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It's cold.
It's hot.
It's cold again.
Then it's hot for more.
The cycle didn't stop.
Maybe this is what the hell felt like.
Some said the world would end in fire, some said in ice. He didn't know who fucking said that, but that person might be onto something.
He tossed and turned, seeking for comfort. But he found none.
It's too hot, he turned.
It's too cold, he turned.
Again, and again, and again.
It's an endless circle of torture.
Maybe this is how dying felt like.
To feel like a shit, but couldn't do anything about it.
"Hey, hey, it's alright."
He was too weak to respond, he couldn't make his throat work, his tongue didn't exist and he got sandpaper as its replacement. He tried to take a peek, but his eyes glued to each other could barely open.
He grunted, hoping his gruffness made sense.
"It's all gonna be okay."
He heard it loud and clear amid the freezing inferno.
How could you know? He wanted to ask, but he found himself he didn't want to know the answer. He just wanted it to be true.
That everything is indeed gonna be okay.
And to be okay meant that this had to be over.
"I'm here."
He heard the voice again, so gentle and serene like an angel.
And he wanted to say, save me, but maybe he should know better to not ask for more than he's bargained for.
It's cold and hot.
It's hot and cold.
But when someone touched him, he just felt warmth.
The warmth so welcoming like the beginning of the sunrise.
The warmth so comforting like a hug on rainy days.
He wished he could ask for more.
But he didn't need to speak to get the same touch as before.
Fingers carding his hair so intimately, palm caressing his face so carefully.
Maybe this is how he would end.
Under the illusion of being loved so great, it transcended his torture.
Under the impression of being cared so much, he momentarily forgot where he was.
"Be well."
But, how could he?
It's too hot.
It's too cold.
He wanted to escape but he couldn't.
He wanted to free himself from all the aches and burns, but he was unable to.
How could I be well?
"Hey, it's okay," the voice whispered, so close like it might just come from himself. "It's all gonna be alright, you're gonna be alright, I'm here. Be well."
The phantom touch hovered above his forehead.
But, instead of pain like he expected, he was exposed to love.
Love so great, it transpired into his skin; soothing the fire, warming the coldness.
He didn't mean to, but he found himself surrendering.
Slowly, everything felt heavier.
Surely, nothing felt more comforting than the fact that he had given up.
That he no longer had to fight the battle.
That he could just let himself lose.
And lose, he did.
He was never meant to win this.
"I'm here."
If it is the death, destined for him, he would be alright.
Because he was never alone. His angel would always be with him.
"Thank you."
"Hey, you gotta drink something."
Draken opened his eyes groggily, and actually surprised to find his eyes didn't hurt as much as he expected them to be. The light was soft, but it was enough to illuminate the person who sat next to the bed, holding a glass of water.
He tried to say something, but his throat was even drier than the Sahara.
He only managed to cough.
"Take a sip of this," the cup was cold against his lips, but the content was refreshing, enough to gain Draken his voice again.
"You've been out for a half day, I have to make sure you're well dehydrated."
After Draken emptied the glass, he went back to lie down. It didn't take long for him to get a damp cloth pressed on his forehead.
"Your fever's down, but you still need to put this on."
Draken let his eyelids slip shut when he felt the fingers combing his hair, preventing them from falling on his sweating skin.
"You can sleep some more, but you will need to eat and take your meds the next time you're awakened."
Draken mumbled a very weak, "Okay," as an answer.
"You're gonna be better soon, I promise."
At that, Draken's obsidian blinked open, colliding with the amethyst, who had been looking at him with so much care, so much tenderness, so much love.
Love so great, it might just be the only thing that could cure him.
He caught the hand.
It's soothing and comforting—healing.
"Thank you," Draken croaked his gratitude. "For taking care of me."
The amethyst crinkled beautifully like a thousand stars.
The lips curved into a smile, blinding like the sun.
"Oh, Ken, you don't need to thank me." The figure leaned down, caressing Draken's cheek.
"Just be well, okay?"
But ...
... how could Draken be well?
With Takashi Mitsuya by his side, of course.