Laying on the cot, feverish, covered in damp sweat, Jack looked up with gleaming eyes, seeing,
Observing a figure crouched above, a cool cloth brushing over his forehead, the look in the man's eyes
Rough, angered, worrisome, full of swallowed wrath towards the invisible opponent, Death itself which
Dangled, like Occam's Sword over Jack's throat, while Will refused to give up, fought with his heart,
Healing, caring, holding Jack's soul in his hands with each rasping breath Jack took, his gaze looking
Eerily through Will. Through his heart and into the core of his entire being. What Jack, in his haze, saw.
Left a mark in his own soul. The shard of the shattered mast delved deep into his chest mattered none,
Lost its grasp on Jack's life, when the force of Will pushed through, reaching, holding, cradling Jack
Each relentless heartbeat pulling Jack into the world of the living, into the world in which Will waited.
Breast heaving, Jack's eyes focused on the dark ones which had hardly blinked in a fortnight. Beautiful.
On the damp cot in the stale cabin, Will brought a mug to Jack's dried lips, and he drank thirstily.
Relieved, free of danger, Will held his love's hand, his heart, his breath through the tendrils of death
Evermore. From the day they met, he swore, 'till the final day, the day the world was no more.