Chapter Text
"I'm being discharged."
Mark said this two weeks after Edega had been admitted to the ward.
He was sitting on the edge of Edega's bed, the two of them in one of those comfortable pauses between topics, both quietly searching for the next thread. The silence wasn't awkward or unpleasant. For Edega, it felt like punctuation between words—a chance to breathe, or simply to study, without obstruction, the marks that years and illness had carved into the other man's face. The faint tick of the clock in the ward marked time slipping away through the widening crack of their mutual silence, like sand whispering through an hourglass, urging a tired traveler to move on. But Edega held the silence. If his soul had feet, they'd be planted firmly at the edge of that abyss. He wouldn't budge an inch, no matter how the ground trembled.
"..."
"Dr. Page and Dr. Ian ran a full workup. They think my heart function's pretty much back to normal. And, ha—" Mark smiled, one thick eyebrow lifting. "—I've got a mountain of work waiting for me at home. Anyway, I owe you. Your 'miracle defibrillator.' And you."
When Edega still didn't speak, Mark shifted, scooting a little closer to the bed. His back, still slightly hunched, pressed against Edega's calf through the blanket. Edega could feel the other man's warmth seeping through the fabric, into his skin, all the way to the bone, making his marrow itch.
The fingers resting at Edega's side twitched. He wished, briefly, that what was churning in his stomach wasn't butterflies, but something that fed on the dead—crows, hawks, vultures. He let himself imagine it for a second: beaks and talons tearing through his insides, bursting out. Blood soaking the sheets beneath him, thick and cloying. And his decaying body—the dead parts and the barely alive parts both—being ripped apart, swallowed. Hoarse cries echoing through the ward, pronouncing his final obituary. No one would hear—
No. Not now. There was still another conscious person in this room.
"...Funny, isn't it? My work now is still—well, indirectly—tied to medicine. Hard to completely walk away from a field you spent over a decade in. Not that I have the discipline for it anyway."
He clutched onto that voice, pulled himself back. Mark didn't seem to mind his wandering attention. He just kept talking in that gentle, steady way, occasionally glancing at Edega's unfocused eyes. Edega figured his heart rate must have spiked just then. Why else would Mark be watching his face so closely, with that naked, searching, deeply sorrowful look, tracking every minute change?
Edega felt his hand being taken. His pale, bony knuckles were rubbed by a warm palm, slowly warming to a faint pink. Mark covered Edega's hand with his own and pressed them both down on his thigh.
They were still quiet, but Edega could feel something shifting. Mark was turning something over in his mind, grinding down whatever sharp thing he needed to say until it was safe to speak. Edega caught his gaze flicker toward the clock on the wall for an instant. So he waited for whatever words were coming.
"Did you finish the book?"
The question caught him off guard. Edega paused. The novel was still on the nightstand. He'd only made it about two-thirds through. Truth was, he'd spent most of his time wandering the corridors, flipping through files and medical records. Ada and Ian had tried to keep him out of the office at first, but when they saw how much his heart rate spiked every time they interfered—and that he wasn't really doing work, not much anyway—they'd quietly let him keep that much control.
Now he had to answer Mark directly. He swallowed the truth. "...Yes."
Mark didn't look suspicious. In the quiet understanding that had grown between them, he just turned slightly and opened his arms a little. "Before I go—can I have a hug?"
Of course. Edega leaned forward, let his upper body sink into the embrace. He could feel that heart—the one he'd, in a sense, dug out and sewn back in himself—beating steady and solid behind the wall of ribs and muscle, amplified into thunder. They were pressed so close there was no space left between them. Mark's chin rested lightly against his forehead. The scratch of stubble against his skin softened into something fleeting and gentle.
Mark kissed his forehead.
Then he waited for Edega to loosen his arms, stood up, and let Edega's gaze cling to his back as he pulled aside the curtain and walked away. He didn't look back.
Edega finally looked away. The novel still lay on the nightstand. Mark had never once glanced at it.
He understood. That would be the sign of their reunion.