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It wasn’t that bad.
(It was.)
Honestly, you couldn’t even tell that there was anything wrong with him.
(Yes, you could.)
He shouldn’t complain about a few scars when he could be dead.
(It was more than a few, but a face-full of burns was a better alternative to a face six feet under dirt.)
Still...he couldn’t help but feel nervous about Cor’s reaction.
*
Lib, despite his shattered leg, carried the brunt of his weight to Leide, Hammerhead to be specific, where they stocked up on what few curatives they could afford on their pocket change. Shockingly, it wasn’t much. And what they purchased couldn’t even be used on either of them. Their injuries were too old-or in Nyx’s case, too divinely inflicted.
Unfortunately, that meant that travel needed to wait. Hiking to Leide was one thing, but to drag Nyx’s ass across the continent to Lestallum? There was absolutely no way he was going to let his best friend do that.
Cid allowed (ordered) them to stay in a spare room at his garage, for which they were grateful. It was no bigger than a closet, but it was safe and there was hot food, so who were they to complain?
Lib spent the days fretting over Nyx’s injuries like a mother hen. It was cute, at first. But it quickly lost its charm, becoming a frustrating hassel to stay chipper instead of lashing out at his lifelong friend. Although, that could be due to the fact that he had little to no ability to move the left side of his body. And it fucking itched .
So Nyx spent the days literally biting his tongue. Grinning and bearing every potion-soaked rag Lib dragged over his burns, or meal shoved down his throat, or cheery comments like ‘You’re getting better already’ when he obviously was not . If it made Lib feel better to pretend, then Nyx wasn’t going to ruin the illusion. Not after everything-every one -they had lost.
*
At night, if he allowed himself the luxury of sleep, he dreamed of the dead.
Of Crowe’s rotting corpse on the morgue table, sitting up and grinning at him in a way that held no kindness or amusement. Blinking, shrieking, and suddenly there, face-to-face with him reeking of decay. She’d take his left hand in hers, glaring at the smooth skin, then cup the left side of his face and ask with garbled words ‘Why did you get to live?’. When her hand pulled away, it was alight with purple flame and his body burned .
He dreamt of Pelna chasing him down an endless hall, his mangled body clawing against the ground unnaturally fast to keep up with him, leaving a trail of blood and gore in his wake. He screeched at Nyx’s back, telling him what Nyx already knew: That he died for nothing because they let the Princess go off on her own. That Nyx’s stupid plan had gotten him killed. Why why why! Why was that fair? Why didn’t Nyx die too? Nyx would collapse then, his body failing to cooperate with him as it did when he was awake. He burned. He hurt. He screamed . The hallway kept stretching, and he could do nothing but watch helplessly as the exit got further and further out of reach.
He dreamt of Drautos and of Glauca. Of two separate entities and of one. It was Glauca’s armored hand that clapped his shoulder and told him he did well that day in training. It was Drautos that speared the king. It was of both Drautos and Glauca on either side of him, telling him how much better he’d do in Niflheim, how his talents were being wasted, how he could finally avenge Galahd, avenge Selena . If he hesitated too long his reignment would bleed into an outfit similar to Ravus’s. White and Red and everything he stood against. He’d stand before a battalion of MTs, watching as they lined up his loved ones and slaughtered them like animals, unable to stop them. If he said no, the spectres would hiss and disappear. Nyx would blink and suddenly his lungs were filled with smoke and his ears rang with the sounds of gunshots and screams. He was in two places at once, both in the midst of war. Both falling. He watched helplessly as both Insomnia and Galahd burned. He watched Selena drag his mother away from the Citadel, only to be shot down on the beach they played on as children, his mother shot in front of his apartment complex as she cried over her corpse. Drautos would appear again, standing by his side like a statue as they watched Nyx’s homes burn, watched as innocents were murdered, watched as each member of Nyx’s found family was stabbed in the back by MTs wearing his purple sash. With Glauca’s voice, he told Nyx ‘This is all your doing.’
The worst were the dreams of Cor. Cor who had been on security detail at the Citadel. Cor who lived and breathed to protect his dear friend and King. Cor who hadn’t been by Regis’s side when Nyx found him. Cor who hadn’t called before Nyx’s phone melted in his pocket. Cor who wasn’t actually immortal, despite his moniker. He dreamed of their cozy flat, of laying on the soft foam mattress that Cor just had to have with his chest flush against the Marshal’s back. He’d be cold. Too cold with how hot Cor’s body temperature usually ran. The man wasn’t moving-but he slept like the dead so that was nothing new. What was new was the cool puddle of something on the mattress below Cor’s chest. Try as he might though, Nyx couldn’t get his body to move beyond tightening the arm around Cor’s middle and burying his nose in the cool flesh between the older man’s shoulder blades. Was this dream Cor alive or dead? He did not know. Just as he did not know the fate of the real Cor. Unlike his other dreams, Cor did not speak. He made no sound. No movement. It was maddening. And all Nyx could do was lay there, holding his beloved until Lib pulled him away from his dreams.
He never told Lib about the dreams. When asked he’d shrug and say he didn’t remember them. Lib never bought it, but never pushed the subject either.
*
Days passed.
Nyx’s injuries slowly healed, the external ones anyway. His cuts and burns had scabbed over, the skin tight and uncomfortable and fucking itchy since the scabs had yet to fall off. Lib smacked his (slightly) less scarred hand more times than he could count for trying to scratch his wounds.
Other than regaining a little more mobility in his neck and leg, there was a frustrating lack of progress. Six, he needed to see an actual doctor and soon as Lib secured them a ride. He was going to need physical therapy, a shit ton of it if he was going to be anywhere close to where he was before.
If he was even able to use his arm again.
(But that was a thought for another day.)
*
On the day that Lib managed to pry off his cast, Miss Cindy was at their door bright and early, banging on the wood like she had a daemon on her heels.
“Mornin’ Mister Ostium! There’s someone who I think ya need to see.” Confused, Lib left the safety of their little room with a soft ‘I’ll be back, I guess’, awkwardly walking behind Miss Cindy as he got used to the sensation of being on two legs again.
Nyx was alone. For the first time since Lib hauled his ass out of the city, Nyx was actually alone.
Alone was not a good place to be when one harbored the so much death on their shoulders.
The dead crept out of the shadows, calling out to him with voices that mingled with the Kings of Olde.
Why
Your fault
You deserve this
Join us
Too weak
Whywhywhy
Their faces were dark and indistinguishable. But Nyx knew his friends and family and every other important person well enough to recognize them by silhouettes alone. Everyone he cared about, everyone he killed, stood against the walls, reaching out to him with near skeletal arms.
The Astrals were wrong
You aren’t worthy
You aren’t worth anything
I should have left you in Galahd
A hand, warm and roug, cradled the side of his face, tenderly thumbing the burnt flesh under his eye as his mother’s voice told him what a disappointment he became.
Cor was there, which wasn’t as odd as it should have been. What was odd was that the man was up in his face- had a face.
He was crying.
Nyx could count on zero hands the amount of times he’d seen his lover cry. The sight was so impossibly wrong that it couldn’t be real. “I...think you sprung a leak, Marshal.” He croaked. A joke was expected of him. He was the cocky asshole with a quip always at the ready. That was normal.
Real Cor would have let out a deep chuckle (or a groan, it was a fifty-fifty toss up) that would have set Nyx ablaze in all the right ways. Real Cor would call him an idiot before kissing his burns. Real Cor would make things better, because that’s what he did.
This Cor did none of those things.
This Cor made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a wounded animal. This Cor held his cheeks between both hands and sobbed. This Cor avoided his burns, treated him like glass.
“I thought you died, you fucking idiot.”
Oh…
This Cor was real.
“I saw you fight Drautos-I saw his corpse but not yours...I thought...then I get a call from Cid of all people, telling me that he’s got a couple of mangled Glaives holed up in his broom closet ...Six Nyx...I don’t...” Don’t know how to use words, apparently. Instead of finishing his thought, his lover smashed their lips together, kissing him in a way that he never had before. Demanding. Reverently. Full of soft, vulnerable noises and pleased sighs. Like Nyx’s injuries weren’t so dire in that moment because apparently the euphoric surprise of ‘holy shit, you’re alive!’ far outweighed the horrified surprise of ‘holy shit, you’ve been disfigured!’. Who knew.
They pulled apart slowly, linked by a string of saliva.
“Oh...I...I can’t move my arm.” Nyx said dumbly, as if revealing that fact aloud would somehow change the Marshal’s opinion of him.
It did not.
“I’d be surprised if you could, after everything.” Cor ran the pads of his fingers along the scabs. “You look like shit.”
“I don-”
“You. Do.” The man sighed. “But you’ve made it this long without proper medical treatment, so it must not be that bad...did you give him hell?”
“Of course I did.” Nyx replied, tired and not nearly as offended as he would have been in any other situation.
“Good.”
Then Cor’s lips were everywhere. Kissing every bruise and scab and burn with chapped lips that left tingles in their wake. In that moment, everything was back to normal.
For the first time since Insomnia, Nyx felt okay.
“I’m not leaving your side again. You might actually get yourself killed next time.”
The dead slunk back into the shadows.
“Oh no, sounds like a nightmare.” Nyx grinned.
Cor, in typical ‘exasperated boyfriend’ fashion, rolled his eyes. “You’re stuck with me, Ulric. Now go to sleep or you’ll never get better.” The order, for it was nothing but when coming from Cor Leonis, held so much more that was left unsaid.
You’ll get better
I’m here, I’m safe
I won’t leave you
We’ll get through this
I’m so happy you’re alive
Everything will get better
For the first time since Insomnia, Nyx closed his eyes and found dreams that weren’t plagued by death and guilt.
Because if Cor said that things would be okay, then Nyx believed him.