Work Text:
- The wind will always bring you home to me.
Well, that is a sentimental thought. The boy with halfheartedly tied half-braids smiles brightly to himself, then struggles to close the window before collapsing down back onto the bed. It's not a good sign when even such a simple action leaves him winded. He's not gotten many good signs, lately. Between the brain fog, the exhaustion, forgetting things that were promised weeks if not months ago... perhaps he'll make it through this spell, like he has every other one before. And if he doesn't make it, well.
He weakly reaches for the flute on the bedside table.
It really is cruel that music requires such physical strength. Who even has enough air to power notes on the wind when they are struggling to breathe?
You don't have to play. I have the recordings. Don't force yourself. Focus on feeling better. There's always going to be ano - well, I'll always be here for you.
The smile on pale lips has gained a rueful edge. And that boy cannot bring himself to lie.
Well, Xiao is right. Xiao is always right. The rational thing would be to lie back. Hope that this passes, and keep up the feeling of hope, no matter how self-delusional they may be. Remain convinced that a miracle will happen, and that one day they'll be playing together on the roof again, performing duets to the flight of the birds. It could happen. It has happened to other patients before.
But I'm terrified beyond belief and I just want a kiss.
The blankets are warm. Soft, too - not as soft as the blankets at home, but he's still in the hospital, so these would have to do. It takes a ridiculous amount of strength to cocoon himself back up, and the effort drains all that's left out of him, but then he can imagine himself resting above the clouds again when he closes his eyes, a playful child, or even a faerie or some kind of sprite, rolling and hopping across the cotton candy fluffs. If I can still see the fairytale in my mind, then I must still be alive.
He falls asleep again like this, wanting, quietly despondent, having accomplished oh so very little in the day, but no complaints were heard from him, and the wing of the hospital remains quiet, with the sunlight continuing to stream in from the open windows, lighting up fragile features and giving the shadowy semblance of wings.
When the other boy arrives at last - weary, sweaty, a little angry at having had to fight the reception for the rights to visit, a full head taller than his friend, nervous energy so alive it dwarfs what little light still remains in the boy on the bed - it's already night, and the curtains have been drawn. The taller boy sighs softly, leans down reverently as if wanting a fleeting kiss on the forehead, but stops himself, biting his lip as he shakes his head.
Hey.
Hey. …You awake?
The sleep is deep. One may wonder why the taller boy keeps doing this - returning, night after night, after grueling twelve-hour days at school with multiple mock exams, having to bike several miles each way in the darkness - but he himself only loves too faithfully. Under the moonlight, he cleans up everything in the room, the flute that's nearly fallen off the table, the loose pieces of sheet music, the half-eaten apples. Fresh white flowers go into a vase with a carefully measured amount of water. Yesterday he had finished folding the last of the one thousand origami cranes, so those go up above the bed now, hanging delicately from the ceiling like a starry night.
That boy is still turning in his sleep. But that is good, the taller boy supposes. Then he is probably still having some lovely dreams.
…The boy wakes up in the morning to freshly cut apple slices, a helping chair by the window, and a lingering figure by the door. His eyes widen. The silhouette stills.
"Ah." A cheerful voice, followed by a cough. "I caught you!"
There comes that rueful almost-smile in response - oh how he loves that smile - and thus another day begins again.