AN: A prompt for Tumblr that went a bit longer than most of the other stories in here. This one has a graphic trigger warning as it goes into some gory-ness but not horribly detailed. I got the OTP prompt 'reacting to the other crying about something' and decided to make it darker than my other tumblr prompts. I'm pretty proud of this one also, so please enjoy!

They lost everyone. He lost everyone, all of his friends, dead. Henri, The other Garde, the humans, they were practically all gone. Each and every one of them were taken.

Just about.

It was soon to be all of them. Crimson ichor covered the last standing Garde's shaky, pale hands as he gritted his teeth and forced his copy legacy to connect with his companion's gaping wounds. There was so much blood, almost too much for his mimicked repairing legacy. If only he were as skilled as Marina had been at this. If only he wasn't meant to be such a copycat, a placeholder. He pushed harder, reaching with his energy for the raw siding of tan skin to pair together, anything to spare him some time to finish the healing process. But, for one of the first times since that fated summer back in Paradise, he felt pure heat eating away at his fingertips. He was burned out, almost extinguished entirely, and if he pushed any further he would probably pass out.

He would lose Nine too. He was going to lose him. The single fear weighed against him like the entire world had toppled on top of him. John squeezed his eyes shut and pushed again, biting back sounds of pain from the immediate agony in his hands. When the boy opened his eyes, he could see his vision start to darken. Everything hurt, from his hands and his wounds to every piece of his shattered heart. Every piece felt as though it flew by, almost as though each shard cut him somewhere inside. Every bit, every sting was a representation of a lost friend, all bringing back the good memories. Sarah's beauty, Sam's humor, BK's loyalty. Adam's hope, Marina's kindness, Six's strength. Ella's determination, Eight's selflessness, Five's return. Daniela's ambition, Malcolm's knowledge, Henri's wisdom.

Then Nine. Just Nine. There was a lot of words that could partially but not fully describe Nine. John couldn't think of a single quality of him that he would never forget. He knew there were many since this after all was the ill tempered, irrational, frustrating Garde John spent more time slapping his face over than actually supporting. But still, nothing. Nine had so many qualities; it was hard to tell the right from the wrong. His eyes stung and produced a single tear.

Next to Sam, this dying alien has been one of John's closest friends, and he couldn't even think of a single redeeming quality he possessed. His scorched hands were muddied with Nine's scarlet blood, a sickening reminder that he couldn't fabricate something. Here they were though John was no stranger to healing Nine. He knew Nine's tolerance for pain was high when he had casually held out a swollen, shattered hand to be mended back at the Chicago penthouse a night only weeks ago now. He remembered the anxiety of seeing his friend broken, possibly dying, at the feet of Number Five and having to carefully restore every broken bone and bloodied muscle. He reimagined the cruel decision he had to make to save not only Nine but Five's life as well; the choice that almost lost him that close friend. He could practically feel the concentration it took to heal Nine's head, the heavy exhaustion even the small scrapes brought because all of his effort had been directed to finding the missing Garde in the first place. More tears dropped. Tears of exhaustion, tears of anger. Tears of sadness. He didn't want to be beaten. Even if it was with his death, he could not stand to be defeated by Nine.

When the blood crusted skin finally felt as though it pulled a pinch with his power, John pushed again. Not like this. Not after everything was he going to lose Nine like this.

"Not like this." John mumbled to himself, "you've had worse, you're not going out like this, stay with me." The last part came out as a painful sob. John bit his lip to keep more pathetic sounds from escaping. Another cold tear dripped from him, this time onto his fallen friend. "Come on, dammit, stay with me."

He wasn't almost thrown off of the Chicago skyline for their friendship to end like this. He didn't spend the most painful but exhilarating twenty hours of his life in a car with the bastard weeks ago just for the same one to die in his arms like this. The deep talks that fell so far into Nine's hidden darkness that would encircle back to the empty arguments and stupid side remarks about Sarah and Six.

A sudden lightweight on his knuckles, soft as a feather, pulled him from his dull memories. His eyes shot wide open to see a bruised, tan hand draped delicately over his as they remained pressed against the gaping injury. His stomach felt as though it dropped out of him entirely. He tried to look off but felt his legacy begin to lessen then immediately refocused. Nine was awake and John was too scared to face his patient, it could cost him a life. It would also cost him his pride.

But Nine was alive.

"Don't ruin my perfect form."

Nine's voice shook with his stupid barb. John was almost overcome with the need to punch him square in the mouth. Here he was, so close to losing the only remaining friend he had left, covered in blood and sweat, and that was the awaited reply he got. The joke was just so… Nine to say that it was almost unbelievable. He hated the blissful relief that flooded him. Tears leaked and fell harder and a sob escaped. Under his fizzing power source, Nine's wounds finally felt as though they were closing. John hadn't realized how long he was sitting here, that he actually had enough energy to save him. He pulls his hands back, his Ximic quietly dying at his fingertips; he never thought he would consider a moment of powerlessness also being a time of relief.

Nine laughs weakly. He tries to sit up but John leans forward and lightly holds him back. His eyes wide in slight panic, quickly examining the tan skin that mere moments ago was pouring red. "Really, Mom?"

"You should take it easy, I really don't know how well I healed you." John stutters and meets his friend's dark eyes. No going back now. Nine cocks an eyebrow. "What, what's wrong with you now." John immediately snaps, turning his gaze away so his red, swollen eyes were tucked from sight.

"You really were… crying, huh." His friend replied carefully.

"I… Well…" John was embarrassed, so embarrassed that he swore he felt real heat rising in his cheeks. He frowned and turned back to see Nine sitting up, an elbow resting against his knee. His dark blue eyes were lost in something, and a small frown pulled at his lips. "Seriously, what."

"It's just odd." Nine shrugged.

"Odd?"

"You're always the 'let's go fuck shit up but on my mark and with your helmet' friend, not the one who gets teary eyed over a little blood. It just seems wrong."

"Everything is wrong." John replies heavily, dropping his gaze to his hands. The pale skin was cracked and caked with a mix of fresh red and dry brown blood. It made him want to vomit.

"'Suppose you're right." Beat. Then, John felt his mass suddenly pull forward and into a tight embrace. Just something else to add to the list of wrongs was his immoral friend giving him a hug. A close, almost warm hug, one he would have given to Sarah when they would have reunited. Did he hug back or would that make this even worse?

"Thanks Johnny."

"For... what?"

"Just… Thanks for still being here, alright? Don't make this weird." Nine broke their hug and looked away.

A word popped into John's head. The word he had missed earlier, he finally thought of one.

'Balance.'

In the end, when it was just the two of them left, there was balance. They equaled the other out.