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It's quiet.
"…They wouldn't stop screaming."
And then it's not.
Coby's voice is all wind and no word, but Helmeppo jerks violently from a tentative half-sleep at the sound of it, damn near falling out of his seat in the process. It's strange, how attuned they've become to one another lately. It's a kind of desperate symbiosis, a kind that no amount of training could have prepared them for. But for all his trying this is something he just can't understand. He would hate himself for it if the very act didn't feel so selfish.
(Not everything is about you.)
"They wouldn't…it was so loud. It was―god, god. I couldn't even…"
Oh. This again.
He mostly tunes it out, at this point; half-guilty but twice too far exhausted to lend the whole of an ear. Coby's face is wet with the remnants of his terror, pink tufts of hair sharp and sticky with salt down the back of his neck. He's awake but only by a margin, featherlight breathing and a thousand-yard stare to wake a dead man from his rest.
It's never the same thing twice over. Never quite the same memory, never quite the same screams echoing or pistols blowing. And that's the real trouble of it, Coby had said. The way the voices had stewed together in death with nary a name or a face to put to them. The fear is in the anonymity; the difference between a battlefield and a slaughterhouse.
Physically speaking, Coby's healed up pretty quickly―he hadn't attained any major injuries beyond a couple of bruised ribs and an ankle fracture―but they still aren't too keen on releasing him, yet. At this point they're still trying to assess whether or not the overload to his Haki so early on had caused some sort of ABI, or if he was just exhibiting standard signs of combat fatigue.
("You can never quite tell with Haki users." The doctor had explained, flat-faced for all that Helmeppo was a tangle of nerves. "We still don't entirely know how such things interact on a neurobiological level; his cognition is a little off, still, so we're keeping him here a while longer for observation. It's probably nothing physiological, but…" She'd trailed off, searching for a placating string of words, "…better safe than sorry, no?"
He hadn't had anything to say to that, either.)
Helmeppo himself had been discharged from the hospital over a week ago―a little less than two days after the battle had come to an end―but'd hardly had the chance to leave since, spending almost every free second at his friend's bedside. The nurse had suggested, at one point, that he head back to the barracks before he made himself sick with worry. It doesn't matter much, though; he's spent his whole life being selfish, and with the only person in the world he gives a damn about lying half-dead and half-crazy in a hospital bed, he isn't about fall back into old habits any time soon.
He hopes that the fit passes soon, and Coby can get some real sleep; the doctor had jacked up his morphine dose after he'd had an incident with one of the nurses a couple days back, and moved him to a private room at the end of the wing ("We need to monitor his exposure to external stimuli and―"). For the most part he's been calmer for it, and although Helmeppo doesn't quite agree with their methods of pacification he's willing to accept that sometimes the ends justify the means.
"―to help them, and what could I do? What could I do?"
But only sometimes.
Coby reasons with himself in hushed tones where his eyes fix and settle somewhere beyond the dark of the window. His shoulders are hunched together protectively, brow knotted in concentration. He's got a hand pinned to the side of his head, over his ear, as his breath comes out in sharp edges, cutting through the fog of his mantra.
He can almost see it, the way the dead flash their screams behind his eyes, but Helmeppo has never been much of an empath (has never been much of anything at all). And for all his jealousy upon discovering Coby's budding Kenbunshoku, he can't help but wonder now if he'll ever be strong enough to bare that kind of burden.
At this point, he isn't so sure he'd want to.
At sixes and sevens, he says: "You can't save everyone." Feels almost flippant, the way it comes out, and he blinks―once, twice―marveling at his own stupidity. All he's really doing is wringing out the old platitude for answers it doesn't have. Then, a little more softly, more carefully: "No one was expecting you to."
That does…something. Because Coby stops muttering, stops speaking entirely, and turns his whole body to face Helmeppo―slowly, as if unaccustomed to the weight of his limbs. He's got bags under his eyes, dark shadows like he'd been punched in the face repeatedly, and when he speaks he actually snarls. "You don't know what you're talking about. You never know what you're talking about."
Oh.
It's the only time Coby's spoken to him all day, and (a little contrite) Helmeppo finds himself wishing he'd kept quiet. He can deal with the unhinged mumbling, with the nightmares and the flashbacks and the silence, but this is―something else. In all fairness, the doctor had warned him that Coby might lash out; he just hadn't expected it to sting so damn much.
He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything.
Déjà vu. He's been at a loss for words a lot, lately.
"…Say something." Coby grits out, parroting his fear. He's frustrated, aimlessly so, but Helmeppo is right there and he'd be lying if he said that snapping at someone didn't feel a little bit cathartic, after everything. "Didn't you hear me?"
(At the very least, he has the decency to feel embarrassed about it.)
More silence. Coby's just about to roll over and go back to 'sleep', when he hears:
"It wasn't your fault, you know."
The remark comes of its own volition, and Helmeppo wants to hit himself because he just knows this is going to be another one of those things, and how the hell do you expect to be of any help at all when you keep doing this whole open-mouth-insert-foot-schtick―
"…Thanks."
He looks up. Coby is staring at him owlishly, round eyes looking comically bright in the dim glow of the sick bay's fluorescents, but he blinks away sharply after they make eye contact. Seems surprised at his own mouth, too. But strangely enough, he continues:
"And…it's not your fault, either."
Oh.
It's the kind of thing he would've never realized he'd needed to hear, except that now that he has his hands won't stop shaking and his eyes pinch. It feels ungainly―he's not used to crying anything but crocodile tears―and he almost turns to hide his face completely before thinking better of it. Coby spares him another glance, and (wordlessly) shuffles closer to the window, leaving a space on the bed to his left. Helmeppo stares at it for a good minute before taking the hint.
There's nothing noble about suffering in silence, he knows (which is all fine and good, since neither of them are especially adept at stoicism in the first place), but there's not much left to say that can be said, now. It's all up in the air, in silence and in trust. The rest of their time is for waiting.
Absentmindedly, Helmeppo combs a hand through Coby's hair. In return, Coby leans his head on Helmeppo's shoulder, closing his eyes. The contact is nice, even if it's not really what either of them need. But it helps, and they can hear one another's breathing even out in synch. Really, the whole scene would be sweet―if more than a little embarrassing―under any other circumstances. Instead, watching Coby's eyes drift shut for the second time tonight, Helmeppo just feels jaded. Inadequate.
But he stays, awake for what imaginary terrors lie in wait, for what memories he can't kill and what faith he can't give. It's not worth much, coming from someone like him but―what else can he do? What else can he do?