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Barclay had been staring at the ceiling for so long, he swore it was beginning to change color.
But he didn’t want to look down. Not when looking down meant he’d be looking at Yasha Robinovich, who was sprawled across his dingy hospital bed like a sack of damp sand. You could only tell that the boy was alive if you really tried to; if it wasn’t for his shallow, fitful breaths, Barclay would’ve thought him dead. It wasn’t really like he wasn’t close enough to death to just be considered dead, anyway.
Looking down also meant he’d be looking at Motya, who glared at Barclay like a cat watching a mouse.
But Barclay had to wonder: why was Motya so calm about this? Her Keeper could literally die in the next moment, and she was probably more worried about her dinner. How could Barclay, the boy who Yasha had fought and nearly killed–and vice versa–multiple times, care more about him than Yasha’s own Beast herself? Pensively, Barclay began drumming his fingers against the desk nearby. That earned him a very annoyed glance from Motya, which he avoided by continuing to look up.
Part of him felt like it was his fault that Yasha was like this. That if he’d just waited when Yasha had told him to, then Barclay wouldn’t be looming over the boy’s limp form in the hospital–and maybe his casket, later. Despite everything he’d been through with Audrian, and despite how much he’d once believed in him, Yasha had decided he’d risk everything to help Barclay’s team’s cause. The Traitor’s Gambit, he’d told him. He hadn’t expected to make it out alive. He was okay with sacrificing himself.
It made something in Barclay twist with anger. If Yasha had just told him… If he’d confessed his doubts, even for a second… Maybe a happily ever after for them would seem more attainable. Because that was what Barclay wanted, no matter how much he tried to deny it: he wanted to spend days and nights laughing with Yasha, laughing until tears shone in the corners of their eyes and they were gasping for oxygen. He wanted to keep playing Kingmaker with him, no matter how much he sucked at it, because when Yasha was laser-focused on determining his next move, Barclay could lose himself in the boy’s hazel eyes and curly blond hair. He wanted to practice with him, to spar under those lush green canopies again. He wanted to go out with him and order dosas with extra sauce. Most of all, he wanted to grow old with him; he couldn’t see a future that didn’t have Yasha in it.
But all of those fantasies seemed so far away, now. With the droning of the machines and the sporadic beeps of the heart rate monitor ticking what was probably the seconds until Yasha’s death, Barclay didn’t want to hope for anything. He didn’t want to look at anything, to hear anything, to want anything good ever again. Loving Yasha, regardless of everything they’d done to one another, regardless of how awful the boy was, had taken all the goodness he’d had. And, in a way, it had also taken all of the horribleness he had, too, because nobody could ever like a criminal like him unless they were just as bad.
Barclay sighed and slumped back into his seat.
“Yasha, I’m sorry,” he croaked, barely a whisper. His gaze had fallen to his feet. “I’m sorry I didn’t take you with me. I-I didn’t know you’d changed your mind about everything. I’m sorry you’re like this, now. I’m just so, so sorry.” He choked everything out frantically, like each word was a hot ember burning into his tongue.
Suddenly, the shadow of Yasha’s blanket that had been cast onto the floor twitched, and Barclay’s eyes immediately shot up. He watched, unblinking, for a whole minute. The boy didn’t move. With a groan, Barclay shoved his face into his palms, figuring his hope had made him imagine it.
“I w-wish I could do something, Yasha. I hate seeing you like this.” Barclay almost laughed, knowing Yasha would probably hate if somebody saw him in this state, too. “Do you think, maybe, if you woke up, we’d…”
Barclay grasped at the words, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He wanted to ask Yasha, if you woke up, would you want us to be more than friends? But the question was too heavy, too loaded, even though Barclay knew Yasha most likely couldn’t hear it, anyway.
For a couple minutes, Barclay sat there, sulking. Then he heard a trill–Motya’s, and he swore Motya was always only ever silent, so he dragged his gaze up, curious as to the disturbance. To his immense surprise, Yasha had moved a foot to slap it right on top of Motya’s leg. He was moving! Barclay could’ve wept with joy.
He scooted closer on the chair, tentatively. “Yasha? Can you hear me? Move your foot again if you can hear me.”
He counted one, two, three anxious seconds before Yasha’s foot stirred.
“Yasha! I can’t believe you’re awake. I’m gonna go tell someone–” Just as Barclay was about to get up, he realized that, if he alerted a nurse immediately, he would never get the alone time with Yasha that he desperately needed. So he sank back into his seat and coughed, “Maybe in a little bit. I wouldn’t want to swarm you with doctors and all that medical stuff so soon.”
Yasha’s foot twitched again, and from the other end of his body, one of his eyes peeled open. He grunted as Motya swatted at him to stop moving.
“Are you feeling fine?” Barclay asked.
Subtly, Yasha nodded. He looked sickly, like he did when he was at sea. Barclay wondered how he was even conscious. The boy looked like he was more than ready to be buried.
Barclay snickered. “You’re not fine. You look about as dead as… a corpse.”
“Then why did you even ask?” Yasha murmured. Barclay didn’t answer; he was too occupied with celebrating the fact that the last words Yasha ever uttered to him wouldn’t be The Traitor’s Gambit.
There was silence for a minute, before Yasha’s voice filled it. “I’m thinking, uh. What were you gonna say? Before you went quiet?”
Barclay smacked a hand over his forehead. He didn’t know Yasha had heard that. “You don’t need to know.”
“Barclay, I promise you,” Yasha said, sounding surprisingly stern for somebody on their deathbed, “whatever you feel for me, I feel for you. So if you just–if you don’t tell me whatever you were gonna say, I’ll say something myself.” He crossed his arms over his chest and, barely noticeably, winced. His injuries must’ve hurt a great deal.
“I…” Again, Barclay couldn’t find his words. They were dried up, like a well. But after a long pause, he finally found the courage to talk; if he didn’t confess his feelings now, he may never get another chance. “Maybe… Yasha, I’m asking, would you want to be more than”–Barclay gestured vaguely between Yasha and himself–“this? I-I’ve thought about it for a long time.”
Tension stretched between them like a cord, drawing ever taut, begging to be snapped.
Yasha’s eyes scanned all across Barclay’s expression, as if he was looking to see if he was lying. Ashamed, Barclay remembered that he’d already deeply betrayed Yasha once before–and very recently. The boy had reason for suspicion. But then, he sank into his hospital bed, seemingly pleased, and said, “I’ve thought about it for a long time, too.”
Once again, it was silent. Barclay was starting to grow used to the amount of quietness that dotted the in-betweens of their conversations.
“I really do want that, Barclay.” Yasha said softly, breaking that silence.
Barclay sat there, awkwardly. He didn’t know how to respond to that. He wanted to lunge forward, tackle Yasha right there, do all the hokey things he imagined doing to him when they were together with the Antecene. But, of course, he couldn’t do that; Yasha would probably die, non-hyperbolically. So he waited for Yasha to move instead.
Eventually, he did. Yasha strained a hand toward Barclay, tugging at his hair, for him to lean forward. Barclay obliged. His breaths sputtered as they drew ever closer, and his eyes flickered to the door, afraid somebody would walk in. But nobody did, and nobody was going to. He focused his attention on Yasha, on his impossibly pale skin, his broad shoulders, the bandages crisscrossing around his face. Yasha stopped pulling him closer when their faces were so close, barely a fist could slip between. And he asked, “Barclay, can I kiss you?”
Barclay’s breath hitched, but he didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he nodded.
Immediately, Yasha closed the distance between them.
Every time Yasha touched Barclay, it felt like sparks igniting upon his skin, like he was burning. The feeling was even more overwhelming now, with Yasha’s fingers tangled in his hair, and his lips against his own. Barclay could’ve been on fire, with the scorching, searing heat that danced between them. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into it, like a moth drawn to a flame.
The flame was addicting. Yasha felt warm, as he always did, but now the heat from his Lore swelled inside of him so fervently that Barclay could feel it, feel it simmering on his lips. It coursed through Barclay, too, like he was being baked from the inside out, but the feeling was the opposite of unpleasant. He wished to never let go, to freeze this moment forever. But Yasha’s heart rate monitor–beeping much faster, now–continuously reminded him of every second that passed, and he knew that, soon, he’d have to pull away. Nonetheless, he curled his own fingers in Yasha’s hair, braced a hand on his hospital bed, wanting to savor this as much as he could.
At last, Barclay gave Yasha a playful bite on the lip and pulled away, his breathing ragged. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Mm. You taste like medicine,” Yasha simpered.
“That’s just yourself.” Barclay reached out, intending to elbow the boy, but he was once again reminded of Yasha’s condition by the ever-ticking heart rate monitor, and so he wrenched his arm back.
At Yasha’s feet, Motya watched them, looking very irritated. Or disturbed.
“Sorry you had to see that, Motya.” Barclay let out a breathy laugh. He would’ve pet her, if he wasn’t sure whether or not she’d burn him for it. He’d never understand how Yasha and Motya managed to coexist every single day; she’d drive Barclay mad.
On the subject of Beasts, Barclay was reminded of his own. He didn’t check any of their marks–he could already vividly imagine the smug look on Root’s face. And he had no idea how his Mangliana would react to her Keeper having an incredibly awkward first kiss barely after they’d bonded, but considering how her Mark was no longer throbbing, he could hopefully assume she approved.
“So… Does this mean we’re, um. Boyfriends?” Yasha asked from the other side of the bed, sounding optimistic.
Barclay’s eyes drifted over to Yasha’s own, intense gaze, and the warmth that always filled him whenever Yasha touched him filled him again. He knew he’d made up his mind, then: he didn’t care how much he and Yasha had hurt one another, wanted to kill one another, betrayed each other. He wanted a future with him anyway.
“Yes. I think so.”