The Lights Are On DNI FINISHED

"He's perfectly healthy," the nurse repeated as Draven's fingers tangled and untangled in a thread dangling off his suit. He'd unraveled it something terrible, making the fine stitching fray the more he worried at it. It stank, too. He was distantly aware of this, a nagging thought at the back of his brain. He hadn't changed out of it in a couple days, hadn't dared leave the hospital. Over the course of a few weeks, Draven's skin had begun to grow oily, and a dusting of freckles and acne had bloomed across his cheeks and back. In the places where fabric rubbed against him the most, the acne blossomed, reveling in the sweat and the itch.

He ached to change clothes, to go wash. But if he moved from in front of his father's door, something terrible would happen. He could feel it, the doom creeping to Abbadon's hospital room, only held back by his gaze pinning the door shut.

"There's something wrong," he repeated. His voice was small. Hallow. It didn't sound like his own, streaked by cracks and three nights with only as many hours of sleep. He met the nurse's gaze. Caught her eyes in the way he seldomly liked to nowadays. It felt like an intrusion. Too private of a thing, eye contact. It made his skin crawl to demand her attention like that. But if he didn't, they'd be forced to leave. Back to the empty, cold mansion that had become less of a home and more of a prison. "You have to go check again," he said slowly, enunciating each word carefully so that the lack of sleep wouldn't slur them together. He focused on the consonants and the vowels, his tongue describing each one despite feeling like led. "Please. There's something wrong, and I don't know what to do."

"He's getting old," the nurse said. "This just happens as people grow older, Mister Mirador. Perhaps a therapist would benefit him, if he's acting the way you've described. But there's nothing more I can do from my side."

A therapist. Draven swallowed. "How do I get him a therapist?" he asked, digging through his pockets to find a quill and a piece of parchment. The feathers on the quill had bent, he noticed with a silent sort of mourning. They had folded over in his pocket, a crease running through them, spreading them apart awkwardly in some places. The nurse frowned. "I could put you in contact with one," she said, "But because he's an adult, he'd have to make a request himself. For both of you, actually, since you're under 16."

He wouldn't. Draven set the quill down. Abbadon wouldn't ask for help. For either of them.

"He won't."

The nurse's face didn't betray any sort of emotion. "There's nothing I can do," she said. "I'm sorry," she said. She didn't sound sorry. She sounded like she'd practiced the words in her head. She sounded like she'd said the words so many times they had lost their meaning after years of being spoken. They'd gone from empathy to dull acceptance to indifference. A grain of anger stirred up in Draven's chest, as he stared at the woman's slack features. "If you'd like a therapist," she went on, "You could always get your mother to advocate for you."

"I don't know where Rory is," Draven said, feeling the anger grow. "She didn't give me an address, and I do not-..." he swallowed. "I do not feel safe going to her old flat and asking her roommates. Either way, I'm not the one that needs a therapist." His voice came out a lot sharper than he'd intended it to. A lot meaner. "I'm not the one who has trouble putting on my socks in the morning."

The nurse shrugged, her face twisting in practiced empathy. "He is healthy. Unless he is a danger to himself or others, I cannot keep him here. There's only so many tests we can run."

Draven's hands were shaking. He set the quill aside so it wouldn't snap between his fingers. The paper followed. He'd crumpled it and uncrumpled it. It was ruined now, the heavy, expensive parchment streaked with the stains of his sweaty hands. "I am 12." he said. It was strange. Using his age as a reason for incompetence. The words felty dirty in his mouth. "I am in school in Scotland for 9 months out of 12. I cannot use my wand when I am at home, I am useless. Please. Help me."

Tears. Tears of incompetency and helplessness and anger. They choked Draven's throat and made the hospital room blur before his eyes.

"He is a danger," he heard himself say. "To himself. If I do not bring him food, he does not eat. If I do not help him with his shirt, he will not put it on. Help me. Please. You're supposed to help me, that's your job. Help him."

"Those reasons alone aren't enough for an involuntary commitment, Mister Mirador, you know this." Her voice echoed in Draven's head, bouncing around in his empty skull. "I'm sorry." she said. She wasn't. "You have to go home. I can't keep you both here for any longer. I can recommend he takes Droughts of Peace or a tincture made from St John’s-Wort."

Draven swallowed. "Do I need a..." the word slipped his mind. "Do I need a doctor to say he can take the potions? Or can anyone buy them."

"They're over the counter, you should be able to find them in any Apothecary shop."

She wanted to be rid of him. She knew that. He knew that. "I'll buy some then," he said, getting up from his chair. "You have a potions shop downstairs, yes?" His eyes were still foggy with tears. His entire frame was worn out. He felt like a rag that had been used far too many years in a row, and had grown weary of cleaning. He thought he saw her nod, as he gathered his things.

"You cannot force him to take them," she called out after him. Draven's fingers turned white on the strap of his bag. He wouldn't force him.

There was nothing forceful about slipping something in Abbadon's tea.