I wake to the sound of water running.
For a moment, I just lie there, disoriented, trying to place the sound. The shower. Someone's in the shower.
I glance at my phone. 3:52 AM.
Who the hell is showering at four in the morning?
Keith isn't back yet. Which means it can only be—
Cecil.
I sit up, listening more carefully. The water's been running for a while—long enough that the sound penetrated my sleep and woke me up.
Maybe he couldn't sleep. Maybe he just needed to decompress.
I lie back down, trying to convince myself it's nothing.
But something feels wrong.
That same instinct that's been screaming at me all week—the one that says Cecil is falling apart and I can't catch him—flares back to life.
I check my phone again. 3:54 AM.
Give it a few more minutes. Don't be overbearing. He probably just needs space.
I close my eyes and try to fall back asleep.
Yet, the water keeps running.
---
4:23 AM.
I'm still awake.
The shower is still running.
That's... that's over half an hour now.
No one showers for half an hour at four in the morning.
Unless something's very very wrong.
I throw off my covers and head into the hallway, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
The bathroom door is closed but light seeps out from underneath.
I knock softly. "Cecil? Are you okay in there?"
No response.
Just the steady sound of water hitting tile.
"Cecil?"
Still nothing.
Every instinct I have is screaming now.
Something's wrong. Something's very wrong.
I try the handle. Locked.
"Cecil, I'm coming in, okay?"
I don't wait for an answer. I can pick locks—learned how as a kid, useful skill for a Celestian who needs to get into places they shouldn't.
The lock clicks open in seconds.
I push the door open and—
Oh god.
Cecil is sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, arms bare and bleeding. Blood drips onto the white tiles, mixing with water from the shower that's been running so long the entire bathroom is thick with steam.
His eyes are open but unfocused. Distant. Empty.
Like he's somewhere else entirely.
"Cecil—"
I'm across the bathroom in two strides, dropping to my knees beside him.
The scratches on his arms are deep. Fresh. Still bleeding.
He did this. He did this to himself. But why would he do this to himself?
Every question I want to ask—why, when did this start, how long has this been happening, what triggered this—dies on the tip of my tongue.
Because right now, questions don't matter.
Right now, he needs my presence. Not the useless questions or my usual pushing for answers.
I pull him into my arms without thinking, wrapping myself around him as tightly as I can.
He's cold. Shaking. Completely limp in my grip like a doll.
"I've got you," I whisper against his hair. "I've got you, Cecil. You're okay. You're safe now."
He doesn't respond. Doesn't move. Just sits there in my arms, bleeding and looking so broken it pulls on my heart.
I reach out blindly and turn off the shower with one hand, stopping the water so he doesn't catch a cold. The sudden silence is almost deafening.
I just hold him.
Don't ask questions. Don't push. Just be here. By his side.
The mantra repeats in my head even as every fiber of my being wants to demand answers. Wants to understand. Wants to fix this.
But I can't. Not if he refuses my help.
All I can do is hold him while he falls apart.
---
We sit like that for what feels like hours but is probably only few minutes.
The steam slowly dissipates. The blood on the floor starts to dry at the edges. My knees ache from kneeling on hard tile.
But I don't move.
Don't let go.
Just keep my arms tight around Cecil and try to breathe steadily enough for both of us.
Eventually—finally—I feel him shift.
A small movement. His fingers curling slightly against my shirt.
"Dylan?"
His voice is so quiet I almost miss it. What the hell is messing with him?
"I'm here."
"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—you weren't supposed to—"
"Shh. It's okay."
"It's not okay." His voice cracks. "I'm not okay. I'm—"
And then he's crying.
Not quiet tears. Not controlled sobs.
Full, broken, gasping cries that shake his entire body.
I hold him tighter, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.
"Let it out," I murmur. "I've got you. Just let it out."
He cries into my shoulder, his blood smearing across my shirt, his whole body trembling with the force of it.
And I just hold him.
Let him break.
Let him feel whatever he needs to feel.
Because that's all I can do for now.
The crying eventually subsides into hiccupping breaths.
Cecil pulls back slightly, just enough to look at me. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, his face blotchy from crying.
Why does he look so beautiful even in this situation?
The thought comes unbidden and I push it away. Not now. This isn't about that.
"I'm fine," Cecil says, his voice hoarse. "Really. I just—I couldn't sleep and I needed—"
"Cecil—"
"I'm completely alright. This was just—it's nothing. I'm sorry I worried you—"
"Cecil." I say his name firmly enough that he stops talking. "You're bleeding. You're sitting on a bathroom floor at four in the morning covered in your own blood. You are clearly not alright."
His expression shutters. That careful blankness I've seen all week sliding back into place.
No. Not this time.
I take his hands in mine—gently, carefully, avoiding the worst of the scratches.
His blood is warm and sticky against my palms.
"I don't know why you hurt yourself," I say quietly, meeting his eyes. "And I don't need to know unless you want me to."
Cecil's breath hitches.
"But please—" My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "Please don't harm yourself. It breaks my heart to see the person I love bleeding."
The words hang in the air between us.
The person I love.
I hadn't meant to say it like that. Hadn't meant to confess yet.
But it's out now, and I can't take it back. And honestly? I don't want to take it back.
Cecil stares at me, his eyes wide, as if he didn't believe my words and wanted to make sure he heard them right.
"You... what?"
"I love you," I say, and the truth of it settles in my chest like coming home. "I have for a while now. And seeing you hurt—seeing you do this to yourself—it's killing me, Cecil."
"You can't—" His voice breaks and he takes a few deep breaths. "You don't know what I am. What I've done. If you knew—"
"Then tell me." I squeeze his hands gently. "Tell me everything. Or tell me nothing. It doesn't matter. I'll love you either way."
Tears start sliding down his cheeks again.
"You shouldn't."
"Probably not," I agree. "But I do anyway."
"Dylan—"
"You don't have to say anything back," I say quickly. "I'm not asking for that. I'm just asking you to stop hurting yourself. Please."
Cecil's hands shake in mine.
"I don't know if I can," he whispers.
The honesty of it breaks something in me. Maybe the illusion that he was fine. I was right in front of him yet I couldn't see the truth.
"Then let me help you," I say. "Let me be here when it gets bad. Let me—just let me in, Cecil. Please."
"I don't know how."
"We'll figure it out. Together."
He searches my face for something—doubt, maybe. Or pity. Or disgust.
But all I let him see is the truth.
That I love him.
That I'm here.
That I'm not going anywhere.
"Okay," he says finally, so quietly I almost miss it.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'll... I'll try."
It's not a promise. Not a guarantee.
But it's something.
And right now, that something is enough.
I pull him back into my arms, careful of his injuries, and just hold him.
The bathroom floor is hard and uncomfortable. The blood is starting to make my shirt stick to my skin.
My legs are going numb from kneeling for so long.
I don't care.
Cecil is here. In my arms. Breathing.
Alive.
That's all that matters.
"We should clean you up," I say eventually. "Get those scratches bandaged properly."
Cecil nods against my shoulder.
"And then you're going to try to sleep. In your bed. Not on the bathroom floor."
A small, broken laugh escapes him. "Okay."
"And tomorrow—" I pause. "Today, I guess. When Keith gets back. We'll figure that out together too."
Cecil tenses slightly at Keith's name.
"I know you're angry with him," I say quietly. "You have every right to be. But he's coming back, Cecil. And whatever happens when he does, I'll be right here with you. Okay?"
Another nod.
"Okay."
I help him stand, keeping one arm around his waist when he sways slightly.
The first aid kit is under the sink. I pull it out and guide Cecil to sit on the edge of the tub.
His arms are a mess—deep scratches crisscrossing old scars, blood still seeping from some of the deeper ones.
My hands shake slightly as I clean the wounds with antiseptic.
Cecil hisses in pain but doesn't pull away.
"Sorry," I murmur.
"It's okay. I deserve it."
"No." I look up at him sharply. "You don't. Whatever you think you did, whatever you're punishing yourself for—you don't deserve this."
Cecil's eyes fill with tears again but he doesn't argue.
I finish cleaning the scratches and wrap his arms in gauze bandages, making sure they're secure but not too tight.
"There," I say softly. "All done."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me." I cup his face gently, making him look at me. "Just promise me you'll come find me next time. Before it gets to this point. Please."
"I'll try."
"That's all I'm asking."
I help him back to his room, making sure he's settled in bed before heading for the door.
"And Dylan?"
I turn back.
Cecil is looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Vulnerable and uncertain and maybe—just maybe—hopeful.
"Thank you," he says again. "For... for everything."
"Always," I say, meaning it with everything in me.
I close his door softly and head back to the bathroom to clean up the blood.
My shirt is ruined. My hands are still shaking. My heart is still racing.
But Cecil is alive.
Hurt, but alive.
And tomorrow—today—when Keith comes back, we'll figure out the rest.
Together.
I finish cleaning the bathroom and check my phone.
5:47 AM.
Keith will be back in a few hours.
And I have no idea how Cecil is going to react when he walks through that door.
But whatever happens, I'll be there.
Because I meant what I said.
I love him.
And I'm not going anywhere.
No matter what.