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Thunder roars in the distance as the man—twice his height with a booming laugh—steps away from Purpled’s bed. Even tucked away in a corner, Purpled still jumps at the sound, covering his ears.
Purpled doesn’t even remember the rules they’d barked at him before sending him down to fight. All he knows is that the man, clad in black, wants to kill him. And that Purpled is too young to die.
He peeks around the corner, before promptly shoving his head back out of sight. The man had a crazed look on his face, as though his life depended on hunting Purpled, hidden between the cracks in the wall. The man wanders around the base a little more, his steps shaking the floor. Purpled tenses at every vibration.
Then, he grunts, going silent. Purpled holds his breath, feeling the heartbeat in his chest pound louder and louder until he can’t hear anything else. He can’t feel the stomps anymore, but he’s not sure that’s a good sign.
The bracelet they strapped to him buzzes. He pulls at his sleeve, revealing a watch face, and the man’s death message greets him written in black. Purpled crawls out of his hiding space.
His eyes burst full of light, and instead of calming down, he feels his breath heave once again, like fishermen scrambling to row harder and faster against a stormy sea. His eyes squint, and platforms muddle together, blurring at the edges. The colors are bright and piercing atop the void of all-consuming nothingness.
He rests his back against a wall, counting on his fingers. In for four — one, two, three, four. His chest rises, falls. Out for four. One, two, three, four. All of it grows softer, until he opens his eyes and the world has stopped shaking.
The room, made of ice and snow, spits his reflection back at him, and Purpled chuckles a little to himself. The puffy cheeks and red eyes? On his face? It sounds silly, and yet his palms rub at his skin, grinding away the tenderness.
His eyes fix on something in the distance. Stay alive, a part of him hisses, futile as he shoves bars of iron into the slots. He prays he is doing this right.
The machine huffs and stutters, and he slams his fist against the metal casing, relieved when something rattles down the tube. Play to win, another voice smirks, his hand clutching the spools of thread and shoving them into his pockets.
Though his hands still tremble around the sword grip, he quiets the fears in his head, and charges, once again, into battle.
The roll-out for new competition tends to follow a formula. Purpled’s attended enough of these stupid ceremonies to perfect it.
The bravest—and dumbest—always walked out first, certain their stay would be short and they’d quickly return home. Following them were those more shy and cautious, eased by the people coming before them and too scared of the attention drawn at those coming last. Finally, and most exciting, were the defiant, kicking and screaming under some illusion that, if they waited long enough, they’d be exempt.
Purpled doesn’t remember which category he fell into.
The last one of this bunch drags his feet, climbing the stairs with his hands in his pockets and eyes cast downwards. His hair is the same shade of blonde as Purpled’s, and they’re a similar height, too.
The boy introduces himself in mumbles, too faint for the microphone to pick up. The headmaster jabs him in the side. Tommy’s name comes clearer the second time, eyes guarded as they trace along the scaffolding, scanning through the hall.
The headmaster pats him on the shoulder. “Now, is anyone volunteering to be this boy’s mentor?” he asks, turning to the crowd with his arms spread wide.
None of the players say anything.
Purpled isn’t sure why the headmaster still asks. The meager rewards of pride in one’s apprentice were overshadowed by the glaring fault: that newcomers barely left the arena alive. Why would you waste time and energy training a lamb for the slaughter? They all know better than to take the position.
Purpled kicks at his chair-leg, silent.
“Anyone?” the headmaster repeats. Despite the murky energy flitting between the players—Purpled just wants to go nap in the bunks—the man simply straightens out his blazer, waiting.
“Lovely to see you’re taking my opinion into account,” the boy, Tommy, murmurs beside him. He’s so close to the headmaster that the microphone picks it up.
There’s a twinge of bitterness on his tongue that resonates with Purpled. Words he’s never considered start bubbling out of his throat, and he squashes down the urge to speak.
“Going once,” the headmaster tuts, the smile still plastered on his face. He tugs at Tommy’s sleeve.
Tommy turns towards the crowd, his eyes the same dull shade as Purpled's. For a moment, all Purpled sees is himself, arms crossed and teeth bared, tapping his feet nervously as the crowd determines his fate.
“Twice.”
“I’ll train him!” Purpled calls, stumbling out of his seat. The spotlight is blinding, and his face flushes red. A part of him feels like sitting back down again. “I’ll be his mentor.” His voice is more steady the second time, and he raises his hand above the crowd. He doesn’t know if this is the right way to offer mentorship; he’s never seen it done before.
The headmaster looks pleasantly surprised. “Isn’t that generous!” he declares to the audience, and the cheers grate on Purpled’s ears.
It’s the same look of excited intensity that they have during the games, when Purpled’s one step from exhaustion and still choosing to fight. They don’t care about Tommy, or Purpled, outside of this moment on stage where he rushes down the stairs and clings to the railing. All that matters to them is that this is something new , and Purpled is some kid who makes them feel charitable and self-satisfied without doing any of the work.
The headmaster’s voice gets livelier as he talks more with the audience—the part of it without players—trading jokes and discussing luxuries Purpled’s never heard of.
The ceremony ends shortly after.
The man introduces himself as a name too long to remember and says he’s Purpled’s mentor. His shoulders stand like pillars, effortlessly holding up the sky, and his eyes—a bizarre red and yellow—illuminate the path forward for Purpled’s small footsteps. He dons a jacket, black as night, and Purpled imagines hiding under it, protected against any attacks in this strange, new place.
Purpled nicknames him ‘Eighty.’
Eighty ruffles his hair as they walk off stage together, patient as Purpled bombards him with questions. Where are we? What was that? Your eyes are so cool! Are they real?
He only answers the last one. “Of course they’re real,” Eighty says, eyes trained ahead. “I woke up one day and they were just— like this.”
“Woah!” Purpled whispers, a smile creeping onto his face. The people earlier had been mean, shoving him onto the platforms and making him fight. Eighty seemed so nice in comparison. “Will mine be like that?”
Eighty shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“I’d want them to be,” Purpled blurts. “Like— like yours.” He barely notices how the walls change in color as Eighty leads him further into the building. “Then I’d be like you.”
That makes Eighty turn his head around, and Purpled watches as his face contorts, falling into something unreadable. Then, he laughs, as though Purpled never spoke at all. “C’mon. We’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?” Purpled asks, scrambling to catch up. “Where are we going?”
“Just to eat.” Eighty looks back down, and his lips quirk into a smile. “Don’t worry, the food’s not that bad.”
Purpled tugs on Eighty’s arm, pulling himself forward. “Okay,” he chirps, taking the hand.
Tommy’s much more skittish when the lights dim. His white shoes brown every time he scuffs them against the floor, and the dirt, unsettled, starts to sink in his shirt. Purpled rubs his hoodie’s fabric between his fingers—the cotton’s still soft, despite the discoloration—and wonders how fast Tommy’s clothes will look like his.
Tentatively, he holds out his hand. “I’m Purpled,” he says. “I guess I’m your mentor.”
Tommy turns to him, blinking slowly.
“Have— Have you ever played Bedwars before?” His eyes dart between Tommy’s face and the trickling crowd, and he prays they don’t take too long. Unwanted attention is never good.
Again, silence.
Purpled’s far from doe-eyed, and yet feeling Tommy’s scrutinous look as he slinks his hand back into his pocket makes him realize how stupid he looks, asking that question. “Here’s the thing—” he cuts himself off, wringing his hands. Takes a breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. “I’ve never really done this before. But it’s my job to just— show you how to play, make sure you don’t die.” His voice trails off. He’s not quite sure what his role entails, now that he thought about it. “Yeah.”
Tommy looks unimpressed. “Look, mate, you don’t have to pretend that you care,” he says, focused on something in the distance.
His stomach sinks. “What?”
“I’m sure you’ve got your whole life set up— playing into the hands of these pricks, but I really just want to get home,” Tommy says, chuckling to himself. “Can’t you just— I don’t know, lead me to an exit or something?”
Purpled scoffs, shoving down the urge to tell Tommy just how long it’s taken him to get his spot on the leaderboard. Another couple of years, and he might have a chance at freedom. “That’s not how it works here,” he says, grimacing. “Sorry.”
“Oh.” Tommy’s face scrunches up. “I was sure—” he starts, stumbling over his words. He stands there, staring at the ground for a moment, mouth slightly ajar and eyes in thought.
The barrier of people and players in motion has dwindled to almost nothing, and Purpled pulls on Tommy’s arm, bringing them out of sight. Staying out past the ceremony will only garner attention, and that’s more trouble than Purpled wants.
Tommy shoves the hand off. “You can just use your words, dickhead,” he grumbles, hunching in on himself.
“You were standing in the middle of the way, brain-dead!” Purpled hisses, gesturing at Tommy. “You can’t just—” He sputters for a few moments, looking for the right words. Petulantly: “You can’t just— do whatever.”
Scrunching his nose, Tommy asks, “Why not?”
Purpled tsks, tilting his head towards the leather-clad men leaning on the far wall. He prays Tommy is smart enough to catch the hint.
Tommy’s eyes follow, and he exhales harshly. “They’ll beat the shit out of us, won’t they?”
Purpled nods, beckoning Tommy with his arm. “Yup,” he says. “Rule number one: lay low. C’mon, let’s head to the bunks.”
Wordlessly, Tommy follows.
The hallways throughout the property get progressively more unkempt the further from the main building they get; white walls turn to eggshell, then a muted yellow, then the wallpaper starts peeling at the edges, wood showing through. Their footsteps go from soft patters to thumps as the carpets disappear. Floral perfumes are replaced by antiseptic that stings Purpled’s nose, and a faint mildew hangs in the air.
Purpled glances back at Tommy every now and again, watching as his face flickers from mild discomfort, to disgust, to a struggling facade of apathy. The hallways are relatively empty, save for the crowd lagging up ahead and the attendants walking past. Tommy almost looks suffocated by the silence.
Soon enough, they arrive at the bunks. Purpled leads Tommy through the showers and lockers—opening his own and taking out a small bag—before they reach the common area. It’s clamoring with people, and thankfully the two squeeze by relatively unnoticed. Purpled reclaims his bed closest to the entrance, flipping a small sign in front from green to red, explaining things as he goes.
“Wait— reclaiming?” Tommy asks, watching as Purpled shoves the bed closer to the wall.
“Yeah,” Purpled grunts. The metal railing hits into place with a satisfying clunk. “There’s not enough beds for all of us, so they schedule it so half the players are sleeping at a time.” He fluffs the pillow on the bottom bunk, pleased with himself, and turns around.
Tommy’s standing in the middle of the way again. He’s still, save for his eyes, which keep fluttering back and forth between the doorway and the bed in front of him.
Purpled snaps his fingers. “You good?”
Shaking his head out of a stupor, Tommy frowns. “Yeah. That— that sucks.”
“It’s how it works,” Purpled says, shrugging. “You need help getting to the top bunk?”
Sullenly: “No.” Tommy climbs the ladder, each step reverberating through the bed, before collapsing onto the mattress with an audible thump. He wriggles on the bed for a few moments, until seemingly finding the right position.
Purpled rummages through his bag, taking note of whether anything’s gone missing. Everything’s where it should be, but, better safe than sorry.
Satisfied, he pauses, rolling out his shoulders as he sinks into the mattress. He takes a few deep breaths in, and out. Lets the background noise and conversations fill up his ears, slowly drowning out his own thoughts, until he doesn’t feel so much as be.
His heartbeats slow as his eyes follow the breeze picking up by the open window. Dust on the floor gets swirled around, curling and puffing up in the air, particles twirling around like small stars, pushing and pulling at each other.
They always fall back down again, in slightly different places than before.
As time goes on, Eighty gives Purpled more room to settle in.
He develops a strategy on the third game—rigging the map with string, tripping over his enemies, and giving himself an assured victory. Thankfully, the spools of thread settle into his hands better than his competitors. Eighty is always proud when he walks out, making sure they visit the shop on the grounds, where they buy all sorts of things with Purpled’s earnings.
Purpled makes sure to watch how Eighty plays, too. How he gets easier games when he keeps the audience engaged, how he always talks to some unseen watchers. Next time Purpled plays, he tries out those tactics, and finds the following match easier and the earnings higher.
The days pass in blurs.
After breakfast, Purpled takes Tommy to the training grounds.
“I need to make sure you don’t die in the arena,” he says on the way, and not much more.
Grumbling, Tommy follows. They reach the grounds soon enough—one giant auditorium separated by waist-high wooden dividers, full of scratches and discolored from time. Tommy’s face betrays his disgust long before he opens his mouth.
“This is where you guys train?”
Purpled’s not sure what else Tommy expected. He nods, peering around to try and find an available corral.
“It looks like,” he pauses. “Like shit, really. I mean— Techno’s trained me in a barn that smelled better than this.”
“Well.” Purpled shrugs. “It’s what we’re given.” Another row over, he catches two players putting away armor and swords, about to leave. “Over here.”
“Coming,” Tommy calls.
They head into the corral, Purpled locking the gate behind them. There’s a dummy in the corner, and swords hang on the wall. Tommy’s movements stutter, a little, before he turns back to Purpled. He looks far too comfortable in preparing to fight.
Dusting himself off, Purpled says, “Okay, what do you know about sparring?”
Tommy tsks quietly, taking a sword off the wall. “Enough,” he says, and his expression shuts off like a slamming door. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Purpled raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
With a huff, Tommy bends his knees into a fighting stance. It isn’t that of an amateur—his weight is balanced and he seems both ready to strike and solid on the ground. The way he carries his sword, too, suggests experience and familiarity, two hands with a solid grip.
Purpled shrugs, grabbing his own sword off the shelf. “Suit yourself.”
The moment Tommy starts swinging, it’s clear he’s never been in an arena before. His movements aren’t meant for a fighting style like Purpled’s—with their wide, open stances, easy to trip.
Purpled dodges and parries on autopilot, feeling his body relax into muscle memory. Their feet move in circles, kicking up dust as they shuffle across the floor.
Sword-fighting’s pretty fun without the risk of death.
He falls into a rhythm, shifting his weight in tandem with Tommy, trading blows. Tommy reaches for Purpled’s side, and Purpled knocks the sword away. Purpled strikes forward aimlessly, and Tommy deflects every attempt. It’s satisfying, and easy, and not at all what the arena’s like.
Purpled starts moving faster; Tommy follows. Their dull blades scrape against each other, the sound almost fading into the background as Purpled feels his mind focus solely on their practice.
Tunnel vision takes over.
Their movements have forgone moving in pretty and neat arcs, instead forming small jabs and strikes. Purpled hasn’t had a competitor like this in ages, and his movements change once again as he twists and dodges.
He’s like a dancer, almost, moving through an ever-changing routine. Tommy’s weakness in his stance is still wide open, though, and under his breath, Purpled says, “Keep your feet closer together.”
Tommy ducks away from a blow. “Prick.”
Purpled mixes more feints and low blows into his fighting, watching as Tommy struggles to keep up. Biting back a wince, Purpled kicks him in the shin, watching as Tommy falls to the floor.
His eyes look up with a glare. “Prick,” Tommy says again, though there’s less heat behind it.
Purpled holds the sword inches from his neck, before setting it aside. “You have to watch my body language more. Just looking at my sword isn’t enough.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tommy breaks out into a small smile, and, with an audible pant, holds his hand up. “Good match.”
Purpled pauses, looking at the hand with suspicion. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to help me up?” Tommy takes the hand back, getting up on his own. He dusts off his shirt, saying, “Do you not do that around here?”
Shaking his head, Purpled says, “Guess not.” He leans against the corral wall, waiting for Tommy to get his bearings. “I wasn’t kidding, you need to get better at reading people. I could’ve tripped you at any time during that fight.”
“I know, I know.” Tommy’s eyes start wandering towards the other players. “I just— just wasn’t expecting you to do that.”
Purpled taps his feet. “It’s how you win, in the arena.”
“It’s practically cheating,” Tommy says, quiet. There’s a moment of silence, with his eyes downcast, before he grabs his sword off the ground, absentmindedly adjusting the grip.
Purpled does the same. “I’ll go slower this time, so you can watch how I move.”
“Whatever.” Tommy scoffs. “I don’t need your help.”
“Ready?” Purpled calls, and doesn’t wait for an answer.
Tommy dodges quicker than last time, shifting his weight onto his right foot before striking at Purpled’s left. They move, parry, and carry on.
The air is different, though, as Purpled exaggerates certain movements, showing Tommy how even when his sword is driving in one direction, his head is pointed in another. Tommy slowly follows his lead, blocking a feint before Purpled makes contact.
Purpled grins.
He moves faster, starts concealing his actions more as Tommy once again struggles to keep up. Every time Tommy starts to slow, Purpled keeps his strikes steady, moving consistently until Tommy catches up.
Tommy’s started to dodge better and block the fake blows when people start to trickle out of the auditorium. The low silence of sparring is replaced by an increasing chatter around them. Padding comes off, swords go back on the shelves.
Distracted, Tommy starts to falter.
Purpled disarms him, twisting the sword out of his grip while Tommy’s distracted. “What part of ‘watching your opponent’ don’t you get?”
“Where’s everyone going?” Tommy uses a corral wall to boost himself up, looking away from Purpled. The players seem to move as a unit, pulled towards the door by an invisible string.
Purpled blanches. “Shit,” he mutters, grabbing both of their swords and hanging them back up. “They posted them.”
“Posted what?” Tommy says, dusting himself off.
Without a word, Purpled grabs his hand, tight, and tugs Tommy through the corrals. Their feet skid against the wood.
Tommy pulls his arm away. “Where are we going?” he says, more firmly this time.
“To the front. They posted the schedule,” Purpled says, holding out his hand, but Tommy doesn’t take it. “Just— Come on, trust me.”
Reluctantly, Tommy lets Purpled drag him through the crowd. The players’ clenched shoulders and fleeting gazes say just as much as the quiet frenzy.
Purpled keeps his gaze fixed on something vague in the distance, pushing and shoving through the masses. Finally, the piece of paper taped onto the wall comes into view.
Tommy stares at it with wide eyes, holding his breath.
“What’s it say?” Purpled asks, but Tommy doesn’t answer—he seems almost frozen in place. Curious, Purpled walks up to inspect it, letting out a quiet, “Shit.”
Tommy’s first game is tomorrow.
He spends more meals alone than with Eighty, nowadays. Purpled pretends not to notice the way Eighty draws further in himself, how his gaze always lingers on a horizon line, instead of the present.
It’s a shame, almost, when he and Eighty get put in separate rotations. It’s certainly not a surprise. Seeing Eighty in the bunks, or on the way to a game, is the only time they speak.
When Eighty’s name starts climbing the leaderboard, Purpled pretends not to care. When he reaches the top, he tells himself it won't change anything.
Purpled still wonders, though. What it is that Eighty’s chasing?
Purpled slowly lets his posture relax as he watches Tommy simply survive, then compete, then, eventually, win the game.
It’s electric, his performance.
Tommy’s shakey laughs and one-liners enrapture the audience, Purpled included, and for a moment he understands the appeal of the game. Of watching it, at least.
Tommy grins and jokes like the audience and he are good friends, making sure they’re involved as he slides around the map and beats his opponents one by one. He struggles a little with dismantling the beds—it’s obvious that he’s never torn through wool or splintered wood before—but other than that, Purpled’s impressed. His skill with a sword holds up, and, most importantly, he’s a loudmouth on stage.
Skill needs to be combined with charisma for any player to survive.
“Great job, man,” Purpled says, slapping Tommy on the shoulder. A mingle of pride and admiration rings in his chest.
Tommy looks dazed, fresh out of the exit gate. An attendant offers him his earnings, and he shakily takes them with one hand. His eyes seem to tear through the crowd, transfixed on Purpled like he’s a beacon of light.
Titling his head, Purpled beckons them to walk. “You did really, really well,” he says. “You sure you haven’t played before?”
Tommy nods. His hair sticks to his forehead, and he’s limping slightly on his left leg. Bruises span most of one knee, and his clothes are bunched up and clingy with static.
Purpled hands him a towel.
“Thanks,” Tommy coughs. “But, yeah. That was my first match.” Unenthusiastically: “Woo.”
Purpled freezes, for a moment, before running to catch up. “Wait— What?”
Tommy doesn’t wait for him, wiping sweat off with his towel.
“I mean— It makes sense that sword-fighting would carry over, but— That’s insane,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. His hands fidget and toy with his hoodie strings, and his eyes draw themselves to his shoes, worn and faded. “Where’d you learn to fight like— like that, anyway?”
Tommy cringes, near imperceptible. “Home, I guess.” He rubs at his face, more harshly than before, and his eyes bunch up and squirm. “I— My brother used to play,” he pauses. “These kinds of games. Combat games, at least. He taught me.”
“Oh,” Purpled says. His eyes drift to the floor, face going numb. Tommy’s silence says enough. “Shit— I’m sorry. That must have been hard on you guys.”
“What? No, no, no,” Tommy stammers. The words slur together. “He— He got away, fought his way out.” He chuckles softly to himself. “Guess I get to follow in his footsteps.”
Looking back up, Purpled says, “That’s— I mean, that’s better than the alternative, but—” he trails off. Who was Tommy’s brother, then? Surely, Purpled would’ve known him.
“Yeah,” he says weakly. “Better than dying a painful, horrible death.”
Tommy laughs, a little more real this time. “I guess it is.”
Approved for departure: gamerboy80.
Purpled reads the sign over once, twice. By the fourth time, the small, lingering dread in his stomach unfolds into something that pierces through his gut. It writhes around, before Purpled feels the weight of gravity tugging, tugging, until the feeling steadies itself.
It seems that, with only a few words, Purpled’s world comes crashing down.
With a jolt, he rushes back to the bunks, praying he’s not too late.
Eighty is hunched over in a corner, humming to himself. Thankfully, his bag only looks half full.
“You’re leaving me?” Purpled chokes, clutching the doorway. His throat’s getting tighter and tighter, and every shuddering breath barely escapes.
Eighty pauses, looks up. The fervent hunger in his eyes has finally left—replaced, instead, by something calm. Serene, almost. In a detached tone only Eighty could master, he says, “Sorry, man. But yeah. I have to.”
Purpled stills; Eighty resumes his packing, every item added making a thump as it goes in. “You’re leaving,” he says again, trying to draw comfort in the words. “You— You’re actually leaving.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Eighty says, but Purpled is unconvinced. “You would too, if you got the chance. It’s safer out there.” There’s a small crack in his expression as he says, “I— I have a family to get back to.”
Purpled shouldn't be surprised. He knows too well the magnetic pull that brought him here, standing across from a man he once called brother. What about me? a part of him whines. Weren't we family, too? You can't go. You're all I have.
He doesn’t say that, though; he can't. He hasn't said anything of the sort in years. And, besides, he knows it wouldn't change Eighty's mind.
Soon enough, Eighty zips his bag closed. He turns to leave, and Purpled can’t bring himself to stop him. Through the open door, Purpled watches Eighty’s figure shrink in the distance, before quietly disappearing altogether.
Purpled stands there, for a moment, paralyzed. He turns back to the room, to where Eighty once was. The only legacy he left is the outline of a duffel bag on the bed sheets, and the small trail of footprints leading out the door.
Settling his expression, Purpled smooths out the wrinkles, sitting down. Other players eventually walk over the marks on the floor, and Purpled is left in silence.
Tommy finds him in the boiler room after hours, patching himself up. An open medicine kit lies sprawled on the counter next to him.
Today’s games had been rough.
“Bloody— What are you doing here?” he says, and Purpled winces at the noise. “Are you alright?”
“Close the door, they’re gonna find us,” Purpled snaps. “And do I look alright?”
“Sorry,” Tommy says, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. Guiltily: “Shouldn’t have asked.”
“Just— sit down.” Purpled gestures to the bench beside him—with his head, his hands are busy. “And be quiet, okay?”
Tommy gives him a thumbs up.
Purpled rolls his eyes, shoving down the smile that threatens to break out. He dips a cotton ball in alcohol, wincing as he tends to his wounds. Tommy is silent company. He’s motionless when Purpled bites his lip and draws blood, motionless when he takes out the adhesive and bandages, and motionless as Purpled bends over backwards to get it on correctly.
Realizing that Tommy won’t help unless Purpled lets him, he says, “Here— take these, and wrap them snugly— not tightly around the cut.” He piles the equipment into Tommy’s arms.
“You sure?”
“Go wild,” Purpled says with a sigh.
Tommy works more carefully than expected, schooling his expression into something more passive. His hands become softer as he tends to Purpled’s wounds; his mouth stays brash, as always. “This wasn’t what I was expecting when you said you’d teach me.”
Purpled chuckles. “I guess it’s not. To be fair, I wasn’t sure what I was meant to teach you.”
Tommy finishes up the first wound, and gets ready to tend to the second.
Awkwardly: “You can go a little faster, you know.”
“I know, I know.” Tommy grits his teeth and wraps the bandage tighter. “I’m just following your directions.”
“Yeah,” Purpled says, looking at the floor. “Thanks— for that, by the way. You’re not bad.”
Tommy scoffs. “I’ve had a lot of practice. My older brother— the one I was talking about earlier, he got into all sorts of fights whenever they went to town. Me and my dad always had to patch him up.”
Purpled’s not sure how to respond to that.
“I—” he pauses. “I miss them so fucking much.” Tommy’s expression closes off, as he stares at the floor. “It’s funny, actually. I never thought I would.”
Purpled tilts his head. “Why not?”
“They never—” he starts, cringing. “It’s stupid, really, but I just got so annoyed that I— ran off, on the spot.” His mouth settles into something flat. “After they’d all gone to bed, I snuck out the back garden.”
Something tugs in Purpled’s gut. What would that have felt like—to be able to walk out the door and never look back? A yearning, dim but ever-present, seems to relight itself.
He looks back at Tommy, face etched in sorrow and regret. The flame flickers. Purpled doesn’t need to imagine how Tommy’s family must feel.
How could you? he thinks, but does not say. Instead, softly: “Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Leave,” Purpled says, louder than he means. “How—” he falters, and starts fiddling with his hoodie strings.
A harsh laugh escapes Tommy’s mouth. “I told you it was stupid. They all just kept— babying me. I’m not some kind of child.”
For a moment, all Purpled can think of is the look of wonder his younger self stared with, towards some strange, new place; his face, red with tears, trapped under the ice; the roundness of his cheeks, withered away to time, until the person behind the mirror looked unrecognizable.
Securing the last of Purpled’s wounds, Tommy pats his arm. “There, all done.”
Purpled twists around to see Tommy’s handiwork. Neat, white bandages curl up his arm, with a small space around the elbow for movement. “Thanks,” he says. It sounds faint, even to himself.
“Yeah, no problem,” Tommy says absentmindedly. “You got anyone back home, anyway?”
“Not that I can remember,” Purpled says lamely. A pair of red and yellow eyes flash in his mind, but he pushes that thought away. “It’s— It’s okay. I don’t miss them, or anything. I— I’m used to it.”
Tommy tsks, barely audible. “Doesn’t make the hurt any easier.” He bites his lip, before sighing. “Even if I didn’t know their names, I’d still want my family.”
Again, Purpled is left speechless.
The pipes behind them start whining, steam filling the air. It’s a softer sound than the ringing in his ears, and, with a jolt, he starts helping Tommy put the medicine kit away.
“C’mon,” Purpled says. “We gotta go.”
“Coming, coming.”