Paying Dues
Prompt; Injury.
Characters; Garvin (and others), unnamed asshole, and Akira. Unnamed NPCs, Devery, Narin, and the rest of GRAIN are all mentioned to some degree.
Word Count; 5,790.
TWs; Swearing, varying levels of dissociation, internalized ableism, self-esteem issues, self-worth issues, self-hatred, suicidal ideation, depression, alcohol, smoking mentioned, injury, victim blaming, panic/anxiety attacks, implied rape/non-con, coercion, ‘mild’ flashbacks, nausea/vomit, coughing, blood, threats, drowning, lots of terrible implications, concussions, and messy writing/ending. Maybe more? Hard to really say.
Notes; Takes place before Small Comforts (Pg 688). Uh. Yeah. Garvin’s really not doing too well in this. Oops. Akira, please help your boyfriend. He needs so much help.
*~*~*~*
The day was fine. Great, even. Just the best day he’d ever had. Sure, Garvin had woken up to a splitting headache, thoughts of death going through his head, and his legs not wanting to work until he had finished a cigarette. And, okay, he was drinking before noon in a bar he couldn’t remember ever having been in before. But the day was fine and it wasn’t like he was the only one in the bar drinking before noon. He wasn’t starving and he wasn’t hurt and he wasn’t actually planning on listening to his thoughts at all.
-
He hadn’t been in the bar for very long yet, at least. It wasn’t like he’d wasted the entire morning drinking. He’d really only just started drinking, he’d really only been in the bar for what was probably fifteen minutes at most. It was fine. Sure, he would’ve rather been in Levy’s bar if he was starting to drink this early in the day. But, well, whatever-his-face would probably be there too, and he didn’t feel like dealing with someone that might actually try and talk to him or cut him off from drinks. Even if he wasn’t planning on stealing from any strangers, he just… He needed the day to do nothing but drink. So not getting cut off from drinks was obviously a must.
-
Garvin pulled at the cuff of his trench coat, grimaced at himself, and pulled his hand away from the cuff. The last thing he needed to do was end up pulling at the threads and destroying his coat. He’d really rather not do that. He shifted, blinked, and finished the drink he’d been nursing. Lacerta would probably be pissed about him stealing his card, but that was a problem for later. A problem for a much less sober Garvin to deal with. So he looked up to go through the process of getting another drink, and then felt as his heart sank.
-
The bar had a mirror behind the shelves, along with one between two different sections of shelves. The design had seemed a little odd to him when he’d entered. Really though, none of that mattered. What did matter was that the design was just about the only good thing now, as he stared at the group of three that’d just walked in through the mirrors. As they stopped where they were and stared at him. He couldn’t remember their names, but he recognized them enough to know that he’d borrowed money from them that he’d never planned to pay back. He’d done that to a lot of people. He wasn’t sure how much he owed this group. Not that it really mattered whether he remembered that or not either though. He didn’t have any money on him.
-
They weren’t happy with him, no one he owed money ever was. He really didn’t feel like dealing with them. He didn’t know the owner of the bar though, so leaving through the backdoor wasn’t an option. They were blocking the only other way out too. Taking his chances at running past them didn’t seem good. He didn’t have many other options. He took a breath, watched as the group looked at each other, and stood up to start making his way to the bathroom. Two of them left the bar, barely in his line of sight. He hoped that it meant he was out of the last one’s sight too. It’d give him a bit of time to figure something out.
-
In the meantime, he was just hoping that the bathroom had a window. Some of them did, he wasn’t sure how likely it was. He hoped that if there was, the three didn’t visit the bar often enough to know about it. He couldn’t really think of any other reasons two of them would’ve left other than to block all of the ways out, after all.
-
He pushed into the bathroom and groaned when he saw that there weren’t any windows. He stood in front of the door, trying to decide if his chances were better in the bathroom or not. He wasn’t sure. His chances weren’t good anywhere, really. Sure, he could hide in a stall. Too many people had still been willing to try and figure out a way into the stall in the past for him to trust that to work.
-
He didn’t have many other ideas though, and none of the ones he did have were any more likely to work. He didn’t think he had enough time to think of something better either. At least in a stall he’d probably have an easier time fighting back. Probably. He wasn’t sure how good it’d really do. He still made his way to the other end of the bathroom, to where the larger stall always was.
-
He closed the stall door behind him, locked it, and waited. There was only one inside the bar, he could take one guy. Probably. He didn’t have any matches on him. Or a lighter. He wasn’t sure why. He usually had them on him. He wasn’t sure how he’d forgotten to bring them with him. He took a breath. He could still probably win against one guy. Maybe. Then again, if they thought one guy staying in the bar was enough then that didn’t look good for him. He tried not to pace as he waited. Really, there was no way to know if they’d find him or even look for him. He doubted they wouldn’t. Even if it seemed like they weren’t, they could just be waiting for him to think he’s in the clear. It’d happened before. He took a breath, and forced himself not to pace. It wouldn’t help him in the long run. Really, he just needed to stand somewhere that it’d be hard, or not even fucking possible at best, to see that he was in the stall.
-
He didn’t end up waiting long, which was just his fucking luck. He shifted, listening as he heard the bathroom door open and close. There was no real way of knowing if it was the guy he owed money or not, but it was his luck that it would be.
-
And he ended up being right, taking a quiet breath as a voice rang out. “You fuckin’ bitch! Get your ass out ‘ere an’ give me my fuckin’ money, you lyin’ piece of shit!”
-
Well, he was definitely in for an ass beating if he was found. Which seemed likely, if he was being honest. He wasn’t even sure if he could win a fight against the guy. He didn’t have anything on him and it wasn’t like he’d be the only one willing to fight dirty here. He shifted at the sound of a stall door being kicked in, kept his eyes on the door of the one he was in. He’d cornered himself. He’d fucking cornered himself. He knew hiding in the bathroom was a bad idea, it always was. Fuck him and his hoping that there’d be a window. Fuck his shitty fucking luck. Fuck the motherfuckers blocking his exits. He took a breath, as quietly as he could manage it.
-
The guy would figure out which stall he was in eventually. At that point, he’d either crawl in to get to him or bang on the door while threatening him. Maybe he’d start off doing one and then switch to the other. If the guy managed to get into the stall, his chances of winning a fight weren’t good. So… He needed to stop the guy from getting in. How could he do that?
-
Another stall had its door kicked in. There obviously wasn’t anyone else in the bathroom but them. So there was even less of a chance at some ‘kind hearted’ stranger stepping in to reap some sort of damn favor. He closed his eyes for a moment, squeezed them shut and listened to another stall being kicked into. Maybe he could crawl out of the stall into a different one while the guy was distracted. Except, he’d tried that before, hadn’t he? It hadn’t worked out that well for him. He just ended up cornered in a different stall that didn’t at least have a locked door between him and the other guy.
-
His best shot was still going to be trying to stop the guy from getting in. What were the chances he could manage to stomp the guy’s head into the ground? He opened his eyes, tried to think. What if he opened the door? Hit it into the guy’s face before making a run for it? Except, the other two were probably blocking his way out the bar. The stall next to the one he was in got its door kicked in. He was just about out of time to think. He could try the stomping idea. So long as it hit, it would work. Probably. Maybe. He wasn’t really sure but it was worth a shot given it was the best he could come up with.
-
He tried not to react when the guy hit his fist against the door of the stall he was in. Instead, he took a quiet breath and shifted his weight as a voice followed it. “I know you’re in there! Open the goddamn door an’ pay wha’ you fuckin’ owe me!”
-
Yeah, no way he was doing that. He didn’t have any money on him, for one. He doubted he would even if he did though. He was fairly certain that he actually had tried that before, opening the door and paying back the guy he’d owed money to after months of avoiding him. He was also fairly certain that the guy had still beaten his ass though. So. No way was he about to be going through a repeat of that, even if he’d had the money on him.
-
The guy continued to beat against the door, yelling out threats and insults as he did. Which was fine by him, even if it was loud and annoying and getting on his nerves. It meant the guy wasn’t trying to crawl into the stall yet. Maybe he’d be tired enough by the time he did that he’d have a better chance of winning a fight or stopping him from getting in altogether. He somehow doubted that. Even if he won against this guy, he’d still be stuck in the bar given the other two blocking his fucking exit. Maybe this guy had a phone on him though. If he won against him then he could take his phone. Try to call someone. Who’d answer a random number though? He was really the only one that ever seemed to answer those. He could leave a voicemail though. Maybe whoever he called would listen to it and then that’d solve that problem.
-
“Fuckin’ bitch!”
-
The guy really needed to get some better insults. He still took a half step back when he stopped beating his fist against the door. He didn’t let himself hope that he’d just give up. He knew better. He listened to the sound of the guy stepping back and took a breath. Moment of truth. Best case scenario, he’d be able to knock the guy out by stomping his head into the ground. Worst case scenario… He’d get his ass beat? More or less. Maybe something more along with the lines of the guy ending up having a gun, shooting him, and then still beating his ass. That’d be a fucking pain to deal with.
-
The guy did, of course, start trying to crawl into the stall. He took a breath, kept himself calm, and forced himself not to hold the rail as he lifted his foot. He didn’t need the balancing help. He didn’t. He could fucking manage to make sure his foot hit without it. Just like always. He could. He went to bring his foot down on the guy’s head, and felt his heart skip a beat when his ankle was grabbed instead. Which was just so fucking great—
-
He was pulled by the ankle. He barely had enough time to take a breath before his vision blacked and the wind was knocked out of him. The pain came a second later, when his vision came back and he was staring at a ceiling. He choked on his next breath for a moment, trying to figure out what ceiling he was looking at. He blinked, his sight blurred, and saw the ceiling of a far too familiar basement. He blinked again, quicker, trying to right himself, and saw the ceiling of the bathroom he was in. He breathed, still far too choked up. He ignored the ringing in his ears and tried to get moving.
-
It hadn’t worked. He needed to move. Get up. Try and do something. He managed to push himself into sitting up, forcing his eyes to focus as he went to get up the rest of the way. The guy was already mostly in the stall, he breathed and tried to go backwards. Tried to get his thoughts in check. He needed— He needed distance. He needed to put space between them. The guy lunged at him before he could get all that far.
-
He rolled, took only a moment to watch the guy land where he had been, and swung. He wasn’t sure what he was aiming for. He didn’t really care, as long as it hit then it was good enough for him. His fist ended up connecting with the side of the guy’s face, and he took the time it gave him to put some more space between them. To start trying to stand up.
-
It didn’t give him much time, admittedly. Nowhere near enough to get up, at least. He hadn’t really expected it to. The guy still went to lunge at him again sooner than he’d expected though. He kicked out, raising one hand up in case he missed and putting his other hand on the ground behind him. He ended up managing to kick the guy in the chest, and used the moment it gave him to breathe and grab the rail to pull himself up.
-
He’d gotten to a crouch by the time the guy tried lunging again. Which just seemed stupid to him and he almost wondered if the guy knew how to do anything else. He went to move, to stand up and step away. Instead, the guy actually managed to hit him this time and he had to focus on making sure his head didn’t hit the wall or the rail. He raised his arms to block the next punch the guy threw at him, and the next, and the next after that.
-
He kneed the guy when the punching paused for a moment. The guy started backwards, and he went to pull himself up, to push himself off the ground. The guy managed to punch him instead, listening to the sound of his nose breaking. He was grabbed by the hair when it had him going towards the floor, and a second later his head was being pulled up. Which seemed odd for all of two seconds before he saw the toilet in front of him and immediately went to backtrack, to try and pull away, get away, to not have to deal with what was about to happen. Partly because, well, that was just fucking gross, even for a bitch he owed money. But mostly because, by the fucking stars, he was sick and tired of drowning. He was so sick and tired of fucking drowning. He was sick and tired of water and the way it just had to have it fucking out for him.
-
As per fucking usual, him struggling against it did fucking nothing. His head was still pushed in and as far under the water line as it could go, his forehead pressed against porcelain. He kept struggling, one hand trying to get the hand off that was pushing his head under the water and his other hand trying to push himself up and out. He still ended up breathing in water before making any sort of progress, and his hand slipped from where it was pushing against the seat for a second. He flailed, just a bit, trying to think with water tearing through his throat again. His other hand was grabbed, pulled away from the hand holding his head under the water. His foot slid against the floor as he flailed, and he tried to get his hand back to pushing at the seat. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t fucking breathe because there was fucking water in his lungs— Because there was fucking toilet water in his fucking lungs and burning his throat and he couldn’t fucking do anything about it and—
-
His head was lifted up, and he couldn’t think to do much more than to try and cough out as much water as he could. To try and breathe. So he coughed, and sputtered, and coughed some more. He heaved, trying to blink back the spots in his vision and get enough water out of his lungs to be able to actually breathe again. His hand slipped again, his hair was still being held. He tried to take a breath, heaved instead, and went to try again.
-
His head was back under the water before he could, his forehead slamming into the porcelain. Everything blacked for a moment, and he was drowning again when any sort of awareness came back. He flailed, trying to push himself out or get his hand free or kick the guy away or— Or just do something to be able to get the water out of his lungs and breathe. Except, well, everything felt heavy. Everything felt heavy and like it was only getting heavier and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe. His hand slipped again, he couldn’t pull it back up. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. His feet slid, and trying to move them was hard. He couldn’t fucking breathe.
-
He landed on the floor on his side, and it took him a moment to notice that he wasn’t drowning anymore, water spilling from his mouth onto the ground beside him. When he did notice, he immediately heaved, coughing and sputtering and choking on the water in his throat as it came up. He managed to turn onto his front, trying to push himself up as he kept coughing up water. He heaved, coughed some more, choked on the water in his lungs, and heaved again. A moment later, he was staring at a mix of water and vomit on the ground in front of him. He coughed, sputtering, and then tried to breathe. Instead, he threw up again, coughing and heaving out more of the water stuck in his lungs.
-
He grabbed at the ground beneath him, still barely feeling the way his fingers curled and clawed the floor. He tried to breathe again, and ended up on his side, coughing and starting to curl as pain registered at his chest. He blinked, weary and unable to focus. He was kicked in the chest again, and he barely managed to stay on his side, curling more and listening as his ears cleared enough to let him hear the guy talking. Or yelling. Probably yelling. It still seemed far.
-
“—My fuckin’ money!? You fuckin’ bitch!”
-
He was kicked again, listening to himself groan as it put him on his back. Breathing was hard, he kept tasting blood in his mouth. His nose was probably bleeding. He blinked at the ceiling, tried to get his head to stop spinning so he could fucking think. He tried to get his eyes to focus. A foot was pressing against his chest. He couldn’t tell what the ceiling looked like. He blinked some more, trying to think past the foot pressing further against his chest. It lifted a moment later, raised and held up, and then came right back down onto it. There was a cracking sound, and he heard himself cough and groan, and he tried to turn. Tried to move or get away or just… Something. He had to do something. He couldn’t think of anything other than just trying to move.
-
He didn’t think he’d managed much by the time the guy was on top of him. He didn’t think he’d managed anything at all, really. It was hard to think. It was hard to breathe. He couldn’t block the first punch the guy threw at him, trying and failing to get his eyes to focus past the switchblade the guy had held in his other hand. He managed to pull an arm up in time to block that, at least, even if it ended up cutting across his arm instead of his throat or face or something worse than his fucking arm. He managed to block the next punch with that arm too, and the blade was thrown away so the guy could grab the wrist of that arm instead.
-
His arm was moved out of the way, and the guy punched him again. And again. And again. He tried raising his other arm, another punch stopped him before he could as the world seemed to stall for a moment after. He was being punched again when everything started back up. The next few punches came and went with him not being able to do much other than just try to breathe. There was a pause after them though, at least. He couldn’t get himself to focus on what was going on. He choked out his next breath. He didn’t think breathing was supposed to make as much noise as it was making for him. He didn’t think each breath was supposed to make some sort of choked gasping sound. He couldn’t really think though, so it was possible that he was wrong.
-
He blinked, tried to focus his eyes as the guy’s lips moved. He couldn’t manage to hear anything the guy was saying. He couldn’t manage… Just about anything, really. He tasted blood in his mouth. He was tired. He closed his eyes. Everything seemed to hurt. He felt like shit. He couldn’t figure out what to do. He tried to focus on hearing whatever was being said to him, just to try and figure out if there was some fucking way out of this mess. He wasn’t sure what all he’d missed by the time his hearing came back to him enough to make out what the guy was saying.
-
“—Wit’out takin’ some fuckin’ repayment! D’you get that!? ‘M not leavin’ wit’out takin’ somethin’ from you, you fuckin’ lyin’ ass bitch!”
-
He was punched again, and he felt the way it made his head turn to the side. He didn’t try to stop it from doing so. It made him open his eyes though, and he couldn’t even manage to worry when he saw the guy take out a gun. His eyes barely focused for him to see it anyway. He blinked, tried to breathe, and barely shifted his head away when the muzzle of the gun was pressed under his jaw. His vision swam, he tried to listen to what was being said. It was hard to breathe. It was even harder with a gun against his head, making it more difficult to keep his mouth open enough for it.
-
“—Fuck you senseless an’ you are gonna act like a good goddamn fuckin’ whore an’ make me think that you want nothin’ more than for me to be fuckin’ you like there’s no fuckin’ tomorrow! You don’t wanna do that, then I’m gonna fuckin’ shoot you an’ then there really won’t be a fuckin’ tomorrow for you! You get that? Huh? Do you? You’d better fuckin’ hope you do!”
-
The muzzle of the gun was pushing into his skin. He blinked, tried to get the words to click, and only managed to when his pants were being messed with. He couldn’t focus well enough to figure out what he was supposed to do. He was dating someone now, wasn’t he? He wasn’t supposed to… He wasn’t sure if there was a way out of it. He didn’t think there was. Everything seemed hard, everything seemed sore. Thinking was hard. Breathing was hard. He wanted out. He didn’t want this shit. He didn’t, he really fucking didn’t. He couldn’t figure out what to do.
-
He closed his eyes and did what he’d been told to do. It was easier than trying to think of something. It was easier than trying to think at all. He ignored it as well as he could, as much as he could without ending up shot. He tried to ignore himself more than he tried to ignore what was happening, his gasps and his begs and his moans and his pleas for worse, for more, for harder and faster and— And his fucking reactions and the pain and the fucking pleasure and—
-
He didn’t think when it was over. He stared at the ceiling, ignoring the drool and his heavy breathing and the feeling left behind by it. If anything was said, he missed it. What he didn’t miss was the gun being pulled away from his head. He stayed staring at the ceiling, unblinking. Unmoving. Unthinking. He didn’t want to. The handle of the gun came down on his head. He would’ve thanked the stars for the sweet abyss of nothingness that it brought if he’d been able to.
-
When everything came back, it was both harder and easier to do… Anything. The guy was gone, his pants had already been fixed, and he was propped against a wall in the still locked stall. He didn’t do anything but take all of that in, for a moment, his head pounding behind his eyes. He took a breath, shaky and choked and not at all how someone was supposed to breathe, and blinked.
-
He tried to stand. Instead of managing it, he could barely move his arms and legs at all. He felt sick. He tried again. He had to squeeze his eyes shut at the pain instead of anything else. He forced his arms to work well enough to try and find… Something that’d help him get up and out. He had to leave. He had to move.
-
He found a phone in one of his pockets. His phone. He stared at it. His eyes burned. He blinked, shaking and staring and trying to resist the urge to throw it. A choked whine came from the back of his throat. He realized he was crying, and he resisted the urge to bash his head against the wall too. He didn’t think he had the energy for any of it. He opened the phone with shaky hands, forced his way into finding the contacts app, found the name that had an eagle behind it, and hit the call button as quickly as he could.
-
He wasn’t sure if they’d pick up. He hoped they did. He really hoped they did. He couldn’t stand. He probably couldn’t walk. He was a sitting fucking duck. He didn’t need to deal with any more assholes. He didn’t want to deal with any more assholes. He listened to the phone ring. And ring. And ring. He choked on a sob when it went to voicemail.
-
“Sup, ‘t’s Akira! S’rry I didn’t pick up, prolly hangin’ out with my partners or somethin’, call ya back soon, but ya gotta promise ta bring me some food next time we meet! Aight, byeee!”
-
He tried to stop crying as the beep played. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to leave a message or not. He could call someone else. He could hope that someone else answered. He didn’t want to waste anyone’s time. Aquila would understand though. Aquila wouldn’t mind. They’d probably dealt with similar shit, right? They probably— They’d listen to the message and come help. They wouldn’t… They wouldn’t ignore it. Ignore him. That wasn’t what happened. They were probably busy. They’d— They’d come help though. They’d pushed things aside for the others before.
-
He choked again, tried to breathe, and forced his voice to work. “—‘Q’ila… ‘Quil’— I ‘on’t— I-I— M’at a-a-a— Fff—” He stopped, trying to breathe again. He couldn’t think. His head hurt. His head really fucking hurt. He leaned his head back, looked up at the ceiling. “—Fuck— A-a-— ‘Ar? Bu’ n’L’vy’s… I— I don’—” He coughed, squeezed his eyes shut as his head basically screamed at him. “I’unno— S’f’ne y’b’sy. I jus’— I— I’uno— ‘M…” He paused, he didn’t know what to do if Aquila didn’t show up. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he could trust anyone else to show up if they didn’t. “‘Uck… Jus’— C’ll ‘ack?”
-
He ended the message. He stared at the ceiling. He hoped they called back. He hoped they’d show up. He couldn’t— He didn’t think anyone else would if they didn’t. Did he deserve anyone showing up? He wanted them to. He wanted out. He wanted them to get him out. He’d cheated though. Hadn’t he? He’d fucking cheated. He’d fucking enjoyed it. He wanted out. He wanted out. He wanted out and away and safe. He wanted Aquila.
-
He stared at the ceiling. It was hard to do anything else. It was hard to stare at the ceiling. He was still crying. It’d calmed down a bit, at least. He didn’t have any real reason to be crying. He blinked, and it hurt to even do that. He was tired. He was so fucking tired. Everything seemed off. Everything seemed wrong. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t quite think. His head hurt. He felt sick. Nauseous. He hoped he didn’t throw up again. Not while sitting up. His hair was already still fucking damp and his nose was still fucking bleeding. He was tired. Breathing was hard.
-
He closed his eyes, felt as his head lolled down. His breathing seemed more like wheezing. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever gotten all the water out of his lungs. He wasn’t sure how he’d go about getting it out now. He couldn’t keep his eyes closed, it hurt trying to. He didn’t want them open. He wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to wake back up. He opened his eyes anyway, kept them half-lidded instead, and stared at some of the blood on the floor.
-
It took him a moment to realize that the phone was ringing and it wasn’t just his ears. It took him another second to realize that it was Aquila calling him. He blinked. Stared. His eyes seemed watery. He wasn’t sure why. He accepted the call.
-
“Hey, Claddagh, so sorry I missed yer call earlier! Are ya okay? Where ya at? I can come get ya if I need to, don’ worry ‘bout it, ‘kay? I’ll be right there, jus’ tell me where ya are.”
-
He blinked, choked on his next breath. Aquila called back. Aquila was gonna come get him. Aquila was gonna come get him. He didn’t deserve it but they were gonna come get him. He blinked again, choked on a sob, and realized he was crying again. It was hard to speak, it was hard to think. Aquila called back though. They were gonna come get him. “‘Quil’— ‘Qu-quila—”
-
He was cut off by a whine tearing its way out of his throat, choked and wet with tears. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe. He heard himself sob, a choked sound that only managed to make it even harder to breathe. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve their help or care or time or— Or anything. He’d cheated on them. He’d cheated on them. Them. Who was still fucking showing up for him. Who called back and was still going to come for him. Who he cheated on and fucking enjoyed doing it.
-
“Hey, hey, love— Everythin’s okay. Yer- Yer gonna be ‘right. I’m gonna come get ya, yer gonna be fine. I’m gonna get to ya an’ I’m gonna take care of everythin’. I’m on my way an’ everythin’s gonna be okay. I love ya, ‘kay? I love ya, Claddagh, ‘m gonna take care of everythin’, yer gonna be okay.”
-
He wailed, a strangled cry as he sobbed harder that he had no right to be doing. He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t. He really, really didn’t. He never would. He never could. He couldn’t manage to speak to try and tell them that. He couldn’t manage to stop crying to even really think about trying to tell them that.
-
“I-I’m on my way, ‘kay? I’m on my way. Jus’ sit tight, I’ll be there soon, ‘kay? Yer gonna be ‘right. Ya don’t gotta worry, I’m gonna get there an’ everythin’s gonna get taken care of. I love ya so much, Claddagh, I’m gonna make everythin’ ‘right, ‘kay?”
-
They continued to talk, to give him sweet nothings that he didn’t deserve. That he wanted. That he wanted so, so badly to be real and true and— And everything but what he deserved it to be. He continued to wail and cry and sob anyways. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t deserve to. He didn’t want to be crying either. He couldn’t manage to get himself to stop though. They paused eventually, at least. Stopping what they were saying for a moment before taking a breath.
-
“I’m at the bar, Claddagh, ‘kay? I’m here. I gotta hang up now but I’ll be there with ya soon. I’m gonna get to ya an’ everythin’s gonna be ‘right. ‘Kay? I love ya, I swear, I’m gonna be right there with ya soon ‘nough.”
-
He managed to cry harder at that, his heart lurching and his panic spiking at the notion of being alone. Of Aquila leaving the call. He still couldn’t stop crying long enough to beg them not to go. He didn’t really deserve them staying anyway. He choked on a sob, but still kept crying when it worked itself out.
-
“I know, Claddagh, I know— I’ll be right there, ‘kay? It won’t take me long to get to ya. Promise, ‘kay? I love ya, I’m on my way.”
-
The call ended. He resisted the urge to hit his head against the wall repeatedly. Until he stopped crying over things he had no right to be crying over. He wasn’t sure if he would have been able to manage it anyway. He doubted it. He could barely manage anything else.
Summer Month: 1 
Night 
Heavy Rain Moon: 
