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Chapter 8: venom like a snake, running down my mouth

Chapter 8: venom like a snake, running down my mouth

Ranboo shuffles out of the bedroom. He closes the door behind him, slowly, with a click - catching final glimpses of Tommy, in his bed and Tubbo, still curled up on the mattress.

Then he's alone, standing in the hallway. But it's not quiet, nor is it empty.

Sunlight, the dim morning kind, streams through the windows. Ranboo yawns softly, ruffling his wings.

He lifts a hand to his face. The skin is raw. He doesn't need to see it. He doesn't want to.

His footsteps are feather-light, and soft. He moves through the hall, and finds himself standing before a certain bedroom door. One hand raised a hair-breadth away from its surface - he hesitates.

He breathes in.

Knock, knock.

There's silence, at first. Then the thuds of footsteps. The bedroom door swings open.

"...Ranboo?" Phil mumbles. He rubs at weary, sleepy eyes. His wings ruffle, their dark feathers fanning and stretching. "What's-"

Then Phil sees him, truly. And he falls silent.

Ranboo gnaws molars together. His arms wrap around himself, a steely gesture of self-comfort. "...do you have," he clears his throat. "Something..."

"...for those?" Phil raises an eyebrow. His eyes are as gentle as the morning light, and he doesn't ask. "Sure, mate. Probably don't want them to scar, yeah?"

Ranboo ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. "...yeah."

Phil turns away, to walk back inside his room. "You wanna come in?" He glances back. "I can help you put the cream on, if you need it."

The offer is tempting, but-

Ranboo shakes his head. "I'm...good," he says. "I can manage."

And Phil does not push it. He merely shrugs, and nods. "Suit yourself." The man rustles through shelves, standing up on his tiptoes to reach the very top. "Hold on- Almost got it."

With a grunt, satisfied, Phil steps away from the shelf. He holds a small tin in his hands, with carefully written inscriptions on the side. In a smooth motion, he offers it forward.

"Here," says Phil - ever kind, ever warm, and ever so slightly sleepy.

The metal is cool against his fingers. Ranboo takes it gingerly, not wanting to agitate the burns on his hands.

His breath feels caught, in his lungs. His wings ruffle. "Thank you...Phil." He swallows, his eyes flickering between the man and the floor. "For...everything."

And Phil's eyes soften, impossibly more than they already have. He reaches forward, gently ruffling the top of Ranboo's hair.

"It's no problem, mate," Phil says - he promises, and Ranboo believes him. "We're here."

Ranboo shuffles halfway down the steps. He stops at the middle landing, where it's cool and shadowed and hidden.

Then, he slowly uncaps the tin. It pops softly. Still mostly filled with cream, still only barely used.

Idly, he wonders how quickly he can use it up.

He shakes himself.

Ranboo leans against the walls, sliding down to curl his knees up to his chest. He's only done this himself a handful of times - those lucky moments where he gathers himself faster than the Council can find out he's cried.