Page 21 of Mystic Wonderful

It hurt to swallow; this throat stuck together. One of the monitors started to whine. “Tris?” he managed to croak.

“Yeah, I’m right here, kid. Hold on.”

Sound of running feet. An unfamiliar voice said, “His heart rate’s spiked. Blood pressure, too.”

Francis was aware of people crowding in on the far side of his bed, on the side where his left arm used to be, but Tris stayed where he was, kept holding him, kept stroking his pulse, again and again.

“Tris?” he asked again, his head light and fluttering. Blackness crowded the edges of his vision.

Tris’s face was lined and tired, his eyes brimming with – with something. Francis didn’t know, couldn’t think. He was here, and he was touching him, and he wasn’t scowling at him.

“My arm,” he croaked. “Tris, my arm–”

Tris’s other hand touched his face; reached up to pet his hair, fingertips scratching at his scalp. He looked pained. “I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

Sweetheart.

“What…” But the black closed in, and unconsciousness took him once more.

~*~

The next time he woke, it was less startling. He knew where he was, and why he was here. The phantom tingling where his left hand ought to have been filled him with grief and frustration, but not with shock and terror, this time. The lights were dimmer, when he cracked his eyes open. And though he could still feel the slow, drowsy pull of the drugs, he didn’t think it was a hallucination this time to find Tris in a chair by his bedside.

It was still surprising, though.

In the moments before Tris realized he was awake, Francis had the chance to get a proper look at him. He was scrolling through something on a tablet, and his frown was of unhappiness, rather than the usual anger or indifference. Even in the soft light, his face seemed more lined that usual, deep grooves casting shadows between his brows, and around his eyes and mouth. For all that, he still bore the unwavering strength of a man hewn from granite; it was comforting, now, in a way it had never been before. Granite men didn’t get their arms lopped up – granite men stayed whole, and untouchable, ports of call in troubled waters.

Francis must have made some sort of noise, because Tris glanced up – and then set his tablet carelessly aside and shot to his feet, immediately tense. Ready for a retreat.

Except, no. He closed the scant space between himself and the bed. Rested one hand on Francis’s remaining shoulder and reached with the other to cup his forehead – taking his temperature, Francis realized, as a large, rough palm slipped delicately beneath his bedraggled curls so it could land on skin.

In that moment, the pain, the exhaustion, and the fear receded, chased back by the simple, warm touch along his brow.

Regretfully, Tris pulled his hand back – but then the other slid down the bare length of Francis’s arm, so the first could settle in its place on his shoulder, heavy and warm through the thin material of his hospital gown, the calluses catching at the fabric with light scratching sounds. “You don’t have a fever,” he said, with a terrible attempt at a reassuring, close-lipped smile. “So that’s something, at least. Doc said to watch for it, though God knows they’re pumping enough antibiotics into you.”

Why are you here?Francis wanted to ask. But his throat was too dry for that, and he only croaked.

Immediately, a cup of water was at his lips; Tris tilted it for him, ever so carefully, so he could take a few painful swallows. It helped, though, and when the cup withdrew, he wet his lips and asked his question. “Why are you here?” His voice was pitiful: young, and scared, and not at all what he’d intended. A part of him wanted to bodily eject Tris from the room, because fuck him. You didn’t get to decide you cared about a person just because he’d been disfigured. Kindness now couldn’t make up for a lost arm, for previous rejection; it didn’t count if you made an overture after it became obvious that a person wasn’t even going to be able to stay in your unit…

Oh no, he was going to cry.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and then brought his only hand up to cover them, dislodging Tris, feeling the IV tape tugging in the crook of his elbow.

“Gal – Frank. Frankie.”

Francis blinked furiously against his own palm, and managed to hold the tears in check. He sniffed, and bared his teeth in a smile that he meant as a warning, but probably wouldn’t be read as such, curse his stupid, friendly face. “You don’t get to call me that.” He sniffed. “You’re not my friend.”

Stillness a moment.That’s right, go away. If he was going to fall apart and feel sorry for himself, then he was going to do it alone, damn it. He listened for the retreating footfalls…

But they didn’t come. Instead, a heavy arm draped across his shoulders, and pulled him sideways into a broad chest. Tris cupped the side of his head, and held him in close as the tremors overtook him.

“Francis.”

Oh, that was bad. Very bad. And not fair at all, not when he was like this. When he was vulnerable and weak and off balance, literally.

Warm breath stirred his hair; he felt a nose against his scalp. “I’m sorry,” Tris whispered, his voice rough and heavy with pain. “I’m so sorry.”

“Go away,” Francis choked out. “Please.”

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