Hollis and Ursula are both frozen where they are, watching him--Hollis leaned back in his chair with a bottle in his hand because yeah, if there was ever an ‘I need a beer’ moment it’s this, and Ursula perched up close into Byron’s space, lifting one of his bandages away.
“Hi,” Bill says, through the hand he has pressed to his mouth because he’s suddenly a little worried he might throw up and god but that’s the last thing he wants to do now. He should be happy, and he is, because Byron is... not alive, maybe, but here, sitting up, awake, talking.
Talking to them with half of his face hanging off, oh jesus.
“Don’t look so happy to see me,” Byron says, but the side of his mouth that can grin is, so he’s not that upset. The words are a little slurred, no worse than when he’s had a drink or two. “‘course, I probably can’t blame you. They haven’t let me look at a mirror yet, so I don’t have any idea how bad it is.”
It sounds like an excuse, a defense. “It doesn’t matter,” Bill says, forcing his hand back down to his side, because Byron should not need to make excuses for this.
Then Byron laughs a little, dropping his face down and to the side self-derisively, and it’s so him and so normal and Bill can feel something in his chest give with a spang, something that had been winding tighter and tighter. He takes two steps forward and drops onto his heels, at eye level with the slumped form in the chair--reaches out to gather his friend into his arms, pull him nearly out of the chair with the force of it, and who cares what anyone thinks because god, the last two days--
He can feel the embrace returned, shot through with a slow shudder, and Byron’s hands around his back are as strong as ever but the rest of him just collapses there, boneless. There’s a wetness on the side of his face and he doesn’t know if the dead can cry or if it’s something else, but he doesn’t care.
part 8
Hollis and Ursula are both frozen where they are, watching him--Hollis leaned back in his chair with a bottle in his hand because yeah, if there was ever an ‘I need a beer’ moment it’s this, and Ursula perched up close into Byron’s space, lifting one of his bandages away.
“Hi,” Bill says, through the hand he has pressed to his mouth because he’s suddenly a little worried he might throw up and god but that’s the last thing he wants to do now. He should be happy, and he is, because Byron is... not alive, maybe, but here, sitting up, awake, talking.
Talking to them with half of his face hanging off, oh jesus.
“Don’t look so happy to see me,” Byron says, but the side of his mouth that can grin is, so he’s not that upset. The words are a little slurred, no worse than when he’s had a drink or two. “‘course, I probably can’t blame you. They haven’t let me look at a mirror yet, so I don’t have any idea how bad it is.”
It sounds like an excuse, a defense. “It doesn’t matter,” Bill says, forcing his hand back down to his side, because Byron should not need to make excuses for this.
Then Byron laughs a little, dropping his face down and to the side self-derisively, and it’s so him and so normal and Bill can feel something in his chest give with a spang, something that had been winding tighter and tighter. He takes two steps forward and drops onto his heels, at eye level with the slumped form in the chair--reaches out to gather his friend into his arms, pull him nearly out of the chair with the force of it, and who cares what anyone thinks because god, the last two days--
He can feel the embrace returned, shot through with a slow shudder, and Byron’s hands around his back are as strong as ever but the rest of him just collapses there, boneless. There’s a wetness on the side of his face and he doesn’t know if the dead can cry or if it’s something else, but he doesn’t care.
*