Chapter Text
Cold. It was so cold.
The silence pressed against him, thick and heavy. Too loud. Too close.
The walls were grey. The floor was grey. Even the air tasted grey—stale and dry, metallic, filling his mouth.
The only light came from a single lantern swinging weakly in the corner, its flame flickering like it was afraid to stay.
His breathing was the only thing alive here. Harsh. Too fast. He could hear the chains rattle softly whenever his fingers twitched against the floor.
Then—noise.
A door opening. Hinges creaking. Steps. Slow.
He looked up.
Eyepatch stepped in. No—red hair, not black. The outline kept changing. A knife glinted in their hand. Then a stick. Then a knife again.
“Are you ready?”
The words didn’t sound real. They slurred and warped, switching voices halfway through. Sometimes Idiot’s mocking lilt, sometimes Eyepatch’s drawl. Sometimes—his own.
He blinked. The figure was close now, too close, face blurred into a smear of teeth and shadow. Still smiling.
Then—
Pain. His eye.
His eye—!
Egg lurched upright with a strangled gasp.
For a second, he didn’t know where he was. Only darkness greeted him. The air was too clean; the silence too soft. His hands jerked, half-expecting the drag of chains, but all he felt was rough fabric and warmth.
Something shifted beside him, and Egg tensed, but it was just an arm, heavy and solid, tightening briefly across his chest.
Wemmbu muttered something incoherent into his shoulder, still half-asleep.
Egg stared into the darkness, breathing hard, then let the tension bleed out of him by degrees. His fingers stumbled, tripped, until they found the fabric over Wemmbu’s forearm and stayed there, just enough pressure to prove the other was real.
He exhaled, slow.
The room was quiet. But this time, it wasn’t the same kind of quiet.
He wasn’t there anymore. He was with Wemmbu, in some throwaway base he’d built for fun and Wemmbu had made fun of. Or at least, that was what he gathered from Wemmbu’s muttering and complaints.
He couldn’t confirm that. He couldn’t see, after all.
Taking care not to disturb Wemmbu’s sleep, Egg raised a hand and brushed against the bandages laid over his eye. As if only just remembering it should hurt, his eye stung fiercely in response, and Egg pulled his hand away with a sharp inhale.
Ugh…
Right. Bandages were annoying, but they were better than the alternative. He knew exactly how he would react if he used a regen potion too soon, and he wasn’t in the mood to relive that kind of pain again. Not yet. Wemmbu hadn’t agreed, obviously.
He exhaled, letting his arm fall back down. The air was cool, but not unpleasant. Beneath the faint ache behind his eye, there was something warm and solid pressed against his side—a reminder that he wasn’t alone.
He found Wemmbu’s arm again easily, where it rested across his chest, and let his hand settle on it. Just to keep it there. The warmth grounded him better than anything else could.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.
Wemmbu had always been like this. Always so loud, so touchy, impossible to get rid of. He’d slap Egg on the back, sling an arm around his shoulders, grab him by the wrist to drag him away from a fight.
But last night had been the first time Wemmbu had practically cradled him.
He hadn't realized Wemmbu was going to be so clingy—but then again, Egg had been missing for a few days.
Four, as Wemmbu had informed him. “Four days, Egg. Four—do you even realize how—”
Egg smiled faintly at the memory. He could still hear the sharp edge of panic under Wemmbu’s voice, the way it cracked when Egg had shrugged and said something like, “It’s fine. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
He remembered the silence that followed, the soft clatter of glass on wood, and Wemmbu’s words—tighter this time, almost forced: “You might be blind forever, you idiot.”
Egg had gone quiet then. He hadn’t known what to say, not really. The thought of being blind didn’t scare him the way it probably should’ve. It just… felt like another thing that happened.
So he’d only shrugged and said, "It won’t be forever.”
And Wemmbu hadn’t replied after that.
Now, lying there in the dark, Egg could feel the weight of Wemmbu’s arm still over him. It was heavy, possessive, almost, like the guy was making sure he didn’t slip away again. But it never felt suffocating, not once.
He shifted a little, the mattress creaking softly beneath him. Then, slowly, carefully, he turned onto his side, facing Wemmbu.
He released Wemmbu’s sleeve, hesitating for a heartbeat before reaching forward. His hands found Wemmbu’s shoulders, solid and warm beneath the blanket, and he let them rest there for a moment before looping his arms around him.
It was awkward. Wemmbu was usually the one doing things like this, though it was a casualness he'd only afforded to Egg. But even he hadn't done anything beyond a side-hug, when he was particularly enthusiastic. And Egg couldn’t even remember the last time he himself had initiated anything close to a hug.
Still, as the seconds passed, Wemmbu’s breathing evened out. The death grip he’d kept all night finally loosened.
Egg sighed quietly.
Figures. The guy probably thought he’d vanish again if he let go.
So he didn’t.
Wemmbu hated the silence.
So he filled it.
He’d sharpen his sword, watching sparks spit off the edge, the screech of metal cutting through the quiet.
He’d complain about the weather, listening to the rain hammer on the roof and Egg’s quiet snort in response.
He’d swing his mace until his arms ached, just to hear the whoosh through the air, the dull thud of impact.
Noise. Motion. Anything to drown out the stillness.
Because silence meant thinking—and remembering. And Wemmbu didn’t want to do either.
He knew that.
Which was why, when he heard glass shatter, his mind went blank.
The weeds he’d been absently pulling fell from his hands as he ran, heart clawing at his ribs. The sound had come from inside the house—and Egg—
Wemmbu shoved the door open hard enough for it to slam against the wall. His eyes swept the room in an instant.
Nothing looked wrong. The base was still intact. The table was still standing.
Except for Egg.
Egg, sitting cross-legged on the floor, unbothered, a small pile of broken glass glittering near his knees.
For a moment, Wemmbu just stood there, breath caught somewhere between a snarl and a gasp.
“...What the heck are you doing, bro?”
Egg didn’t answer immediately. His face was pale, but the line of his shoulders relaxed the longer he sat in silence. His head was tilted slightly, like he was listening to the faint crackle of glass settling.
Then, flatly: “Cleaning up.”
Wemmbu stared at him. The shards, the calm tone, the steady hands—everything screamed wrong.
But Egg just reached for the broom he’d left by his side and started sweeping like it was nothing.
Wemmbu didn’t move. Didn’t say anything else. He just watched.
For the first time in a week, he didn’t know if the silence was supposed to feel comforting—or terrifying.
After a moment, he exhaled sharply and stepped forward, muttering, “You’re gonna slice your hand open like that, dude.”
“Mm. That’s fine,” Egg said, still sweeping. “Adds character.”
Wemmbu blinked. “Character?? Bro, you’re not a piece of furniture.”
“Could be,” Egg said. “Pretty sturdy. One leg shorter than the other.”
Wemmbu let out an incredulous huff, crouching down beside him and nudging the broom out of his hands. “Yeah, sure you are, brother.”
“What, you don’t like my self-deprecation arc?”
“Arc? You’re blind, not— you know what, never mind.” He grabbed the broom. “You’re definitely not cleaning this right.”
He dragged the broom across the floor, scattering more shards than he gathered. “Okay, this broom sucks.”
Egg made a small noise that might’ve been amusement. “Now who’s bad at cleaning?”
Wemmbu glared at him—pointlessly, since Egg couldn’t see—and muttered something under his breath as he swept the shards into a pile.
“Just shut up and stay still,” he ordered.
Egg obeyed, hands raised in mock surrender. “Yes, sir.”
And that, somehow, bothered Wemmbu even more.
As he swept the shards into a small pile with the broom, a thought started gnawing at him.
This couldn’t have been an accident.
Egg had been sitting beside the bed—where there was nothing even remotely breakable nearby. Wemmbu had made sure of that. No stray glass, no tools, nothing sharp. Just in case.
But an hour earlier, Egg had asked him for empty bottles. Plural.
And Wemmbu hadn’t asked why. He’d just made them, because Egg asked in that casual, calm voice that didn’t sound like he was up to anything stupid.
Apparently, that had been a mistake.
He’d barely stepped outside—literally one minute, just to pull a few weeds—when the crash came.
Now here he was, picking glass off the floor while Egg sat beside him like this was just another day.
After dumping the glass back into the furnaces to melt down and reshape later, Wemmbu finally turned back to Egg. The aforementioned problem was still sitting in the same spot, unmoved, hands loose on his knees.
Wemmbu just…watched him.
It had been a week and a half since he found Egg, and the image still hadn’t left his head.
He hadn’t even thought—hadn't realized how bad it was. The blood had been hidden in the black of his suit, impossible to parse out, and only when Wemmbu had helped him out of them did he realize it wasn’t just the fabric’s color—it was layers upon layers of dried blood, flaking off with every touch.
And the knife. In his eye.
Even now, thinking about it made Wemmbu’s jaw clench hard enough to hurt.
He should’ve kept more of them alive. Just one. Long enough for Egg to point and say that one.
But he hadn’t been thinking clearly. He was just—angry. Furious. By the time his head caught up, there was nothing left to question. Nothing left of them.
But Egg hadn’t said anything. Not about what happened. Not about them.
When Wemmbu had finally dragged him out of there, half-conscious and shaking, Egg had fought him—weakly, at first. Every time Wemmbu reached for him, Egg had tensed, like his body couldn’t tell the difference between a hand and a threat.
Sometimes he’d try to shove him away, mumbling something that didn’t make sense until his voice broke off. Other times he’d just go completely still, eye emptily staring into nothing. Like his mind was somewhere else.
Even now, he hadn’t really gone back to normal. He joked. He teased. He called Wemmbu names and made deadpan comments like nothing ever happened.
But sometimes—like now—he’d just sit there too still, like a statue trying to remember what breathing looked like.
And Wemmbu never knew if he should say something, or just sit with him in the silence.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
Wemmbu blinked, dragged back by the sound of Egg’s voice. Like nothing in his head had been screaming seconds ago.
He winced when his palms started stinging—looked down and saw faint crescents pressed into his skin. Right. Fists.
He shook them out, exhaling through his nose, and crossed the room.
“Who said anything about you, bro?”
Egg tilted his head toward the sound, unimpressed. “Then why were you just standing there?”
Wemmbu made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “Man, you—whatever. Just get up already. Sitting on the floor’s gonna make you... I dunno. Flat.”
“Flat,” Egg echoed. “Tragic.”
“Yeah, tragic. Wouldn’t want your personality to match.”
A faint puff of laughter slipped out of Egg before he caught it. Wemmbu heard it anyway, and it loosened something tight in his chest.
He reached out, paused, then settled for a light tap to Egg’s shoulder. “Come on. Bed. Before you start eating glass next.”
Egg made a face. “That’s tomorrow’s arc.”
“Not funny,” Wemmbu muttered, though the edge had gone from his voice.
He guided Egg up carefully, one hand braced at his elbow. This time, Egg didn’t flinch—just sighed, steady and tired, and let him.
By the time he got him sitting on the edge of the bed, the room had gone quiet again. Not unbearably so. It was just... quiet. Comfortable, even.
Wemmbu stayed where he was, arms crossed, watching Egg tilt his head toward the faint crackle of the furnace. The firelight caught on the bandages, throwing soft, uneven shadows across his face.
“You’re staring again,” Egg murmured.
“Yeah,” Wemmbu said. “Guess I am.”
And for once, he didn’t try to fill the silence after.
Egg tilted the potion slightly, listening to the soft slosh of liquid against glass. It was a quiet sound, but sharp enough to make his chest feel tight anyway. Some habits die hard.
Two months.
That was how long it’d been since he got out. Since Wemmbu got him out. The bandages were still there—itchy, annoying—and the ache behind his eye still pulsed when he breathed too hard.
If Wemmbu had his way, Egg would’ve used the potion the night he was rescued. If Egg had his way… well, apparently that was today.
Two months of dropping glass on purpose. Two months of making himself listen to it, again and again, until the sound stopped making his body flinch like it had a mind of its own.
Two months of pretending it was all just training.
He figured that was long enough.
Egg brushed his thumb over the smooth surface of the glass again, then slowly, methodically, began to unravel the bandages around his eye with his other hand.
He could hear the faint flutter of fabric as it came loose, could feel the whisper of air against his skin.
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing in the quiet, savoring the sting of open air on his bare eye.
He still couldn’t see much, just shapes and shadows bleeding into one another. Expected. The knife had gone deep, and it had stayed there too long.
Well, he thought, fingers tightening around the bottle, I’ll be able to see again soon.
He popped the cork. The sweet, chemical smell hit him immediately—sharp and wrong, like syrup over metal—and his nose scrunched up on reflex. His hand twitched, too, instinctively. But he forced his breathing steady, grounding himself with the cool weight of the bottle in his palm.
It’s just a potion. Not blood. Not that room. Just a potion.
He raised the bottle slowly, gauging the distance the way he always did now—by the feel of air against his skin, by memory. Tilted it.
The first drop hit, and for a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—fire.
It was sharp, electric, like someone had driven a blade through his skull all over again. His breath punched out of him, his grip tightening on the glass until it creaked. But he didn’t stop.
He kept the bottle steady, pouring until the last of the liquid was gone.
The pain climbed, peaked—then bled into warmth.
It spread fast, radiating from his eye down to his neck, to his chest. Heat tangled through his veins, humming under his skin. His muscles slackened one by one, the ache fading until only warmth remained, soft and steady, like sunlight after a storm.
He sat there for a while, breathing through it.
Then he lowered the empty bottle and let it rest against his knee.
The sound of footsteps echoed just outside the door. Egg lifted his head a little, the familiar rhythm of the steps telling him who it was before the door even creaked open.
Wemmbu stumbled in, muttering under his breath, his voice pitched low and annoyed. “Egg,” he said, unclasping his armor piece by piece, “Bro, you will not believe the day I’ve had.”
Egg’s mouth quirked. “Really?”
“Yes, really!” Wemmbu huffed, tossing one last piece of armor to the floor. It shimmered into particles before vanishing neatly into his inventory. “Some idiot—ugh, doesn’t matter, I’ll tell you later—”
He turned.
And froze.
For a heartbeat, the room was silent.
Egg didn’t move either, his single eye catching the faint glow of the lantern behind Wemmbu. The light painted his face in uneven golds and shadows, but even through the haze of the moment, Egg could see the exact instant shock hit him.
Wemmbu looked the same as always—purple hair pulled into a short, messy ponytail, bits of it sticking up where his helmet had pressed it flat. His dark eyes were wide open, the usual edge of them blunted by disbelief, and his mouth hung slightly ajar, fangs glinting in the light.
The only thing different was the expression—like his brain had just blue-screened.
Well. Good to know that in the two months Egg had been blind, Wemmbu hadn’t changed too drastically.
Egg smiled, small and tired. “I told you it wouldn’t be forever.”
Wemmbu blinked, still staring. Then, slowly, his expression cracked into a grin—half-relieved, half-incredulous.
“Dude,” he said, voice a little too loud, “you’re actually seeing me right now? Like—for real?”
Egg huffed a quiet laugh. “For real."
Wemmbu made a choked noise that might’ve been a laugh, then crossed the room in two strides and pulled him into a hug that was more like a tackle. The chair squeaked under the impact.
“You absolute idiot,” he muttered into Egg’s shoulder. The words were sharp, but his grip wasn’t—tight and steady, like he needed a second just to feel that Egg was really standing here, really looking back.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Wemmbu cleared his throat, squeezed once, almost too hard. “Took you long enough.”
Egg huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah. Guess so.”
The glass bottle slipped from his hand as he lifted it to return the hug. It fell, hit the ground, and shattered. The sharp crack rang through the room—but Egg didn’t flinch.
Wemmbu pulled back immediately. “Crap—did it cut you?”
Egg shook his head. “No.”
For a second, Wemmbu just stared at him, eyes flicking between Egg’s face and the eye that should’ve still been blind. Like he couldn’t stop checking it was real.
Then he let out a breath that came out more like a laugh, ruffling Egg’s hair roughly. “You’re lucky I didn’t bet money you’d stay blind forever.”
Egg grinned. “You would’ve lost big.”
Wemmbu smirked. “Yeah, but imagine the bragging rights.”
“About what? Being wrong?”
“About being right eventually.”
Egg snorted, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but I’m right here,” Wemmbu said easily, grin widening. “And so are you, finally.”
The lantern’s glow caught the shards of glass on the floor, scattering light like tiny stars.
And for the first time in a long time, Egg didn’t feel like anything was breaking.