Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hunter startles awake with a gasp.

He sits up, panting, as distorted images of looming, gruesome figures melt away in front of his eyes and leave behind in their wake only a deep sensation of dread.

It takes a minute for him to register where he is, to realize there is no actual danger – he's in Luz's house, it was just a nightmare, he's safe, he's fine – yet the dead weight on top of his lungs won't budge. A drop of cold sweat rolls down his forehead as one of his hands goes up to his chest, feeling the quick, erratic heartbeat.

The longer he sits there, distraught, blinking and looking around in the dark while his memory replays broken pieces of dream torments, the more oppressive the darkness seems. Something tingles in the back of his neck, like the sensation of being stared at; of being approached from behind. 

The room seems too small, all of a sudden, too tight, stuffy, the walls pressing in closer and closer until Hunter feels trapped, limbs pinned and chest heavy, heart thumping wildly. Prey.  

His breath catches in his throat and he chokes, barely holding in a gasp that comes out as more of a low whimper. 

He needs– He needs air. Yes, he just needs to breathe. How did that breathing exercise go again? He tries to breathe in, count, breathe out, but the air just won't reach his lungs properly – is he drowning? He needs to get out. Escape. Escape from what? Titan, he just can't breathe–

Hunter gets up from the mattress on trembling legs, careful not to wake up the boy deep asleep on the couch next to him. Even in his panic, he tries to keep his footsteps light, takes care to avoid the steps that creak too loud when he goes up the stairs – he can't disturb Gus so late at night, especially not because of such a silly matter; frankly, it's shameful that a nightmare, which, notedly, isn't even real, can still get to him so easily. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

A small cry falls out of his lips as he opens the door, one hand gripped tightly on the handle, the other grasping uselessly at his chest in a pathetic attempt to just– breathe. 

The house is dark and quiet; everyone else is surely asleep by this hour. The humming in the forest, which Hunter had found peaceful before, feels eerie to him now. 

Dread pools in his gut as he makes his way across the hallway. It seems to stretch and warp, narrower and longer than how he remembers it; the shadows in the corners appear starker, morphing and melting into lurking shapes that tower over him until he's fully encompassed by the darkness. He can almost see the outline of a pair of antlers, the unnatural glow of piercing blue eyes that stare into his very soul, a decaying, oozing green arm extending towards him––

His knees buckle. Hunter falls to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, eyes shut tightly, arms wrapped around his head protectively. His chest clenches painfully and a sob escapes, then another, raw and forceful. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, but the tears overflow and fall anyway, against his will. He needs to calm down, get a grip, it isn't real, none of it is! He isn't that stupid , is he? Is he crazy now? Weak? Hunter is not weak, he doesn't need to cry! 

His hands press against his face tighter, going up to his hair to pull at the strands of blonde. His breaths come out in short, wheezing gasps, lungs constricted like he's below water, like the air in the room is completely gone. 

Distantly, he feels soft pecking at his hand, followed by a gentle chirp. He chokes on his tears, wiping at his eyes uselessly. 

"Flapjack," he mutters, out of breath, voice cracking. 

The small red bird twitters at him, says without words that it is worried about him; Hunter should get help. He shakes his head, burying his face into his arms again. He doesn't need help. He shouldn't even have blown things out of proportion like this. Again. What is up with him lately? It was just a stupid nightmare, he has had those every night for literal years, and no one ever saw the Golden Guard whining around the castle, did they? 

Like a dam that has broken, a fresh wave of tears falls out of his eyes. The twisting images from the dream have already mostly faded, yet the anguish won't leave; in the end, he admits to himself, maybe it isn't just about the nightmare. 

Maybe it's about how they're stuck in an unfamiliar world with no idea how or when they'll go back. How the coven mark on his wrist still aches, how the sight of Belos smashed into sludge and splashed against the wall still turns his stomach each time he remembers it. How everything he's seen inside that man's mind gnaws at him still, the doubt, the unanswered questions. 

Maybe, it's because Hunter can't help but miss his old life, just a little. The familiarity, the certainty of it – knowing what to expect, what to do, who to be. Maybe it's about how he can't help but miss Belos a little, too, despite everything. 

All lies, those days were. Artificial. He is but a series of copies, a forgery, deception, grimwalker. The Emperor was never his uncle; there was never love, or care, or whatever he tried to will into existence, convincing himself it had been present all along. And it disgusts him that he could miss such a terrible person, such terrible circumstances. It's sickening, and it's only a matter of time before his friends – friends, can you even believe that? – realize that Hunter is sickening, that he hasn't changed at all, that he's simply rotten to the core. 

Sooner or later, they'll look through him and see the truth, and they'll despise him, and he'll lose this precious glimpse into what… 

….what not being so alone can be like. 

Titan. What is wrong with him? He really has grown soft. Weak. Shaky hands balled up into fists, he hits his own head a few times. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Pathetic. 

"Hunter?"

He gasps, startled. Flapjack pecks at his hands again, twittering, as the lights flicker on. Willow, looking tired and concerned, stands by the doorway to the kitchen. Hunter just stares at her, frozen. 

"What happened? Are you hurt?" 

She's by his side in a second, hand reaching out to touch his shoulder. He flinches before he can stop himself, and the hand retracts immediately. Idiot . Hunter flushes red in embarrassment and hastily dries his tears, chest heaving as his breath picks up again, erratic. 

"Hey, breathe with me, alright?" He can't. He buries his face in his hands, eyes watering again. It's too much. All of it. "Look at me?" He feels Flapjack pick at his fingers, as if pulling his hands away. He glances up, stopping just below her eyes, still unable to meet her gaze. It's a start. "Come on, breathe in, slowly. One, two, three…" 

Faintly, he recognizes it as the same exercise Gus taught him that one time. Hunter feels useless again. Why couldn't he remember how to do it by himself? However, as Willow counts and breathes along with him, he comes to realize that it's easier, ever so slightly, to calm the turbulence in his chest when there's someone else with him. The panic slowly fades away, replaced by something much, much warmer. 

He dries his face and inhales sharply before any more tears can pool in his eyes. 

Willow breaks the silence. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The words make him cringe. No, he immediately thinks. He really doesn't. The prospect sounds terrifying. It must show on his face, because Willow sighs before settling by his side, back also pressed against the wall. Flapjack nestles in his lap, twittering quietly. 

"I-I'm sorry," is all he manages to say. Stupid. Guilt begins to gnaw at him now that the anxiety has subsided. What if he woke her up while throwing his little tantrum? She must think he's ridiculous. 

"You don't have to apologize!" Willow assures him quickly, then brings her knees close to her chest. "And you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." 

There's a beat of silence. Hunter doesn't dare to turn his eyes away from the wooden floor. 

"It was a nightmare," he chokes out after a while. "It was just a nightmare." 

Willow hums. "Me too." Hunter looks up to see an embarrassed smile on her face. "I couldn't sleep again afterwards. That's why I came downstairs in the first place. I was going to get a cup of water. Then I saw you, and, well." She trails off. 

"It's just– it's been a lot," he says, almost in a whisper. A confession. "The past few weeks. I… I'm just tired, I guess." 

She nods. Another beat. 

"It really has been a lot." She fiddles with her hair as she speaks, eyes looking down at the strands as she searches for words. "But you aren't alone in that, you know?" 

"I know you've been trying to keep it together," she continues. "I have too. But you don't need to face it all by yourself. You can talk to us, Hunter." She glances back at him, smiling; he averts his gaze immediately. "I'll listen! And I'm sure that so will the others." 

Willow tentatively reaches a hand towards his knee, slowly, arm hovering as if asking for permission. He hesitates for a moment, then nods, silently. 

Warmth blooms in the spot she's touching, and suddenly Hunter wishes to tell her all of it; about being a grimwalker, about his days at the castle, about the nightmares. His chest tightens and his lips part, he draws breath to speak– and then he stops.

Words seem to flee him, mouth dried up and stuffed with cotton. He can't, he shouldn't, he can't bring himself to. Not yet, at least. 

"I'm sorry," he repeats. 

"Don't be." Her thumb rubs at his knee, lightly, gently. Hunter nearly cries again, just from the contact. Titan, he's a mess. "Hm. I think talking to you helped me a little, too." 

"Thank you," he says, abruptly. "for… it all," he gestures vaguely, trailing off. 

Willow giggles.

"It was nothing. It's just what friends do!" She moves to get up from the floor. "Do you want to move to the kitchen, maybe? I can make us tea, if you're not up for going back to sleep yet." 

Friends. 

Hunter nods, faintly, a bit embarrassed still. He rubs at his eyes again. 

The humming in the forest is peaceful, the lights have sent the shadows away, and Hunter isn't alone. 

"Yeah. I'd like that."