#redacted angst

He didn't even bother to lift his head when the light bulb of the small lamp on his desk crackled, room suddenly veiled in a darkness he wished to disappear in. Fall apart until he was nothing but dust carried over by the wind into places unknown. Where mistakes haven't been made yet, and life still held a promise of something better to take out of it. A naive wish to start over, to turn back the clock that kept mercilessly ticking the numbers away, constant sound of its hand grating at his already shredded nerves.

Blurry minutes turned into hours of sorrow, and his misery remained the same, guilt pressing his exhausted body flat against the mattress his head didn't dare to touch, afraid of tainting what should have been clean and pure in the first place. Like a marble statue, he remained indifferent to the passage of time, position taken and never changed, not when he felt himself growing fatigued or restless, not when his stomach began to ache in the well known way that could not compare to anything else, simply because how pointless and little meaning it held, in the face of what happened.

Whatever he suffered through, meant nothing, Not in that room, where the shadows glanced at him with pity, not in his head that reeled with teeth bare and sharp, more than ready to bite, and not in the whole world outside, for he had his own, right in front of him.

A whole world he held in his arms as it crumbled apart, torn at the seams he couldn't mend.

Their face laid on a silky pillowcase, material cool to the touch, soothing the feverish skin he kept caressing, hand growing tired from the constant motion of his fingertips grazing their temple, down their neck and up again. Anything to assure him he was not dreaming, and they were still present, pulse thrumming faintly right below the skin. For him only, to feel and cherish, as long as he was blessed to. Through the pins and needles starting to grow in its intensity, he simply gritted his teeth and kept going, remembering the words they whispered during one evening, truth spilled within the confines of late hour, welcomed by his steady presence and smile that eased his serious expression.

Gesture so grand in its simplicity, they told him between the lines.

I like your touch. It's soothing.

Who would he be if he denied them this simple thing in the most of vulnerable times?

The scar, two little marks, the very same that adorned his own neck, were gone. He made sure it was himself, healing magic never his strongest suit, though with some help and guidance, he managed. If they wished to have one, he would be more than happy to litter their body with thousands, in any place they desired, in any form or size. He would listen, he would do whatever they asked him to, but not this one. They deserved only good things in life, and the weight he had to carry due to his own experience, they were not bound to share. At least, he was capable of granting them this mercy, bile rising in his throat at the familiar and agonising sight.

Sam assured him that those things take time. Vincent said the longer they rest, the better and easier everything would be later, comfort offered with pats against his shoulders, words of the wiser echoing in his mind. If they needed the rest, so be it, he wouldn't cut it short. He would just stay beside and wait patiently.

They seemed calm, like tides after a storm, lulled by the silence of disaster already gone. No stressed wrinkles on their forehead he kept kissing occasionally, when he began to lose hope, and the only thing that fixed it was their warmth pressed against him, a reason to keep going despite his knees aching from kneeling all this time. As if he would be able to go away. They needed him, more than ever. He told himself so, anyway.

The blanket he draped over them covered them up to their chin, more for pleasure rather than chill that seeped into his weary bones. He wished he could lay down, like he always did, their frame fitting like the most perfect puzzle piece, head nuzzling into his chest, listening on to his beating heart, as he kept them close, his most precious jewel. There would be time for that, he muttered the promise in a raspy voice under his nose, instinct to check their pulse yet another time stronger than ever. Still the same, still present, still alive. And they would remain so, with him bound by their side.

Soon, they would wake up. Or later, but he still would remain on his knees nonetheless, hand against their cheek, his heart out in the open, non-existent tears already dried up. And when they did, eyes with the haunting silver, red specks darker than rubies looking at him so pleadingly, lips asking for him in the haze of balancing between the dream and reality, he would hold them, tighter and more desperate than ever.