Chapter Text
Sly feels a bit clingy after Mizuki is discharged, a bit unwilling to leave his side. Luckily, Mizuki doesn’t mind one bit, he is still recovering from his wound infection and is pretty worn out for most of the time so they do lots of not doing much at all. Sly stays over almost every night and only goes to his Granny’s when she is off work.
Sly likes it, having a home. Having two homes.
He feels so comfortable at Mizuki’s, pottering around or watching TV or fixing them lunch, playing with Amaya or sitting on the balcony and watching the leaves turn orange and brown around them. Sly can see them there forever, the grey he’s imagined around Mizuki’s temples spreading, his wrinkles growing deeper, his skin getting thin and marked with age spots. Sometimes he looks at Mizuki and he aches, thinking about it, about them, lasting forever, being a thing that stays.
For the first time, he has something he wants to hold onto, for the first time, it is not a struggle to keep something he wants. For the first time, he doesn’t have to fight.
It's nice.
He likes bedtimes the most. Mizuki isn’t great at doing nothing so he usually settles himself in bed with his tablet and sketches designs for when he can tattoo again, or just sketches because he wants to. Sly is slowly reading through an anthology of short horror stories that Noiz bought him, using his coil every time he needs help with what a word means. It’s slow, the reading, but he likes it, likes learning a word then coming across it again and knowing what it means. He’s never really had free time to learn before, living had been such an effort there was no free time. Now living is easy and he has nothing but free time.
They settle down early, about ten or eleven and as soon as the light goes off Amaya jumps onto the bed and settles down by their feet, a warm lump between them to spend the night.
Some nights Sly lies awake long after Mizuki has fallen asleep, listening to the sound of him breathing, the gentle snores Amaya makes when she is really comfortable, thinks he must have done something right to deserve all this. He wishes his brother could see him so content, so happy.
Wishes he could see him at all.
He’s less painful now, most things are, softened, as if the way he treats himself has changed the memories. He doesn’t think it is his fault now, that his brother died, he doesn’t blame himself, he doesn’t beat himself up for it. Even if he did affect his health with a window left open or a cigarette smoked near him, he didn’t mean to, it was not malicious. Most things from the past don’t hurt so much. His parents leaving was not his fault, or his Granny's, or anyone. It’s barely even his parents fault. It was mostly Toue’s, for making the island somewhere inescapable, for making it a prison.
His feelings for Toue are uncertain, he is a bad man, he is sure of that, but with no understanding of his plan, his intentions, he finds it hard to judge him.
He hopes that when they eventually come face to face, he gets some answers.
Another night after a day spent together and today they have bickered most of the day, grating on each other with too much time spent in the other's company. Today they are irritated at each other for breathing, for asking stupid questions, for moving when the other was comfortable.
They get ready for bed in silence, Sly feels irked with Mizuki over his shoulder all the time and the plan for oval Tower on hold and his reduced antidepressant dose starting to impact him now he is down from the highest dose to the lowest. He doesn’t feel depressed, at least not yet, but he feels irritable, grouchy. Liable to snap.
He gets into bed but he’s not in the mood to read so he grabs the battered PSP Noiz had once gifted him and loads up a game, feels faintly better killing enemies and following along with the plot. Mizuki seems faintly irked by the noises but doesn’t voice it, bent over his tablet with his stylus, focused on whatever he is drawing. Mizuki normally tires first, but tonight he draws for a long time so Sly just keeps playing his game and ignores time passing.
He’s in the middle of a boss battle when Mizuki nudges him and for a moment he feels a flash of fury when he immediately dies to an attack he could have ducked if he hadn’t been distracted, looks up ready to be angry but-
“What do you think?”
MIzuki’s face, earnest and nervous and soft, apologetic. He offers over the tablet and Sly, immediately soothed into forgiveness by his expression, lets his PSP fall to the covers and takes it, stunned by what he sees.
It's a drawing of him, sat on Mizuki's couch.
People aren’t Mizuki’s thing, so it’s not perfect but it’s pretty fucking good. Sly stares at himself on the screen, he stares back, yellow gold eyes, eyebrows furrowed and his lips pouting. He recognises the look even though he’s never seen himself do it. It’s the look he gives Mizuki when he’s said something he doesn’t like very much, a sort of faintly annoyed frown. It’s a childish expression, a kid whose mother has said they can’t have any sweets until after dinner.
Sly studies it for a long while, the light on his hair, the curve of his nose and the crinkle of his forehead.
He doesn’t know what to say, looks to Mizuki who looks softly amused. Sly realises that he’s replicating the image on the screen, he is mildly perturbed, quickly changes his face to something else and hears Mizuki softly huff at him.
“Like it?”
Sly doesn’t know what to say, he wants to reach out and touch the screen but he knows better, he just nods wordlessly and Mizuki’s face softens, relaxes, “there’s another one, too, if you swipe left.”
Sly feels his face change again.
Mizuki has drawn him not once, but twice. Has spent time mapping out the contours of his face, his eyes, his hair, the curve of his jaw and the lines of his ears.
He swipes.
He laughs.
It’s him and Amaya, her proportions slightly off, slightly weird. They’re nose to nose, staring at each other as if having a battle to see who blinks first. His side profile isn’t quite right, Mizuki obviously struggled more with this one, with this pose.
“Cats are hard, no matter what I did, her face just never looked right, too squashed or too long.”
“It’s good,” he manages, then, “and here I thought you were mad at me.”
Mizuki snorts, swipes out of the gallery so Sly can see his various drafts, a few look like they might be him, some look like they’re meant to be Amaya, there is even one that might be Noiz. “Don’t get me wrong, you’ve been pissing me off all day, but I finally finished it, so, thought I’d show you.”
“You’ve been working on it a while.”
Mizuki smiles, “fucking weeks, I couldn’t get the colour of your eyes right, or your hair, or your anything. I still don’t think your eyes are right, they’re not- I don’t know, they’re just not, quite right.”
Sly sort of drowns out everything after the word weeks, it rattles around in his head. Mizuki sat in bed both with him and without him, working on this, hour after hour, changing and editing and perfecting, trying to get it right, trying to make it good. Mizuki putting in hours of time to try and recreate him perfectly.
It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him.
“You like them?” Mizuki asks again, earnest and nervous. Sly wonders if he was worried about showing him, if he was worried Sly might think it was weird, if he thought he might not like them.
Sly doesn’t know what to say, feels something inside well up, hot and burning, like the feeling when you’re going to cry but not quite that, not a feeling of sadness but of overwhelming, desperate, glorious happiness.
He opens his mouth to say something but he just laughs instead, a bubbling burst, the feeling of pure joy. Mizuki laughs back, surprised, loses that nervous look in his eyes, startles as Sly reaches for him and puts his hands on his face, kisses him, smiling against his mouth. It’s messy, chaotic, Sly pushes his hand into his hair, scratches against his stubble, drapes his arms over his shoulders and splays his fingers out across the nape of his neck, climbs into his lap.
“I love them,” he says, presses his forehead to Mizuki’s, kisses him again, pleased when Mizuki smiles in return, against his lips, his cheek. Mizuki murmurs something, Sly doesn’t hear him, Mizuki's hands are on his back, curling around his hip, the gap of his waist, his mouth is on his forehead, his jaw, his closed eyes. “I love them,” then, bubbling up and up and out so fast he can’t stop it-
“I love y-”
The moment stills, freezes. Sly freezes, still, with Mizuki’s mouth on his hairline and his arms around him and his legs under him and Sly’s hands on his neck, feeling his fluttering pulse.
There is a moment of panic, brief but terrifying, then Mizuki slides his hands up his back and nudges their noses together and speaks against his lips and it’s so intimate Sly thinks he could drown in it.
“You love me?”
Sly feels out of breath, it’s the closest he’s gotten so far and he feels petrified, teetering on the edge of a precipice with only Mizuki keeping him from falling. That would have been too much for him once, too overwhelming. Now he trusts that Mizuki wouldn’t let him fall. Now he knows Mizuki would fall instead if he had to. He would do anything for him, so he swallows with closed eyes and murmurs, “yeah. I think I do.”
“You think?” Mizuki’s backed off a little bit so he can watch him, as if he needs to see him to tell if he is lying, he still looks tender, the moment still feels unbearably intimate.
Sly hesitates then hates himself for it, he knows what the truth is and he has for a while, “I know.” He feels out of breath, as if saying just that had been exhausting, had been a huge effort when more had almost spilled free so easily, his voice is breathy when he speaks, low and careful. “I do.”
Mizuki hums against the curve where jaw meets neck, kisses him there, soft and wet and open mouthed, asks, against his throat, “do you mean it?”
There’s only one answer, so Sly inhales a shaky breath and whispers, “yes.”
Mizuki's breath falters across his skin, warm and shaky, “I never thought you'd say it.”
He keeps kissing his neck, it all feels very intense, Mizuki's mouth on him, the faint scrape of his teeth, the drag of his stubble.
“I didn’t,” he hums faintly when Mizuki works a hand into his shirt, running his fingertips up his spine then back down, slowly.
“Close enough.” He is faintly amused, Sly's eyes are closed, have been since he first kissed him, but they snap open when Mizuki pushes him back and down onto the mattress. “You gunna say it properly some day?”
Sly feels about a million times more vulnerable with Mizuki's stare on him, licks his lips nervously and watches Mizuki track the movement. There's something wild in his eyes, something wanting.
“Probably.”
His eyes narrow very slightly, he shifts his weight, caging him in place with his arms and his hips, hums again, as if considering his words. “Probably?”
Sly wonders if he should be worried Mizuki doubts him, but somehow he isn't, Mizuki isn't asking out of lack of faith. “Yeah.”
Mizuki has dropped down closer, lying on top of him and for the first time Sly realises he is hard, he feels it, pressed against his thigh.
He's pretty sure somebody almost telling you they love you isn't meant to make you horny, but here they both are. Sly feels worked up, excited and nervous and eager, he doesn't think that's normal either.
“Will you say it now?”
Sly does retreat then, he'd barely managed to keep it in the first time, to actually say it outright will feel too intentional, too real even as he knows it's already too late for that. Mizuki knows, there’s not much to gain by not saying it. He opens his mouth and just exhales nervously, inclines his head a bit, suddenly shy.
Mizuki ducks his head down, kisses him very, very softly, murmurs, “please,” in a voice so weak and shaky that he feels like he can't refuse him.
“Feels like the wrong time. It always does.”
”Will you tell me, when the right time comes?”
”Yeah,” he answers quickly, he has no idea what the right time will be, has an idea he’ll just somehow know, will be able to tell that this is it, the perfect moment he’s been waiting for.
Mizuki smiles, kisses him again, slow and dragging, Sly feels himself unfurl, unfold from his own anxieties with Mizuki’s mouth on him, with his hands gentle and his body a soothing weight atop his.
“I love you,” Mizuki says it against his mouth, the words honeyed, sweet and rich and tempting. Sly wants to say it, he does.
Still feels like the wrong time.
So he kisses him instead, wraps a leg around him and pulls him down closer, feels the pressure of weight atop him, the drag of fabric against skin, worms his hands into Mizuki’s shirt and scratches faintly at his sides.
Mizuki keeps his head lowered when they part, speaks almost urgently, “are you, I mean, have you, has it worked?”
He’s talking about his pills which is funny because Sly hasn’t even told him yet, he worked it out for himself, read the label when handing the meds over one morning. Sly had clocked the moment, his eyes on the dose, a faint squinting then realisation and he’d stood up when he could have just reached across the table, had put the meds by his breakfast and leaned down to kiss him.
It is a sacrifice Sly has made for both of them and he is grateful for it.
“I'm not sure, I haven't really tried it yet.”
“Do you want to?” Mizuki asks about an inch from his face, every breath washes over his skin and Sly feels set alight. He's said he’s not sure but it feels like it has worked, he feels different, even Mizuki asking amps up the feeling of something.
It’s working, he thinks, he’s just not sure yet how well.
“Yeah. I, uh, didn't want to try by myself.” Sort of a lie, he’d made an attempt early on, a hand around himself early in the morning, the surprise at finding himself hard in his sleep pants. But the feeling had gone and he’d managed a couple of strokes before he’d gone soft again and had given up. He hasn’t really tried since, he didn’t see the point if he wasn’t going to get anywhere. Problem is, not trying means he doesn’t know if he even could get anywhere.
“Were you waiting for me?”
Sly swallows, it feels more embarrassing admitting to this than it had almost saying he loves him, but he smiles faintly, manages, “yeah,” and feels his skin heat when Mizuki groans, low against his neck. He feels the hairs standing on edge, the vibration of it trailing up and trickling into his ear.
He hopes the tablets are working, or the lack of them, he hopes he didn’t wait for Mizuki only for this to end in disaster.
Mizuki doesn’t have the same anxieties, sucks a mark into his neck and moves back up again, kisses him, starts working on peeling his shirt off, seems to touch every inch of his torso as he worms it up and over his head, throwing it away the minute it is off. Sly feels like he can’t breathe, they’ve had sex a lot, have messed around a lot, but this time it feels different, he doesn’t know if it’s because it’s been so long or if it’s because the feelings are different.
It all feels very intense.
Mizuki pulls his own shirt off, sits up atop Sly’s thighs, he doesn’t do it slowly but Sly likes watching it regardless. He feels like every time he sees Mizuki his body has changed a little, when they’d first met he’d been ripped, all muscle and strength, he’s still strong now, still muscular, but there is softness too, he has squishy bits, the start of love handles. Sly knows he is conscious of his build, how he’s changed now he’s less committed to his diet and exercise, now he isn’t in the gym every day. He says Sly is making him fat but it is never really meant, besides, Sly likes him like this too. Time changes them both equally, it’s odd, having a visual reminder of how they’ve grown together.
Sly pokes at his tummy, feels the muscles of his abs, smiles, “chubby.”
Mizuki scoffs, bats his fingers away and pokes him back, pinches at the side of his hip bone, “oh, I’m the chubby one?”
Sly laughs, uses his moment of indignation to try to flip them.
Fails.
They end up on their sides, which wasn’t what he was going for but he supposes it is good enough, Mizuki snorts, starts saying something that sounds faintly mocking but stops very quickly when Sly presses his knee into his groin. Hitches in a breath and gets grabby, needy, digging his fingers into the meat of Sly's hip, his ass, his nails tearing and dragging down his skin.
Sly’s hard, he knows he is for sure when Mizuki hooks a leg up over his side, pulls them closer, all tangled together, a mess of limbs and too many clothes and heavy breathing. Mizuki murmurs something that might just be Sly's name, it's not clear, his mouth trails across his face, his hands get to his boxers and artlessly pull them down, exposing him to the air.
He feels tightly wound, over stimulated, overwhelmed with Mizuki's hands, hot and dragging and searing across his flesh, his mouth eager and desperate, wanting. He holds onto his hip, his thumb pressed into the gentle dip where skin stretches tight over bone, finds his mouth with his eyes closed, kisses him hard then soft, trailing his hand up his side then back down.
“You okay?” He asks, and just like that things slow down, they get tender, Mizuki cradles him in his arms, his touch is soft, his eyes warm and molten and fond.
Sly nods, looks at him, thinks this is a gaze he will happily stay in, keeps his voice soft, intimate, “yeah. But,” Mizuki's expression changes a fraction, like he thinks he's changed his mind again. “You still have pants on.”
Mizuki laughs, relieved and amused, lets go of Sly for just a moment so he can wriggle out of his sleep pants. They both take a minute just to look, they've not been naked together since Sly came back, everything they've managed to do since has been quick and desperate and there hadn't been much point in Sly taking his clothes off if he couldn't partake.
“You're beautiful,” Mizuki looks besotted, Sly suddenly wonders if this is the right time, with Mizuki looking at him like he's the best thing he's ever seen. It isn’t so he just smiles, feels shy suddenly, like he wants to lower his head and avert his face and hide. “Not just when you're naked,” he adds, “all the time.”
Sly laughs, puts his hand on Mizuki's face and kisses the corner of his mouth, pushes his other hand into his hair and murmurs, “stop talking.”
Mizuki does what he asks, smiles against his mouth and pulls him closer, wrapped up around him, groans when Sly reaches for him, hopes he's not making a mistake by not prioritising himself. He'll be a bit disappointed if he's gone soft by the time Mizuki has gotten off.
Mizuki seems to get what he's doing, doesn't reach to return the favour until his hands are shaking and he's murmuring Sly's name like a blessing, until he's on the verge of cracking open.
Then he reaches for him, pulls him in and kisses him, open mouthed and wet, artless, all teeth and tongue.
Sly knows the second Mizuki puts his hand on him that he's not going to last, that this is going to be over embarrassingly fast, but he also doesn't care because things are working. He is hard and has stayed that way throughout, isn't flagging with a fist wrapped around him.
It's sensational, the friction of his hand up and down, the pressure of his palm, the drag of his thumb across the sensitive tip. Sly whines and Mizuki swallows the sound.
Despite the fact that Sly's only just been touched, he finishes first, his hands claw and grab and squeeze and he comes with Mizuki's mouth on his throat, his hand between his legs, his name spilling over his lips, his back arched.
From start to finish it was very fast, maybe a couple of minutes, it's far from his best showing but he's thrilled that it's worked at all, that he's had his first orgasm in fucking months. He's even more thrilled that it's with Mizuki, who laughs faintly and says, "I mean I knew I was good, but damn."
Sly laughs too, breathless and boneless, still feeling the aftershocks, the wave of endorphins, his hand is on Mizuki but it's not moving. He doesn't seem to mind, scrapes his teeth against the hinge of his jaw, shifts his clean hand into his hair, pulls gently.
“You’re not that good,” Sly opines without feeling, manages to flip them as Mizuki objects through laughter that quickly stops when he heads south so he can put his mouth on him, so he can get Mizuki to the same place he’s just been in.
The message comes through from Noiz the next morning, he has the stuff. He sends it in his stupid code again but this time it doesn’t take Sly or Mizuki long to work out what he actually means by, ‘darts later? See if we can get a bullseye.’
The problem, Mizuki thinks as he sits on Koujaku’s couch reviewing the selection of hand guns, is that this isn’t darts, there will be no board, no scoring, no laughing with a drink. This time the bullseye will be a living, breathing, moving target. He is not looking forward to it.
Noiz is serious and solemn as he demonstrates the weapons, how to load them, how to fix them if they jam, the location of the safety and how to switch it off when they need to. He goes through recoil and correct stance and how to aim accurately.
Without the ability to actually shoot any of them ahead of time, there isn’t much they can get from Noiz’s detailed explanations, Mizuki understands that when he shoots the gun will jerk back but he has no idea how far or how strong. Noiz says how to fix a jam but Mizuki can’t see himself acting calmly if that happens; if they are under attack he doubts he will accurately remember and be able to do what he is being shown.
Sly is quiet, Koujkau potters in the kitchen absently, occasionally peeking through the door when he thinks none of them can see him, looking anxious and on edge. He continues to potter about even when the guns are away and their vague plans are finalised and they settle back to relax with food and alcohol.
Mizuki watches him, sees him get tenser and tenser, sees his anxieties grow as he fidgets and tidies and starts doing something with the bin in the kitchen that seems to take entirely too long. He can tell, when he comes back, that he’s reached his breaking point.
“When are you going?”
Noiz looks back at him, Koujaku is leaning against the door to the kitchen and though his posture seems relaxed, he really isn’t. Noiz’s voice is even when he speaks, his face emotionless and calm, “tomorrow.”
Something in Koujaku’s jaw twitches, “you’ll need an early night then.”
Sly glances between them and over to Mizuki who seems on edge even as he answers when it wasn’t really his turn, “yeah, you’re right,” he dispels the tension, “we better get going, It’s gunna be a busy day. You and Beni-Shigure still on?”
”Yep,” he nods shortly, gathers up their glasses and smiles very thinly at them as they awkwardly stand and start grabbing jackets. “We’ll be there, like we planned.”
”Thanks,” Mizuki smiles and this time everything feels less forced, steps forwards and wraps Koujaku up very loosely, very casually. They’re murmuring something to each other, and Koujaku’s expression is very scared, very tender when he moves back.
”Thank you.”
Mizuki nods at him, waves Noiz a brief goodbye and heads out alone, down the stairs past the shop and into the streets below. Sly lags behind, wonders which window he’ll need to scramble out of to get away unseen, awkwardly looks between Noiz and Koujkau and makes the choice pretty easily when he sees the fury in Koujaku’s face, the resignment in Noiz’s. He mumbles something vague and heads out, up onto the kitchen counter and through the window onto the gently sloping roof below. He wants to leave them to it, but curiosity burns through him and he stays where he is, if he angles himself just right he can sort of see them and he can definitely hear them.
There’s a noise, fingers on slippery fabric, the sound of footsteps faltering and dragging, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’ll come back.”
”Will you?” It’s not a question, it’s a doubt given voice, a worry, a fear.
“Of course I will,” Sly has never heard Noiz’s voice so gentle before, they’ve shifted now, he can make out their feet, close together on tatami. He hears it, when Noiz kisses him, “I promise.”
Koujaku scoffs, their feet part and do not come back together again, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
There is silence, Sly wills Noiz to say something, to do something to reassure him.
He doesn’t, there are his feet again, stood motionless, stupid and unsure.
Then leaving, walking away.
The door closing.
Something on the other side, smashing.
Sly thinks it’s time to go, slides off the roof and dangles a few feet above the ground, trusts his body to make the landing and feels the force in his knees as he hits solid earth. He looks up at Koujkau’s apartment once more, then turns and heads for home.
“What was that about?” Sly asks once they’re both home, they’d walked different routes and while Mizuki had used the front door, Sly had scrambled up the drainpipe to enter through the gym. They still can’t be seen together but Sly is used to it now, sees it as a mild inconvenience more than anything else. “You and Koujaku.”
Mizuki shrugs, stretches out his neck, “nothing, told him I’d look after Noiz for him, that’s all.”
Sly frowns, worried, takes off his jacket and kicks his shoes into a pile by the door, ”You can’t look after all of us.”
He inclines his head because Sly is right, Mizuki will only get himself hurt if he’s worrying about everyone else, he smiles though and offers his arms out to Sly, seems faintly amused when he takes a second to consider it before he heads over and lets himself be folded up. Sly feels anxious when Mizuki presses his nose into his hair, when he inhales then exhales right back into him, like he’s trying to remember the way he smells, when he whispers, soft. “I can try.”
“Who’s gunna look after you?”
It’s a stupid question, Mizuki laughs faintly, squeezes him tighter, “don’t ask questions you know the answer to.”
Sly doesn’t sleep well, he has another dream. He’s attached to a cold steel chair with leather straps at his arms and ankles, the room is whitewashed and clinical, like he’s in an operating theatre. There’s a large stretch of black in front of him, he can see his reflection in it as he sits struggling to free himself, as he hunches double to bite the buckle, to worm at it with his mouth until one arm is free, then the second.
He’s working on his ankles when he hears it, a sudden electronic hum and his head snaps up. The black stretch is illuminated. It’s a window into another room.
There are two men in there, they’re in all white head to toe, there are protective booties over their shoes and masks over their faces and caps on their heads but somehow he knows they are Virus and Trip. Virus sits in a chair to the side, looking casual.
Trip stands in front of a huge metal frame and Sly forgets all about freeing his ankle.
Mizuki is strapped to it, like they’re crucifying him, his neck is bloody from fighting to get free, it trickles off his hands and down his feet onto the gleaming white floor.
Sly sits there frozen as Trip steps forwards, a glittering metal tray beside him, he watches as he slowly drags his hand above the tools before selecting the one he desires.
A scalpel, small, shining.
Sly watches it glistening in his hand, as he adjusts his grip and it catches the lighting, shining like a beacon.
He is momentarily entranced, focused on the way the metal gleams.
It’s beautiful.
Until it cuts into Mizuki’s skin.
Until he starts screaming.
Time passes strangely, Mizuki keeps screaming and screaming but Sly is free now and up and hammering on the glass that separates them, he’s screaming himself hoarse, begging and pleading and cursing all in equal measure.
Sly is on the ground, slumped over exhausted, his hands are bruised and bleeding, his breathing is ragged and it takes him a moment to realise that Mizuki has stopped screaming, that all is silent.
He thinks it is over, something has happened. Mizuki has gotten free and killed them and he’s about to burst through the door opposite and grab him and whirl him to safety.
He stands, slow.
Realises how wrong he is.
Mizuki isn’t going anywhere.
Mizuki doesn’t have any fucking skin.
A scream rises unbidden and despite how wide his mouth is stretched, how hard he is yelling, everything is eerily, scarily quiet. Mizuki’s blood drips silently and Sly screams and screams and Mizuki doesn’t move.
He can’t move.
He won’t move ever again.
Sly wakes up gasping for air, he feels choked by the sheets, trapped by them like he was trapped behind the glass. Staggers out of bed soaking with sweat and when his hands touch the cold porcelain of the toilet he throws up acid and bile.
He’s hysterical by the time Mizuki gets to him, by the time he’s wrapped him up in a cage of legs, he’s sobbing and wailing and choking and screaming into the empty void of the bathroom. His mind is full of Mizuki, flayed, red raw and hurting and unmoving, his head slumped forwards.
His head is full of Mizuki.
Dead.
It takes him a very long time to calm down.
Every time he feels like he’s soothed he sees a flash of red, a pile of discarded skin and he’s retching and crying and shaking all over again.
Mizuki doesn’t say anything, he just sits quietly with him and holds him and strokes his hair and pulls him back gently when he tries to break free, when he throws up onto the tiles.
He just holds him.
When he eventually does calm down and manage to stay that way he fetches a warm, damp cloth and wipes his eyes and his mouth clean. Sly feels hollowed out, empty. He knows it was just a dream but it was so vivid, so real and so horrible.
“I got you,” Mizuki murmurs, he’s got his hand on Sly’s ankle as he rinses the cloth out and returns with it, wipes tears from his cheeks and bile from his arms. “I got you.”
They go back to bed, Mizuki wound around him, one of his hands tracing up and down his back, Sly closes his eyes, thinks again of Mizuki dangling there, just a pile of flesh and muscle and sinew. He still feels sick.
“I-” He manages, Mizuki hums in return but he doesn’t stop rubbing his back, “I wanna tell you. In case we don’t make it back.”
Mizuki sighs softly, presses his dry mouth to Sly’s forehead, tacky with dried sweat, “it’s not the right time.”
”But what if-”
”We’re going to make it back. You can tell me then. When it’s the right time.”
Sly wants to argue but he is exhausted, scared and anxious and worried, so he softens into Mizuki arms and murmurs, “okay.” Is asleep before he even realises it, doesn’t hear it when Mizuki whispers into the quiet room, doesn’t see the way his jaw hardens in resolve or feel the way his hands tighten on his body.
“You’re going to live. No matter what. I’m going to make sure you can be free.”