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Fit doesn’t see the creeper which is, really, his mistake. He’d opted for a higher protection level enchantment than for a specific blast protection because Fit had learned people are less predictable than explosives, and that had also been his mistake.
He’d also forgotten to hold his totem in his off-hand, because he was hanging out with Pac and Mike and it’s so hard to ease up that he figured ‘ dress for the job you want’ could also apply to social skills, and he’d gone in trying to look less wired than he usually is.
In fairness, it’d worked, but this was also his mistake.
There’s a multitude of other factors involved. The fact he hadn’t really heard what Mike said– or rather he heard it and didn’t understand it because he wasn’t paying attention. It’s hard to parse out that the shriek “Fit! Fit–!” means danger, look out, when both Tazer and Craft tend to shout a lot in excitement.
But none of that, in Fit’s mind, is anyone’s fault but his own.
So he wishes Pac would stop sounding so sorrowful as he says his name. Holding his hand between two of his own like he’s cradling the wrist and knuckles of a dying man and not Fit, who can just respawn whenever this all gets too inconvenient.
“Fit!” Pac sputters, loud and sharp against his muddled and ringing ears. He winces, the skin and flats of his face numb. There goes another hearing aid. Ramon’s gonna be pissed, he was really proud of this model, “Fit, can you hear me? Look at me–”
And Fit can, so he does. Or he tries. His gaze flits about the slatted t-shape on his helm, rimmed with gold and emboldened by its pulsing obsidian material that crowds it on all sides.
The warm, muddy, feeling of water in his ears begins to drain, like someone’s pulled the cotton away from them finally. That must be the blood coming back to his brain, his thoughts idly murmur to him. He’s been in this position before, knows the woes of head trauma.
It feels like the first time no matter how many explosions he faces. Raw animalistic panic that comes when you’re dying never loosens its claws.
His tongue darts out to wet his dry lip, confusion burning at the flame licked edges of his mind, “What?” He croaks. Synapses are barely connecting, flickering impulses that befit him, but it’s hard to grasp why they’re there.
“Fit!” Pac barks, half relieved, half alarmed, “C-Can you see at all? How many fingers?” He shoves his hand into Fit’s face, and he scowls, head heavy as lead as it twists away. Enough of this, he decides, trying to get his hands underneath him to brace his weight.
He gets maybe a quarter of an inch off the ground before Pac does him the mercy of pushing him to laying. A mercy, because if he hadn’t, then Fit would’ve fallen under useless jelly limbs.
Pac drops his hand, “No, no–! Ah, wait–” He reaches up and tugs off the obsidian helm, pulling free dark locks that dip to his jawline, stretching lower with black fingers of strands that look near blue in the midday sun. His thick dark brows bend inwards, making crescent marks between his eyes, “Don’t move. Look at me, okay?”
“Yeah.” Fit’s tongue is thick in his mouth. Hard not to…
His lips are pressed in a thin line, but he continues on, “Listen– Something– a creeper– it exploded, right? And you fell really, really far down an exposed cave.”
Right. Fit vaguely remembers being on his side and having been tipped onto his back, but it feels like a dream from hours and hours ago– Not what likely happened seconds before the lights came on behind his eyes.
It also explains why Fit’s body throbs like it’s one whole bruise. The wet tackiness between his fingers must be blood then, same for the runny warmth that pools under his back. He doesn’t feel like he’s still actively bleeding, however.
Pac’s gloved hands come to rest on his shoulders, holding him tight as he leans over him. Fit’s eyes had been unconsciously straying, and he works hard to keep them trained on Pac this time, “Me and Mike got you, but Mike’s running home to get more healing potions because one isn’t working really well. I-I was calling your name for a- a long time.”
“Sorry I didn’t answer–” He clears his throat and fuck that hurts, “--right away.” Fit says back, lip twisted into a smirk.
Pac’s silently staring for a beat, then laughs under his breath.
It’s airy and worn, and Fit wonders how long he really spent calling his name without any reply, “You– I’m– I’m just happy you’re here.” He says after a bit of a facial journey through despair and disbelief.
“That’s good.” Fit comments, watching Pac’s head dip out of his vision, “Can’t have you happy that I’m dead.”
There’s a gentle squeeze to his shoulder, “You’re not dead.” He snips.
When Pac moves away, Fit can see what’s probably the hole he fell down. Jagged edges and hard rock– Nothing obviously splattered with blood, but he does see where the grass and dirt are burnt from the blast.
Fit blinks tiredly. He feels like he just took a seven-hour nap at noon and woke up under his bed instead of on top of it, “Startin’ to wish I was.” He rasps.
“Don’t say this!” A shriek burns the left of his ear, that familiar bent brow pushing into his line of sight, “ Fit! You don’t mean it.” It’s a statement, not a question.
He does, though. He partly wishes he would’ve died so he could avoid having this conversation. Or having to be doted on, worried about, at the bottom of a fucking hole he fell into.
He’s talked with Pac and Mike both a counted total of times that could fit on one hand. Now Pac’s watched him loll his eyes about and fall unconscious. In the wastelands, he’d call that second base. Everything about this is far from ideal.
“Sorry.” He says with a wiry grin.
Pac is none too pleased with his apology judging by the downturn of his lip, but makes no note of his tone, “I’m gonna unbuckle a few pieces of armor, okay? So we don’t waste time doing it when Mikey gets here– Mike?”
Fit watches languidly as Pac turns to glance at the open air, hearing something that Fit clearly cannot. He’s gotten used to their mind link quicker than he thought he would. Even with substantial blood loss, he’s able to recognize when Pac’s wired into whatever Mike’s saying from what’s most likely a million miles away.
He rattles off some phrases in Portuguese, lively and fast. It sounds… nice. Oddly, very nice.
Pac’s still uneasy speaking English (despite the fact he’s more fluent than Fit could hope to be in another language) and it lends to his tone. He’s always nervous about it. Like if he says something wrong, Fit’ll fly off the handle.
But hearing him speak in his native language is… almost comforting. It’s fluid, confident, sure, but it’s also… Undeniably Pac.
Maybe Fit’s only known him for a month or so, and maybe he has a concussion, but he thinks he’s allowed to make that distinction from its starkness alone. Perhaps he just likes when Pac’s confident in himself. Maybe that’s it. He doesn’t dwell.
Pac nods at the air again, lost in his thoughts, “Okay– Okay, Fit.” He turns back, conversation seemingly over, “Mike’s getting them, the potions. He needs to stop and make some more healing ones, though.”
Fit tries to wiggle his fingers, “Alright. No rush.” He’s about to nod before Pac’s once abandoned grip on his shoulders returns, this time more gentle.
“Don’t move too much. Definitely not your head. You could make things worse and not know.”
“I’m already missing an arm.” Fit blunts, “And you don’t want me dead.” So what else is there to lose?
Pac steadies him with a look , “I don’t want you to be in any more pain then you have right now. Which–” Fit watches him gently hook a finger under his bracer, “Is why these are going also.” He can feel his skin pulse from the mere proximity of his knuckle to his wrist bone.
Well, fine. If Pac wants to play doctor, whatever. He doesn’t get why he’s dealing with all of this when one sword strike could have him healthy again. But he’s lacking in the ability to back up his choices with more than a croaking cough.
Fit grunts, “Do what you need to.”
Pac smiles, as if Fit had given him the most gracious invitation, “Okay. Tell me if it–if it hurts too much, okay? And I’ll stop.”
He unlaces the bracer’s buckles, pulling it from his arm with care. Fit sucks in a breath when it jostles something raw and Pac throws the bracer across the cave like it’s burnt him.
“ Respira, Fit, breathe. ” Pac’s fingers rest on his jawline, and that’s almost as unbearable as the pain– Sharp and violent and burning through his veins. A crashing wave of aches that lights off each other one like the world’s shittiest dominos.
The palm resting on his throat, thumb caressing his jaw– It’s his anchor. In part because exposed throat, be afraid, someone’s near your throat and also because it’s Pac touching him. He can’t imagine Pac hurting him no matter how many times he’s seen him tear players and mobs alike to shreds.
“Breathe, breathe, it’s okay. Ta bom, ta bom–”
He forces air through his nose and out of his mouth. It’s shaky, but there. That’s just one bracer and the exposed feeling of his sweaty bloodied skin on cool cavern air is already making him shudder.
Fit creaks open his eyes, not knowing when they’d closed, and tries to project more confidence than he has, “I’m okay. I’m good.” His voice echos across the jagged walls, sounding weaker with each reverb.
Pac rolls his lip between his teeth, palm drifting down to rest on the shoulder pad, “Okay. I– I don’t… I don’t think we can do this.”
Fit’s chest tightens. So you’ll kill me. I’ll respawn. Which is what he wanted from the beginning, ultimately, even though the thought of it right now makes his stomach churn with distant illness.
“I might…” Pac wets his lip and turns back to a bag resting just at his thigh. He digs through it for a moment before returning with a clear glass vial filled with something shimmering, a near silver off-grey color that sways thickly against its enclosure.
Even looking at it has Pac’s face more twisted and congested than before, “I have– lentidão–? Ah, slowness, I have a–a slowness potion. It’ll numb the pain, right, Mike.” He turns away for a beat, eyes glassy as he tips his head to listen, “Mike says it works as a pain reliever.”
Tempting. Very tempting. Fit sighs, body still thrumming with pain, “Just kill me.”
When Pac responds, he can almost hear Mike’s voice lacing his with the same conviction and headstrong determination for a single; “ No !” Before it fades back to Pac’s meek tone, “No, Fit, I-I don’t think we should do that. I don’t want to kill you.”
“It’s easier to just make me respawn.”
Pac groans, running a black leather glove through his hair, “I know! I know, I’m sorry. Really, Fit, I’m sorry, but I can’t… can’t handle any more death right now, you know?” He punctuates his sentence with a weary grin.
Wires connect in the tangled wreath of Fit’s mind, “Richarlyson.”
Pac looks down at the vial in his grasp, looking for all the world like he’s being scolded, “No more death. No more dying. Me and Mike, we’re not… used to this. Where I’m from, when you’re dead, you stay dead.”
Fit hums something uncertain in his chest. He wishes the people he killed in the wastelands stayed dead. And sometimes, very dimly, he wishes he had stayed dead there too. But 2b2t isn’t kind for letting them respawn. It’s a curse, in its own way.
He remembers seeing Mike after Richas’ first death. Now his grief stricken expression and muted horror makes more sense. Fit’s been desensitized to it all. Doesn’t mean everyone else is.
And any excuse to keep Pac’s face out of his nightmares is a good one.
“Alright,” Fit mumbles, “Slowness potion it is.”
Pac peers at him from under bent brows, “Are you… sure?”
“No. But I don’t feel like breaking my streak of not dying to a mistake.” Plus he’d have to explain it to Ramon.
Pac’s lips are pressed thin. Funny, considering this was his idea in the first place, “When you take this, it’ll make you dizzy.” He says, “It’s slowness so…” He spreads a palm in a vague gesture towards the vial.
You’ll be vulnerable. Weak. Distant. Fit’s aware of the unspoken warning. Slowness works not unlike a paralytic, smoothing out pain but making it hard to move on his own. Everything weighed down by a million pounds of sheer iron, even the nerves where aches should be.
“Tryin’ to talk me out of it now?” Fit snorts, wincing when his ribs give a creak of pain.
“No, I just… want you to know what you’re getting into.” Pac adds, easing the cork off the top with a pop.
“How long till Mike gets back?” Fit hurriedly asks.
Pac’s eyes drift for a moment, listening. “He’s not sure. The… the machine–? The factory, Mike, que isso–? ” He turns more fully now, brows furrowed as he has a one-sided argument.
After a defeated huff, he turns back to Fit with a strained grin, “He’s going fast. But there’s– there’s problems. But he’s going, Fit, I promise.”
Fit lets his muscles sag. Options are slim to none. At least when he gets here, with the armor off, Mike can toss him potions and this nightmare ordeal will be over with, “I’ll take it. Chances are I won’t remember it after this anyway.”
Pac turns ill-looking, “Don’t say that.” He mutters.
Fit brushes his knuckle against Pac’s armored knee, the smooth metal is nice against his inflamed and beaten hands, “Sorry. I’m– You know how I am.” He doesn’t, Fit blithely reminds himself. He grits his teeth, “It’s just… it’s hard. To talk about the way I’m feeling, that’s all. Even harder when I’m fuckin’ bleeding out on the ground.”
“I’m sorry.” Pac says softly, “I should’ve said something or moved you out of the way. I thought one healing potion would be enough and it- it stopped the bleeding but you weren’t moving and…” He rubs at his face with a frustrated huff.
“If ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts, then we’d all have a merry christmas.” Fit recites blandly.
Pac stares at him for a moment, sputtering out surprised chuckles, “What the hell?”
“Never heard it?”
“No! If– what? ” He snickers, eyes glimmering.
“It means you can’t spend time… y’know. Caring about what you should’ve done.” Fit grunts out, “But that could be the blood loss.”
Pac’s grip on the bottle adjusts. He eyes it with a much smaller smile. “I’ll– I’ll remember that. It’s a good phrase.” He shakily wraps a palm under Fit’s neck, cradling the back of his head. Fit tries not to let the surprise show, nor his immediate need for Pac to keep holding him, “We’ll wait till it sets in, then I’ll start.”
Fit forces himself to part his lips and accept the vial, feeling the cool viscous liquid into his mouth and down his throat. He swallows, shoving down a gag as the taste of something undeniably earthy and strange.
The cough and swallow causes him to shudder, igniting each burnt and angry nerve along his back and spine. He groans, eyes twisting shut. When the shock was wearing off, caught up in casual chatting with Pac, he’d started feeling each wound come to light on his mental scan of his body; Each rib or splintered bone and rubbed raw skin is now clawing for his attention.
Pac keeps his hand behind his neck, possibly unconsciously, his dark eyes darting about Fit’s screwed up expression with feverish determination, “It’ll pass, it’ll pass. In a few minutes, Fit, promise.”
Fit exhales like he’s run a marathon, sagging his weight into Pac’s touch. He knows it’ll pass, but it’s nice hearing Pac say it nonetheless.
“Few minutes?” Fit drawls, swallowing thickly.
“Sooner, m-maybe.” Pac says, still worrying his lip between his teeth, “And it- it’ll last for awhile. I picked it up off a mob, they always have so much stronger gear, right?”
“Right.” Fit huffs, feeling the potion pool in his gut. The wind above them whistles lowly, the caves spitting light from distant torches. He waits with bated breath, Pac’s hand on the back of his neck as hot as an iron brand.
It’s sweltering, tingling in his wake, even when he pulls away. Fit can tell the potions begun to set in because when his mind says follow it, his body lays limp. His eyes are lidded, heaviness settling into his bones.
Pac’s hand touches his arm, tentative, “How do you feel?”
Fit works to make a noise, maybe a simple grunted fine, but all that escapes him is a wheeze that’s quickly swallowed in panic. His blood freezes in his veins, the striking fear of not being able to move far more real now that he can’t do it.
His chest rises and falls in fast, panicked, breaths, until Pac puts a hand on it, armor clinking as he shifts, “It’s okay! It’s okay, Fit, breathe, you’re okay.” He says, exaggerating his own inhales and exhales, “You’re safe, I’ve got you. It’ll– It’ll fade, Fit, I promise, please stay still–”
Fit swallows thickly, his hands shaking as he curls them into fists. Fuck this. He draws breath in through gritted teeth, exhales just as slowly, trying to match Pac’s pattern.
“Focus on me, Fit,” Pac taps his fingers on his sternum and Fit’s eyes flick to him, “Can you feel any pain? On your arm or anywhere? Hum yes or no.”
He doesn’t need to check, Fit already knows. If he’d still felt pain, the ragged inhales would’ve torn him to shreds with agony. He hums no, flexing his fingers as tingling numbness sprinkles across his nerves.
Pac nods to himself, “Good. Just– stay still. I’m gonna start taking the rest of the armor off. Make a noise if it hurts.”
Fit manages a small, forceful, “ Okay. ” From his lips.
Pac looks between him and the armor he’s untangling from his skin. Careful and tentative, he pulls back straps that cross his chest, following them to his shoulder. He warns, under his breath, that he’s going to undo a strap on his back to release his shoulder pad and Fit barely does more than blink.
He gently pulls him onto his side and Fit can feel the blood spill out from under his spine, sticking to his clothes and skin. Pac doesn’t complain, simply unlaces the leather and tugs the shoulder pad free. His gloves are black, but in the daylight, Fit can see the glossy sheen of blood against them.
It must be obvious to Pac too, because the next moment he’s pulling them off, tossing them aside. No point in ruining his gloves.
After that, he makes much quicker work of his chest plate and pauldron, both of them wiggling free without a fuss to be added to the pile. The weight off his already heavy skin is heavenly and this with the already distant floating feeling gathering behind his eyes has Fit feeling exhausted.
Pac works without much conversation. Either because he knows it’s impossible or maybe because he’s too focused.
Fit doesn’t mind, he enjoys seeing Pac get into this focused mindset. He wishes the context were different, but there’s something wistful about seeing him so determined and unflappable in the face of, what Fit is sure is, a gruesomely torn up body.
When his last bracer is pulled free, he feels ten pounds lighter. Fit sighs, letting his head loll slightly with shut eyes.
It’s the same ripped raw feeling that he’d imagine a turtle would feel without a shell, only he’s twice as vulnerable without the faculties to defend himself. He can’t decide whether he likes it or not.
Painless, floating, he’s grounded only by Pac’s hand on his face, “Fit? You’re okay?”
He follows his weight, pressing his cheek into Pac’s warm hand. Cushioning the rubbed raw cheek against his comforting palm.
Pac goes still. Fit’s eyes creak open and he watches Pac shuffle uncertainly in place, still holding his face.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
Fit exhales roughly, nosing into his hand. Each prickle of skin against skin is more comforting than the potion, washing away his concerns. He’s not about to give it up.
Another hand snakes to his exposed throat, two fingers pressed there. To an artery maybe, he thinks, feeling for a pulse. Fit can hear his heartbeat, it’s sluggish but strong– Nothing different there.
Pac’s expression deepens as he now raises it to his forehead, his knuckles above his brow, “I-I know the potion– But it can’t…” His words are left unfinished. Fit cares little for a full sentence anyway.
It drifts again and Fit wonders if he’s going to keep vital checking a dying man for no reason, when his fingers curl around the back of his neck once more.
Fit stiffens, a choked gasp spilling from his lips.
Pac’s eyes widen, “There? Does something hurt? Is the potion fading?” He pulses his fingertips along the middle of his nape, working upwards, unaware that it’s pulling Fit’s muscles and bones into mush.
His response is garbled nonsense, eyes fluttering. He shakes his head slightly at the end of it, though Pac retracts his palm on his cheek when he does.
Fit follows the touch, twisting his chin towards it with a small displeased huff.
Pac stares at him like a puzzle. Like an undecided factor of his scientific process.
“Fit?” His bare palm comes down to rest in the middle of his chest, and Fit can feel his muscles unwind under it.
He watches him from down his nose. Pac’s thumb traces circles over the exposed scarred skin on his throat. It sends sparks down his spine, chasing everything away until only his shivering exposed skin remained to be pet and soothed.
When things explode, or when he’s not expecting them to explode, the first thing Fit had learned to do was cover the back of his head. Hide the vulnerable knob of his spine and neck from whatever debris may come. If that goes out, then he’d be in for a long and painful wait for death till he respawns.
He’s always covered his own back, cupped his own throat and kept himself safe. Fit rubs at the back of his neck when nerves grow high or tension brews, just to remind himself that ducking and covering is always an option.
He didn’t anticipate how it’d feel for someone else to cover it. It’s an unintentional thrill to have someone cover that easy target and promise that he’s safe. Hell, it’s an unintentional thrill to be touched without the promise of violence. He’s lost in a haze of contentment, drunk on it.
Fit exhales like he was holding his breath.
Something clicks behind Pac’s eyes. “Okay,” He says, hushed, “That’s okay.”
Fit’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
Pac rubs his fingers across the back of his neck, pressing in gently to work away at the taut muscles. His expression’s softened to something more pensive, “I didn’t know, sorry.” He mumbles, “If I did, I…” He trails off, cupping the back of his neck.
Fit’s eyes flutter shut, feeling like a puddle in his hands.
“I’ve never– I never have seen you so…” Pac strokes the line of his throat, making Fit wheeze, “Tired, maybe. Relaxed. You always look so worried by something, you know? Just really worried.”
Fit lets out a low noise as Pac scratches at his nape.
He lays there, falling in and out of consciousness. The pain never resurfaces, but the strain it’s had still saps at his bones. He wants to fall asleep, but Pac keeps him awake, squeezing the back of his neck impossibly soft to keep him from drifting too far.
Eventually the sound of a warpstone echos off the walls and Fit winces from it. He hears Mike stumble out of the warp, bag clinking with glass bottles. Pac tenses when he does, shushing him down like a dog, “It’s Mike, don’t worry.”
Mike clambers over, slinging his bag off his shoulders in the corner of Fit’s vision. His helm is gone already, armor traded out for his labcoat.
He must give Pac a look, because he responds to something Mike hasn’t said, “I gave him the slowness, like you said.”
Mike crowds in on his other side, looking at the palm on Fit’s chest, “I believe you, mô.” and his eyes stray to Pac with a look that transcends language; We’re talking about this later.
Pac doesn’t move, focusing on Fit as Mike shuffles with his bag, “You can sleep now if you want.” His voice takes on a softer quality, “It’s almost over. We’ve got you.”
Mike stares at Pac with an expression impossible to decipher through the slurry of potion, but it’s gone the moment he looks to Fit, “Are you ok, Fit?”
He grunts back something approximating approval.
Mike’s lip twists into a small smile, already working away at spilling some of the pink potion onto a cloth, “Good,” He murmurs, “I worried about you, man.”
He worried. Fit mulls that over, ignorant to the way Mike picks up his arm and shuffles it onto his lap, crossing his stomach.
His skin prickles as Mike drags up his sleeve, dabbing the wet cloth across any open cuts or bruises Fit thinks they’re talking, chattering above him in Portuguese, but he can’t decipher a single word of it.
He just sees them say something sharp to one another, then Mike’s eyes shift to Fit, to the way he bends into his touch, and he says something along the lines of; “Ah não, não, não,” and punctuated with, “ fofo. ” And Fit thinks he might know that one–
Pac’s face is red as he reaches across to bat at Mike’s arm. He says no other words, though, not in Portuguese nor English. They just laugh to each other under their breaths.
Pac’s hand on his neck stays. Mike wraps up whatever he coats in a healing potion, and that numbness begins to lift into something more comfortable. For a couple minutes, Mike is more rough about twisting and tying the gauze, but after Pac chides him, the movements become considerably more gentle.
He’s too bleary to comment on it, content to shut his eyes and sink into the dirt at this rate. He can’t fully fall asleep, but he certainly cannot stay awake, and it leads to him drifting between worlds and catching only snippets of time when he registers the other two with him.
He knows in passing that after the potions set in, Mike squats at his feet and helps him stand. Tells him to breathe, to say if anything feels wrong. Pac’s hand drifts from his neck to his back and stays there until the world shifts and slides away under his feet like sand.
He awakens on his couch, seeing slats of sunlight casting through the large glass panes of his lavacast apartment. Fit is more bandage than person, curled up under a blanket and feeling like he’d just slept for a century.
Fit groans at the memories pressing at his skull, raising a hand to run it down his face.
Something catches his vision and he twists his hand over, the metal catching sunlight.
One blue and one green band-aid are wrapped over the metal fingers of his prosthetic. The only sign that they were even there and not figments of his fractured imagination. With the reminder settled, he phantom feeling of their touch ghosts his skin.
He sighs, letting his hand fall back to his side. Later. That can wait for later. Right now? Fit needs a shower.