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“Oi, this isn’t funny anymore, Croc…get up!”
The young troll reached out and shook the other’s right shoulder again, refusing to look at the blue staining the skin of his fingers; he wouldn’t touch the left shoulder at all, not when—
“Crocil! I said ‘get up’, you stupid reptile!” D’mingo shouted again, desperation beginning to haunt his voice as indigo eyes skipped over the other’s body, seeking any sign of life.
It had been like any other hyper rage, really. They came and went, usually going out when Crocil dealt him a firm blow to the head and shouted abuse. It always worked, sure as hell of a lot more effective than that face-papping nonsense most moirail pairs utilized. But they weren’t moirails…weren’t any of the four quadrants, really. They’d never been able to put a label on it, but somehow it had always been fine. At least, until it wasn’t. This time, he hadn’t stopped. This time he couldn’t be stopped. This time…he really fucked up.
When he had come around on his own—weird, didn’t Crocil stop him when he got out of hand?—he had been laying on his back, panting for breath and sticky. Sticky…why was he sticky? He felt like he’d dipped his hands into a recuperacoon, but the air was thick with a cloying smell that was undeniably blood. Lifting them up, he blinked at his fingers dumbly for a moment before his heart skipped a beat: blue. Cobalt blue. Sitting up, he realized with growing dread that he was practically drenched in it. What happened? What the hell had happened this time?! The young indigo-blood slowly turned his head, eyes widening as he saw the source of the mess laying in a pool of blue beside him. No, this couldn’t be right. This was a joke, wasn’t it? Yeah, Crocil was just getting him back for the stunt he pulled the previous week. Haha, what a joker. He laughed nervously, crawling over to the other troll to congratulate him on a well-played trick.
But that’s when he nearly stumbled over a limb that should have been attached to the cobalt-blooded troll. The left arm…not the whole thing, but from the wrist partway up toward the elbow. It hadn’t just been cut, no, it was torn from the rest of his arm, the flesh tattered and bones splintered. D’mingo’s stomach went sour and he frantically shoved it out of his way, closing the distance between them hurriedly.
Crocil was on his side, back turned toward the other troll, and motionless. That was the part that scared him most, and the high blood was not used to the feeling. Heart racing madly in his chest, he took hold of Crocil’s shoulder and pulled, rolling him onto his back. Ashen face smeared with blue, D’mingo forced himself to look away from dull, empty golden eyes and let his gaze fall on the clotting cut that trailed across the older troll’s face, up over the nose from ear to ear. He looked down to his cobalt-stained fingers ending in sharp nails and had to swallow down hard on a wave of bile, the reality of the situation sinking in. It wasn’t just blood on his hands this time, but tissue and muscle caked under his nails.
That’s when his horror turned to an abrupt anger, refusing to let this be a thing. He didn’t care what plans the cobalt asshole had, but dying was not something he would allow. So he took hold of his shoulder and began shaking and shouting, voice growing louder and more shaken as he did. Seconds passed, then minutes, and the anger was just beginning to devolve into hysteria when a shuttering breath was sucked into the cobalt’s lungs and his eyes blinked, turning to regard the grinning D’mingo.
“H-hey, you’re awake, good,” he mumbled, trying to force on his cool, collected mask behind the protection of his shades. “How are you feeling?”
“You…” the older troll managed to grumble weakly, reaching his hand up and took hold of the front of D’mingo’s shirt. “…tore off…my fucking…ARM.”
For once, he wasn’t sure what to say. Couldn’t think of anything at all, the mask crumbling away before he could even get it properly in place. He tried to reach out again, to comfort the other troll, but found himself shoved away firmly, falling backward on his rear with a stunned, almost hurt expression.
“Let me help, Croc,” he offered quietly.
“Just…get the hell away from me, Mingo,” the cobalt sighed, closing his eyes. “I’ll take care of it. I always do.”
“But I—” D’mingo pressed, shifting up into a crouch and reaching his hand out imploringly, desperate to help.
“I SAID GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!” Crocil roared, fixing the younger troll with a terrifying glare.
Swallowing thickly, D’mingo raised his hands in a show of surrender before hugging his own chest, fingers clinging to the soft fluff of his coat as he stood and actually retreated from the room with hung head and slumped shoulders. He was glad that Crocil was alive, realizing with dread that it could have easily gone another way altogether, but now he felt cold inside. What would happen to them now? Would Crocil leave him? Could he blame him if he did? The younger troll chewed his lower lip with sharp teeth until it bled, pacing in his room restlessly for hours after showering, having nearly scoured his skin from his bones in an attempt to get rid of every last trace of blue. He had to make this right. He had to. Somehow…
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s a hook! Don’t look so sour, it’s awesome. You’ll look just like a proper pirate, now.”
Crocil blinked at the offering, a brow lifting at the ridiculousness of it. Seriously, it was a massive golden hook, probably costing quite a lot to have made and—again—it was a hook. Not a hand, which would have at least been practical. A hook. Glancing back up at the idiot indigo troll, he sighed and gave the slightest of smiles. It was pretty awesome, he supposed.
“Thank you.”