Chapter Text
He blinks on the ground past where his head throbs with a headache he doesn’t know the origin of.
He’s struggling to sit up, struggling to recall the past however long he’s been laying here, struggling to know his own name, when his slightly blurry eyes land on a redheaded man with a colossally broken nose who stares at him.
The other man looks very worried. About him? For him? Something he did?
He doesn’t know.
The redheaded man starts to step toward him for no apparent reason.
He crawls backward painfully on sore hands, trying to remember anything.
The redheaded man is still staring at him, that concern from earlier not having dissipated yet. “Hey, you back?”
He doesn’t know what or where he’s supposed to be back from, so he doesn’t say anything. He just stares up at the stranger, trying to place anything about the situation.
What is the situation, anyway —?
The surrounding loud sounds that must’ve been happening this entire time suddenly reach his awareness. He doesn’t know what any of them are from. An earthquake? Does this city ever get earthquakes?
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he just doesn’t know.
Then there’s the abrupt sound of a gun going off. A loud, nearby gun.
He jumps at what is unmistakably another gunshot noise, looking around wildly for the owner of the weapon.
The redheaded man cocks his head. This stranger looks as confused as he is.
He tries to scan the area around himself with his eyes instead of just his ears. Now that his eyes finally clear properly, he can do that.
He watches as a young man, probably no older than he is, shoots a gun at someone else from behind an overturned food crate. The person being shot at also wields a gun. They actually wield two guns, one after the other.
To his left, there’s three — count them, three — hand to hand fights occurring not 50 feet from where he lays on the ground, propped up by his trembling elbows. He sees the quick flashes of more than a handful of separate knives, all used by different people.
He does not understand why he’s laying in the middle of an obvious battlefield right now. But it scares him. It scares him, that something bad might happen to him from being so close to such freely shown violence.
His entire body starts to shake, vibrating across the cool asphalt that presses up into his equally sore legs.
He looks back at where the redheaded man looks properly alarmed now. “Hey,” he says in a quiet voice he almost doesn’t hear above the various fights happening so casually to the side. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t know how to explain to this man that this level of violence is definitely not normal, and how can this man be so unbothered by all of it? That baffles him more than most other things he’s noticing right now.
So he just stares at the redheaded man some more, his breathing hitching every time he tries to inhale.
“Kaz. What’s wrong?” the stranger says forcefully.
Kaz is sharply reminded that that’s his name, like one of those knives just plunged itself deep into his unprotected skull. He opens his mouth to try to respond, but nothing comes out. So instead, he looks down at him, trying to figure out why he’s here right now.
He sees a fancy walking stick with an elegantly designed handle up against his aching left hip. He puts all his weight on one hand so he can inspect the other. It’s currently gloved. They both are, actually, he can feel the soft leather between his skin and the asphalt.
It’s not winter, he doesn’t think. So why he’s currently wearing gloves, he does not know that either.
The redheaded man stays where he is, although he slowly crouches in front of him now, a couple feet away. “Kaz. Can you stand?” he asks firmly.
Kaz tries to get up, to stand, to show that he can. But his right knee is excruciatingly painful right now. So that’s of no help getting him to his feet in this moment. He gets up onto his left knee — this one doesn’t hurt like that, at least, holding out his hand to the redheaded man so he can help Kaz stand up.
The redheaded man stares at his outstretched hand, like he has no idea why Kaz would do such a thing in the first place.
Kaz uses his hand to beckon at the redheaded man.
The redheaded man slowly stands and makes his way over to Kaz before saying, in an exceptionally bewildered tone, “I don’t have an extra knife on me right now.”
Kaz stares up at him. It’s his turn to be exceptionally bewildered. “I don’t…need a knife,” he says in a raspy as hell voice. Does he have a cold? He had no other obvious symptoms, though.
“...okay?” the redheaded man asks hesitantly. “So what are you expecting me to give you, then?”
Kaz frowns. “...your hand?” he stresses expectantly. A knife and his hand are not the only two options, but this man is saying it like they are.
The redheaded man studies him carefully. “Why would you want my hand?”
Kaz throws up his hands as he stays down on one knee, his panging knee screaming at him from the awful position. “I can’t get up otherwise,” he points out, gesturing down at himself for good measure.
The redheaded man stares at him disbelievingly, like he’s trying to decide how much Kaz is joking about this.
Kaz stares back at him.
The redheaded man does nothing to move toward him more, to help him up or otherwise.
So Kaz struggles to get to his feet with the marginal help of the walking stick. That’s all right. He’s able to get to his unsteadily feet, at least.
Once he’s done that successfully, he looks over at the redheaded man. “What the fuck was that about?”
The redheaded man stares at him uncomprehendingly. “...what the fuck was what about?”
Kaz frowns deeper. “Nevermind,” he decides. He doesn’t know how well he usually knows this redheaded man anyway. Maybe they’re only acquaintances. That might explain why the strange man didn’t necessarily think to help Kaz to his feet.
But…even strangers help each other to their feet, though, right?
So what is going on here?
Kaz scans the continued fighting, looking for someone he recognizes to tell him what his business even is here.
He doesn’t see anyone that fits that bill, so he turns to leave.
“Where the fuck are you going?” The redheaded man calls after him.
Kaz turns his head back to look at him. “Uh, leaving? I have no desire to get caught in the middle of a fight,” he says like it’s obvious.
Which, it is.
Or so he thinks, until the redheaded man visibly recoils. “...why not?” is the insane question Kaz is greeted with.
Kaz stares incredulously at him. “...because it’s a fight? People are actively getting hurt,” he points out with his words and his free gloved hand.
The redheaded man stares at him longer. “Yeah, I…I know, that’s…that’s the…point?” He sounds like he’s uncertain why he’s having to explain his absurd perspective to Kaz right now.
Kaz recoils now. How can this man have such a flippant attitude toward violence of this caliber? “Well, I for one am not staying in case someone decides to target me for some reason.” He turns his back on the man again. He tries to walk away, reminded sharply about his right knee being a painful problem. His feet start trying to limp him forward, favoring his entire right leg.
He struggles to use the walking stick with his left hand for a second, but eventually he gets the hang of it.
He turns the corner, beyond eager to get as far away from all this strangeness as quickly as possible.
Only to run straight into what look to be three burly gang members, standing there, perhaps waiting for him or some other unlucky…pigeon. Pigeon? Is that the term?
Kaz, as he’d previously told the redheaded man, still has zero desire to get wrapped up in any fight, so he tries immediately to duck around them.
One of the three gang members shoves him back, harshly pushing his palms against Kaz’s chest.
Kaz gags suddenly, dropping his cane in an instant.
He’s not entirely sure why he just gagged, and by the looks on the gang members’ faces, they don’t know either.
The gang member who’d pushed him sneers at him, “What, Dirtyhands thinks he can get away scot free?” He cracks his knuckles menacingly.
Kaz stares at him. He doesn’t know who Dirtyhands is. But his gang member sure seems to think he knows. “...I don’t know what Dirtyhands thinks,” he protests.
The gang members all suddenly look as confused as the redheaded man had.
The one of the far left whispers to the one on the far right, “What’s that supposed to mean?” hesitantly.
“...why would I know what Dirtyhands thinks?” Kaz continues to try to argue his case.
The gang member on the far right scoffs. “...why wouldn’t you know?”
Kaz suddenly wonders if perhaps the redheaded man is Dirtyhands. “I mean, you could go talk to him instead, he should still be back there —” he points back the way he came.
The gang members look at him like he’s insane.
Kaz finally just says, in the calmest voice he can muster through his perpetually rough, throaty voice, “...I don’t know what you want. I need to go, though, so excuse me —” He tries to walk around them again.
The one who’d shoved him earlier pushes him again.
Kaz, without meaning to in the slightest, retches loudly. He stumbles back further trying to figure out where all this nausea is coming from.
The gang members exchange quick glances with each other.
“I’m sorry, I seem to be somehow sick, I need to get home and —” Kaz begins, finally swallowing down the overwhelming sensation that he’s about to vomit over nothing in particular.
The first gang member shoves a knife up against his throat.
Kaz stops talking.
“Who are you really?” the gang member snarls.
Kaz swallows carefully. He doesn’t know what the question is even referring to. “...I don’t know what that means,” he goes with.
The gang member scrutinizes him now. “I mean, why did Dirtyhands let you take his face? You supposed to be a decoy of some kind?”
Kaz, completely caught off guard with the idea that he has this Dirtyhands’ face, wants to reach up to feel his nose, see how broken it is. But with the knife to his neck, that’s probably not a good idea to even try. “Do you have a mirror?” he asks hopefully. Maybe if he can just see his current face, he’ll be able to deduce who Dirtyhands is—?
The gang member threatening him stares at him like he doesn’t know if Kaz is pranking him right now. “...what for? So you can break it and use the glass as a weapon? I think not, how stupid do you think I am?” The blade presses harder against Kaz’s throat.
Kaz’s eyes widen from equal parts surprise and fear. “What? No? Why would I do that?”
“This guy’s obviously not Dirtyhands, but…what face does Dirtyhands have, then?” The gang member holding the knife up against Kaz turns back to talk to his cohorts. “His own, still? Or someone else’s?”
Kaz is quiet, listening to them trying to figure it out. Maybe if they figure it out aloud, it’ll help Kaz figure out what the fuck is going on too.
Finally, the one holding the knife to his throat pushes it up against Kaz’s neck harder, turning back to glare at him. “You’re going to point out Dirtyhands for us; come on, back around the wall.”
“I don’t — I don’t know —!” Kaz begins, about to beg not to be pushed back into the vicinity of all that violence.
The gang member shoves him backward with the flat of his blade until Kaz quietly obeys. He’s not exactly looking to get this throat slit right now.
He lets them force him back around the corner.
He sees the redheaded man fighting in the fray with a gun Kaz hadn’t seen on him earlier.
Kaz flinches when the redheaded man’s angry gaze lands on him.
The gang member holding him at knifepoint glances over at Kaz before shouting into the thinning crowd, “You better tell us which of you is actually Dirtyhands!” over the din.
The redheaded man looks that special brand of confused again.
Quite a few of the people fighting pause to look over at them.
That man from earlier with two guns and gray eyes runs over to where the redheaded man stands with his own gun hanging limply in his fingers. A tall, very muscular man joins them. They’re talking quietly amongst themselves before the redheaded man calls over to them.
“What makes you think he’s not the real Dirtyhands?”
The gang member holding the knife to Kaz’s throat scoffs. “Cause this fool doesn’t even seem to know who Dirtyhands is, let alone that he’s impersonating him.”
The redheaded man and the gray eyed man both look perfectly bewildered.
The extremely buff man next to them says, in a calm but low voice, “Well, since he’s not the real Dirtyhands, sounds like you need to let him go — wouldn’t want the stadwatch to know you’re killing off random civilians.” bang. Kaz opens his eyes to watch a plume of thick smoke cover all of them.
Kaz hears someone yelling for a, “Wylan!” just as he rips himself away from the knife, and the man holding the weapon loosely against him.
He runs back around the corner, grabbing his cane off the ground where he’d dropped it earlier. He hefts it up and dashes out of there to get to the street.
He’s scanning the road, looking for someone who could maybe help him get away from all these dangerous gang members, when someone shouts behind him.
“Kaz!”
He turns back to see where the gray eyed man sprints up to him.
“What’s going on?” the man asks Kaz, like he would know.
Kaz stares at him. “How should I know?”
The gray eyed man squints at him. “...okay? How about we just go home? We’ll let the others finish everything up?”
Kaz’s body really hurts all over the place right now. His left hip, his right knee, his head has that pounding headache still, and he still feels somewhat nauseous about being shoved. Which, that’s a strange reaction to be having to that particular action. But he can figure that out later. Right now, it sounds like he and the gray eyed man either live together, or at least very close.
And since Kaz doesn’t know where he currently lives, he just nods along. “Lead the way,” he says gruffly.
The gray eyed man cocks his head at him. “...all right?” he asks like he’s unsure of his own plan. But then he starts walking down the road, presumably leading Kaz.
So Kaz limps along behind him.
They get to a very fancy looking mansion rather than anywhere else.
Kaz probably couldn’t afford this mansion in his wildest dreams, and he’d bet quite a bit that neither could this gray eyed man.
But the gray eyed man starts to insert a key into the doorknob regardless.
“Don’t do that!” Kaz says, appalled.
The gray eyed man looks at him. “...don’t do what?”
Kaz gestures at the door. “Don’t break in,” he admonishes him.
The gray eyed man gives a stilted laugh. “Just because you think every door has to be lockpicked, doesn't mean every other way of getting in is “breaking in” — that doesn’t make any sense, Kaz.” He finishes opening the door.
Kaz reluctantly trails inside after him.
The gray eyed man starts talking his shoes off.
Kaz is still extremely confused why this man who was just fighting gang members is making himself at home here. So he just stands there staring judgementally at the other man.
The gray eyed man glances at him. “What, you’re not staying?”
Kaz blinks. “...why would I stay?”
The gray eyed rolls his eyes as if exasperated. “I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you that you don’t live at the Slat anymore, Kaz. The Slat is for work only now. And you don’t have any more work to do today. So come on.” He goes into the living room on the other side of the hallway.
Kaz follows him in.
The gray eyed man flops down on the couch.
Kaz stares down at him.
He’s trying to decide what relationship he and this man could possibly have — are they roommates? Or just housemates? Of this house? Or a slat? — when suddenly the front door opens and multiple people come inside.
The front door slams behind them.
Kaz jumps at that sound too. It sounded like a gunshot, and he just really doesn’t like the sudden sound of gunshots.
The gray eyed man eyes him carefully. “Kaz? Is something wrong?”
Kaz opens his mouth to try to explain, when the redheaded man — Dirtyhands? — comes in, followed by the very buff man, and another, much shorter man with curly hair.
The redheaded man storms over to him. Kaz fights the sudden urge to cower under him. “Wanna tell me what that was all about?” he snaps incredibly accusatorily.
Kaz stares at him. “What what was all about?”
The redheaded man throws up his hands like he’s exasperated at Kaz too. “What part of the scheme included you pretending not to be Dirtyhands? ‘Cause you didn’t bother to share that part with any of us.”
Kaz pauses, trying to process what he’s even saying. “...I’m...not,” he protests. He knows that much, at least.
The redheaded man narrows his eyes at Kaz. “You’re not what?” He still sounds overly upset about the situation.
Kaz glances at the muscular man for a split second before returning his gaze to where the redheaded man’s lips purse. “...Dirtyhands,” he says quietly.
The redheaded man looks shocked. Just…shocked. Not a hint of any other emotion creeps in his face anywhere near his broken nose. “...what?”
Kaz tries to explain. “I don’t know who Dirtyhands is, I thought…I thought you might be Dirtyhands.”
The redheaded man stares at him. Actually, all four of the men around him stare at him.
Kaz doesn’t know what the problem is right now. Now that they know he’s not their Dirtyhands, this should be clearing everything up. “So who is Dirtyhands, then?”
The buff man makes a strange noise in the back of his throat that drags Kaz’s eyes over to him as he speaks. “Where are you from, that you don’t know who Dirtyhands is? Why did he Tailor you to look like him if you don’t even know who he is?”
“I don’t know,” Kaz expresses truthfully.
The shortest man shuffles his foot enough to draw Kaz’s attention to him now. “You don’t know why Kaz would Tailor you to look like him?”
Kaz blinks. “...no, I am,” he says firmly. He knows that much.
The gray eyed man cocks an eyebrow. “You are what?”
Kaz fights not to sigh with slight annoyance. “I’m Kaz,” he says plainly.
Four pairs of eyes stare disbelievingly at him again.
The shortest man speaks first. “So you’re…Kaz. But you’re not Dirtyhands,” he clarifies — correctly.
Kaz nods agreement. That’s right, that’s the first thing anyone’s gotten right about him this evening.
Both of the redheaded man’s eyebrows shoot up. “Kaz, that doesn’t make any sense.”
Kaz frowns. “I’m telling you, I don’t know who Dirtyhands is.”
The buff man speaks next. “...why not?” is his nonsensical question.
Kaz frowns deeper. “How should I know how I don’t know something?” he says argumentatively.
The gray eyed man clears his throat.
Kaz glances over at him, annoyed again.
“Kaz,” the gray eyed man says slowly. “There’s…there’s no way you don’t know who Dirtyhands is, because you are Dirtyhands.”
Kaz stares at him. “...no I’m not,” he argues. “Those gang members thought Dirtyhands thought he was getting off scot free, but since I don’t even know what Dirtyhands is getting away with in the first place —” He’s getting a little worked up now.
The redheaded man interrupts the start of his frustration. “— Kaz. Just…answer a question for me for once, yeah?”
Kaz nods and gestures for him to go ahead.
The redheaded man stares deep into Kaz’s eyes, as if searching for something. “What is my name?”
The gray eyed man laughs like he got caught off guard.
Kaz pauses to think. “...if you’re not Dirtyhands, then I don’t know your name,” he confesses. Should he know it? He’s kind of acting like Kaz should already know it.
The room is totally quiet.
Kaz tries to salvage the situation quickly. “I’m sorry, should I know your name?”
The redheaded man looks like he’s just seen a ghost.
“Maybe you could remind me —?” Kaz starts to suggest.
“— you don't know my name,” the redheaded man says numbly.
Kaz stares at him, trying to remember his name. But he can’t. It’s just not in his memory bank. “I…I’m really sorry, but I don’t.”
The gray eyed man sounds like he’s hesitant about even saying anything. “Okay but you…but you know all of our names, though, right?” like it’s rhetorical.
Kaz shakes his head slowly. “Maybe you could all remind me?” he properly suggests hopefully.
They’re all looking at him like he just grew three animal heads spontaneously.
“...can you just remind me real quick?” Kaz begs all of them at once. “Maybe I do know your name, I just need a reminder.”
The buff man looks at the redheaded man. “Did he hit his head?”
The redheaded man looks to be thinking hard. “He got knocked out — I don’t know how, I just found him coming to on the sidelines.”
“Oh, shit,” the gray eyed man says grimly.
The shortest man turns to look at Kaz now. “Kaz, what exactly do you know?”
Kaz hesitates. “...about what?”
The shortest man is acting the calmest of all of them, which is calming Kaz down a bit more than anything the gray eyed man or the redheaded man are doing. “About your life. What do you remember?”
Kaz thinks about it. “My name is…Kaz. Kaz…Rietveld? I think? And —”
The gray eyed cuts in. “ — that is not your last name.” He sounds upset.
Kaz looks at him confusedly. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s it,” he begins a little hotly.
“Let him think,” the shortest man says quietly to the gray eyed man. Then he turns back to Kaz. “Go on. What else do you remember?”
Kaz thinks harder. “Um…I use a cane. This cane. I’m not totally sure why, but my right knee and left hip both really hurt, so maybe it has to do with that?” He theorizes.
Everyone – even the shortest man — looks alarmed now.
Then the shortest man’s eyes soften and he continues questioning Kaz. “Okay. Is that it?”
Kaz pauses to keep thinking. “...getting pushed makes me really nauseous and panicky. That’s it.”
All four individual confused expressions are on full display again.
Kaz looks around nervously. He doesn’t know if they’re friends of his, although by now, he assumes they must be. But he really does need some of their names now. “Okay, so tell me: what’s your name, and how am I supposed to know you?” He points at the calmest of them all: the shortest man.
The shortest man answers simply and casually. “My name is Wylan van Eck. We're very good friends, and have been for almost a decade, actually. Doesn’t any of that sound familiar?”
Kaz stares at him. “...no,” he says truthfully. “No, it doesn’t, but I’m glad to meet you anyway.”
Wylan dips his head. “This is Matthias Helvar,” he points at the buff man next to him. “Do you know him?”
Kaz studies his face too. “No, not him either. How long have we been friends?”
“About the same time as Wylan,” is the gentle, low response he gets.
Kaz nods before looking at the gray eyed man.
The gray eyed man speaks slowly, like he’s not sure why he’s doing it in the first place. “...Jesper. Fahey. We’ve…we’ve known each other for almost 15 years.” He sounds fairly bitter about it, actually.
“Oh,” Kaz says dumbly. “I didn’t know.”
Jesper looks pained now. “It’s okay,” he mumbles.
Kaz looks at the redheaded man, who, now that Kaz is looking at him properly, is much more handsome to Kaz than any of the others.
The redheaded man speaks as calmly as Wylan had been to start with. “I go by two names: do you recognize the name Sturmhond?”
Kaz wants so badly not to disappoint him especially right now, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t. “...I don’t think so,” he hedges softly.
Sturmhond nods slowly. “Okay. What about Nikolai Lantsov?”
Kaz gets a flicker of knowledge — but not recognition — at that surname. “...is…isn’t Lantsov a Ravkan name?”
Sturmhond looks kind of hopeful now. “Yeah, it is. Do you…do you know anything else about the name Lantsov?”
Kaz thinks hard. More knowledge surfaces, none of it a memory of this man. “...is your family…really wealthy?” he tries.
Sturmhorn cracks a small smile. “You could say that,” he says like he’s trying to decide if it’s an appropriate time to laugh.
Jesper just snorts a laugh anyway.
Kaz looks at Jesper, then back at Sturmhond. “Why is that amusing?”
Sturmhond's muddy green eyes stare at Kaz’s face again, like he’s trying to memorize the way he looks. “The Lantsov family are Ravkan royalty,” he says simply.
Kaz stares at him. “You’re…royalty?” Why would Kaz know any royalty?
Surmhond shrugs. “When I’m Nikolai, at least, I’m…kind of, yes.”
“I like that name,” Kaz says suddenly. Is this a memory? Or just a familiar emotion? He’s not sure.
Sturmhond looks curiously at him. “...which name?”
“Nikolai,” Kaz echoes. “It’s a nice name. I…like it.” That much is true. Has he always liked it? He doesn’t know.
Sturmhond smiles properly at that one. “Good. I’m glad to hear that,” he says softly.
“And how long have I known you?” Kaz tries to get them back on track.
Sturmhond’s warm expression suddenly flickers. “We met a little less than a decade ago, but we’ve gotten…closer in the last few years,” he says way too vaguely.
“How close?” Kaz demands. “Are we…really good friends, then?” If they’ve known each other for a little less than a decade, surely there’s no way they aren’t that at least.
Sturmhond’s expression does something strange, Kaz doesn’t know exactly what just happened. “Yeah, kind of, we’re — we’re actually — boyfriends?” He sounds kind of apologetic right now.
Kaz frowns in concentration. “...we are?” He wonders if this is some kind of weird, badly placed joke. How’d Kaz of all people snag Ravkan royalty?
Sturmhond pauses scratching the back of his neck a little awkwardly. “Yeah, is that…a problem?”
Kaz hurries to assure him. “No, no, it’s not a problem. You’re very handsome, I just…I just wish I remembered you,” he confesses.
Sturmhond looks at him sadly again. “I wish you remembered me too,” he whispers.
Kaz stands there, staring at him for a long minute before one of his bigger concerns resurfaces. “Okay, why would someone call me Dirtyhands? That sounds like…like the name of the bad guy,” he admits in a low raspy tone.
Sturmhond winces, an action that makes so sense to Kaz. “It’s…that’s a little complicated,” he finally says. “Let’s not worry about that right now.”
“Okay…” Kaz trails off. “...so what are we worrying about right now?”
Stumrhond hesitates.
Wylan pipes up then. “Think it’d be beneficial to get him to Os Alta? Find a powerful enough Grisha to figure out how to get his memories back?”
“I mean, we could try,” he half agrees.
“And if it’s beyond any Grisha’s abilities?” Jesper says harshly, startling Kaz enough to jump like his voice was a gunshot. “What then?”
“Let’s not worry about that until we’ve tried all the options we can find,” Matthias says solemnly.
Kaz has one more pressing issue to address. “My head really hurts right now, can I…can I take a nap, maybe?”
Everyone looks at him independent of each other.
“Yeah, lemme…” Sturmhond begins. “...let me show you where our room is.”
Kaz catches the “our” part of the sentence as he follows Sturmhond down the hall, limping painfully the whole time. Huh. He really was this man’s boyfriend prior to any of this.
When they get to a bedroom, Sturmhond walks in first.
Kaz follows him. He sees a big bed to one side, and a small couch bed off to the side. He has no idea which one is supposed to be his, if either of them.
He chooses the big bed to the left. He pretends it’s because it’s just closer to him, but his painfully protesting body knows better.
He takes care to sit on the edge of the big plush bed with a low, barely-not-suppressed groan.
Sturmhond looks at him like he’s curious again.
Kaz tries to explain himself. “My whole body seems to hurt right now.”
“Okay,” Sturmhond says simply. Then he begins to leave out the open door.
The terrifying thought that he’s going to go to sleep and not wake up seizes Kaz with a death grip in and of itself. “Sturmhond?” he asks, sounding a little panicky already.
Sturmhond stops short. “Yes?” he turns back to look directly at him.
Kaz swallows hard. “Will you…stay? Make sure I…don’t stop breathing?” he whispers.
Sturmhond stares at him before nodding. He drags a plush chair from the corner over to the side of Kaz’s — potentially their — bed.
Kaz lays down over the covers. He still has his shoes on, so he carefully kicks them both off. They topple off the end of the bed with two dull thuds that sound nothing like gunshots.
He puts his head carefully on the pillow. The pounding in his head subsides just a little then; just enough that his eyes start to droop with exhaustion.
He watches Sturmhond carefully.
Sturmhond quietly watches him back.
“...thank you,” Kaz mumbles before he can drop off entirely.
Sturmhond looks minorly shocked again. “...what for?”
“For helping me,” Kaz clarifies. That’s worth thanking in and of itself, he thinks.
“...yeah,” Sturmhond sounds as surprised as his face Kaz can barely see anymore looks. “Yeah, of course. Try to sleep,” he encourages him.
Kaz nods slowly, closes his eyes, and falls asleep, safe in the knowledge — but not the remembrance — that Sturmhond will keep him alive tonight at the very least.