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factorialsotherfandoms · 4 months

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Philza's PoV of the fic where he goes to Cellbit for Help after an Ender Kidnapping. I was going to add another scene where they got some medicine in him, but... It felt good to end it in the same place, and it's already a few hundred words longer. So just know that Mike will drop around a dose or two of meds in like 20 minutes (Mike, not Pac, because Pac is both making more and would get distracted by mistake) and have a couple of days worth ready in a few hours. It will help. Though, Philza is probably staying on Cellbit's sofa until someone braves carrying him to a bed, and he's staying at Cellbit's for a good while. Cellbit struggles with more people in his house but would also rather keep Philza where he can check on him, after everything. And, well, it's going to take him a /while/ to recover, and he's not going to be willing to warp for longer still.

AO3 here

TW: sickness, dissociation, major trauma, major injuries, panic attacks, brain fuckery, all that

Philza is cold. His soul is cold, and his body is cold, and the air of the winter night is freezing all around him. He doesn’t… He doesn’t quite remember how he got here - his feet hurt, and he’s freezing, and he remembers…

A falling birdcage.

A broken door.

A voice screaming in fury as he ran and ran and ran and-

And he should keep running.

He cannot hear the voice any more, but here is… Different. The sky is dark but not black - not black, and with eyes now tainted he can see the deep blue surrounding the stars for what it is, and not what it was. Those stars, like pinpricks, and soft clouds…

The moon is bright.

He can be seen.

With the sudden realisation, he ducks into the cover of a tree. A tree which he… He knows these trees are familiar, but his mind is made of weeping obsidian and his body is trembling enough as it is.

He cannot afford to sob, he knows he cannot afford to sob, even as the trees leer and the shadows lean down and something is coming someone is coming he needs to run run run hide never stop running and get away away away!!!

But he can’t, he knows he can’t - with every further step he feels himself grow weaker, darkness not from the peaceful overworld night clawing into his eyes.

The trees are red, the trees are red, and…

And he catches a though, a thought that sounds like safety.

On broken feet he runs, the trail of blood hidden by the rotting leaves on the floor. A hunter could easily pick it up, but the /thing/ that chases Philza cares not for it’s prey. Hidden tracks or not, HE always, always comes.

And there, above the treeline - a pointed red tower-roof, pointing at the moon. The walls are black, it’s sisters reach up with it, and for the first time in a long time Philza feels…

He feels anything other than anger, pain or despair.

He runs, as best he can, stumbling and tripping and scraping his hands and his knees each time abused feet give way. He can feel how they bleed, how the wounds tear with every step, but he can’t call for help - he has no way to call anyone, to warn anyone, or even to get away.

The tower is not home, and he doesn’t remember why, but Philza knows that the tower means safety.

And so, desperate, frozen, scared, he scrambles on.

---

The tower leads to a building, and the building is entered by a door. The door is on a bridge, though, and Philza… He has to climb the side.

HIs feet slip on the blood they leave, the blackstone work too smooth. He feels himself scrape the skin from his toes, but what is a little more pain, a little more blood? His mind is clouded and scared and all he can think of is HIM finding him, and the potential safety of the castle.

By the time he makes it onto the bridge, Philza can barely stand. It’s easy to ignore the pain, when pain is all he knows for sure, but it’s hard hard hard to keep his limbs in place. Breathing is hard and blood pools around him and Philza-

Philza doesn’t remember many things right now, but he knows he made a promise, and he knows he refuses to die.

On his hands and knees he drags himself to the door; with everything left in him he pulls himself up, leaning his weight against the wall. His hands barely respond as he reaches up, pulling the cord to let the master of his place know of his presence.

How Philza knows that’s what to do, he is not sure. Perhaps it is simply ingrained?

Either way he doesn’t think he can do anything else - can move anything else. There’s a noise and Philza glances over his shoulder, terror bubbling in his throat but having nowhere to go. It’s not HIM, though, it’s not HIM. It was from inside the castle, inside and Philza…

A man opens the door.

Philza knows him, but with void-touched eyes it’s hard to understand.

He doesn’t have a name, but he has a face.

He remembers… Bloodshed, and fury, a murder with a knife, an obsessive hunter of flesh.

He remembers… Puzzles and late nights and photographs and kindness and trust-faith-hope.

He looks at this man and he knows - this is a man who could kill me, but he is not going to; this is a man who wants the best for the islanders (who?), and that is also me; this is a man who will do anything to protect people, even when it tears him apart again.

“Philza?” the trustworthy murderer asks, when he gathers himself. “We missed you; where’ve you been?”

And Philza… Philza cannot answer.

So he gathers his strength, and raises his head, and meets the man’s eyes. Slowly, slowly, he shakes his head, trying to let him know that will never work.

The act of moving his head upsets his already precarious balance. Philza stumbles. His feet send a burst of agony. He sways to the other side, and fails to catch himself again.

He hears a soft word - cursing - but an arm reaches out, and takes his arm.

Touch.

Fear.

The last time he was touched, the last time Philza was touched…

But it is concern that touches him, not hate.

Philza all but throws himself along the touch, knowing he cannot possibly stay under his own weight much longer.

He is caught, and held up, and it’s hard to breathe and harder to think and pain agonising pain shoots through his legs, but… But this place is a place that means safety, and it is going to be okay.

“Do you have a warpstone?” he is asked. “We should probably get you to the infirmary.”

Warpstone?

Philza thinks of purple, and being dissolved, and being thrown through the void in a little hop-skip-jump and that is where HE is and he does not want to go back - not for this, not ever, not ever again.

He tears out of the touch, does his best to find his feet. He’ll manage, he can manage, just don’t make him, don’t make him - /please!/

The wall touches Philza’s back; there is nowhere to run, and the tension remains in him.

“Okay,” the man breathes out. “Okay. My drawing room then. I have the first aid kit Mike made for Richas somewhere.”

Drawing room is… Inside the castle, and inside means no being thrown to the void. The man offers Philza a hand, and Philza takes it, stumbling his way against him again.

There’s no way to save his feet, not from the walking once again. So he zones out the pain, permitting it to get lost in the haze. Here isn’t safe, not from HIM, but it is… Philza looks on these walls, and know he has never come here often, but he knows they belong to someone he trusts.

With his mind like this… All he can pray for us that the man before him - in cotton pyjamas and still with a wicked knife on his belt - is as trustworthy as his scatteredness believes him to be. Philza… he’s pretty sure he knows how Void-Sickness works, he’s pretty sure it makes you forget, makes you see things, but he doesn’t think it changes your opinions.

Please, please, let it not change his opinions. Please let this man and this castle be as trustworthy as his heart believes them to be.

It does seem that way, at least for now; Philza can barely see anymore as the man takes his arm, and pulls it over his shoulders. Philza does his best to walk, but his legs are like burning ice. He remembers pain, he remembers his feet being cut open, large slices to prevent him running, a slice across each ankle to try sever his tendons.

It failed.

Philza is a lot of things, and he cannot remember most of them, but he is very sure that he is very good at running.

Or was, not any more. His feet drag both on stone then on carpet, skin catching and tearing and hurting as it does. He wants to scream, instead tries to whimper, and finds is voice barely makes a noise at all.

He slips his face into the man helping him’s neck and begs himself to remember, to remember, just to remember…

By the time he is sat down on a long sofa, Philza still does not remember. There is no regard for the filth and the blood he smears across the black fabric, and little for the way he collapses into the soft. Time skips a few beats, and then his hands are wrapped around a glass of water.

Philza stares at it, thinks of thread in his mouth, and the impossibility of what he is being asked to do.

He did not realise how much his hands were hurting, until the cruel-kind man bent them into another shape.

There’s words that Philza does not understand, and then the man is gone, and alone… Alone it is so much harder to keep out the ache. There’s nobody before him, the room is unfamiliar, he can’t see behind him-

With as much care as tortured limbs can manage, Philza puts the glass down.

He’s panicking - he’s safe now, it’s going to be okay.

He’s not safe. Even if he were sane he’d know he’s not safe; HE is looking for him, HE will find him, HE-

Philza pulls his hands away from the glass, can feel the shaking pick up, can feel his breath catch as he does. The trustworthy murderer is gone, has left him alone, and Philza is so, so very scared.

His eyes glance about as he shifts and he turns, peering through distorted eyes at every corner he can. Shadows seem to grow, to stretch and morph - familiar, thin, deadly hands reaching out, reaching for him, seeking to steal him, to take him back, to bind him once again in pain and steel, a wild bird left to languish in a cage as a prized possession until it languishes away.

And then you stuff its corpse.

Philza’s eyes catch on the bookshelf in the corner. It’s near a hole in the wall - bad - but it’s high, and it’s hidden, and from there he can see everything.

He doesn’t think of anything except thin hands and purple laughter and the agony of pain as he abandons the soft-and-warm for the high-and-safe.

His feet slip as he scrambles up the shelves, barely noticing even as he twists his ankle in his panic. There’s no thoughts, his empty except for the desperation to get up higher and higher and as high as he can. Behind him his wings shudder, desperately trying to lift him but too exhausted to manage. Foot after foot he pulls himself up, until he too is in the dark.

But this dark is not cold like the hands.

This dark is warm and safe, even if it burns his cold, cold skin.

He peers out of the shadows, watching and watching. The shadows still oozes and twist and reach in a way shadows shouldn’t. Despite the trail of blood they fail to reach them and Philza… he is not sure if they are real or not.

Not until a figure steps in. Philza’s brain panics as the man walks through a shadow. There is no ill effect, but the fear of someone loves walking into the shadowy claws-

“Philza?”

And it’s not the man’s voice Philza hears, not in his panic. The voice echoes and looms and teases, something ancient and powerful and /terrifying/. He looks and looks and looks and where is an escape?!

There is something else said but Philza does not see it; he only has eyes for the hole in the wall, the hole through which somehow no more cold comes. He ignores the words to throw himself from the bookshelf - towards the hole. His wings slow his fall, but he cannot fly - why can’t he fly?! What did HE do?! - so he /throws/ himself towards the hole.

The voice is behind him, now, but he cannot look. Please, dear Rose, please-

The hole is not a hole.

Philza slams into something hard but invisible. In his panic, in his pain, in his sickness he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand anything as a hand touches his shoulder.

Philza tries to scream and only chokes, even that muffled and quiet with his voice box strained and his lips sealed shut.

The hand on his shoulder is tugging him away.

Philza gives up, and he goes.

Of course he cannot rn, of course he cannot run… HE would never let him run, not for anything other than a game of cat and mouse.

And HE is too powerful for mistakes.

Even as he’s walked back to the sofa, Philza keeps glancing to the hole - to the alluring promise of freedom, and one he will never get to see again.

His eggs, his chicks, his children - he’s never going to see them again.

But the voice that asks “better?” is too gentle when it speaks, too gentle to be HIM. Too exhausted, too - HE would never let HIMself sound so weak.

And so… Philza is brave even as he trembles, and looks up, and traces from brown eyes to a tissue in the man’s hand.

Philza… Is not quite sure what to do with it.

He stares for long seconds before he feels warmth drip from his nose to his lip and…

Oh…

He takes the tissue, and holds it beneath his nose. The smile the man gives him as he kneels is pained, relieved, true.

Philza tries to smile back, only to taste blood on his teeth.

The man is as gentle as the cushions are soft as he takes one of Philza’s feet, but there is no way to not hurt him. It hurts, but Philza can see the bad being taken from his feet and tossed aside and so…

It was going to hurt anyway. No matter what happens here, Philza hurts.

Might as well let a friend take it away.

The two remain in silence as Philza’s exhausted friend takes away the bad. His eyes remain fixed on Philza’s foot, and Philza’s on a strip of white hair.

He wants to touch it.

He is too tired, now, with the peace of someone his heart trusts, to even move his fingers to try.

Vulnerable and weak he slumps in the cushions, cradled by black velvet. He’s still so cold, but he can feel warmth from the nearby fire, and even with the spikes of pain it’s easy to let himself melt away.

It should be scary, how easy it is to fade away despite the pain.

It isn’t, though. It’s just…

He shouldn’t be here, letting himself drift, letting someone take care of him - he needs to run and run and run and never stop, less HE catches him and destroys him.

Destroys everyone and everything he loves.

But he is.

And then, all of a sudden, wet and cold and stinging.

Philza startles, and yelps - or something close to it, and looks down.

His foot is… In a bucket?

And Cellbit (oh, so that’s the man’s name, where did he find that?) looks… apologetic?

Philza slumps back into the cushions, doing his best to indicate that the man should continue on. He tries very hard to pay a little more attention now, not wanting the surprise again.

It is hard, though; ever he pays attention to nothing, or he pays attention to warping shadows and clawing void and the dark film over his vision, all things that are not really things at all.

And then the other foot goes into the water, and Philza thinks that is it, except that Cellbit does not stop there. Instead he moves to other wounds, cleaning and stitching and bandaging, frowning at the purple smeared across Philza’s skin.

Frowning more as he rests a hand on his chest, and Philza struggles to move it with his breaths.

But that’s fine - Philza’s dizzy, but he’s sick, so it’s fine. He just allows Cellbit to work until -

Until something tears in his hand, and the sudden jolt of pain has Philza /scream/.

The sound barely works, but he can taste the blood-blood-blood where his lips strained too hard against the thread. He wants to - needs to - spit it out, but he can’t- he can’t! All he can do is swallow, swallow and shudder and pray the pain goes away.

It’s then that Cellbit freezes, and looks to him with terrified eyes.

“Philza?” Cellbit asks - whispers. “Philza, can you open your mouth for me?”

And Philza wants to cry as he shakes his head.

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

That’s not… How does he answer…?

Philza focuses on Cellbit’s face, tries to drain himself of terror, and holds up a single finger.

Option one.

And Cellbit nods, he nods and he waits, and he breathes more than he asks “can I touch your lips?”

Philza… Does not know how he wants that question answered.

He does not know a lot of things.

But he waits, and he watches, and does not flinch as a warm hand presses to frozen lips, slowly parting them.

“I…” And Philza barely remembers Cellbit beyond knowing he is a man with a lot of love, and a lot of anger, and who kills more easily than he saves no matter how desperately he wants to do the second. But… But he does know that Cellbit does not /hesitate/.

The hands pull away, as though Philza’s frozen face burnt him, “I don’t think I can help without hurting you.”

That’s the worry?

Philza gestures with his hands, focused on Cellbit’s eyes where the darkness of The End cannot reach; ‘am I not already in pain?’ he tries to ask, tries to communicate, tries to beg.

Cellbit is scared, he is terrified, and Philza… Philza should go, if he is causing that sort of reaction in his friends.

“I’m going to get you some pyjamas,” Cellbit says. “Will you be alright?”

Cellbit is fleeing.

Philza… he got lost in the comfort, has stayed too long. He is bandaged now, yes? He should keep on running, should flee this place until HE comes for Cellbit too.

He cannot let HIM have Cellbit. Not one of his friends, and not any of them.

Cellbit goes, and Philza…

His feet still hurt, but Philza knows how to run in even the worst of circumstances. He waits for the door to close and stumbles to his feet. Every movement is like agony, like treacle, but he has to go, has to leave, has to run - no matter what happens, he cannot let HIM touch his trusted friend.

This place is a place of safety, but not for him.

The pain pulls him back into a haze, stumbling his way through the black castle. He’s not sure… Not sure where to go.

The bridge is there.

He does not think he can climb down, but… The fall from the break to the water will not kill him, right?

And even if it does, is that not better than HIM finding him again?

The shadows goad him onwards, twisting deep purple at their seams. Philza ignores them, using the lip at the edge of the bridge to guide his steps.

He is almost, almost there when a hand grabs his arm and Philza-

Philza has been grabbed before; he twists and he fights and uses every last morsel left in his body to scream. HE will not take him, HE will not have him, HE will not put him back in the cage!!!

He screams and he snarls and he forces his jaw to open to do so. He doesn’t care for the blood in his mouth, how it bubbles between the threads and drips onto his lips. He doesn’t care how his wounds strain, how everything hurts and stabs and stings - if HE takes him it will not matter, if HE has him it is the end anyway and he would rather DIE that let HIM have him again!!!

So he fights, and he scream, and he uses every bit of adrenaline as he tries to save himself! He will not fall here, he will not go back, you cannot make him go back!

“Stop that! You’re making it worse!”

And just like that all of Philza’s energy vanishes, leaving him a statue in the night on a ruined bridge.

That… That is not the voice of HIM, but the voice of a friend

“Just…” there’s a sob in his friends voice and Philza wants - needs - to comfort it. “Come back inside? Please?”

But if Philza does that…

He wants to cup Cellbit’s cheeks, to tell him, to explain, but his hands are mostly bandage and his lips are sealed and his throat is dry.

So he shakes his head.

“Philza.”

Philza does not want to be the cause of the pain spreading across Cellbit’s face, of the shadows creeping in. But a friend in pain is a living friend, and if Philza stays he’ll be a dead one, and Philza-

“Why are you running?”

Philza stops for a second, not having even realised he had started running again.

But he does… Owe Cellbit an explanation.

But how…

He doesn’t have time, but still he gestures to his eyes - where he knows the Taint must have taken root, if only for all the times HE complimented them of late. He gestures to the shadows, creeping closer and leering, and-

And this is too long, he looks, to check, and he can see nothing but darkness behind him. The oily film is too thick to see into that darkness.

“You’re being chased?”

Exactly! Philza nods, once and again, driving home the point. He gestures to the darkness, tries to show Cellbit the danger, before he turns and stumbles further on.

A couple of steps - not enough to find a fast pace, not injured as he is - but then…

There is a rose, in the darkness, a small rose bush at the side of the road.

Has it always been there, or did Rose…?

Cellbit is cautious as he approaches the bush, but he still picks a flower and hands it to Philza. Philza stares at it, not sure… Not sure…

“Missa mentioned they’re… protection charms for you?”

Missa…?

Missa!

His eyes snap to Cellbit - begging, begging, begging. Is Missa safe? Is Missa okay? Chayanne and Tallulah? Their eggs were asleep when HE invaded the sanctuary, but Missa wasn’t, Missa had been right there and oh fuck if HE took Missa as well-

“He’s safe!” Cellbit scrambles to promise. “Foolish is hosting a sleepover for the eggs tonight - he took Chayanne and Tallulah.”

Safe?

His family are safe?

HE did not touch his people? Only him.

“He showed me the rose garden, though the flowers are dead,” Philza is not surprised by Cellbit’s words, though he winds the rose between his fingers. “And the… hole? Portal? Void-patch?”

What does Cellbit…

Oh.

HE must have ripped out part of this world, too…

Philza… is not sure what it counts as. He wriggles his hand, and decides Void is the closest - like before he raises fingers to indicate the option.

“It was very small, very precise. Clearly whatever took you only wants you - it hasn’t taken anyone else, either; even if you stay in my house, it’s unlikely it will take me.”

Philza…

HE would take Missa first, surely? Not Cellbit?

And he did not take Missa.

And in his fingers is a rose…

“So, please, come back inside?”

Philza looks back to the rose, and wonders what it means - if it means anything at all.

And then he looks up, and Cellbit is offering him a hand.

And Philza is tired, and he is weak, and the pain is a constant throb against his skull even as his mind drifts from place to place and sees things which only might or might not be there.

And so he breaks.

He takes the hand, and tucks himself close to Cellbit’s side, and prays he has not just damned them both.

---

Soon enough they are inside. Philza is back on the black velvet sofa, and Cellbit is once more knelt before him. This time he does not only wash his feet, but dries and bandages them too. Philza clings to the rose then, and also when he is helped to stand.

Staying there is agonising, now that he has given in. It’s all he can do to cling to a chance and not cry as Cellbit helps him out of one set of clothes, and a long, black, silk nightshirt. It comes down to Philza’s knees, or close enough, and hangs awkwardly on his shoulders.

By the time he is allowed to sit, Philza’s lungs are desperate and his vision narrowed to a pinprick.

He all but collapses into the sofa, curling around the flower and remembering how to breathe.

Cellbit gives him a moment, just checking on his other wounds. Philza finds his breath - it is so much harder, without his mouth - and tries to relax himself once again.

“They’re probably asleep,” Cellbit starts, once Philza is relaxed. “But do you want me to text Missa? So he can bring Chayanne and Tallulah in the morning?”

Philza wants his family.

Philza wants his family to be /safe/.

He… cannot answer that.

“I can put some wards down,” Cellbit offers. “And ask them to come with Roier? He’ll look after them.”

Wards will do nothing, not even Rose’s sanctuary could.

But… there’s a rose in his fingers, and he wants his family. He needs…

Hesitant, he nods - he isn’t sure, but Cellbit…

He can trust Cellbit. He knows he loves his family, and that he can trust Cellbit, and he’s not quite sure who Roier is but if Cellbit says he will protect them then Philza chooses to believe that he can.

Philza cannot work out if Cellbit types quickly or slowly. He is handed the communicator to check the message, but does not really care - his own is long gone, and he has one chance, one hope of…

His fingers are ruined, but he still has to warn Missa. Make sure… Make sure he knows.

‘Did HE hurt you?’ Philza types. ‘Be safe - HE still wants me.’

It takes minutes to type it; Philza wants to say more, but his hands barely function and there’s one more thing he needs to say.

Not to Missa, but to Cellbit.

He isn’t sure… There’s so many things, and his hands are failing, so…

He chooses the most important one, the thing he’s watched Cellbit /hesitate/ over.

‘Cut it’.

Philza refuses to think on how long it takes to type, or how much it hurts, or the blood now once again seeping into the bandages over his finger pads.

“Cut what?” Cellbit asks.

There is no way he doesn’t know - Philza does his best to ignore the shadows and to glare instead.

“I don’t… Think I can do this.”

And Philza does not care if Cellbit does not /think/ he can, because Philza /knows/ that Cellbit can. Philza grabs the hand with the knife that has killed so many people, and tries to pull it from his grasp.

If Cellbit will not help him, then he will take the knife and carve the stitches out himself!

“Fine!” Cellbit looks terrified as he yells. “God, I’ll try. But just enough to drink something, okay? I don’t trust myself.”

‘I trust you’ Philza wants to shout, wants to scream to the heavens. The rivers run red with blood Cellbit has spilt and yet Philza knows his friend, and he trusts him - he trusts him so much.

He wants to scream it, to declare it, to be able to speak!

But… But Cellbit looks so pale, so pale the shadows cannot touch his face, and Philza…

He cannot do that to him.

So he will accept enough to drink, and he will prove to Cellbit that everything will be okay.

Cellbit pulls out a smaller knife, and bends down to a level. He slips it between Philza’s lips. It hurts where the blade presses into the threads, bending them and forcing his gum along too. They do break, though - the threads break with the knife, and it’s not his whole mouth, but Philza can at least pull air through it again.

And then Cellbit pulls away, not looking reassured but terrified. Philza has no idea why - a tissue is pressed to his lip, probably for where some skin tore against a thread.

“Hold this, just let me get you a straw.”

Philza does as he is told, keeping the tissue in place as his eyes trail after Cellbit.

Where did he go?

Why did he leave so fast?

…

He’s gone for a long time.

Philza drifts, and he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again another rose lays across his lap.

Rose?

Is she… trying to ask forgiveness? To say he’s safe? To comfort him?

He is not sure, but he picks it up anyway. He takes the two roses and starts trying to twist them together. It is awkward at the best of times, and worse with injured hands, but… He’s getting there.

It’s good enough that they will not separate even if he puts them down when Cellbit returns and - oh - warm soup! That will be what took so long! Soup, and warm, and with the possibility of eating - even just drinking - right there, Philza’s body slams back into his mind. Everything hurts, his stomach is twisted, his lips are cracked and bleeding and his eyes are so so dry.

And he is cold, but the soup is steaming, and he /needs/!

But it is the water that is given first. Philza behaves, and drinks it, and as he drinks it finds his body demanding more and more and faster and faster until the glass is gone. Still it screams for more, desperate, desperate, dehydrated and starving-

Cellbit offers him the tray - juice or soup.

Both are liquid.

Soup is warm.

He tries to grab the soup.

But Cellbit puts the tray down, then picks it up himself - he tests it before putting a straw in the soup, and sitting down on the sofa beside Philza. Carefully and between them he drinks what he can - his body isn’t sure if it wants to throw up or demand he eat more, and the point where nausea starts to win he refuses to keep going.

He wants more, he wants more, he craves it and is desperate for the sustenance and the warmth.

But his stomach hurts already, and he knows he cannot afford to loose anything else.

Cellbit puts it back on the try and stands.

“Sleep here,” he says. “I’ll go grab some blankets.”

This time when he leaves, Philza does not run. Instead he flops into soft velvet, letting it cradle abused skin. The darkness wins, but it wins somewhere safe, and with a rose in Philza’s hand. He stirs a little when he is moved - a pillow for his head, five or six blankets wrapped around freezing skin - but only enough to recognise Cellbit, and to know that he is for a moment safe.

---

Philza is woken by loud swearing. Swearing is, however, something that HE neither does nor permits, and so it’s a comfort, really. He curls back towards sleep, finally almost warm and the pain intense but at least consistent so long as he does not move. It’s bright now, the shadows smaller, and he does not want to exist. He just… wants to drift a while longer, to not have to surface to a world which hurts and he is a threat to those he loves.

But he cannot doze forever, or even very long at all. He watches a man kiss Cellbit, and the two finally notice him.

“Morning,” Cellbit says.

“Hey Philza,” the other man greets. “Cellbo says you got something stuck in your mouth?”

Philza’s aware enough to recognise a sex joke - he finds his hand, and protects the rose, and flips the man off. Cellbit might like him, but he woke Philza up, and woke him up to kissing.

“Is it okay if Roier takes the stitches out?” Cellbit asks - gentle, soft, worried.

The man is Roier, Cellbit is being gentle, and something is not right in the world.

Philza /looks/ at him. Why the gentle? Cellbit is not gentle, he is hard corners and sharp edges, splintered and torn and so, so loved.

But Philza still nods, as he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to know who Roier is, and Cellbit would mercilessly slaughter anyone who hurt him. Cellbit trusts this Roier, and Philza trusts Cellbit, so… He will give Roier a chance.

Roier uses tiny embroidery scissors, not a knife, to cut away at the threads inside Philza’s mouth. As each one is cut through Philza’s face feels a little more free. He talks as he works, full of gossip and names that Philza isn’t sure he knows how to remember right now, but his heart knows are important to him all the same.

The hands by his face, though… He doesn’t like that.

He affixes his eyes on the hole-that-is-not-a-hole, and reminds himself to breathe.

The threads are cut, but still there. Cellbit helps Philza with a glass of water, before stage two begins.

It hurts a lot more, pulling out the threads. In places they have almost fused with his lips, scabs having grown into them, and skin cells following. No matter how careful he is there is no way for Roier to remove it without agony - between each they apply antiseptic and wait for the wound to stop bleeding, but it only makes it take so, so much longer. At some point Cellbit leaves, leaves Philza alone with this not-a-stranger named Roier, and that’s when Philza starts to cry.

Roier slips into silence as he finishes, and once he is done he helps Philza drink.

“Do you remember who I am?” Roier asks, quietly, when the glass is drained.

Philza… He hesitates, before shaking his head.

Roier looks in pain, “I’m Cellbit’s husband - Roier. You were the photographer at our wedding.”

He was?

There’s a cloud in Philza’s mind, one he cannot escape. He knows the memories are still there, just… In a cage.

Sunlight and real air will burn it away with time - there’s potions that can help, too. It’ll just take time, but it’s upsetting, it’s frustrating - if he was not already crying, Philza thinks he would begin all over again.

“Mind if I have a look at your other injuries?” Roier asks, trying to keep up a smile. “Not that I don’t trust Cellbit, but it was three in the morning and the bandages need changed.”

Philza… opens his mouth, and finds his lips… They don’t move like he accepts.

Roier waits for him, almost frozen still.

“... Cellbit trusts you?” Philza asks, quiet, every word painful in its own right.

It also pulls open some of the stitch-wounds - he’s handed a few pads of gauze. One he sicks in his mouth, pushing the bleeding spots against it.

Roier’s head tilts to the side, but he nods, “pretty sure! He certainly loves me.”

Philza nods.

He uncurls his feet, offering them to Roier.

As Roier works he talks; Philza does not listen, but he lets himself drift into the words. A little less panicked and a little more awake, it is harder to ignore the pain in the daylight. He flinches and yelps and tries to curl up, but each time they pause he permits Roier to continue.

Cellbit trusts him, so Philza chooses to too.

Once he is done, Roier throws the old bandages into the fire, then comes and sits on the other end of the sofa. His sword is out - ready to grab if needs be, but he seems relaxed.

“How are you doing?” asks Roier, as though it isn’t obvious.

Philza gestures to himself; is that not obvious.

“I mean…” Roier gestures at his head.

Philza shrugs, and pulls the gauze from his mouth, and tries to work out what to say.

“It’s hard to remember,” Philza says, voice weak, and cracking. “It’s there, it’s just… bits of memory shut down, in the End. I don’t… HE is in the shadows. He is everywhere and I don’t- HE wants me back. I don’t want to go back.”

“Nobody will take you anywhere you don’t want to go,” Roier replies. “Cellbit let you in; you’re safe here.”

Philza does not know how to explain it, so he doesn’t. Roier might be a friend, or he might not be, but speaking makes his mouth bleed and he doesn’t even know where to start. He looks like he wants to ask more, and to press - he opens his mouth to, but then backs away.

Roier closes it, and opens it again. “It was the older eggs birthday yesterday,” he says instead of whatever question he wanted. “Leo wanted a sleepover party, so we had one. Chayanne was making food, and Radio Egg were supposed to show off but then Dapper stole Richas’ flute and…”

Philza half-listens to the story, half checks on the room. He doesn’t quite remember all of the children’s appearances, but he does know that those names belong to the eggs. One story ends and another begins and Philza… is pretty sure that he is forgetting something.

Still with the blankets its warm enough, but never comfortable - Philza lets Roier talk, and looks around.

Around about Roier talking about the latest updates on Tubbo and Bad’s prank war, Cellbit comes back.

He has food but, more importantly, he isn’t alone.

Philza has no idea who to watch - his children or his husband, and which child? And Fit is there too, but Fit is less important, next to his husband and his eggs.

Chayanne and Tallulah move faster and together, so Philza watches them. Between blinks he sees corruption leaking from their cracks; every time he closes and reopens his eyes, it is gone. They run over and stand by him, staring up at him.

“Hello,” he manages to say, and he offers each a hand.

Tallulah grabs one, Chayanne latches onto the other.

And Missa, Missa - he comes and sits between Philza and Roier. Philza places his head on his husband’s shoulder, stealing some of his strength too.

In return, he receives an arm behind him, in a subtle attempt at a hug.

Fit and Cellbit sit on stools across from them. Fit has a rose tucked into a pocket - when he looks, Missa and both of the eggs are wearing one, too.

Nobody speaks for long moments, Philza soaking in his family and letting them chase away the shadows a little more.

“Was it him.”

It’s Fit who breaks the silence, with a question that is not a question.

Philza does not want to leave Missa’s shoulder, does not want to face the world.

But he must.

So he picks up his head a little, and he nods.

“Well, fuck,” and isn’t that true. “I’m gonna guess you need stuff for void sickness? Anything else I should ask Pac e Mike for?”

And of course Fit would ask them, but also… Philza drops a little in relief, because his lungs are struggling from more than just panic, and the pain, and while he can see well enough he knows it is corrupted.

Not to mention the… Things, in the corners.

In the shadows.

“Antibiotics for preventing infection in wounds dirty for too long?” and, yes, Roier’s suggestion there is probably sensible. Philza would not be sure, but there was a lot of mud in his feet, and he knows the thread in his mouth was not clean. “And painkillers.”

… His mind is already compromised. Philza knows he needs them, knows he needs them badly, but… But he doesn’t want…

Chayanne pulls away and for a moment Philza panics, only to see his beloved son pulling dish after dish out, handing them to Missa or Philza, or scattering them over the floor. There is too much food - far too much - just smelling it feels slightly sickening, for all Philza’s heart softens as his boy trying to look after him.

It’s Missa who makes the decision, picking up a watery looking bowl.

And Philza… trusts neither his hands nor his mouth right now, so he fumbles for a straw. Between himself and Missa they manage not to spill it, Chayanne and Tallulah eating now they have seen their injured father start, and Missa only taking something once Philza is done.

Missa’s breakfast is a sandwich, and he eats it with Philza curled into his hip.

They’re safe, Philza’s family is safe, and with bright light the shadows stay further away. Philza finds Cellbit’s eyes, tests his lips - mouths a thank you.

For the help, for the food, for his family.

And Philza… He would rather ignore it, he would rather avoid it, but everyone in this room is involved now - they should at least get to know what they’re dealing with.

For all he cannot stomach the thought of HIM, and for all he keeps drifting away again.

“I…” he starts, then tries again. “You want to know?”

“Yes,” Cellbit answers, and Philza’s details are blurry but he never expected anything else to come from those lips.

Philza looks up to Missa, and then to Fit - they both know the basics, know something of it, he looks in their eyes and gives them permission to explain.

Each nods in understanding.

Philza burrows deeper into both his blankets and Missa’s sides, and pretends and pretends the world is not happening.

“Fit,” Missa says, hand moving to cover Philza’s own side. “Can you? I am not sure all of how to say it in English.”

Philza does not see Fit nod, not with his eyes mostly closed.

He can imagine it, though, with the sigh of also not wanting to do this.

“What do you know of the Ender King?” Fit asks.

And Philza’s mind /screams/, it screams and it screams and it’s hard to tell what is real and not. The darkness in his vision shifts, and Missa’s hand squeezes tightly his hip - try and ground, try and ground.

Philza picks up the end of Fit’s words, and he- He remembers what is being spoken of, of the time Pac came to a vision too.

“It was Rose,” he says, quiet, clinging with his voice to reality.

He hears signs from his children, but he’s too- his eyes are not just resting now, but screwed tight against the invasion. He clings to the roses and to Missa, and breathes through his mouth as both panic and damaged lungs steal his breath.

The hand on his hip moves to rubbing his back, concerned.

Missa is speaking, and Philza does not listen but he does cling. He clings to how Missa sounds sad, and to-

To Rose.

They speak of Rose.

She’s safe. If he speaks of her, maybe she will banish the dark.

He will not interrupt Missa, though, not like he would Fit - he waits for Missa to trail off before he finds his words again.

“She’s my,” and he coughs, because air is hard and his throat hurts and it has been so long since he even tried to speak, and so long he has been screaming with the noise trapped inside. “Spawn goddess. Where I come from.”

Fit agrees, but then starts talking and-

And Philza cannot hear about HIM. So he shuts off his ears and thinks very loudly of anything else - names he can remember, places he’s seen, everything he loves about Chayanne, Tallulah, Wilbur, Missa. Every trivia, every factoid, anything - anything - not to hear that name again.

“And then he found you,” Cellbit’s voice cuts in a way that neither Fit nor Missa’s did, demanding attention.

Philza… could not remember if he wanted to.

“My memory is,” he gestures to himself, trying not to admit to everything. “I don’t remember, but…”

Tallulah places down a sign and it reads ‘are you really back?’

Philza softens. Chayanne looks nervous, too - having let go of them, he reaches for his children again.

They come close this time, and he rests a rose-entwinned hand on each of their heads.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

Because he did.

“Does he have weaknesses?” Roier asks, moving the conversation on. “Everything has weaknesses!”

Philza wishes that were true, wishes he did not have to face this - because he has never told that to Missa or to Fit, and so he /has/ to answer.

His answer is a laugh, and he can hear the mania in it just as it catches in his lungs - not enough, not enough - and he chokes on nothing instead.

Regaining is breath takes too much, too much - by the time he does he is exhausted, his body trembling even as Missa takes on his entire weight.

“The Ender King is fucking dead, mate,” he says, because what else can he say?” “Water burnt him, but now he has no body… He’s weaker, he can’t steal entire cities anymore, but he lost his weaknesses too.”

And maybe that’s all the more terrifying.

#qsmp fanfic #qsmp philza #qsmp cellbit #fit missa roier chayanne and tallulah have smaller parts #hurt/comfort #angst #owie hours #important details to me - after his torture philza refuses to even think the ender king's name #i'm sure he's fiiiiiine #roier was fishing but realised the void-sickness is fucking his memory too much to actually anything but more trauma out of this

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