Kaz, and a spiral down.

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Trigger Warnings: self-hatred, sickness, themes of death, themes of suicidal thoughts, violence (cannon typical), and vomiting

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Words: 3,435

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Clara is used to waking up to crying in the night, no doubt. She had three children, after all, but there's something about these wails that causes her to panic. They're jagged, and not like a baby's confused cries. It takes her a long moment before she realizes it's her son, and she practically leaps out of bed, throwing her door open and rushing to his room, throwing on the hallway lights.

She opens the door more gently with her foot, hearing her son's muffled cries and whimpers, and not sure if he was awake, she didn't want to startle him further. "Kaz, sweetie?" She whispers softly, and a sob escapes him. She shushes him and settles her hand on his bare neck, but he flinches away as if burned. Oh, her boy.

"Go away," he mutters into the pillows, his muscles clenched, slick with sweat. From the brief contact, Clara could tell he's running a fever, his body shuddering with chills. He's crying into his pillow, soft sobs escaping him periodically.

"Mama?" Clara turns to see Aleid in the doorway, bracketed by the light in the hall, her stuffed bear clutched in one hand as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes.

She shakes her head, "Go back to bed, baby. I'll be there in a bit." Aleid glances at Kaz, her unfailing big brother. Clara shakes her head again, and Aleid trudges back to bed, closing the door behind her. The lights clicked off after her, and now Clara only had moonlight to see by.

"Shhh," she says softly, "It's okay, you're safe. Shshshsh, breathe, breathe with me. It's okay, whatever you think is happening isn't real. You are safe, in bed. It's okay."

"Don't lie to me!" He cries into his pillow, muttering 'Shut up' over and over again. "Please," he whimpers, after a long stretch of silence, his body locked in place from his fear. His arm hangs off the side, mere inches from her, the hand ungloved.

"Breathe, honey," she says softly, crouching by the bed. She demonstrates for him, telling him to mimic her breathing. After a few short, shuddering breaths, he begins to try and mimic the deep breathing. The breaths were unsteady, punctured by sobs and hiccups, but they were a start.

"Feel...light-headed," he mumbles, his voice much softer now, showing signs of his exhaustion after the high of his panic attack. "And sick."

Her heart hammers in her chest as she brushes his hair away, "Do you want to go to the bathroom, then?" A hesitation, then a small nod. He forces himself up, his face twisting as he did. Clara represses her wince as he turns himself over, onto his back, then into an upright position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

She has risen now and watches her son as he rises shakily to his legs. She hands him his cane, and he stumbles into the bathroom, not walking straight. He slouches over the toilet as Clara grabs a washcloth and wet it until it's damp.

"May I?" She asks softly, and he nods, his body trembling. She brushes the sweat off his forehead, noting how he presses closer with every horrible shake of his breath. "Shhhhh," she whispers, "It's okay."

"You're burning up," she says offhandedly, brushing the cloth over his head again. His head falls forward over the bowl, as he dry-heaves, tears welling in his eyes, tears he viciously fights down. His bare hands grasp the edges of the bowl like a lifeline, as he finally throws up, a sob tearing through him.

"Fix it," he groans, his eyes blurring. "Make it go away. I don't wanna be sick."

"I know, sweetheart, I know. It'll go away soon." She carefully runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and he shivers under her touch but does not push her away. "What happened?"

"Bad dream," he mumbles, "About-" he chokes on a sob, and Clara has a dark feeling she knows where this is going. "-About Jordie, about the Barge. Aleid was there, she was me, I was Jordie, or she was Jordie, I don't know!" He tears his hand through his hair.

Oh, her poor, beaten son. How she just wants to wrap him in her arms and steal him and little Aleid away to a place where they could live with those they'd lost forever. Her only living son looks to her now, eyes wide, shining with tears. "Why was it me, Mama? Why was I the one who lived?"

He turns away from his frozen mother, shame burning hot in him. "I wish, God, I wish sometimes it had been me. Fucking hell, I wish I had died on the Barge." He hangs his head, as his Mom sniffles. "Why did I have to live? Why is it always me? I can't keep doing this, it's so damn hard. I'm so tired, Mama."

"I know, my boy," she says softly, the barest quiver in her voice. "I know you're tired, I know baby. But you've done so much, done things so grand the world will speak of them for hundreds of years to come. I'm so proud of you, of what you've become."

"I miss him so much," he whimpers softly, his voice low and hurt. She remembers that voice. It's the voice he used to use when Jordie would accidentally hurt his feelings, when he scraped his knee on the pavement that one time. He had been no more than four then, some twenty-three years ago. He was twenty-seven now, so old. He was older than she was when she had him.

"I do too, honey. I do too," she says, brushing his hair back yet again. He no longer felt like his guts were going to spill out from under him, so he shakily opened his arms, asking for a hug. Talking seemed so exhausting now.

His mom grabs him quickly, rubbing his back softly, as he cries. The dream had been horrible, invasive, as if his heart had been torn from his chest and cracked in two for his demons to feast upon the blood, like the crows he treasured ate anything in their way.

Aleid had been dead-eyed, like Jordie. He had been dead-eyed. They had all been dead. Jordie was laughing, harsh and cruel. He could feel hands around his neck, and the rings on them told him it was Rollings, getting his revenge, laughing all the while. He screamed in the dream, screamed for all he was worth, trying to claw off the hands. The water crashed and pounded, voices filled his ears, drowning the world out.

Hundreds of embarrassing sounds are escaping his lips, but he aches with exhaustion, so stifling the whines, the moans, the whimpers, feels like climbing up the Church of the Barter at the moment. His hands are balled into fists in his Mom's shirt.

There are light footsteps, and the gentle lilt of Aleids voice carries through the shut door. "Mama? I can't sleep."

"Kaz?" His mom whispers in his ear, and he nods. "Come in, be gentle on the door." He can hear his sister's soft footsteps, the sound of her closing the door behind her, heard as she sat on the cool tile next to him. He stiffens, a shudder rippling through him.

"Aleid, what time is it?"

"Almost dawn, I think," She chirps. He groans against his mom's shoulder, feeling his body grow heavier.

"Do Mama a favour. Get in your real clothes and shoes and run down to Yakov's room at the inn. Tell the innkeeper Clara sent you, she'll know who you are. And bring him here, okay? Can you do that?" Kaz frowns, something curling in his stomach.

"I can," Aleid says, and he hears her leave the room.

"Why?" He forces out, words muffled by her shoulder.

"I'm going to have him grab some medicine at the apothecary." He stiffens, and she reassures him, "Nothing much, sweetheart. Just some painkillers and an anti-nausea tonic. Your head hurts, I bet." It did indeed hurt. How did she know? "Do you want me to get a sedative, just in case?"

He shrugs, heart racing. He feels like he should press away, clean up, he can't let someone who he barely knows to see him like this. But, by Inej's saints, even thinking about conjuring that kind of energy exhausts him beyond words. So he stays limp in his Mom's arms, unaware as he slipped in and out of consciousness, his panic rising but his exhaustion outstripping it.

He hears heavy, rapid footsteps, and the door opens again. He hears Yakov, his mom's Ravkan beau, crouch down, there are the rapid words that he and his Mom exchange, then an unfamiliar hand on his forehead. He can't focus, the world has spun into a dangerous tilt. He feels hot and sweaty and wet now, he crawls away from his Mom, unable to focus.

There are arms under him, he realises half-heartedly, unable to fully panic through whatever haze had taken him. He merely groans as he's lifted off the floor, his bad leg agonised after being bent for so long. There are voices, they're too loud, he can't—he hears a loud noise, feels himself being half carried, half dragged to his bed. He is most certainly not walking. He crumples gratefully onto it, falling into black unconsciousness.

He wakes up to silence, blearily rising as he blinks the sun out of his eyes. His arms shake from under him, and he shoves himself onto his back, looking up at the window. He only remembers what had happened in flashes of colour, light, and sound.

He remembers the nightmare, the feeling of sickness well enough. He barely remembers telling his mom something, some confession, falling into her arms and crying. From there it's a jumble as he slowly was overcome with a subtle panic that attacked before he even realised it had arrived.

He tries to steady his breathing, to calm his brains so he can mercilessly wrack it for any and all memory of what happened. He hates, hates, not knowing or remembering a single detail of anything that happens to him, and this is no different. Judging by where the sun lays in the sky, he's lost hours.

The door, squeaky as ever, opens slowly, and he forces his eyes to whoever is entering. His little sister steps in, two of her teddys clutched in her arms. "Mama said you might be awake now," she says quietly, fidgeting with her dress.

"Come here," he manages to say, his throat sore. Aleid comes over, crawling up into bed next to him. His gloved hand brushes back her hair, and he has to smile to himself. Aleid's face is young and bright, innocent beyond words. He nearly shudders to think of the lengths he would go to protect her innocence.

Aleid finds it fit to entertain her brother by making her two teddies talk to each other, making up the most dramatic scene, worthy of the Komedie Brute, in his not so humble opinion. His reactions to the story were also most certainly overdramatic, but it was worth it for her smile.

But suddenly, Aleid paused in her story, her bears stilling where they have been conducting their drama on Kaz's leg. She looks scared now, and he's just about to ask what's wrong when she speaks, "Are you okay? I was really scared, you looked sick. Mama was scared too, I think."

He closes his eyes, sighing heavily. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Aleid is just seven, he's twenty-seven, there are twenty years between them. He had kissed Inej by the time she was born, a hollowing thought. There are things he can't tell her yet, things that are so beyond her still. That was one of them.

"I'm fine, bubs," he assures her, grabbing her hand so tiny next to his. Where his fingers were long and elegant with years, her fingers were a bit more stubby. They were smooth, unblemished with neither traces of plague nor callouses.

"What happened?" She asks, pulling closer to her brother. She's leaning over him now, just a bit. He smiles grimly, not giving any answer. She frowns, pouting just a bit, "You can tell me, I'm not a baby!"

He has to contain the biting, yes you are, please stop being so desperate to grow up, and close his eyes as he sighs. He forces himself into an upright position, Aleid making room for him, holding his hand all the while.

He takes both hands in his now, and speaks slowly, "You don't need to know, Aleid. You're not old enough, okay? I'll tell you one day, promise." Even if it means I'm ripping my heart out of me and laying it to you bare on a silver platter, I will tell you.

She's truly pouting now. "I'm old enough!" She says, and he's struck by how high her voice is, as she crosses her arms sourly, "I'm seven!"

"That's my point," he says softly, grabbing her bears and handing them back to her. She looks at him, expecting him to explain further but her brother has gone silent, his dark hair hanging over his even darker eyes.

"Aleid," he says, voice causing her to pause. It was the voice Mama got when she was tired and Aleid knew she shouldn't annoy her Mom, but there was something more. It was somehow amplified. "Aleid, look at me."

She does, and he leans a bit closer to her, brushing her hair away from her face as she stares at her big brother, transfixed. "Don't try to grow up so quickly. Enjoy being young...for me, okay?"

"Why?"

He sighs, "Sometimes, people don't get that. You're really lucky to be able to. Please don't forget that."

"Kaz?" She asks, but he hushes her, pulling her close to him. She forgets her frustration and curls close to him, clutching her bears close to her chest. "Kazzy, look, this bear looks like you!" She says, pointing to a stitch in it from where it had torn.

Right at the neck. His fingers came up to his own neck, where there was a deep gash, the skin silver and puckered, one of many things that hadn't healed right. He smiled, brushing over the careful stitches. "Yeah," he said with a light laugh, "It does."

There's a sharp rap at the door, a man's voice carries through the door, "Aleid? Lunch is ready. May I come in?"

Aleid looks at Kaz, and he nods. He's yet to meet Yakov face to face, he realises, as Aleid tells him to come in. The man opens the door, Aleid runs off the bed, jumping into his arms. Kaz smiles a crooked thing, laying back down. He's still exhausted.

"You want some, son? We have plenty." Yakov asks, and Kaz's eyes snap open, meeting the man's eyes. Aleid is in his arms, smiling. He shakes his head.

"Not hungry." Yakov nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and leaving Kaz alone. Truth is, Kaz is starving. But he's also terrified of the food coming back up, and he would rather starve than be sick like that.

He stares at the wood of the ceiling for a long while, trying to find patterns in the old wood. He hears them all in the dining room, Aleid's bright laughter. He pauses, realising she left the scarred bear with him, and he picks it up gently. The bear's shiny, black, button eyes stare back at him as he tries to remember if he ever had a bear like this, in the before.

No, he remembers, they didn't. They were much too poor. He sets the bear aside gently, running a hand over his face...why is he crying? Why are there tears in his eyes—by the Saints, he's exhausted. But he's scared if he closes his eyes, he'll lose more time, more time with Aleid while she's young.

He's frozen in fear, terror sinking in, her hook in his mouth dragging him into her sharp mouth. Aleid is almost eight...he was, what? Nine? What do numbers mean any more to him, what does a birthday mean to a dead man? God, what will he do when she turns nine, when he's watching the shadows, making sure nothing touches her that year, and for forever beyond that.

The feeling inside him scares him, much like how he'd been so afraid of his sickness the night before, the sickness that still sticks to him. He's sick, he's scared, and god, he would kill himself if Aleid felt even a fraction of this.

He sits up, his head spinning with the thoughts crashing around him. He's so fixated on the idea of keeping Aleid safe that he doesn't realise his mind is conjuring up all the ways he could fail, all the ways he has failed, all the ways she could be his tell. He holds his head between his knees, breaths ragged.

God, Saints, whatever there was, he knew what he had told mom, in his stupid fucking haze of fever and that damn memory turned nightmare. I want to die, he said in more words, Yeah Mom, I'm so fucking ungrateful that I lived when so many didn't that I would rather be dead than have what I have now. I would rather be dead than here because I can't get over it.

Saints above, he was a wreck. He knew his words and thoughts weren't bad, that Mama wasn't mad, she was worried, and that there was no 'getting over it.' There would always be a part of him that was shattered beyond fixing. Maybe it was his innocence, maybe it was just him. Maybe it was...god he didn't know.

But God above, he wanted that back, watching Aleid had given him just scrapes of what he wanted so bad. Watching her put on her show, laugh and think herself so old, it was naïve and innocent, and wholly—oh

Oh.

He was jealous. In a burning, passionate way he was jealous of his little sister. So damn jealous that she got what he didn't, that she was the Rietveld kid who wasn't three seconds away from crumbling in on themselves. That she was a kid.

It wasn't her fault, Saints no, and he would make sure she got what he never did until his dying breath but that didn't stop the flame in his chest. He wished he got to be her, a silly thought. She had grown up with a working mom, who lived in fear constantly. But she had been so young, she had stayed so innocent from lack of understanding. She didn't have the memory her brother did, whose first memory is from when he was two.

He falls back onto his bed, with a sob, hitting his fist lightly against his head, before flattening it and closing his eyes. He's a small piece of wood in rough waters, bobbing beneath the water, but not sinking, he's too light, too unlucky. He wants to just sink down sometimes. (All the time).

Saints, Saints, God, Ghezen, God, God, Saints, Is all that he can discern from the whirl of his thoughts.

There's a knock on the door, and he just stays there in silence. He wants to sleep, he's so tired, but he closes his eyes and every thought that's plagued him since he first woke up this morning, choke him as Pekka did in that damn dream, god he could feel the fingers on his neck—

There's something cold on his forehead. His thoughts come to a halt when the cold thing, which was slightly damp, makes itself known. His senses heighten and he hears a voice he knows, his Mom, her voice like wind chimes. He manages to mumble, "Too wet."

The cold leaves his forehead, a dry cloth wipes across his head. The cold returns again, but without that dreadful wetness. He had felt so sick and hot, and he hadn't even realised until the cold startled him. His Mom is whispering next to him, encouraging, soft, words and with simple words made out of the same twenty-six letters he uses to hate himself and shut the world out, he feels just a bit more whole. It's been a bad day—no, a horrible day—but God, maybe there was something waiting for him now, on the edge of a broken fever. He doesn't know, but Saints, he can't wait to figure out. 

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I realised recently I had missed something with this fic, and that was properly exploring Kaz's trauma and how it would relate to Clara and how she would react to her son breaking down. I tried to make Kaz seem disjointed, for lack of a better word. That's why I have him call out to both God (Ghezen) and the Saints, he's an absolute mess. He's just had a visceral nightmare, he's running a fever (Which is reminding him of the last time he got one) and he's coming to terms with self-hatred.

On that self-hatred, I'm merely expanding on his cannon disregard for his health and safety, and giving a reason. I do think, knowing Kaz, there's likely a lot of guilt around how he survived when everyone else died. If you need an example of something similar, consider Burr from Hamilton during Wait For It and his lyrics there and apply that here. Idk, I just wanted to expand on some tiny things, wrap this up a bit better, and give some massive hurt comfort and angst. :)