∞ FOREVER: LOOPED ⟐ Larry × Lawrie ⟐ Brawl Stars ⟐

-- [{ Chapter 5 }] -- PT1

Yall, THE MUSIC DOES NOT FIT THIS, I JUST WANTED TO LISTEN TO IT, anyways, this chapter will focus on the main events more, let's be honest, after such a traumatizing experience there is no space for the main topic of this story ;-; but there it does enhance crazy relationships

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(for some reason every chapter ends with sleep, and starts with awakening lmao)

 *It's morning once more, Faint footsteps come from the Front Door*

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vv Lawrie's POV vv:

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My eyelids feel like anchors, too heavy to lift even slightly, trapping me in a haze of darkness. Every inch of my body throbs with an unbearable ache, as if every nerve is aflame. My throat is raw, shredded, each shallow breath scraping like sandpaper. My hands are stiff and unresponsive, like lifeless weights attached to my arms. Weakness saturates my entire being, leaving me incapable of even the simplest motion. Despite it all, I can still sense Larry's breath, warm and steady, a fragile reassurance in this storm of pain. Thank god. Thank god it's over. I won't let this happen again—ever. Never.

The faint patter of footsteps echoes in the distance, growing louder as they approach the kitchen. I will my legs to shift, to move even slightly, but they are glued to the sticky floor beneath me. The effort is futile, my strength entirely spent. I surrender to the stillness.

The footsteps halt, finally reaching the kitchen. Summoning every ounce of willpower, I force my eyes to crack open, their protest met with a blurred, shadowy figure standing in the doorway. A sharp gasp pierces the air—a sound that sends a ripple of tension through my limp body. Then, the figure moves again, their footsteps quickening into a frantic run, retreating toward the front door of the house.

Familiar Voice--"THEY ARE ALIVE! COME QUICK, THERE IS NO TIME"

The footsteps return to the kitchen, deliberate and unrelenting, drawing closer to where we are sprawled at the far end of the room. I can't move, can't even flinch as I feel hands carefully lifting Larry's limp body. Whoever it is carries him upstairs, their steps fading toward the room we share. Moments later, someone else enters the house, their labored breathing breaking the stillness. I feel arms beneath me now, hoisting my weakened form off the ground. They, too, ascend the stairs, laying me gently on the bed beside Larry.

For a fleeting moment, there is silence, save for the sound of my strained breaths mingling with Larry's faint ones. Then, the two figures quietly leave the room, their steps fading until I hear the creak of the front door. It feels as if they are waiting just beyond the threshold, their presence a shadow lingering outside.

Not long after, more footsteps echo through the house—five distinct pairs—steadily making their way upstairs. I sense their collective weight pressing on the floorboards as they gather at the entrance of our bedroom. Their voices spill into the air, low and muddled with concern, each word distant and indistinct, as if filtered through a fog. I can't make out what they're saying, but the unease in their tone wraps around me like a heavy shroud.

One of them gets closer to the bed.

Poco--"God this is horrible... must be the worst one yet... Amigo go get a hot Towel"

Suddenly, hurried footsteps descend the stairs, their echoes fading as a calm presence settles in the room. Poco perches on the edge of the bed, his familiar guitar resting in his hands. The soft strumming begins, gentle and soothing, the melody wrapping around Larry and me like a warm embrace. Each note flows into my ears, their vibrations resonating somewhere deep within.