Otter cranks the heat up as soon as they get into the car, but it gets too stifling too soon, and it makes Landis feel like clawing his way out of his own skin. He presses his head back against the headrest and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore how uncomfortable every inch of his body feels, his skin caked with mud and blood and God knows what else. The sleeve of his jacket is ruined from Gen slicing into his arm with the knife. He runs the torn edges between his fingers, catching stray threads with his nails, pulling them out. It’s almost soothing.
“How’s your arm?” Otter asks, like he’s not so sure if he should be broaching the subject or not.
“It’s okay,” Landis manages. He’s not lying. The searing feeling that had been shooting up and down his arm before is almost totally gone, faded into a constant, dull ache that’s almost easy to ignore. “I’ve had worse.”
“You’re lying to make me feel better,” Otter says, and by the tone of his voice, Landis can tell he’s frowning. “Don’t do that.”
Landis nods, keeping his eyes shut, stretching his legs out as much as he can in the limited space of the passenger’s seat. The motion of the car slows as it turns. They must be close to the apartment complex by now. It’s only a ten minute drive. Landis doubts he’ll be able to sleep without nightmares, but he can’t help but be excited at the prospect of lying down on the couch for hours. Maybe after a hot shower. If he can stand long enough to shower.
“Do you want something to eat?” Otter asks. “We can grab something and take it back to the apartment.”
Landis almost shakes his head, but his stomach growls, and he nods instead. Might as well.
They stop at the drive-through fast food joint around the corner from Otter and Austin’s apartment. Landis pretends to be asleep in the car so that no one will ask questions about the way he looks. Out of sight of the employee who hands Otter his food and change, Landis swipes his fingers over his injured forearm, to test if it’s still bleeding, or scabbed over. The verdict: too filthy to tell.
The car fills up with the smell of grease and french fries. Landis expects it to make his stomach turn, but instead he’s even hungrier, his mouth watering at the thought of red meat. God, that’s sick. You watched a girl drown - get absorbed, whatever - just now, and you’re excited to eat a fucking hamburger. Are you that desensitized to this stuff? Are you that fucking crazy?
Landis opens his eyes as Otter eases the car into a parking spot outside the apartment complex. The streetlamps that flood the lot with bright, artificial light make his head hurt. He takes the bags of fast food and follows Otter into the building and up the stairs, stumbling a few times, never falling. Everything feels liquid, time and space sliding around him like he’s moving through a dream. His body feels too light, almost hollow. Otter unlocks his front door. Landis uses the hand attached to his uninjured arm to feel his neck for a pulse, and wonders if he’s dead.
“Let me see your arm,” Otter says, as soon as they’re in the apartment. He glances around. “Huh. I guess Austin isn’t back yet.”
Landis takes his muddy shoes off carefully and places them next to the door. “Can I eat while you look at my arm?”
“Yeah,” Otter says, a little begrudgingly. “You probably should.”
“Cool.”
Landis strips down to his t-shirt and boxer briefs, the only two pieces of clothing he has on that weren’t completely soaked through or ruined during the adventure in the woods. He shuffles into the kitchen and sits down at the table to rifle through one of the bags of food. Otter is standing at the sink, soaking a dish towel in water.
“Here,” he says, and shoves the towel at Landis, along with a bottle of painkillers. “Wipe your arm down for me? I’m going to grab the first aid kit. You probably need stitches, but I want to make sure that it doesn’t get infected, first.”
Landis nods, shoving fries into his mouth too rapidly to talk, and gulps down the painkillers with a mouthful of soda. Pressing the dish towel onto his wound stings. He lets out a low groan, but keeps going anyway, washing most of the dirt away and leaving a clean patch of skin just a little longer and wider than the jagged gash. Looking at it without all the mud, it’s not so bad. It neatly bisects some of the smaller nicks and scars on his forearm. At least this one isn’t self-inflicted, even if most people won’t believe that.
“Okay,” Otter says, emerging from his bedroom, arms overflowing with supplies. “You ever had stitches before?”
Landis shakes his head.
“Oh good, then you won’t judge me if it’s a little lopsided.” Otter laughs shakily. He’s grinning, but Landis can tell that it’s forced, probably to put him at ease.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?” Otter asks.
He pulls up a chair next to Landis and tips some liquid from a large bottle out onto the knife wound. Landis yelps, and his eyes water, but he doesn’t yank his arm away. Probably disinfectant. That’s the only thing that’d hurt this much.
“Pretend to be okay,” Landis says through gritted teeth. “With what happened, in the woods. It’s okay if you’re freaked out.”
Otter’s grin drops. “Okay. I just wasn’t sure if -”
“I know.”
“I just -”
“You don’t have to be so nice to me all the time.” Landis looks down at the table, avoiding Otter’s eyes. “I get it if you’re mad. I shouldn’t be living here, and everything that happened tonight was - it was all my fault, and I shouldn’t have brought you. I was probably better off living in the lake house where I couldn’t be around anybody.”
The kitchen feels too quiet, too claustrophobic. Landis is distantly aware of Otter touching his arm, moving it on the table, ripping open a foil package of something. The needle going through his skin feels like a pinprick, compared to the memory of the knife.
“I’m not mad,” Otter says softly, once he’s started stitching. His eyebrows are drawn together in concentration, his mouth screwed up into a frown. “I just…worry. I know stuff like this is probably going to happen to you and Austin as long as you’re here. Maybe even after you leave. Just because of who you are. What you can do.” He sighs. His hands are steady, but his breathing makes it sound like something inside of him is shaking. “And it’s not your fault. It’s things like that, that lake thing that find you and know what you are and use you. But you shouldn’t have to answer to things like that.”
He swallows, and stops talking. Landis watches him stitch the length of the knife wound, pulling gently on the thread to draw it a little tighter as he goes. It doesn’t turn out crooked at all.
“Thanks.”
Otter looks up sharply from snipping the extra length of string away from the stitching. “What?”
“Thanks,” Landis repeats. “For that.”
For stitching me up, or for coming with me? For sticking up for me? For letting me sleep on the couch? Even he isn’t completely sure what he means. He finally takes his hamburger out of the fast food bag and unwraps it so he can bite into it. It’s cold by now, but Landis closes his eyes and enjoys it anyway.
landis your internalized ableism and ptsd!!!!