Work Text:
Philippe
He was cornered, trapped, and he knew it. Cloak or no, the BLU Pyro would fill the room with flames, and he would burn with it. Images rose in his head, unbidden, at the hiss of the gas light:
Waking up to screams, and rushing out the door to see their neighbor's shop burning, windows smashed, glass littering the street. His mother pulls him back inside and slams the door shut, locking it as Henri starts to wail from the next room.
Another memory–the first time the 'showers' in his camp were used. Everyone looked up as the screams started, guards and prisoners alike. People began to scream in return, faces paling as they recognized the sounds of their loved ones in pain, dying. Philippe heard nothing. He didn't know which was worse–your last memory of them being their screams, or not hearing them at all, instead picturing Antoine and Henri trampled underfoot, ashes covering their small bodies.
Guards torturing him, burning his skin with their lighters as he struggled not to cry out, because this was nothing compared to what his brothers must of felt.
Philippe looked down at his hands.
They were ungloved. Water bubbled up from his palms, cooling his wrists and dripping off his fingers. Tiny reflections danced on its surface: Getting to drink as much water as he wanted, clean and cold.
Showering in the mornings, refreshing; showering at night, washing away the stress and exertions of the day.
Playing in the fountain in St. Marks Square with Antoine.
Lawrence teaching him how to fish in a tiny lake–a 'billabong,' he called it–and trying to get him to kiss the fish when he finally caught one.
Washing his hands, soap sliding between his finger and coating his skin with pearly bubbles, then watching it all swirl down the drain.
He doesn't look up at the roar of the flamethrower, just closes his eyes. The white ceiling of the respawn room is there when he opens them again.
Lawrence
The breath left his lungs with a splash as he landed in the sewers. He could hear the BLU Soldier laughing at him from up where he had kicked him down. Something splashed behind him, and suddenly he was back in that lake, Phil standing on the shore, hating him, and the crocodile below, hunting him.
Other memories rushed by: his father taking him to swim at the beach when he was small, swimming out too far, and getting caught by the current. The waves had yanked him under and pulled him this way and that, and he had tried to find air, but the water had rushed in instead. He was only under for a few seconds before his father grabbed him by the back of his bathing suit and dumped him back on the sand, but for weeks afterwards he had nightmares of seawater stealing his every breath, dragging him under.
Shooting at a crocodile when he was young and stupid, then going out to see if it was dead. It nearly broke his ankle, and he splashed around in panic, the water was murky with blood and silt and it wanted to kill him. He had to hobble back to camp, leaning on his rifle, with nothing to show for his troubles.
Skipping stones in a pond after school, Jack and his buddies finding him and pushing him in, laughing and jeering as his glasses flew off and he stumbled around in panic, wanting to get out but unable to see.
Nightmares created from a memory he's can't remember, sinking down and down and down, the light fading, bubbles spewing out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tries to keep them. As his ears start to ring, he gazes dumbly at his escaping air, watching it glisten and pop. One small part of his mind is screaming at him, to stop staring at the bubbles and do something. But he can't, because deep down he doesn't want to. This is a better death than the one he's undoubtedly brought on himself, wasting away slowly till he won't even recognize it when he dies.
Lawrence closes his eyes as a rocket screams towards him. This is better. This is better.
When he respawns, he doesn't open his eyes for a long time. He hears Pyro clump past him, gas light hissing, and forces himself to picture something good. A dim recollection of his parents teaching him how to make s’mores, fingers sticky, his father's glasses reflecting the firelight.
He cups his hands together as they start to warm.
Countless nights alone under the stars, listening to the fire crackle.
Sitting on a log with Phil, laughing until his sides ached, watching Phil fall off the log, then laughing even harder as sparks flickered up to join the stars.
A spark flickers to life between his fingers.
Camping with Lizzie and Christian, the two of them teasing Lawrence about his cooking–‘medium burnt,' they’d said. He’d just stuffed his cheeks with blackened meat and laughed right back at them. They'd put the fire out, usually turning the sand heap into a makeshift sand castle, before going to sleep under the velvet sky.
He can see, in his mind's eye, a flame growing in his hands, burning away the awful numbness the water brings.
He takes a few deep breathes, then hoists himself up off the ground and picks up his rifle.
The wood is warm and dry under his hands.
He has a job to do.