Goro: Something to Hold

Locks, and poisoned needle traps. A slip of paper tucked against the doorjamb—watch it flutter to the floor when you open the door, or else security's been breached. Bells against the windows.

Magical alarms. He'd been meaning to buy some. He'd been meaning to see if someone could make him a spell that would hide the windows from the outside. The castle had bedrooms with no windows but he'd wanted some fucking daylight. A place to hang those stained glass ornaments he'd picked up at a market months ago and never been able to use while living below decks on the Sugar Glider.

He regretted the windows now, though. Glass or no glass, they made gaping holes to the darkness and cold; a point of exposure. Anything out there could *see him*. He crawled underneath his desk and sat with his back against the wall, knees against his chest, eyes on the windows.

Tense. So tense he shivered violently, convulsing every few moments, teeth chattering. This had happened to him before and he knew it would pass. Knew better than to check his own pulse and scare himself worse over how hard and fast it was. His nailbeds were turning blue. Fascinating to watch. *Amari, I think I'm dying. Goro, you're not dying; you're panicking.*

He'd lost a lot of blood. Hardly enough left to fill his veins now, probably. He pictured them collapsing, his organs shutting down, his extremities turning cold and black with rot. *Oh yeah, it wasn't the fight with Hansel that got him, it was him panicking after.*

His skull was all back in one piece now, thanks to Luci. But he remembered. He'd felt his nose breaking, cheekbone shattering. His clothes melting against his skin, his heart skipping erratically from the lightning, barely managing to find its rhythm again. But it did, and he liked to think that was the one thing he'd had control over, somehow: he'd refused to die. He was not going to let that be the thing that killed him. He was not going to let Hansel down that way.

*You were right. I didn't have a choice.* Of course he was fucking right. Goro was never wrong about these things. Call it that gut feeling again. The hands that held him and treasured him, cradled the back of his neck and curled in his hair, could not be the same hands that battered and crushed him, unless some other force were co-opting them.

He'd underestimated, though, just how much it would scare him when it happened.

He thought he'd be able to do more against it.

A whimper built in his throat. No tears, just dry crying. A mewling, sick kitten. He needed something to hold so he reached inside his robe and pulled out the Leech, bringing it up to grip tight with both hands. His most precious possession. But it was breaking. The crack along the side was cutting into his palms. Everyone else hated it, wondered why he still kept it. They talked about it like it was diseased; an unwanted leper, not the tool that had saved Joan's and Mishka's lives. Did people forget that? Did they take it for granted that Joan and Mishka were still here, walking and talking, because of this glorious fucking wand?

*Mishka.* Mishka.

*It freaks me out. Knowing you’d—turn that fast.*

Yeah. Yeah, he had nothing to say to that. He freaked himself out sometimes, too. He thought of telling Mishka: I grew up wielding a knife. I *am* the knife; I have a blunt edge and a sharp edge. The sharp edge is never going to go away, and you have such tender skin.

(Some fuckin' pirate.)

That was the kind of thing Goro was supposed to stop doing, though. Apologizing for who he was, for things he couldn't change. He was supposed to be doing better.

His sharp edge was never going away, and Mishka had tender skin, but if Goro tried harder not to cut him—

Fucking—no. He was supposed to stop doing that, too. Supposed to stop feeling soft things for Mishka.

He could be mad instead. It was easy. Goro was mad all the time, just had to find something to aim it at.

*I almost had to kill someone I loved today*, Mishka had said, like that made him special. Like that wasn't true for fucking all of them. Like Goro hadn't beat him to it—he'd done it twice already, killing people he loved when some abomination had taken over their bodies.

The Leech, though. It made everything better. Darling little thing. Maybe Mishka needed a Leech of his own; maybe that'd make him feel better. Or maybe he'd just be like Goro, weak and sickly, curled up under his desk, cradling the thing, whispering sweet nothings to it as it was on its last legs. *At least I've still got you. You'll work for me one last time if I need it, right?*

*You've been so good. I owe you now, don't I? A fifty-fifty shot, everyone says, but look at me, I weasled out of it twice in a row.*

*But you know what they say. Third time's a charm.*