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Impulse opens his eyes, takes a shaking breath, and studies his surroundings.
There’s a chipped yellow mug on the bedside table. There’s a curtainless window, a lamp out on the street casting ugly orange light into the room. The walls are painted blue. There are clothes on the floor. The comforter clutched in Impulse’s hands has dogs printed on it.
There’s a warmth against Impulse’s back, but there are no arms wrapped tight around him.
Impulse breathes a little steadier. He knows where he is.
The dream he’d been having has all but vanished, with only the sick feeling in Impulse’s stomach to hint at what it might have been about. His skin feels cold and clammy, and his heartbeat feels off-kilter, and Impulse pulls the covers tighter around himself, seeking comfort.
A part of him desperately wants to get up and take a shower, but just curling up in his bedcovers has him hissing in pain as the movements tug at wounds that will never properly heal.
Impulse had lived with August for ten years. It was impossible to count or even recall how many times August hurt him during those ten years, and Impulse refuses to try.
He just wants to forget.
But the scars are a constant reminder.
August had loved torture, but he’d loved the aftercare just as much. That was part of the horror- to be torn apart in the worst of ways, and then stitched back together with gentle hands. August had taken pride in the fact that his victims healed from the torture so well.
That last night, though… things had been different.
Everything had been different.
Skizz. Tango and Jimmy. The broken promises, the threats, the deal he’d made with Skizz-
Everything had been different.
That night, August had cut Impulse deeper than ever before. He’d cut through skin and muscle down to the bone. He’d severed parts of Impulse that could never be repaired.
Impulse had been burned dozens of times. But August had never burned an open wound before.
There were some things even time would never heal.
Impulse feels his back seize, the pain dulled by familiarity. He takes a breath, then another, and another, until his muscles figure themselves out and relax. A dull throbbing ache remains.
The warmth at Impulse’s back shifts and almost takes Impulse’s covers with it, though Impulse’s grip is too tight for them to get very far. Skizz huffs and flings the covers off himself, carefully aiming away from Impulse, and rolls to face him.
“You awake, buddy?” Skizz whispers, and Impulse cracks a smile.
“Yeah,” he croaks. His throat feels dry from sleeping.
Impulse is on his side facing away from Skizz, but he can feel Skizz sitting up and leaning over him, can see the vague shadow of him and feel his shifting warmth.
“Do you want some water? Need help sitting up?” Skizz asks.
Impulse considers it. “No, I think I’m okay. Just had a shitty dream.”
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
“I don’t even remember what it was, to be honest. I just know it was shitty.”
“That sucks.”
Impulse hums, sleep tugging at his bones. Any desire to get out of bed had left him completely, but there’s an itch beneath Impulse’s skin that won’t settle, an ache that just won’t leave.
“Impulse,” Skizz whispers.
His voice is low and heavy with exhaustion, his fingers ghosting across Impulse’s shoulderblade in a clear desire for closeness. It’s a question, that hesitant touch- Impulse has never been much for cuddling, and he’s only gotten worse after a decade of never having a choice.
You’re not there , Impulse reminds himself. He always asks .
“Would it be okay if I hugged you?" Skizz asks.
Impulse tries to turn, to catch Skizz’s eye. The attempt sends sparks of pain down his spine and it takes considerable effort not to flinch away from Skizz entirely.
Immediately, Skizz backs off, but Impulse can feel him hovering, can hear him whispering to just breathe, breathe, breathe. Skizz whispers reassurances until the pain fades enough for Impulse to breathe easily again, and he can feel the heat of Skizz’s hands hovering close.
“Do you want to turn? You might sleep easier on your back.”
Let me help , goes unsaid. Impulse hears it all the same. He nods.
Skizz is gentle, always so gentle. He scoops Impulse up like he weighs nothing - and he might, in all honesty; recovery hasn’t done him any favors - and carefully maneuvers him so he’s lying on his back instead of his side, and finally Impulse can see him in the dim light.
There are bags beneath Skizz’s eyes, but his eyes are awake and attentive, his brow furrowed in concentration as he focuses entirely on making Impulse as comfortable as possible.
Impulse hates crying, but there’s a lump in his throat he can’t force down.
“Can you-” he has to take a moment to breathe, just breathe, “Can you hold me?”
“Of course.” Skizz answers.
It takes a bit of time, but Skizz manages to weave an arm between Impulse and the pillows that are propped up to support him, meaning Skizz won’t lose circulation in his arm. Impulse leans as close to Skizz as he can without turning on his side again, and Skizz lays his other arm loosely over Impulse’s chest- loosely enough that Impulse could easily push him away.
Impulse gazes at Skizz in the low light, eyes fluttering, and knows he’d never need to.
Skizz leans close, close enough to kiss him. Impulse closes his eyes. Skizz kisses the corner of his mouth, knowing Impulse hates morning breath. The kiss is gentle, so gentle, leaving a spot of warmth against Impulse’s skin that burns brighter than every other spot where they touch.
Impulse’s eyes are too heavy to open again, but he feels Skizz shuffling next to him, burying his head between Impulse’s shoulder and the pillows to block out the light.
Impulse had never been afraid of the dark, growing up. He’d never experienced any of the classic childhood fears many others boasted. But it never got truly dark in the Sinclaire estate, and after ten years, after August… he hates not being able to see where he is, know where he is.
After August, the dark is terrifying .
Impulse knows Skizz struggles to sleep with the light encroaching, and he’s offered many a time to turn them off, to sleep in a separate room- anything to make it easier for Skizz.
But Skizz sees right through him. He always has.
And every time Impulse offers, Skizz asks him: Is that what you want.
And it isn’t.
Impulse spent ten years believing he would never see Skizz again, never have Skizz again. Ten years believing Skizz deserved better than him.
Ten years is a long time.
“I love you,” Skizz whispers, half-asleep already.
“I love you too.” Impulse whispers back.
He has what he wants, right by his side, and he’s never going to let go.