Chapter Text
Charlie is having a panic attack.
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In an irony to top all ironies, he’s eerily calm about it. It’s just a true statement. There’s no beating around the bush here.
The sky is blue, Tallulah’s hat is red, Fit is bald, and Charlie is having a panic attack.
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It starts during a meeting with the other islanders. It’s been weeks since Charlie found Flippa down in the mines, and he’s been so so good at keeping her a secret from everyone else. But Charlie can’t hide from the rest of the island altogether, because they’re annoyingly persistent about getting him to hang around more lately. He won’t ever admit the fact that he looks forward to big events on the main island so he has an excuse to leave Eggxile and see his…. Friends? Are they friends now? Charlie’s not positive. He knows he’s not as close to everyone else as they are with each other, and that totally doesn’t bother him, not at all.
It’s just a nice thought, having friends again. After everything Charlie’s done.
And still currently doing.
He knows there’s something wrong with Flippa. He knows about the code monsters impersonating the other eggs; hell, he died to one. Charlie is not stupid.
Just. That’s Flippa: his little huevo. In his arms. Breathing. Alive.
Sure, she calls him “dad” instead of “papá” like she used to, but that’s okay! Flippa was only alive for what, ten days? Maybe she hadn’t had time to pick her favorite thing to call him. It happens. Kids are indecisive; so is Charlie, he gets it.
And yeah, she spells things weird, really weird. With lots of strange symbols. But Charlie and Mariana never had time to help her with her English or Spanish so that explains the uh, unique text she uses, though. That’s on Charlie. He’ll do better this time.
And not to mention the cracks; those had to have happened while she was away from him! Just like when the other eggs disappeared back when the Brazilians first arrived on the island. Uh, yeah, okay, they are in the exact same spot as Dapper’s, like line for line, mark for mark. But it had to be a coincidence.
Right?
It’s when Flippa ate plain, un-avocadoed toast that Charlie had felt uneasy for the first time. Flippa, ever since discovering the food, had been over the moon and would refuse to eat plain toast ever again. He found it endearing and since she didn’t have many foods she could eat to begin with, Charlie never refused to make her favorite. Flippa and Phil would have gotten along well. After the whole gun incident was forgotten, of course.
(When did Charlie start referring to Flippa in the past tense again? She’s back. She’s just, not wearing the right glasses. Charlie knows because they’re still in his pocket after all this time, a little cracked. The ones she wears now don’t fit her face right. Braids no longer frame her face either, replaced by ponytails. It’s not right. But it has to be her.)
Then one day, a few weeks after discovering Juanaflippa down in the mines, Charlie had made lunch for them. He had been doing it for the last couple days, eager to spend more time with his daughter now that she was coming back more.
Flippa had made no fuss when Charlie had accidentally handed over his avocado and egg toast instead of her vegan one. It’s fine, he’d done it before and he’d likely do it again. But, before Charlie could grab for it back, Flippa took a bite. And then another. And again.
A smile on her cracked face.
Yolk on her chin.
Charlie felt sick.
He had to leave, had to get some fresh air. His Flippa wouldn’t- she would never eat animal anything. And Charlie would never make her. It had to-the fumes, of course. He was seeing things.
And those things have only been going downhill ever since. Charlie thinks the avocado incident was the tipping point, the realization that something was off. After that the evidence just kept piling up.
She forgot obvious things like the Mariana’s name, calling him “m0M”. Then continued to enthusiastically eat things that weren’t vegan friendly. Her little cape is green, not the white one his wife gave her. She didn’t know what a backflip was, staring at Charlie blankly when he had tried to get her to join him one time.
Nothing had been adding up, but Charlie was far too deep into this whole mess. And it just kept getting worse.
For weeks, he’s been completing egg tasks for “JuanaFlippa” to keep her alive. They were normal at first:
Feed the baby a food starting with “M”.
Tell the baby a bedtime story about trains.
Teach the baby a new word in a different language.
But then, they started getting…weird. Charlie had never done egg tasks for long, so there were bound to be ones brand new to him, but these couldn’t be normal.
Tell the baby a secret a friend shared with you.
Teach the baby a safety procedure used on the island.
Make TNT with the baby.
And Charlie willingly completed these tasks, at least in the beginning, when he was still so fucking happy to have Flippa back and willing to do anything to keep her alive. However, the unease continued to eat at him as the tasks got more specific and Flippa started feeling less like his daughter and more like a stranger.
The tasks continued, getting more complicated, detailed, and difficult to complete. Some of the tasks were downrightNot Right.
Bring the baby Leonarda’s hat.
Take the baby on a field trip to Ordo Theoritas Headquarters.
Set up a room for the baby in N.I.N.H.O.
These were not normal tasks. Charlie may be dumb but… yeah, he’s dumb, okay sure, just notthat fucking dumb, give him some credit. He may not have gotten to do many tasks with Flippa, but he still helped out with the other eggs from time to time. He'd ridden bikes with Ramón and Dapper, baked a cake with Tallulah and Chayanne, helped Baghera put Pomme to bed with a song, pranked Foolish with Leo, and arm wrestled with Richarlyson (he totally didn't lose to the egg, nope).
Charlie may not know egg tasks like their parents, but he's helped, he's been there for them when he can. If he can't be a good father, then he can work at being a good tio.
(He never helped Bobby with a task. He doesn't think about it. Things were different back then.)
The tasks he’s getting now could actively put his friends and the eggs in danger in ways the usual ones didn’t (except for dungeons- fuck dungeons). He knew what would happen if a code had access to the inside of N.I.N.H.O, but it wasn’t like he could play The Idiot and say he doesn’t know how to get inside because hedoes. When Charlie started becoming a familiar face around spawn again, the other islanders brought him into the fold, meaning they shared everything with him: Code words, secret locations, secret meetings, plans.
They trust him.
Charlie was someone trustworthy again. And in one moment, he had squashed any faith they had in him.
And that code thing knew this, knew Charlie was trusted and informed enough to know exactly what it wanted to know. It knew Charlie would bend over backwards to please it. To keep it around. The other islanders wouldn’t fall for it because they knew their eggs, but Charlie? He’s a bad father at the end of the day, desperate for any chance to make things right.
And he played right into the monsters twisting 1’s and 0’s.
But that was before he knew this wasn’t his JuanaFlippa. Before he realized how much danger he could cause the eggs. His nieces and nephews.
Now, Charlie is at a crossroad: do the tasks and put the eggs at risk, or don’t do them and see just what “Flippa” is capable of with the information itdoes have. He’s seen how powerful those codes are. Charlie felt the blade slicing through his chest as a mockery of his niece,his sobrina Tallulah grinned at him. The nauseating static it left in its place that lingered long after Charlie had respawned.
He can’t stop doing the tasks, fearing the wrath to follow, so Charlie had done the next best thing: deflect and lie.
“Flippa” was all too happy receiving what it thought was real information and locations from Charlie. He tried to not reveal too much, he really did, and he was actually successful! Sometimes.
He found a generic baseball cap and just scuffed it up to look like it was worn by Leo.
He told “Flippa” that the islanders used red fireworks to signal danger when close by, and would spam the group channel with 4’s to indicate danger.
But there are some things he can’t avoid: building a room in N.I.N.H.O for “Flippa”. The thing pretending to be his daughter.
That’s today’s final task. It’s Sunday evening and Charlie’s only completed two other days this week, unable to be around “Flippa” much lately. (His excuse is the greenhouse; if he lets it overgrow or die, the others will be suspicious and go looking for him). Charlie doesn’t know what to do. He’s just sure that he cannot give that thing direct access to the other eggs.
Charlie doesn’t really care about completing the task because it’ll keep Juana-that thing alive. He’s accepted the fact that it’s not his daughter. This is not his egg that was proficient with a gun and loved dancing along to Charlie’s random songs. This thing likes swords and only claps her hands robotically when Charlie tries to sing for her. Flippa is gone and this thing is wearing her body, using his daughter like a puppet.
And he believed it.
So no, Charlie doesn’t care about keeping this thing alive, but he doesn’t know how to get rid of it. He’s terrified of what will happen if he doesn’t complete all of its tasks by midnight. What it has the power to do with the information he willingly gave it, truthful or not.
That’s the other issue: he can’t tell the islanders. Not only because if “Flippa” finds out, it could wreak havoc on the server and destroy everything before they could stop it. But also, selfishly, because they’llhate him. Charlie will never again be trusted with anything after his friends find out he told this monster their secrets and plans to stop it. And he’s been keeping it a secret from them this whole time, because he didn’t trust them, at least in the beginning.
The irony.
Charlie can’t act like he didn’t know better. He’s seen what the code monsters are capable of, knows that the codes are trying to kill the eggs, so why are the ones impersonating eggs any different? The others had shown him the damage they caused and the fear they continue to instill.
(They killed Bobby-drowned him in a fucking river.)
Charlie knew all this, yet kept one of them alive, feeding it toast and information like the good little traitor he is.
Charlie had gotten a second chance and squashed it.
Now he’s stuck, hours before the end of something. Maybe everything.
And Charlie is having a panic attack.
This meeting has been going on for hours now, and Charlie zoned out a while ago, unable to focus on whatever Cellbit and Mike are fighting about, too wrapped up in his own thoughts.
That’s when it starts.
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The first sign of danger for him is when Charlie starts counting his breaths, a subconscious technique to control his breathing when his thoughts start racing. He’s no stranger to anxiety and spiraling, but when he starts counting his breaths in intervals of two, Charlie knows he needs to do something now before it worsens.
But he’s stuck in this stupid meeting because these people trust him to be here.
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The next is Charlie’s breathing: shallow, dry, short. It’s nothing unusual, he guesses, because no one around him notices the difference from a few minutes ago. If they do, they’re not making a show of it. It’s a subtle enough change that he doesn’t always notice it himself before the next warning sign kicks in and throws him into full alert:
His fingertips start to tingle, numbness creeping in.
It’s the equivalent of loud sirens sounding for a natural disaster. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. You are going to have a panic attack and there’s nothing you can do about it. Cope.
And after that, it begins to spiral out of his control. Charlie’s breathing speeds up, the counting never stops, and his hands go completely numb; locked up and useless. His face feels tight and hot while his eyelid spazzes and tingles. His legs seize up and go the same numb as his hands, and soon he won't be able to walk well. Charlie's throat will get so fucking dry.
Cellbit is talking about the latest attack, where one of the codes tried to look like Leo, but the hat clearly wasn’t hers and was facing forward and Charlie has. To. Leave. Now. His thumbs are stiff- he can’t bend them. He can’t hold the pencil he had been using and it crashes to the carpet soundlessly, but to him, it’s louder than a bomb drop. Oh fuck, all that TNT he helped make-
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He accidentally makes a small scene trying to leave, shoving his chair back too hard in his haste to get up that it tips over and falls to the ground. Cellbit pauses as everyone’s gazes snap to him. Great. Awesome. Neat. Super.
“Hahaha sorry guys, duty calls! You know how it is. I’m-I’m just going to… go… Shit?”
Smooth. When you look up “suave” in a dictionary, there’s a picture of Charlie at this very moment. They got his good side and everything. (Not that he has a bad side.)
Cellbit ignores Bad’s “language” and Foolish’s “dude, TMI”, instead addressing Charlie, “Oh! Okay, we can hold off on the important details until you come back, we need a break anyways-”
“NO!”
What a normal way to respond to such a nice gesture. That must be why everyone looks shocked at this outburst. Charlie tries desperately to fix this, “No! You guys don’t have to wait. It’s- My stomach really hurts. It’s gonna be a while. Don’t let me hold up the meeting. Someone can catch me up later.”
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“Your stomach hurts? Like a Gegg stomach ache? Dude, I thought he died.”
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Charlie just blinks at Foolish, too busy counting to fully comprehend what the builder just said. God, he needs to cut thatout. It always makes it worse, like counting as his breathing gets worse. Charlie shakes his hand hoping to get some feeling back, but it’s useless.
Just like him.
“I- Gegg is dead, long gone, I told you already. A guy can still get stomach aches from time to time, Foolish. Are you going to turn into a fucked-up fish egg the next time you eat too many bananas?”
Foolish just holds his hands up in surrender and then actually seems to consider that possibility. Whatever, Charlie can’t entertain Foolish right now. Charlie just sighs, turning around and walking very calmly out the door. He is so incredibly chill.
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Traveling through the teleporters mid-panic attack really fucking sucks. They make Charlie dizzy and uncomfortable, like his skin isn’t on right. What is already awful experience normally is just pure torture when you are so anxious it could kill an elephant.
Charlie manages to make it to Cellbit’s office before he has to sit down on the floor. He cowers under the desk, feeling too exposed in the already small space, bright lights too hot against his skin. He is so lucky the teleports don’t require physically opening doors with his hands because they are useless now. They sting with numbness and there’s an invisible pressure keeping Charlie from bending his fingers. Like a brace left on too long.
Oh, his breathing 12121212 is out of control now 12121212. Charlie can recognize when he’s 12121212 in a full-blown panic attack and the only option is to 12121212 ride it out.
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Almost every panic attack Charlie has had has been alone. The one he had after the election dinner was just unfortunate timing. It’s embarrassing to lose control of himself like this normally, but to do it in front of someone else? Or in public? Charlie hates the thought of being seen like this. It’s a weakness he doesn’t want anyone to know about.
He’s supposed to be better, having finally kind of healed after everything. Charlie knew he wouldn’t always be okay, but he was doing better. It felt so good to wake up each day and not dread what was to come.
If they know Charlie hasn’t gotten better, but has actually gotten worse? And the reason why? Because they will ask why he’s randomly having panic attacks when everything was fine and dandy previously. He’ll have to tell them the truth or they’ll go digging for the reason behind his recent anxiety.
He can’t handle it if their suspicion is ever aimed at him again. The possible distrust, even when it’s deserved.
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Panic attacks are a physical weakness as well. He can’t think rationally or coherently while having one. His hands lock up and eventually, the muscles in his legs will do the same, then he can’t move. If he can’t get air into his lungs, he’ll pass out. And afterward? It’s like the energy has been sucked out of him for days.
Charlie’s muscles begin to ache and his eyes are filling with tears.
He hates having them so much, but it’s too late for this one. Stuck, always stuck.
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Charlie hasn’t had a chance really sit down and brainstorm how to nip this shit in the bud before he's like this. There's no time to work through them rationally when he can't get oxygen to his fucking head. Usually, he just has to wait forty-five minutes to an hour until he's too exhausted to freak out or he passes out. It’s swell. Charlie just hopes the latter doesn’t happen while he’s in Cellbit’s office; that’ll be annoying.
But of course, Charlie is even more unlucky.
“Slime? Are you here? I have been sent up to give you ‘pep-tol bismol’? It’s alarmingly pink, I think Bad is trying to poison you. Hello?”
Étoiles, fucking hell. What mirror did Charlie break?
He cannot hold in his wheezing laugh at the fighter’s words and his pronunciation of Pepto Bismol. He can’t help it- Étoiles sounds scared of the word like it’ll bite him. It gives Charlie a chance to suck in a breath, too. It’s not enough, though, his face is tight and hot still.
“Oh, Slime! You are in here. Why are you hiding… oh, Slime-”
Fuck. Dammit. Charlie hates this fucking island with its islanders and their stupidly considering actions. God.
Étoiles rounds the desk, joking expression quickly dropping at the sight of Charlie’s miserable state. Charlie could only continue to suck in short, gasping breaths. He wants to cry, but he can’t.
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“H-h-hey, hey É-É-to-toiles, h-hey mmmm-an.” God, this fucking sucks. How many times is he going to say that? It probably sucks to look at too because Étoiles drops down to a crouch in front of him, eyes blown wide in… worry? He reaches a hand out slowly, like Charlie’s the one that’s going to bite, but the warrior never touches him. The slime tries to placate Étoiles because he needs some normalcy.
“Ye-ye-ye,” if he could 12121212 fucking 12121212 speak,” Ye-ah, that ssshit is-is-it’s ab-ab-a- bismmmol, hah-h-h aha.”
Amusement flickers across Étoiles’ expression for a brief but it’s short-lived. Damn, that was such a good joke too.
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“Slime is this like at the dinner? When you said your hands felt funny? You are breathing very fast, man.”
Great, Étoiles hasn’t forgotten about that. Charlie is kind of hoping he had.
He tries to let out a sigh, but stutters all the way through it, lungs desperate for air. It takes three attempts to swallow before he can speak.
“Pan-panic ah-attack, y-y-ye ahh. ‘mmm do-do-doing great, d-du-du-du fuck-fucking HELL-” Charlie is so tired- his chest hurts and the tops of his thighs are going numb. He’s not gonna be able to walk soon either. He folds his hands into his chest like it’ll hide how compromised he is right now, but Étoiles would never do anything to hurt him. Why would Charlie think he would?
Because you're hiding a code monster in your basement, Charlie. Étoiles will kill you 12121you're dead212121you're so dead2121212-
Étoiles nods seriously, assessing him again, this time with a gaze not unlike the one he has during battles. Calculating, surefire, confident. It’s kind of funny to see it right now.
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“Okay, okay, okay you are okay! I remember that, but it wasn’t as bad as this, no?”
Charlie tries to suck in more air. “N-n-no, that-that one got caught-caught earl-earlier, be-before it-it-it could get this bah-bad. I don’t- I don’t kn-know how-how-how long I’vvve been gone.”
Étoiles lowers himself onto the floor across from him, legs folded underneath him. He considers the clock on the wall, the fast ticking not helping in slowing Charlie's counting. “Mmm, thirty minutes? Bad sent me up after twenty, but you were sneaky. Good hiding spot, but you fell for my advanced humor. You would suck at hide and seek.”
All Charlie can do is huff out a laugh. He can’t get any control over his breathing or the spasming of his lungs, which is stupid considering how aware he is of his panic attack. Mind over matter and all that bullshit, right? Fuck, he should have listened to Roier during those sessions.
Charlie folds in on himself, letting out a broken, gasping sob, but still unable to cry. He hates this he hates this he hates- Étoiles is going to find out about the code monster and 12121212 everyone is going to turn on him, and they’ll 12121212 kill that code 121212 in front of him and even 1212121 though 1212121212 he also wants it gone, it looks so much like her and he can’t 121212121212 watch her die again he can’t 12 he can’t 12 he can’t 12 handle it hasn’t he has been through 121212 enough-
“-hey, Charlie. Can I touch you? That seemed to help last time. Or I can stay here and we can just talk.”
Charlie is so numb, so cold- “Ple-please, mmmy hand-my hands, I-I-I can’t feel mmmy my hands. Can’t mmo-o-ove them.”
“Okay, okay, okay, we can work on that. I am going to grab your hands okay?”
All Charlie can do is nod, but it’s a bad idea. His head is aching and tha- oh, when did Charlie bite his tongue. The taste of copper lingers in his mouth.
He feels ill.
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Étoiles, true to his word, gently but firmly grasps his hands. The sensation of warm skin on his makes Charlie kind of nauseous, but the feeling subsides as Étoiles slowly warms one hand between his palms. The fighter starts speaking as he cups Charlie's hand, “Last time, you talked and it seemed to help? You could at least breathe, I think. Like having to talk made you focus. Does this make sense?”
“Ye-yeah. But I’m-I’m, I can’t think ri-ri-right n-n-n-n-ow.”
Étoiles hums, switching to grab Charlie's left hand next, “Yeah, I can see.”
He thinks for a second, tapping a slow rhythm along Charlie's inner wrist. It’s enough to shake Charlie from his own rapid counting, and he can’t help but match the fighter’s pace.
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Charlie sucks in more air and man, just call him a vacuum at this point.
“Th-that, É-É-Étoiles, th-the tap-the tapping. Helps.”
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Étoiles grins, “Alright, I’ll tap. But also, maybe I can teach you French! I bet you have improved, no? Baghera said you have.”
Charlie laughs again, “É-Étoiles, I can-I can barely speak Eng-English, right nnnow.”
“And? If you cannot speak English, might as well try some French. Who knows, maybe not being able to breathe is the secret to being fluent.”
Stuttering through a hum, Charlie finally nods, chin dropping. He is so tired, but Étoiles is oh so slowly pulling and pushing Charlie’s fingers now; never bending when they don’t give easily, instead moving on and trying the next one. He should be a physical therapist, Charlie observes distantly, focusing instead on the fighter's occasional tapping.
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“Let’s start where that green bird starts: Apple! Also known as the best egg on this island: Pomme! So many say it like American ‘pom-pom’ but here, you say ‘pa’. It’s like ‘palm’ see,” Étoiles holds up Charlie's left hand and turns it so his palm is facing him, “just without the ‘L’.” Étoiles slowly folds Charlie’s fingers down until he’s making the letter “L” with his index finger and thumb. He stops talking but continues tapping the back of his hand in a slow, steady rhythm. The fighter is patient, waiting for Charlie to speak only when he’s ready.
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“P-Pm-Pommmm-Pomme.”
“Ouias! Parfait, Slime, Baghera said you had the walk of a French guy and now you have the talk to match.”
“I-I said Pm-Pomme’s name, that’s-that’s it.”
“No,” Étoiles shakes his head, switching hands again to fold Charlie’s other fingers into the same “L” shape, “You said her name correctly. Not everyone would bother. She would love to know you took time to learn. See, ‘L’ for learn! Or lose, but I wouldn’t know what that is of course, because I never lose.”
Étoiles winks, his mask crinkling up at the bridge of his nose. Charlie wishes he had control over his hands to smooth the fabric down. He stays still, focusing on breathing.
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“Let’s try another word! Potato. You already know the first part: ‘pomme’. But to make it mean what you call a potato, you would say ‘pomme de terre’. I think it translates to ‘apple of the Earth’ for you. Try saying ‘de’, like I just did. Pomme de terre.”
Charlie focuses on the smell of Cellbit's office, the sound of a fan buzzing, and Étoiles’ warm hand in his. His next breath comes a little easier.
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For the next, Charlie doesn’t know, five minutes? five hours? (He can’t see the clock from where they sit on the floor of the office)- They spend the time sounding French words and working feeling back to Charlie’s hands. Étoiles has coaxed him out from underneath the desk and now he’s hunched over, back against the wooden side and his hands still in Étoiles’. The French is rough on Charlie’s tongue, barely understandable through gasps, but the fighter continues to beam whenever Charlie tries again and again and again.
Eventually, he can get full sentences out without stuttering words or stopping and starting several times.
At some point Charlie even stops counting his breaths, but Étoiles never stops tapping.
When he realizes that he is done, that the panic attack has subsided enough to give him control over his body again, the first thing Charlie does is sink forward and into Étoiles. He can’t be embarrassed as his head thumps into the curve of the fighter’s shoulder, too fucking exhausted to care. Decorum is out the fucking window. These episodes suck all the energy out of him and for once, he has someone to hold him up as he crashes after one. It’s the banquet all over again, just so much worse.
And Étoiles does just that, strong arms coming up to almost brace him. His hands rest on Charlie's sides and Étoiles continues to tap. The slime hybrid is beginning to wonder if it’s subconscious or if he’s continuing it for Charlie’s sake.
It reminds him of when JuanaFlippa would tap her feet to something Charlie was humming as they did chores.
And oh- Charlie’s breath hitches at the thought of Flippa, the whole reason for all of this, and Étoiles notices.
“Ça va aller, Slime. Chhhh-” Étoiles brings one hand up to the back of Charlie's neck, patting in what he probably thinks is a comforting way, but the fighter forgets his own strength. With each firm pat, Charlie gets knocked further against Étoiles’ collarbone. His nose, fucking ow.
Charlie can’t take this comfort, no matter how clumsy it is, because it’s honest. Maybe this is how Étoiles is with Pomme or Antoine. A comfort he only affords his friends and family like Baghera and Phil. Not Charlie, not him.
He tries pulling away with a sniffle and okay, sure, now he can start crying- as if Charlie doesn’t look pitiful enough. Étoiles doesn’t let him pull away entirely, though, just enough so they can look at each other. He keeps his hand on the back of Charlie's neck and the other holding his wrist, still tapping.
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“I-thank you, Étoiles. I really appreciate you helping me like this. I’m sorry you had to witness all that though…”
“Slime, shut the fuck up,” Étoiles says pleasantly, gently jostling Charlie by the back of his neck. He can feel the calluses on the pads of Étoiles’ hands, probably from his scythe. “Do not apologize for acting like a human being. What if the eggs said sorry for having a panic attack? Or being scared? What if I was freaking the fuck out- not that I would of course, but imagine such an impossibility. Would you think I had anything to be sorry for? Hm?”
Charlie sputters, “That’s differ- ”, but Étoiles doesn’t let him continue.
“No, it’s not. Please, treat yourself with the same kindness you give others. You have been through a lot, Charlie, we all have.”
He’s not going to cry he’s not going to cry he’s soooooooo not going to cry he has this all under control and-
Fuck, Charlie’s crying, fucking shit goddammit. And Étoiles can see it clear as day, but instead of saying anything, he just hums and pulls Charlie down to rest his head back in the curve of his neck.
“Last time,” Étoiles starts, hesitant (the fighter is not hesitant, this is so fucking weird), “It seems like what set you off was the bug and JuanaFlippa… Do you want to talk about what caused this one? We could try avoiding triggers like that if it would help. Was it something at the meeting?”
Oh no.
He can’t tell Étoiles, he- the fighter hates those codes, he’ll despise Charlie if he knows the truth. No matter what Étoiles tries to make him believe, this is different, Charlie is a special case when it comes to forgiveness. No one else is housing a monster in their basement, raising it on toast and his friends’ secrets.
Oh god, but Charlie’s out of time- it has to be at least past nine and that means only three hours to break into N.I.N.H.O and make a room for “Flippa” while not catching the attention of anyone, but god how does he do that does he1234 even have any ender pearls fuck 121212 he can’t bring that thing in there not when it’s the one safe place the eggs 1212121212 all have what is he going to do- I— oh god-
“Charlie, please. You are breathing hard again. It’s okay, you are okay. You are safe here. I promise.”
But you’re not safe, Étoiles, I’m not safe to be around Charlie has to choke back.
He cannot take how kind the fighter is being to him becuase he does not deserve it. Étoiles is comforting a traitor when he should just put his scythe through Charlie’s chest right now. Do everyone a favor. But all he does is fucking t a p—
Charlie has to- 1212121212 Charlie has to 12121212 has to move.
He yanks himself away from Étoiles, ignoring the startled look he’s given. Charlie backs himself into a corner of the room, as far away from the other as possible, trying desperately to get his breathing under control before he throws himself right back into another panic attack. But it’s useless.
Charlie’s useless.
All he can do is cry 121212121212 cry 12121212121 cry—
Étoiles tries approaching again while saying something Charlie can’t make out, but he can’t-he shouldn’t. Charlie holds his hands out this time to stop him and fuck, Étoiles does. He sits right in front of Charlie instead, hands out and placating, “Slime. What’s wrong? You need to breathe, man- can you start talking, please? Can you hear me tapping? Charlie?”
“I d-don’t- stop trying to-to-to comfort me!” Charlie shouts, gripping the front of his shirt with stiff fingers because this is all too much, it’s way too much, "I don’t-I don’t deserve this, stop it stop it stop itplease.”
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1212121212121212121212121212121
12121212121212121212121212121212-
“Charlie,” Étoiles inches forward slowly, reaching for his ankle and Charlie lets him, shit he’s so fucking stupid. “What are you talking about? We just talked about this, how can I get it through your thick, slimy skull? You do deserve-”
“NO!”
It’s quiet in the office save for Charlie's ragged attempts at breathing and the clock ticking. Étoiles is shocked into silence, mouth open, but still- he keeps his grip on Charlie's ankle.
The tapping stops.
“Y-you wouldn’t say that if you -if you knew what I’ve done.”
Étoiles tilts his head in confusion. “But I already know about the rampage, everyone does. And no one blames you for it, man. The sword bug wasn’t your fault.”
Charlie is so fucking tired but he’s already in this hole, might as well keep digging. Gotta make room for his grave, after all.
“N-no, what I did nnnow, what-what m-I’m currently doing. You’ll hate-you'll hate me, Étoiles, everyone will. The only thing I deserve is to rot-to fucking rot six feet under.”
“Charlie, please, tell me what is-”
The sound of a teleporter activating cuts him off and suddenly there are more people in the room. Oh, Cellbit and Phil. And they’re talking. Great. Charlie sees a one-way ticket to Sensory Overload Station with his name on it. Maybe it’ll take him off this god-forsaken island.
“Guys?” Cellbit catches sight of them, “What’s happening? We heard shouting.”
“Charlie?” Phil asks, wandering around the desk, “Foolish wants to know if he can have the greenhouse if you-Mate, what the hell happened? Étoiles?”
Étoiles makes an offended sound. “I didn’t do shit to him, Philza, don't look at me. If anything, I did amazing. Fantastic even. Fuck off. I’m the best at fighting panic attacks.”
“Panic attack,” Phil starts, lowering himself into a crouch so he can get closer to Charlie, “Is that what happened? Why you ran out of the room like that?”
Phil hesitates, reaching a hand but stopping short of Charlie’s knee, “Is it like- the dinner, when you heard about the bug and the eggs and freaked out. Was it something about Tilín? JuanaFlippa?”
And he- how could Charlie-
The slime hybrid kind of just- shuts down a little bit at that. He can’t answer anything or talk to anyone. He can only continue to cry and curl in on himself, avoiding the concerned stares of the other three. At least he’s not having another panic attack. Small mercies.
There are rapid, whispers of conversation between the three, but Charlie doesn’t care to listen. He just tries to ignore the clock ticking
and ticking
and ticking
Then, suddenly, Charlie’s being gently scooped up by… Oh, those are- It’s Phil and he’s using his wings to hide Charlie- not that he minds. The fluorescent lights in the office are too much.
They’re going through the teleporter and back downstairs- Charlie can only assume as he hears it activate. Downstairs, back to the meeting. Charlie accepts it, slumping into Phil as tears continue to stream down his face. He can’t see with Phil’s wings obscuring them both, but he can practically feel the worried gazes of his friends. He closes his eyes and tries to block it all out. He enjoys the warmth while it lasts because he knows that after tonight, things are going to be very different.
For once, he’s too tired to be bothered by the sensation of teleporting, though it still makes him queasy.
Charlie can tell when they make it back to the meeting based on the echo of their footsteps in the hall outside and the noise of several people talking to each other, only muffled by the door. The moment the door opens, they all fall silent, though. Charlie shrinks into Phil more.
“Where’s Slime? Phil, what are you holding?” That’s Bad, the others around him making various noises of agreement.
Étoiles sighs from beside Phil and Charlie. “You killed him with that pink shit, man. Made me your- putain comment ça se dit- complice? I am a criminal, man. Congratulations, I hope you are happy.”
Charlie tries to muffle his laugh at Bad’s flabbergasted sound. He doesn’t even say “language”. He lets Étoiles rib on Bad a little more, enjoying the demon’s floundering a bit longer before Charlie knocks his knuckles gently against Phil’s chest. His friend leans down into the cover of his wings more. “Yeah, Charlie?”
“Nothing, just- you can let me down. I-I can face the music.”
Phil gives him a bemused look, “Face the music? What is this, an interrogation? You just had a panic attack, Charlie. We’re not questioning you about it.”
Charlie just sighs. “You should,” he mumbles before wiggling free from Phil’s grip. The avian has no choice but to let go and draw his wings back or else Charlie is going to accidentally rip some feathers out on the way down.
And he does go down, very gracefully as a matter of fact. So gracefully that Charlie just has to lie at Phil’s feet in pure awe at his own elegance, eyes closed to take it all in. The rest of the room is silent. He’s not embarrassed at all. Nope!
Someone speaks up after a few moments, “Uh, is Slime actually dead? Do I get the greenhouse then?”
Phil groans from above him. “No, he’s just being a big drama queen. Come on, get up, mate.”
“Hey,” Charlie protests weakly, “Have some respect, old man.” Phil ignores him and Étoiles laughs as they work to get Charlie off the ground. His legs still ache and he’s shaky on his feet, but standing again. Well- for about ten seconds before he’s crashing into Phil’s side.
So much for elegance.
“Can I sit down or something? Legs are killing me,” Charlie adds the last part quietly, only loud enough for the two supporting him to hear. He has to squint and look at the floor, acting like it’s to watch his footing, but really? Charlie is rocking an impressive migraine and ready to die.
Phil nods to him before speaking to Foolish, “Got any more of those couches?”
“Oh! Yeah sure, I have a red one, a blue one, purple, oh I also have orange-”
“Foolish, just pick one and set it up, yeah?”
Foolish blinks, head snapping up from where he's digging in his bag, “Oh. Sure! Here, orange; it’ll wash you out, Slime. You’re welcome!”
“Love you too, Foolish,” Charlie snarks as the codebreakers drag him over to the offensively orange couch. They set Charlie down slowly, taking care to not jostle his head too much. Man, nothing gets past Phil huh?
“Can someone hit the lights, he’s probably got a headache or a migraine.”
Yeah, nothing. Figures. The man has three kids, why not throw Charlie into the mix and make an even four?
Charlie gives Phil a thumbs up, totally guessing where the avian is since Charlie’s eyes are tucked safely into his arm. “Thanks, Dadza.” He gets his hair ruffled for his troubles, how sweet. Charlie swats him away groggily. He can just barely tell when someone shuts the light off.
Bracing himself, Charlie finally removes his arm and looks at the rest of the blissfully dim room. Wow, that is a lot of um, concerned faces looking at him? Well, most of them are concerned. Foolish looks constipated and Bad looks vaguely terrified, like he really thinks he made Charlie feel worse. Roier has his arms crossed, a frown on his face. The rest are just staring at him in open worry. It’s unnerving.
“Uh,” Charlie croaks, “Hi? I know I’m beautiful, but take a picture maybe? It’ll last longer.”
CLICK
“Dude,” Charlie flinches at the flash, squinting at Foolish, “I wasn’t being serious.”
“But you said to!”
Before either of them can keep bickering, Cellbit steps forward.
“Charlie, we should really talk about what happened up there.”
Awesome!
Charlie sinks in the ugly orange cushions, “We really shouldn’t. It’s all good, I just need a nap.”
But he can’t nap, because it has to be like what, nine at this point? That means Charlie has maybe three hours to figure out what to do about “Flippa” but he’s stuck here in this stupid basement with these 1212121- stupidly nice people and god he’s so fucked -212121212 there’s no way 121212121- he can fix this—
“Charlie?” That’s a new voice, but a familiar one, friendly: Baghera. She’s kneeling in front of him, Étoiles behind her with his arms crossed. He looks like he wants to say something, but the duck beats him to it.
“What’s wrong?” Her quiet voice and earnest expression are enough to make Charlie crack a little again. He just bites his lips as he starts tearing up before he sinks further into the couch, hands covering his face. Charlie tries swallowing his sobs, but it makes it all sound so much worse.
He hears Baghera exhale softly beside him before she says, “Oh, Charlie,” and then drapes herself over him. SHe pillows her head against her arms where they’re folded along Charlie’s side. It’s not quite a hug- Baghera’s really just leaning against his curled-up form, a warm pressure along his side. It’s like what they would do after a grueling round of karaoke, slumping into each other for support, voices nearly gone but ready for the next round. It's not really a hug but it is really nice.
She scoots over enough to let Étoiles slide in and he sits on the floor near Charlie’s feet where he grabs for his ankle again. Charlie almost laughs when the tapping starts, but it comes as a garbled sob. Baghera leans into him a little more.
Charlie hears footsteps approaching and he has enough energy to wipe the tears from his face before looking up at whoever it is. Oh, it’s Roier, a frown still on his face. He unties his bandana, handing it over to Charlie with nothing more than a firm “Aquí.”
Charlie can’t even protest- he feels so bad anyway, might as well get snot on Roier’s favorite bandana while he’s at it. Roier doesn’t seem to care, though he does wince when Charlie blows his nose loudly into the fabric. He crouches down to join the other two, this time near his head. Roier tilts his head, softly asking, “¿Mal día?”
Bad day? Man, if this is just a bad day, Charlie can’t handle the thought of a terrible one.
He looks away when he answers, “You could say that.”
Baghera speaks up, lifting her head from where it was mushed into her arms, “Well, that’s exactly what he’s saying, Charlie.” He doesn’t miss the quiet snort someone, probably Pac, tries to keep in but fails. He also doesn’t miss the yelp when someone else, probably Mike, elbows him for it. It makes Charlie feel a little better.
Phil joins them next and so much for no interrogation, because now Charlie is surrounded on this stupid orange couch, crying his eyes out. To be fair, every interrogation Charlie has been in hasn’t involved this much kindness, so this has to be an intervention.Yippee. Charlie avoids all of their gazes, picking at the loose string beneath his fingers.
He sighs, risking a glance at his friend. “Bad day, muy mal día,” he mutters quietly, looking away again. Roier frowns harder and Baghera, probably close enough to hear, leans on Charlie more. The pressure is nice, reassuring. Her feathers are soft too where they tickle his arm and back.
“We can stop the meeting tonight, pick back up again tomorrow. Let’s get you back to Eggxile-“
“NO! No, not-please not Eggxile—” Charlie can’t contain the outburst, the thought of seeing that thing in his mines making him actually sick andoh fuck, Charlie’s actually going to puke. He barely manages to push everyone away from him before he’s sitting up, hand over his mouth. He makes it over to the garbage can in the corner of the room just in time, retching painfully as he throws up nothing but bile. Charlie hasn’t eaten much today, picking at the flaky croissant all meeting, making a mess. He knows the others have noticed, this is only going to add evidence to the pile of things that scream “Charlie is NOT Okay!”
Charlie gags again, and someone comes up from behind him, gently running their hand up and down his back while the other swipes his hair away from around his face. It’s kind of pointless with how short Charlie’s hair is, but the gesture is nice. Soothing.
Charlie registers talking behind him, but he’s too focused on the feeling of plastic under his fingers, the acrid taste in his mouth, and the gentle motions up and down his back.
up
down
up
down
up
down
After a few minutes of silence, the person behind him speaks up.
“Can someone get him some water, please?” It’s Baghera. Charlie sags into her touch a little more. He has to assume someone does what she asks because after a few moments, Baghera’s gently nudging his face up and holding the bottle up, “Do you think you could hold it?”
Charlie’s worried if he lets go of the trashcan, he’s going to disappear, actually.
His hesitation must show, because Baghera smiles in understanding. “Here, I can help.” She is so slow and gentle as she helps Charlie drink, washing out the awful taste on his tongue. Eventually, he feels good enough to let go of the can and take the water bottle from Baghera. His hands shake, still, so the duck hybrid keeps a steadying grip on his wrist. She hands over a tissue after Charlie lowers the bottle so he can wipe around his mouth.
“I’m sorry you had to see that…” Charlie mumbles, avoiding Baghera’s gaze. At the sound of his voice, the others snap to attention, but they don’t crowd him again, held off by Phil, Fit, and Mike. That's odd. Only Baghera stays by his side on the floor. At least everyone’s stopped talking.
“Why are you apologizing? We are the ones who should be sorry, we overwhelmed you, Charlie. We are sorry,” Baghera says, still holding his wrist. The French are touchy- not that Charlie minds, he’s just making an observation.
He really doesn’t deserve the gentleness she’s handling him with.
He pulls away from her hold, this time slowly like it’s painful because it really is. He avoids Baghera’s worried look, curling in on himself for the millionth time today, gaze towards the floor. The carpet is an ugly cream color, but soft beneath his fingers. He sinks a hand into the plush fibers with a death grip, just shy of ripping the strands out.
This is a hole Charlie cannot climb out of. He’s stuck, clawing at the sides of a pit he put himself in, piling more and more dirt on himself the harder he tries to escape. Charlie kind of wishes he had suffocated under the earth a long time ago. He doesn’t tell the others that, can’t.
A clock ticks on the wall, an incessant rhythm that has Charlie’s shoulders hunching forward. He tries to control his breathing, imagines Étoiles tapping against his wrist or the feel of Phil’s feathers against his cheek. The smell of the meeting room and the sweets baked by Chayanne with the help of Bad, brought for them all to snack on. The light reflecting off of Foolish’s shoulder and Jaiden’s laugh when it had accidentally blinded Roier earlier. Cellbit’s voice, rapid and jumbled Portuguese, and the smell of the coffee he’s been chugging.
Pomme’s little hands in Charlie’s hair, twisting and turning strands into knots or braids. Pierre’s bigger hand keeping her steady from his seat beside Charlie, the man passing over brightly colored hair ties when Pomme asks.
Mike’s small smile of amusement at a joke Antoine made- his brother’s glasses glinting in the office light.
Tallulah’s flute twinkling in the background as Richarlyson dances off beat.
Max’s music playing faintly from his headphones, still audible several seats away. The gentle thump of his fingers against wood as they drum out a beat on the table.
Fit smelling like soap, fresh from the gym. Mint, or maybe eucalyptus.
The bright blue of Pac’s hoodie.
The sound of someone writing on a notepad- Dapper.
The flash from Leo’s camera.
Baghera’s hand around his wrist.
Flippa's glasses in his pocket.
Ugly cream carpet beneath Charlie’s fingers and the weight of a terrible secret on his shoulders.
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“Charlie?”
1
2
3
4
His name coming from the mouth of a friend, the familiarity in their tone. The warmth in his chest at the revelation that despite everything, these people care about him as much as Charlie cares about them.
His hands don’t feel as numb.
1
Charlie looks up at the group in front of him: his friends, his family. People he trusts more than anything in this world. He closes his eyes and breathes out.
2
The next inhale is a little easier.
3
“I have something to tell you guys.”
4
Charlie exhales.