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Sword wasn’t like his father. He was infectiously social, able to light up every room with just a smile. He loved phights more than anything, loved getting to see his friends and even those who weren’t his friends. He just loved the feeling of life.
Venomshank was much, much, different. He didn’t like leaving the house, except for phights he had to be present at and the monthly SFOTH meetings.
Normally, if he hadn’t been at a phight with Sword, Venomshank would be in the living room waiting for his son to come home. He’d ask him how the phight went, check and see if he had any scrapes or wounds that Medkit had missed, then get him something to eat or get him to bed if it was late enough.
Tonight, however, Sword opened the door to an empty living room and a silent apartment. He frowns, shrugging off his coat and pack and setting them beside the door. He slips his sneakers off and sets them down beside the door. Venomshank’s boots are still on the shoe rack, so he hasn’t gone out…
“Dad?” Sword calls out, moving and poking his head into the kitchen. Nothing on the stove except a cold kettle from the morning’s tea. Venomshank hadn’t started dinner yet? Worry twists in Sword’s stomach.
“Dad?” he calls again, moving out of the kitchen and down the hallway.
There’s a sour scent in the air by the bedrooms. Sword’s door is open like he left it, but Venomshank’s is closed. The lights appear to be off as well, no light coming out beneath the door.
Sword takes a step forward, the scent growing stronger as he knocks on the door.
“Dad?”
A low, guttural hiss is all that answers him. His stomach drops.
Quickly fumbling in his pocket, Sword takes out the spare key, nearly dropping it in his hurry. He jams the key into the lock, cursing as it sticks.
“Come on, come on—” He wiggles the handle, huffing a breath of relief as the key turns.
The door swings open, and Sword immediately has to cover his mouth and nose with the collar of his shirt.
Venomshank’s mask is discarded on the ground beside the bed, and the splatters of green on the ground suggest that he had torn it from his face in desperation. Venomshank himself is hunched over on all fours, his hair tangled over his face like a veil that does little to obscure the neon green glow of his eyes.
Green disease drips from his mouth and fangs, pooling on the wood floor and eating away at the lacquer with a horrible hissing noise. Dark spikes have torn through Venomshank’s shirt along his spine and arms, and green mist huffs from his mouth with every breath, the source of the sour scent.
Slitted pupils lock onto Sword as a snarl rolls from Venomshank’s throat, claws scraping against the wood. The normally-dull spikes on his tail have narrowed and sharpened as well, ink-dark against emerald scales, lashing over the hardwood floor.
Sword quickly splays his hands, crouching down onto his knees.
“Woah woah, easy dad—” He settles himself in front of Venomshank, his expression twisted with worry.
Venomshank wheezes out what sounds like Sword’s name, disease splattering onto the floor as he coughs and spits. He claws at the wooden boards, hacking and snarling.
“Dad, dad it’s okay,” Sword says softly, pulling his gloves out of his pocket and tugging them on.
“Ş̸͈̯̠͛͑.̵̯̞͝.̴̧͖̯̫̟̻̀̈̓̾͛̈́.̷̺̞̎͒̃̂S̴̫̗̿̈́̇͛̒w̸͍̐o̸̬̞̻̮̝̿͠r̶̗̺̈̍͑̀̈́̕͜ḓ̵͖͎̃.̴̤̆.̵̨͕̙̓͜.̵̳̯̣͕̘͝ ” Venomshank rasps, mist clouding his vision.
“I’m here dad, it’s okay.” Sword shifts, placing his hands on either side of Venomshank’s face. The thick leather of his gloves grows a bit warm where the disease touches it, but he knows they’ll withstand it. They have before.
“D̵̼͙̈́̌̌ạ̴̒̽n̵̡̋̍͑g̶̹̔e̷̺̿̍͆r̷̠͑ò̶̪̍͆u̶̙̹̹͊͋s̶̢͙̳̣̉̒̀̄.̶͚̤̲̼̽̓.̴̨̟̯̣͛̽.̷̙̮͌ ” Venomshank’s claws scrape at the floor, leaving deep furrows in their wake.
“You won’t hurt me, dad. I know you won’t, I trust you,” Sword says softly, sitting down in front of Venomshank.
“Just let it pass, I got you. Then we can go to Sling’s for dinner, get you some of those pastries you like. Okay?”
Venomshank lets out a rattly breath, coughing and hacking up more disease. His teeth gnash and grind, the sharp fangs dripping with green, jaw tense with the need to bite, to tear and rip and destroy.
But the only target is Sword.
And not even Venomshank’s scattered mind can bring him to hurt his son.
His son…
“S̷̖̟͠w̴̙̓͋͝o̷̘̦̩͑̄͑͝ṟ̴̒̊͝͝d̷̜̓̚.̸̪̠̽̎͆͠.̸̰̔̓͛͌.̶̰́͗͝ ” Venomshank’s voice is hoarse, but it’s a bit more audible now. He’s getting better.
“It’s okay dad, I’ve got you,” Sword whispers. He sees Venomshank’s pupils dilate and quickly pulls over the trash can.
Just in time too, as the moment he sets it down, Venomshank lurches forward, disease spilling from his lips and into the lined trash can. Sword holds Venomshank’s hair out of his face, his eyes watering at the sharp, sour scent of the disease.
For a moment, everything is silent, save the sound of Venomshank’s heaving breaths.
“Fuck…” Venomshank’s voice is hoarse and scratchy from the acid in his throat.
“That all of it?” Sword asks softly. Venomshank nods, shuddering as the spikes of his spine and arms slowly retract back into his flesh, back to the little bumps they normally were under his skin. His shirt is torn and slipping off of his torso, the wide scars on his back visible for any soul to see.
Sword nudges the trash can aside with his foot, wiping the bits of disease off of Venomshank’s face with his gloves. He gladly welcomes Venomshank into his arms, the taller man unable and unwilling to stand up from the ground. He wraps his arms around Sword, his slender arms still dwarfing the young demon.
“I’m so sorry, little ruby,” Venomshank mutters, “You shouldn’t have to come home to this…”
“Shut up and let me hug you,” Sword grumbles, burying his face against his father’s neck. The tall god manages a low chuckle, leaning down to rest his chin atop Sword’s head, careful of the metal fin there.
“How long were you like that?” Sword asks quietly.
“An hour or so before you got home,” Venomshank responds, letting go when he feels Sword move back.
“I sent Sisyphus out so I didn’t hurt him.” The tall god wipes the disease from his claws, sighing as it hisses against his sleeves.
“He’ll probably be back tomorrow morning then.” Sword stands up, slipping off his gloves and helping Venomshank off of the ground. He leans down, picking up the hard leather mask from beside the bed, handing it to Venomshank with a patient smile.
“I’m—”
“Don’t you say sorry, I’m still allowed to smack you,” Sword says wryly. Venomshank chuckles faintly, taking the mask and wiping the drops of disease off of it.
“I ruined the floor again,” He points out.
“It’s just wood.” Sword smiles, moving over and wrapping his arms around his father’s waist. Venomshank’s expression softens as he leans down, wrapping his arms around Sword.
His tail, now safely dulled and no longer a spiky weapon of death, wraps around Sword’s torso, giving him a gentle squeeze.
“You don’t know how important you are to me, Sword,” The tall god murmurs. Sword smiles, burying his face against his father’s chest, hugging him tightly. The torn back of Venomshank’s shirt allows Sword to feel the twisted scars on Venomshank’s back, which makes his heart ache.
“Let’s go to Sling’s, I think we both deserve something sweet,” He mumbles.
“We haven’t even had dinner,” Venomshank teases lightly.
“Sweets for dinner.” Sword tugs Venomshank towards the door, making the god laugh.
“Alright alright, just let me change. I’ve got disease on my sleeves,” He says lightly. Sword lets go of his father’s waist, nodding excitedly.
“I’ll call Sling, let him know we’re headed that way!” he says excitedly, scampering off to the living room to grab his phone.
Venomshank watches him go, a faint smile on his face. He sighs, moving to the dresser and pulling out a fresh sweater. He tugs off the torn shirt, tossing it in the trash can with the now-thick pile of disease, listening to it hiss and melt with a sigh.
He pulls the sweater over his head, careful that it doesn’t catch on his horns. His eyes flicker to the photo on the top of the dresser.
He hadn’t told Darkheart about the fits the disease had been bringing on.
He hadn’t spoken to Darkheart in a long time…
He missed his brother. And he was sure Sword missed his uncle…
“Dad! Sling said he kept some of our favourites! Let’s go, let's go!” Sword’s voice jerks Venomshank from his thoughts. He nods to himself, picking up his casual mask, pulling the lined cloth over his face.
He sighs, ducking his head as he steps out of the room, making his way down the hall to where Sword waits, shoes already on and backpack in hand. Venomshank chuckles, leaning down and picking up his boots, pulling them on.
He straightens up, ruffling Sword’s hair.
“Alright, little ruby, let’s go.” He smiles softly. Sword nods, grinning and grabbing Venomshank’s hand, tugging him out of the apartment and down the stairs.
Today was a good day.