AR∀GO belongs to Arai Takahiro. I just lost my life to it.
He woke up to pained hisses.
The world was still dark outside his eyelids- he rarely woke these days without a sliver of light making his vision reddish. So it felt weird when he opened his heavy lids to see Oz curled up on the other side of the bed, hand clutching the amputated leg as he let out a groan through gritted teeth.
"Oz?"
"Go back to sleep, Seth." The words prompted him to push himself into a sitting position, and Seth looked over Oz in bewilderment.
"Are you hurt?" A careful, controlled exhale. "Is there someone I should call?"
He received no reply. It only cemented the belief that he had to do something, though, and so Seth grabbed Oz's shoulder and pulled him back, trying to get a look on his face. The strewn red locks clung to his skin, thanks to sweat, and it was a stark contrast to his paling skin. His eyes were shut tight, and Seth clicked his tongue before brushing Oz's hair back and getting off the bed.
"I'm just going to see what can be done," he said. He fetched his laptop and quickly ran through health websites, absently rubbing the amputated leg with his other hand. Oz's breathing started to even out then, the pained, heavy gasps returning to slightly shaky inhales. When Seth glanced at him, his tired, half lidded gaze met his. Seth continued the mild massage. "Do you want ibuprofen?"
Oz nodded.
Seth got up and went to get it. He absently rubbed a sore area on his arm, wondering whether he bumped into something in his sleep. But the sleepy thought was tuned out as the tentative chirps of birds started to pierce the air, as if breaking night's hold to make way for dawn. Seth brought back a glass of water and the pills.
"Does it hurt often?" The softness and warmth of the bed was enticing, far more than the cold haze of the morning after rain. Oz swallowed the pain killers and buried himself in the covers, looking like a child trying to avoid a talk. Though sleep tempted him, Seth persisted. "Do you ever do anything about it?"
Oz grunted. Seth looked at him with raised eyebrows.
"It's not something they could surgically remove." Oz relented after a minute of stares. "It's not that common."
"I see." It was kind of satisfying, prying it out of him.
Seth knew a closed off person when he saw one. Perhaps it had always been this way, but Oz's battle style was familiar. A lot of talking: diversion, distraction. Manipulation. People with hearts on their sleeves, like Arago, could never pull off such a thing. What Oz felt didn't matter- what he showed were things hr wanted to show, what he wanted them to see.
This show of vulnerability was accidental, Seth realised. And Oz didn't like that.
"Does the nurse staying with you know?"
"Yes." Seth raised an eyebrow at the clipped reply, nuzzling into his covers.
"And your students?"
Oz turned away from him. "It's none of their problem."
Seth chortled. He expected such a reply, after all. But he kept his attention on the limb, noting the way that it was somewhat thinner, softer than he remembered. Not that he saw it before yesterday, but he was certain that he at least fit his trousers instead of it hanging loose. It's understandable, Seth knew. But he knew that despite last night, the problems lingered.
"They wouldn't understand," Seth murmured. "They haven't lived through a quarter of your life."
Oz stiffened, curling closer to himself. Seth turned to face his back, eyes tracing the crisscross of scars and marks on his skin. He wanted to trace them, if he was honest to himself- they trailed like a web, some almost invisible while the others stood out as marks of a survivor. He hadn't had a close look at them last night. Now he wanted to- he wanted to trace them with his fingers, to feel the bumps and sensitive skin and to sleep to Oz's soft stories.
"They don't know how much your purpose means to you. They guess, but it's your life. You protect. This loss, it just signifies the person you couldn't be anymore. If they knew your limbs hurt after amputation, if the signs of amputated limbs manifest, it's all too real. You can't be Oswell Miller anymore."
The stiff, broad shoulders shook, but Seth wasn't done. "You don't know who else to be; you were always Oz. But Oz is intertwined with Albion, with protecting England. God's Power. If you can't protect with all your power, you're not Albion. You then can't be Oz. But then who can you be?"
A choked sob stifled on the pillow.
"Your identity isn't your occupation, Oz. You live to protect, but you- you're a good liar, a good thinker; an intellect, full of scathing witty statements and sarcastic comments. You hide feelings and hints of suicidal thoughts, but you laugh hard too. You do what you can. You are who your history, biology make you. These are all you, not Albion the organization, the soldiers and the purpose."
He could hear the whimpers between the sobs. They were long, thin sounds- a bit high pitched, pitiful. They reminded him of a child's cry, of someone who wanted attention because it hurt but not wanting to ask for help either. His body shook now, trembling from the pent up grief finally freed, and Seth watched him.
The few information he gleaned pointed to this, and it seemed they were true. He didn't say anything anymore: nothing would be sufficient. To think this all stemmed from amputated limb pain.
"I-" Oz choked out. "I try- can't - it feels so hard to get out of bed sometimes." Sobs wrecked the sentence apart, and it only broke.
"Oz from Albion needed to be confident. Albion is calm, collected. Any other is not worthy." There was a frail calmness in his voice, like a recitation, an image that was breaking.
Seth wrapped his arm around Oz.
He knew nothing of a life like this. He did not grow up to protect, did not live to sacrifice his life, to have it drilled as normalcy and even honour ever since he was small. There were complexity in such emotions that he could not imagine. He knew vague wisps from trained empathy. It hit the mark, but Seth couldn't hope to understand the depth of the wound.
"They're all dead..."
It was not a grief for poetry. Poetry was vibrant dark shades- despair was dead, black. But it gave Seth an image: The lamb misused breeds public strife / And yet forgives the butcher's knife. Living it his whole life, Oz didn't see why it was a problem. For him, it was just how things were. The helpless acceptance hurt him, but he didn't know why he felt so unfulfilled. His conscience were questioning the deaths, asking why he should accept them, but his mind was firmly ingrained with the seeds of thought Albion planted in it. Seth held him tighter.
Oz turned around, burying his face in Seth's shoulder. His tears soaked the fabric, creating a wet patch that pressed against his skin. He held him as the sun rose and rose. A lifetime of scars take a lifetime to heal.
A/N: The start of the long tumble down Oz angst.
When I say start, it's really going to be a long thing.
Not in this series, though.
This series is just Seth, Oz, and trying to live.