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The sharp smell of laserfire hung in the air, leaving a sour taste in Jet’s mouth.
He could still hear ringing, the aftermath of a clap that had been over before he’d been able to think. Just flashing lights and the sound of bodies hitting the hot afternoon sand. Tilting his head up slightly, Jet winced at the sudden sting in his side as, almost instinctively, he muttered a prayer to the Witch — he had only Her to thank.
He and Kobra.
Kobra.
The buzzing in his head coming to a halt, Jet scrambled to his feet, eyes scanning for the only body dressed in color. He wasn’t hard to find, still wrapped in that jacket; stark against the white sand as the blood on the dracs’ suits.
“Kobra,” he managed. His voice rattled painfully in his throat. “Kobra!” Ignoring the way his ribs flared up, Jet stumbled towards the crumpled form of his gangmate.
Kobra stirred when Jet dropped to the ground in front of him, and Jet nearly cried with relief. His body was tensed up, eyes straining shut and breathing labored, but he was alive, and he let out a pained groan at Jet’s touch.
“Jet?” His eyes squinted open, blinking in the harsh light.
“Yeah,” Jet answered immediately, careful to keep his voice soft. Bringing a hand under Kobra’s head, he used the other to stabilize himself and offered a gentle smile. “I’m here, Kobes. Just a little firefight, yeah?”
Kobra huffed an almost-laugh. “‘f you say so, dude.”
With Jet’s help, they managed to get him sitting up, his back leaning against a rock. Jet’s hand shook against Kobra’s forearm as he tried to assess the damage; damn it, where was his vision?
“Jet, fuck, you’re bleedin’,” he heard Kobra say, why was he talking when he should be resting? Trying his best to find the words to convey his message, Jet produced something along the right lines. He heard his name again, louder, it wasn’t enough —
“Jet!”
That snapped him right out. Kobra didn’t yell.
The desert was spinning around him, he could barely see Kobra but he could feel a hand firmly on his shoulder, another stroking his head and Jet heard himself make a noise somewhere between a cry of protest and a whimper, he didn’t need —
Surrendering, Jet collapsed forward into Kobra’s arms, suddenly all too aware of the fire in his side. He focused on Kobra’s voice; hushing and gentle whispering, “It’s alright, you’re alright, everything’s gonna be just fine, y’hear?” At that, he hummed, finally allowing himself to relax.
He was still awake when footsteps, heavy and frantic even when muffled by sand, began approaching, and when their names flew from familiar voices. Still awake when soft hands that smelled of synthetic dye, of motor oil, found their way into his hair, brushing against his scalp in a way that almost let him forget his injuries. Muffled conversation, worried in tone but calming in presence, pulled his mind back, and Jet drifted into unconsciousness.
They’d started a woodfire, and wrapped him in a blanket.
Head still fuzzy, Jet blinked awake to moonlight streaming through the windows. Somewhere distant, a steady conversation tapered off.
“Jet?”
Groaning, Jet tried — and failed — to sit up.
“No — Hey, don’t try to move too much, you’ll aggravate the stitches.”
And then Party Poison was at his side, their hands light on his shoulder, his spine. There was a glass next to them.
Jet looked at the glass. The edge of it was still smeared with dirt, but the water inside was clean, much cleaner than the usual barrel-water — filtered.
He looked at Party.
The expression they were trying to create was a mystery to Jet — reassurance, nonchalance, disappointment? — but it poorly concealed their concern.
Over him.
He didn’t know what to say. Luckily for him, Party spoke first.
“We stitched you up, best we could,” they said, then wrinkled their nose. “Fuck that, I stitched you up. Kobes has a pass, he was fucked up, but Ghoul can’t hold a needle to save his life, and —” they were rambling now, the way they did when they were nervous, “— so I did it, hopefully it’ll…nah, it’ll hold,” they said definitively.
Jet tried to thank them. It came out as a croak, and he watched Party’s face soften. One hand found his chin, tilting his head to trace a line over his cheek.
Their next words were softer.
“You know we’d fall apart without you, right, Star?”
Jet’s breath caught, and he nodded. “Sure,” he managed, rough but audible.
A sad smile drifted across Party’s face as they continued, “Act like it, then.”
Blinking, Jet creased his brow. “‘t’s that mean?”
“Kobra told me what happened. You gotta look out for yourself, man, it’s —”
“Pois, I —” he cut them off, fuck that, “I didn’t even know how bad I was hurt, I didn’t even know I was — ”
“You didn’t let yourself know!”
Silence dropped like a stone; Jet could hear the blood in his ears. Party’s face was still flushed as they practically whispered, “Jet, look at me.”
He did. They were almost eye-to-eye now, he must’ve pushed himself up somehow, and he could see tears building in Party’s eyes. Some might’ve thought they were borne of frustration, but Jet knew one thing: Party Poison had never been an angry crier.
“You…” they trailed off, taking in a long breath. “You deserve to be safe just as much as the rest of us. You deserve to be…be cared for, and you don’t —” another smile, wet and wobbly and warm as the sun, punctuated their next words — “you don’t have to drain yourself of everything for us, okay?”
His vision swimming like the season’s first rainfall, Jet just nodded, erratic and jarred as his shallow breaths turned into sobs.
Gentle, as though worried they’d break him, Party wrapped their arms around his shaking form. Held him. Spoke quietly, softly, their words incoherent but meaningful nonetheless. Pressed light kisses into his forehead, their fingers moving in slow, constant patterns at the base of his neck.
It was selfish, and perfect, and Jet dropped all reservations as he fell further into Party’s arms.