a death date.
August 24, 2049.
The day that Billy Maximoff, Wiccan, dies.
He doesn't know what hurts more, the pain in his chest, or the look in his friends' eyes. Maybe they're just the same thing.
Or just everything hurts. The sobbing, the head on his leg, the hands that were gripping his, the aching muscles in his body, the veins that were burning within his skin, begging to burst.
Pain is the only thing he knows right now, maybe it's going to be the last thing he remembers.
"Why isn't he healing?"
He hears the panic, worry, and fear. More voices fill in, destroying the silence that was eating him.
They don't understand.
Morgan doesn't understand.
He wants to cry. He wants to open his eyes and scream. Yell at the world, at the person who did this to him.
But he's stuck.
-
It felt like hours had passed until he could finally open his eyes.
The room was bright, and he had to immediately close his eyes again, with a grunt, he pressed his hand on his eyes, and the other against the bed, pushing his body upwards until he fell against the wall.
"Billy?" A voice exclaimed, the warlock's nose wrinkled, at the loudness.
He guesses the person didn't notice as they only grew louder.
"He's awake! Nate!"
His brows rose, as the chaos came, he heard rushing, objects being knocked over, and cursing, he wanted to speak, to laugh, but his voice was too dry to do anything of that, so he just winced, as cold fingers touched his face, squeezed his eyes shut, when a small light flashed in front of them.
He rubbed his throat, hoping that they would understand.
They did, he felt a cold cup placed into his hand, and he slowly opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. He brings the cup between his lips, and he sighs, softly, as the cold liquid moves down his throat.
He feels a rough hand touch his shoulder, he raises his head, his eyes connecting with a black-haired boy, he sees the worry and fear in his eyes.
"Are you okay? Where does it hurt?" Teddy asked.
"Everywhere," He admitted, his head was killing him, and his body felt like he was being buried in quicksand.
he was weak.
He sighed, "Nate?"
He turned his head, his eyes meeting his younger cousin's. The brown-haired boy fidgeted with the board in his hand, tapping a pen against it. His eyes darted, and Billy watched how quickly his chest rose and fell.
"Uh, I..."
He chuckled, at his hesitation. "It's okay, tell me," He urged him, softly.
He wetted his lips, "The blast broke two of your ribs, it ruptured your left kidney, and—," His voice cracked, as he spoke, eyes filling with tears. Billy grabbed his hand, "and?"
He sniffed, "The blast took your power and without them..." He trailed off, lowering his head, and Billy had to finish for him.
"I can't heal."
He can't live.
His magic was his bloodstream. It was the thing that kept his heart pumping, him breathing.
