Chapter Text
Pain is the first thing Clancy feels upon waking up. A lot of pain, really, which surprises him. He thought he had long since gotten used to it enough to be able to ignore it. He also thinks he probably should be dead, would prefer to be dead, but somehow he’s alive and everything hurts. At first, it’s hard to even figure out where it’s all coming from, and to focus on anything but what feels like his nerve endings all screaming in unison. It radiates throughout almost every part of his body, but after a minute of reorienting himself he can feel the gentle pressure of bandages wrapped around various points where his wounds must be worse. Someone must have found him and chosen to patch him up. He can’t imagine why anyone would bother doing that; he was quite sure that his guts half hanging out of the gash on his side would’ve been his end and, though they weren’t, he certainly must have looked beyond saving. And yet, here he is. Alive.
The second thing he feels is the strange softness of the surface below him. He very quickly figures out he can’t still be on the ship, or any ship for that matter, as he doesn’t feel the usual rocking motion of the waves. And besides, the Captain would’ve never let him have something this comfortable to sleep on. No, this bed is much nicer than anything he’s ever felt, at least as far as he can remember. He can’t help but want to just lay here forever, regardless of the fact that he doesn’t even think he can move much at all right now. The sheets are soft under his fingers, the pillow he rests on fluffy and cool against his cheek. It’s nice, to say the least, and he feels some tension leave his frame, allowing him to drift off a little. The Captain never let him have time to himself like this, so he’s eager to take the opportunity to relax, something he doesn’t think he can ever remember doing.
Eventually though, Clancy forces himself to groggily crack an eye open, deeming his rest sufficient enough. He finds himself greeted with the interesting sight of a circular wall made up of worn bricks and a ceiling with spokes like a wheel. It certainly isn’t an interior design choice he’s seen before. He glances around the room, taking in his surroundings. Soft light filters in through the windows, six of them precisely, all evenly spaced. He pauses, focuses on a speck of dust floating through a sunbeam. The dial turns, slows, stops. It is nearing midday. He is on the east side of the Paladin Strait, meaning this– whatever this is– resides in Bandito territory. He’s safe, at least for now. With that knowledge tucked away he continues his scan of the room.
Many of the pieces of furniture that he can see are a warm brown, matching the colors of the bricks, but there are splashes of color within the stained glass of a lamp and a set of bright books that sit neatly on a shelf. Despite the random bursts of color amidst the browns, it all feels somehow cohesive. He notices a plush green chair next to the bed with what looks to be a worn journal sitting on the seat, which he itches to pick up and read despite the fact that he probably shouldn’t. There’s a nightstand on the other side of the bed with a glass of water– quite thoughtful of whoever helped him, he thinks, but he doubts he can really bring himself to move enough to grab it. Off to the right is a staircase, leading up towards the spoked ceiling where a panel of the ceiling has a handle. He wonders what could be up there. Across the room and slightly to the left is a door, wooden with intricate carvings of ships and waves and torches, all blending together to make some kind of story. A set of hooks rests on it, two of them holding what looks to be two different heavy coats, one with a hood but both with strips of yellow fabric woven in. Definitely in Bandito territory, then. There’s also a simple dresser, nothing special, and a mirror, also nothing special.
The whole room is… oddly comforting, what with the colors and the covers and blankets on top of him and the presence of clothing that is not only soft but warm, so completely unlike his standard Dema-issued ones. Needless to say it’s all so different from the constant, cold grays that surrounded him in Dema and on the ship, the only color being the red of the Captain’s coat and his own blood when it was spilled. It feels strange, really, being in such a warm environment that brims with life. He finds himself stunned by the way Banditos– or this one, at least– live, how they can just be surrounded with such vibrancy all the time. It makes a part of his heart ache. He doesn’t dwell on it.
The sheets around him and the sweater curling up around his neck smell like smoke and rain, strangely soothing and almost familiar. He wonders if he knew someone before he was taken to Dema, someone who carried the scent of a fire nestled in rain-soaked earth. He doesn’t know, he’s long since lost his memories of life before Dema and the Captain. He used to cry– sometimes for people he can’t remember, sometimes for the life he used to have– but he’s since learned to smother the feelings before they can rise to the surface. There’s no use crying over something he’ll never get back, he tries to tell himself every so often. It never quite works enough to stop the ache of longing, but it’s enough.
The sound of gentle knocking on the across-the-room-to-the-left door pulls him sharply from the swirl of his thoughts. He breathes in sharply. It must be the person who saved him, but why knock? He’s presumably been unconscious for some time, so it wouldn’t really be necessary. Unless they’ve been watching you, a voice in the back of his head whispers. Clancy tries to ignore it as he coughs a little and croaks out a pretty pathetic sounding “come in?” As he does this he tries to sit up a little, make himself a bit more presentable for who is likely the person that saved him, and just barely manages to half-slump against the pillows behind him. Better than nothing.
The door slowly opens and a tired, but gentle-looking man pokes his head in. His hair rests in curls that look like they’d be unfairly soft, some falling over his cheeks and into his eyes. A weird, tugging sensation in his brain tells him he should know this face, should know the texture of his curls. He isn’t sure why. The underside of his hair is bright red, contrasting against the rest of his dark brown hair. He looks like he could be around the same age as Clancy. He also has a few piercings, interestingly; two in his nose, one in his lip, and two stretching his ears, to be exact. He pauses for a second, staring at Clancy with what could be a trace of disbelief. Awe, hope maybe. Maybe the man is just surprised to see that he hasn’t keeled over and died, he muses. The man sucks in a breath, then walks in, gently shutting the door behind him. He’s carrying a tray, he notices, a bowl of soup resting on it. As he walks closer, Clancy gives him a once over. It’s a bit hard to tell from where he’s laying down, but he thinks the stranger might be shorter than him, if only slightly. Shorter, possibly, but much more muscular, if those tattooed biceps are anything to go off of. Granted, it isn’t hard to be physically stronger than a malnourished person practically on death’s door, but the thought still stands as he very casually takes in the stranger’s features.
The man gives him a smile after a beat. “I’m glad to see you’re awake,” he says, and his voice is rather gentle. Soft, but not too quiet. Clancy likes it. “You were pretty banged up when I found you.”
“How–” Clancy cringes at how his voice comes out, rough and jagged where it tears out of his throat. The man hurries to grab the glass of water from the table, easing it into his grasp and keeping him steady with a warm hand on his back and oh. It’s something that would be easy, no big deal for any normal person, but Clancy has come to learn he is far from a normal person. Casual touch is not something he knows— unless you count casual beatings in that definition, that is. He feels like he’s been struck by lightning and like he’s being burned alive simultaneously in the spot where the heat sinks into his skin through the sweater; the touch so incredibly foreign it sends his head spinning. It is… strange, but it certainly isn’t horrible. He isn’t sure what to do though, just kind of sitting, staring at a spot on the quilt on the bed, unable to move for a few seconds. He just doesn’t know how to handle someone reaching for him not to hurt him. And he really doesn’t know how to handle the fact that he suddenly never wants the hand to leave his back.
Finally he is able to down the whole glass regardless of his mental turmoil, unaware of how dry his mouth was until now. The man fortunately just keeps his hand on him the whole time, either oblivious to his internal struggle or choosing to ignore it, then helps him lean back against the pillows after the empty glass is put back on the table. He’s so achingly gentle it makes him feel disoriented, like the dial of his compass has been knocked askew and is left spinning helplessly. Clancy tries to push it all aside only partially successfully, coughing lightly and trying again. “How did you find me? And– who even are you?”
The man’s smile turns a little pained, oddly. He gets a little crease in between his eyebrows as his eyes scan Clancy’s face, something that he, for some reason, wants to do anything to prevent. He doesn’t know why. The man’s expression smoothes out a moment later, as if nothing happened, and he pushes the thoughts away. He gives a little shrug. “You,” he waves a hand in the direction of one of the windows, “just kinda… washed up here. Looked out the window the other day and saw some, uh, half-dead guy bleeding out on the beach. I don’t really get visitors here, at least not to this part of the shore, so it was a bit of a surprise, I guess.”
Clancy laughs shortly, a sound foreign to himself. “Getting a ‘visitor’ was a surprise, not the half-dead guy?”
“Yeah, exactly,” he says, grinning with his tongue between his teeth. It’s weirdly endearing and even more weirdly familiar. Many things feel weird when it comes to this man, he’s starting to learn. He’s so unlike anyone Clancy can ever recall meeting, and yet everything about him seems to be screaming that he should know him. It makes him feel a little uneasy, honestly.
“You can call me Torch,” he adds after a pause.
“Clancy.”
The man– Torch, and honestly what a fitting name for the warmth he carries– smiles again and reaches for the bowl on the bedside table. “Well Clancy, how do you feel about some soup?”
And so he has some soup, and somehow even the food is a sharp contrast to the provisions in Dema. There’s actual flavor to it, which Dema seemed to avoid like the plague. It’s so good that he even asks for another bowl, but Torch is hesitant.
“We’ll have to work you up to it,” he explains. “I know how Dema keeps its people. If you eat more than you can handle now you’ll just get sick.” He isn’t happy about it, but he listens anyway.
With the way Torch talks, he gets the feeling he has a lot of experience with other malnourished Dema escapees. He isn’t quite sure what possess him to say it, but he finds himself asking Torch if he’s always rescuing people and letting them crash in his home to recover. Somehow, he just laughs at his words.
“Do I regularly rescue people? Yeah, it’s kind of in my job description, y’know.” Right. He’s a Bandito, of course he helps people like Clancy. “But, ah, no to the second part…” he trails off sheepishly. Clancy brightens at this. “No. Like I said, no one is ever really here, besides me. Most people stick to the port, not anywhere near the lighthouse. Guess that must make you pretty special then, huh?” Torch grins. Clancy can’t help the slight surge of contentment he feels at his words. Sure the Captain has called him special, said that he was crucial aboard the ship for his abilities, but it’s never felt like this. Like a blessing rather than a curse. Like he’s more than just a tool. Just in the short span of time since he woke up and met Torch, he’s found countless ways in which he’s the total opposite of anyone in Dema. He is bright and kind and not just alive, but bursting at the seams with the glow of life. Where Dema is cold and uninviting, Torch and his lighthouse are welcoming and filled with warmth. He quite likes it.
The topic of Clancy’s injuries is brought up not too long after Clancy has finished drinking some more water following the soup. It’s important for him to be hydrated if he wants to get better, Torch says. “And speaking of getting better, I need to change your bandages. It won’t be fun, but I’ve left them alone to let you sleep and I really should take a look at them. Is that… okay?”
Clancy shudders. He knows Torch has to have seen everything when he patched him up the first go around, but he has no recollection of it. He was likely way too out of it from blood loss and starvation to retain any information. It’s harder to deal with someone seeing these parts of him when he’s fully awake and aware. The thought of it makes his skin crawl, but he knows what needs to be done, so he gives a slight nod. Torch smiles gently, standing up from the chair by the bed.
“Thank you, Clancy. I’ll be right back,” he says.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. The words ring through his mind as he watches Torch walk through the door and disappear down a hall. Why would he thank Clancy? What did he do to deserve thanks? He isn’t the one cleaning a stranger’s wounds, letting them stay in his home, or even feeding said stranger. He doesn’t get it, but it makes something flutter in his chest either way.
Torch comes back soon enough, precariously balancing way too many items on another tray. He sets them down one by one, leaving a bowl of water and a rag still on it. “Okay,” he starts. “Let’s start small, yeah? Can I take a look at your nose?” Clancy’s hand drifts up to the bridge of his nose, fingers meeting the jagged edges of a cut. He hadn’t even noticed it. The pain of everything else must have drowned it out. He nods hesitantly, his hand moving down to clench around the blankets. Torch moves slowly, like Clancy will jump up and take off running through the open door if he approaches him any faster. He doesn’t blame him, especially not when the lightest brush on Torch’s fingers against his jaw sends his entire body into defense mode. He tenses, eyes squeezing shut involuntarily, bracing for the worst.
“I’m sorry,” Torch murmurs, his voice coming out tight and pained. “This might sting.”
He presses the cloth to the cut so gently, so lightly brushing it against his nose that he barely feels it. His breath still hitches, but the tiniest bit of tension leaves his frame. Torch doesn’t want to hurt him, won’t hurt him. He focuses on the feeling of his hand resting on his jaw, the heat that bleeds into his skin. How can a person be so warm? Torch’s thumb draws circles against the edge of his jaw, somehow light and grounding at the same time. The cloth pulls away soon after, but Torch’s hand lingers for just a few seconds too long. Clancy dares to open his eyes and thinks his heart stops for a second. Torch is close, very close. So close that he can count the faint freckles on his nose and cheeks, so close he thinks he’ll get lost in the honey brown of his eyes. He looks… beautiful.
It feels like hours and only a second at the same time before Torch’s eyes widen and he quickly pulls away. The tips of his ears are pink. It’s cute, and Clancy really doesn’t know where all these thoughts are coming from. He clears his throat and looks back over, apologetic. “Sorry, I don’t– I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No, ‘s okay.” Clancy offers him a small smile and feels a rush of achievement when Torch’s expression brightens immediately. Happiness looks best on him, he decides. “I didn’t really feel it, you’re good at this.” Torch laughs. It sounds like the sun.
“That one was tiny and already healing up nicely, we haven’t even gotten to the gnarly ones yet. Don’t start singing my praises before I clean them up.”
“Mm sure, sure, whatever you say. Where to next?”
From there, they settle into a pattern: Torch gently unwraps the bandages around a certain area, always asking before he touches and always keeping his motions light, and cleans the injuries before wrapping them securely in fresh bandages. It really shouldn’t affect him as much as it does, but Clancy just can’t help how something in him lightens every time he nods to let Torch touch him and he just gives him that beautiful smile and a murmured thank you. And he really does do it every time. He thanks Clancy for allowing him to do this, as if tending to his stupid wounds is something to be considered an honor. His hands are almost reverent in their motions, each delicate brush of skin done carefully, like if he presses too much Clancy will shatter. For what feels like the thousandth time, he feels disoriented by it all. He doesn’t feel deserving of the care, but he silently accepts it anyway.
It doesn’t really come as a surprise to Clancy that he barely feels pain as Torch cleans his cuts. For one, throughout his time with the Captain, he started to just get used to pain, as it was a part of his day-to-day life. He guesses the Captain thought it’d keep him in line, to leave him beaten down and bruised enough to know he wouldn’t be able to fight back. When pain was all he knew, he grew accustomed to it. But despite how used to it he may be, despite the fact that he can handle the sting of antiseptic against the wounds, Torch is nothing but gentle with him, and it lessens the feeling. He can’t help but watch him as he works; the way his hands move about, the way he gets a crease between his eyebrows as he focuses. He’s distracting in all his beauty and strange familiarity, to say the least. Clancy finds himself so focused on catching every little thing Torch does that he doesn’t feel a thing.
But then comes the worst one, the deep gash in his side. He knows Torch was avoiding it for as long as he could, but it’s the last bandaged area that hasn’t been checked at this point.
“Do you… Is it okay to take a look at this one? It needed stitches and I need to make sure it doesn’t get infected or anything.” He looks so apologetic, like he’s doing Clancy a horrible disservice here or something. He’s sure that if it were anyone else he wouldn’t have let them take care of any of his injuries, let alone this one. But Torch isn’t just anyone, he knows this already. He’s kind and he’s been nothing but gentle this whole time, and he does everything he can to avoid hurting Clancy. He’s just barely met him, ignoring what his likely concussed brain tells him about this not being their first meeting, but he thinks he just might be able to trust him. He must take Clancy’s silence to mean he won’t let him, as he starts stumbling through an apology, but Clancy is quick to cut him off.
“It’s fine, really.” Torch looks uncertain, his hands awkwardly hovering in the space between them, so Clancy reaches for them himself. “I don’t mind it, I’m serious. The touch stuff doesn’t bother me, I’m just… not used to it, ‘s all.”
“If you’re sure…” He starts, then laughs softly at the look Clancy gives him. “Okay, okay, fine.”
With only minimal struggle, Clancy manages to get the sweater off, shivering as his skin is exposed to the slight chill of the room. Everything else up to this point hadn’t needed him to remove it, but he knows Torch won’t be able to properly look at everything with it on. He looks off to the side when it's off, not wanting to see the look on Torch’s face as he takes in his rather unsightly appearance. He’s not blind, he knows he’s rather gaunt and is covered in scars, certainly not a pretty sight to see. The Captain didn’t care about what state he was kept in, as long as he was alive enough. He hears a shaky inhale from Torch and his eyes squeeze shut. He really doesn’t want to see his expression.
With his eyes still closed, he feels a hand lightly come to rest on him over the bandages, starting to unravel them. He keeps them closed as each layer falls away, all the way until the last strip is pulled away. Only then does he dare to look. Torch’s face is carefully blank. There’s something brewing like a storm in his eyes, but otherwise not betraying any emotion. He’s thankful for it. Clancy looks down at his side, taking in the sight of the stitches keeping his guts from spilling out. The area around them is raised and red, but the seam where the skin is pressed tightly together is unbroken, only a few smatterings of dried blood around the edges. Maybe it should be a more uncomfortable thing for him to see– it really does stretch quite a long way down his torso– but he finds himself more interested than freaked out by the way the trail of uniform stitches forms something that looks like a mountain range all along the side of his body. It’ll be an interesting scar to add to the collection, he thinks.
Clancy silently watches as Torch slowly brings the antiseptic-soaked cloth to the area, meeting his searching gaze and giving him a small nod. Nothing else hurt badly until this point; after the shock of the pain upon waking up had faded into background static, he wasn’t bothered by the cuts. But this one… the burning sensation crashes over him like a wave, it spreads along the whole area of the sewn up gash, travels across his chest, and it stings. He inhales sharply, biting down on his lip to try to take some focus off of it. It doesn’t work too well. He tries to think back to when his leg was broken, now feeling so long ago. He thinks about the searing pain that darkened his vision and turned the thoughts in his head to static as nothing but the sharp agony rang through it. He survived that, this is nothing compared to it.
“I’m sorry, I’ll be done soon Clancy, it’ll be over real soon.” Torch says softly, reaching for Clancy’s hand where it twists the bed’s quilt tightly and tracing soothing circles into the skin. He grips it back just as tightly. It feels painstakingly slow as Torch finishes cleaning up the area and applying some kind of cream to the area for the pain and swelling. He doesn’t let go of Clancy’s hand though, and he doesn’t stop the movement of his thumb until he needs both of his hands to put a fresh set of bandages on.
By the time it’s all done and his sweater is back on, Clancy feels a bone-deep exhaustion. He blearily watches as Torch gathers up the supplies, stacking everything once more on the tray. He can’t fight back the big yawn he lets loose, his eyelids feeling heavy and drooping all of a sudden. Torch looks over to him at the noise and smiles. “Why don’t you get some sleep? You need it to recover quickly and you could really use the rest.” Clancy is too tired to respond verbally, simply nodding and letting his eyes fall fully shut. Torch chuckles quietly, helping to rearrange his heavy limbs into a position better suited for sleeping and tucking the covers up to his chin. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, I won’t leave you. Sleep well Clancy,” he whispers. He wants to believe him.
Clancy dreams of steep cliff faces dotted with green, of the warmth of the sun on his skin, trailing across every inch and tracing delicate patterns into him. He dreams of freckles and smiles that crinkle eyes, of the smell of a campfire nestled in rain-soaked earth. A laugh as gentle as the breeze in his hair that sounds like the sun, calloused palms meeting his own in a special little handshake only known by two. Two people finding each other just as the waves find the shore; over and over, retreating but never straying far. The feeling of coming home again and everything feeling just right in the world, no matter how long it lasts. The scenes he watches unfold are filled with joy, fragments of moments stitched together by loving hands, a mountain range rising up where they converge. A single name rings clear in his mind, said countless times in countless different ways. It means something to him. It means everything to him. It is everything to him. The center of the universe, the black hole he orbits, just waiting to fall right into its welcoming arms. He feels a longing deep within his chest, missing so deeply something he does not know.
Clancy wakes up to an ache in his heart. He is yearning for something– for someone– he cannot name, for someone he isn’t sure he knows. But Torch is sleeping in the chair next to the bed. His neck rests at an angle that can’t be very comfortable and his mouth hangs open a little. His curls have tumbled over his forehead and over his eyes. The moonlight trickles in through the windows and Clancy watches him. The ache lessens.