“You look like the definition of absolute shit. Do yourself a favor, if you pass any mirrors try not to look.”
“Gee, Lyt. Thanks. You’re a real friend.”
She released a small huff of a laugh with her even smaller smile, but it was a start.
“Friend,” she said. “I’ve never had one of those.”
“Well, I feel lucky to be the first. And friends,” he sighed, “aren’t supposed to hurt friends. I’m sorry for grabbing you. This part of me I can’t control - it’s…” he hesitated. “It’s dangerous.”
She chuckled and looked at her scarred body pointedly. “Do I look like I’m afraid of dangerous men?”
She was trying to make him feel better, he knew, but he didn’t want to become a story written on her body.
“Brooks?” She asked in a low, weary voice. “Do you remember talking to anyone in your dream?”
Confused, he glanced up at her. She looked cautious, unsure if her questions would throw him back into the mania. As if his mental state were so fragile right now that one wrong word would be his undoing.
“No,” he lied.
The look in her eyes confirmed she didn’t believe him but, in some unspoken miracle, decided not to push it.
“Are you okay? I can get you some water?”
“It’s okay, Lytta. I just need some rest.” It only took one quick glance at his surroundings to confirm where he was– the infirmary.
Fucking great.
If the steam room didn’t seal his fate, this sure as fuck did.
“Brooks?”
He let out a long, exasperated breath through his nose. “Yes?”
After a moment of silence he opened his eyes toward Lytta. She was looking down at her hands, worrying her thumbs and lower lip.
Brooks took one of her hands into his own to stop her small act of self-harm and held it gently, but firmly. Her face was gaunt.
“What is it, Lyt?”
Her brows furrowed even further and she had to clear her throat after a false start. She brought her eyes up to meet his own and a crescent of silver lined the bottom of those glassy eyes.
A single tear fell, skimming her rosy cheek and landing in her lap. “Brooks, you’re… you…” she looked horrified. “I think you need to go to the restroom and look at yourself.”
“Why?”
“Come on, I’ll help you.”
She stood, threw a paranoid glance over her shoulder and turned the blankets down. He was wearing the issued blue and white, vertical striped cotton pajama bottoms, but had only just noticed that his torso was bare except for the bandages that wrapped almost every inch from sternum to wrist.
“What the–?”
“Come on.” She took him gently by the arm with both hands, supporting his stumbling body with her own.
As he walked he was suddenly glad for the trip to the bathroom. The weight in his bladder was a rapid growing pressure and the nausea from standing might make him sick at any moment.
When they reached the bathroom, he braced himself on the sink and felt Lytta move from his side to support his back. He looked up and grimaced.
His skin, which was normally a pale shade of olive, looked sickly and stretched thin over his bones. His nose was swollen, and either the bags under his eyes had become more severe over night or they were bruised. His black hair that was normally as soft and dark as a raven’s feather stuck out in odd angles with an arrangement of matted knots. The navy eyes staring back at him had never been vibrant, but they had never been that dull either.
