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Drifter was so used to the sound of coughing, that he only thought to question it when he realized, for once, it wasn’t coming from himself.
The battle was typical; a pack of Crystal Knights at each other’s backs, brutal and efficient, and Drifter and Guardian had only had the time to nod at each other in acknowledgement of the sudden unexpected meeting before they formed a two-person pack of their own convenience. It was a novel experience, almost. Drifter had often wished they had someone at their back to fight with -- usually when his back was dangerously close to getting separated from the rest of him -- but he hadn’t expected it to be so...
Well. He kept having to remind himself that the particularly robust gunfire just behind him wasn’t actually meant for him. He figured the involuntary twitches with every burst of noise spoke for themselves, and only hoped that Guardian didn’t notice.
Fortunately, Guardian was too busy doubling over in a coughing fit to notice much of anything.
And with that, it didn’t matter that there was only one Knight left, the second to last having fallen under Drifter’s blade just seconds before. It didn’t matter because the Knight’s gun was charged and ready and aimed right at the one who was too busy dying from something else to worry about moving out of the way. So Drifter did the one thing he was best at.
He moved.
He could tell even before his feet started skidding against the grass that he’d misjudged the drift, the momentum of it carrying him just far enough that the swing of his sword couldn’t connect with the bullets. A flash of light, and then pain -- didn’t stop them from connecting with something else, though. Drifter choked on - well, a choke, somehow, fire lancing up and down his shoulder, making him dizzy with it, but he didn’t have the time to be in pain.
The ensuing fight was short. It usually was, when Drifter was pissed.
Baring his teeth under his mask (in a smile or a grimace, he wasn’t sure which), he turned back to the Guardian only to sway halfway through the movement. The sway turned into a tilt, and then a fall, and then--
Arms, catching him.
Almost, anyway. The Guardian’s attempt at preventing his fall turned into something more like a cushion as they suddenly found themself incapable of supporting even Drifter’s relatively meager weight, and collapsing to the ground both of them went. It was funny, almost, and Drifter would’ve been shaking with laughter if he hadn’t been too distracted by the hell that’d become his entire arm. He choked again, scooting back. Guardian released their hold on him as he did.
“Here,” came a voice, hoarse and nearly mangled. Drifter looked up to see a gloved hand outstretched, a med injector held in their grip. He didn’t hesitate to take it; he had none, having used his last over an hour ago in an earlier skirmish, and he used this one in the same efficient way he always did. Even wearing a helmet that cast most of their face into shadow, Guardian couldn’t hide a wince as Drifter stabbed the kit into his chest.
It was definitely a grin under his mask, that time.
“You shouldn’t have gotten yourself inured for my sake.” Guardian’s voice cracked, and they cleared it once before continuing. “Thank you.”
Drifter shrugged. The pain in his arm was fading already, the med kit doing its job, and he rotated his shoulder experimentally before immediately regretting it. It hurt too much to move still, which didn’t bode well; if the analgesic wasn’t taking full effect, then the wound must’ve been worse than he thought. But at the very least, he could move. That was the only thing that mattered in the end.
Something skittered in the brush a dozen or so feet from where the two of them sat, and the both of them fell still. Nothing jumped out at them, thirsting for blood like nearly everything in this damn forest, but Drifter was unwilling to risk it. Struggling to his feet, he held out a hand. Guardian only gave him a confused look for a moment before understanding crossed their features, and they took it gratefully, climbing unsteadily to their feet in turn.
The two of them realized pretty quickly that they needed to lean against each other for support to actually get much of anywhere, and they did so without comment. Drifter clenched his teeth against the contact. Guardian was warm; too warm, and too close, and the moment couldn’t come soon enough when they reached the relative safety of a half-crumbled wall, hidden from the eyes of any wandering unfriendlies. Drifter shuffled away again the second they were both seated, and again Guardian let him do so without a word.
Their mouth was stained with pink.
They settled back against the brick with a grunt, hands immediately going to their helmet. Their gloves were covered in the same pink that dripped down their chin, and it smeared the metal as they lifted it from their head. They grunted again, this time in disgust, and began wiping their face.
Drifter couldn’t stop staring.
Sickness was no stranger to him, was the thing. He was grossly familiar with the copper tang of blood in his mouth, his nose, his throat; he’d long lost count of how many times he himself had collapsed to his knees, unable to keep walking from the force of his cough. It was something else, though, to see the illness in someone who wasn’t him. It made it...different. Made it real. More real than it already was.
He didn’t like it.
Tearing his eyes away, he pulled out his pistol, checking the charge. He wasn’t as skilled with it as the Guardian seemed to be, vastly preferring the weight of his sword to anything else, but he was good enough with the thing that it’d saved his life more than a few times. Satisfied, he set it aside where he could reach it if he needed to. Out of the other pocket came a roll of bandages he’d had the foresight to save. He rolled it around in his palm for a moment before sighing through his nose and shoving it back inside; it was too dangerous to dress his wound out here, where the smell of fresh blood would more likely than not attract the exact things he was trying to avoid. Best not to risk it.
“The modules in this area are here,” Guardian said. Drifter looked over to find they’d somehow managed to trace a rudimentary, yet still detailed map of the forest into the dirt, certain places marked with splotches of pink. He looked it over as Guardian continued to speak. “You may have found a few already. I don’t think I’d suggest looking for the rest now, however.” They gave Drifter a look. It was strange to see their face unobscured. “If you must look for anything, it should be medical care.”
Drifter narrowed his eyes, and pointed to the pink drops on the dirt. Guardian’s gaze followed his finger. It took them a moment before they began to chuckle, only to cough again immediately. Drifter tensed, but the cough passed in seconds. Case in point at least, he supposed.
“Your concern is touching, but there’s no doctor that could cure this illness, I’m afraid.”
Yeah. Drifter had already figured that one out.
There was a warp pad not too far away, and after a few more minutes of resting, the two of them made their way over to it as quickly as they could. Supporting each other was still necessary, Drifter found, but he kept one hand on his sword as they limped forward. They crossed paths with a small group of wolves on the way, but Guardian made quick work of them with their gun. Drifter had long gotten past feeling sorry for the things.
By the time they stumbled into the house that Drifter had woken up in not too long ago, Guardian was walking nearly upright, barely needing the support. Drifter could only wish for the same; his legs were shaking dangerously, and he fell into the chair by the door the second they got inside. He’d hoped the med kit would last a little longer, but at least it’d waited until he was safe inside and not stuck walking through the woods. At least none of the townspeople had seem him like this. He was sure Guardian would’ve made an attempt to talk them out of taking advantage of his injury, but just the thought of anyone seeing him incapacitated made him bare his teeth under his mask.
Guardian immediately pushed back further into the house, and Drifter didn’t bother questioning it. He began the process of peeling off his gloves, undoing the tie at the front of his cloak and sliding off the arm warmer on his right side. He could already tell the shirt was a lost cause. It was torn and bloody at his shoulder, which was still slowly oozing pink. He unhooked a small dagger from his belt. Looks like the only thing to do was cut it off.
“What are you doing?” Guardian choked, and Drifter looked up from where his dagger was hooked under the torn shoulder of his shirt to see the other drifter standing frozen in the doorframe. Raising an eyebrow he knew Guardian wouldn’t see from under his helmet, he lifted the dagger up pointedly, the blade tearing the seams of his shirt.
“Oh,” Guardian said. They paused for a moment before approaching, placing a bowl on the table next to him. “For a second, I thought you were about to chop your arm off.”
Drifter did laugh, that time, a breathy snicker that seemed to catch Guardian off-guard, but Drifter was too busy inspecting what he’d been brought to see anything but their first expression. It was water, warm to the touch when they dipped a finger in it experimentally, and a rag. He nodded, first at the bowl, and then at Guardian, when he reminded himself to do so. And then he got to work.
His shirt was ruined by the end of it, in as many tattered pieces as his patience, but his shoulder was clean and dressed, the pain having settled into a dull ache. His shirt, at the very least, could be easily replaced in town. The tight, uneasy ball in his chest that had nothing to do with his shoulder only eased when his blue skin disappeared back into his glove, the rest of him quickly swallowed once again by his cloak. He stretched as he finally rose from his chair.
Guardian glanced over at him from where they’d been sitting at the workbench on the other side of the room. Whatever they’d been doing had been the background noise to Drifter’s own work for the past however long, and it was only then that Drifter saw they’d been doing something mechanical to their gun, parts strewn over the table. Whatever adjustments they’d been making seemed to be finished, as they strapped their gun back to their belt when they saw Drifter rise from his seat.
“I assume you’ll want to be leaving,” they said, tapping the hilt of their gun idly as they thought. Drifter probably would have found that threatening from someone else. “Let me get you something to eat,” they continued. “I still need to thank you properly, and soon it will be too dark for either of us to look for anything regardless. Is that acceptable?”
Drifter shrugged. Loathe as he was to sit still when there were things to do and he hadn’t stopped running out of time, it was true that the coming darkness would do him no favors, and he was never one to turn down a free meal anyway. Guardian took his noncommittal answer as acceptance well enough. They turned towards the door, only to stop when Drifter snapped his fingers.
Their expression sobered when their eyes followed the direction of Drifter’s pointing. They walked back to the table, picking their helmet back up from where it had been sitting on the workbench. The blue of their face was cast into shadow as they slid the helmet back on.
The people of the town respected Guardian, it seemed. But as Drifter watched them secure it back into place, he could only wonder how far that respect would take them before hatred burned it dry.
The Guardian nodded at the ample townspeople who waved at them as they passed, but they didn’t stop to exchange pleasantries. Maybe they sensed how nervous being around other people made him, or maybe it was because they were just hungry, but Drifter didn’t question it. Their path took them to a little out of the way stall Drifter hadn’t encountered before, and he hung back as Guardian approached the shopkeeper, speaking to each other in a language Drifter only knew well enough to understand snatches of words. They came back a minute later with something steaming in each hand, offering one to Drifter with a smile.
“They only sell one thing here,” they said, “but damn if it’s not the best one thing in town.”
It smelled like meat and spice and bread, leaking warmth even through the foil, and while Drifter would’ve eaten whatever Guardian had decided to hand to him regardless, he could already feel his mouth beginning to water. He ducked his head in thanks before trailing further down the path. Guardian followed him to the east.
They sat just outside the outskirts of the town, the sound of a waterfall in the distance nearly smothered by the bustle still not too far behind them. But far enough. Drifter turned his head away to pull his mask down, and ate.
It was good.
Guardian’s helmet was off again. While Drifter had finished their bun almost too quickly, Guardian had barely taken a couple bites. They stared down at it with a mix of frustration and queasiness that made Drifter wonder just how much of them getting better had been an act.
They were sick. They were both sick. Drifter knew well enough what kind of effect that had.
Guardian looked over when Drifter waved a hand to get their attention. Their eyes fell to the writing Drifter had scrawled into the dirt. “Sick,” they repeated under their breath. When they looked up again, Drifter placed a hand on his chest. “I’m...afraid I don’t quite understand.”
Drifter huffed in frustration. This was always the worst part, about being around people; the confusion, the one-sidedness, the eventual annoyance from the inconvenience Drifter was. He pointed at the word, sick, and then at Guardian, before jabbing a finger at his own chest with extra emphasis.
“Oh?” Guardian said, still sounding confused, and then-- their expression seemed to droop, their shoulders following suit, and the understanding drowning in the blackness of their eyes was almost too much for Drifter to watch. He hadn’t brought it up to inspire pity.
“You too.” Guardian wiped a hand down their face. They looked tired. “I’d suspected, but I’d still hoped otherwise. I guess that makes me foolish.”
He shrugged. The grass at his feet was soft, and he ran his fingers through it idly. There was one benefit of wearing a mask over half of his face: he never had to worry about his expressions much, and he was grateful that it was hidden now, whatever it was. He could feel the crease in his brow under his helmet. It took an effort to smooth out.
“This is a bit late for me to be asking,” Guardian said abruptly, jerking Drifter out of his thoughts, “but you do not speak, do you.”
Drifter narrowed his eyes before shaking his head, once. Guardian looked unsurprised.
They looked into the forest, deep and dark. “I’ve taken it upon myself to learn a few different languages, as I’m sure you have as well. One of them involves speaking with the hands instead of the voice. If you’d like, I could teach it to you.”
He blinked. Out of everything, his first response was to refuse; he’d gone this far without a language like that, and if he hadn’t seen or heard anything about it until now, then it was likely he wouldn’t be using it to talk to much of anybody ever again. It was pushing the boundaries of the debt Guardian seemed bent on repaying; these things were meant to end, not switch hands endlessly until one of them died.
But it was knowledge. Visions and quests aside, he was the Drifter, first and foremost. Learning things was what he was born for.
What’s the word for yes, Drifter traced into the dirt, and he would have been able to see the grin on Guardian’s face if their helmet had been on regardless.
Neither Drifter nor Guardian stayed at the house in Center Town for very long at a time -- they were drifters, both of them, and the urge to keep moving was something they knew very well -- but they met up there every once in a while, and they taught each other things. Drifter often found himself making additions to Guardian’s already detailed maps, filling in blanks where he’d managed to squeeze into nooks and crannies that Guardian had missed. He told them of ancient looking tablets rising from the earth that projected the hologram of a strange species before blooming with text that seemed to lay out the history of the region it was in. Guardian drank it all in with fervor, taking notes in a small book they seemed to carry with them everywhere.
In return, Guardian taught Drifter small batches of words, letters that he found himself forming his fingers into on his travels. Drifter’s suspicions gradually confirmed themselves, as every traveller he attempted to use even the small amount of signs he knew with simply looked at him in confusion. The only exception seemed to be the Hermit living in the northern mountains, a priest with sparkling eyes who knew enough from the old books he used to study to hold something almost like a real conversation. Aside from that, the only thing to really do with it was learn and practice.
It was nice to be able to talk to Guardian, at least.
They trained together often, falling into step against each other’s swords. What Guardian had in size and strength, Drifter made up for in agility and speed, and soon enough the sound of Guardian’s gun firing became familiar more than anything else. They would walk through the town sometimes as well, usually for food, or to buy things for their weapons. It was a fun game, almost, to see who could get the fancier tech.
On one such excursion, they went to pore over the ammunition in the weapon’s shop. As convenient as it was, Drifter never failed to become twitchy and anxious when inside; he had a fair idea of how exactly the shopkeeper managed to obtain such a large and varied amount of stock, and the feeling of their eyes on his back made his fingers itch for his sword. He let Guardian do the talking there. At the very least, the Bandit seemed to fear Guardian’s skills enough to respect them.
“I will take whatever rifle ammo you have,” Guardian said, waving their bot over to process the transaction. “And they will take your Zaliska ammo.”
Drifter’s own bot chirped in confirmation. They had more than enough gearbit packs to -- hhrhgh.
Hunching in on himself, Drifter covered his face further with the cloth of his cloak, pulling back as far from the conversation as he could without being too far for his bot to transfer the appropriate gearbit packs. Guardian seemed satisfied, at least, and Drifter stayed silent as they talked about some of the weapons they’d seen in the Southern zone they were still itching to get their hands on.
They stopped when they realized Drifter had fallen behind, standing still on the side of the road.
“Is something wrong?” they asked.
Drifter brought up his hands. ‘I am not they.’ The signs he needed were few, but they were still clumsy and stiff. ‘I am he.’
“Oh. I-- sorry,” they said, and there was real regret in their voice, which Drifter wished he could relish in. “I should have asked first.”
‘It’s fine,’ he said, and he kept walking, Guardian following after shortly.
Drifter had no real reason to be angry, and no real right to be, either. It was a simple mistake, when most of their race lacked gender and were content with it. That Drifter used the wrong words for himself in his own head half the time didn’t escape his notice either. But the wrong words -- when they’d been spat at him, used against him like it was an accusation of who and what he was -- were too much for him to bear, anymore. He was tired of it.
The worst part was probably that it felt like a lie, half the time.
‘I’m going to the South,’ Drifter said after a while. ‘Soon. Last area.’
“Right.” The other drifter didn’t seem taken aback by the information, but. Maybe troubled would be the better word. “It will be over then, won’t it. All of this. One way or another.”
One way or another. A good way to describe it.
Drifter began to chuckle, only for his throat to tighten in a way he’d begun to feel almost too apathetic towards. He coughed once, twice, and then he couldn’t stop. By the time it was over, he was on his knees (again), chest blazing and throat raw (again), head light, and the only thing that was keeping him from toppling over entirely was Guardian’s hand on his shoulder. But the world at least was clear, free from the telling black tar and purple-pink haze that was becoming all too common. One small mercy.
Turning away, he pulled his mask down and spit into the grass, staining the green blades pink.
It was...
Quiet.
It wasn’t like he’d been expecting some sort of fanfare. But the lack of any sort of cosmic reaction at all -- the fourth pillar looming in something like a warning, and nothing else. Maybe a warning was all he would get in the end.
(As if every drop of pink that’d passed his lips hadn’t been warnings of their own. It got worse -- it always got worse -- and still he pressed on, using the shriveling functionality of his lungs as an organic tuning fork, pointing him in the direction he needed to go.
He could barely breathe, sometimes.)
He could hear the buzzing of the newly activated lift pad even from the town’s warp, when he asked his bot to take him there. The sound was jarring after the relative quiet of the barren hills. He could feel it in his bones. Maybe even further than that. He itched to finally -- finally -- see what awaited him down there.
Or maybe the itching was just his lungs again.
There was something else he needed to do first.
The door to the house opened easily. Guardian’s helmet sat at the table just by the entrance, their way of letting Drifter know they were somewhere inside, and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
Looking further into the house, Drifter couldn’t breath at all.
There’d been more than one occasion where Guardian had fallen asleep hunched over the workbench, tools still in hand. Drifter had found it amusing, the first couple times; they spent so much energy pretending to be tougher than they actually were that it left them wasted in the relative privacy of the wayward house.
The scent of iron hung in the air, growing heady. Drifter felt his heart sink to his toes.
Sure enough, there was blood -- so much, too much -- pooled on the table, staining their weapon parts, staining their gun, dripping onto the floor. All of it seemed to come from where their head lay face-down on the table. Drifter didn’t have to guess where it’d spilled from.
Unable to breathe, unable to think, Drifter touched their hand lightly to Guardian’s arm.
Cold.
But-- oh.
They were breathing.
It was shallow. Too shallow to notice except from close inspection, and Drifter snatched their hand back like they’d been burned. Guardian was alive, but barely so, and Drifter had no time to waste. He backpedaled towards the door.
No. No, what was he doing.
This wasn’t something a doctor could cure.
His face felt hot. From frustration, maybe, or something else -- he hated feeling helpless, hated feeling like there was nothing he could do. Guardian was the one who always went out of their way to help those who needed it. How could they stand it? Drifter glanced around the room desperately, searching for-- something. Their eyes settled on the bed.
There was one thing he could do.
It took longer than he would’ve liked. Drifter was strong, but Guardian was dense, and the way they groaned when Drifter moved them, like something terrible was trying to claw its way out of their stomach, almost kept him from trying again. But he refused to let his friend die hunched over a dusty wooden table.
He managed it eventually.
The only thing left to do was wait.
Hours - minutes - days later, the Guardian stirred.
Their eyes were glassy, and they slid over Drifter like he was barely there. But they found something. They smiled bright and clear.
“Darling,” they croaked. Their voice was wrecked, and Drifter bit on a wince, but if it pained Guardian, they didn’t seem to notice. “You came back. I thought... I’d lost you.”
They raised a hand, shakily. Drifter could do nothing but flounder, for a moment; it was clear Guardian was seeing someone else, too lost in the sickness to see anything but what wasn’t there, and to take their hand would be a betrayal of their trust. But Drifter couldn’t find it in himself to refuse a dying comrade on their last dregs. He clasped Guardian’s hand in his own.
Cold.
“Where are they?” Guardian murmured. “The baby. I’d missed their laugh.”
Fuck.
Shakily, he shaped Guardian’s fingers into letters, over and over again. The expression on Guardian’s face could only be described as confused.
“I can’t understand,” they said. “Just try...try to be patient. You’ll be okay again. I’ll find a cure.” Guardian’s eyes fluttered shut. “I promise.”
(Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.)
They slipped back into unconsciousness without another word. Drifter didn’t let go of their hand for a long, long time.
When Drifter woke, it was to the sound of his name.
He hadn’t even been aware that he’d fallen asleep, and he bolted upright in the chair he’d placed next to the bed, nearly toppling it over. He was stopped short when Guardian’s eyes locked with his.
“How long?” they asked. Their voice was barely a whisper.
Drifter didn’t know. ‘Days,’ he guessed. Guardian just nodded.
“I’m sorry,” they said. “I swore to myself that I wouldn’t do this to you again.”
All Drifter could do was shake his head. This was more than a meager coughing fit in the middle of the woods. But neither of them had the courage to actually say it.
Guardian closed their eyes, and for a moment, Drifter thought they’d fallen asleep again. Until,
“I swore to myself that I wouldn’t do this to someone else.”
Their eyes only blinked open when Drifter took their hand, of his own volition, this time. They stared at him for a moment, surprised, and then they smiled; their laugh turned into a cough turned into a sob, and all Drifter could do was hold on.
“I’m going to die,” they said. Drifter couldn’t disagree with them.
‘That’s why you helped me,’ Drifter said, using his free hand. ‘Wasn’t it. You knew you didn’t have long.’
“Yes. I thought-- if someone else could carry on what I couldn’t, things would turn out alright.” They brought up their other hand, enveloping Drifter’s the way he’d clasped theirs not so long ago. Their expression was suddenly serious. “Promise me something. Please.”
Drifter nodded.
“Promise me you’ll live.”
For a long moment, Drifter said nothing. And then, ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Until I die.’
Guardian didn’t quite smile. But they squeezed Drifter’s hand almost hard enough to hurt, and in the end, it was the same thing.
