Archive of Our Own

Falling on stage was Ghost’s specialty at this point. Back in the previous era of the project, when they were lead by Papa Emeritus III, the man fell constantly. He tripped on cables or stairs or just the air; he fell into the fans in the front row at the gate; he even took a dive inside the stage somehow? That one time the stage collapsed under him up to his neck and he had to be pulled out by security, feet dangling like a cat you lift by the shoulders? Legendary. The Siblings of Sin still whispered about it around the abbey years later. In the current era, Copia’s era, as Cardinal or after his ascension into papacy, their leader had taken a few stumbles, and the ghouls did their fair share as well. Mostly Swiss. Swiss took the brunt of it. Including that one brutal fall when he dinged his head against Mountain’s staircase so hard he flopped in the air to the opposite side. It was like a table tennis match but the ball was his head. He’d almost done it again after that too. The multi ghoul was way too animated for his tiny platform; they’d all asked the Clergy to get him a bigger space. “Next tour,” the authorities said. Almost all the ghouls had taken a trip to the ground or two, Aether off the stairs to his side perch, Rain caught his feet in wires a couple times, Sunshine danced herself off of her platform once. Every single fall, they were fine. Surprisingly, given how hard Swiss had gotten it that one time (he meant to do that). But nobody had gotten any notable injuries all tour. Sore muscles, neck whiplash, sure, but nothing grievous.

So when Dewdrop took a plunge from his own side platform, on the final show of this year’s Imperatour no less, he had to be fine too. He wasn’t worried.

Security of course rushed to check on him, that was their job. He’d ended up sprawled on his back between the stage and the photo pit, fortunately far after the three song limit for photographs to be in there. Knocked the wind out of himself, but he was ok. He got up right away, legs like a spring, ready to rejoin the band. Pushed his mask back down - he was incredibly lucky it hadn’t completely flown off of his head: to unmask publicly was a punishable offense, and the Clergy wasn’t keen to forgive, accident or not. Dew felt a big dent at the back of the mask, a square angle pushed in where the base of his skull would be inside. But fuck it, it was the last show, he didn’t even know if Copia would want them to keep these masks for the next tour, so he’d make it work, broken helmet or not.

His guitar tech was right there to help fix his instrument enough to finish the concert. It was near unscratched, except a bent whammy and one of his equalizer knobs he’d lost, Satan only knew where that thing rolled off to in the dark; but, like, he could play without that. If his treble levels or whatever else sounded wonky, well those were the risks of the trade.

Someone dusted off his jacket, someone kept asking if he was fine.

“Yeah, yeah, YEAH” Dewdrop kept repeating, annoyed, voice a piercing shrill to project as much as he could under his mask.

“Fucking- Just LET ME GO BACK UP.”

He readjusted his mask best he could. From the front it almost looked like nothing happened. His tech strapped his guitar on him, he got some pats on the back, he shrugged off the last security person who kept trying to get him to go see the paramedics. No way. No way in hell. He would finish this show and that was it. He practically ran towards the back access area, a handful of people behind him, to get to the stairs and reemerge on the stage again. The roar of the fans welcomed him, the familiar heat and blinding glint of the stage lights above him, and all was right once more.

The remainder of the show went smoothly. Rain and Aether came to check in on him in quick succession, then carried the news to the other ghouls, less mobile as they stood behind their mics, with thumbs up and big nods. Copia even walked past him deliberately on his way to a costume change, laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. Dewdrop bristled at the extra attention. It was just a fall! Everyone else did it! Why make it a big deal?! He channeled the frustration he accumulated by the minute into his guitar, strumming more aggressively than needed.

He dodged everybody once the concert was over. The back stage area was busy, it always was but tonight it felt like a beehive. His band mates pretty much all tried to come see how he was doing, Cirrus especially was difficult to feint when she went into band mom mode. He scrambled for the exit that lead to the dressing rooms. A couple paramedics in their high visibility neon yellow vests caught up to him before he made it to the hallway, one of them grabbed his arm, and that’s when Dewdrop lost it.

He turned around full spin and yelled “I’m FINE! Leave me the fuck alone, holy shit!”

His eyes were ablaze with the unnatural glow of fire, luminous oranges and yellows poking through the lenses of his goggles, something that definitely should not happen in front of humans. The paramedic immediately stepped back, at the force of his voice or the strangeness of his eyes, who knew. His shout had caught Mountain’s attention, whom he saw lean in behind the health workers, about to step closer.

“Dew…” the drummer tried to warn him, tapped his mask lenses with a finger.

“No,” the fire ghoul cut him off, completely missing the point. “I’m fine, why is that so hard to understand?!” He spread his arms out defiantly. “Swiss almost broke his neck on your damn stairs the other time and you guys didn’t fuss half as much over him, leave. Me. Alone!”

Mountain made a face then. Compassion? Sympathy? Like he felt sorry for him. Dewdrop didn’t want to stick around to find out. Didn’t want the earth ghoul to calmly explain that they weren’t worried about Swiss because the multi ghoul was tough and Dewdrop wasn’t, or some shit. Whatever he had to say, Dew didn’t want to hear it. He booked it to his dressing room and slammed the door so hard people backstage recoiled. Mountain shook his head sadly.

They left him alone after that.

***

When Dewdrop didn’t show for bus call, they knew something was up. As chaotic as the guitarist could be after a performance, taking people left and right back to his dressing room, pulling all sorts of pranks, the like, he never missed a roll call. He’d suddenly appear near the bus, right on time, in one state or another, but he was there. It was customary in the touring world that whoever was late for bus call would get left behind, especially when tour schedules were tight. Fortunately Ghost had just canned their last show so they had more leeway.

Cirrus was the one who broke formation first and stomped off to her fellow ghoul’s dressing room, a heavy weight in her gut. She tried all evening to swallow it down, say nothing, trust Dewdrop when he said he was fine. When she all but tore the locked door to his dressing room off its hinges to find the fire ghoul passed out, splayed on the vanity, mid makeup removal, she hated herself for how she’d silenced her intuition. She yelled for help. Mountain was in the room before she even finished, he’d followed, of course. He gathered Dew in his arms, lifted him without effort. The ghoul weighted a bag of feathers for someone whose job it was to hit things for several hours a day. Cirrus gathered his belongings, his regular clothes and shoes, his makeup case, the energy bar he’d opened but didn’t have time to eat. She jogged alongside Mountain to cover his long strides, holding up Dew’s mask over his face until they got to the bus in case humans from the venue or the crew showed up. While unconscious, since they couldn’t concentrate on maintaining their glamour, ghouls had all their inhuman features out.

The second Copia saw them return, he ushered everyone else in the bus. He took a moment to release the rest of the human crew that followed the band, technicians, sound guys, the light team, etc. Usually after a tour closer they’d all hang out to celebrate. He informed them firmly of the change of plans, kept the details close to his vest. They’d be in contact next year. The crew vans pulled off obediently. He then returned to the bus, climbed on board, and immediately he was on the phone with someone whom he spoke very sternly to. He instructed their driver on where to go with his hand as he spoke, never missing a beat.

Copia wore many hats. The ghouls knew him off duty, a distracted well-meaning airhead who did his best to appease the Clergy and held no malice in his heart; the fans knew him on stage, full of confidence and flare, a flamboyant figure they couldn’t look away from, the source of their fascination; but sometimes Copia needed to be the Pope. The face of this grand satanic church. And that meant business. He knew when to pull these strings, and with whom. His demeanor changed, his voice changed, and he wasn’t a man, he was the emissary of Lucifer on earth, a tenebrous leader people needed to bow down to. Their dark Father. And he would fix what was his.

On that call, Copia somehow found them a Church of Satan approved doctor to go to, in Green Bay. In the United States. An ocean away from their headquarters. At well past midnight. Their Papa worked a mean business behind the scenes when he had to. Of course, the Ghost project and its success over the last decade helped a ton. The Church had spread nicely world-wide, with the Clergy sinking their claws into several institutions and companies wherever the band spread the message. The doctor Copia had contacted promised to not freak out over ghoul anatomy, nor tell the media or anyone about what he would see - there was an NDA in the works already. Out of fealty and devotion to the Church or under threat, that was Papa’s and the Clergy’s secret to keep. The important part was, said doctor worked to reopen his clinic for them as the bus drove towards it.

Dewdrop spent the trip squished between Mountain and Aether so he wouldn’t bounce around too much. Aether had taken over for Cirrus quickly, ready to keep Dew calm and stable with a steady stream of his quintessence. The rest of the band paid attention but kept their distances. They knew that too many people getting in the way was counterproductive. As time went on, Dew came to. He was half awake, fuzzy, nailed down by intense waves of fatigue and brain fog, but he was conscious. Aether’s essence probably also contributed to keep him addled. The fire ghoul’s usual spunk and defiance wouldn’t help right now.

Copia went into the clinic first when they arrived, then called for his earth and quintessence ghouls to bring their injured. Some of the other ghouls came along to mill about the waiting room, some stayed in the bus. Only Copia was allowed inside the examination room aside from Dew and the doc. He had the Clergy on speaker phone, and whatever they said apparently worked because the doctor grew visibly paler and more obedient by the minute. He ran a very woozy Dew through a battery of tests, questions, reflexes, specific gestures the guitarist sluggishly executed. He had a massive concussion, the doctor explained, with delayed symptoms and fainting. He was cleared for brain hemorrhage, fortunately, after some scans through a couple of the clinic’s magnetic and medical imagery machines. It must’ve been unsettling for the doctor to look at ghoul anatomy through such lenses, but if he was perturbed, he kept a good poker face. Copia made him delete all files from the clinic’s servers in front of him once they were done with the analysis.

Dewdrop’s status wasn’t an emergency. He didn’t need to be admitted to a hospital, which would have been a logistical nightmare anyway. He needed rest and supervision mostly. His atypical presentation of a concussion, with the delayed loss of consciousness, was the most worrying symptom. If anything, the ghoul would have a rough couple of days ahead of him. Bed rest was prescribed and a follow up check with the doctor in five and ten days. Provided he didn’t faint again and the rest of his expected symptoms diminished by day ten, he’d be in the clear. Assuming human medicine applied to demonic souls tied inside human bodies.

At the mention of the time frame, the Clergy lit up the phone call with all sorts of refusals and admonishments. Ghost was on a strict schedule! They were supposed to fly back to the abbey in Sweden the next day! Papa had appointments to attend, masses to lead and the ghouls had jobs at the abbey to get back to. They were tied to their pope, where Copia went, they had to follow. That’s what they were summoned for. The Clergy would not allow the band to waste time and frolic around the US for ten whole days. Sister Imperator even took the phone at some point, hot on Copia’s heels to insist he couldn’t waste Church money. Copia rubbed at his forehead with one hand. He could feel the headache coming. Eventually the doctor managed to convince her that if their fire ghoul was to faint on the flight, as he could very well do, there would not be a satanic church appointed doctor on board, and it could cause a load of trouble for their image. The PR angle convinced her. Imperator clicked her tongue so audibly through the phone everyone in the room heard it, then she allowed for Dewdrop’s hotel room to be extended as required. She also released funds for a church approved nurse to come check in on him twice a day. He’d fly later, she would book a single plane ticket for him in ten days. But everyone else was to be on tomorrow’s plane. The way her sentence rang in the air after she hung up, you could almost hear the ”or else” reverberating.

Copia sighed as he pocketed his phone. Deflated. Bravado knocked out of him. The only thing that had stopped him from groveling before the Clergy as he typically did was to keep face in front of the doctor. He would grovel before Sister Imperator once he was back home just fine. So, that was that. He thanked the doctor, shook his hand, blessed him, then left with Dewdrop who could walk now, somewhat, an arm hovering around his shoulders, another out ready to catch him if he tripped.

Dewdrop was mortified. He didn’t understand how a simple dive off the stage could lead to all this trouble. Not only was the Clergy cross with him for messing up their schedule, they’d also chastised him for having damaged his human envelope. Summoning rituals cost an arm and a leg - several, actually - the Church didn’t want to have to tie him to a new body or summon a new fire ghoul altogether. As Copia lead him back inside the tour bus, he clenched his fists under all the attention he received from his band mates again, claws cresting the skin of his palms, desperate to keep his emotions from spilling. He felt like a child, reprimanded yet doted on, and he hated it.

He made his foul mood known throughout the rest of the drive to their hotel. He was gutted he wouldn’t fly home tomorrow. But his stay at the hotel was extended, Copia received confirmation, it was done. If his Papa told him to rest and rejoin them at the abbey in ten days, he would do it. Begrudgingly, but he’d obey. It was his whole life, to obey this man. He was bound to him. And Copia cared. A papa that didn’t care would have forced him to handle his defective flesh suit and crawl on the plane anyway. Probably be back to work at the abbey the next day. He knew, he remembered how it was before Copia. When he was still a water ghoul and he played bass. He couldn’t waste this Papa’s kindness.

So once they arrived at the hotel, got in through the back doors, and Cirrus offered to take him to his room, he agreed. Let her help him into bed, her secure energy wafting around them both like a warm breeze, soothing him, and when she left, he sank in a deep sleep.

***

Dewdrop woke up around noon and he was not doing good. He felt like someone stabbed an icepick at the back of his skull and wiggled it sadistically every time he moved. He winced and screwed his eyes shut from the pain when he reached for his phone on the bedside table to check the time. He had a ton of missed messages. The rest of the band did go out to celebrate the end of the tour after all, just later than expected, and without the crew. At least they didn’t miss out on his behalf.

Swiss had sent him a ton of selfies with seemingly a different person on his arm each time, and a different background, and different drinks, and a smoke on his lips, and a middle finger up, and so on. Satan, the bastard had done well for himself uh. He probably wanted to dig in on that FOMO, given how Dew was usually along with him for post tour serial encounters and shenanigans. He groaned, swiped all of his notifications closed.

Rain texted him well wishes, polite but sweet. Concerned. Dew made the effort to text him back a thumbs up. He quickly turned down the luminosity of his phone to the absolute minimum. Just looking at his screen long enough to find the right emoji made him feel like he’d been punched in the temporal lobe.

Mountain simply texted:

“Spent an hour watching you sleep. You’re doing good.”

Which was, well, a tad creepy to be honest, but their quiet giant of a drummer cared for his people in his own way. If silently looming over him as he slept was how he wanted to do it, Dew couldn’t really argue.

Sunshine and Cirrus sent him a picture of themselves dancing together on a dance floor, making the most of their night. That made the fire ghoul smile a tad. He was glad the air ghoulette had Sunshine to drag her along for some fun times, because otherwise Cirrus would have worried herself to death over him. He knew she felt bad for having been the one to find him.

His mouth was pasty, weirdly sticky but so dry. A glass of water had been left within reach on the bedside table next to his cell phone, and somehow he just knew Cirrus had done that before going off to party.

Copia hadn’t messaged him, but the man was a bit too old school for texts. He still left messages on people’s voice mails for hell’s sake.

A text from Aether flashed on his screen just as Dew was going to put his phone down. He sighed. He fucking knew the message would be mushy and long and well thought out because the guy couldn’t take a break from his damned quintessence for five minutes and stop being perfect for once. By Lucifer’s Crown this man irritated Dewdrop so much. He didn’t want to open the text, but he’d already seen the first two lines of it, so curiosity won.

“Hey Dew, hope you’re not doing too bad. Mountain says you got some rest, that’s good. Listen, I’m back at the hotel and I’ll get some sleep before our flight. I’m in the room right next to yours.”

Oh great, Dew thought, tried to roll his eyes, but that kicked up his headache a notch. He couldn’t even show he was annoyed. And that annoyed him. He was stuck in a feedback loop of annoyance.

“So if you need anything,” Aether’s interminable text continued, “just text or call alright. I’ll be right there. I’ll keep my phone’s sound on. I should sleep until around 9:00 tonight so I can pack and get to the airport for our red-eye flight home. But you wake me up anytime if you need ok? Take care of yourself.”

And there was the […] sign at the bottom of their conversation window which indicated Aether was still fucking typing and had more to say and legit, Dew didn’t have the patience for it. He threw his phone somewhere on his bed, a feeble toss, it flopped in the covers, he didn’t care. He could not handle Aether right now. He’d rather take Swiss’ boasting after all.

His entire body felt like lead, heavy, unwieldy. He turned laboriously to his side, wanting to see if he could go back to sleep. But the angle change was a bad idea. Pain seared behind his eyes like molten lava was poured inside his eye sockets. He whined and shoved his face in the comforter, clutching it for dear life. His claws were out, he felt the duvet cover tearing, but he couldn’t care. The Church paid for the room, they’d pay for damages too. He tried to breathe slowly through his nose as he bit back tears and waited for the initial shock on his system to diffuse. Satan below, he hated this body right now. He was fine with it on most days, but damned if their human incarnations weren’t fragile. He had to wonder how such frail creatures managed to survive and build empires like they did. It made no sense how a tiny fall and hit to the head could make him feel so fucking awful. And faint?! Like, this flesh suit just randomly shut down from time to time, no warning, just, powered off? What kind of bullshit was that? He clutched the cover even harder at that. He just wanted to be fine. Like Swiss was fine after his own fall. And everyone else in the band had been fine after their too. Why did he have to deal with this shit. Why was his body so delicate compared to the other ghouls. You’d think when he’d been summoned the Clergy would have chosen a envelope with more padding, more strength. Yet here he was. Spindly, slender and small, able to be taken out of commission by a stupid tumble.

Being incarnate topside was a curse sometimes. Back in hell, he would have never had to deal with this. He was strong down there. Strong enough to have mastered two elements. Opposite elements too. Name another ghoul that did that, eh. But up here? Ugh.

Yeah, no, he wasn’t gonna be able to sleep right away. Too much pain. He took his time to raise and sit slowly at the side of the bed. There had to be some meds in this room he could take right? Pain killers or anti-inflammatories or whatever humans took? He looked around the room trying to keep his head as steady as possible. Or he could order some. Get medication from room service. A fancy hotel like this, they had to take requests like this. The phone connected to the reception was on a small desk across from the bed. Dew held onto the wall to hoist himself up. The room lurched around him, spun and turned on multiple axis like an armillary sphere. The guitarist spat a slew of swears, clawed feet and talons dug in the carpet for balance. He knew nothing moved, but everything around him moved yet and it sucked. He gingerly made his way to the desk, a five step journey that felt like miles. Crawled carefully on the chair. The way he gripped the old timey phone receiver when he called the reception, he almost crushed it to bits, made a long crack in the plastic casing. He groggily asked for meds. Reception said they would find him some. He demanded they left them at the door and knocked, lest an employee would enter the room and see him. They didn’t argue.

Dew then laid his head on his arms on the desk, frozen there for a minute. Waited for the world to stop spinning. Once he could crack an eye open again, he noticed a package that had been left on his desk and a small note in front. He craned a claw at the note and dragged it towards him, scratching the wood. Unfolded it. It was in Cumulus’ very recognizable bubbly hand writing.

“Don’t forget to eat! :)” was written at the top of the page. Dew huffed lightly. She knew him to well. He would forget to eat. He preferred to drink his calories, thank you very much.

“Go ham on room service, Copia says it goes on the Church’s tab. ;P”

How convenient. Dewdrop had half a mind to blow that bill up to the stratosphere.

“Here’s some snacks in the meantime. But get some real food at some point yeah? Alright!” She’d drawn a cartoon cloud with a smiley face and a heart next to it as a signature.

Dew closed his eyes. Cumulus was nice.

Food sounded like the worse idea in the world at that moment, but the fire ghoul also knew this body ran on food as fuel so he had to eat something. He hadn’t eaten since well before the concert yesterday. At least with snacks, he didn’t have cook. The less effort food took to make, the more likely he was to eat. He blindly reached inside the brown paper bag and pulled out a bag of chips. A wave of nausea hit him the second he popped the bag open, his entire system reactive to the strong smell of oil. He held it together by the sheer power of his anger at the weakness of his flesh. Shoved down a handful of salt and vinegar chips. Weren’t those supposed to be good for nausea anyway? Like a weird home remedy type thing?

They were not good for nausea whatsoever. He kept them down for mere seconds before he felt like puking. He froze, a split decision he had to make now: not move which would be way more comfortable but puke right there on the carpet and deal with that mess, or force his body to get to the toilet, consequences be damned. He lurched forward, picking the bathroom option, and it was like every cell of his body protested at once. He felt like that moment at the top of a roller coaster when you suddenly drop down, organs in his throat, gut clenched. He tried to run, stumbled, caught himself against the door frame of the bathroom, slid to his knees and crawled the rest of the way to the toilet, where he proceeded to vomit not only the chips but every ounce of what his stomach could reach and scrape back up from the previous day. Spasms ran him through as he clenched the toilet bowl like a drowning man would a buoy, powerless against the surge. Cold sweat hives broke over his arms, his neck, nervous system overstimulated. His eyes filled with tears, he sniveled pathetically, victim of whatever his body decided to do, waves after waves of nausea. He’d been warned by the doctor nausea was a commotion symptom but this was horrid. He tried weekly to brush his hair out of the way, his long curtain of hair usually shiny and soft now dull and clumped together by sweat. He wanted someone to be there and hold his hair. Rub his back and bring him a cold washcloth. He wanted Aether- no. No he didn’t. He absolutely fucking didn’t. He could do this alone.

As the nausea finally subsided, he lowered his head against the porcelain of the toilet, icy and firm. The cold made his headache flare and sting behind his eyes again but he was too hot, suffocated, he needed it. His tail laid limp on the tile floor, swishing meekly in the corner where the bath met the wall, gathering dust. He felt pitiful.

Eventually he was able to move. He unfurled his body slowly from how he’d clutched the toilet, trying to stay as steady as possible. Careful, deliberate, tiny steps. He made sure to close all the lights he could reach. Bothered by the aura, how the light pulled at his eyes, like his optic nerves would tear from any wrong move. He dragged himself back to bed and crawled under the covers. In complete darkness except for the edges of the curtains that hinted at how it was daytime outside, with no other sounds then his own strained breath to break the silence, knowledge hung heavy over him that all his band mates would fly away and leave him in a few hours. Dewdrop felt more lonely than he had since he was summoned. He curled in on himself and willed for sleep to take him again.

***

He woke up with no idea how long he’d slept. He laid still, tested out his arms and legs one at a time. His body felt rested, but he was still groggy. It was pitch black outside. He didn’t want to search for where he’d flung his phone this morning to look at the hour. He’d unplugged the alarm clock with its violently bright LED display earlier to help his headache. But it was night. The rest of the band left once it was night. Dewdrop sighed. So he was alone uh. Alright. He could do this. No biggie. Yeah. He was gonna be A-OK on his own.

He sat up. His nausea was mostly gone, replaced by the stingy twinge of hunger. He could not attempt Cumulus’ snacks yet.

He was filthy. His skin itched, felt dry and patchy. He really wanted a shower. Usually that was one of the first things he did after a show. At the concert hall directly if it was one of the nice venues that provided shower rooms for the artists, or first thing when they got to their hotel at least. He’d gone more than a full day without a wash now, and Satan only knew how much he could sweat during shows. With the stage lights and all the pyros and flames, plus their costumes, plus his inner fire, it was a disaster. Sometimes he envied the air and water ghouls. Rain, Cirrus and Cumulus didn’t have to deal with that, their inner elements kept them cool. One of the few things he missed from his previous water incarnation.

He got up and padded his way in the dark towards the bathroom, flicked on only the mirror lights. He needed to feel clean. Like a normal person. Hygiene felt like the last shred of normalcy he could cling to. So he turned the shower on. The sudden noise of the water hitting the porcelain of the tub made him cringe and grit his teeth. Why was the volume turned to a hundred on this thing?! He exhaled through clenched fangs. He then proceeded to carefully peel off his clothes, his long sleeved black undershirt he still had on from the concert, his pants, trying his damned hardest to not bend or look down because every time he did it without thinking the world violently threatened to spin again. The socks were the hardest, having to keep his head straight, do it without looking, and his grip was weak. He grabbed a couple of the complimentary body wash and shampoo bottles on the counter; he’d never use that normally, he was very peculiar about his hair and skin, the products he chose to use, only the best, but right now he didn’t have a tenth of the mental capacity required to care.

He climbed in the shower. His foot caught on the edge of the tub, sent him tumbling into the tiled wall, unbalanced. He caught himself, claws digging into the tile grout, breaking off chips of it, doing what he could to stand. Oh but the whole shower was spinning again now from the sudden motion, the floor dangerously lurched up to be the ceiling, walls melted into each other, left was right, up and down made no sense anymore and the nausea came back like a menacing tidal wave. He whined, looked around for purchase, his eyes landed on the curtain rod. Instantly he grabbed at it, hoisted himself up to stabilize. The rod gave under how hard he tugged, clattered loudly on the ground. He slipped. Fell backwards, ripped the shower curtain as he went down, edge of the tub square behind him and the back of his head exploded in pain, bursts of white like fireworks under his eyelids. He slid at the bottom of the bath and just, stayed there. Catatonic. Didn’t dare breathe. The pitter-patter of the water surrounded him, saturated his ears. Drone-like yet deafening. Droplets of water sizzled into vapor as they hit him, his inner fire burning up so hard he evaporated some of his own shower on contact.

A storm of emotions surged within and he was powerless before it. Fury, rage, wrath, all the shades of anger. Indignation. Helplessness. Inadequacy. He felt like a burden, useless, worthless, he couldn’t even wash himself, the most basic thing for a person to do, how pathetic could he get?! Beyond pathetic actually, his brain provided automatically. Miserable soul trapped in a miserable dysfunctional body. There was no fighting his negative self talk when he was in such a state. His eyes welled up, and he waged war against it internally, because he wasn’t like that, he wasn’t weak, he didn’t cry, but struggle desperately against himself as he might, he couldn’t stop the tears. They spilled and rolled down his face, heavy things mixing with the shower water and that was it, the dam broke. Sobs filled the empty space in his chest and he gave up, let them wrack his small frame, shake his entire body, loud sobs echoing within the hollow of the shower, louder than bombs to his ears. He wrapped his arms around himself, claws digging in the sides of his shoulders, drew his knees to his chest. He tried to stop, to breathe, to hold his breath, anything, but he kept sobbing, openly weeping at the weakness of his human flesh prison, how limited he was up here. How he longed for his strength in hell, how he’d been able to fix this dumb injury in a second if he was down there.

“Take me back,” he asked nobody, the void, any entity that would listen.

“I don’t want this stupid body, take me back.” His voice got louder, shaky and cut by sobs.

“This is bullshit, throw this piece of shit body in the garbage, release me!” He was all but yelling now, body shaking from being wet and cold and burning at the same time, from crying so hard, from how livid he was.

He was furious at himself, at everything, at the world, but these were too vague. Anger demanded a target. A victim. So his brain made one. Latched onto Copia. Because if it wasn’t for this man existing and having lifted him from hell he’d still be down there, happy with his water powers and all the benefits of being incorporeal, because you can’t get a fucking concussion when you don’t have a skull, and he’d be in peace and strong and he hadn’t even noticed he was saying all of this out loud but he was screaming

“SEND ME BACK TO HELL YOU FUCKING BASTARD POPE!!”

When the door to his room slammed open.

“Dewdrop?”

It was Aether.

It was fucking Aether, and what the hell was Aether doing here this late?! They were supposed to have gone home, they left him, everybody, they took a plane! That was Dewdrop’s one grace, that he was alone so at least no one could see him like this, hear him be weak. Why was he here?!

Aether stood in the entryway to the bathroom, worry painted all over his face, and if he froze in shock for a split second when he saw Dewdrop in such a state? Saw the ripped up shower curtain, the torn off rod, the bottles of shampoo rolled behind the toilet? He didn’t show it. Immediately regained his calm and rushed over to him, on his knees by the side of the tub in a flash, armed with every ounce of serene energy he could muster to pull out from his inner quintessence.

“Dew, Dew, it’s ok, I’m here.”

The fire ghoul looked up at him through blurred eyes, wells of tears spilling without constraint.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” his voice shook, “what are you doing here?”

“I’m just done with my bags, I was leaving but I heard a noise and I-”

“Why are you here?!” The fire ghoul was screaming again, terrified of being seen like this, exposed, flayed.

“Dewdrop-”

“Leave!”

Aether opened his mouth to answer back, he made a face, his eyes, so sad, so mournful, so soft and caring. All Dewdrop could see in them was pity. He’d never hated a pair of eyes so much in his life.

“LEAVE!”

Aether reached out for him, hands outstretched, but Dewdrop recoiled. Except he had nowhere to go. He had an inch of leeway at the bottom of the bath, cornered. So when Aether grabbed his shoulders, he lashed out. All clawed fists going at him, he tried to bat him away, tried to push him off, punch him, scratch him, anything to make him let go. He screeched and hissed with all the outrage and savagery of a wounded animal caught in a trap. Aether didn’t let go. Why did Aether care?! He wasn’t supposed to care! This was not their relationship! Dewdrop didn’t want to look weak in front of him, this would ruin everything, the fire ghoul was the cool indomitable daredevil, not this meek pathetic wimp. Aether wasn’t supposed to care for him, they joked and fought and fucked but didn’t care, this was beyond the boundaries they’d set! He didn’t want this, he was humiliated, and he’d make it known in the worst way he knew how. The quintessence ghoul’s large hands were steady on Dewdrop while he let him take it out on him as much as the man needed. He softly pulled him in, closer inch by inch and Dewdrop fought him every step of the way. Slurs and swears and anything the guitarist could think to say, he said it in a flurry, spewed every last drop of vitriol he had within.

Aether didn’t falter, didn’t say a word. Just pulled Dewdrop until he had him close enough to the edge of the tub. He pushed himself up of his knees then and draped himself over the fire ghoul in a hug, getting drenched by the shower in the process. He held him so close he just about crushed him, solid as a wall, unyielding while Dewdrop spent the remnants of his defensive outburst. Until the other man exhausted himself punching at his sides to no avail. Until he finally gave in and clutched at his sides instead, fists in his shirt, and held onto him as he cried, face buried in Aether’s wide chest, his torrent of emotions and fears dwindling down to a small stream of soft sobs. Aether petted his hair, gentle, loving. He talked to him kindly, his voice kept low and even, praised him, encouraged him, reassured him over and over that everything would be alright. He ran him fingers in his wet hair in long, measured strokes until Dewdrop could match the rhythm of the pets with his breath. He still hitched with a sob sometimes but it was much better.

“There. See. You’re fine. You’re ok. I’ve got you. Here, how about we stop the shower and we do a warm bath instead, hm? Would that be nice?”

Dewdrop hadn’t noticed he was shivering. He nodded tiredly.

Aether started to narrate everything he did to be predictable, allow Dewdrop to stay calm. He kept a steady hand on him the whole time as an anchor point while he turned off the shower, plugged the bath, and reopened the faucet at a much more comfortable temperature. They sat like this as the bath filled up, Dewdrop still mushed in Aether’s side, muscles not clenched anymore, just empty, floppy, soft. The quintessence ghoul kept him close while he did everything else methodically.

Dewdrop closed his eyes. Let the calm after the storm envelop him. The lap of hot water steadily rising up his body. Aether’s peaceful quietude. The feel of his strong body propping him up. His scent, the laundry soap he used or a cologne, the guitarist didn’t know but it was nice. He was tired. He wanted to fall asleep right there in Aether’s quintessence. That was such a weird element. The ghouls had straightforward elements usually, fire, water, earth, air, why did Aether have to be so complicated, so weird. So pleasant. He sighed deeply. His thoughts made no sense.

“Can you hold yourself up for a second?”

Dew looked up at the other ghoul blearily, evaluated inward if he was able to. He tentatively let Aether go. Noticed how he’d torn holes through the man’s shirt unconsciously with his claws from how hard he’d held on. A third object he’d clawed to shreds tonight.

“I didn’t mean to…” he whispered, voice hoarse from all the screaming.

Aether looked down at his clothes then chuckled.

“No big deal! It’s just a shirt. I have a ton.”

Dewdrop kept his eyes lowered, still feeling a pang of shame in his ribcage, but he believed him. The other guitarist sounded like he genuinely didn’t mind.

He scooted away some, enough for Aether to move, and sat as still as he could in the middle of the tub, now filled with what would probably be boiling water for a human, but for a fire ghoul it was soothing. Felt like the fire lakes down in the pit. The room didn’t spin anymore. In fact, it had stopped spinning the second Aether appeared. Somehow the ghoul’s quintessence managed to dull his commotion symptoms too. Madness.

Aether left to grab the shower gel and shampoo mini bottles that had been flung behind the toilet. Dusted them off on his jogging pants with a tiny grimace. Came back with a washcloth too.

“Will you let me help?”

He kneeled back down at the side of the tub. On top of a fluffy towel this time, to absorb the cold water that dripped from his clothes.

Dewdrop looked at the cloth with wide incredulous eyes. Aether offered to wash him? He felt fire creep up to his cheeks. If every inch of his pale silvery skin wasn’t already covered in a red sheen because of the heat of the bath, well now his cheeks were red for sure.

“Uh,” he looked anywhere but at the other ghoul. “I can do it myself you know.”

Aether paused.

“I’ll let you try if that’s what you want. But don’t make yourself sick again when I’m right here to help.”

Dewdrop stayed silent for a long time. Eventually he held his arm out of the water for Aether.

“I appreciate that, thanks Dew.”

The fire ghoul didn’t have to look at him to hear the big smile in his voice.

He screwed his eyes shut when Aether started. When the texture of the washcloth brushed his oversensitive skin. When his nose was assaulted by the saturated scent of the perfumy body wash. The intimacy of the situation was uncomfortable. But he didn’t pull away.

The quintessence ghoul was meticulous. He lathered the soap on Dewdrop’s skin delicately then rubbed small circles in with the cloth, didn’t miss a spot. Of course he didn’t. Aether was summoned from a perfect element, he was made to be perfect in every way, so he couldn’t do a sloppy job at anything, not even a wild task like this. That was one of the reasons why Dewdrop fought with his so much. Next to Aether’s effortless perfection, his own flaws looked bigger. Hideous. He had to compensate somehow. What he knew how to do, and did well, was to quarrel. To bitch, to nag, to argue. He was the king of snark. He could at least win at that.

He didn’t have much snark left in him now though. He allowed Aether to wash his arms, his chest, his neck, his back. Drowsy. Stuck in the liminal space between indignity and comfort. He pulled his legs out of the water one at a time when Aether instructed, even let him clean between his claws.

“’is fuckin’ weird,” he mumbled from where he’d leaned back in the bath, mouth right at the edge of the water, almost making bubbles, his long hair fanned out around him like a halo of honey blond.

He wiggled the toe pad Aether was cleaning.

“You needed it,” Aether shrugged, brows knitted in concentration. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have tried by yourself. You could have just asked, no?”

He cocked his head at Dew, still holding on to his foot covered in foam.

“You were ‘spposed to leave. Plus, no,” Dew bristled, pulled his foot back under the water, “I couldn’t have just asked, this is way too-”

Intimate, his brain provided. Domestic. He groaned.

“It’s not what we are.”

Aether hummed pensively as he rinsed the washcloth.

“We can go back to fighting after this if that makes you feel better. It’s up to you. For now though,” he tossed the washcloth aside and reached around to grab the shampoo behind him, “turn around, your hair needs some help.”

Dewdrop wanted to roll his eyes so bad but he remembered he couldn’t so he simply made a grimace before he did, in fact, turn and scooted his back towards the quintessence ghoul. He crossed his arms.

“You’ll be late to the airport.”

Aether scoffed, lightly amused. “Already am.”

He wiped a wet hand on what little dry patch he could find on his pants before pulling out his phone from his back pocket. He held it up to Dew, who turned all the way once he saw how quickly notifications, texts, missed calls, missed voice messages flashed across the screen, shocked. All of the other ghouls were texting him, and Copia, and judging by the amount of calls from the Ministry that bounced, the Clergy has been notified of his absence on the plane as well.

“They’ll murder you.” Dew croaked, and it was a joke, but only half of one.

“I know.”

“For real.” The fire ghoul grabbed his arm. “You’ll get punished.”

“I know.”

“Aether they’ll hurt you-”

“I don’t care,” the rhythm guitarist said more sternly as shrugged him off to pocket his phone after a direct message from Sister Imperator herself flashed on his screen. It appeared to be in all caps, at a glance. He didn’t want to open that one. “They can do whatever they want back home. I’m staying here.”

Dewdrop stared.

“For the ten days,” Aether continued while he squirted shampoo into his hand. “Listen, I’d actually like you to survive this, I can’t let you kill your human body by falling in the shower, it’s not a good look.”

“How are you gonna get home.”

“I’ll figure it out. I’ll find another flight.”

“The Clergy won’t pay for your ticket.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“You can’t affor-”

“Lucifer, Dewdrop, can you just shut up for once in your life and enjoy a good thing?!”

Aether glowered at him, a look on his face that said something along the lines of “what the hell dude?”, hands lathered in shampoo raised in the air in a dramatic shrug.

Dew features softened. He smiled. He could still get a rise out of Aether. Right. They were ok. No matter what happened here, him and Aether would be fine. This didn’t have to change their relationship too much. He turned properly like the other ghoul needed him to without another word.

***

Later that night, once Dewdrop was clean enough he could start to feel like himself again, Aether didn’t return to his room. He couldn’t anyway, he had to check out, he was supposed to have left. Instead, whilst the fire ghoul observed him carefully from his bed, he helped cover all the little lights he could find around the room so they wouldn’t pull at Dew’s eyes, he brought him more water, and when he was ready to sleep, the quintessence ghoul crawled under the covers with him. Gathered him carefully in his arms, engulfed him in his warmth. Dewdrop allowed it. Shields down for once. Aether was a cocoon. Solid in all the ways Dew was frail. Strong where Dew was weak. Big where he was small. And it was just right. Like a puzzle piece that had been missing from his sanity clicked back into place inside Aether’s arms. And if their relationship had to become this, for the ten days they were stuck here, then so be it. Just for now, it was good.