TWs: Blood, panic attack/crying, past scars, feelings of anger/sadness/panic. Stay safe :)

You awoke with a lightness in his head, feeling a warm liquid running down his chin. He was tied to a chair, the ropes nearly cutting the circulation in his arms and legs. His arms were restrained at his sides. He pulled against the restraints, trying to move or ease them at least a little bit. His breath caught in his throat as his attempts were fruitless.

There was a grunt behind him, "Stop moving, idiot..."

"Yan?" You's eyes widened.

"Who else would be tied up with you?" The Russian spoke.

Without warning, You reached behind him with his left hand, grabbing Yan's right hand.

"What the hell-" Yan frowned, trying to move his hand away.

"D-Don't! Please don't..." You rasped, his chest nearly heaving as he tried to normalize his breathing, "I can't m-move..."

Yan opened his mouth, about to make a snarky remark, when he heard You start to sniffle, startling the ravenette. He had never seen or caught the blonde crying before. You always had a smile on his face despite being in dire situations. He had always been the one to be on the move, to act before thinking about consequences, and never turned his back on someone in need.

Yan sighed before reconnecting their hands, "I can't move either."

You intertwined their fingers together, making sure Yan was with him. Tears ran down his cheeks as he tried to wipe them off, to no avail. His breathing was still off, his chest heaving unevenly as he tried not to think about the ropes constraining him. He needed to move; it felt unnatural to stay still.

Yan rubbed his thumb along You's hand, "It'll be okay, You. I'm right here."

You sniffled, closing his eyes as he breathed in and out slowly, trying to relax as much as possible. He then felt around with his right hand, grabbing Yan's other hand.

Yan didn't mind the touch as long as he knew You was okay.

Although, now that he was feeling both of the blonde's hands, there was something off. You's hands were slick and sticky for some reason.

"You, what's on your hands?" Yan spoke, hoping to distract him.

"What... I don't know, but my hands are less itchy now." He replied, feeling weary.

Yan nodded, opening his mouth only to get cut off by a groan instead as he felt a pain in his side.

"Yan! Are you okay?" You tightened his grip on their hands, peering over his shoulder.

"Дерьмо..." Yan hissed under his breath as he felt the same burning sensation from earlier, "I'm fine; don't worry."

He was fine: he kept telling himself. The wound wasn't that deadly; the bullet had only grazed him. He wasn't going to bleed out within minutes.

'Hopefully...' He bit his lip as he thought darkly. He shook his head promptly, attempting to ignore the thoughts that came to him and the warm liquid seeping out from the wound slowly.

"This is going to be a problem..." Arthur hummed as Tord finished explaining things, "Looks like we'll have to extend our plan a bit."

"Did we even have a plan?" Edd asked.

"I came up with one, but now I need to rework some things." The older huffed, dazing into the distance, "Where's Matthew?"

"Over on the couch." Tord pointed to where Matt had been huddled on the couch, staring into the fireplace, looking deeply into the flames.

"Do you two know what's bothering him?" Arthur inquired, "He's been quiet."

"Oh, it's just- Tom and him are close." Edd smiled awkwardly.

"Really close," Tord smirked, earning a small smack behind his head.

Arthur blinked as he quirked an eyebrow, "Uh-huh..."

Edd and Tord walked away, mainly to not spill their friend's secret.

Arthur sighed as he heard their footsteps go elsewhere, 'Kids these days with their obscure messages...'

He stepped into the kitchen; light whispers came from Edd and Tord as they sat on the barstools at the kitchen island. Arthur also picked up the movement of another person, hearing the awe in his adolescent voice.

"Careful with those." Arthur warned as he heard Clay messing with specific glasses, "Those are valuable antique cups."

"Valuable, how?" Clay asked, eyes filling with curiosity.

"To my wife. She practically washed them every day." Rolling up his sleeves, Arthur washed his hands.

"Oh." Clay hummed. He was thinking more along the lines of money. He frowned, then looked at the older to ask a question but got distracted when he noticed something, "Woah! Where'd you get the cool scars!?"

Tord's eyes widened, his neck snapping as he turned to the kid, "Clay! You can't just ask someone that!"

Arthur hummed, turning the faucet off. He felt over his arms, "Oh, these? Mostly defensive wounds. Got them when I was in Norway."

"How did you get them?" Clay asked.

"You don't have to answer that," Tord spoke.

Arthur chuckled, "I'll tell you another time, kid."

The older ginger got a glass of milk, walking back to the living room. He heard Matt's steady breathing and the crackling of the fire.

"Thirsty?" Arthur held the cup out to his son.

Matt sighed, taking the glass and muttering, "Thanks..."

"No problem." He replied, tapping his cane against the floor as he turned to walk away, "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Matt hummed, nodding, "Yeah..."

"Okay." Arthur bowed his head, "I'm always here if you need to talk."

As his father walked away, Matt gripped the glass of milk, glaring into the liquid as he bared his teeth.

He was amazed he hadn't lost it yet. It had been almost a day since Tom was taken, yet it felt like years for Matt. He was probably being dramatic, but he was a vampire; without Tom, it felt like he couldn't go on. Tom was his other half; he knew there was no doubt about that.

Putting the cup on the table, Matt hugged his knees against his chest as he started to cry.

Not out of sadness, though.

Out of pure anger.

This was the Black Army's fault; they had taken Tom. The Black Army took his other half away from him. The Black Army had taken his Tommy.

He was going to tear the Black Army limb by limb if it meant he could get Tom back.

Jon trod down the hall. He had been assigned to watch over his captives since the Black Leader didn't trust him to do anything without messing up.

All he had to do here was watch the hostages and keep his mouth shut.

Even he couldn't mess this up.

He scanned his hand on the pad, prompting the door to open. He quickly noticed that the hostages were awake, cueing him to drop the duffle bag he had been carrying.

The duo perked up, moving in their restraints.

"You're the guy that knocked us out." The ravenette spoke.

"He is? What is he, some sort of ninja?" The blonde raised an eyebrow, analyzing Jon.

The Russian sighed at his friend, then glared at Jon, "What do you want from us?"

"I should be asking that." Jon chuckled, then froze as he realized he talked. He covered his mouth as he kneeled to rifle through his duffle, 'Damn, I've jinxed myself...'

"What do you mean by that?"

Jon hesitated before saying, "Well, you guys were in our territory..."

"Territory? I didn't see any sign indicating it belonged to someone, let alone an army." The blonde affirmed.

"O-Our graffiti marks our territory." The smaller spoke, grabbing a bottle of something out of the bag.

He walked over to the blonde, holding out the small tube.

"Isn't that stuff for... itchiness?" He questioned.

"I noticed the signs of a rash along your hands, and I know that soldiers here forget about the poisonous plants around, so I carry this with me." He explained, then after a few seconds, he asked, "Do you still need some?"

"Oh, yes." He nodded.

"You, you can't just trust him. He's the enemy here." The ravenette scowled.

Jon understood that the other was trying to protect his friend, "But I applied some to his hands earlier, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary, right?"

"Well, no- but-"

"Yan, I'll be fine." You rolled his eyes, "I'm a big boy now."

Yan grumbled to himself yet didn't comment further.

Jon nodded and kneeled so he could see his hands clearly, "So, you guys going to keep holding hands or what?"

In an instant, they let go of each other.

"We're not holding hands," Yan grumbled.

"What hands?" You smiled dumbly.

"Uhm- okay." Jon shrugged, starting to apply the ointment.

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Russian =
Дерьмо (Der'mo) - Shit

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