Wuthering Promises (BL)

✦ O3

— ✦ Warnings: Mentions of a crash and injuries.

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A firm, crushing force desperately squeezes his hand, the pain a clear white amidst the dark numbness of the rest of his body. (Y/n) can’t feel anything else; it's as if all of his senses were dulled out, his body heavy and detached from his own self, unable to move. His mind swayed, slipping in and out of consciousness at a fast, erratic speed that left him no time to process anything. The pressure was painful, but eerily it grounded him more and more to his reality, and as he tried to pry open his eyes, it eased.

“Hey… hey, hey!” Someone cries out into his ears, shaking his shoulder back and forth; his head limply follows the forced movement.

The (h/c)-haired man blinked, vision clearing up through squinted eyes as he focused on his assailant. Rowan’s eyebrows are knit together in worry, his eyes bloodshot, and his lip a quivering mess. The other man was leaning over, covering the bright light of the medical bay, the round lamp now looking like a halo that adorned Rowan’s black hair—it oddly suited him.

“My hand isn’t going anywhere, Mr. Angel.” A raspy, unpleasant sound left his throat, making him extremely aware of the scratches inside it and the residual blood on his tongue. He sounds just as he probably looks right now, weak.

Calloused hands found their way to his face, and a single drop of water dripped from above, sliding down from his nose to his cheek. (Y/n) closed his eyes, and using more strength than he wished, brought his hands up to Rowan’s neck. The corners of his lips lifted in embarrassment as he felt himself unable to do anything else, his hand almost falling back down from the sheer effort it took for him to raise it.

“You’re not funny.” Rowan sighed in contentment at the contact, bringing his head down into the other man’s shoulders and wrapping his arms around him.

The man laughed, letting himself relax into the embrace. “Oh, how you wound me.”

One, two, three, four. Five seconds passed, the ticking of the old-fashioned clock in the wall marking the duration of the tacit reassurance and the soundless conversation between them. Amid those minutes, (Y/n)’s head throbbed as he became aware of the situation; he should get back to work soon—the fact left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth that somehow managed to suppress the ichor. Luckily for his position and reputation, a dry cough cut through the moment and brought them back to reality.

“Will I live?” Giving two taps on Rowan’s back, the man lifted himself and straightened his back, fighting against the urge to lie down again. He spread out his arms, feigning worry. “Go ahead and tell me, doc. I can handle it.”

“As I have informed Mr. Byrne more times than necessary; yes.” Alexander’s Russian accent coated every word uttered, the work to be done after the crash having worn him out as he most likely had to inspect all of the crew in so little time and without assistance. “In regards to what you need to know,” he side-eyed Rowan, “the impact left you with a minor concussion, lacerations on the cheek and a large abrasion on your forehead. I’ve bandaged and disinfected all wounds, but you need to be careful and avoid strenuous exercise. There’s some bruising on your chest, but nothing broken or significantly injured.”

The tablet in the doctor’s hand was placed on the table. A muffled thud followed the impact, and the screen lit up with an exam report: “You were the most injured. The crew is waiting for orders; please remember not to overexert yourself.”

(Y/n)’s gaze was directed to the floor, his face rigid in an austere expression as he took in the doctor’s words. He drummed his fingers against the medbay stretcher, eyes squinting to protect themselves against the aggressive light—no longer was it obscured by Rowan. With two more taps of his fingers, he put his hand on the dark-haired man’s shoulder, lifting himself, and limped towards the door.

He came to two realisations once he left: one, no matter how fast he was, Rowan's arms would always be faster in securing their spot at his waist, and two, never had he ever felt uncomfortable with the presence of his best friend until now. His throat felt dry and itchy, his palms were sweaty, and words were clawing their way up but unable to leave, staying inside like a thick vomit formed after eating something unpleasant. The proximity was unwelcome, constricting, and for some reason, he felt guilty for being held so softly.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A deep breath; his resolve strengthened. “Let's talk after the meeting.”

“Of course.” Rowan smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in mirth.