Oneshots and Other Things

Fire ~ Part 3

A harsh, dissonant clatter explodes across Stephen's sub-conscious, shaking him out of a haze of confusion. His eyes feel sewn shut, pulled closed by a force he has no hope of fighting against. He can move his hand though, lifting it slowly despite the dull protest of his muscles and gripping the top of his head with a tight breath.

"Fuck," he mumbles, too caught up by the array of aches and pains to even consider what might have caused them. The one time he had an operation, he came around feeling a little like this but the medication did a far better job of numbing his senses. Without it, he rules out the possibility that he's ended up in hospital but only gets a few seconds into contemplating other reasons behind the pain when it demands his attention more forcefully.

He squeezes his eyelids together tightly at the stabbing sensation running through his head, feeling something wet on the side of his face seeming to pulse in time with the peaks and troughs of his own discomfort. His hand moves in that direction, fingers darting away when the contact makes it worse. He can feel them coming away damp, brushing his thumb over the pads of his other fingers and grimacing at the stickiness of whatever he has just touched. The expression is too extreme and pulls at his skin harshly. He groans and takes a steadying breath, cracking one eye open a millimetre and blinking as his vision fights not to white-out.

Whatever is above him, wherever he is, spins incoherently and shakes at the edges. It's easier not to look and he goes back to relying on his other senses, trying to steel himself with a deep breath and then freezing when the acrid smell of smoke chases up his nose. It hits the back of his throat, scalding him and provoking a dry cough. He tries to stay still but his muscles tense automatically, sending a flare down to his ribs. It erupts as he coughs again, the pain not even dying down when he clamps both hands over his shirt, trying pointlessly to claw out the source of the agony.

"Fuck," he breaths again once the smoke becomes a little more tolerable. He restricts himself to short breaths, exhaling as soon as the bitter scent registers and repeating the process. On the fifth breath, he opens his eyes again, resolving to make some progress. He holds his hand in front of his face, fingers loosely curled over so he can see his nails. When he manages to focus, he's unsurprised by the red that stains them, proving his blind diagnosis was correct. The cut or scrape down his face, whatever it is, throbs again in solidarity.

"Come on," he mumbles, clamping his hands back over his left side and gingerly trying to push himself upright. He doesn't get far without losing his breath to the pain but can see enough of his surroundings to move more urgently despite it. He forces himself to register that it's the studio – that the studio is unusually deserted. There is a section of metal pole a short distance away, part of it almost looking rusty, coated in something. He lifts one hand back to his face and glances over at the pole again, fairly sure he's found a suspect and that the rust is in fact his own blood.

The question of where the pole fell from flies in and out of his focus in a second. It isn't important when he can also see fire. Some of the props around him seem more flammable than others, rapidly becoming blackened and unrecognisable. A shower of sparks falls from the ceiling, too close for comfort as he cringes away, and that is enough to make him forget everything else.

He's on his feet before he can think about the pain it took to get there. His side screams at him, willing him to pay attention but he pushes it down and tries to smother another cough into his shoulder. It helps him not to shake as much but his ribs still feel out of place and angry at the movement. He ignores them too.

"Stephen!"

The call of his name is an unexpected sound in the empty room, prompting him to look away from everything he has been concentrating on so far. He's forgotten the rest of the large space exists in his preoccupation, seeing now that he isn't so alone after all. It looks and sounds like Ant, somehow on his feet but barely. Down on the floor, Stephen hopes his instincts aren't right this time and that it isn't Dec lying there.