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The whole night could be encapsulated into a vignette. Nothing made sense, but it tends not to when you’re fleeing a crime scene with a traumatic injury. Ballister’s palm was painted in hot, sticky blood, his remaining hand trying to staunch the liquid that gushed from the mutilated stump where his arm used to be. He could barely see, tears and the threat of unconsciousness tugging on his vision. He ran through the empty streets and through damp alleyways, slipping between a broken chain-link fence. He only stopped once he met a decaying tower, standing sentry in a clearing, his childhood sanctuary.
Stone bricks were missing from the main structure, the windows were boarded up, and the red door was now a dark brown with rot. He rushed through the door, shoving it open with the remaining strength in his body. The wood of the door splintered and crumbled at the corner where his body had made contact with it.
The first thing he saw beyond the threshold was a mildew-ridden couch, somewhere to curl up and let the pain subside, to let the pull towards peace take him. He stumbled up to the stately piece of furniture and collapsed onto the mauve cushions. He was unconscious in seconds.
He was interrupted in what seemed to be seconds later, although it was clear that it had been longer when he saw the brown, dried blood staining the plush couch. He traced the hand that was shaking him awake up a white sleeve to a pale, stubbled chin, Ambrosius? Ballister weakly backed himself away. “No, no, no-”
“Shh, shh,” Ambrosius kneeled down in front of Ballister, showing the man that he was not a threat. He cautiously reached for a white box that was placed on the wooden table behind him, never breaking his focus away from Ballister. The injured knight realized that it was a suture kit and began rambling out words of disapproval.
“We need to fix this or you will die.” Ballister seemed to register the word ‘die,’ as his expression widened with a faint effort. He watched Ambrosius with a passive, half-awake look, not really taking in anything that was happening. Why was Ambrosius here? He was pretty sure his boyfriend was the one who chopped off his arm unless his memory was failing him.
Ballister’s eyes fluttered shut, he just wanted to rest for a moment. His head tilted drunkenly towards the arm of the couch but was intercepted by a gloved hand. “I need you to stay awake, Bal,” Ambrosius said, the end of his sentence faltering with a teary note.
Ballister groaned in disapproval, half-heartedly tossing his head. He watched his boyfriend unclip the suture kit and produce a needle and thread, Ambrosius taking several attempts to thread the needle with trembling hands.
“Okay, this is going to hurt,” Ambrosius held the gleaming, curved needle up to Ballister’s wound, a bit of fabric tied tightly around it. Did I tie that there? He didn’t have time to consider the reliability of his mind, as it was interrupted by his wound being touched. There was a prick of the needle being pushed into his arm, then a sickening pulling sensation as the blue thread was tugged into place. Ballister would have rather passed out from blood loss than endure this.
His chest heaved, blurry eyes trying to focus on the TV that reflected the scene in front of him. Ballister looked to the side, where Ambrosius was perched with his face close to the disfigured arm. Ballister couldn’t conceive that that was attached to him and scrunched his eyes closed as another wave of pain shot through his body, raising his hair. He whimpered and attempted to pull away from the source of discomfort.
“Breathe, Bal,” Ambrosius soothed, beginning to breathe deeply, hoping to encourage Ballister to do the same. The dark-haired man let out shallow, shuddering breaths, trying to emulate Ambrosius’. He ceased closing the wound for a minute, allowing Ballister to ground himself. Ambrosius wrapped his free hand around Ballister’s waist, pressing his head into Ballister’s chest in a sort of uneven hug. “Okay?” He asked.
Ballister nodded his head, but his body language suggested otherwise. Ambrosius knew that he couldn’t stop even if Ballister protested, resuming the job. His glove was dripping with blood, the beads falling to the carpet and spreading their color into the fibers. The blond’s white uniform was littered with streaks of his lover’s blood as well.
Ballister winced at every stitch, wishing that his boyfriend would have brought anesthetic too. Unfortunately, the procedure continued without it, the sensation was dizzying. When the needle finally reached the center of his arm, where the bone was, Ballister tensed up in pain, white-knuckling the couch cushion.
“Hey,” Ambrosius offered Ballister his free hand, Ballister intertwining their fingers, “you can squeeze my hand, you won’t hurt me.” Although, that may have been a lie, because Ballister was soon death-gripping Ambrosius’ hand, the other’s fingers turning slightly white.
When the last stitch was tied, the blond shed his soaked gloves and pulled out a roll of gauze. Ballister glanced down at his bloodied arm, now lined with what he assumed to be upwards of fifty stitches. The way the skin bulged around some and stretched to accommodate others made him ill.
“Bal, I wouldn’t recommend looking at it. It makes it hurt more.” Ambrosius advised as he pulled on the end of the gauze roll and moved to place it on Ballister’s shoulder. Ballister turned away, shielding himself from Ambrosius. “Bal-” Ambrosius lowered his hands, “I need to see it. It’s not going to hurt worse than the stitches.” Ambrosius knew it wasn’t about the pain. It was the fear of someone who had hurt you.
Ballister looked to Ambrosius, his big, round eyes filled with fear. “Can I do it?” He said quietly, taking the roll into his hand. He struggled for a few minutes to start the wrap before giving up. It was hard enough to wrap wounds with two hands.
“Let me help you do it.” Ambrosius brushed over the hand that held the gauze, taking it for a moment to anchor the dressing before taking Ballister’s hand into his. They worked in a slow rhythm, Ballister letting his hand be guided in a looping pattern by his boyfriend’s sweating hands. Blood began to soak through almost immediately, but the bandages would hopefully last the night.
“There,” the taller man said, standing up from his place on the floor. The entire area was imbrued, looking like a murder scene. It would be dry by tomorrow, dark, crusty stains replacing the fresh ones. “You should rest. Your body needs it. I’m going to keep watch of you,” Ambrosius claimed the other cushion of the couch, “we’ll take you to the hospital tomorrow for proper care.”
Ballister didn’t sleep at all that night.
~
“Bal,” Ambrosius had decided to wake him up by shaking him, super relaxing … “You need to get up.”
His mind was a little fuzzy with sleep, and he was startled by the fact that he woke up in an unfamiliar room. He went to push himself upright but couldn’t, forgetting that he was missing an arm.
“Here,” Ambrosius wrapped his hands around the injured man’s waist, pulling Ballister upwards and into a quick hug. He took a step back, looking his lover up and down, eyes lingering on his right arm. Ballister followed his line of vision and felt his heart plummet. If only the events of last night remained a bad dream.
“We’re going to the hospital, remember?” Ambrosius said, noticing his confusion. “C’mon, I have my car parked outside.”
“Should I get dressed?” Ballister asked, following the blond to the door. Blood had stiffened his tunic and run down his pants, stiffening the black fabric.
“I think medical care is more important than fashion right now.” Ambrosius bent over to put on his shoes, Ballister looked down at his feet to see that he was still wearing his.
Ambrosius helped Ballister into the car, taking care not to touch his arm, which had clearly not improved over the course of the night, Ballister shielding it from the faintest hint of contact and wincing with every movement. The taller man then walked around to the driver’s side, starting the car.
He reached over the center console, taking the seat belt next to Ballister’s head and pulling it across his body with care, giving him a kiss on the cheek when it clipped into place. Ballister’s expression softened in return.
The ride to the hospital was silent, besides the occasional sound of Ballister sucking his teeth in pain. Ambrosius could barely keep his eyes on the road, looking to the passenger side every second with concern.
Upon arrival, there was a group of nurses standing on the sidewalk with a wheelchair. Were they expecting him?
“I called them last night when you finally fell asleep,” Ambrosius explained, “they know what to expect.”
Ambrosius and Ballister were swarmed by nurses as they stepped towards the entrance of the building, Ballister being ushered into a wheelchair and rushed inside. He was hit with a scent that never failed to bring back bad memories: sterile alcohol. He had never been a fan of the hospital and, to be honest, it scared him. It made him feel vulnerable, inhuman. His heart quickened.
Taking the elevator, Ballister was placed in an empty room adjacent to the ICU. The navy and lime curtains in the room were drawn, giving the outdated room an even further depressing aura. Two of the nurses lifted him onto the cot, letting his legs dangle off the side. One threw a folded paper gown onto the sheets next to him instructing him to have it on in a few minutes. “Leave the back open, he can keep his underwear,” she said to Ambrosius, closing the door behind her.
Ballister looked at his boyfriend hoping that his tears would remain hidden, he felt so helpless. “Do you want help?” Ambrosius asked, picking up the gown and taking its place.
Ballister nodded, lowering his head and allowing his shirt to be taken off. Ambrosius’ eyes widened at the sight of an innumerable amount of bruises and cuts marring Ballister’s already scarred chest and back. They ran over his belly and beneath the hair on his chest. Some were deep and wide, but most of them were just little marks, still contributing to the pitiful visual.
His arm was still wrapped in bloodied gauze, dry, which was a good sign. Ballister looked up desperately, “It hurts.”
“I know, love.” Ambrosius pulled the gown’s sleeve over Ballister’s arm, draping it over his lopsided form. It felt wrong, seeing him like this, only one arm holding the gown on his injured body.
After his shoes and pants had been peeled off of his body, Ballister sat at the edge of the bed shivering. He was unsure if it was from the cold, nerves, or the pain wracking his body. He was a wreck. There came a knock at the door and two nurses came in with a loaded cart and an IV pole. Ambrosius moved himself out of the way to the bedside chair, much to Ballister’s dismay.
One of the nurses, a younger man with ginger hair, assisted Ballister in laying down, covering the lower half of his body with a thin, yet warm, blanket. While the two talked about his situation, the other nurse, (‘a med student’ she mentioned), prepped IV fluids. She wheeled the cart between the bed and the wall, interrupting the conversation that passed between the three men.
Ballister turned his attention to her when she used a gloved hand to rotate his arm, facing the crook of his elbow upwards. Ambrosius continued to talk to the nurse while Ballister zeroed in on the needle hovering near his arm. He gritted his teeth a little in discomfort when she placed the line under his skin, picturing it puncturing the vein. She secured the cannula with translucent tape and hung the liquids up on a pole. She handed him a button and told him to press it if the pain continued, explaining that it would release stronger painkillers than the ones she placed in his hands.
He was wildly uncomfortable: Everyone in the room was staring at him laying on the bed, half-naked and missing an arm. It made him want to curl up into a ball. The red-haired nurse bent down to look at Ballister’s residual limb, moving the paper gown that covered it. Ballister couldn’t resist looking at the sight. How am I supposed to live the rest of my life like this?
The nurse stood up, replacing the sheet over Ballister’s injury. “We’ll need to run a few tests, but it looks like you’re a good candidate for a prosthetic.” Ambrosius and Ballister exchanged a hopeful glance. The room emptied out again, leaving the two boys alone.
“Looks like I did a pretty good job sewing you up.” Ambrosius joked. “They didn’t even have to revise it.”
“Yeah,” Ballister adjusted the pillow beneath him, laying his head back and placing his hand over Ambrosius’, “guess you missed your calling, Doctor Godenloin.” They shared a smile.
~
Ballister soon learned that his left arm was completely useless. A nurse woke him up early in the morning, placing a tray at his bedside while she checked his vitals. Ambrosius was already awake, scrolling on his phone. He quickly put it away when he realized Ballister was sitting up.
Ballister picked up the package of cutlery on his tray and attempted to free it from the plastic by jabbing it into the table. It didn’t work. He went to use his teeth but Ambrosius took the package and opened it for him.
“Here, let me help.” Ambrosius pulled his chair closer. The nurse stepped aside, writing down a few notes on a tablet before exiting the room.
Ambrosius took the lid off of the fruit salad Ballister had been given. He speared a piece of cantaloupe and raised it towards Ballister. Ballister raised an eyebrow.
“I can feed myself, thank you.” He said, reaching for the fork that Ambrosius was holding. Ambrosius quickly pulled the fork out of reach.
“Just let me do it.” He smiled, placing a hand on top of Ballister’s.
“Ugh, fine.” Ballister rolled his eyes.
Ambrosius let Ballister eat the piece of cantaloupe before picking out a piece of honeydew.
“Ew, no.” Ballister turned his head away when Ambrosius offered it to him.
“Fine, more for me!” Ambrosius popped the fruit into his mouth, chewing and swallowing whilst he made eye contact with Ballister. “It’s goooodd.” He said in a singsong voice.
“Can I have a grape next?” Ballister asked.
“Oh, so now you want me to feed you.” Ambrosius teased, poking a grape and letting Ballister pull it off with his teeth.
“Fuck off,” Ballister said with his mouth still full.
Ambrosius continued to feed Ballister, eating all the pieces of honeydew. They eventually grew silent, savoring the intimacy of the moment. Ambrosius rubbed Ballister’s back while he ate, stopping to open up a cup of cereal.
“Do you wanna try?” Ambrosius offered Ballister a spoon. “I’ll help.”
Ballister nodded, gripping the spoon with his whole hand and digging it into the dry cereal. He managed to pick up a meager spoonful. Ambrosius placed a hand below the spoon to catch any stray cereal pieces as Ballister precariously raised his hand toward his mouth, crunching down on the cereal before any had the chance to tumble off.
“Hey! There you go! Keep doing that.” Ambrosius encouraged Bal, following each of the other man’s movements with his own hands until he was confident Ballister wasn’t going to make a mess.
Ballister polished off a glass of orange juice, letting Ambrosius wipe his mouth dry with gentle presses of the napkin.
“Thank you,” Ballister said, leaning into Ambrosius’ lap, closing his eyes.
“Of course, my love.” Ambrosius petted his disheveled hair into a vague idea of what it usually looked like, massaging his temples and rubbing circles against Ballister’s hand with his thumb.
Ballister was asleep in under five minutes, Ambrosius gently pushed Ballister’s head back onto the pillow.
~
‘A few tests’ turned into several grueling days in the hospital. MRIs and X-rays, blood tests, and never-ending questions. Ballister was the most spent he’d ever been in his life. He rarely slept, being kept awake by a constant barrage of medical staff or by the pain in his arm. Sometimes he even felt a sensation where his arm used to be, and that was hell.
After several evaluations by a prosthetist and a tortuous amount of physical therapy, Ballister was released home with a shiny new prosthetic, he was only supposed to wear it for a few hours at a time, but honestly, he was never seen without it.
The couple spent most of their time in Ballister’s tower, cooking, playing games, and talking. Most of their ‘talks’ began with Ambrosius simply looking at Ballister and bursting into tears over his arm. And, on this particular night, it happened again.
Ballister was preparing dinner for the both of them, stir-fry, their favorite. He had asked Ambrosius to run to the store and get an onion, as he had forgotten one. Thirty minutes later, Ambrosius returned with a bag full of miscellaneous groceries and a yellow onion, as promised.
Whilst Ballister was focused on the stove, Ambrosius came up to him and gently hugged him from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “Thank you.” The dark-haired man said, leaning his head back onto his lover’s shoulder.
“You’re welcome, love,” Ambrosius cooed. “I got caught up by a few fans.”
“You need to stop wearing your uniform in public, dork,” Ballister laughed, “wear a tank top or something.”
“Are you saying that for my sake or yours?”
“Ugh, so flirtatious tonight.” Ballister playfully peeled Ambrosius off of him so he could chop up the onion he asked for.
“Can you hand me the paring knife?” Ballister asked, placing the onion onto a plastic cutting mat. Ambrosius walked over to the knife block, putting his hand on every knife. “No, the paring knife,” Ballister repeated each time the blond put his hand on the wrong knife. “There, that one.” He sighed, letting Ambrosius place it on the mat beside him.
“Here, let me do it.” He lovingly pushed Ballister aside and began cutting the onion into slivers. Ballister returned to the stove. The pair was quiet, Ballister stirring the boiling meal periodically. Once Ambrosius had laid the blade down, Ballister took the mat off of the counter and formed it into a ‘U’ shape, shaking the onions into the mixture.
Ballister noticed that Ambrosius’ eyes were watering and chuckled. “Aww, crying because of an onion?” He teased. The other didn’t laugh, staring at his robotic arm with a look of despair.
Ballister sighed. Is he ever going to get over this? He placed the mat in the sink next to the stove and turned the burner off. “Hey,” he placed his hand on the other man’s cheek, wiping a stray tear, “it’s not your fault. I forgive you.” He had said that so many times it was almost mandatory.
That statement only caused the taller man to dissolve further, wiping his nose on the collar of his white shirt. “You shouldn’t.” He mumbled. “You were scared to even let me near you a few weeks ago, what’s changed?”
Ballister tilted Ambrosius’ chin up, looking into his amber eyes. They were both teary-eyed now. “I trust you, love. I’ve forgiven you. You need to forgive yourself.”
Ambrosius shook his head, “I can’t.” He said wetly. “I ruined your life.”
“You did not ruin my life,” Ballister assured. “In fact, you complete my life.”
Ambrosius was struck with each word, it was clear he was hurting. “Why?” He sniffled.
“Ambrosius, love, you’re my reason. The reason I get up in the morning and make it home safe at night, the reason I smile, and the reason I cry. You’re the reason I’m here in the first place. Gloreth, I wouldn’t be alive if you didn’t come to stitch my arm up that night.” Ballister tried to stop himself from going on a tangent.
“But I hurt you,” Ambrosius replied.
“Listen to me, and listen to me good,” Ballister’s voice firmed, “I love you. I will always love you. Please, don’t let this hurt you more than it has hurt me.” He cradled the other man’s head as he sobbed, rubbing his back and holding him close.
“It’s not your fault,” Ballister repeated that thought every single time this conversation arose, “please remember that.”
Ambrosius was a total mess now, having passed the threshold of being able to speak. He cried into the crook of Ballister’s shoulder, his tears causing Ballister’s shirt to stick to his own skin.
Ballister tried to change the subject back to cooking, hoping to distract Ambrosius from the cyclical topic. “Here, let me get this finished,” he re-lit the stove, pulling his arm out of the crushing hug he was held in, “you’ll feel better after you eat.”
They parted, Ambrosius slinking to the living room and curling himself onto the couch, covering himself with the green patterned blanket that was folded over the back. He continued to cry, his chest heaving. Ballister tried to ignore it as he plated dinner and brought it to the living room, bumping his boyfriend’s covered leg with the rim of a plate to get him to sit up.
“Stir fry?” Ballister handed the plate to him, Ambrosius placing it between his crossed legs. He took the smallest bite and swallowed, putting the plate on the table next to Ballister’s. Tears didn’t mix well with food, always washing the flavor out of anything he ate. Ballister weaved their fingers together, there was a beat of silence until Ambrosius spoke.
“Why do you never take it off?” He croaked, clearing his throat. “You’re supposed to take breaks, Bal.”
Damn his boyfriend for worrying about his health.
“I don’t know.” He couldn’t admit the reason, it would cement Ambrosius’ fear that he had not just damaged Ballister physically. There was a painful stretch of silence that lasted several minutes. Ballister ran over what he wanted to say in his head, yet each time he tried to move his lips to speak, the impossibility of admission grew stronger.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Ambrosius begged, leaning in to draw his boyfriend’s dark eyes to his. “Please, just tell me. I won’t get mad.”
Ballister thought for a long while, finally parting his lips to speak. He let out an involuntary noise before speaking. “It’s ugly.” He sniffled. The other’s eyes widened with concern, raising a hand to brush a stray brown hair back in place. Ballister lifted his head, eyebrows raised with fear. Fear of making his lover upset, fear of revealing his deepest insecurity.
Ambrosius gave him a smile that seemed to be weighed down with emotion, “Oh, Bal.” He traced his fingertips along his face, “You are not ugly.” He punctuated each word. “You’re still my Bal, no matter how many arms you have. I fell in love with you , and that definitely hasn’t changed because of something out of your control.” Each word made Ballister melt further, he leaned into a lasting hug.
Once their tears had subsided, Ambrosius allowed his hand to be led up Ballister’s metal arm, Ballister working at his own pace. Halfway up his upper arm, Ballister paused, breathing deeply before raising his gaze from their adjoined hands to the man that he loved. “Just- be gentle, please. It hurts from the prosthetic.”
“Bal,” Ambrosius scolded, “It shouldn’t hurt. You need to take better care of yourself. That means taking your arm off when you need to.”
Ballister didn’t respond, instead pulling his lover’s hand up to the socket of his arm, letting him wrap his fingers around it. “Twist, then pull.” He instructed.
The blond nodded, rotating the joint with care and pulling it off of Bal’s residual shoulder. There was a nervousness that found itself in Ballister’s round eyes, Ambrosius noticed. “Can I take the sleeve off too?” He found himself slipping into a tender voice.
Ballister hesitated, flashing a rapid glance between his arm and Ambrosius. “It’s not pretty.” He warned, taking the metal arm from Ambrosius’ hands and placing it across his lap.
“I don’t care , Bal.” The knight reiterated. “It takes more than this to scare me off.” With a fragile touch, Ambrosius rolled the prosthetic sleeve off of Ballister’s arm, revealing the skin beneath. A jagged scar ran across his dark skin, a raised purple blemish: it was still healing. There was redness and bruising around the area, probably from the lack of care that Ballister gave to it. Ambrosius mentally cursed at him for it.
Pressing a kiss to the area, Ambrosius stole another hug from his lover. They rested their heads on each other, murmuring loving words to one another. The stir fry was glossed over, untouched, and definitely cold. “Thank you,” Ballister’s voice vibrated against Ambrosius, “I needed that.”
Ambrosius’ face morphed into a content smile, feeling the warmth of love radiating from the man he was holding. “Me too.” He said, sinking deeper into the embrace.