

-

-

He nearly jumped at the voice in his head. He gritted his teeth—he could slam his head agaist the bed post, but that wouldn't make it go away.

-

Lucius told him to come lay down. Told him to rest, to stop being so tense. To stop being so worried. But Feo couldn’t just let go. He couldn’t shut off the anxiety, couldn’t silence the buzzing in his skull that kept telling him he needed to do something.

-

He needed to do something, but nothing would make it stop.

-

The movement of Lucius settling onto the bed, shifting just a little to find some semblance of comfort with the sling on his arm—it made Feo’s chest tighten even more. He couldn’t stop seeing the blood, the hurt, the way Lucius had been so casually injured in the first place. The fact that Lucius still looked okay, still seemed fine—made it worse. It was like Feo could see the wound, the crack in his own mind, the moment he couldn’t control himself.

-

And now he was still sitting there, frozen in place, watching Lucius, wishing he could just let it go. But he couldn’t. The tightness in his gut kept pulling him back to the beginning. He wasn’t sure where it ended.

-

Then Lucius spoke, his words low, but cutting through the fog in Feo’s mind like a sharp breath. He said it wasn’t his fault. He said he hadn’t been paying attention, that it was all on him. But Feo could still feel the guilt, like a weight pressing down on his chest.

-

Lucius said his name, and Feo snapped his gaze up, meeting his sapphire eyes. He could see the exhaustion in them, but there was something else too—an irritation, maybe even a hint of anger in his tone.

-

Was he imagining that? Was that in his head, too? Was Lucius mad at him?

-

He wouldn't make it out of here tonight if Lucius was mad at him.

-

-

-

-

Feo didn’t reply. He didn’t know how to. Instead, he took a shaky breath, feeling the words twist in his throat, and for a moment he didn’t know whether to just walk out or stay. Maybe walking away was the right choice. Maybe he could just disappear, make himself less of a burden, less of a problem.

-

But then Lucius shifted, laying back on the bed, his injured arm cradled close to his chest. He was trying to sleep. Trying to calm down. Trying to make it better.

-

Feo stayed still, still rooted in place.

-

There was nothing he could do. And that was the worst part.

-

It would’ve been easier if he could just fix it. Do something. But nothing made it better.

-

The room felt too small.

-

Feo’s hands trembled at his sides. But he didn’t move. He just kneeled there, as the silence stretched out, unwilling to give in, unwilling to let go of the guilt that was eating him from the inside.

The silence was growing. It wasn't the type of silence that Lucius enjoyed, it was heavy and suffocating. It was the type of silence that meant something far more than anything else being said. There was a restlessness in the silence. A sort of buzzing to it.

The unsaid thoughts that swirled around like a tornado tearing shingles off of a roof. The piercing guilt that tore through the storm. Lucius could feel it--taste it even--in the air. He wanted to sleep.

Feo started to say something that likely would've went along the lines of 'I should've done something' and Lucius opened one eye to stop that thought. It was not his fault.

There was only one person to blame and Lucius ... Lucius was him. He knew it, he had accepted it, he knew how to make sure it didn't happen later. Look both ways. Don't go running into the street--it was common sense.

"I'm sorry, Feo. I know there's a lot of thoughts in your head right now and nothing I say will really help. I want to soothe that pain, to help you see that I'm really okay. It's going to be just fine. But... I don't think that'll help... I just want you to relax. That's all. I know, it sounds bad when I say that I'm used to it, but it's not supposed to be. It's a fact of life. It comes with the wings and flight and just... being a kid. A real kid, you're bound to break something... or somethings at some point in your childhood. I want to say you don't have to protect me, but I ... I know it's not... really going to help."

That... and it wasn't really him that Feo was trying to protect. It was that mysterious Iven... whose fate was likely tragic.

He knew that repeating the same words weren't going to help. If they hadn't before, they weren't going to now.

So what could he say?

The air was suffocating. It was so tight and thick.

"... I've gotten used to you being here when I sleep," Lucius admitted, his eyes sliding open with a small and careful sigh. "Why don't you try on some of those pants we keep talking about and haven't gotten to? Just to see how they fit, what we should hem and that sort of thing?"

It would get Feo moving, focusing on something else, hopefully lighten the mood a bit and Lucius wouldn't have to move at all. He'd just turn his head to look at the Norse demigod. Brilliant.

"And the shirts too. Tailoring shirts is a little harder, we can always look for an armband. That'll help keep your sleeves up to where you want them to stay," he took in a deep breath and let it out again.

Feo exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing at his sides, but the tightness in his chest didn’t ease. The weight of the silence pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to pretend that any of this was okay. Because it wasn’t.

-

Lucius’s words—carefully chosen, spoken with the kind of patience Feo didn’t deserve—didn’t land the way they were meant to. They hovered around him, lingering in the air, but they didn’t pierce through the thick, suffocating fog in his mind. The logic of it made sense. Lucius was fine. He wasn’t broken beyond repair. This was just another injury, another thing to push through. But Feo wasn’t fine, and no matter how many times Lucius said it wasn’t his fault, it didn’t change the fact that he felt like it was.

-

It didn’t change the fact that his hands still shook.

-

That his thoughts wouldn’t stop.

-

That his stomach still twisted with the ugly, gnawing guilt.

-

Lucius was trying, though. Feo could see that. Hear it. He wasn’t stupid—he knew exactly what Lucius was doing. Trying to redirect him, trying to lighten things, trying to find some way to ease the tension suffocating the room. Feo knew it. But it didn’t mean he could just let go.

-

His eyes flicked over to Lucius, watching as he settled deeper into the bed, clearly exhausted but still looking at Feo like he expected something from him. Waiting. For what, Feo wasn’t sure.

-

And then Lucius mentioned the clothes.

-

The stupid clothes.

-

Feo blinked at him, at the sheer absurdity of the suggestion. He kneeled there, silent for a long moment, as if trying to figure out whether Lucius was messing with him or if he was actually serious.

-

And of course he was serious.

-

Lucius always was, even when he was trying to distract Feo from the gnawing, bleeding thing in his head. It was infuriating.

-

Feo clenched his jaw, then exhaled through his nose. His hands were still tense, still curled into fists, but he forced himself to take a slow step back, dragging his fingers through his hair before crossing the room with stiff, slow movements. He didn’t want to think about clothes. Didn’t want to think about anything other than how he’d failed. But Lucius wasn’t going to stop talking until Feo did something, and if it meant getting him to stop looking at him like that, then fine.

-

Fine.

-

Without a word, Feo grabbed one of the pairs of pants from where they had been set aside earlier, and with a heavy sigh, he started unbuckling his belt, undoing the buttons on his current ones. His movements were stiff, his mind still running a thousand miles a second, but at least it was something to do. Something to focus on other than the suffocating silence. Other than the weight pressing down on his ribs.

-

The pants were fine. Nothing special. A little long, maybe, but that was expected. He pulled them up properly, fastened the belt, then looked down at himself as if assessing whether it even mattered. It didn’t.

-

But Lucius wanted him to do this.

-

And right now, Lucius was the only thing tethering him to the present.

-

Feo exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax even just a fraction. He glanced toward Lucius, his voice low and rough when he finally spoke. “…They fit.” A beat. Then, quieter, “Mostly.”

-

It wasn’t much. Wasn’t enough to make the weight disappear. But at least it was something.

Lucius didn't want to go to sleep with the feeling in the air. A part of him was deeply afraid that Feo would run off... and not come back. That was his biggest worry.

If he could just distract him? That was something more than just sitting there. Well, he'd just sit there. But it was better to have Feo move around.

His head turned, looking toward the other demigod. His sapphire eyes scanned over him, noting the way that the pants fit. The waist was a bit large, he could probably take it in on one side and it'd fit better, hide that with a belt... it'd work.

His eyes traveled down to the cuffs, a little long, hanging over his ankles and brushing the floor.

"Mostly," Lucius confirmed. "I'll have to bring the waist in a bit, they won't look so wrinkled. The hems are a little long but your shoes should give you the height you need to keep them from dragging on the ground," his good hand waved and pointed as the Greek demigod spoke.

His eyes flicked up toward Feo's face.

"Next pair," the young man urged. There was a touch of a relaxed position right there in Feo's stance. That was something and Lucius wanted to hold onto it for as long as he could.

Even if his eyes were half-lidded, a mixture of the warmth of the wrap and the touch of medicine that took the edge off of the pain.

He still had to switch pockets too. But that would take much longer. One pair would suffice for the time being. But he'd have to bring the cuffs up a bit more, he was a touch shorter than Feo.

Lucius took in a deep breath and let it out again, drawing his gaze toward the ceiling. If he had known how much trouble Kansas, of all places, would be... he'd probably still have gone. Even if this was the result, it was worth it.

It was all worth it.

As Feo changed, he drew his eyes over, commenting and making mental notes that he definitely was not going to remember in the morning. It was about... three or four pairs later that Lucius hardly had a coherent mumble. His hand waved before he let it fall. His eyelids fell as well, too tired to keep going. He mumbled something about doing the rest later, it wasn't entirely clear.

His chest rose and fell with soft, careful breaths. Most of the day had been forgotten in the rush of the injury. He was, a little bit, glad that Feo hadn't actually pried in on the comments about it not being the first time.

Half-truths were one thing but Lucius could only tell so many...

At least he was finally asleep.

Feo exhaled slowly, standing there in the dim motel room, watching as Lucius’s breathing evened out. The tension in his own shoulders hadn’t eased, not fully, but there was something about seeing Lucius finally drift off that made it just a little easier to breathe.

-

He didn’t want to admit that the stupid clothes had helped. That the mindless routine of changing from one pair of pants to another, listening to Lucius’s tired, half-slurred commentary, had given him something to focus on beyond the gnawing weight of guilt in his chest. But it had.

-

Feo had kept going even after Lucius started mumbling, his words growing softer, more incoherent. By the time the fourth pair was on, Lucius’s hand barely lifted, a lazy, half-hearted wave before he gave up entirely, surrendering to exhaustion. The final thing he muttered was impossible to understand, but Feo didn’t need to hear it. He could tell by the way Lucius’s chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths that he was gone. Asleep.

-

The silence that followed wasn’t as suffocating as before, but it wasn’t exactly comforting either. Feo stood there for a long moment, arms loosely crossed over his chest, looking down at Lucius’s sleeping form. He should try to rest. He knew that. But he also knew that sleep wasn’t going to come easy tonight.

-

His eyes flickered toward the window, the soft glow of the streetlights barely filtering in through the thin curtains. His fingers curled around his biceps, grip tight. If he closed his eyes, he could still see it. The bike. The chains. The moment of impact. The blood rushing from his neck. The way Lucius had hit the ground, the sharp pain in his voice when he’d tried to brush it off like it was nothing. The way Iven had—

-

Feo clenched his jaw.

-

Fuck. And now the scenes were blending together.

-

He could stand guard tonight. Make sure Lucius was safe. That would be enough. It had to be.

-

Slowly, carefully, he stepped away from the bed, moving toward the chair by the small, motel desk. He pulled it closer, setting it just beside the bed, where he could keep an eye on the door. On Lucius.

-

He sat down stiffly, one arm resting on his knee, the other rubbing at his face.

-

Tomorrow, Lucius would wake up and pretend like everything was fine. He’d push forward like he always did, stubborn and reckless, too used to brushing off pain as if it were just another part of life. Feo knew he wouldn’t talk about it, not really. And Feo… well, he wouldn’t push.

-

But that didn’t mean he would stop watching.

-

That didn’t mean he would stop protecting him.

-

Feo sat in the chair, stiff as stone, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Lucius’s chest. It should have been comforting. It should have been enough.

-

But it wasn’t.

-

His fingers curled into his pants, gripping the fabric tight, knuckles white with tension. His leg bounced, his body practically vibrating with pent-up energy he had nowhere to put. His mind was racing, spinning itself into knots, circling the same damn thought over and over again.

-

He should’ve stopped it.

-

Feo’s breath was shallow, his throat tight. His body screamed at him to move, to do something—but there was nothing to do. Lucius was asleep. He was fine.

-

Except he wasn’t.

-

He had gone down so fast. One second standing, the next crashing—bones snapping, asphalt scraping skin. It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been so much worse. He could still hear it, that sickening thud, the split-second of silence before pain had caught up to him.

-

It was all too familiar.

-

His hands pressed against his face, fingers digging into his temples. He had been here before. He had sat in a room like this, watching someone breathe, hoping—praying—that nothing else would go wrong.

-

But back then, it hadn’t mattered how much he watched.

-

It hadn’t mattered how much he cared.

-

Because in the end, it hadn’t been enough.

-

Iven had still died.

-

Feo’s stomach twisted, nausea curling in his gut. He could still see him, even now, burned into the backs of his eyelids like some cruel afterimage. Iven had always been small for his age, always grinning like he knew something Feo didn’t. Always mouthing off, always getting into trouble, always throwing himself into the fire without thinking about the consequences.

-

Just like Lucius.

-

His fingers curled into fists, pressing against his forehead.

-

He had promised himself.

-

He had sworn that he wouldn’t let it happen again. That he wouldn’t let someone else slip through his fingers. That he wouldn’t fail again.

-

And yet—tonight had been a failure.

-

Lucius had gotten hurt.

-

Lucius had almost died.

-

Feo forced himself to exhale slowly, carefully, pressing the panic down into his gut where it would fester in silence. He couldn’t wake Lucius. He couldn’t let him see.

-

Because the last thing Lucius needed was more weight on his shoulders.

-

Because the last thing Feo needed was to hear Lucius tell him it wasn’t his fault—because even if that was true, even if there was no possible way he could’ve stopped it, that didn’t change the fact that Feo should have.

-

Feo stayed where he was, unmoving.

-

He would sit there all night.

-

He wouldn’t sleep.

-

He couldn’t.

-

Because if he did, he might miss something.

-

And if he missed something—

-

If he failed again—

-

He wasn’t sure he could survive it.

It was strange to look into the mirror of his mind and see himself. ... see who he wanted to be. Broad shoulders, toned and muscular, the dazzling wings spread out wide. A true terror, worthy of the name and the appearance.

"That was pretty dumb wasn't it?"

It was his own voice that said the words and Lucius couldn't help but agree, sitting down where he was. "Yeah," he admitted, voice low and heavy. "All of today has been ... one big screw up. Not one part of the entire day had gone well. The entire trip was one big mess and it was barely concealed. He wasn't sure how much more he could hold it together.

The collector had been weird and off putting, and Feo had been uptight the entire time. Getting out of there, to the diner and then the whole Aera thing had happened. Oh, not to mention the whole little vision of victory's light or whatever. Then the Aera thing had actually gone down.

By the time it seemed like the day was almost going to be alright, he had gone and screwed it up. It wasn't ... the worst part was the fact that it wasn't even that deadly or exciting. He had stepped off the sidewalk, into the street and gotten absolutely trucked ... by a bicycle. That wasn't the issue, it was him trying to catch himself--like he knew he shouldn't have--and then Feo's reaction.

Lucius felt his nose crinkle upward. But the mirror spoke.

"... you're stuck, aren't you?"

Lucius leaned his head back and sighed heavily. He didn't want to admit it.

But at the same time, he really didn't have a choice. It wasn't that he was stuck in place, it was that he had gotten into that situation and when the usual methods of soothing it hadn't worked, he had gotten frustrated. A part of him could still feel the tension in the air.

"It's not my fault," Lucius shook his head lightly. "It's... not me... he sees. But damnit if he'd just listen to me!" The young man shouted into the void, his chest heaving tight breaths. "If he'd just let go, just stop... thinking for once and just listen to me! I'm fine, I don't care that it hurt, I don't. I just want to push it behind us. It's a minor inconvenience at best. I don't want to focus on it and I don't want him to worry about it either!"

"That's selfish."

Lucius flinched at the words. He... he had known it all along. It was selfish. But he just wasn't sure what to do. Did he try and get Feo to talk about it? That seemed like a really bad idea. Did he... fake tears and pretend it was a big deal? That sounded really dumb.

"He thinks he has to just... always protect me, like I'm some fragile bird," Lucius mumbled, resting his chin on his arms. "It's not that bad. I'm used to this pain, I don't care. But... it feels like he cares too much."

"Is there a compromise?"

"I don't know," Lucius mumbled. "I don't even know if this whole thing was.... a good idea."

"... what?"

"I know. Second guessing myself for once. I let him in... but maybe I shouldn't have," Lucius mumbled dryly. "It only ends in tears--it doesn't matter what happens. If I... If I just stuck to my previous plan, I'd be indestructible. This wouldn't have happened," his eyebrows furrowed, huffing shortly. "We're right back to square one all over again and ... and I don't know how many times I can keep going back. We should've been out of Kansas by now," he let out a dry breath, shaking his head. His arms lowered--and clearly he had moved in his sleep at the jolt of sharp agonizing pain that startled him from his sleep with a small hiss.

That... hurt.

Feo’s chest was tight. His breath came in steady, measured inhales, but they did nothing to ease the crushing weight inside him. He felt caged in his own skin, restless, twitching, his body demanding action, movement—anything but sitting there, drowning in the silence.

-

So he got up.

-

Pacing the room in slow, deliberate steps.

-

One glance at Lucius. His chest rising and falling, the tension finally drained from his face. He looked… peaceful. Feo should have felt relieved. He should have let that be enough. But it wasn’t. Because peace was fragile. Because it could be shattered in an instant.

-

He turned, moving toward the door, fingers brushing over the lock. It was still engaged. Secure.

-

He moved to the window, pressing his fingertips against the glass. It didn’t open. It wouldn’t open.

-

Back to Lucius. A check. Just to be sure.

-

Then the bed across from him. Sitting, but never resting.

-

Then back up again. Pacing the length of the beds.

-

Check the door. Check the window. Check Lucius.

-

Repeat.

-

His mind was a storm, screaming at him that this wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t enough. That he had to be better. That he had to find a way to make sure this never happened again.

-

And then—an idea. A stupid, desperate idea.

-

Lucius had proven that there was a magical item for everything. That somewhere, out there, existed enchantments that could fix anything.

-

So there had to be something for this.

-

Something that could make it so Feo never had to sleep again.

-

They were going to Florida next, but after that…

-

Wherever that artifact was, it would be their next stop.

-

Lucius wouldn’t think much of it. Probably. As long as it wasn’t somewhere cold. If it was cold, Feo would have a harder time explaining. But if it was warm, if it was some ancient temple buried in a jungle, or a lost relic sitting in a desert, he could spin it into another adventure.

-

Lucius loved adventure. He would go along with it.

-

And then, when Feo found what he needed, he’d never have to sleep again.

-

He’d always be awake. Always be watching. Always be there to keep Lucius safe.

-

And nothing like tonight would ever happen again.

-

His thoughts tried to pull him back—to another night, to another time, to Iven’s small frame twisted in the dirt, too still, too quiet—but he shoved it down, locked it away in some dark corner of his mind where it couldn’t reach him.

-

But he couldn’t block out Lucius.

-

Couldn’t block out the way he looked lying there, soft and warm in the dim light, hair a mess against the pillow, breath slow and even.

-

Couldn’t block out the way his head felt light, like his brain was floating somewhere far away, like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

-

Couldn’t block out the faint red splotches appearing in his vision, sharp and jagged, flickering in and out like an afterimage burned into his retinas.

-

He blinked. Once. Twice. They were still there.

-

He swallowed hard, throat dry. His fingers flexed at his sides, then curled into fists.

-

It didn’t matter.

-

It didn’t matter.

-

What mattered was Lucius.

-

Keeping him safe.

-

Watching him.

-

Making sure he never, ever had to watch another friend die.

-

So Feo forced his body back into motion, ignoring the dizziness creeping in at the edges of his awareness.

-

Back to the door.

-

Back to the window.

-

Back to Lucius.

-

Then the bed.

-

Then back up again.

-

Repeat.

-

But he was interrupted.

-

And the sound cut through Feo like a blade.

-

A sharp, small hiss—barely more than a breath, but it hit him like a gunshot. His entire body went rigid, his stomach dropping out from under him as if the floor had vanished. His breath caught, his pulse slamming hard against his ribs.

-

Lucius had moved.

-

Lucius was in pain.

-

Lucius was—

-

Feo was at his side in an instant, crouched next to the bed before he even realized he had moved. His fingers hovered over Lucius’s arm, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His eyes darted over him, scanning, searching, trying to see what was wrong.

-

His mind was screaming, spinning, throwing possibilities at him faster than he could process.

-

Had he moved too much in his sleep? Had the splint shifted? Had Feo wrapped it wrong? Was it worse than they had thought? Did it need more than Apollo’s wrap? Should they have stayed at the hospital? Should they go back to the hospital?

-

What if—

-

No.

-

No. It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t that bad.

-

Lucius was still breathing. His face was tight with pain, but he wasn’t gasping, wasn’t crying out. It was the kind of pain that hurt, but it wasn’t killing him.

-

Feo swallowed hard, forcing down the panic clawing its way up his throat.

-

He had to stay calm.

-

For Lucius.

-

He didn’t speak—not yet. He just watched, his muscles locked tight, waiting to see what Lucius would do next. Waiting for a sign. A cue.

-

He had to do something. He had to fix this.

-

But what if he couldn’t?

Feo didn’t answer right away. He barely even blinked, still watching Lucius like he was waiting for him to break apart right in front of him. His fingers twitched—he wanted to touch him, to check the injury, to make sure—but he forced himself to stay still. Lucius was still breathing. Lucius was still speaking. Lucius was alive.

-

That should’ve been enough.

-

It wasn’t.

-

Feo dragged in a slow, quiet breath, pressing his hands against his knees to keep them from shaking. “It startled you,” he echoed, his voice low. Flat. Empty. His fingers curled into the fabric of his pants. “It shouldn’t have startled you.”

-

He wasn’t talking about the pain.

-

He was talking about the fact that it happened at all. The fact that Lucius had been hurt in the first place. The fact that it wasn’t healing fast enough.

-

The fact that Feo hadn’t been able to stop it.

-

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. His gaze flicked toward the window, then the door, then back to Lucius. He didn’t like sitting still. He didn’t like that Lucius had caught on to his thoughts. He didn’t like that there was something for Lucius to catch onto in the first place.

-

He hated this.

-

“I was thinking,” he said finally, his voice too even, too controlled, “that I should’ve done something.”

-

He was up before Lucius could respond, pacing again, running a hand through his hair as his mind spun, trying to grasp onto something solid. “You think I look like I have thoughts? Yeah. I do. I’ve got a lot of them. And none of them are good.”

-

His jaw clenched, his arms folding tightly across his chest. His gaze snapped back to Lucius, burning, intense. “I should’ve done something. If I had—if I had—” He cut himself off, his hands clenching into fists, nails digging into his palms. “I just let it happen.”

-

And now Lucius was suffering because of it.

-

Just like he had.

-

Feo turned away again, his fingers running over his temples. The panic was clawing at him, but he shoved it down, buried it under the weight of his own resolve. He couldn’t afford to break. He couldn’t afford to lose control.

-

Not now.

-

Not ever again.

-

“I can’t let this happen again,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough to be heard. His mind was already turning over the possibilities, the options. There was something out there that could help.

-

He just had to find it.

-

And once he did?

-

Lucius would never be hurt again.

-

Feo took another sharp breath, his fists still clenched so tightly his nails threatened to break skin. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out everything else, every rational thought, every excuse Lucius might try to throw at him. Probably about to say something—some soft attempt to soothe him, to tell him again that it wasn’t his fault, that there was nothing he could’ve done.

-

He couldn’t hear that. Not again.

-

His head snapped toward Lucius, his eyes dark, hard, unreadable. “Don’t.” His voice was low, rough, teetering on the edge of something dangerous. “Don’t cut in. Don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault. I-I can't—"

-

His fingers curled deeper into his arms, his stance rigid, tense, like he was barely holding himself together. He was.

-

“I know what you’re gonna say,” he went on, voice still tight, still too controlled. “And I don’t want to hear it. I can’t hear it.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, as he tried to shove down the suffocating weight in his chest. His breathing had quickened. His vision blurred for half a second, but he forced himself to focus.

-

“You don’t understand.” The words came out sharper than he meant them to, but he didn’t take them back. Lucius didn’t understand. He didn’t know. How could he? He didn’t see what Feo saw every time he closed his eyes. He didn’t know what it felt like to lose someone and be helpless to stop it.

-

Lucius wasn’t supposed to understand.

-

Feo exhaled shakily, forcing himself to look away, his arms still wrapped tightly around himself. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, but no less firm. “Just don’t say it.”

-

Feo stood there for a long moment, his breath still a little too fast, his muscles still too tight. He could feel how sharp his words had been, knew Lucius deserved none it, prayed to the gods that he wouldn't flinch away again. He hadn’t meant to snap. He hadn’t meant to let that raw edge of panic bleed into his voice like that.

-

His fingers loosened from where they had been digging into his arms, and he let out a slow, uneven breath. He forced himself to meet Lucius’s eyes again, and some of the fire had dimmed, replaced by something heavier.

-

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice rough but sincere. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

-

He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he tried to settle the storm in his chest. “It’s just—” He sighed, looking away for a second before forcing himself to face Lucius again. “I know you want to tell me it wasn’t my fault, but I can’t—I won’t believe that. Not after—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. No. He wasn’t going to spiral again.

-

He exhaled sharply, his hands falling to his sides. “I just… I don’t want this to happen again. I don’t want you to get hurt. And I should’ve been paying more attention. I should’ve done something. Even if you don’t think so.”

-

His voice softened a little more. “I just—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I can’t lose you, too.”

There it was again. Lucius could've said the words himself. It shouldn't have done this, shouldn't have done that--it was life! That was how life went. You got hurt, you lived, you learned, that was how it worked.

Nothing had changed from the time he had fallen asleep to this point in time when he had jostled himself awake. Lucius was regretting being awake. He largely wished that he was still asleep. Perhaps it was a mixture of the pain and the medicine but his emotions felt a touch heightened.

That he--oh for the love of Hera. This again? He should've done something, if he had, then it would've had happened, he wouldn't be in pain, he'd be fine, blah blah blah. Lucius could recite it from memory and he was not impressed with it.

Again?

That sent a sharp burst of hot anger through the winged demigod. He wasn't Iven. That--that thought unlocked something in him that he hadn't realized he had been holding back. A wash of annoyance, resentment and anger. It was always the same thing. Feo never actually saw him for him, he saw Iven--a second chance to keep that from happening.

Lucius kept it inside of his head, keeping calm for as long as he could. He opened his mouth to say something when Feo snapped at him.

Lucius took in a short breath, his eyebrows furrowing. Really? That was what he was going to do? Oh, that man was so lucky he couldn't do anything but lay there and try not to move wrong.

"Well you're going to if you keep talking like that," Lucius snapped, his heightened emotions spilling over. There was irritation and anger in his voice, etched in his sharp scowl. Oh he couldn't hold it back anymore. "I swear to Hades, you'd best shut up and listen, Feo. This," he gestured to himself, "is real life. Surprise. You get hurt, you get scraped up, you make mistakes, and whatever. It was a bike, a bloody bike, Feo. So no, there was nothing you could have done. But I swear to goodness, if you smother me like a bird in a cage, I will not stay there. This," he gestured to his arm, "is fine. You're not listening to me, you're so lost in your own world we're back to square one and I can't keep doing this."

His hand pushed into his hair, drawing his sharp sapphire gaze up to the ceiling above his head.

The emotions swirled in his chest, sharp, potent and bleeding. It was like he was a little boat just riding the tides of the swirling emotions. The sea a deep dangerous mixture of colors.

"I know. I know that you lost someone. But, I am not him. Do you hear me? I am not Iven, Feo," his voice was less sharp but still irate. "I'm not going to be smothered and kept like a trophy. You are going to listen to me when I say that I am fine. Because I am fine. This is not serious, it's not like I'm going to die from it--it's not even going to take months to heal! It's going to be fine by tonight. You are going to spend today working through your emotions, all of them--and write it down, you're going to relax and then, when you're done, you can come back to having this conversation. In the meantime, I am going to sleep."

Lucius settled his head back in the pillows with a firm huff. He ignored, largely, the fact that half of his words had somewhat... melded together in a slight slur. It was fine.

...

Ugh, he was tired. His head hurt with the effort of thinking and speaking like that. And, he was somewhat cold.