:: Glass
Every day, Thorell brought him a bouquet of roses.
âThank you,â he murmured into the roses, cheeks warm as he chuckled. He couldnât lie to himself that he had been looking forward to hearing those familiar footsteps approaching his hospital room. He closed his eyes and inhaled a lungful of the fragrance he loved before bundling the flowers together, tucking them in the vase by his bedside. Not that he could see anything in its best clarity, but the red marked a heartwarming contrast to the dreadful, dreary white of the room. He scooted over a little to the wall to make room for Thorell to sit on his bed, but he knew the other would choose to sit closer to him anyways. The familiarity both amused and frightened him. After all, he couldnât remember anything else before Thorell first came into his hospital room. A few days ago? A few weeks? Months? See, he already forgot that, too.
Thorell liked to talk, and he liked to listen. Thorellâs voice soothed him. The man liked to talk often about someone who he once loved, and who had already chosen to leave him a long time ago. He couldnât imagine who would choose to leave such a dedicated man, and the thought made him feel a bit harder to breathe.
âThatâs unfortunate,â he would comment. And every time, Thorell would laugh and tell him that he was only saying that out of courtesy.
He wasnât, but he learned not to argue against it.
