Characters: Famine (
eatasam) and Pestilence (
yourbane)
Date/Time: Backdated to Saturday
Location: Presby
Rating: PG
Warnings: Language.
Summary: Famine is discharged, but visits Pestilence.
Tylenol was coursing through Famine’s bloodstream as he searched for the room his brother was located in. His discharge had been earlier, but he hadn’t left the hospital since then, wanting to stay behind for a certain sibling. Pestilence was likely going to be in that room, unless he got transferred, for quite a bit of time, considering it was a second localized break. Paying him frequent visits was a must.
Something that was probably guilt -- so human, so wrong -- tugged at the younger Horseman’s heart as he finally came across his brother’s room. He crossed it in soft, silent steps, coming to perch upon the edge of the bed. This was his first time seeing Pestilence in his new cast.
Wordlessly, he leaned over to brush a kiss to one cheek.
Pestilence had been vaguely asleep. Which was to say his painkillers made him drowsy, and periodically doze off, but the slightest disturbance would jolt him awake. He was distantly aware of someone in the room, but it wasn’t until something soft brushed against his cheek that he cracked open an eye. Pestilence wasn’t an expressive person, but his relief was evident.
“Almost thought you were another nurse,” he mumbled, a hint of smirk tugging at his mouth. “Missing the uniform.”
There was no smile in return, only a sleepy tilt of the head as Famine righted himself, being unable to lean on either of his wrists. “If nurses are kissing you, I’m going to drag them into a closet and crack their spines,” he promised, sounding completely at ease as he said it. He might’ve had a reaction to the uniform line had he not been drowsy himself.
The younger boy did, however, use his good hand to take Pestilence’s.
Only Famine could elicit a chuckle from Pestilence when he felt like death warmed over. He brushed his thumb over those bumpy knuckles. “Please, do. Even if they aren’t kissing me. They keep trying to make me eat jello.” His face scrunched up in a frown.
“That’s terrible,” murmured the Black Horseman as he began to shift around on the small bed, ending up on his knees with his one working hand balancing his upper body weight. It might have seemed like an impossible task, but neither of them were particularly interestingly proportioned, and so it would’ve been easy for Famine to slip into the bed on his side because of his willowy frame.
Provided--
“Move.”
With his leg elevated in the cast, there was only so much room to give. Still, Pestilence shifted over, trying to provide as much space as possible. Famine hardly needed more than he could give.
“How’s the wrist?” Pestilence slid his other hand over to his brother’s cast.
A little bit of maneuvering found Famine on his side next to his brother, his casted arm lifted slightly. He grazed the fingers of that hand against the other boy’s chest. “I don’t feel much of it. Painkillers,” he explained, lowering his hand fully. He neglected to mention that the burns, too, weren’t felt too much.
There came a pregnant pause in which he fell silent, and then pressed his forehead to the curve of Pestilence’s shoulder. “You’ll be able to walk again, right?”
Pestilence scowled. The pain was temporarily eased, but that didn’t make up for the inconvenience factor of having a broken leg. He would have to spend another indefinite number of months in that fucking wheelchair. “Eventually,” he muttered, voice more than a little sullen. “You’ll be able to call me Wheels again.”
Under normal, less drowsy circumstances, Famine might have appreciated that. But under the effects of Tylenol and a strange, foreign guilt, he couldn’t even muster up a smile.
“That’s not funny.” His words were quiet, but sharp -- as sharp as his exhaustion would allow. He wanted to be amused, but couldn’t, not with Samael’s words ringing in his ears. You do understand that it’s your fault, don’t you? That your brother may never walk without a limp?
Pestilence had expected some sort of amused sign from his fellow horseman. There was something underneath Famine’s words that Pestilence couldn’t quite place. “What’s with you?” A soft poke was delivered to Famine’s chest. “You’re not going to call me Wheels? I need some way to make light of the fucking situation.”
That hand was blindly swatted at, as the younger man hadn’t moved in the last minute, nor did he plan to. But his body had other plans, it seemed, and slowly one leg came to drape over Pestilence’s, to tangle their limbs together in a way that hurt neither of them with the effort. Gluing himself to his brother and staying with him as long as possible seemed like the only way Famine could accept any guilt.
Guilt that had him brushing his fingers against the gown Pestilence wore, gripping lightly and as best one could with hand half-swallowed by a cast. He hated feeling out of control and weak, and the drowsiness he was experiencing wasn’t helping in the least. His eyes fell shut.
“Shut up. I’ll call you Wheels later.”
“Good,” Pestilence murmured. It couldn’t be healthy, how much he liked Famine clinging to him, how close he enjoyed having their bodies. It wasn’t cuddling. Horsemen didn’t cuddle. They... did something else. Pestilence couldn’t properly define it with the acetaminophen in his bloodstream.
“I’ll think of something to call you later too, Crip.”
Lethargy was slowly taking over the younger Horseman’s mind and body, and each second that passed brought Famine closer to sleep. He draped his casted arm over his brother’s chest in such a way that his fingertips wouldn’t touch and drain him, uncaring of how this would look to a nurse, or to anyone else who happened to waltz in. This was Pestilence, and right then, he didn’t give a shit if Horsemen didn’t cling or cuddle.
Somehow, it was like an apology for letting this happen.
“I liked Bones.” Famine’s voice was lazier by this point. “But I think that’s a TV show...” And within a couple of seconds, he was out.
It was, but it was too late to tell his brother, and not important enough to wake him up again. Sighing softly, Pestilence brushed his lips against Famine’s cheek. “Skeletor,” he murmured, trying it out. The name had some potential... but Pestilence would rather sleep on it. So he did.