The Kwisling [The Isbjørn book 2]

Thirty-seven

He woke up dead. Not simply dead, but also in hell.

But from his spare imaginings he considered how such a place would be: hot, an overheated pit of flame where he would be tortured endlessly. Or else if there was no hell, how such an existence would be. He would be trapped within his mind, condemned to lay in darkness, powerless to do anything to change any of it. Every moment of his lingering life were both speculations of afterlife, and so, Luce was convinced he had died.

For an indeterminate amount of time hr switched between hell and unconscious. His waking was characterised by darkness, pain, and heat. He was living in a continual twilight. Very few things registered. Linn returned periodically, his body hurt, and every now and again he heard John's voice.

Until he was able to squeeze his eyelids together before opening them, curling his fingers in the sheets. He started to sit up but registered something heavy on his abdomen that was not quite restricting his breathing, but was certainly keeping him from expanding his lungs to their full capacity.

Luce looked down his body to chestnut hair and a pleasantly still face. Only after he felt the strain on his dry lips did he realize he was smiling.

He whispered his name in a rough voice, curling his fingers in the man's hair. His fingers drew clear to his scalp stroking a few strands from his face.

"John, wake up," he whispered, fingers still curling in his locks.

John woke slowly, eyelids fighting the weight of sleep. His hazel, green sprinkled irises were heavy as he drew his gaze upward. It took him a moment to realize someone was curressing his hair. It took him a moment longer to realize it was Luce.

A smile spread across his thin lips. "Hey you,” John murmured, his words heavy and his voice thick with fatigue. He grimaced as he drew his head upward, feeling a cramp in his neck. He cleared his throat, breaking up the rumble in his chest. "How do'ya feel?” he asked, drawing up and caressing Luce's tan cheek. He couldn't feel the heat coming off his skin like before, the fever had broken.

Luce blinked sluggishly at him, turning up the corner of his mouth. "Better,” he said finally.

One side of John’s mouth quirked into a wan half-smile. He sat up fully at last taking in Luce's face.

"What?" Luce's eyes narrowed the longer John stared at him. The man's eyes were intense. His first thought, what felt like his first thought in a long time, formed so slowly in his brain that it felt foreign. John looked. . . softer, like someone had taken sandpaper to his sharp edges. "What is it?" he repeated, lightly frustrated.

"Can't I just look at you?"

The light put a twinkle in his eyes that made Luce feel like John had a secret, but not one he intended to keep. No, in fact, the look said he was already in on it and he was just waiting for Luce to utter some magic words.

"Not— not like that," Luce uttered, more than a flustered.

John gazed at him alluringly and grinned. No further words were necessary.

Luce drew his mouth into a hard line, slowly sitting up. He was less willing to allow the silence. "Are you sick? Your face is red."

"I was," he admitted, pulling himself from the chair to the bed, the movement suprised John as much as the man already occupying the bed. "I'm not anymore," his voice breathier than he intended.

Luce had passed the flu, but just as infectious was the glow on John's cheeks. But the most powerful, contagious thing was the act of speaking the truth.

"Do you remember,” John said, “when we first met and—" he stopped himself, persing his lips with an accompanying, dissatisfied look.

"What is it?"