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Chosen’s not sure when it happens, because the pain had somehow been stifled with the rush of adrenaline pumping in his blood. Which made it hard to realize the amount of said blood that was pouring out the side of his body. Or maybe it was simply because he never had to worry too hard over getting struck in battle — in the rare times it happens. Wounds would close before he could blink. Never had he really had to look at the colour of his own blood on his hands.
So forgive him for not realizing the cut until he literally trips over his own feet in the forest.
Chosen lets out a pathetically weak howl of pain when he crashes to the floor, hands coming to clutch at where the ache is and hissing when the touch only aggravates it. A drip of sweat rolled down from his neck down to his roughed up jacket — wait, fuck, his jacket literally had a huge cut in the fabric. Which explains the cut on his side. And why all his clothes felt so sticky with blood that didn’t go away.
He grits his teeth, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes, and makes minuscule inches to prop himself against the trunk of a tree. The little movement, no matter how slow, causes all breath to escape his lungs, and he struggles to inhale any air with the way his chest stings with each slight movement. Chosen takes a moment to lean his head against the tree, breathing heavily and trying not to pathetically cry from the sheer amount of pain radiating from the wound. He’s never had to experience anything hurt at such a degree before — at least not physically. Fuck, who the hell even did this to him?
The fact that fucking anyone could be a valid answer to that question sends a wave of nausea through him.
Fucking anyone. Anyone with half a brain and some sharp object would be able to slice it through his side. And Chosen was still be where he is now — shivering despite the flush in his cheeks, whimpering from the throbbing pain of his wound, and quite frankly unable to get up or move at all without fear of passing out.
Or. Or dying.
Dying.
Chosen opens his eyes weakly — unsure of when he even closed them. He takes a moment to breathe in as evenly as he can, though with little to no success, then looks down at his stomach. The angle he’d left himself in made it difficult to tilt his head in a way to properly see it, so he does his best to scoot upwards into a seated position, biting his lip to avoid making too much noise. Cursors he’s never going to get used to this pain. A naive, childish and hurt part of himself wishes he never has to.
The wound is nasty, and consistently oozing out the deep dark of red. He can proudly say goodbye to this jacket forever, because there was no way to get rid of all the blood staining it, nor any way he’d have the patience to see up the tear. Chosen gently presses his fingers against the edge of the wound, wincing and drawing back when he presses too hard. His finger comes back ruby-red.
“I’m fucked,” Chosen says, and the words cost him a bit of a cough — which further costs him the racking of pain throughout his body.
He’s so fucked. This cut was big enough that he’d probably be able to be folded in half along it. Not something he could just slap a wrap around and call it a day. For fuck’s sake he couldn’t even get up and move or even speak without being blocked by the pain. So what — is he just going to die here? Pathetically weak and sniveling, not even sure how the fuck he got this wound?
Fuck, but the kids…
And victim — H4CK3R, whatever his name is — what fucked off somehow, probably to fuck more shit up, and Second was, was somewhere, he isn’t sure —
Fuck, it’s hot.
He might be getting a fever. In fact, Chosne is probably delirious from pain. There’s a first for everything, it seems.
He just knows they were fighting, and there were flashes of green and blue and red and — god fuck everything hurt so bad—
Chosen was going to die here.
How fucking lame.
He doesn’t have time to feel any more sorry or embarrassed for himself, because a moment later, footsteps enter the area, and Chosen’s ears prick up. His eyes sharpen forward, stilling even his faint shaking to raise his guard.
And staring back at him is what haunts him in the mirror every day.
Chosen blurts out, “Ugh, not you.”
Dark only looks a little bit offended. He’s visibly injured too, with blood dribbling down to his eyes from what Chosen assumes is a gash on his head. There’s blood coating his bottom lip too from where it’s split. He’s also walking a little weird, as if he’d injured his foot. Seems neither of them are at their best condition.
Honestly, Chosen might be more delirious than he thinks, because he closes his eyes in mild annoyance. At least let him die on his own accord, and not because his former best-friend-who-he-is-still-kinda-mourning is going to come finish the job. Dying at all is embarrassing, but adding Dark to the mix? Chosen’s half tempted to find a stick to spear himself further with just to avoid having to speak with the guy.
“You look like shit,” Dark hums, footsteps stopping a bit too close to Chosen.
“I look amazing,” Chosen snaps.
“Sure you do. What’s this about? Are you dying?” He sounds more curious than happy. Or concerned. Or whatever the fuck he’s meant to feel. Not that Chosen would know.
Chosen waves a hand weakly. “Yeah. Coming to watch?”
“Who got the hit on you?”
Bet you wish it’s you. “I don’t know.” I think I’d wish it was you too. Maybe then we’d be even.
Dark hums again, then crouches down. Chosen opens his eyes — just barely. He’s kinda tired. He doesn’t look like he’s changed much in five years. Except maybe the evil goo that he’s somehow fused with himself. Chosen’s still unsure of how that even really works.
Dark reaches out and presses against the wound as well, not pulling away when Chosen’s breath hitches with pain. In fact he presses harder. What an asshole. Chosen adamantly does not make any noise indicting the jolt of pain he just felt.
Dark looks into his eyes. “No healing powers?”
“You think I’d bleed out here if I did?” Chosen retorts. Gathering as much strength as he could, he pushes Dark’s hand away from him.
Dark’s hand falls limp by his side. Hems staring intently at him. Stubbornly, Chosen refuses to even blink, and stares right back. If he’s going down, he’s going down not making a fool of himself.
A bird chirps in the forest around him, and the wilderness shushes it to listen. It’s staring intently at the both of them, waiting to see who strikes first. Maybe banking on one or the other to reach a hand out and wrap around his neck, to strangle a friend, a friend, a friend, and get it over with.
Dark sighs. “Okay, this kind of wound is not gonna be helped if we slap a bandage around it…We’ll have to cauterize it.”
Chosen blinks. Who is this ‘we’ you’re talking about!?
Instead, he says, “No powers means no fire. How the fuck am I gonna cauterize anything?”
Dark frowns. “I can still do a bit,” he says, lighting a singular flame on his finger for proof. His gooey, evil finger. “I’ll make like, a rod or something and heat it up. It’ll help stop the blood flow until you can get stitched up. We’ll have to get you something to bite on so you don’t break your teeth.”
Again, who the fuck is ‘we’!? Chosen scowls. “I’m not letting you with a hot knife near my already impaled body.”
“You have a laceration,” Dark explains. “Not an impalation.”
“Is impalation a word?”
“No. Don’t think so.”
The wind is still.
Chosen blinks back another bead of sweat. He brings a hand up to feel his forehead, and confirms his suspicions of a fever. “Still, I don’t want you to cauterize me.”
“You expect someone else to?” Dark counters. “Yourself to? Come on Cho, I know you’ve never had the need to cauterize anything.”
“Don’t call me that.”
The response causes Dark to scowl. Chosen himself feels bitter on his tongue. “Why should I trust you? You have a 50% chance of being the one to give me this wound.”
“I’m your only option.”
“Why are you an option?”
Dark pauses. Looks Chosen in the eyes again. Softly, “I don’t know.”
Well. That complicates things.
They’re enemies once more, but Chosen may never forget the way Dark likes to in an extra blanket because he’s always cold at night. Or the way he gets cranky when he hasn’t had a lick of sugar in a while. Or the way his eyes can stay trained on an interesting comic book for hours, then is ready to rant about it to Chosen as soon as he’s done. The way he buries his face in his scarf when it snows. The way he laughs when he spits watermelon seeds at Chosen. The way he always kept a notebook to jolt down his happenings of his day, using colored pencils to highlight the best moments. The way he likes to make hot chocolate with a shit ton of milk because it enriched the flavor. The way he refuses to admit he gets scared watching horror movies sometimes. The way he smiles when Chosen tells him an unfunny joke and drags him out to the balcony so they can take a fly together.
Chosen could name a million reasons why he should trust him. Only one reason why he can’t.
“Are you really just gonna cauterize my wound for me?” he ask, shifting slightly.
Dark nods.
“And then what? You’ll keep me alive just so victim —“
“Hacker.”
“That’s a dumb name.”
“Any dumber than victim?”
“Even dumber than yours,” Chosen says. “You just want me not to bleed to dearth so you can keep and torture me later?”
“No. I have other plans.”
Chosen chuckles humorlessly. It’s not worth the pain. “Of course you do.”
“The sooner I can get it done,” Dark says, “the sooner you’ll be assured you won’t die.”
Chosen sighs. “What reason do you have to do this?”
Dark merely shrugs. “You’re Cho. Isn’t that reason enough?”
Not nearly. Not anymore.
But Chosen only says, “Fine. Make it quick.”
And so Dark starts to rip a part of his pant leg off, easily done because said pants already had a rip along the hem, presumably from their fight earlier. Chosen watches his movements the whole time, too tired and pain-muddled to think too hard on what this all means. They can’t go back to normal so easily like this, but it’s very easy to pretend like they can. Dark wraps the strip of cloth until it’s a bundle, and holds it out to Chosen. “Put this in your mouth and bite on it,” he instructs.
Chosen does so. It’s just think enough that he doesn’t have to risk his teeth grinding against each other. He’s a little nervous, the idea of burning off his flesh, especially in such a state, was honestly quite terrifying. But Dark was right — their only option is to cauterize it, should Chosen want to stand a chance at living another day. And cauterizing is easier to hide behind — one wrong move and Chosen was dead anyways. Easier to fuck it up and run the risk of getting rid of the enemy in this moment of vulnerability, rather than stitching him up. Easier not to care so much.
Dark waves his hand and a dull rod appears in his hands, black and glowing red. In his other hand he brings his flames against it, eyebrows furrowed in a way that labeled concentration. Chosen wonders what he’d do after all of this.
It’s uncomfortable silence as Dark heats up the rod to the right temperature. Chosen doesn’t stop staring at him, wary for one small move though powerless to do anything should Dark actually decide to attack. His flame is a lot weaker than what Chosen is used to — glowing, angry and bright. Maybe getting brought back to life took more of a toll on his body than he previously thought. Or maybe he didn’t die at all? Again, Chosen wasn’t really sure what happened in the past five years. Maybe he should ask.
“…Did you die?” he croaks.
Dark doesn’t so much as blink. “Yeah.”
“…Did it hurt?”
“In the moment? No.” Dark removed the flame, then brings the rod closely to Chosen’s wound. His shoulders tensed in trepidation. “Afterwards? Yes.”
Then Dark holds out his hand to Chosen. “Hold my hand.”
Chosen blinks. “What? Are you five?” His voice is slightly muffled behind the cloth.
“No — because you’ll need to hold onto something. And also so I can keep you still if you try to thrash around. You will thrash, trust me. It hurts that bad.”
“You know from experience?” Chosen slips his hand in and tries not ache at how familiar it all is.
“Just once. Had to cauterize my leg.”
Then Dark brings the rod to his wound, and Chosen forgets what he was going to say next.
White hot pain explodes from all senses in his body, and a scream tears itself from his throat immediately. His eyes screw shut, tears beginning to gather fiercely. The rod moves along his wound, touching each part which protest against it. Chosen’s sure he probably would have crushed all the bones in Dark’s hand if he’d had his powers back. He wiggles, involuntarily trying to run away from the source of the pain, but Dark keeps a firm grasp on his hand, and even moves his knee to trap Chosen in one place as best as he can.
So Chosen can only scream, and scream, and cry a bit, as Dark drags the heat against his body, and the smell of rotting flesh burns the air. Foul, sour, burning. Tears soak the cloth and manage to sneak into his mouth, where it grazes salt against his tongue.
“It was a bit after I’d brought myself back to life,” Dark continues after a few moments, and Chosen is grateful for the distraction. He trains his mind into his voice, trying to find the light in the darkness of the sea. “I got a terribly bad gash and didn’t have any way of healing myself. Also I was running from the cops. Don’t think they knew who I was, but they knew I meant trouble, so they were chasing me. They were so serious about it, like, damn, leave me alone. But I had to do it quickly, and you probably could’ve smelled the flesh if you walked by, so it probably didn’t do well with discretion. Managed to hide away in the sewers for a bit as I got my bearings. Would never recommend cauterizing your own wounds, especially as a first-timer. I think that would’ve been my second time dying if it wasn’t for whatever miracle let me live.”
They do this for a little longer, Dark working the heat around Chosen’s flesh while talking about things Chosen will forget soon, and Chosen screaming into the cloth in his mouth as his entire body shook. At the very core of his being, he’s glad that Dark is here, that he’s the one doing this, that he’s the one holding him when Chosen has never felt so much pain before in his life.
He wants to stay this close for longer. For no reason. For a time when they weren’t enemies, when Dark was doing this because he had ulterior motives, when Chosen wasn’t too much of a coward to face what he had done.
But he’s in too much pain to think properly.
It feels like an eternity before the hot rod leaves his vicinity, and Chosen sobs out in relief. He’s still squeezing tightly onto Dark’s hand, maybe leaving a mark so deeply that Dark carries it around with him forever. There’s shuffling about as Dark rids himself of his materials, then another tear as he presumably rips his pants once more.
When he feels something wrapping around his stomach, Chosen finally squints open his eyes. They’re blurry from tears and the force he had kept them close, but he sees Dark nonetheless, focused on wrapping up his work. Chosen had been clutching his hand so tightly for so long he’s not sure how to relax and uncurl his fingers, so for a moment he is selfish. For a moment he holds onto his best friend’s hand one last time just because he can.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Dark comments, tying off the makeshift bandage.
Chosen grunts. “I think I’m gonna pass out.”
“Don’t. You’ll probably die. After all my hard work, too.”
“As if me dying isn’t part of the long run goal anyways.”
Dark looks amused. “Funny how well you know me.”
You’re my best friend. Chosen let’s go of his hand, his palm sweaty and clammy without it. His fever is pounding against his head, begging for relief, and all parts of him are throughly exhausted. And it’s funny, really, how his body wants to sleep now, because it sees that Dark is here and thinks that means it’s safe.
Another bird chirps, from a different tree; perhaps an answering call for the previous one. The forest seems to let go of the breath it was holding, as maybe now it realizes this moment was over. Chosen’s eyes follow Dark as he stands up. “Leaving so soon?” he asks.
“Gotta find vic,” is all Dark offers.
“Thought you said his name was Hacker.”
Dark shrugs. “I call him whatever I want.” He looks down at Chosen. “You gonna be alright?”
Of course not. Chosen will never be alright. He’ll never be able to let go of him. He’ll never be able to accept that they have to be on opposite sides of the war. But he only says, “Get out of here already. Don’t think this means I’ll go easy on you in our next fight.”
Dark smiles. Maybe next time they meet he’ll be smiling again too, this time as he strikes Chosen down. And there will be no more warm feelings, no more gentleness in the face of two best friends who miss each other so dearly, no sentimental motions and no whispered apologies. Chosen doesn’t say goodbye, and neither does Dark as he launches himself into the sky. High above the trees, it’s easy to spot him as a speck of red against the green. It makes Chosen a bit dizzy, to stare so high up at such a bright sky.
He wonders what this means, if any of this means anything. He wonders what Dark was planning to do. For now, he only watches his best friend fly away, only a kiss away from falling down like Icarus.