A part of him wasn’t sure what was worse- the feeling of dying, or the pain of barely living through it. His tolerance had become high over the years, the gift and curse of being a repatriate. It was not the first time he would bleed, nor the last- yet this time was different. To teeter between the land of the living and the dead, it was a dangerous game unto itself. The things he’d seen, the places he’d been, unexplainable, yet remarkable all the same. All logic and reason seemed to leave that realm- for there was no real reason he should be here. A ghost, seemingly brought back to the land of the living, plucked from another reality all together– and yet there he was. Neil. Neil Vana. Nothing more than a name was given to him, the ghost with a vengeance– or simply trying to protect. Connected, in some way, to the girl across the hall. That was their only sound reasoning, both of them having washed up from the beach alongside him. All clinging to this precious thing called life.
He’d begun to bleed through his own bandages, an internal clock, a reminder that his newfound guest needed tending to as well. Why he stood in his doorway, a subtle wince as he’d try to settle an arm against the doorframe, the tugging of bandage beneath giving discomfort to wounds that had not yet healed. The culprit for these scars sat before him, one hand cuffed to the bed- as if he wasn’t far more dangerous than that. He knew well what this man was capable of, and knew just how lucky he was to have made it out alive. The blood that pooled in the palm of the other was his own reminder of their close encounter, seeping through the bandages just like his own wounds.
It wasn’t the most ideal situation, cuffing the hand that was wounded, and despite their previous encounter- he felt no ill will towards the other. A weapon of war, unable to find peace in never ending chaos– his father was once the same too. That connection led him closer, crossing the space without saying anything as he’d grab the medical kit that was left atop his nightstand. Nothing more than gauze and means to clean a wound, Fragile insisting it was 'better for him to be safe, than sorry.' As if this man couldn’t kill him with just his bare hands.
He’d stop before him, his eyes roaming over his features, gauging whether or not he’d accept the help. He seemed to be acclimating, the shock of once leaving the beach seeming to subside. The medical kit was set beside him, a jab with his chin would gesture toward his wounded hand, hoping he would accept the help. “C’mon-” he’d mirror the gesture, upturning his hand in hopes the other would offer his out to be cleaned. Kneeling beside him, a soft grunt of discomfort would have him sinking to the floor to get a better look. “-Lemme see it.”
