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Arc F1.9 | Chapter 13: Definitely Not Panicking (it’s just really hot in here, is all)

Malcolm was panicking. Definitely not. In no world was he panicking. Was his Censor currently telling him his heart rate was elevated? His pupils blown wide? His breaths coming in short and shallow? Yes, but that didn’t mean he was panicking.They were in Seer’ik’tine was the thing. It was hot there—sweltering, even. The sun was, yes, beginning its descent over the eastern coast, far off across the Bay of Jibur and the Grey Sands and Baalphoria itself, and what had Miles told his family about where he was? Shouldn’t his wife and other kids be asking where he was? Maybe, since he’d been so busy, none of them were excepting him home for dinner? Or to even hear from him yet?

What about Emilia? She was still offaether—dead, in the eyes of the OIC and Censors.

Somewhere in his periphery vision, his Censor offered him the suggestion that, due to knowing Emilia and her propensity for causing problems, it was possible her family had simply assumed she was no longer near an aethernet hub. Usually, the OIC was pretty good about accounting for that, of course, giant maps existing within its neural network of all the places without a consistent aethernet connection, all so it could add a little note to the relays of anyone trying to contact them:

Should Emilia have a similar note on her relays as a general course of existence, given how often she wound up in situations like this? Something to consider later, perhaps.

For the moment, she was gone but fine—definitely fine, Malcolm was refusing to consider that she wasn’t fine.

Emilia had to be fine. If she wasn’t, it would destroy him—Rafe as well, not that Malcolm really cared about Rafe. If Emilia died, the only real, solid connection he had with either of his brothers would die with her, and that was a problem, wasn’t it? His mother and uncle got on well enough—didn’t one another, but certainly had some sort of that kept them working together, chatting, being amicable when they happened across one another.

If Emilia died, Malcolm wasn’t sure he would ever have anything to say to either of his brothers again—and really, he had a hard enough time speaking to Rafe these days as it was. Did he know the stupid reason why his brother had broken Emilia’s heart? Yes. Unfortunately, the brat had pulled him into {A Private Moment} to tell him! Had Rafe not done that, seeking to get advice on what to do—not that he’d even followed Malcolm’s advice of —Malcolm would have told Emilia himself.

Little fucker. If Emilia died, Malcolm wouldn’t have any words left for his brother, and even before that fallout between Emilia and Rafe had soured his opinion of his middle brother, Malcolm doubted he would have spared many words for Rafe had she died. He just… didn’t care—didn’t care to such an extent that he wondered, sometimes, his relationship between himself and his brothers was so much more apathetic than even that of his mother and her own brother. His mother and uncle even had an relationship with their Baxter cousins, but again, if Emilia died, Malcolm wouldn’t care to speak with his own, younger cousins again—the triplets or any other clone who he only spoke with because they loved Emilia, either. He would have had to, of course, due to their jobs, but he wouldn’t stop and chat with them, wouldn’t want to meet the children many of them would one day have despite knowing that, no matter what, he would endlessly love and adore any child Emilia created.

Even the collection of children Emilia was inevitably going to be dragging out of Lüshan with her, Malcolm knew he would inherently care for. They were children Emilia had chosen to protect, and that was enough to earn them a place within his heart—not true , but something close to what he felt for a handful of her friends. Simeon, mostly, who needed to be protected. How easy love for her and care for those she cared for came, yet his ability to give a single shit about his own relatives was nothing but yet another extension of her affection for them.

Perhaps having Emilia as a connecting factor in his relationships had affected his ability to find a balance with his brothers and cousins, the way their parents had? It was an interesting thing to consider, this reality that, without Emilia, his relationship with his family might have been more , yet he may not have truly anyone. Even his love for Finn had come later, after watching his then-best friend—whom he had cared for in a strangely distant way that he could no longer taste more than the aftertaste of, but certainly hadn’t —immediately wrap his heart around the little silverstrain his brothers and he had grown to love…

in that moment had changed for him, instant and overwhelming. Here was this boy, broken in a way that was often painful to watch, accepting Emilia into his arms as he had a panic attack, explaining to her some of his issues. Finn’s heart had cracked open that day, as little Emilia asked if he , then claimed that she had seen some pretty horrible things, so he didn’t need to be afraid of scarring or scaring her.

she had asked, indignant when Finn continued to refuse to tell her what had caused his mysophobia with all the energy of someone who wanted to spill their soul to someone so sweet and open, and yet, knew that she was just a child.

When Finn had been forced to admit he’d been about Emilia’s age, she had demanded the truth.

she had insisted, Finn insisting back that he hadn’t survived—that he was broken and hurting.

Emilia, Malcolm had always thought, would make some mixture of a terrible and a wonderful therapist. Even as a child, she had always seemed to know what to say in order to make anyone spew their truths for her. At the same time, she wasn’t exactly nice about it, laying brutal truths over the people that stuck with them, as impossible to remove as the trauma raging through them.

Finn had been better off for what Emilia had said to him that day—promises that it was okay to be messed up by the things that had happened to him, that he didn’t need to think he had what happened, and that instead, he could just learn to live as someone a little broken. Then, she’d smiled and said she was a little broken, too, and promised that they could be broken together.

Later, Finn had cried into Malcolm’s neck, having climbed into his lap in a rare moment of his want to be held overriding his fear of the grime and dirt that covered him Malcolm. In that moment, what affection had suddenly been rising within him had settled because holding Finn had felt so , and every time he had been allowed to hold and touch him since then had been a painful thing, knowing it was a fleeting thing.

Emilia had said, her fingers reaching up to brush tears from Finn’s eyes. Even now, decades later, she was the only person Finn allowed to touch him virtually anytime—the result of Emilia’s insistence that he couldn’t her because she was already dirty as well.

she had told them, each of them horrified as she laid out more and more things the adults who had been responsible for raising her had said to or around her for the whole of her short life. Her little nose had wrinkled as she admitted that she only understood what that meant and the fact that she’d understood had been horrifying.

Eventually, Malcolm had become one of those men who enjoyed seeing her dirty——and just like that little version of her had claimed, Emilia had learned to revel in it. Some people would shy away from that darkness; Emilia had embraced it, and Finn had allowed her to do so through him, in a strange way.

If she was already dirty, the dirty and grime and pain that Finn felt couldn’t touch her—or if it did, it was a simple transference: some of the horror of what had happened to Emilia for some of his own horror.

Once, shortly after Rafe killed Warren, Malcolm had come home to find Finn letting Emilia sleep in his lap.

the clone had said, his fingers brushing through Emilia’s hair. Lips quirking in a sad smile as he blinked back tears, Finn had laughed, unamused and heartbroken as he explained that she’d been avoiding him—not exactly strange; Emilia had been avoiding almost everyone, and really, how Rafe had been the only one to realize something terrible had happened, Malcolm would never know.

Everyone wrapped up in their own problems, perhaps.

With Finn, however, Emilia had apparently thought her now liable to contaminate him. Somewhere in her brain, she had decided that, before her assault, their had balanced itself out. So, now that she was so much dirtier for what had happened to her, clearly, she couldn’t touch Finn anymore—couldn’t make him dirtier when he already thought himself a disgusting thing. Malcolm wished he could have seen the boy he loved cornering Emilia, forcing her to confess to him. It had been the second time she confessed what had happened, as far as Malcolm knew, most of them having learned through Rafe and the rumour mill, rather than Emilia herself.

Finn knew it all, he’d once admitted, Emilia sobbing what little she remembered and her overwhelming fear and self-loathing into his skin because even had Emilia’s assumption that their was no longer even been correct—it wasn’t, given that realistically Emilia’s experiences even now were barely a scratch over everything Finn had gone through in his own childhood—there was no way Finn wouldn’t offer her the same comfort she had once given him.

So, Finn, who was so afraid of germs spreading further into his body and of those around him, had accepted Emilia’s hurt into himself. What love Malcolm had already held for him had simply grown in response, and maybe, had there been no Emilia, he would have fallen for his friend eventually; maybe she was the only reason he had Finn standing behind him, trying not to laugh because he was an asshole and didn’t he realize this was serious!?

Emilia was in danger and Miles was here, and—

“Please don’t take her away from me,” he blurted out, sickly hot heat rushing through his body. It spread over his cheeks and nose, up and over his ears, down his chest and was it hot in here? There was air conditioning, so it shouldn’t be—and yes, Malcolm knew he had been lying to himself claiming that he wasn’t panicking and it was just the heat because there was no heat here and to be honest he wasn’t sure he was breathing.

Was he breathing? Was that sound, hissing and wheezing, his lungs? It felt like one of them had popped and maybe that’s why his vision was a little fuzzy? Black spots popping up here and there and was that normal it didn’t seem normal but what did he know?

In the end, he was just as stupid as the kids who had gone to Falmíer and they should have told him if only so he could have gone with them. Things would be so much better if he was there with them, making sure they were safe because Emilia would be so sad if any of them died and—

And warm arms engulfed him, and for a moment, Malcolm thought it was Finn—and really, should he be concerned about his of ability to see, the world now nothing but a blur of static and tears and when was the last time he had cried? Probably when he found out about what Warren had done to Emilia, his soul and heart shattering because he was supposed to protect her and he hadn’t been there to protect her just like he wasn’t there now and she was going to be hurt again and there was nothing he could do and—

“Malcolm, you need to breathe,” Miles said, his chest solid against Malcolm’s as he sucked in long breaths, urging Malcolm to breathe with him because he definitely wasn’t doing that. Fingers dragged through his hair, and that was nice, although he couldn’t tell if it was Miles or Finn. Either was fine. Finn was safe, and while Miles was scary, with his ability to take Emilia away from him at any moment, it didn’t feel like the older man was going to do that, if he was trying to help him stop panicking?

Maybe… maybe that meant he hadn’t fucked up so bad that Miles would never let him see Emilia again?