At dawn, Colle spoke his first words since his wake. "...do you dream?"
It felt like an intrusive question. Any question felt intrusive, nowadays. They had been friends for years beyond Colle's memory, but ever since the experience in the cave, Colle felt like he was often speaking to a stranger. Though, a stranger that was his friend at heart.
The Professor cleared his throat. "Yeah. Every night."
"What are your dreams like?" If his last question wasn't intrusive, this one certainly was. After what Colle had seen in what was simply a fever induced dream, he hated to think about something as constant as the hallucinations the Professor seemed to have every day.
"Colorful." He mumbled. "Loud."
It wasn't a very good answer, but Colle's tense muscles relaxed a bit. It was an answer.
"Do you ever dream of me?"
"Yeah."
He wanted to ask, what am I like in your dreams? What do you see? What do I do?
"Why do we dream?" He asked instead. It wasn't a question he expected an answer to. He adjusted his position in his friend's arms, who hummed in response.
"A dream is just your mind's left over bullshit. They aren't supposed to make sense." He paused for a second, running a hand through Colle's hair. "Don't trust your dreams, Colle."
I don't. He wanted to say. I do. He knew was his answer. "Dreams are liars." He agreed.
"Just incoherent bullshit."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
The Professor sighed and pulled him a little closer, kissing his curls. "You know you didn't do anything wrong."
Colle didn't respond. He looked at the dirt ground, focusing on the loose pebbles and the bits of grass poking out.
"Colle." Professor Red's voice was almost demanding, a bit desperate. "You really, really didn't do anything wrong. You saved everyone."
"I didn't," Colle swallowed. "I seriously didn't. And what makes you think I blame myself, anyways? Quit being so accusing." His voice was sterner than he meant it to be, but Colle didn't apologize. The Professor didn't call him out for it either.
"You were talking in your sleep. About Seer." Colle was pulled even closer somehow, arms wrapped tight around him. "You kept repeating 'I'm sorry', over and over again. You were crying, sobbing. You said you killed him. You said you should've died instead."
Colle couldn't look at the Professor from the position they were in, but even if he could have, he wouldn't've. He just breathed a little harder, trying to keep the dreams out of his head.
"Colle." His voice was breaking a little. "Colle, I thought you were dead. I thought you were going to die, and I thought there was nothing I could've done."
What changed? Colle wanted to ask. He didn't.
"I thought you were a goner. And then I- ...you lived." He switched up his words, and Colle could feel a small tear in his hair. "You lived, Colle. That was miraculous. And hearing you... say you should've died... I-..."
Professor Red's body shuddered against his, and he buried his head in Colle's shoulder. Colle was completely quiet. It was raining lightly outside now, but the sobs disappearing into Colle's body were louder. He didn't know what to say, what to do. Nothing would fix them, nothing would fix this fragile shell of his friend. Was Colle like that, now, too? Was Colle just a simple, porcelain shell as well? Was he bound to break? Or was he already broken? Was he supposed to be broken?
"Colle," Professor Red's voice was just a vibration against his shoulder. "You were supposed to live. You were supposed to live."
Colle still didn't say a word. He tried not to think of why it sounded more like the Professor was trying to convince himself rather than trying to convince Colle. He didn't think of anything, just kept his body pressed against his friend's.
"I know." He lied.
— — —
Colle didn't let himself sleep. The Professor kept him awake, only because Colle demanded it incredibly politely. Whenever he felt himself dozing off, Colle bit his lip until he tasted blood. His friend told him off for that.
As they both sat in silence, Colle was left to think. Without dreams, he had to actually use his head, and his head didn't seem to like him much. The fever hadn't faded, and though it was more bearable, it still burned under his skin, and it made Colle's thoughts gross. A mess. Unorganized, unprompted.
He wanted to ask how Professor Red got him to live. If he was supposedly out for days, why was he suddenly alive how? It was treated like a miracle by both the Red Leader. The Professor tried to agree, but he knew. He did something, Colle knew. Colle could always tell.
But, unfortunately for him, conversations didn't come easy between them anymore. And once the silence grew to a certain point, it felt almost impossible to break. The worst part of the question he wanted to ask was that, at its core, it was an accusation. A demand. It wasn't a 'did you do something?' It was a 'I know you did something.'
'What did you do to me?' he mouthed to himself. He pictured himself saying it, but no matter how many circumstances and outcomes he imagined, none felt natural. He just couldn't get the words out of his mouth.
So he continued with silence. The Professor barely moved, in fact, the only time he'd left from Colle's reach since his outburst was to grab Colle a bottle of water. Colle made him drink some too.
Eventually, though, Professor Red did pull away. He did it with a friendly squeeze and a shaky stand, legs asleep from sitting for so long. "I'm gonna go talk to the Red Leader."
Colle knew that excuse. They both used it, a lot. In the end, it meant 'I need air'. And Colle was okay with that, of course. He didn't comment on how much he instantly missed the contact, how cold it was being alone, and the slight nagging worry that he'd fall asleep again, back into dream-land, spicy fever edition.
He nodded, smiling a bit. "When you come back, can I have some soup?" He mumbled. The Professor gave him a short "yep" and disappeared.
Colle was alone.
His head hurt, the fever quite insistent. He laid against the counter on his side, groaning at the vertigo that came with the slight change in position. And that's when he noticed it.
A sharp, needle-like pain in his chest. Something stabbing both inward and outward. An itch, a pierce. His heart burned, and Colle instantly switched to his other side. Slightly more comfortable.
Colle's hand traced the outline of his chest through the new shirt he was given some amount of time ago. He pulled the collar down, letting his hand run over the skin. And he froze.
There were scars that weren't there before. Colle ghosted over the raised skin, drawing a clear circle right above his heart. Bigger than his heart. Almost the entire left side of his upper chest was traced with a new line of scar.
It couldn't have been Void. It was much too precise; it was something that was medically done by someone with skilled hands. Someone with a lot of care and a lot of worry and a lot to lose. Someone who would do anything to keep someone they love alive. Anything.
Why wasn't the question. The question was what.
Colle felt the strong thump of a heart larger than his. It hummed against his organs, knowing it didn't belong there. Colle could tell from the inconsistent beat that didn't line up with his own heartbeat quite right.
And then it clicked.
He got to his feet and practically pounced off the counter, ignoring the way his mind and body screamed as he did so. He got to his knees and grabbed his bag, digging through it. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Completely empty.
It was gone.
No, Colle knew where it was. He felt sick to his stomach when he realized.
His hand ghosted over his skin, as if asking. "Are you here?"
The heart thrummed in response.
