Chapter Text
The blood was the thing Frost's mind fixated on. There was just so much of it. And it was very well known to him that chest wounds bleed much more than other areas, that they were often better than they looked, but the fact seemed very insignificant when faced with Gricko's ripped-open chest and his unconscious body. Frost clung to the fact like a lifeline. It's not as bad as it looks.
It looked very, very bad.
"Gricko," he stammered out. "G -- Gricko, are you alright? Are you awake?"
Silence drilled an empty hole in his mind. It seemed stupid to say the silence was loud. (It had taken years for Frost to understand they didn't really mean loud, just oppressive. Suffocating. But that didn't feel right to say either. It felt too open. Exposed. A raw silence. That seemed right, or as right as it could be when Gricko was bleeding out in front of him.) Tourniquet. He needed a tourniquet. Why didn't I bring the med kit? Why? Being in a rush is no excuse. None. This is my fault. If I had been smarter, had more foresight...
"Kremy, I need your coat."
"What? My cost? Frost, this is, this is silk, this is vintage silk. This can't be cleaned --"
"Kremy I need that coat now, we -- we can fix your coat later but Gricko is bleeding out!" Frost's breathing quickened as he desperately tried to staunch the blood flow with his paws. (Tiger paws were usually soft, fur between the paw pads but he had trimmed it and now it wasn't doing enough to stop the blood that seeped out). His mage hand grew larger and pressed over the wound (are mage hands clean? Was there a psionic disease Gricko could catch? Research. He needed to go to the library as soon as he could) while his actual hands grabbed Kremy's coat from his approaching body.
The coat less so slipped off than ripped and Kremy yelped and clutched Gideon's arm, the coattails torn off and now pressed against Gricko's chest. Blood seeped through instantly (that meant good silk, he had learnt that a while ago) and still got on Frost's hands. Pull it tighter, tighter, tighter. Stop blood flow. Still unconscious (but that was good, if he was awake then he would panic and panicking would increase blood flow and then that would speed up blood loss and too much blood loss meant things that Frost didn't want or need to think about because they wouldn't happen).
"Gideon. Give me your hand, now." Frost held out his paw and waited for the heat of Gideon's to find it. "Hey man, what's goin' on? Oh my god is Gricko alright? Is there anything I can do, or...?"
"You can give me your hand." Frost grabbed the finger and gently peeled off the makeshift tourniquet before pressing the finger to the edges of each rip. Steam sizzled, both Gricko and Frost's hands smelling of cooking blood. Cauterization. Seals small sounds and disinfects large ones (But was it too late? Had infection already set in? Blood loss combined with infection could kill before you had time to even consider treating symptoms.) (And it could be too late, always too late, it had been too late and his parents had been gone by the time he came back from the mountains) (What was the last thing he had said to Gricko? Not enough. He hadn't said he loved him, or thanked Gricko for the carved figure of Frost or for the thousands of tiny little things--)
"Frosty?" The tiny sound was much too quiet for Gricko's voice, but oh gods it was a sound and his eyes were open.
Frost was still perfectly still. How do I do this? What do I --?
He almost died.
The world around Frost was now too loud, too much and his clothes itched and his ears rang (don't cry don't cry don't cry don't --)
How do you talk to someone (a friend, a best friend) who almost died? How do you go back to a normal life? Gricko was so open, bright and wore his heart on his sleeve while Frost locked it away. He couldn't speak. Couldn't say anything (it would reveal too much, he would be too much--) His breaths came fast and shallow. And fear and love clenched in Frost's stomach and blocked his throat from any words that would try to escape. "I -- I -- I --"
Tremors shook his hands as he lifted them off Gricko's chest.
And he ran.
Frost ran from the bloodied ground into the forest, deep inside the web of trees until his legs buckled underneath him. He collapsed to the ground, an ache in his eyes and throat and heart. The tears began to fall despite his attempts to wipe them away furiously. Stupid stupid stupid. All these words and I can't even tell what I'm feeling, let alone describe it. Dried blood coated his paws.
The sound of a bubbling stream caught his ears and he stepped towards it, stumbling into a seated position and scrubbing his paws raw under the water. Over and over and over again, even pulling a bar of soap from the previous town out of his pack. Almost an hour later he looked at his hands and he could still smell the blood.
I should go back to camp.
He winced as he put the soap into his pack and stood on achy legs, beginning the trudge through the forest. I should've payed more attention to the tracks I left. Any wild animal could have followed me and attacked. That was how Gricko got injured in the first place. Gricko had heard a wounded animal in the forest and ran after it despite the warnings from everyone. The dire wolf had charged at him after he freed the wolf from the chains of poachers, and had ripped open his chest like wet paper.
Frost lingered in the edge of the clearing in the bushes. Gricko wasn't in danger of death anymore, thanks to the bananas he had managed to summon from his remaining strength. But things were still raw and different. Frost couldn't ignore what had happened, but he couldn't acknowledge it. If he did, he would break down. The emotions inside him were too tightly tangled for him to explain anything. So he stood there, on the edge of the clearing.