Hours later, Nathan Drake was pacing in the dewy grass outside a small cabin-house in the same Nepalese village he woke up in with Tenzin nearby, dried blood caking his jacket and hands. The muscles in his thighs and calves were quivering with exhaustion, he spent some time off his feet to rest at last but his anxiety was getting the better of him. Since he carried the unconscious Harry Flynn into the cabin from Sully's plane, a singular small one-floor residence undamaged by Lazarevic's rampage, he had no word or glance at Harry's condition at being ushered out for surgery. It was driving him absolutely crazy.
When they first arrived, the frost on the grass had just barely melted from the morning's early warning of winter. Chloe had waited with him for a two hours at the most, but the dried blood crusting her skin was too much for her and she retired for the day to clean up. Elena steered clear of Drake, oddly enough. Maybe it was the way he snapped at her earlier, but in the high stress moment, Nathan could not stand the thought of letting Flynn just slip away. Sully hung around for a little bit, but mostly mulled around the village when staying stationary proved too boring. When the tacky, crusty feeling on his hands got too troublesome, Nathan went to a well and scrubbed his hands good and raw until they were pink. He'd change his clothing later. Every time Nathan even so much as wandered off from eye-shot from the cabin, the restless, anxious nagging brought him immediately back. No, no, I have to stay. If Flynn dies while I'm off exploring, I'll never forgive myself.
Once, he found himself regretting how he handled things with Flynn. The guilt hung heavy on him like a sodden cloak, flipping through his journal as he sat cross-legged in the sun. I have no mention of him. Just his number. And I crossed that out after the museum. No photos. No sketches. Nothing. What would happen if he died? I have nothing to remember him by. I don't want to forget him. Nathan made the decision that when he was finally allowed in, he'd finally sketch Flynn. It would be hard to look at him with his injuries, to think of how he used to look before all this. He would have to try to replicate Flynn's exact features, without the worst of the wounds. He never kept many mementos, part of him wishes he did to remember the losses in his life. He long forgotten his own mother's face without so much as a photograph to look back on. It was a bitter truth. And Samuel? One picture when we were kids… but I hardly have much left of him. That's not fair. He's my brother, and I don't want to forget what he looked like.
Eventually, the exhaustion of his trials caught up with him, and Nathan Drake soon sat against the wall of the cabin directly beside the door. He had no idea how long he was sitting or when he dozed off, but when the door cracked open and spooked him, the setting evening sun was golden and low in the sky. The clouds were stunning shades of orange, purple, pink and blue, startling him again. What? We got here in the morning. Have they been working on Flynn all this time?
The doctor, looking every bit as weary as someone would after hours of high-tension surgery, came out in bloodied Tibetan robes. She spoke to him, unknowingly conversing with a foreigner that knew literally nothing about the language. He only nodded dumbly, peeking past her over her shoulder. Despite the language-barrier, his worried reaction was communication enough as she stepped outside and allowed him in as she passed. He did not wait for a second answer, Nathan already almost flew into the petite dwelling.
As he hardly was able to absorb before, Nathan Drake could see the single-room cabin was sparsely decorated with brightly coloured wooden furniture, assorted medical equipment and apparatuses scattered about. This must be their sick-room. A hospital maybe. There was a muted electronic beeping in a constant droning rhythm, an ancient heart-rate monitor set up beside the low-level bed. He had first lain Harry Flynn out on the table first as indicated for surgery, but now he was tucked in the bed with wool blankets and thick hide-furs tucked to his chin to keep him warm. Nathan saw there was a cushion-seat on the floor next to the bed, set aside for a visitor, and nearly collapsed into it.
Harry Flynn was not the same thief he was three months prior, not even the same as he was when Flynn first rolled out of his own bed that day (or yesterday? He could not remember). The nurses had filed out, wishing to give him privacy with his friend, leaving him feeling very much alone. And through all that time, they did not bother cleaning him up from the blood splotching Harry's skin like rusty-brown birthmarks. They were too busy saving his life, Nathan. Don't be an asshole. Harry's auburn hair usually was well-combed and orderly, but now it was clotted in clumps, erupting in shaggy tufts from layers of gauze that wrapped his head. Much to Drake's relief, his forehead was bandaged, no longer bearing a gruesome, traumatic injury. For what cuts and splits could not be padded with gauze were stitched with fine black thread, like his swollen, purpled lower lip. As predicted, Harry's battered eye was nearly black with developing bruises, puffed shut grotesquely. A tangle of IV lines led from two deep red bags hanging from a hook embedded in the wall, vanishing under the covers and no doubt attached to Harry somehow. Flynn's breath gently rattled in his chest, not the same stressed, labored effort as before but relaxed, more natural. Flynn's chapped, ruined lips were softly parted, giving him almost an appearance of peace if not for the horrific injuries patterning his complexion. Yeah, right. Sleeping like a baby, alright. Flynn never liked to sleep on his back. He's unconscious. There is no possible way he could be close to waking right now. Drake grit his teeth, grinding them hard to try and dismiss the gnawing grief and sadness he felt for his former friend.
Nathan Drake sat there for a time, very much aware he might have to find ways to make himself comfortable by the bedside. He had no idea how long it could take Flynn to recover, but he had no intentions of leaving. He wondered how he would be able to sleep sitting up, glancing about the room for a clue on how to arrange a potential sleeping area. There were stuffed cushions that substituted for chairs scattered near the tables, he supposed if he was desperate, he could line them up beside the bed for his own comfort. Until then, Nathan already made up his mind that Harry Flynn would be under his care, other than the medical professionals. Chloe and Elena's resignation to let Harry die in the snow still haunted him. He would have to hide that fact from Flynn when he woke, it would only torment him further to know his own former fiancée would not put in as much energy as his enemy had for him to survive.
With a wince contorting his features, Nathan gently smoothed a stray lock of clotted hair from Flynn's forehead. The man's skin was cool to the touch, not his usual warm-blooded self. Harry did not as much as react. As pained and heartbreaking as it was, Nathan would have given up the Cintamani Stone itself if it meant Flynn would look at him and smile just once.
Every day seemed to add another surprise to the already unusual week, much to Drake's dismay. A solid day after Flynn's surgery and placement in the 'recovery cabin', as it was dubbed by the group, Nathan decided he needed to clean the blood of the unconscious man. It took several hours of slow, careful and gentle swabbing and sponging, replacing the basin of water numerous times when it became too tainted. He only risked scrubbing off the traces of violence from Flynn's hair, face, neck and head, surprisingly quite a bit considering the proximity to the most horrid injury. He still had to be cautious, Flynn split the back of his head open which needed a dozen stitches, not to mention the obvious marks on his visage. But now that he was clean, Flynn looked much paler, the bruises more severe.
Shortly after, Chloe and Elena came to visit for the first time. Nathan could tell Chloe was struggling, it was hard to see Flynn in that condition, her dark eyes glassy and dazed. Elena was her moral support, but also took a moment to relay the news from the doctor to Nathan, as she was fluent in Tibetan. Harry Flynn was a lucky man, enough to consider buying a lottery ticket. There was a literal list of new injuries, ranging from the concussion, possible brain damage, punctured lung, and broken ribs. Elena seemed reluctant to discuss everything, clamming up when she used to be an open book with him. What she was nervous or upset about, he did not know. Not yet, at least.
On the fourth morning since their arrival, Nathan woke up on his make-shift bedding beside Flynn on the floor, noticing the first of several changes. Harry Flynn was panting gently, not the soft whistling sigh of his breathing from before but as if he strained to cope with the weight of the blankets. His eyes were still closed, no sign of consciousness to put his caretakers at ease. Despite the weak pants, Flynn was quivering softly, barely a shiver at all but it never seemed to cease. Nathan's concerns to Chloe or Elena were met with mild nonchalance. He nearly died and was recovering, right? Flynn was pale, hardly anything new considering his blood loss, but it was like the colour leeched from his skin entirely. A thin sheen of perspiration layered his exposed flesh, but Nathan almost withdrew his hand at touching his cheek, the feverish heat rolling off the unconscious man was staggering. This isn't good. Not at all.
It was near noon when Flynn's working eye fluttered open, Nathan had been daydreaming when he was sure he saw movement and looked down to see a green eye staring. No amount of calling his name, gently touching his face, even snapping his own fingers in front of Flynn's eyes got him no response. The eye would close, fluttering open again in random intervals without any obvious trigger. Oh Jesus, don't let this be brain damage. Don't let it happen, please let him still be Harry. What scared him even more than the day he brought Flynn into the cabin for surgery was when the unresponsive man suddenly began to seize and spasm, spine arching and limbs bowed. Nathan's own screams for help must have frightened half the village.
The doctors told him, or more accurately relayed through Elena, Flynn was going septic and was suffering through a serious infection. The gunshot site was deeply inflamed, hot and an angry collage of red and purple. Green and yellow pus seeped from between the stitches. The proper antibiotics were not in the village, but in the main capital that would take a 24 hour flight there and back. Flynn himself was still too critical to be moved, so Victor Sullivan volunteered for the flight out for the precious medicine. It was either that, or prepare to dig a grave.
Chloe and Elena were not in the cabin during this day-long wait, Chloe herself was too deeply distraught to see Flynn in worse condition than previously. At one point, her fists went into her hair and pulled, stunning Drake into silence and Elena into wrangling the upset woman out. Nathan did not blame her, not even Elena that protectively stayed close to the other woman during her emotional trial. They each had their own reasons, as Nathan had his own for bearing the brunt of Flynn's care. And as he found out, Drake was grateful for that alignment of the stars that allowed him to make his discovery in private.
Nathan had been concerned about the sanitary conditions, wanting to scrub the remaining blood off his body while they were alone and the cabin was still warm from a fire blazing in the fireplace. His breath caught in his throat when he tenderly folded back the covers from the unconscious, suffering patient. The sight was more grisly and gruesome than anything he imagined, made worse by Harry's empty, blank stare.
Flynn's toned, wiry body hardly resembled what it did last he saw the British thief strip down at the beach for a swim maybe a year or more before. Harry's muscled neck was ringed with thick black bruises that almost parodied a tattoo or a collar, outlining gigantic hands. Even though it had been four days since the incident first occurred, the bandaged shoulder was grotesquely puffed from brewing infection, deeply discoloured tissue peeking through the criss-cross of gauze. Those awful bands of bruises went further than his strangled neck. They encircled both his quivering wrists and upper arms near the elbows, both ankles and marked striped, digit-shaped contusions along his inner thighs and bony hips. The bruises were far from the worst detail. Harry's twitching, raw thighs were zig-zagged with pink scar tissue and scabs, but many of the deep slices were still healing, gored and brutalized. Harry was almost naked, they had not bothered to cloth him after stripping him down to just his blood-spotted boxers. Oh no. No, this can't be everything. Swallowing the sour bile surging in his throat, Drake gently cupped Harry's bony hip and rolled him to face the wall, in order to see his back.
Harry Flynn's utter lack of a proper reaction made it all worse for Drake, biting his lip hard as he felt his breath hitch in his chest in a weak sob. Those paled, toned shoulders which should be deeply tanned and never bruised like this were also in the same condition as his butchered thighs. The countless inflicted wounds were done over an extended amount of time, several were stripes of pink scars that formed no particular pattern but almost a grid due to the sheer number of marks. Many were more recent, peeling scabs or crusty blood still clinging to new carvings. Drake's eyes drifted down the expanse of Harry's spine, horrified and repulsed, but noticing Flynn's lower back was deeply bruised. The bruises and marks seemed to disappear under his boxers. Oh God. It's worse, isn't it? Harry Flynn never so much as complained or flinched, reaffirming Drake's decision, hooking a finger around the hem and very softly guiding the underwear down. Oh Jesus. Oh God. Don't puke, Nate. Don't do it. Harry's once smooth ass was viciously mutilated on the left cheek, a crude capital 'Z.L' scabbing where it was previously sliced into. Nothing needed stitches from what he noticed, the doctors had not touched them because they were already closed and healing. That was enough to sicken him to put off cleaning Harry down for another day or two, Nathan could not bear being faced with that kind of reality right now.
He was thinking about what he saw before he dozed. Watching Flynn's eyelashes flutter and twitch as he burned up with a fever was enough for Nathan to focus on. Jesus, Flynn. I had no idea, pal. You never let any of us have so much as a clue. Is this what Elena was nervous about? Is this what she did not want to say in front of Chloe? How could Chloe not have noticed? She's never mentioned anything about any of this. Not unless he hid that from her too. Nathan Drake winced again, his own hand settled over his chest as he felt his heart physically ache for the man. It was hard to imagine that kind of loneliness. He had forgotten while Chloe was with him and Elena, Flynn was alone with a madman he was supposed to be working for. And what he did to you… Jesus. I can't imagine. I don't want to. Drake had been to prison, plenty. And while he was lucky and able to defend himself for the most part, he had never been victimized that way. He saw it, sure, it was hard to serve time in multiple jails across the globe and not see the depravity human beings do to each other. But he never had to deal with the aftermath of horrific sexual abuse before. He could not imagine Flynn's excruciating pain, the humiliation of being used and abused, the abandonment from his friends and resulting loneliness of facing that agony on his own… Drake had to lie to himself to say he did not feel any guilt about his own role. Does he hate me? Does he hate me for taking Chloe and leaving him to suffer like that?
Nathan had carefully tucked Flynn back under the covers, forcing the thoughts from his mind before he slept. He was not sure how long he was out, but something peculiar woke him. Seeing Harry Flynn sitting bolt upright in his bed, covers fallen off in a heap, Nathan Drake was sure it was a dream. At first, he was sure. How could Flynn sit up like that?
Flynn was staring to the opposite side of the cabin, his eyes not clouded with fever hallucinations, they appeared fixed on something seen only to him. Calling Flynn's name out done nothing to draw him out, he was elsewhere. Harry's once strong arms hung limp, hands loosely piled in his lap. Sweat shone on his pale skin, light reflecting off the leakage tube jutting between Harry's ribs from the first efforts to clear his chest on the plane. Flynn's jaw was twitching. When Drake touched his shoulder, to guide him back into bed without jarring his healing injuries, Flynn shrieked louder than any human cry Nathan heard in his life, ears ringing from the proximity. Drake flinched backwards, he could not help it, shocked to see Harry's IV needle laden hands fly up to his hair and bandages to pull in panic. Nathan had to grab his wrists, lunging after the movement, even more perplexed when Harry slumped and collapsed in on himself as if triggered by the touch. He had no explanation, no words for that happened. He simply put Harry back in bed and went back to his vigil, noticing his panting resumed and eyes were back closed.
Nathan never mentioned it to anyone, not even Chloe when she asked what the hell that screaming was. He played it off as an eagle nearby overhead. It was not hard to believe, there were eagles everywhere along the mountain
Sullivan returned with the antibiotics soon after without incident, Harry's condition remaining stable and no longer having delirious fits. The doctor was quick to administer the medicine through his IV, to be given steadily until the infection cleared. The nurses were more liberally with changing the bandages after that, much to his relief. And now, Nathan Drake was just playing the waiting game, faithfully keeping vigil for the remainder of the week.
Nathan had been sleeping when Flynn finally came out of his comatose state, about nine days into their stay in the cabin. By this point, the recovery-cabin was much too claustrophobic for most people's tastes but his own. Drake was changing bandages regularly, had taken to sponge the rest of the blood from Flynn's body, even went as far to shave him twice when the facial hair was bothering him too much to look at. It reminded Nathan of how really sick Flynn truly was, unable to wake up and care for himself. He was exhausted and finished fussing when he decided a quick nap was fine.
What woke him was the sensation of fingers trailing through his hair, running it back from his forehead and along the scalp almost lovingly. Elena? Who? It felt nice, soothing, luring him back to waking even though his eyelids felt so heavy and he could sleep for another twenty years. He stretched his aching arms, having used them as a pillow for a while, before folding them back under his chin and forcing himself to actually open his eyes to look upon who touched him. Drake thought he was dreaming, but Flynn would never look that bad in a dream, not even a nightmare… but he was awake, bandaged digits lingering in Nathan's hair.
Harry Flynn might have lived nine days past the point of nearly dying, but Nathan would not have known it if not for witnessing it all from start to finish himself. He was in terrible shape. Jesus, that's a mild way of putting it. I don't think I've seen anyone in this state before. Never. Not anyone that lived. The bandages that wrapped Harry's head were no longer needed, the stitches in the back of his head actually pulled out a day prior. This time, both green eyes were able to stare back at him with full awareness and a bit of humor, one look to confirm Nathan's worst fears of brain damage were not reality. Whew. I see you, buddy. You're still in there. One of Flynn's eyes, the good one, was visibly weary. The other was so blood-shot, the iris was swimming in red. The shiner had reduced in swelling, still purple and fading green around the edges. The cuts and scrapes on his face were looking better every day, but the large gouge along his forehead was now stitched into a neat seam. Other than the bruising, it hardly appeared like the same wound at all. The doctor's stitching was very efficient. Overall, the man was miles better than being the blood-soaked thing he first lugged in.
Relief flooded into Drake like the opening of a dam, he would have been grinning if Flynn's bruised and battered face was as it had been before this whole mess. "Flynn, holy shit… Hey, pal," Nathan murmured gently, purposely struggling to keep his excitement and enthusiasm out of his tone. He did not want to stress Flynn out so soon, the man clearly been through a lot. But at the same time, Harry was so damn close to kicking the proverbial bucket it was not even remotely funny. "We thought we lost you there for a while. You… you weren't well, buddy. Just save your strength, alright? Your fever broke last night. The infection is almost fully under control, but it took time. You been out a week." It was a little white lie, Nathan had a feeling he was going to be telling a lot in the fleeting moments before Flynn passed out again.
As discoloured and swollen as they were, it did not betray the bemusement that flitted into Harry's features. It was pure disbelief at first, before trailing into a strange rusty croak that took a moment for Drake to realize Flynn was laughing. It appeared to physically pain him, clutching at his sore, bruised throat with a grimace and one hand bobbing in the air. He wanted something. When Flynn brought the mimed vessel to his lips, Nathan had a light bulb spark off at last. Water. Flynn wants water. Moving immediately after an uncomfortable nap was less than graceful, stiffly reaching for the pitcher and glancing about. Cups. Glass. Anything. I don't want to spill the whole thing on him. Flynn growled at his hesitation, eagerly flexing his hands. He never was the most patient of men. Settle down, you moron. You have no idea how close you were to dying.
"Okay, okay, keep your pants on. Little sips at first, right? If you choked, Chloe would kick my ass." That was not a lie. Nathan dreaded the fact if anything happened to Flynn, on how Chloe would take it. Drowning in a pitcher of water after a coma is not exactly a fitting end. Helping Harry drink proved to be a bit clumsy as he predicted it would, water overflowing past his lips and spilling down his neck and chest but the older thief clutched onto the pitcher with both shaking hands in deep desperation. Nathan winced, supporting his shoulders, feeling the exhausted muscles twitch and strain. "Okay, that's it. Not too much yet, you'll puke." Drake did not have to wrestle Flynn for the pitcher back, he surrendered it wearily and convulsively coughed after forcing himself to breathe after several great satisfying gulps of cool water.
Flynn was grinning, almost a stupid, shit-eating grin that Nathan worried for a moment he was not entirely lucid. Drake felt his brow furrow, as the older British man relaxed back in his bedding. "Th-…thanks, mate," Flynn hissed hoarsely, his voice so rough and cracking Nathan wondered how long it will take for that silky tone to return to as it was. Drake did not like hearing the new one, it made the whole traumatic event too real.
"Just don't talk too much, Flynn. I know that's tough for you, but it's for the best," Nathan scolded, but it was half-hearted. "You lost a lot of blood. Scared the shit out of all of us. The doctor…" Nathan had to stop for a moment, swallowing past the lump that surged up his throat out of nowhere. The memory of Harry dying at the monastery was troubling him, of his tortured breath rattling to an end, of his body going limp and cold in his arms. "She said if we were maybe five minutes later, you wouldn't be here. It was close, Flynn. You almost died. Hell, if Sully did not pull some crazy maneuvers on the way… We're been taking shifts at your bed. Elena, Chloe, me, Sully took over a few times." This was not the entire truth, but Harry did not need to know that. Nathan had been almost a permanent fixture at Flynn's bedside. But, on occasion, when everyone else forced Nate to actually take a break, sleep in his own bed, eat a meal, he did relinquish his spot beside the sickbed. Sullivan actually spent more time in the sick-cabin than either woman, mostly to keep Nathan company and remind him to look after himself as well. Drake could not explain his protective feelings over the other man, all he knew was that Harry Flynn needed him and no one was going to change that. "The surgery took about a day. We had to test for blood donors. Tenzin was a match, and a couple others. We had entire lineups for people getting tested. Everyone stepped up. You know what they say, it takes a village."
Harry Flynn listened to Nathan all the while, if it were not for his eyes both opened and staring with the occasional blink Drake would have been sure Flynn slipped back into his coma. Flynn was never so quiet, but physically speaking pained him and acted as a steep enough of an enforcement for silence. When he did finally speak, it was very few words, little as possible to communicate his needs and spare his throat. "How bad?" Harry could only hiss, the water hardly doing much to quench that ache.
Oh, buddy. You have no idea. You only just woke up but I've been on a damn rollercoaster for nine days. How do I tell you that you died at the monastery and we had to bring you back? Nathan's inner-conflict must have been showing on his face, he inwardly cursed at his inability to conceal his true feelings. He could see Flynn's eyes sharpen on his, almost glaring. "Bad. Very bad. You stopped breathing at the monastery. Right after you spoke last. We took turns with CPR until Sully got there. We weren't going to lose you, Flynn. I wasn't going to let you go without a fight, I know Chloe and Elena wanted the same." Nathan hoped he was better at fibs than he was at masking his emotions. That was not entirely true. After Flynn stopped breathing on his own, they essentially were only trying for Nathan's sake. "The doctor started surgery right away. The bullet didn't pass through, took some time to get at it… No offense bud, but I couldn't see that. I stuck around for as much as I could, but everybody has their limits. Turns out, that was not even the start. Flynn, that Guardian nearly caved your face in. One kick and he gave you an immediate concussion. You needed I don't know how many stitches. One of your teeth got knocked out. Three broken ribs. Punctured lung. That's what nearly got you. The bullet just barely missed your heart but got your lung. Then the infection afterwards…" Nathan trailed off, at a loss for words. He hardly slept at all those few days. "Jesus. Flynn, you nearly died. They had to treat with some strong antibiotics. The fever was burning you out. You were screaming in your sleep, buddy. I thought it was the pain, but I guess you were delirious. I doubt you remember it. You were pretty out of it." I can't tell you all of it, pal. Not yet. I just got you back.
There was a pause for silence, but Nathan Drake did not feel the need to fill it just yet. It was a lot of news to take in, especially now that Flynn had just regained solid consciousness for the first time since… when? Jesus, how long has it been? I haven't seen Flynn actually in there, looking back at me, in over a week. Watching Flynn slowly roll his jaw, tongue prodding at his teeth, Drake could tell he was checking for the inevitable gap on the missing tooth. Nathan winced. He felt he had to bring up what he saw under the blankets, the countless injuries, and the evidence of a torture all sustained in secret. It was hard not to mention it. He had to, it was his nature to explore beyond normal boundaries.
Nathan slowly leaned closer, watching Flynn's weary green eyes shift to him almost nervously. That little flinch broke his heart all over again. "Flynn, if I knew what he was doing to you, I would have convinced you to come with us. Jesus, how come you didn't say anything? The doctor was looking you over…" Nathan had to swallow, he could not tell him the truth. Lies never came easy to him. It was hard to tell Harry Flynn, a bold flirt but deeply secretive about his personal life, that his most shameful intimate secret was already known by some of their group. Nathan could not keep his own mouth shut. He blurted it to Sully in the later night hours, overcome with guilt and grief. Elena already knew, no doubt. "You have injuries on you lasting months, pal. She said they looked like they were inflicted with a knife. Chloe said she never—"
He almost bit his tongue in half when Flynn's hand shot out like a striking viper and snared his wrist without warning, clutching with a strength that startled him. For a split second, he thought this had been another mild hallucination, but Flynn's eyes were lucid and aware. And very serious. It was not Harry Flynn's natural expression. It chilled Nathan to the core. "Who… who knows about that?" the weakened man almost groaned, still holding onto the wrist Drake could not bear to yank away.
Shit. My big fucking mouth. Nathan immediately dropped his eyes, never able to stare at someone deadpan, lie and maintain a straight face. Especially never Flynn. Flynn could stare right through him, read him like a book. Fidgeting, Drake busied himself with inspecting his bruised, battered knuckles. They still stung from the amount of slugging he had to do a week prior. Quick. Don't lie, but don't give him the whole truth. "Other than the doctor? I do. Chloe might suspect… Elena too. She speaks Tibetan, more than I do. I know we aren't close anymore, Flynn. I don't know what I did to piss you off like that—"
"Fuckin' stow it, mate," Harry actually barked, his hoarse voice rising to a volume that made it sound as if his vocal cords had literally rusted. Nathan was stunned into shocked silence, watching the rage suddenly ignite out of nowhere in Flynn's exhausted, pained eyes. Harry was usually more animated when he argued, he had a wicked temper that Nate once teased was due to his colouring. Those damn redheads do have fiery tempers… I'm still surprised he shot me. But Flynn was beyond drained, he barely had the energy to keep hold on Drake's wrist. That did not put a damper on his anger. "You know what you did… My fuckin' fiancée, Drake? Really? That's why, sweetheart. My bloody hotel room was beside yours. Conspiring with the woman I was to marry, you prick. That. Is what you did to piss me off." With those last words, Harry let go and drew away, almost repulsed by the touch of his friend's skin. The outburst bled the rage out of his frustrated, angry eyes. Flynn was beginning to grit his jaw, steeling his scowl, but that did not stop the glassy glaze of tears shining in his gaze now. Nathan's heart broke yet another time, he was wondering just how much he had left to smash because of one ruin of a man. Harry's disgust in himself was even more saddening, ashamed as he blinked away the tears and glared up at the ceiling instead of him. That hurt Drake more than it should have.
For the longest stretch, Nathan actually found he was at a loss for words. The whole time, he was excited for the thrill of the chase, the secrets of Shambhala itself, and maybe he did conspire with a mutual female friend in that inescapable hysteria of treasure hunting. He had not actually stopped to think about the damage he was doing to his own friends and allies. What the fuck was I thinking? Flynn's right. That was low. I mean, I known Chloe before he slipped the ring on her finger, but I knew she was off-limits then when I saw the ring. When I saw how he cherished her. Why didn't I stop? I didn't want to. Is that simply the reason why? My own selfishness? Is that the reason why Harry Flynn is in this spot right now? The guilty inner-monologue was getting deafening in the silence. He had to break it. He had to make it right somehow, to comfort Harry the best he can. How can I make him feel better after that? After what Lazarevic did to him?
Drake cleared his throat gently, not seeing a reaction from his former friend and so badly wishing Flynn was more open to communication. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Flynn. Christ, I… I don't know what I was thinking. It was her idea from the start, she even got me out of that prison you put me in. I just… " His apology was starting to sound like excuses. Nathan hated doing this, he was never good at it. "Shit. It's a shitty excuse. I know it is. I… shouldn't have agreed to it. It wasn't even about Chloe. It was about Marco Polo's lost fleet. Dammit. If I knew what I know now, I would have convinced you to walk away from it. I would have convinced you both. It was never worth it. Too many people died for that… resin. All we were doing was adding to the pile. Flynn…" Harry still would not dignify him with even a glance. "Hey. Lazarevic is dead. He's gone. The Tree is gone. Shambhala is nothing but ruins. All that turned out to be a death trap. If we were half as smart as we think we are, we'd move on. Maybe you can still work things out with Chloe. You're still alive, pal. That means something. You can go anywhere from here." It was sincere was he could manage. But his feelings about it was true, now that the final prize is gone, there was no reason for them to be at each other's throats.
The anger lifted from Harry's expression but the grief and sadness remained, it never pooled out of him with the verbal explosion earlier. Instead, the older man only sighed, another heartbreaking sound that made Nate wince. "… Nate," Flynn's soft whisper came, harsh and growling from the damage to his vocal cords. "… I can't go back. I have nowhere to go. Chloe and I are through. She's clear on that. I… have nothing. No job. No home. I sold everything for this… and it blew up with the bloody fuckin' Tree."
Jesus. Flynn, why couldn't you have said something?! We could have helped you out somehow. Nathan Drake, deep down past all the quips and sass and goofing, was a bit of a softie. While he never had much neither, Drake at least had a place to call home. He rented out a little spot in New Jersey himself, but mostly it was a place to crash in between jobs. But Drake had Sully. And he had a brother at one point. Harry had nothing. His brow was gently dipped in a sympathetic wince, lips pressing together tight. He wanted to smile, to cheer Flynn up, but it could be easily misread and upset Flynn further.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Flynn," Nathan sighed gently, aware of how empty it sounded in his own ears. "It's been a shit-show from the start. I guess I never realized what was happening with you… I just thought you went with who was paying you. I…" Nathan licked his lips, reflecting on the time he eavesdropped in on them at the monastery, stuck before the four animal spirits of the compass. Lazarevic was threatening Harry, burying the phurba dagger inches from his head in the wood beam. "…saw Lazarevic do some things, like at the monastery. I didn't think he was doing anything else than threatening you. How… how could I know? Listen, if you want to talk about it—"
"No," Harry growled once. The decision was final.
Come on, man, open up to me. "I didn't mean right now, you shouldn't be talking. Flynn, I… I took responsibility for changing the bandages. I saw what he did to you. I admit, I was pissed at you for shooting me. I get it now. But I had no idea he was doing this. Christ, Flynn…"
"Shut it," came an immediate grumble. "Make yerself useful… water."
As little of a task as it was, Nathan partook in it with great care. He felt every little action counted now, paying Flynn back for that level of betrayal was something he had never dealt with before. I never stole a man's woman before. Let alone a friend's fiancée. Feels like shit. I wonder if he'll ever forgive me for it. He scooped up the pitcher of cool fresh water drawn from the well, better tasting than any bottled water he ever had, slowly guiding Flynn's body to sit up enough to slurp down the rest of the jug. Nathan winced gently as he lowered Harry back down into the bedding, watching his former friend gasp for breath after the satisfying drink. The bruises on Flynn's face and neck were fading, but not fast enough. It was hard to tell if it was due to the added stress on his body with recovery or the depth of the contusions on the tissue. Knowing how brutally strong Zoran Lazarevic was, it could very well be bruised right to the bone. It was tough to take it in. Nathan could not suppress the squirms of anxiety deep in his gut, translating to restless fidgeting. Flynn's blankets were wrinkled. Brow furrowed with faint concentration, he smoothed his calloused hands over the layers of wool. With a minor worry Flynn might be cold in his weakened condition, Nathan began to shove fingers of the material under Harry's form in the bed, tucking him in. He did not want any precious warmth to escape.
Flicking a glance up to Flynn's eyes, he froze and let them linger on the British man's face when he saw a familiar and deeply missed expression. Flynn was smiling. It made the vague mess he became to resemble the same guy he used to be. Nathan felt a stirring deep inside him, a warm fuzzy flutter, enough he could not help but return the smile wholeheartedly. There you are, asshole. I missed you. You have no idea how close I'd come to losing you there at the monastery. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Nathan chuckled, knowing the only reason why Flynn was grinning was because Drake himself was fussing. 'Mother-henning' as Harry often referred to it. "You're lucky. So fucking lucky, Flynn. You must have a horseshoe in your ass or something. You have no idea how many scares you gave us. We thought of finding your next of kin. In case, you know." It became too hard to actually say aloud. It would have made it real.
"Got none," Flynn simply stated. "Would have been best to dig a hole and toss me in it."
Goddammit, Harry, why did you have to go and say that? Nathan knew his grin was vanishing, but he was never good at concealing emotions. Losing Harry Flynn was so tangible, so very real, he sometimes dreams that he was gone on the rare times he manages to get some sleep, shooed away to his own bed by Sullivan or one of the women. Those nightmares, he dreamed of the grenade being dropped and Flynn being blown to pieces before his eyes. It was a scant occurrence, Nathan rarely allowed sleep. For reasons unknown to him, Nathan felt oddly protective over Flynn in his weakened state. Discovering the horrible suffering he endured at the hands of a madman only strengthened his resolve to keep Flynn safe. That meant hardly leaving his side. But of all the graves, the tombs, the caverns and ruins he had scavenged and explored over the years, Nathan Drake was no stranger to death. It touched him very early in his life, stealing away his mother when her mental health taken too much of a toll. Then, his older brother much later by unlucky stray bullets, the only real blood-relation he had left to count on. Death eventually comes for everyone. He did not like to think of when his would come, or those closest to him that would meet theirs before his own. Harry almost did, his heart actually stopped, his body gave up. The possibility of leaving Flynn's body at the monastery, or worse, in Shambhala, was too disturbing to linger on for long.
"Harry," Nathan almost whispered, his voice was soft and somber. Using Flynn's first name was only for special reasons, to communicate some urgency or seriousness. "I… couldn't leave you here. You hate it here. You always bitched about the cold." It was true. Flynn absolutely loathed cold temperatures, he often avoided work that took him to places in their winter months. Nathan knows he had listened to Flynn bitch and moan about freezing his ass off on more than one occasion. Flynn smirked faintly, but Nathan could not handle returning it right now. "I know you wouldn't be in… your body if you died. But I couldn't stand the thought of you here, cold in the ground. It wasn't right. I would have brought you home… where ever home is for you. I'm sure Chloe wouldn't have allowed you to be buried here neither. We would have flown you out for treatment, but your condition was too unstable. And now winter is here. We'll have to wait for the spring to set out or at least milder weather, and hopefully by then you'll be able to fly the hell out of here."
Flynn did not offer any scathing remark, no jibe of sassy humor, not even so much as a witty quip in response. Stubbornly, the older man grit his teeth, but he could tell it was mainly to stop them from chattering. Nathan hoped it was only because his throat was sore that he was closing himself off. Flynn was not acting like he often did. Then again, Nate, would you be? Look what that sonnavabitch did to his back, to his legs. Who knows what he's hiding.
Unable to help himself, Drake reached forward and gently rested his palm on Harry's patched forehead, despite feeling the older man flinch underneath his touch. If there was one thing he learned, touch helped soothe. A simple hug, a handshake, little gestures human done to comfort and greet and familiarize each other. He just never imagined Flynn would cringe at his touch like that, like he was waiting to be smacked in the face instead. "Hey. It's okay, Flynn. You're safe now. You're gonna be okay." Drake winced, slowly tracing gentle circles between Flynn's tense brows. It was hard to imagine Harry Flynn would be in need of comforting. As long as Drake known him, he was a smug, cheery, flirty yet entertainingly funny guy that might have had a touch of arrogance. The marks on him proved otherwise. "I'm so sorry, Flynn. I should have got you out of there. We've dealt with assholes like him before but… that was something new. It doesn't matter anymore. You're safe. You're okay." Words were all he could offer for now, as poor consolation as they were. Drake had no idea how to handle this level of traumatic injury. He had been meaning to ask more from Sully but the gravity of the situation was still very new. How can you heal someone that's been tortured like that? I… I don't know what else Lazarevic done. I'm scared to know.
Harry's eyes were clouding with tears again before he squeezed them shut, teeth baring down on his lower lip still tender and swollen from the stitching. Nathan never faltered the soft massage, but he was glad he no longer had to conceal the obvious grief and sadness he felt for his former friend. He did not expect Harry to speak anymore, but a wavering voice rose up to be heard, barely a mutter. "Nate… You couldn't save me. Zoran did not have a fuckin' gun to my head. He had one to Chloe's. I would have died for her. I still would." The grieving made his tone thick, it was obvious he had given up on his relationship in its entirety. Nathan could not understand why he was so quick to write it off. Then again, he did not know exactly the details of their relationship. What went on behind closed doors was known only to them.
Harry was not awake and conscious for long after that. Nathan continued the massage until he was asleep, but there was once he almost stopped. His fingertips once traced over dampness on Flynn's face, thick rivulets of tears streaming down his weathered, unshaved cheeks after he spoke, clearly distraught over the split with Chloe. But Nathan would not abandon him again, not when he was needed.