— 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄

teaser for my oc rowan, portraying a part of himself he didn't plan to be seen.

hurt by nine inch nails.

two months, three weeks, five days — that's how long it had been since rowan's control was ripped away from him. everything that was once at his fingertips was now people away, always — at all times. thirsty? he couldn't just get up and grab a glass of water — he had to wait, ask, depend. showers were out of the question unless someone was there to lift him, steady him, help him undress. and when he needed to just take a simple piss, it wasn’t a matter of standing up and walking to the bathroom. it was calling, waiting, and enduring the embarrassment of someone else handling what used to be private.

most days it was cillian, his brother, who helped him. quick, quiet, no pity in his eyes — just a tired kind of understanding. rowan could stomach that. cillian never hovered, never made a show of his care. he just did what needed to be done and left rowan with whatever scraps of dignity he had left. in a strange way, that made it easier. they didn’t have to talk about it. they didn’t have to pretend it was okay. but when it wasn’t cillian, it was graciela — his girlfriend, or what was left of it. and that was harder. she was gentle — too gentle. patient, soft spoken, always looking at him like she wanted to ease some pain she couldn’t touch. he could tell she tried not to show it, but he caught it in the way her hands lingered, the way her voice softened when he winced, or the way she looked at him like he might break even more. something inside rowan resented it. not her — but the fact that she got to see him like this. stripped bare of the strength he used to carry without thinking. helpless, bedridden, humiliated. there were moments when she’d lift a cup to his lips or adjust the blanket around him, and it made something tighten in his chest. he hated needing her. hated the way she saw everything. the grimaces, the trembling, the loss. he didn’t want her to know him like this — weak and undone. because before, when he still had control, he was something more. now? he wasn’t sure what she saw. but it wasn’t the rowan he wanted to be.

the bouras household sat quietly, no ruckus bouncing off the walls just yet. only pure quiet whilst everyone dreamt of what is or what could've been. rowan's alarm buzzed sharply through the silence, vibrating with cold precision as the clock on his nightstand read 7:00 am. at this point, it was a ritual every morning. his phone read, medication — that’s what it said. no fanfare, no clever title, just a cold label for a cold routine. it was always around this time that someone came in, woke him if he wasn’t already awake, and helped him through the first round of the day’s necessities. meds, cleaning up, sometimes food. today it wasn’t cillian. his brother had taken the weekend to go somewhere — out of the city, maybe — rowan didn’t the details. didn't care much, either. all he knew was that ian was out living a life, probably sitting in a cafe or walking on his own two feet. doing what rowan was supposed to be doing.

instead, graciela stirred awake to the sound of the alarm from the other room, pushing the blanket off her legs with a groggy sigh and sitting up slowly. she blinked toward the clock, hair sticking to her cheek, and rubbed at her eyes. the phone continued, which meant rowan hadn’t snoozed the damn thing — she frowned. he should’ve still been in bed. but when she padded into his room, the bed was empty. neatly made, even. that set her pulse stuttering. “row?” she called softly, not wanting to panic but already halfway there. the room was still. quiet. a bit too much. and then — a sound. a muffled clatter, followed by something close to a curse. she followed it to the bathroom, where the door was half shut. pushing it open gently, what she saw made her freeze for half a second.

rowan on the floor, collapsed in a heap of limbs and shaking breaths, half dressed, one leg awkwardly twisted beneath him. his hands were braced against the cold tile, knuckles white, and his chest heaved like he’d been holding in the panic until it couldn’t be ignored anymore. his face was pale, sweat pooling near his temple. he looked… something similar to a hurt puppy. “don't—” his voice cracked like something brittle. he turned his head, just enough to see her in the doorway. “don't come in.” but it was already too late. she was there.

he wasn’t supposed to fall. he wasn’t supposed to even try on his own. but that morning, he'd thought just this once. just one goddamn thing. he could get to the bathroom, take his pills on his own, maybe clean up a little — anything to feel human, for a second. and instead, here he was. crumbled. on the tile like a dropped thing someone forgot to pick up. the pain in his hip was sharp and alive, maybe bruised, maybe worse. but it wasn’t the worst part. the worst part was the humiliation — hot and suffocating, tightening at his face. the way his fingers had trembled too hard to turn the faucet. the way his muscles had failed him halfway through a reach for the counter. he couldn’t do anything. tears were slipping down his face before he could stop them, angry and quiet. he didn’t sob, didn’t even breathe loudly — they just fell. and he hated them. he hated everything about this. gracie knelt slowly beside him, but not too close. she didn’t reach out yet. she knew the look in his eyes. knew he was trying to keep what little pride he had from shattering entirely.

“i just wanted to get up,” he rasped, not looking at her. “just once. didn't want to f—fucking wait.” his voice broke on that last word. he was shaking — not just from exertion, but from the deep, ugly frustration that had been growing for weeks. he'd always been strong, always relied on his body to do what he told it. and now it betrayed him with every attempt. even when he wanted something so small. “can't even piss without help,” he said, bitter and flat. “can't stand up. can't reach the goddamn sink.” he clenched his jaw, swallowing against the lump rising in his throat. gracie moved carefully, finally placing a hand near his, not touching him unless he let her. “rowan, you don’t have to do this alone,” she said quietly. “that's not the point” his voice was hoarse now, fraying at the edges. “i just want to. and i can’t.” the silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was heavy, packed with the weight of everything rowan couldn’t say aloud. the grief of losing your independence. the fury of being trapped in your own skin. the ache of being seen like this by someone who used to look at you like you could do anything. he closed his eyes, teeth grinding together. and gracie, still kneeling beside him, just waited — not moving to lift him yet, not saying he’d be okay. just there. because sometimes the only thing worse than being helpless… was having someone watch you try and fail to not be.

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