Chapter Thirteen #2
He looked so small. A broken bird and no more than that. Blood, too much blood, and that fucking smoke had been eating at his skin.
“No. No no no. Don't do this to me, Murderpunk.” He pulled Declan into his arms, clung to him. “I can't fix this. You know I can't fix this. Jesus Christ. Please, Declan. Wake the fuck up.”
Tears, wet and hot, streamed down his face as he cradled the man to his chest. Powerless. In Faerie, he was so fucking powerless. Couldn't even call an ambulance or follow a fucking road.
A stirring, in their bond. A sense of reaching, of guilt and stubbornness and pain. Lilacs and smoke. A promise written in ink. And kept.
Declan breathed.
“Felt you, mo chuisle,” Declan’s said in a thready whisper. His eyes opened, pale blue slits staring up at Antonio. “Woke the fuck up.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you did.” Antonio leaned in, brushed his lips over the sluagh’s forehead.
“‘Course you did. Knew you wouldn’t leave me. Need you to–” Fuck, he didn’t know.
Didn’t know how any of it worked. But he knew that wounds like Declan’s usually took more than a little personal magic.
“Call someone. Florian. Or open the way, and I’ll carry you home.
You do the magic shit, I’ll do the rest, alright? Got you. I’ve got you.”
He was babbling. Still crying. He didn’t care.
Declan shifted in his arms, then grunted in pain and went still again, breathing shallow and strained.
Breathing. He was breathing.
“Way open’s easiest,” he whispered, eyes falling closed again. “Not going to leave you. Got me. All of me. ’m sorry. Didn’t expect it. Shouldn’t’ve had my guard down.”
“Bullshit,” Antonio answered. “You don't get to apologize for some asshole jumping you. Still alive, right? Still with me. Doing more than fine.”
Yeah, fine. With the thrum of the bond between them fading with each of Declan’s shallow breaths.
Not happening. Not fucking happening.
Declan’s fingers twitched in the air, his next breath unsteadier still. A door, where no door had been before. Thank Christ.
Antonio stood, Declan in his arms. Bird light and broken, blood soaking Antonio's shirt. They'd get through this. Had to get through this. The two of them too damn stubborn to accept the alternative. He'd just found Declan. No way he was letting him go.
“Just keep breathing, Murderpunk. Gonna get you home.”
“I don’t believe that’s helping either of you.”
Antonio was well on his way to wearing a furrow in the hall outside Declan’s room when Florian’s dry words cut into his pacing. For once, Antonio was too distracted to startle at the wisp’s arrival. Or maybe that was the memory of Calloway, backing down.
Whatever the reason, Antonio stared at the man, blank with worry. “They’ve been in there ages.”
“Sluagh are antithetical to healing magic.” And Florian must have seen the flash of fear in Antonio’s eyes because he continued, “Aisling called the best. Declan will recover. But it will take time. Pacing won’t make it go faster.”
“If you want me to fuck off and go to my room, just say so.”
“No, I…” Florian sighed, looking more put upon than usual. “I know you dislike being without Declan. I thought, perhaps, you might wish to wait in your own realm.”
“You want me to leave the fucking world while Declan’s bleeding out?”
“He will be fine. And he would wish you to be comfortable. I’ll fetch you as soon as the healer leaves. You can be sure he’d go for my throat if I didn’t.”
Was he a shitty bond for considering it? A shit person for not breaking down the door and insisting on holding Declan’s hand? Just, he didn’t want to be in the way. And he wasn’t family. Wasn’t even fae. Nothing he could do for Declan except, yeah, pace in the hallway.
Besides, he could really really use a friendly voice right about now.
“Yeah, alright.”
And it was that easy. Ten minutes later he was on a bench in the little park where he and Declan had bonded, watching the ducks and replying to way too many texts. Christ, he’d tried not to think about everything he wasn’t doing. But here it was, his whole life, going to shit.
He called his parole officer, just to check in like a good little ex-con.
Left her a message that he hoped sounded sane and not like his fae boyfriend had nearly bled out in his arms. Reece next, exactly the person Clara’d tell him not to dial.
But the guy had sent him a half dozen texts, mostly bland comments about nothing. And that was…
Well, it was fucking weird.
No answer again, so Antonio just apologized. Traveling for work, and he’d get back to him soon.
Finally, Elaine, who hadn’t been shy about making it clear how thrilled she was about Antonio’s phone going to voicemail. The girls missed him and where the fuck was he.
Of course, she was the one who picked up.
“‘Tonio?” Her voice came down the line, sharp with worry.
“Hey, Lainey.” Keep it cheerful. No one’d almost died. He hadn’t been living in a nightmare.
“What the hell? You don’t answer texts anymore? You’re lucky Angie doesn’t know how to use a damned phone.”
A duck waddled closer as Elaine scolded, pecking around Antonio’s feet for bread he didn’t have. That felt about right.
“How are the girls?”
“Missing you, you prick. Is this about what Michael said to that guy you brought? He didn’t mean it. Alright, he meant it. But you can’t just disappear on us for some guy.”
When Antonio closed his eyes, he could see Declan crumpling to the ground again, his bone wings spread beneath him. Elaine could scold all she liked.
“He’s in the hospital.” Antonio dropped the cheerful act, letting some of the fear and stress leak into his voice.
“I don’t care if– Wait. What?” Elaine’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Drugs? Is he an … addict?”
Antonio was going to drown himself in the fucking duck pond.
“Declan isn’t on drugs, Lainey,” he growled. “He … got the shit kicked out of him. Alright? And no, not because he’s in a gang. Just some assholes who didn’t like the way he looked.”
“Don’t get mad at me for worrying. If Clara hears about you hanging with the wrong people–”
“Lainey. My boyfriend is in the hospital. Don’t talk to me about what my fucking parole officer might think. Christ.”
Silence, down the line. Then a shaky sigh.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have– You’re right. Is he okay?”
“It’s pretty bad. He’s probably going to need a few days before they let him go.”
“Oh. Shit. Do you want me to meet you? I know how you feel about hospitals.”
Antonio wished he could say yes. That she could come and be there for him to lean on while he waited for Declan to be alright.
But he couldn’t. He never could.
“Nah, it’s alright. It’s good for me. Exposure therapy or whatever. Just … this weekend…”
“I’ll talk to Angie for you. Do I tell her you’re with your boyfriend?”
Antonio hesitated. He’d never brought a boyfriend home. Not that he’d had many. But he couldn’t bring himself to deny Declan, even secondhand.
“Tell her in person. I want you to take a picture of Michael’s face.”
Lainey’s laughter eased some of the tension, only for the sight of Florian walking through the park to bring it right back.
“Doctor’s waving for me, Lainey. I’ll be in touch.”
Christ, Declan still looked so fragile. Gaunt was one thing, the fucker was always gaunt, but lying there, propped up by pillows, he seemed half transparent. About to fade away. But he was breathing. Antonio kept telling himself that, as he closed the door behind him and slipped into the room.
Declan was still breathing.
“See, in my world, you’d at least get pudding and bad TV,” he said, as he approached the bed. “Mind some company?”
“Company would be lovely,” Declan said, in that increasingly familiar rasp. “Specifically yours. I daresay it’d trump pudding and bad television.”
He held out a hand, fingers wiggling, an invitation Antonio was relieved to take as he sat on the side of the sluagh’s bed. Cool dry skin, and the hum of contentment that went with it.
“Heard the doc say you’ll be fine in a couple of days.” He ran his thumb over Declan’s knuckles as he spoke, a better fidget than any tattoo or bracelet. “With any luck Calloway had the sense to drop the fucker who attacked you in a pit of spikes.”
The lack of bitterness when he said Calloway’s name surprised him. Not forgiveness. Fuck that. But if the idiot hadn’t done what he’d done, before and now, Antonio wouldn’t be sitting here, his hand in Declan’s.
“Calloway?” Declan asked, genuine confusion in his voice. “I saw only the wall, the shinigami, and the smoke.”
Right. Seeing through glamour was Antonio’s own special treat.
“I think he made the wall.”
“Lie with me, and tell me what happened?” Declan tugged at Antonio’s hand and added, “Mind, I won’t be upset if you don’t wish to speak of it.”
What a fae phrase. Lie with me. Antonio’s lips quirked as he kicked off his shoes and climbed into the bed, trying not to think of Declan’s boots, dissolved by the thick, oily smoke. Two pairs in a week, both of them decades old, and Antonio knew what it felt like to lose something you’d held onto.
“C’mere, Murderpunk,” he said, stretching out an arm for Declan to curl against. He wanted to drag Declan to him, hold him tight.
But that seemed like a bad idea, the memory of blood still to fresh in Antonio’s mind.
“Don’t gotta worry about me getting my back up.
Know it’s an ask, not an order, coming from you. ”
Declan tucked in close, head pillowed against Antonio’s chest. Close, where Antonio could feel him breathing. Feel that he was whole. Nothing soft about the bastard, like cuddling a pile of sticks, but it felt good all the same.
“This is not a situation where I’d be bossy. Freely given affection only.”