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You’ve glanced over at the clock more times than you’ve cared to admit.
It was as though time had suddenly stagnated, every passing minute too excruciating, every hour droning endlessly forward. You hadn’t so much as budged from your spot since the Guardian had carried him back, the Drifter’s body bloodied and mangled beyond all recognition having endured whatever faceless horror shambled about beneath the city.
You’re not even sure how the two of you had even found him in time.
Guardian had insisted rather doggedly that it was the generous result of a higher power, having bantered a multitude of times in the past regarding some sort of jackal who always seemed to loom closeby. They spoke about this creature as if it were some form of God, always watching and constantly regarding every move you made with a pleasing diligence.
You’ve never seen the damn thing once, though.
You were inclined to believe that this deity of sorts was nothing but a hallucination, a demented form of consolation prize offered to drifters who searched the land tirelessly and obediently for whatever goal had driven them recklessly forward. All this carnage and bloodshed; for the singular cure that would have whisked away that horrid disease that drummed wickedly in their hearts.
Not a one had ever made it out alive- save for your two best friends who were on that particular queue for a long while, now. That was, up until recently.
Or so you hoped.
Drifter had nearly killed himself on a frighteningly broad myriad of occasions just to pursue this crusade until the bitter end, and it would have been terribly cruel if his efforts essentially amounted to nothing. Maybe it was a little naive of you to think in such a way, but you sincerely wanted to hope for the best. That whatever they had followed to the ends of the earth had not herded them towards certain ruin.
You were genuinely trying to keep it together, really. But all of this waiting was starting to get to you.
Every 15 minutes or so, you periodically checked to see if Drifter was still breathing. He was tucked into Guardian’s bed and wrapped up snugly like a burrito in several layers of blankets and handmade quilts, deathly still and devoid of movement. He’d squirm or shift every hour or so, and that was the only real indicator to you that he was still alive aside from checking for a pulse in the chance he’d passed in his sleep.
There is the sound of the front door whirring itself open, accompanied by heavy, clunking footsteps you’ve become well-accustomed to hearing. The sound ceases, as if deliberately pondering, then, “You’re still awake?”
You wanted to answer, but found the words had withered before they left your lips. Drearily, you nodded.
“It has been twelve hours, now,” The Guardian persisted, “Have you at least eaten today?” He inquired with maternal urgency.
You can’t actually remember if you have. You don’t recall the last time you had food, let alone what it was. Probably nothing sufficient, as the mounting anxiety from the week’s events had completely obliterated your appetite. You’d been too preoccupied with dutifully standing watch over Drifter to really do anything else for the day.
You gave them a noncommittal shrug.
Guardian exhaled deeply, and shuffled about for a moment of two in the unused kitchen before padding over to you side, handing you an object you couldn’t quite identify in the dim lighting. Tentatively, you took the object from his hand and weighed it in your own. An apple.
“I know how you’re feeling, but you mustn’t neglect yourself. Especially in times like these,” he prodded gently, stroking your head comforting as though you were but a child.
You narrowed your eyes contemptuously down at the fruit before in your peripheral vision, you spot the Guardian standing rather rigidly in position. His gaze bore down fiercely onto you, making it veritably clear that he had no intention of leaving unless you had at least taken a bite. It was no small wonder that you ever came out of this mess all in one piece, especially with how fiercely the Guardian babied you. You never much minded his doting behavior, but it did on occasions, obstruct you from some of the things you desired to accomplish.
Yeesh.
Even now, you couldn’t really stomach the idea of eating anything. Just the thought made you nauseous, and the restlessness that churned within your gut would have likely just forced it out, in the end. You made brief eye contact with Guardian, their stature hulking and very much intimidating in comparison to your frail, notably smaller physique. Out of the trio, you’ve always been the shortest.
You whimpered disparagingly before taking a bite. There was never any winning against Guardian, especially not in a battle of wills. A shudder wracked you, the texture of the food disagreeable to the senses. Swallowing had suddenly become an irksome task, and you had the strange, unwelcoming sense that your body was attempting to reject it. That’s never happened before.
Satisfied with the attempt regardless, the Guardian sauntered off into the adjacent room where the faint sounds of clutter and occasional chirps from his companion bot filled the hollow silence. Your eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion beckoning you with the tantalizing promise of rest and willing you into slumber. The apple slipped from your thin fingers and onto the ground, and you can feel yourself bounding in and out of consciousness, though not once did your eyes ever tear themselves away from Drifter.
The footsteps made a comeback before receding into the distance a second time, the added weight of the Guardian’s cape hung blithely over your shoulders and absolutely swallowing you in a lulling sheet of silky fur and pink velvet.
Out of the fearful prediction of becoming plagued with troubled dreams, you lowered your head down onto the mattress and occupied the free space beside Drifter’s head, arms snaking over to his and entangling his fingers with yours. It was highly unlikely he’d regain consciousness quickly enough to ever realize, so you surmised it would have been acceptable for now.
Just for a moment, just this once; you wanted to feel as if things would be okay.
You deserved that much, at least.
Floating quietly somewhere between the heavenly layer of dreaming and being beckoned into consciousness, you could hear a voice in the distance, tender and hushed. Something beside you stirred, followed by the assuring sensation of someone (or something) rubbing circles on the back of your hand. It was inexplicably soothing, so innocuously warm that you couldn’t help but selfishly squeeze a little tighter, as though terrified it’d elude you forever if you allowed for it to slip through your grasp.
A breezy chuckle rang somewhere nearby, complementing the familiar warmth of afternoon sunbeams streaming through in tendrils from elsewhere in the room. The sensation was divine, surely, but you really should get back to keeping watch on-
Drifter.
You had to know if he was okay.
You jolted awake with an ugly screech, little hands tearing away from whatever it was that they’d been gripping so vehemently mere seconds ago. Your vision struggled to attune themselves to the light of day, a dull pain splitting through your head and overwhelming you with a dizziness that refused to subside until a good minute had passed.
“Rise and shine,” the Guardian remarked heartily from his spot across the bed, several notches more upbeat than what you’re adapted to. It sort of weirded you out.
Someone pat your hand lightly, and you felt your heart soar at this singular gesture.
Drifter sat in an upright position, leaning backwards against the bed’s headboard with a rather glazed, far-away look in his eyes. You weren’t at all surprised, he’d probably come to only a few moments before you and was still visibly in the process of recovering.
You threw yourself forward towards him with mild restraint, taking into account that he was unarguably sore and still laden with injuries from the Immortal whatever, who gives a fuck because Drifter was alive goddamit, and in the end that was all that mattered to you, and you wanted to keep him close and never let go-
Having clearly miscalculated the ferocity in which you lunged yourself, you retracted almost immediately upon the hoarse wheeze that emanated from beneath you. Or you would have, at least, had Drifter not taken it upon himself to latch obstinately onto you, his fingers digging into your clothing as he eased himself against you.
“You’re alive,” you murmured breathlessly.
Drifter nodded, awkwardly patting your back as you shyly pulled yourself away.
You felt rather guilty and shameful about the uncharacteristic display now, padding away your oncoming tears with a sleeve and making the vain attempt at obscuring the spring rosiness that flowered across your cheeks.
“...Do you have any idea how pissed I am at you?” you spat out, failing to suppress a snivel.
The wounded drifter appeared utterly dumbfounded at this, earning from the Guardian a mutual glance of understanding.
“As am I, perhaps less ardently,” the taller warrior chimed in, folding his arms. “You should not have gone alone. That was reckless on your part, and you would not have sustained such heavy casualties if you’d only trust your teammates enough to bring them along.”
You could sense the palpable protest from Drifter’s body language alone, attempting to retort but having no means to express his words accurately. You’d had more than plenty of experience translating Drifter’s body language and mannerisms into a general mood or tone he would try to convey. You could actually read him better than the Guardian could at the rate of how alarmingly fast you grasped the concept, but he was still far more of an empath.
“I know why you wanted to go alone,” you rasped, clenching and unclenching the bedsheets, “But couldn’t you have at least tried to think about how others would feel about that? Just because you’re okay with throwing your life away for this doesn’t mean the rest of us were-” you croaked, no longer able to take yourself seriously with just how childish of an unnecessary tantrum you were throwing over this.
Drifter had resigned himself to his fate long ago. That much was clear as day, and there too was a point in time long ago where all you did was simply shrug and express pity in that his time here was so limited, when death was breathing down his neck at every opportune moment and all you could do was watch from the sidelines as the illness would devour him whole.
He could see that there was nowhere left to run.
Somewhere along the way, concern had devolved into a motherly apprehension.
After that, it had malformed into a fervent affection.
Drifter made a strained noise with the back of his throat, slinking further downwards and bringing the quilt up to his chin.
The Guardian was hesitating in his spot, wrestling with the idea of whether or not this battle was entirely his to fight.
“I’ll get started on breakfast,” he began very calmly and with a smug eagerness, rising up from his spot and pacing into the connecting room away from the two of you.
The ensuing silence was impenetrable, save for the intruding chirps of the bluejays frolicking on the front porch. You sniffed and weakly adjusted the pink cape that Guardian had loaned you, withdrawing yourself inside of it.
“...How are you feeling?” You were well aware of how redundant of a question that was to ask, but the obligation to inquire remained nonetheless.
He made a quick motion with his hand, the process of analyzing his body language second nature to you.
“Like death.” his shoulders slumped, visibly miffed with being bedridden. Drifter wasn’t the type of person who very much enjoyed having his movements limited, especially since the urge to stay in constant motion had been deeply ingrained into his system. It was in his blood.
You let out a short laugh, predicting the answer would have been something among those lines. He sat patiently in his spot for another round of potential tongue-lashing, but the urge to chastise him further had already ebbed elsewhere.
“...And your throat?” you paused deliberately before asking, truthfully frightened to learn the answer.
Drifter’s response is not immediate. He points to his throat with a finger and trails a line downwards towards his chest, tapping a pointed fingernail against where his heart would be located.
“Itches,” you gleaned from the motion, then, “ Not as bad as usual.”
His gaze lands determinedly onto yours, eyes piercing and inquisitive.
“And Guardian?” he nudged his head towards the other room where the unceremonious clattering of pots and pans could be heard tumbling about from the cabinets, the sounds of clumsiness long ago ceasing to faze you. Funny how the man Central had looked up to was in truth, quite the bumbling oaf.
You folded your hands atop your lap, smile widening. “His breathing isn’t so ragged, anymore. You can hear the difference,” you hummed contentedly, “-I haven’t heard him cough for an entire day, now. That’s pretty new.”
Drifter seemed rather relieved at the comment and eases into the bed, eyes half-lidded. His head lolled to the side, gliding his hand up from beneath the sea of blankets.
“I’m sorry.” he signed, and you contemplated on how to respond.
“...You’d better be,” you huffed flippantly and with faux-indignation, trying to seem unimposing as not to drop his mood further. Drifter was going to need to prioritize resting above all else, and that alone was going to be an inevitably harrowing task for him unless you intended to make active efforts to keep him in check. You supposed you and Guardian could always contend with who could could play the better role of nursemaid- you’d take babysitting over wandering the unforgiving dregs any day.
He let out a breathy chuckle at your pouting, his expression the most tranquil you’ve ever bore witness to.
You could always go pick on him another day. For now, he was going to need his rest.
It occurred to you two weeks into Drifter’s recovery just how oddly he’d been behaving.
One of the otters in Central, a jovial and rather chatty mother of three, brought to your attention regarding the drastic shift in attitude he’d exhibited towards you even before the Judgment incident (that’s apparently what folks were referring the whole thing as,) and brought to your attention a few juicy facts.
It was sort of an unspoken rule that people refrain from making direct physical contact with Drifter. For personal reason you knew better than to pry into, he disliked being touched immensely and as such, you had accordingly refrained from doing so, assuming a situation never arose in which it was mandatory you required breaking said code.
Drifter never so much as cringed when you touched him in any manner for a while now. Granted you’d never dream of pulling anything skeevy that would potentially betray such trust, sure, but you hadn’t actually taken into account just how lax he was around you in particular. Some of the folks had apparently begun to whisper about how bizarre it was that you were an exception. Were you really that unobservant?
“I’ve known for a while now,” Guardian answered whilst roosted at his favorite armchair, rhythmically tapping the keys on the holographic projection his companion bot had displayed for him.
You hissed in displeasure, stamping the ground with a foot. “Are you kidding me ? And you didn't even say anything about it?”
He glanced up from his work to face you, appearing far too nonchalant about the ordeal. “Well, it’s not something so easy for me to point out, given the implications and such. Especially given the circumstances at the time, I wasn’t sure if that was something you wanted to hear.”
… You respected that Guardian had the decency to try to spare you the heartache, at least. He knew better than anyone else what it was like to have someone you loved plagued with that same illness that marked them for death, and you didn’t want to imagine just how crippling the agony would have been if he actually succumbed to his sickness, and you two were-
… Huh.
The following day was spent in the soccer field with Drifter, leaning relaxedly against the dilapidated structures as the two of you observed the local children contend in their sport. They were yelling and screaming back and forth incomprehensibly, and never in your entire life have you feared kids and their violent obsession with sports as much as you had in that moment.
“That one kicked my shins,” Drifter motioned to the child on the left with a deep, loathing sigh.
“Guess I was right in turning them down,” you clicked your tongue, drinking in the serenity of the atmosphere.
The tree leaves rustled in great bursts of verdant green against the midsummer breeze, tattered skyscrapers and hanging curtains of moss acting as worn canopies that shaded you from the sun. The children were still shrieking and a few insects had flit dangerously close to your face, but with those two factors exempt, nothing else was to ruin the would-be flawless picture of tranquility.
You’d spent so much time aimlessly wandering the abandoned landscapes and mastering the steps of the blade’s dance in the past, that you completely overlooked and abandoned the possibility of partaking in the quieter, more fulfilling aspects of life.
Like sitting around on your ass all day with Drifter and doing jack, much like this. That was a nice change of pace.
While the soccer field wasn’t really the optimal location for an afternoon nap, you wordlessly accepted Drifter’s invitation regardless. You presumed the hubbub of the town square and nonstop-coddling from the townsfolk would get on his nerves, so you couldn’t exactly blame him for wanting some space.
For the umpteenth time that day, the otter’s words came to mind.
Feeling just daring enough to test your theory, you gradually scooted closer and pressed the side of your arm against his, casually leaning against the Drifter without exerting too much physical pressure. It wasn’t on his bad side or anything like that, but courtesy was still paramount.
Drifter made no attempt to inch away as you had discreetly feared he would. Unsure of what to do with this newfound information (let alone where to really… go from here,) you ultimately settled for sitting haplessly against him.
A few moments longer and you felt yourself growing quite drowsy, the warmth of the summertime steeping into you. Tucking your legs inwards and nestling contentedly against the Drifter, you registered a good minute too late that he’d hooked an arm around you waist and looped you in closer.
You gulped.
Resting your head loftily atop Drifter’s right shoulder, you found your curious gaze wandering over and eventually locking eyes with his, and it was only in that moment had you suddenly felt the drastic shift in the atmosphere around you. Your part your lips to speak, but the words evaded you completely. You mourned in that instance just how stupid you must have seemed, very clearly having something that needed to be said but having no means to project your feelings.
“Sorry, I, um-” you stuttered forth, averting your gaze. “I sort of… suck with words, sometimes.”
Drifter scoffed lightly. “And I’m any better?” you could comprehend that with an almost telepathic understanding. You didn’t even need to try.
You grinned wanly, heart racing sickly in your chest. “I’m just… glad that you’re okay,” you wheezed out without much coordination, but the foreign shift in Drifter’s expression suggested to you that he caught your meaning very quickly.
“I would have missed you if anything bad happened,” you averted your gaze, unable to handle the weight of the mood you’d foolishly unloaded upon yourself. You remotely watched the children continue to play with detached interest, failing to notice that Drifter had pulled down his mask in that brief moment of respite between your hesitant words and the last scored goal.
Just as you turned to inquire, Drifter dove in and encaptured your lips with his own in one single, fluid motion. Almost like clockwork, you drew closer so that the distance between the two of you had been practically non-existent, relishing in the electricity that coursed through your veins as you eased into the kiss with a wanton willingness.
He wove his fingers gently through your hair, enthralled at the reciprocation you never imagined Drifter would ever share. Your hands traveled to his chest, pushing lightly to halt him.
He looked so horrified in that moment, and it wasn’t until your kittenish laughter at the spectacle that Drifter knew he hadn’t indeed flubbed the situation.
“What, you’re really okay with this? With me?” you tested, the freshness of the open air and the closeness of Drifter elevating you into a giddy sort of high.
He grinned at you by way of apology, perhaps because of how sudden he came off as.
“Yes,” he mouthed, gently putting out a hand to stroke your cheek when-
The hollering of the children had reached a crescendo, forcing you to painfully wrench your attention away from Drifter and over towards the small group who’d been making strange, repulsed faces as the unexpected PDA session. It was unanticipated, sure, but nothing that warranted such a potent reaction.
One of the kids lowered their soccer ball and got into position, the little bumpkin in the purple scarf- and you immediately snapped upwards, knocking Drifter aside in the process.
“HEY, NO. You kick that soccer ball at me, it’s YOUR body they’re going to find at the bottom of the lake, buddy.” Not that you really meant that, but they didn’t have to know.
They giggle and cackle like little demons beneath the sun’s glare, soon losing interest in you and diverting their attention back towards the carnage that was their game of soccer. You’re never going to see that sport in the same light ever again.
Drifter arose with some difficulty, dusting the stray tufts of grass from his cape and veiling himself with his mask once more. You trot over and tugged his arm boldly, corralling him away from the fields and back out into central. Suppose he might have preferred nobody see the two of you like this, so you pulled your hand away from his- but he had tightened his hold rather persistently. He pulled his mask up a little higher with his free hand, staring pensively down at the ground.
It was there you stood, replete with glee and feeling like you could tackle the world.
You were happy, you realized. You were happy.
And you didn't need words to express that Drifter had felt the same way.