Takes place after: From the Ashes
If Julian had been stronger, he probably would have waited for Lysithea. He would have gone with her and Halle and Lisse to her world.
Instead, he hid. He slunk away to his Wonder, instinctively more than anything else.
He couldn’t go home like this.
But he needed to be somewhere safe. He needed somewhere to breathe, somewhere to calm down, somewhere to compose himself.
Somewhere to hide.
Dering was a good choice.
It was mostly empty, and he guessed–accurately–that it would still be dark. And then, there was the fog. He could hide in the fog.
When he arrived, a cold, dense mist had swallowed up his Wonder.
He couldn’t see anything. Dark clouds veiled stars and moonlight, completely concealing his view from the night sky. Fog rose up to his chest and clung to him like a wet blanket. He stumbled to a familiar tree, with big, rising roots. His hand followed the rise and dip until he found a cubby to hide in, and tucked himself as deeply as he could into the secret nook.
All at once, it was like his body had given out. He collapsed into the roots.
Meticulously, he'd drawn out a pen and paper. He was alone, so there were people who were going to worry about him. He didn't want them to; they had better things to occupy their time with. Julian offered a simple update--that he was on his Wonder , that he was fine, that he was going to rest.
And then, Julian cried for an hour. It wasn't all at once, but in slow, careful bursts so he could make sure he wasn't hurting himself in the process. It was almost clinical--too controlled. But it had to be that away. It couldn't be a cascade of emotions--couldn't be raw and unfiltered. Couldn't be real. He could allow it, in moderation.
It wasn't for the pain, even--just the stress. He was wound too tightly, like a rope stretched too taut, fraying, ready to snap. Like a bomb waiting to go off. He had to diffuse it.
His body wasn't strong enough for a quick release. If he tried, he'd just hurt himself worse. His head was pounding but he knew what a concussion felt like. His back ached--nothing broken, he could move. Just sore, bruised. His arm, too, but he could move it. His chest burned, so he knew his ribs were hurt. Not broken, just bruised, like the rest of him.
So, he had to be careful. But he knew how to do this.
Quietly, without any fanfare.
When Julian was crying, he didn't call it that. Didn't think of it like that, even. It was the same as sweating while you exercised--the body had to regulate temperature. So the tears from his eyes weren't about feeling pain or being sad, it was about regulating stress.
And, he was very stressed.
Wound up in a way he hadn't felt, not like this, in so long. He'd spent weeks, months, years, even, trying to convince his nervous system that it was okay. It didn't have to work so hard. It could relax. He could breathe.
But, it was stubborn, and even now it was like he could hear a voice in the back of his head telling him 'I told you so!'. Like it was all practice honed to skill for moments like this.
Julian wasn't mad. He wasn't anything, really. And that was okay, too. If he'd been more than that, this would have been so much harder.
He spent the time trying, and failing, to string together complete thoughts. When he finally accepted that he couldn't make sense of the half-sentences, flashing memories, and muddled reflections, he returned something more familiar: berating himself for all these hysterics. For being so embarrassing, so ridiculous, so disappointing.
So dramatic.
There was no one here to scold him for how childish he was being. No one to criticize how sensitive he was. No one to reprimand him for overreacting.
He did his best to make them proud in their absence, until he was numb to all of it.
At some point, the sky had split open. The rain on Lysithea felt warm against his chilly skin so he didn't mind how quickly it drenched him. In a way, it made it easier to lie to himself. To say the tracks down his face wasn't his own doing.
But of course, wetness continued to drip from Julian's eyes, and each tear took with it one more foul thought, until his head was empty again.
Then, he just felt stupid.
But no one had been here to see, so the only person who had to live with it was himself, and he could do that.
Crying didn't really make him feel better. His face hurt. His cheeks were puffy. His eyes were swollen.
And his body ached.
...But his time alone had served its purpose. He felt hollowed out. Tired, processed. Empty enough that he wasn't worried about overflowing. This didn't have to be anyone else's problem.
He was soaked through, and it was late. Slowly, reason began to return to him.
Cyril was here, somewhere. It was too early for him to have been here and waiting for their meeting, which was--
Oh, he'd ruined it. It was supposed to be tomorrow. But there was no way he could face him. He couldn't let Cyril see him like this. And if he went home now, he couldn't come back tomorrow. But, he couldn't stay up here, either.
For half an hour more, Julian sat in the rain, miserably waiting for the universe to make a decision for him.
Cyril did not come. The rain let up, but the mist had worsened. In his condition, there was no way he could go looking for him. Julian tried calling out, only once, but found he had no voice. He didn't try again. Grief and shame were heavy in his gut, and he knew he was giving up. He couldn't find himself to do anything but wish to disappear. Just for a few hours, just while he sorted himself out.
...But there were people who would worry about him. And he appreciated them.
He couldn't explain this to them. It would sound cruel, or unfair, and they didn't deserve that. They were kind to him.
So he had to go home, before he made more problems.
But that meant cleaning up the mess he'd already made, and it was harder now that his adrenaline faded and he was left with a body that wanted to stay curled up and small, like if he crumbled himself up into nothing, the pain would shrink along with it.
It took ten minutes of internal arguing for him to unfold himself, slowly. The rain had stopped, so he took out a few more sheets of paper. A few more letters, a few small updates. 'Heading home, will text when I get in' mostly. Cyril got more out of him:
'Cyril,
I'm really sorry but I have to cancel. Something came up. I hope you're not upset. I'll make it up to you. I'm so sorry.'
His vision was swimming. He couldn't really see, but he hadn't been able to since he got here.
Sending Cyril's letter was the last thing he did before he forced himself to Earth.
Where, it was also raining.
He powered down immediately. This rain was colder, icier. Like frigid little needles prickling at his skin.
Julian didn't really feel much of that, either. It was better than the alternative.
It gave him the strength he needed to drag himself home. To slip inside quietly.
It took twenty three hundred and eighty six steps to make it there. His hands trembled, frozen and unruly, while he tried to unlock the door. The key slid out of the slot twice, and he almost gave up. He'd rather freeze out here than knock, but then guilt flooded through him because if he did that someone would find him, and then--
The key slid into place. The right key, thankfully. He twisted it slowly, holding his breath as if his silence would inspire the lock to keep quiet, too.
Softly, the door opened.
Maxim was already there. Even before Julian stepped inside, the dog was pushing his nose into Julian's hand and trying to infuse excitement and joy into him, as if a loving greeting could push out everything wrong with Julian. For Maxim's efforts, Julian rewarded him with gentle affection, but he didn't want to contaminate Maxim, so he kept it to a minimum. He wanted to offer more--especially when Maxim was looking up at him with sad eyes.
Julian told himself he'd make up for it after he got a shower. Besides, he didn't like how exposed he felt in the living room.
It was too warm here, and the icy shell he'd found comfort in began to thaw, too quickly. Julian didn't have much time. Maxim followed him around the house, drawing too much attention to him, so Julian had to push his body to hurry.
Even if the tears had long since dried up, his face was still hot. Even the winter rain hadn't been able to cool the humiliation burning within him. He kept his head down, for vanity or pride or self-preservation, but it did nothing to ease the throbbing in his head. He'd ignored it for as long as he could, but without the chill to distract him, he was keenly aware of how dizzy he felt.
He might throw up. Might pass out.
But not here.
Julian slunk through the house. In the safety of the bathroom, where he worked up the nerve to silently close and lock the door, he texted his friends that he was home. Steady reports kept him accountable. He hoped the updates were less annoying than silence would have been.
With that task completed, he moved to the next one. Avoiding the mirror entirely, as he usually did, and provided care to his body. His performance was meticulous. He looked only when, and where, he had to, taking stock of bruises like inventory.
Nothing seemed broken. Nothing was bleeding profusely. The bruises were no more than he expected. Red, yellow, green, purple, black. He pressed a thumb into them, one by one, just to test, and thought an apology each time. They all hurt. Nothing as bad as his ribs, though.
He could live with this.
A soft exhale escaped, despite himself.
This wasn't even so bad.
