After the first shock gradually grows as distant as the not-quite-pain, the tension in his chest actually eases a bit - or at least it feels a bit less acute - as relief replaces his initial reaction. He doesn't want to be alone; he just also doesn't want the nurses there, doesn't want them to fuss and prod and admonish and explain. He already understands all too well what had happened, and he doesn't need blunt instruments widening that particular wound any more.
He's not going to be able to dance until his foot heals. He's going to be lagging behind even more now. And worst of all, it's all his own fault.
Desperate for something to distract himself with, he takes in the scrawny creature perched like a bird ready for flight on the other bed, and he recognizes him. Not the face or the person - at least, he thinks he doesn't? - but his own reflection not too many years ago. The way the white squares of light seems to eat into your flesh and steal your warmth, the tubes creeping under your skin when you're not watching, the needles that turn up to sap your blood like insects, the hands that move you around to do this and that, leaving the scent of rubber like bruises all over. In the end you feel like you're a cancer in the smooth, clean body of the hospital, white blood cells with pale faces and blank eyes descending on you again and again, trying to fix you.
"I'm glad you're awake too." His voice doesn't sound right, and his throat hurts. There's been tubes down it earlier, to try to get more oxygen down into his feeble lungs, and the shape they left behind when they were yanked out again makes it hard to speak. "They must be pretty crowded right now, huh? They usually wouldn't put me with chronic-" And there his throat feels like it's ripping like soggy paper, and the dry and relentless cough can't quite fill up the empty space in the conversation, as offbeat and desultory as it sounds. He blinks, his tearing eyes fixed on the oxygen meter, fighting for breath before the red number drops too low and gives him away. No such luck, and the whine of it starts up just before he finally manages to pull some air down his lungs, but thankfully it's close enough to reach and he knows how to reset it. If he's lucky, the night nurses are tired - they usually are - and might not have noticed.
"I haven't been on this floor in ages," he manages to croak, not wanting the conversation to be left to falter to the floor. "It's B18, isn't it?"
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He's not going to be able to dance until his foot heals. He's going to be lagging behind even more now. And worst of all, it's all his own fault.
Desperate for something to distract himself with, he takes in the scrawny creature perched like a bird ready for flight on the other bed, and he recognizes him. Not the face or the person - at least, he thinks he doesn't? - but his own reflection not too many years ago. The way the white squares of light seems to eat into your flesh and steal your warmth, the tubes creeping under your skin when you're not watching, the needles that turn up to sap your blood like insects, the hands that move you around to do this and that, leaving the scent of rubber like bruises all over. In the end you feel like you're a cancer in the smooth, clean body of the hospital, white blood cells with pale faces and blank eyes descending on you again and again, trying to fix you.
"I'm glad you're awake too." His voice doesn't sound right, and his throat hurts. There's been tubes down it earlier, to try to get more oxygen down into his feeble lungs, and the shape they left behind when they were yanked out again makes it hard to speak. "They must be pretty crowded right now, huh? They usually wouldn't put me with chronic-" And there his throat feels like it's ripping like soggy paper, and the dry and relentless cough can't quite fill up the empty space in the conversation, as offbeat and desultory as it sounds. He blinks, his tearing eyes fixed on the oxygen meter, fighting for breath before the red number drops too low and gives him away. No such luck, and the whine of it starts up just before he finally manages to pull some air down his lungs, but thankfully it's close enough to reach and he knows how to reset it. If he's lucky, the night nurses are tired - they usually are - and might not have noticed.
"I haven't been on this floor in ages," he manages to croak, not wanting the conversation to be left to falter to the floor. "It's B18, isn't it?"