Author's Note: So. I have a number of unfinished fics in my docs, some that have been there for over a year. No, that is not an exaggeration. I also have homework and work-work and cleaning to do. Given that scenario, I should not be doing what I'm doing. Which is writing yet another new crap right here, right now. Why?
Well. To be honest, I'm just unreasonably ecstatic that it's canon Lysander gets hit by a car. I know, I'm a horrible person. I can't defend myself. Not like I haven't done worse to him in AUs and my own BS anyway, but this is a nifty sandbox I didn't have to build myself and I like playing in it. After requests and gift-fics, I've grown fond of LysNate. Particularly unrequited LysNate.
So here's this. It's crap. Bland, dry, ugly, mediocre, disjointed crap. Just crappy all around, y'know. Tasteless and displaced. Also, an alternate scenario following asw (256). Cause that with other tie-ins ends the way asPen craYons does. So this is like, a different tie-in? Diverged roads thing? I dunno dudes. It's whatever.
Nathaniel hesitates when he reaches the threshold and adjusts his grip around the pot in his hand, re-lacing his fingers. He turns on his heel and walks down to the end of the room. A few people pass in the hall, most walking too briskly with urgencies and priorities in mind to pay him any attention. One woman in scrubs raises a brow at him but continues on her way all the same.
Sweat trickles down Nathaniel's neck to cool on his collar, collects between his fingers and creates minute canals along the lines of his palm. It makes the pot more difficult to hold. He could go in and set it down, right? That's what he came to do. But now that he's here he is suddenly perplexed as to how he ever could have thought this was even a reasonable idea, let alone a good one.
He shuffles his feet and wheels around again, pacing back to the end of the wall before the door and rounding once more just to end up back at the final panel of the window. He's thankful the eggshell shades are drawn closed, protecting his embarrassing display. He should go home. He knows he should go home. This was a terrible idea, he can feel the regret like an anchor in his stomach. Yet...
Looking down anxiously at the cactus, Nathaniel begins pacing again.
He should go home. He does't have any business here.
He shouldn't go home. He's already made the trip.
He should go home. He doesn't know what to say.
He shouldn't go home. The least he can do is offer a gift.
He should go home. He can send a card in the mail.
"Nathaniel, what are you doing?" Lysander's question hangs clear in the air, spoken plainly but chipped with reservation.
Nathaniel halts abruptly.
"I know you're there. You might as well come in."
Gulping uneasily, Nathaniel lets go of a deep breath and awkwardly trots to the doorway, poking his head in. "I, uh...Well, hi."
"Hello," Lysander greets, civil though Nathaniel can still feel the frost.
He doesn't look too bad. Theres a bandage wound around his temples and butterfly strips over his cheek, one arm in a sling. His gaze is tired and already done with Nathaniel's presence, but thankfully focused and alert. It's still a little unnerving to see him in a hospital bed.
Tentatively, Nathaniel steps inside. "How long have you known I was here?"
"Since you got here. I would've invited you in earlier, but watching you was more entertaining than the infomercial." Lysander nods to the television in the corner, a 1-800 number flashing under some high-tech blender.
"Oh," Nathaniel says, the heat in his cheeks turning up a dial. "Why don't you change the channel?"
"The remote is dead."
"Oh," Nathaniel says again. He hasn't felt this ineloquent since that absurd, impulsive almost-confession that prompted him to draw away in the first place.
"Is that cactus for me?" Lysander asks with a glance to it, lips fit neutrally.
"Yes." Nathaniel holds it out to him and then immediately realizes how idiotic that is, quickly whipping around as chili peppers tingle under his skin. He awkwardly putters until he spots a table with some cards and a bouquet of flowers that puts his own token of well wishes to shame. He hurriedly sets the cactus pot down and the offhand disruption sends the pollen fluttering up.
The insidious whiff tempts a sneeze and then Nathaniel's allergies are suddenly in overdrive. He can't stop the fit of sneezing that follows, even as he stumbles away from the flowers as quickly as he can manage with his eyes welling up and his elbow snapped around his nose. He trips back over one of the provided plastic chairs for visitors and ends up sprawled like a deformed starfish.
"Are you alright?" Lysander asks calmly, peering down at him from over the edge of the bed.
Nathaniel averts his eyes. He's not alright. He's on his back on a floor that smells like antiseptic and he's streaming snot and tears before his unbeknownst beautiful undoing, whom he still wants to look respectable in front of even if that's never going to go anywhere or mean anything. Coming here was certainly a mistake that the universe is trying to rub in his face.
"I should ask you that," Nathaniel says as he rolls over and gets to his feet. He has to snort up some mucus and it's absolutely disgusting and crude in every way, but he didn't think to bring any tissue or meds with him. "How are you feeling?"
Lysander reaches over to the windowsill with his good arm and plucks a tissue box Nathaniel wishes for the life of him that he'd noticed five seconds ago. He holds it out and Nathaniel furiously yanks out handfuls, careful as ever to keep their fingers from touching.
"I feel like I got hit by a car," murmurs Lysander, deflating back against the mattress like the tissue retrieval took a lot out of him.
Nathaniel mops and blows his nose, then gives a sympathetic nod. There's a trash can under a glove dispenser and he tosses the used tissues in there before using the similarly built sanitizer dispenser less than a meter away.
"You're okay though, right?"
"I'll heal," Lysander hums. "I'm not in any danger. Though to be frank, I wasn't aware you cared."
Nathaniel flinches guiltily. More than you know, he thinks but can't say.
"Did you bring me schoolwork?"
"No, just the cactus. If you don't like cacti I can get you something different." Nathaniel tugs at his collar.
"The cactus is fine, Nathaniel." Lysander sighs and winces slightly.
Nathaniel wonders if it's his ribs. He knows that pain, he's had them broken by his father and bruised in boxing multiple times. He timidly takes a couple steps closer to the bed, sniffling as quietly as possible. It's better now that he's away from the bouquet but he's still mildly congested from the fit. And his eyes hurt. He's not sure the allergies are completely responsible for that, however.
"I heard your father's not well," he says softly.
Lysander shoots Nathaniel a reprimanding stare that prompts him to lower his eyes. "That's for me to discuss with my friends if I so choose. As I recall, you don't want to talk to me anymore anyway."
Nathaniel bites into his lip, the pain in his eyes a positive burning now. His tongue stings with words he knows are better left to the private destructive that burrows in his heart.
"You want me to go?" He guesses, believing it's a pointless question that answered itself before he even arrived.
"I'd rather have an explanation," Lysander proposes. "Since you've decided to talk to me after all."
Nathaniel looks to him and tugs his collar again as his chest tenses, fishing for another explanation, any other explanation. It isn't hard. He's a formidable liar and this one isn't even a pure falsehood through and through. He stiffly seats himself in the plastic chair beside the bed and grips his knees.
"I thought you figured out my home situation," Nathaniel gets out with a discomfort that's genuine, at the least. "I was worried you'd say something...Lynn ended up doing that anyway."
"And it still took getting hit by a car for you to approach me after the fact," Lysander concludes with a tad of disapproval.
"I was embarrassed," Nathaniel sighs and no, no this doesn't feel terribly unlike reality at all, even if the patchwork is in the wrong places.
"I'd had an idea," Lysander admits as he sizes him up with softer eyes. "You weren't wrong."
"I'm sorry," Nathaniel murmurs wearily.
He has no idea what excuse he's going to have to come up with when he resumes avoiding him. And he has to resume avoiding him, doesn't he? He'd be presumptuous to assume Lysander wants to be friends again anyway, so maybe he's over-thinking it. But then, he's losing his touch at keeping people out. They keep slipping into his space one after the other, taking up his time, showing him things, including him.
Lynn's closer than ever. Armin keeps dropping buy unannounced with comics and movies. Kim's got him back in the ring and keeps bugging him to try out aikido. He isn't so opposed to it anymore. It's almost reassuring sometimes even if it can be overwhelming at others. He's coming into it. He's growing malleable, opening up bit by bit and actually feeling like it's okay.
But not everything needs to be opened up. It's still probably easier to keep Lysander on the perimeter. Keep his feelings on a tighter leash, give them less opportunity to bloom into the fireworks he feels even now meeting such a wonderfully unique set of eyes, so depthless they could hold every sea monster Nathaniel disbelieves in and has firmly battled Armin's theories on.
"How are you doing?" Lysander asks.
"Fine," Nathaniel says, leaning forward a bit. "White had a growth spurt. I bought a harness for her so I can take her for walks."
"I don't think I've ever seen anyone take a cat for a walk before." Lysander tips his head curiously.
"I'm apprehensive about letting her outdoors alone. I wouldn't want her to get mistaken for a stray or well, get...hit by a car."
An amused chuckle rolls past Lysander's lips and then ends in a small, unintended noise of pain.
Nathaniel startles, jerking up straighter. "Hey, are you okay?"
"Fine," Lysander hisses through his teeth. "It's not serious, it just hurts when I laugh. Or when I move. Or when I breathe."
"Broke your ribs?" Nathaniel voices his guess aloud.
"Two," Lysander confirms. "Another three are just cracked."
"Can I do anything? Should I get someone? Do you have pills? Want me to move your pillow?"
"Slow down," Lysander tells him with a gentle huff of mild incredulity. "I'm recovering from a concussion. Please refrain from bombarding me like that."
"I'm sorry," Nathaniel apologizes for the second time today, fidgeting in his seat. He's uneasy when he doesn't know what to do with himself, especially in Lysander's presence.
"However," Lysander continues thoughtfully. "If you're that eager to do something for me, you could manually change the channel to something enjoyable. And then you could stay and watch it with me because to tell you the truth, I've rather missed your company."
Nathaniel's heart twangs and in an instant he's flooded by fondness so fervid it takes all he has not to reach over and hug him.
"I missed you too," tumbles off his tongue with less restraint.
Lysander smiles and for the moment, Nathaniel does not give a single shit that he doesn't get to taste that smile, or wrap him up in an embrace, or kiss up the column of that lovely throat. He's just relieved that Lysander is here, that he's forgiven him, and that he gets to spend the day next to him, listening to him breathe and sharing a peaceful afternoon.
This is probably a fucking bus of typos. Good lord. I think I've somehow regressed, even.