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It was dark.
The darkness was stale, oppressive, pressing down on his chest, laying thick in his lungs as he gasped for air. It was dark and-
He couldn't see. He couldn't see, he could only thrust a hand into the darkness-
He hit something solid. Wooden. Cold.
He choked.
He tried to move, to sit up because he was flat on his back, to roll over but he couldn't. He couldn't because he couldn’t get his arms under him, there was no room and he was trapped.
Wooden walls suffocated him, bearing down on all sides, smooth, sanded to perfection, cold to the touch and stiff, without any give. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak, he could only gasp for breath as his throat stung with barbed pain and his jaw burned, lightning in his teeth like nails driven into his gums.
He pressed his palms to the roof of- of-
He kicked below him, and he quickly found a short, flat wall, easy for him to press his heels to. He scrabbled at the space above him, narrow as it was, and found two panels at his shoulders, and another wall at his head. There was not enough room for his arms to extend from his elbows to the lid-
He was in a coffin.
This was a coffin.
He had been sleeping in a coffin.
He couldn't help the panic, the scream, a strangled, ragged thing that tore from his throat like some feral animal, clawing at his voice as he stuttered into coughing, the icy, stale air in the coffin a sandpaper balm to the agony slowly pulsing up his spine.
And his neck hurt. His neck really hurt.
He slammed his hands against the lid above him, pushing, shoving his elbows against the coffin's sides, clenching his hands into fists as his gut twisted with cold-slick fear. The lid didn't move. It didn't even bend.
He was trapped in here.
How did he even get in here?! He didn’t- you don’t just- people don’t just fall asleep in coffins! He didn’t even know when he fell asleep- he didn’t remember- he didn’t- He- obviously he wasn’t dead! He wasn’t dead, he was- he was still breathing- but someone had buried him- Someone had put him in a coffin and he was trapped and he couldn't get out and it hurt to breathe and his neck hurt and he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't-
"Finally."
He froze, choking on another ragged breath. Someone was there. Someone was there. He wanted to scream, to call for help, but something in him froze. He couldn’t. He had to stay still. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He had to stay still. His hands had found their way to his face, to his throat; one jammed against the well of pain under his jaw, and the other curled over his mouth. The pressure did little to stanch the pain, but it was something, it was anything.
His face felt wet. He was crying. His throat burned.
…something was missing.
"I was starting to think you weren't going to wake up. If you didn’t, I'd have to admit that Avid was right about at least one thing.” The voice continued with a scoff. "That man is going to drive himself insane without my help." The voice was muffled, but clear. A little too clear. Lilting. Familiar. Cold, cobblestone steps, and his own uncertain smile and- and- and he knew that voice, he knew that voice- "He has been very fun to tease, though." He chuckled.
Footsteps. Solid, low clicks of the sole of a shoe against stone. Even. Quiet. Growing closer and closer, as his voice grew louder. Some sort of anxious dread settled in his stomach. Some leaden weight.
He didn't want him to come closer. He wanted out, he wanted out-
But he didn't want him any closer.
So he made himself very, very still, both hands caged over his wrongful teeth, too bright and too sensitive with pain, but he did not move. He wouldn't.
The ache in his neck was throbbing now. His head hurt. His wrist burned. He didn't know why, he didn't know what was happening-
"I'm sorry this was what you ended up with." He- Scott?? Was that Scott???- said, a note of derision in his tone. “It’s been long enough that we needed it. Owen made it. By hand, even. It's new, at least." He sighed. "It's not exactly nice. I'd like something a little less... eugh. But it’ll do." He lightly drawled, voice sharp and airy, somewhere between amusement and smarm. "Owen thinks I'm old fashioned."
…what? What was he talking about? The coffin?? What was he talking about? Why was he even here? Why were either of them here?! He almost laughed, spitting his choked breath into his palms, incredulity climbing up his throat with a bitter wave of fear. Why? What was going on? What was going on?!
“Avid's not entirely wrong though, not really.” Scott mused, and the dull clicking of his heels slowed to a neat stop. “I did technically lead you out into the woods, and I did honestly mean to kill you.”
What?!
He didn't remember- he didn't remember this! He didn't- when did he- when did he-
But he did. But he did remember, he remembered he, and Owen- Owen's mouth on his wrist, blood painting his lips- joining Scott, hurrying after Owen’s brisk pace, investigating one of the odd beacons in the forest outside town, because it was exciting, he was out in the field! He couldn't wait to write it down, he was-
He was drowning.
He wanted out he wanted out the air was stale and there was dust and cold he was so cold but his neck was so hot-
The coffin shook. An abrupt, jerky motion that startled him into staring, wide-eyed, at the coffin's lid.
Scott was close. He knew he was, he knew he knew. He-
Suddenly the lid was gone, ripped away with a brisk wooden snap, and it was too bright and his eyes burned and he almost instinctively threw his arms over his face. He was still crying, his breath hitching as fresh air, even colder, flooded his lungs.
“Hello there, Pyro.” Scott said, his voice smooth and lilting, suddenly loud, much too loud, driving sharp bolts of panic into his chest without the coffin as a barrier. But something was missing, something was gone-
And Pyro- he looked up, his arms sinking against his chest, clutching his shoulders, his neck, tight because he was cold. He was so cold.
Scott's face hung over him, a gentle smile on his lips, his features just barely catching in the flickering lantern-light slipping across the walls. Pyro wanted to feel relieved at the sight of a familiar face, he wanted so badly to rid his body of the fear that tore through his gut, that shook through his hands, that smoldered in the bile in his throat. He just wanted to feel better.
But Scott's eyes were red.
And Pyro couldn’t feel his own heartbeat.