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It’s been months since the attack that nearly took his life. By sheer miracle, Meteor and Aymeric had managed to bring him back from the brink of death. Magic and medics had been in day in and day out to make sure that he was stable, until they were sure that he would not pass in the night, and now—
Now they are his only visitors.
It wasn’t like this in the beginning. No, originally he had a circus of people coming in every day to make sure he was recovering well—from Aymeric to his father to his brothers, he was never left alone. It made the process of healing easier, since he was determined not to let any of them down.
Even his soldiers from Camp Dragonhead were frequent visitors at first. But not anymore. Now they come by once a week to verify and update him on the status of everything and get his approval for actions and defenses, and otherwise he is left alone with the chirurgeons. They come in, they change his bandages, monitor the fluids he’s on, clean the wound, and sometimes they make him stand (with assistance). Mostly he’s the recipient of sponge baths and being rolled around to change sheets. It should be degrading but Haurchefant is too tired to take it personally.
Needless to say, he is delighted when a rare face pokes through the door. Meteor’s five o’clock shadow highlights the brilliance of his blue-grey eyes. Looking through the entry, Meteor resembles something akin to a deity to Haurchefant—a blessed being come to visit for the first time in weeks and—
“Well, well, hero. Come to see me at last?” he teases.
Meteor slips through the crack and responds softly, “I came to visit you while you were unconscious, but I’ve been a bit indisposed dealing with—” here he pauses, obviously hesitant to give too much detail “—various problems. I’m sorry that I haven’t been more attentive.”
“I’m glad to see you.” It’s sincere. He smiles as best he can through a sharp pang of pain born of him trying to move a little. Sitting up is fine as long as he stays sitting up and doesn’t try to shift, but it’s instinct to turn to face the side of the bed. “Everyone’s been very busy of late. I understand there’s much going on with the Holy See but no one is willing to give me the details.”
Meteor smiles. It’s thin and guarded. “You should be focusing on recovering first. Camp Dragonhead needs you.”
Mm. It didn’t feel like he was expressly needed of late, but that thought was one of many darker ones that came unbidden as a result of being bedridden. It’s hard not to feel worthless when even sitting up is a chore and standing requires assistance.
And he’s lonely. There’s only so many times he can read the daily newspaper and not want to throw it out the window. They’re covering very little of what is going on outside. Ishgard has always been good about being tight-lipped.
“I’d recover faster if I was not plagued by boredom,” Haurchefant admits softly. “You’re the first visitor outside of my staff that I’ve had all week.”
It is the wrong thing to say. Meteor looks stricken and the guilt on his face is impossible to deny. He can hide emotions well when he chooses to, but the shock of what Haurchefant said must have caught him off guard. He manages to school his expression back to a neutral smile quickly enough, but Haurchefant did not miss the obvious distress. It wasn’t his intention to guilt trip the Warrior of Light. He was merely stating facts. More visitors would be nice.
“I’ve freed up my whole day to stay with you.”
“Oh? That’s very kind of you. I feel very lucky. I know your time is precious.” Again, sincere. Meteor moves a chair to sit next to him and Haurchefant winces, turning more until he can face the Warrior of Light properly. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to tell me what you’ve been occupied with, since we have all day to talk, then?”
“No.” A winning smile. “But I can tell you that the Ishgard you know is changing for the better, and that you’ll be thrilled when you see the results.”
Haurchefant believes him. Meteor has a particular talent for effecting change wherever he goes. The world bends to his will. And Ishgard has long been trapped in a stasis where nothing changes and everything is still. It has needed an unstoppable force for too long. There can be only good things to come of Meteor’s particularly chaotic touch.
“Have you heard from Eorzea?”
“We’re not discussing my problems, either. Nothing stressful. Tell me about your days instead. How are you healing, my friend?” Meteor counters. He leans over, a few locks of brown hair cascading down his face, and he clasps his hands between his knees. From this position, his shirt reveals too much of his chest, and it is distracting. He has no way of knowing just how much so.
Haurchefant retaliates, just the same. He moves his shirt to reveal far too much of his chest, which also shows off the bandages that crisscross and cover the stitched up hole that takes up the majority of his torso. “I’ve a mighty scar under here.”
“I’ll bet.” Meteor smiles. This time it’s real. Not the fake, guarded ones, but one that reaches all the way to those magnificent eyes. “And a story of heroism to tell everyone. You’ll be more popular than ever.”
Maybe so. But not with the right person, he suspects, eyeing Meteor. “Okay. You won’t tell me what’s going on in Ishgard. Tell me something else. About your adventures. About what you’ve been up to. Let me live through you so that I am trapped less in this bed. Please?”
He can see the reluctance at first on Meteor’s face, before finally he nods. Then he stands up and starts talking, explaining how he’d encountered a batch of Ixal who were trying to summon Garuda again-a story that could have been old, could have been new, Haurchefant does not know. He listens, enraptured, while the Warrior of Light goes about an animated reproduction of one of the battles. Complete with poses, swinging of invisible swords, and—
And it’s obvious how much fun he’s having. It is contagious, his joy, and Haurchefant can’t help but be absorbed in each element of the story. It is followed by the familiar tale of how the Warrior of Light met Lady Iceheart, and the story of Shiva as she knows it—not as Ishgard would tell it.
All the while, time passes in the blink of an eye. It has been an hour—no, two—and the Warrior of Light is excitedly chattering away before finally spinning around to sit down again.
A bead of sweat rolls down his brow, over his jaw, and drops down to his chest again. It heaves with the strain of heavy breathing from the re-enactments, but Meteor does not seem to notice.
He never notices how bright he shines.
Fortunately, he also doesn’t notice that while he is taking his breather, Haurchefant is staring at the shadows his shirt casts over his chest and the thin dusting of hair there that is covered in sweat.
How good it would feel to be able to lick that off. To take that excitable energy and use it for something much more purposeful.
Alas. His injuries say no.
(But his body says yes. Oh god does his body say yes—with a firm reminder of how long it has been since the last time anyone touched him.)
“You can keep going,” he says. “I would like to hear more stories. And we have all day.”
For me to imagine the taste of your sweat on my tongue.