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Hospitals are notoriously Laurent’s least favorite place to be. They mean sickness, death, and everything in between. They mean potentially revealing who he really is— not some bystander, but a man who has watched someone stare down the barrel of his own gun. Still, he can’t kill. The scars littering his body are accidents, and definitely not from the many people he has scammed. No, he’s fine. Just fine.
Hospitals symbolize too much weakness for Laurent’s tastes.
And, now, facing a barely cracked-open door, Laurent feels this weakness all too well. It should not take so much physical strength to hold himself standing. He has yet to enter the room and his fists clench with the effort of keeping his expression calm, blank.
He enters the room.
For as effectively as Laurent has been playing his collected exterior, it’s much too easy for him to crack. His heart drops completely at the sight he is greeted with. Perhaps, if someone conscious were in the room, he’d attempt to conceal the heartbreak shuddering across his face. As it is, the only other person with him is laid out on a hospital bed like a ragdoll. Laurent’s jaw tenses and he stares down at the floor as if it has betrayed him.
The words ‘embarrassed’ and ‘frightened’ come to mind, which then reveal themselves, in reality, as how Laurent is currently feeling.
“Makoto,” he sighs, and he’s not sure if it’s an admittance of defeat or a note of a fond song. If Makoto would just open his eyes, Laurent is sure he’d feel like singing.
He’d been assured that Makoto would recover fully. The only question was: how long would it take?
Life without Makoto, even temporarily, is similar to what Laurent imagines swimming in a lake of molten lava would be like. The backs of his eyes burn bright, and although Laurent has rarely shed tears— the main two occasions reserved for his mother and for Dorothy— he considers sobbing until his throat runs dry and his voice is hoarse. Laurent’s skin constantly simmers with the ache of something foreign; something he has experienced before, but only once in his life.
The lava gets overtaken by something greater. The fiery depths turn shadowy, extinguished by the tears resting in Laurent’s eyes.
He finally understands the darkness unfurling inside of him.
Laurent moves one of the four chairs in the room so it is next to Makoto’s bed. Rather than carrying it over the few inches necessary, he drags it across the floor in the absurd hope of waking Makoto with the screech of the chair legs on the ground. Of course, nothing happens. The only following sound is the thud of Laurent’s heartbeat trying its best to match Makoto’s heart monitor.
He sits down.
It could be the sun falling from the sky and its subsequent dimness peeking through the lone window, but Laurent begins to tire. He plants his elbows on the forever white sheets, resting his head in his hands. As minutes pass, he’s helpless to the way his body sags with sleep.
For all Laurent knows, he could have dreamt up the strangest things known to man. The only person who could have witnessed any torment he may have experienced while asleep is, unfortunately and fortunately, unable to witness anything when Laurent wakes. His eyes feel heavy, yet every ounce of his body is telling him to stay vigilant. He wishes this was a dream.
There is no danger here, and still Laurent fears.
Beep . . . beep . . . beep.
Laurent recalls how passionate Makoto had been when he thought Laurent to be dead. At the time, it had given Laurent a heady feeling. It fed into his power. He doesn’t regret the event. Its meaning has simply developed into something more powerful now that Laurent is sitting at Makoto’s bedside. What is actually ‘simple’ about this, though?
Truly, Laurent’s mind is struggling to catch up to the emotion pounding a hole into his chest.
The day passes, and the only reason Laurent knows this is because of the sun moving in the sky. Shadows change shape throughout. There are occasions where Laurent tends to himself— barely a healthy amount of bathroom breaks or food eaten. All he wants is the bare minimum to keep himself at Makoto’s side.
Laurent tries saying a few words to Makoto. He’s expecting displaying his heart to fortify his mind somehow, and naturally it does the complete opposite. He feels as though his heart is fracturing with each beat. Makoto is not able to listen; if only he could, then Laurent could get his point across without feeling like a fool.
It’s possibly funny how paranoid Laurent is of the shadows of passersby. The dip of dark that haunts the door frame as doctors or patients— or whoever, really— walk through the halls is unreasonably startling. There should be no predators here, and still, if there were, Laurent is ready to strike if only to keep Makoto well.
Cynthia comes to visit. Her presence is a movement of the air, a tilt of the world, and then she is at Laurent’s side. Laurent had watched her enter, as he’s all too aware of anything that happens at the threshold of the door. Here, he lives in the agony of watching Makoto be so close. It’s like another world, judging by the way Cynthia appears to lose all confidence at seeing Makoto’s physical state. Carefully, she carries a chair and places it next to Laurent. Once she sits down, her eyes become clouded. She can barely stand to look at the pain that is reflected in the unconscious figure in front of her.
Laurent looks; he sees. There’s too many separate bursts of bandages to count, all wrapped around Makoto in a terrible display. Many of the bruises littering the skin that is visible have turned yellow around the edges. Makoto is truly a sight for sore eyes. Laurent wants him to wake so badly. He wants to tell Makoto that he’s a beautiful human being, to whisper reassurances into his ear. There are urges befalling Laurent that he has never once had. This vulnerability is unbelievably unwelcome, and still it prevails.
Turning to face Laurent, Cynthia’s words come hesitantly. She tells him that she has ordered food for the both of them. Laurent resists scowling— what reason does he have to?
While they wait for the food to arrive, conversation does not come easy to them, as it so often does. And, of course, neither of them are willing to put up a front.
The next day brings Abigail with two cups of coffee. Her expression remains blank as she sits in the chair Cynthia had occupied previously. Gratefully, brokenly, Laurent takes one of the cups. He imagines, in a past time, that he’d make fun of Cynthia and Abbey treating him like glass. Now, though, all he can sense is the shattering of his mind. If it weren’t for them, he’s unsure whether he’d be held together.
Eventually, Abbey tells— demands, even— him to head home, especially because the hospital staff are done being lenient with his visiting hours. Yes, Laurent understands that Makoto is no longer in critical condition, but there are always the ‘what if’s. Standing from his protective, seated position next to Makoto’s beside is possibly the most difficult thing he has ever done. Laurent’s reluctance makes his limbs drag as he and Abbey exit the room, then the building. Abbey drives him to the hotel they’d all booked, which Laurent has not been present at for days now.
Time passes much too quickly for Laurent while he is away from Makoto. He showers furiously fast, pausing momentarily afterwards to gaze at his disheveled appearance. He runs a hand through his damp hair, shakes off the unease creeping into his mind, and continues on with his routine. Entering the kitchen, he thanks Cynthia for picking up dinner for the three of them. The tiny hotel table somehow manages to fit four chairs. Laurent determinedly ignores the empty seat.
Laurent isn’t entirely sure why he’s in a rush; he can’t return to the hospital again until tomorrow, after all.
It’s not like sleep comes easy to him, either. Staring at a staticky ceiling while sitting in the dark isn’t his favorite pastime. At the very least, he has something to ‘look forward to’ the next day.
Laurent takes an early-morning taxi to the hospital. Perhaps, in the past, he would’ve cared for the cost; he would’ve wanted to keep all his money to himself. There are currently more important things on his mind.
There is a person sitting in Laurent’s chair. He panics, seeing someone where there never had been anyone. This person turns to face Laurent, and it is at this moment that Laurent notices the bed is empty.
Makoto smiles carefully at him. An IV pole rests innocuously next to him. Laurent’s knees are shaky and weak with the relief that crashes through him. With his heart pounding, he approaches Makoto.
They . . . hug. It is kind of awkward, but it’s also the best thing Laurent has ever experienced. Makoto, still sitting, has Laurent leant over him. There is this humongous smile that will not leave Laurent’s face. He feels unusually happy, even with his shoulders protesting his posture.
“Makoto,” he sighs, feeling like he’s on cloud nine.
Laurent fears, momentarily, how he’s meant to say he loves Makoto. Upon pulling away from the hug, noticing the glint in Makoto’s eyes, Laurent recognizes that everything will be alright. Hesitantly, and admittedly desperately, he goes in for a kiss. Makoto, smiling lightly, pulls Laurent to him with a gentle grab of his shirt.
“Laurent,” Makoto sighs after parting from Laurent. His voice is hoarse and soft. It’s the most incredible sound Laurent has ever heard.