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The hospital is not a second home to Phos. It is more a clubhouse that they are trapped within, a tree-house made of plaster, that their family foists them into with each casually broken bone. Rutile and Yellow might have once greeted them with warmth. Now -
"Which bone was it this time," Rutile says.
"I expect you'll next manage to break the bones in your ear," Yellow says. "Anything else would start to get boring."
Rutile is supposed to be a doctor, but Phos wonders if they were a coroner first. Too much glee in hammers and scalpels. Yellow - they're blond, always wearing a colored diamond necklace. That's not why they're Yellow. They're Yellow because they're the oldest one here. They're Yellow because something in Phos says they are. Really, that's how the whole world is. Some people are harder than others. Yellow's face isn't sharp like Rutile's constant half-glare, but they're sturdy. Much more than Phos.
"I don't break my bones," Phos says. "That'd take too much work! Do you know how much milk I drink? The entire country's cow supply is in dangerous shortages because of me." Their fingers twitch, but they force their arms to cross. "This time, it is not another break."
"You're right," Yellow says.
Rutile spreads out Phos' fingers, regardless of the silent scream on their face, and sighs. "Just another sprain. Did you try to splint this?"
"N-" Phos' teeth clack together, and they shake their head.
"Right," Rutile says.
"I'm too busy to spend so much time here!" Phos says - shouts, more, volume control ever unattainable. "My teacher assigns me so many piles of homework I'm drowning in paper cuts!"
"I'm sure," the doctors say.
Rutile leaves, and Yellow stays for one more head pat before they take their own leave.
The hospital is too quiet without them to shout at. But there are more pillows than what Phos has in their own bed. They settle back and wriggle into starchy fabric until swallowed up.
"You're not supposed to just leave the patient alone."
Maybe years ago, Phos would have been expected to sit upright in a room filled with people, all worried about their well-being. Fingers stretched out on a table so professionals could ensure they healed as they were meant to. But normal is normal and bodies do not change. The only thing that changes is what part of them has decided not to work, and which ones have to make up for it.
Their teacher noticed the gloves first. From there, it was the popsicle stick splint underneath, dirty cotton and bandage crushed underneath tight leather. Then it was home, the car, and a hospital waiting room.
The same doctors and nurses and practitioners.
Nothing really changes.
---
"Rutile," Phos whines.
"Aren't you old enough to know how to pronounce my name," the doctor says, "Or do I need to put your tongue in a splint too?"
"That's a better name than that boring nonsense you call your title," Phos says. They have definitely not forgotten their real name. "Rutile comes up out of gems like needles. It's a total nightmare. Super creepy."
"Hm, I wonder what would happen if I just cut this finger off."
"And super beautiful! Super cool!"
Rutile's fingers are deft over Phos' skin. How the doctor puts them back together, they aren't sure. Even years and Phos doesn't understand. Sometimes, they try to keep their eyes open. Burn holes through Rutile's gloves to see what magic lies underneath. But they inevitably blink, and in that instant, their hand is bandaged, and their fingers hardly hurt anymore.
"Why'd you hurt yourself this time," Rutile asks.
"Teach' was asking for me to do some research ..." Phos draws their legs up. "He's always pushing me to go outside. It's filled with bugs though. It's super hot. I hate it."
"Then how did that dirt get under your nails?"
"I was just trying to climb a tree," they mutter. "There was this bird nest. It had a pine cone. And I thought, woah! How else to surprise him! If I told him a bird was laying pine eggs, he'd be totally amazed! No more school for you, Phos, he'd say. Time to move up in the world."
"Phos," Rutile says. Or repeats.
"What?" they answer.
"Why'd you call yourself Phos?"
Sometimes, Phos does not feel like they have anything attached above their shoulders. Sometimes, it feels like they are very far away.
"3.5 on the Mohs hardness scale," Phos says. "It's only natural!"
---
There's always been this other kid at the recovery ward.
Or not.
Phos has never really caught their name. They're a waif. Or shapeless. A blob of silver in the corner of their eye. Maybe even multiple people Phos had shoved into one shadowy mystery as a means of fascinating themself in the hospital. The ones who only go outside when the moon is bright and terrible in the sky.
But there's sometimes a name outside a closed door. When Phos sneaks to the bathroom. When Phos tries to avoid the recreation room and all the dog-earred magazines. When Phos is side-stepping well-meaning staff. They see it.
There's no one in the hospital Phos doesn't know.
So Phos knocks.
The door opens a sliver.
"Is Shinsha even a real name?" The words trip out of Phos' mouth like a joke. "Sounds pretty silly to me. The hospital records can't do much about rocks."
"I guess it isn't," says a stranger, and the door closes.
---
The moon never goes away.
"That's a reflection," Dia tells them. "The moon revolves around us, so it's never at the same spot."
It makes a little sense that the moon reflects the sun's light. It makes less sense that Earth mirrors the moon. When Phos looks out the window - when their parents come to drive them home - it feels like they're being followed. It is stationary and always set.
Night just makes it bigger.
"That sounds like something you tell a baby to make them feel better about their impending doom," Phos says. Their broken arm is crossed over their chest, and they cannot fit the other over or under.
"It's true," Dia says. "I'm no expert, but that's all that matters." When Dia smiles, they giggle. Phos likes Dia. They wear too much make-up and like neon more than shady back alleys, but it's the genuine kind of nonsense. Not the sort where a nurse comes in wearing Barney scrubs to make the four year old kids burst into tears. Dia actually likes being an honorary shareholder of the Lisa Frank corporation. "Your senior knows best, Phos!"
They're also the only one who seems to humor Phos.
"Eh? Have you looked at yourself? If I start copying you, Rutile will have to melt me back into shape!"
"Oh, no," Dia laughs. "I'd never tell you to act like me." When Dia's mouth curves up, there is no giggle. "It's the sun you should worry about."
People disappear sometimes. Dia looks outside, and the sunshine catches in their hair. It makes Phos' eyes burn. And blink.
"You should stay safe," Dia says.
The sun comes out, and people don't return.
Sometimes, Phos wonders when they last saw Dia.
---
When it's cold is when Phos remembers the most.
Years pass by without them. They stopped celebrating birthdays. They don't remember how old they are. When so little of you makes it forward, what else is left to celebrate.
Though that's silly.
Gems don't celebrate birthdays.
---
Today.
Phos sits outside a stranger's door.
"You must be a real shut-in," they say.
There's no clipboard hanging on it today. But it's late. There's no reason for people to patrol at night. No one's going to find them.
"You're not in the containment ward," Phos says. "So you can't avoid me forever. They couldn't keep me out of there, either! Ever wanted to see someone with the real black plague?" Phos drags up their arms, nails scraping against the door. Mischievous smiles and lidded eyes. "You will never escape your fate."
There is no response and the spooky ghost impersonation dissipates with Phos' head clanking against the door.
"I don't like it here," Phos says. Whispers. "I feel like everything else I remember is ... just what everyone else told me about. ...I don't remember doing it. Or anything." Their legs draw against their chest. "Even when I look outside, nothing feels real."
When Phos closes their eyes, they don't see another world.
Nightmares fade in, the deep feeling of disease and anxiety. None of it is specific. But it is the most that feels real.
"Even when I broke my fingers," they say. "I don't remember doing it. Or if it hurt." They stare at their hands. "I remember someone fixing me. But then I was still here. So they didn't? But it doesn't hurt." Fingers bend well. Like sticks. Phos' fingers are as thick as vines. All they can see is how their fingers twist against the floor. It's easy.
Like branches.
Like -
"You shouldn't do that," a stranger says.
Phos doesn't face them.
"You should be with the rest of them."
"Who?" Phos asks.
"...they've been waiting for you."
"I'm nothing special," Phos says. "I used to think I was double-jointed, but it turned out it was just weak bones."
There is a palpable silence. Heat. Strange vermilion light. Something that makes Phos remember they are forgetting so much. The stranger says, "Fine then."
It's their tone that makes Phos laugh.
"What?" the stranger shouts. Not quite. They restrain themself, but it makes Phos laugh more.
"You sound so serious!" Phos rubs their face. There is nothing coming from their eyes. Nothing coming off in their hands but dust. They're brittle. "Almost like you want me to snap my fingers off!"
"I don't - You just -" They're stumbling, now, and Phos -
Phos' face is lit teal and blue, and they say, "If you're that annoyed, I know I did something right, Cinnabar."
They don't remember the name.
Scarlet and silver, and a notebook kept for too long.
They remember enough to link things together sometimes. Phos isn't smart. But making things work is a matter of stubbornness. Not brains.
"You've terrified everyone," Cinnabar mutters. "You never stop bothering them. You never stop troubling me."
Phos doesn't stand up. They don't know where their legs went. Somewhere in the sea. Eaten by voracious slugs. Lost to doubt and single-mindedness. So they say, "You miss me?"
"No!" tears out of Cinnabar's mouth, like the mercury that follows, like the gold that pours out every one of Phos' broken edges.
"You ..." Phos quirks an eyebrow. "Want me back?"
"I'm so sick of this," they say.
"Oh," Phos says.
"Yeah," Cinnabar says. "Oh."
"I don't know any other way," they answer.
"No one ever did."
"That's why I have to get back!" Phos' head rolls along the floor. An outburst. There's not much left. "You're the reason I got here, too!"
"Thanks," Cinnabar says, and it's worse poison than what settles around their feet.
"Not like that. Geez, you're always so negative." Something about them always brings out Phos' rebellion. Their hope. "You're why I want to be there."
Cinnabar opens their own door. "Maybe you should say that to my face."
When they close the door - they leave alone.
---
People don't come back.
A gem could.
Phos does.
Almost.