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1.
Guardian brings him home shivering and unconscious, bloodstained, hardly breathing. They’re not sure if Drifter will last the night, but the next day he opens his eyes long enough to recognize Guardian and reach for their hand, shaky and fumbling. He doesn’t speak, but Guardian seizes his fingers tight and doesn’t let go, not until Drifter’s breathing slows and his eyes slip closed again.
They take a deep, shuddering breath and lean over him, forehead to his forehead, fingers still entwined with his, and they stay like that for a very long time.
2.
Guardian hasn’t coughed once since they found Drifter. Drifter hasn’t stopped. He’s taken off his mask and helmet, and anything Guardian might once have felt at seeing what he looks like is overshadowed by worry at the way his face twists in pain when he breathes in and the hollow shadows under his eyes. He’s pale, and he’s losing so much blood.
He can’t keep down much of his food yet. But at least he’s eaten something now. Guardian’s heart still aches at the look on Drifter’s face after he coughs most of his stew back up on the sheets, embarrassment and shame and helplessness. They want to reassure him, but Drifter won’t look them in the eye.
3.
He takes a few shaky steps around the room, leaning heavily on Guardian and nearly stumbling several times. But he manages, and the glimpse of this slight triumph in his eyes makes Guardian nearly dare to hope. Afterwards he coughs harder than ever, worn out by the exertion. He leans into Guardian, doubled up and nearly convulsing with the force of it, and by the time it’s finished he’s too exhausted to move. Guardian strokes his hair until he falls asleep. He seems so small.
4.
The pain is evident in every movement Drifter makes, every labored breath. It takes the two of them nearly half an hour to circle the room once. To take his mind off it, Guardian tells him stories - some true, some exaggerated; stories of their adventures and half-remembered tall tales from their faraway hometown and gossip picked up in the marketplace. They can’t take away Drifter’s pain, but at least they can make him smile.
They leave history and mythology out of it. There are things neither of them want to think about.
5.
He’s not getting better.
6.
The swordsman who trains others in town doesn’t talk much, and neither does Guardian. He doesn’t say anything when Guardian comes for a sparring match while Drifter is sleeping, and if there is a certain furious energy to Guardian’s movements, he doesn’t comment on it. They’re grateful. They don’t want to talk right now.
When Guardian wears themself out and falls to their knees, cursing and sobbing, he doesn’t ask questions. He sits next to them, silent and sympathetic, quietly bearing witness to his old friend’s grief.
7.
They don’t talk about the black oily substance Drifter is starting to cough up, mingled with his blood. They don’t talk about how halfway across the room, even leaning heavily on Guardian’s shoulder, his legs gave out and refused to carry his weight anymore; or how little he was able to eat before his body rejected the attempt entirely. Guardian sits close to Drifter on the bed and the two of them talk about anything else - the things they’ve seen on their travels, the ones they’ve left behind, the beauty of the western crystals in the light of sunset and the way Central looks in the spring.
Drifter’s grip on Guardian’s hand is curiously strong, considering how weak he’s become. Even when he’s fallen asleep, he refuses to let go. So does Guardian.
8.
He drifts in and out of consciousness, feverish, never quite lucid. Guardian leaves his side only once, when there’s a knock at the door and he goes to find a local child standing there, a ball under one arm, wanting to know if Drifter will play with him when he’s better. Guardian does not have it in themself to explain. The child leaves the ball with them. So Drifter can practice, he says.
It takes everything Guardian has not to break down entirely after the child has left.
9.
Guardian sleeps next to him. Drifter is restless, wakened periodically by coughing fits and his own fever-dreams. In the end, neither of them get much sleep; Guardian is too busy holding him, supporting his frail frame as it is racked by coughing or violent shivers. By the time the sun is beginning to rise, Drifter is finally growing calm, though he still shivers fitfully and presses himself against Guardian’s body for warmth. His skin is so cold against theirs.
He has his eyes fixed on Guardian’s face, and reaches up to trail his fingers over their cheekbone. Then with a great effort he shifts himself so Guardian is close enough to hear his hoarse, whispery voice in their ear, feel his faint breath on their cheek. I want to see the sky.
Guardian carries Drifter outside. He weighs next to nothing and feels terribly fragile in their arms, as if the sickness has eaten him away from the inside. When Guardian carefully scoops him up, he winds his arms around Guardian’s neck and lets his head rest on their shoulder, limp and unmoving. They can feel him laboring for every breath, his chest rising and falling in time with his harsh gasps.
They hold Drifter close as the two of them sit outside and watch the sun rise. He’s clinging to the front of Guardian’s tunic, his fingers curled into the fabric and his head drooping against their chest. Guardian’s arms around his slight frame are the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes are clouded by fever and he’s still shivering in the light breeze, but Guardian thinks he looks content as he watches colors fill the sky.
Eventually Drifter nestles his head against Guardian’s shoulder and falls still, his grip slackening. Guardian looks down at him, and for a moment thinks he’s fallen asleep again. And then they realize.
The fact that this has been all but inevitable from the start does not make it much easier to bear.
As if they’ve lost the ability to remain upright, Guardian folds down over him, clutching the limp figure to their chest, and keens.