His hand was wrapped around her wrist, a tight grip, a begging grip, but faltering in the slightest as well. He was always a strong man, as Kohar had known him for many years of his life. Why — - why now, of all times - — was he letting his grip slip from her arm?
It was late. The sun had long since disappeared on the horizon, taking with it what little light could be found, in a city like this, and her eyes were lined with the dark navy silk of the night. She could feel her limbs slowly becoming as heavy as the barren moon above her, and buzzing with the electric exhaustion of the dying stars. Her mind and body ached to collapse on her bed, allow a deep slumber to carry her away into the stars and somewhere much, much sweeter than where she lived. Her dreams were much softer, much…happier than the reality where people could die and be hurt and be broken beyond repair.
There were people who others said were too strong to be broken. Metals, they said, were too thick to be bent.
But there one of them was…lying on a hospital bed, all of his limbs battered and bruised and his face…she saw his face before, and it hurt to see him like that.
She knew people who said that Ling was far too quick and nimble and powerful to ever fall victim to any sort of illness or any sort of injury.
She had known him for years — - decades, actually - — and she’d never heard this much pain and agony in any of his words. She’d seem him cry only once — - at his parent’s funeral - — and it was but a single tear. He was the happiest man she’d ever known and the one with the most sturdy, difficult to shatter heart, much like the wood of the mask he always seemed to wear. His voice and his expression were always so emotional, but they barely ever shook or quavered or broke like it did in just two words.
It was funny, she thought. Ling was such a good friend of hers — - family, even - — and yet, he sat there, in his hour of need, and thought that she was going to leave.
She turned around slowly, catching his eye - — bad decision. His eyes, which he barely ever opened, were so broken. People said that eyes were the window to the soul - — and if that was true, his windows were shattered. The darkness that consumed them was brimming with a light - — tears, she assumed — - and so tired, so tired. He never got tired. He never got hurt. Why did he do that? Why did he go and get hurt, that little idiot? He didn’t have to. He didn’t have to shove her out of the way of that drunk driver. He didn’t have to be a goddamn hero, but no! No, he had to save the day, as always. That idiot. That idiot, he knew he was going to get hurt. He knew. Why? He never got hurt. He shouldn’t have started then.
The blond lifted her chin, looking down at her old friend and trying to stay objective about his appearance. His whole body was covered with bandages — - his skin, probably lined with unhealed scratches, was showing in only short patches, like his shoulder and his knee, or bits and pieces of his sides. His face, usually so excited and gleeful, was worn out, lips a flat line and his features sagging. And his hand…his hand was slipping along her arm, drifting from her upper arm and down to her elbow, and then falling to her wrist in a loose grip. She could see a single IV cord dangling from his arm, as he prepared to let go of her.
Kohar took a moment to steady herself, a deep breath shaking in and out of her chest. He thought she was going to leave. That hurt a little. She released it, banishing the tears that brimmed and quivered on her eyelashes, and then moved her hand to take his in a firm, but gentle hold. “You nincompoop,” she sighed, after a moment, taking a seat next to him. “You thought I was going to leave?” It came out more like a statement which quavered inconspicuously in the silence near the end. She took another good breath, her chin quivering in the slightest, before she spoke once more.
"You’ll not be getting rid of me for at least a fortnight, Ling."
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