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“That… could have gone a lot better.”
Kneeling beside Forde, face barely visible through the moonlight, Kyle’s brow only furrows further; not exactly what he’d intended, but that’s just how Kyle is, he supposes.
So he might as well try again. He takes a breath—and thank fuck the pain is bearable enough for only a tiny hitch to come out—before twisting his lips into a big grin. “But hey, we did end up beating those Grado bastards good, huh?”
Again, Kyle says nothing. His hands are rough, calloused from his training with a lance, and their touch is brisk and business-like as they help Forde change the bandage wrapped around his stomach: scarlet-stained cloth falls away to reveal a wound that, even now, gives both of them pause. Endless vulneraries and quick action have staunched the blood flow and the skin is well on its way to fully knitting closed, but without a healer’s power, the scar will likely remain forever.
It could have gone a lot worse, at least, and Forde tries to not feel nauseous at what could have been.
“It could have gone a lot worse, at least,” Forde says, and tries to give his partner a smile. “We’re all still alive and kicking, nobody's dead—”
“Exactly,” Kyle snaps, head jerking up. “You could have died. You nearly did.”
It instantly wipes any cheer Forde might have been trying to force, but that’s another Kyle specialty: he’s got this special way of making everything very depressing. Forde appreciates it sometimes, but even through the darkness he can see the scowl on Kyle’s face, the way his eyes almost bulge and his nostrils flare, and here he decides to stay quiet.
(Forde can’t help but like it whenever Kyle’s phlegmatic nature wavers: complete shock, a rare unchained laugh. Even this, this quiet anger, is far better than the usual stern indifference. But he will never, never like seeing Kyle trapped by fear.)
The seconds pass. Eventually, Kyle’s jaw loosens minutely. Forde can imagine what’s running through his head: you’re lucky your wound didn’t get infected—you’re lucky you didn’t break any bones—you’re lucky to be alive at all. That’s just how Kyle is: a fretter, an impulse checker, a tether with a dozen worries running through his head at a time. He’s right, as he tends to be. He also needs help, as he tends to do.
Forde holds one end of the new bandage, and Kyle takes care of the rest: his hands don’t tremble, and he never falters. Prince Ephraim is currently sleeping in his tent, and Orson is off doing his own thing, so it’s just the two of them, Forde, Kyle, and the sudden silence that penetrates to his very core, makes his finger itch for a pencil and a canvas, fills his brain with a thousand icebreakers he knows won’t help any.
Kyle hadn’t been silent when that spear had pierced through Forde’s abdomen, that’s for sure. It’s a funny thought, and a painful one, and so he dismisses it.
“You have to be more careful next time,” Kyle murmurs, closing up his bag of supplies.
“I know, I know.” Forde lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he says; he truly is, because he hates loading even more stress onto Kyle’s tense shoulders. He’s not sorry for diving in to save Kyle’s life, though. He wouldn’t have been even if he’d bled out right then and there.
But Kyle doesn’t see it that way; he shakes his head. “Forde, if you…” His teeth grit together harshly, bared like a restrained animal, and he speaks through them in forced calm. “You’re my best friend. You’re… How would I be able to face Franz if something happened?”
Franz, the youngest, with eyes like a calf’s. Forde’s only little brother in the whole world. His reason.
Forde exhales deeply to rid himself of all those worries. He wets his chapped lips. “Well, my friend, nothing happened, so you don’t have to do anything. Stop going crazy with your what-ifs.”
“Then tell me something like this won’t happen again,” Kyle says, doesn’t beg, doesn’t hesitate. “Tell me you’ll stay safe.”
There’s something in how Kyle’s body is one stiff line, how his hands are curled into fists; it reminds him of the glare of a young boy, one nostril clogged with blood, silver ribbon proudly pinned to his chest.
Forde looks at Kyle in the eye, and says nothing.
“Idiot,” Kyle bites. Both of them pretend they didn’t hear his voice crack. He gives him a hand anyway, because that’s who Kyle is, the perfect knight, the man that just wants to do good; Forde takes it and lets himself be pulled up.
Forde hasn’t painted portraits in years, but he wants to sketch the sight that greets him until his fingers are hopelessly stained charcoal-black: the bridge of Kyle’s nose, his helmet-mussed hair, the outline of his body, haloed in moonlight. The emotions drowning in his eyes.
“C’mon,” he whispers. “Let’s go to sleep.”
Little words are spoken in the tent they share. They remove their clothes, Forde with some difficulty. Forde says, “Good night,” Kyle says it back, and they both lie down, backs against each other.
Sometime later, enough for Forde’s consciousness to begin to fade, strong arms snake around Forde’s torso. He lets himself be pulled by a firm, warm body, one with fingers that quiver ever so slightly. Their legs press together.
Kyle struggles to smile and talk like Forde. He communicates better by physical contact: sidelong hugs, claps on the back, elbows to the side and kicks to the shin. In faltering touches, in hesitant grazes. In held hands.
The snowflake-light brush of lips on the back of Forde’s neck sears like a brand. I need you, it says, don’t leave me. Please.
Forde closes his eyes again and settles into the hold keeping him safe; he can feel the other’s muscles go slack. In the darkness, he smiles.