Hate?

Written by Wolsal

CONTENT WARNING(S): Panic attacks

Solomon sat on his bed, room dimly lit by his bedside lamp- casting the space in a morose yellow light. Blood dripped down his forehead and out of his nose, tears and ichor mixing in droplets that fell onto the bed.

He choked back another sob, gritting his teeth hard as tears streamed down his face. He slammed his fist against the bed, letting out another sob- the sound a mix between anguish and rage. 

“Fuck.” He hissed out through tears, throat and eyes both burning like he’d been set ablaze from the inside.

“Fuck-“ he practically snarked out last time, wrapping his arms tightly around himself as he slid into a pseudo-laying position- head pressed against the bed in an almost fetal position.

A guttural sob ripped through his body, as did a fresh wave of repulsion at himself. He squeezed tighter around his abdomen, unable to stave off the tidal wave of emotion as he gave into his sobs. His face was contorted- nose scrunched and eyes screwed shut. 

Fucking pathetic. What would Scalene say if she could see him now? What would Menhir say when he inevitably did see him? His claws dug into his sides, a mix between a yell and a cry tore through his throat. 

A curt knock sounded at the door making him flinch, the sound ripping him out of his thoughts. 

“Solomon?” A disconcertingly familiar voice called out. The fur on the back of his neck prickled.

“Go away-“ Solomon croaked out, voice hoarse and cracked. 

He heard a sigh from behind the door.

“I’m coming in.”

Without giving room for argument the door creaked open, Menhir slithering in and pulling the door shut behind him. 

“Just go away.” Solomon spoke again, this time sounding quieter and more dejected. 

Menhir was silent for a few moments, eye scanning and analysing every inch of the goat hunched over on the bed in front of him. 

Menhir inhaled sharply, sighing. He slithered closer, reaching into his inner pocket and pulling out a small black cloth. 

“You look terrible. Here, let me help.” His tone was different than Solomon was used to- the dominant tone in the mesmerising chorus of voices sounded gentle. Maybe even a little concerned. 

Solomon stared, tears still falling from his eyes. He turned his head away, though he didn’t protest. 

The bed creaked as Menhir took a seat, sitting no more than a foot away from the goat. He gently placed a curled finger under his chin, tilting his head up and towards him. 

For a moment Solomon thought to resist- maybe hurl an insult, a threat- or maybe attack, bite, shove, kick, all of those thoughts and more crossed his mind. 

He didn’t do any of them though. He just sat, avoiding eye contact while tears dripped down his face. 

He didn’t know why he just let it happen- maybe he just didn’t have the energy or will to resist… 

…or maybe he kind of wanted someone to care about him right now. 

Menhir began to carefully dab away the wash of blood and tears from his face, touch oddly soothing in that moment. 

“I assume you don’t intend on telling me what has caused this outburst,” Menhir paused, sounding almost like he was going to end the sentence before he continued. “But if you… wish to do so, then you may.” 

There was a pause.

“Why are you doing this… what do you want this time-“ Solomon murmured out, voice hoarse. 

Menhir removed the cloth from his forehead, sufficiently satisfied with the amount of blood he’d managed to clean off.

“I don’t want anything.” Menhir examined his face closely before continuing. “I just can’t have you falling apart when you still have a purpose here.” He removed his hand from under his chin.

Solomon stared, seemingly at a loss for what to say. More tears started to form in his eyes- he turned his head away, wiping his face with his sleeve. 

Silence filled the room for several moments before Solomon spoke, he took a deep breath. 

“… thank you.” He said in almost a whisper, 

Menhir stilled- staring at him like he had five heads. He was admittedly taken aback. In the few months since he’d been brought to The Keep he’d never known him to express gratitude.
“You’re-... it’s nothing, simply my duty as your superior.” He almost felt his mask of grandeur slip, quick to put it back on.

The room fell silent again save for the sound of Solomon’s shaky breathing and sniffling. Menhir stood up and off the bed, slithering towards the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, turning partially to look at him.

“If you desire company, you know where to find me.” Menhir said before exiting the room- voiding it of the almost surreal calm he brought.

Solomon stared at the closed door, head reeling. He didn’t know how to truly process… really any of what happened, neither Menhir’s actions or his own. 

He couldn’t decide if his feelings on the interaction- or really on Menhir as a whole, were positive or negative. Fuck, they were so intermixed they may as well be one in the same.

Why did he have to make it so hard to just… hate him. He wanted to just say he was all bad and be done with it, to confidently say that if given the chance he’d never see him again. He wanted to hate him.

…

He didn’t hate him.