Notes: Forgot to update this thing. Oh well. Here, have your fluff.
Breaking Point
Ch. 2 Heartbeat
Sonic is battered, has bruises, a few burns, and a sprained ankle because of course he does—only Sonic would run on a sprain. So, he's sequestered to the medbay, ordered not to move all night, plugged into an IV because he's dehydrated, and they hook a heart monitor to him too. That last bit is overkill and Knuckles is absolutely sure it's so they can keep track of him. If he suddenly flat lines, it's because he got his little blue ass up and walked (limped) out.
Knuckles busies himself for the rest of the evening, coordinating supplies and making sure Tails stays out of the doctors' way, but eventually even he has to turn in for sleep. He rolls around for a few hours, but decides to give up at midnight, slides out of bed, leaves his small room—one of hundreds in the bunker, not the biggest but decently sized—and walks on autopilot all the way to the medbay.
Medbay is the only place in the bunker with carpet, windows, and wooden doors. Everywhere else is metal, metal, and more metal, so much so that Knuckles dreams in the echoes of footsteps, the tang of it on his tongue. It'll be nice to have other things to dream about once this is all over.
Sonic's the only one occupying a bed currently because it's been thirty-seven days since their last incident (as the readout in command says, though it's said that for a few days so it might be broken). He's got the best bed, by default, or maybe not, he thinks as he sees the nurses peering at him from their small, shared office. Dr. Lark is in there too and she's trying to keep her staff under control, but Sonic is too enticing, too distracting.
Knuckles is waved through easily enough and he pulls the curtain around Sonic's bed as he goes, blocking the disruption so that medical can function as it normally does. Plus, he wants privacy.
"You're abusing your power, General," Sonic cracks, sleepy, looking warm and mussed from a nap. He's got the thin, rough blanket pulled up to his chin, and he scoots over easily, pats the bed next to him with the IV'd hand. The heart monitor speeds up some as he moves (or maybe it's in reaction to Knuckles; Sonic's face isn't telling), but settles down easily enough. Knuckles seats himself tenderly, facing Sonic, one leg curled under him, the other hanging free to swing along with the beat of Sonic's life.
They sit there for a while, not a sound between them. Sonic breathes deliberate breaths, reaches for Knuckles's hand, aborts that, lets his hand fall back into his own lap because the IV, and starts to pull at the threads of the blanket. Knuckles can't get his own muscles to move, can only stare because there's a heavy tension between them, a pulling gravity that finds them caught, wide eyed.
Here's another thing Knuckles won't admit: he's bad at words, just like Sonic. They'd both rather use actions to communicate, but there's no dynamic acts of love, no dramatic declaration to be found here. Sonic went missing, the world set itself on fire, and Knuckles is trying to hold it all together. They're both tired of grand gestures, of declarations, of possible implosions. Knuckles isn't even sure if Sonic shares his feelings, but he doesn't have the strength to ask because doing that will just acknowledge it.
There's no words, no actions that will suffice, because Eggman has sucked all life and color out of the world. The small things that used to matter—their arguments over which fruit was the best, Sonic complaining about Knuckles's habit of leaving lights on, their small misunderstandings—don't matter anymore. All that's left is the two of them, strung together by a thin line, Sonic to Knuckles, Knuckles to Sonic—
There's only one thing to do, really.
Eventually, Knuckles gets his hand to work. He picks it up, and it feels like it's detached from his being, a phantom limb, but he guides it to Sonic's head, where one of his quills is still sticking up, unruly from whatever Sonic went through before this.
Knuckles sets the quill back into place, smooths it down, and Sonic is staring at him, unblinking, eyes as wide as the full moon. He mouths something, something like Please, and that increases the gravity. Suddenly, with Knuckles's hand on Sonic's head, Sonic weakened by his own desperation, and the unsaid plea, they become two gravity-bound star systems, spinning toward each other at terminal velocity. There's no stopping it as Knuckles follows his hand, drops down, and blazes a kiss on Sonic's chapped, dry lips.
The heart monitor plays a staccato drum solo.
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