Chapter Text
“Liz. There, there you are, I wanted to ask you!”
“Really not the time. Unless it’s urgent.”
“Have you seen Olive?”
“He’s uh… oh, yeah. He was outside, I saw him with one of the patients. I… really don’t think you should disturb him right now? I’m sure it’ll be back once it’s done with whatever it’s doing.”
“Yes, well, I just passed them myself. Asked whether they’re coming inside and he didn’t even look at me! Didn’t even react when I waved a hand before their eyes. That strange, strange man… I never run out of observations I could make about him, I swear I could just watch him forever.”
“Leave it alone, Vember.”
“But what about saving the other patients? That should be the priority right now.”
“Olive’s helped enough, I’ve seen it running around the hospital block all morning organising everyone.. He’s probably done more than either of us. Just give him a rest, it must be exhausted.”
“We can’t just—”
“Leave it.”
“…”
“That’s his partner that’s with him.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Olive texted me last night. They’re sure they’re one of the subjects being kept here.”
“…His partner? Oh, oh, oh! Mantis Elmwood, the one I keep hearing about? Good lord, no wonder Olive looked like a wreck out there. Absolutely horrid mood, spaced out, out of the zone—”
“Could you help with the beds now, Vember?”
“Of course, of course.. But oh, everything makes sense now! I see, guess I should be pleased to finally make an acquaintance with the little moth… Would you think of it though, what would their brother say if he saw their state now…”
A dull thrum emanates out of every Thing and every pore in the wall, once you become aware enough of your surroundings.
You blend in, as part of the wallpaper.
A vanitas of the bereaved, sitting, holding the hand of his beloved.
A portrait of the vivid, searing sky through the window, hitting half the mourner’s face and burning through his skin, sizzling through the railing of the patient’s bed.
An oil landscape of crowds passing by in the hallway, blurred by anonymity; of overhead speakers, ringing out urgently like artificial cicadas of the Summer - never waiting, so untethered, so unbothered by the moment.
You make sure your grip is gentle enough that you don’t stop their circulation. You make sure your grip is strong enough that they can feel it.
A name, or a number is assigned - the bed is moved to another room, and the figure laid asleep upon it is put on support. As figures shift above them, a hand reaches forth from beneath the bed’s covers, loose skin peeling away like scabs.
You’ve been watching over them for so long, for so very long and they still won’t move, or even soften under your palm. In the meantime, you might be boring holes into the crisp bedsheets with your gaze. The pristine wreckage of folds and crinkles over the bed, wrapping their body whole - you could tear it apart. You would tear it apart, with your teeth, if you could. For just how long have those blankets kept them there? You feel sick, you feel even more sick whenever a nurse comes around and asks whether you need anything, would you like a glass of water.
Your throat feels parched. You could pass out.
You didn’t know, how much your eyes could water from being dry. They keep washing over with new moist, blur, hurt, itchiness. You rub your eyes and you feel drowsier. More grime gone into your eyes. Maybe you should take a break, or sleep, or. (Then again, it’s only waiting)
What if Mantis slipped away while you weren’t watching?
You could never live with that. You could never live with yourself with that. You’d know, from lived experience.
You stay awake.
It’s a good call, a good decision. Others think you’re mad. Maybe. You think. They call your name sometimes, to try to bring you back, bring you back from whatever you’ve tied yourself to this time. They come knocking at your door, to your room to ‘visit’ you with growing insistence, nudge you, comfort you, place the weight of their hands on your shoulder. Intrusive. You’ve been getting so sick and you’re so frustrated, you’ve been trying to ignore them calling you and calling your name but they want you back in reality. You couldn’t sympathise with any of them, of course. Their worried faces are a mockery to yours... Repulsed by their lazy insistence, you brace yourself further to the act. Of waiting.
Numb and sick and craving.
You are senseless - you hope the others sense this, too. You think they do. They melt away for you now, a translucent curtain draping between you and the world. Finally some peace of mind.
Please. They must Live.
Kneading their hand reveals the folds in their skin as dry as sandpaper, the tendons so frail that they might just snap if you pressed on them too hard. You try to warm their cold, brittle bones - but why are they so cold, it’s so cold, they have grown so cold. They’ve frozen to the core. How have they gotten like this? It’s been too long a time for a person to be unconscious. Maybe it‘s only the reasonable thing to assume, that they will never awake again. What force is strong enough, to possibly—
“Please… Can you hear me…. ”
How many times have you heard yourself say that. You're getting sick of your own voice. Stop saying that.
Doctors say that it’s a good thing, to talk to the patient, but there’s only a certain number of times you can whisper reassurances into their ear before you start getting nervous.
Doubtful of the blood pounding in your ears, when you heard that they might live. Doubtful of the use of sweaty palms, of wasted adrenaline, of the unyielding wait. Doubtful that you’ll ever see them smile… No…
Dazzling white sheets burned into your retinas, flashing black and orange.
You don’t need anyone other than Mantis. You don’t need anyone, other than—
“There you are, Stanford.”
The door slams shut.
Sasha Lawrence is in the room with you.
She is panting and out of breath. They are taller than you. Xe slings a green backpack over one shoulder - a worn bag used for several years, sewn together with visible stitches. A mesh of laptop cables hang limply from it like a threatening web. Xer neck is covered by a scarf with an autumn crosshatch pattern, as well as a familiar pair of chipped, spongy headphones. The headphones are silent; no sounds play from them, and they are tangled with xer brunette hair, undyed and falling straight down to xer shoulders. Her sweatpants are loose against her thighs, with a lump in one of its baggy pockets in the shape of a phone.
She doesn’t seem pleased.
“Explain to me, Stanford. What have I missed?”
You would say something. Inconveniently, you seem to have lost your voice.
You lower your head, scavenging for broken phrases in the pit of your esophagus.
She steps forth.
“Nothing? Nothing? Leaving me in the dark again, now are we.”
The room suddenly feels alive, and your chest feels alive, with Sasha’s speaking - all goes deathly quiet when she stops.
It’s strange, coming from her. You have never seen her yell before.
“Tell me who this is, Stanford.
“I would have come sooner if you’d told me. I might hate you, but I’m not heartless, Stanford. And if you believe you’re the only person in the world who has a right to care for our friend, you would be wrong. I would sooner have the right to kill you on the spot. As always, I can only imagine the extent of your egocentrism.”
It is jarringly loud, the noise the bag makes as xe drops it on the metal railing of a chair.
“Fucking hell, Stanford. You should have told me. You should have told me, instead of assuming— Making me assume… Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?! Why did you all have to cut me out of the loop?! The minute we stopped seeing each other every other week.. Is it because we weren’t friends?
“Or is it simply because I’m just so fucking incompetent?
“But then, why did you say, Standord, why did you say that I was smarter than anyone else you knew. If I’m just so clearly beneath your fucking respect, hm? If I’m just so, so clearly fucking unworthy to be a part of your life?”
Sasha pulls up the chair, dragging it to the opposite side of the bed from where Olive sits.
“Mantis doesn’t deserve you. They don’t deserve you at all. You’re a selfish, self-centered bastard.”
Sasha sits down in the chair, and holds the patient’s other hand.
The motion is unmistakably gentle.
“Go. Sleep, Stanford. You’ve been awake for days. I heard over the phone from Liz.”
Perhaps, even in his stupor, the commands of his former classmate had been succinct enough for him to understand.
Or perhaps it had simply gotten a bit tired.
They find that their shoulders are shivering as they stand, weighed down by the gravity of some sort of dread. Mantis’ hand easily slips away from their own.
Olive steps outside. Its body lurches towards the rows of chairs in the corridor. Olive lays against them, pressing the side of his head against one of its plastic cushioned covers.
A clock ticks on the opposite wall.
He is out within minutes.
“Stanford. The doctors said they’re coming to.”
There’s a footfall against the floor - the distant call of lorikeets.
“… I hope you both find peace.”
By the time Olive has cleared the drowsiness from his mind, coming to terms with the various aches and pains of the morning, Sasha has long gone.
It wasn’t a good idea for his back, for him to sleep against the chairs. A mild ache stings his head, and the fog of drowsiness has yet to leave him. But eventually, they wander back to sit beside Mantis - to check how they are, and whether the drip is still fitted on properly. Their breathing is stable through their oxygen mask.
When Olive reaches for their hand, he finds that a sliver of life had rooted itself in there overnight, beneath the rigor mortis of bony fingers and fraying muscle.
A faint force grips him back.
Olive props up Mantis’ hand, entangling his fingers with theirs, and he waits some more. His empty stomach feels sick with longing.
Olive eats some breakfast, when they get the chance to. Occasionally it tries to sleep.
Mostly he cries.
Mantis opens their eyes a few hours later, in the afternoon.