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By all accounts, he should be dead. But Pavel finds himself blinking awake to a roughly thatched ceiling, with one side sloping downwards heavier than the other. He focuses on his surroundings, the bareness of the walls, the threadbare cloth that serves as a curtain, how he’s likely in one of the humble guardhouses strewn across the outskirts of Aakhen, because he doesn’t yet want to catalogue his own injuries. He can barely move.
“Pavel?” comes a sleep-mussed voice. “Are you awake?”
His heart rate spikes, then slows in the next instant. It’s Violet. Of course it’s Violet. Ridiculous, Pavel thinks exasperatedly, how many times does Violet have to save him before Pavel pulls him into a danger too big for either of them to come out alive?
“Yeah,” he croaks. Violet’s by his side in an instant with a cup, fingers cradling the back of Pavel’s head as he helps him drink. “Thanks to you.”
Violet peacocks a little, expression brightening into a smirk, and he predictably goes on to extol the benefits of being a genius, how he can’t help it, it’s only right he takes care of all his friends, he’s the only one who can get them out of sticky situations after all. Pavel nods stiffly—even such a small movement hurts—and lets Violet talk over him, familiar and safe. He hadn’t realized how much he’d longed for such comfort in his months spent navigating Perland’s tricky political minefield alone, in which he could barely tell friend from foe, in which looking over his shoulder became more than a habit, but a method of survival.
Doesn’t realize just how much he’s missed Violet until something slips down his cheek.
Violet stops instantly. “Pavel,” he says urgently, in complete contrast to his blithe rant not two seconds ago. Violet takes his hand, grip gentle but firm. “You’re safe. We’re both here, and you’re safe.”
“I know,” Pavel manages, clinging on to Violet like a lifeline. The ache in his muscles spreads all the way to his fingertips, but he doesn’t let go. “You—you always do that. Stop doing that.”
Violet frowns, uncomprehending. “Doing what?”
He’s never known himself to be emotional, but his body is barely held together by the bandages and magic healing the doctor Violet must have found for him administered, and he can’t stop himself from divulging. “Jumping headfirst into things. Not thinking for yourself. Lilias—” Pavel has to suppress the shudder of fear and molten-hot anger at the name. “Lilias will never forgive you. And now you’ll be hunted, too. You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have—”
“Saved you?” Violet snaps. “You think I’d leave you?”
All the fight seeps out of Pavel. Never in all those years spent trekking through the unexplored terrain in the border between Aakhen and Perland has Violet ever left him behind. Never in a raid gone wrong. Never in a fight. He’s loud, and boastful, and overly sensitive, and just plain annoying, but kind, and good, and true to the very end. It’s a loyalty Pavel doesn’t know if he deserves. Pavel won’t allow Violet to suffer for his decisions, would renounce their friendship if it meant keeping him safe. And yet, here he is, uncompromising in his faithfulness. “No,” he finally has to admit, “you wouldn’t.”
Violet nods. “So stop suggesting it.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop apologizing.”
“Sor—oh, alright.”
Violet’s laughing now, all trace of sharpness gone. How quickly he forgives, how contrasting he is to anybody else Pavel's ever known. He leans forward, tips his head so that he’s resting lightly on Pavel. “You’re an idiot sometimes, Pavel, you self-proclaimed-best-tracker-of-the-west.”
“Self-proclaimed?” Pavel asks drily. “Pot, meet kettle.”
Violet snorts inelegantly, but he doesn’t move away, and Pavel feels warmth dance in his ruined body. It’s a different warmth to the one he feels when he receives a letter from Cerise, when he rejoices upon hearing of her safety, or the warmth that soaks his skin when he stands over the jagged outcrops in Perland, watching the sun rise.
No matter. It’s a welcome warmth, even amidst the war they’ve suddenly found themselves in. He dares to run his fingers through Violet’s hair, marvelling at the way he shifts closer unconsciously like a cat.
“We do this together, understand?” Violet mumbles against his chest. “Just like old times.”
“Yeah,” Pavel agrees, eyes falling shut as sleep takes him over again. Winning somehow doesn’t seem too impossible now. “Just like old times.”