Coën gazes after Lambert, who is leaving with Milva in his arms, then he looks at Cahir, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
"What?" Cahir asks, then it dawns on him. "No way, don't even think of it," he splutters, blushing. "I can walk on my own." To prove it, he swiftly rises from the bench. And sucks in a sharp breath of pain, reaching for the armrest for support, his vision swimming.
"Shit, are you okay? Should I call Triss?" Coën's voice is laced with worry as he jumps up and extends a supportive arm. Cahir is far too pale for his liking, and clearly in pain. Perhaps it was too early for him to leave his bed in the infirmary? But the fresh air, sunshine and the company were clearly doing him good after the many days of being confined to his sickbed, and Triss had allowed it.
"It's nothing," Cahir wheezes. "Just give me a minute." With his eyes closed, he leans into the dark-skinned Witcher, who has somehow, miraculously, become a good friend in the course of the last few days, and takes a deep, steadying breath.
"Better?"
"Hmm."
"Sure you don't want me to carry you?" Coën teases.
"Over my dead body," Cahir objects, and he means it. The world has stopped spinning by now, the sudden sharp spike of agony in his chest has dulled to a faint background ache, and there is nothing wrong with his legs. Being carried is for girls, and he is not one. It is not that far to the infirmary anyway, just along some corridors and up and down a couple of stairways. He has made it here with Coën's help, he can make it back again, too.
Determined, he takes a step toward the entrance of the main building.
"You know what, Cahir? You're as stubborn as Geralt." Coën rolls his eyes. But with him supporting his friend, it works for a while. It is more exhausting than Cahir expected, though. Soon, lifting his feet off the ground feels increasingly difficult and he has to lean heavily on his comrade. Fuck, how has he become such a pathetic invalide? Well, it is what you get when you are almost split in two, but still, it is embarrassing.
"This— this doesn't look familiar," he pants when they walk along a corridor with the sad remains of what once must have been colourful frescos. "You sure it's the right way?"
"I am sure. It's just not the way to the infirmary." Cahir looks at Coën in confusion. "With you huffing and puffing like a dying mammoth, I figured I'd take you to a room that is a bit closer. One with a nice broad bed," he explains, grinning meaningfully.
"I'm not huffing and puffing—" Cahir starts to protest. Then, belatedly, he realises what Coën has just said. A room with a nice broad bed. Is he implying that he is taking him to his own bedroom?
"Wait, we— you— you hardly know me," he stutters, blushing.
"I know enough of you to be certain I want to find out more." Coën looks Cahir deep in the eye with his one brown and one pale blue one. It is a bit unsettling, yet strangely captivating, mesmerising. He could get lost in these eyes forever. But he must not. Blushing for the umpteenth time today, Cahir lowers his gaze.
"What— what if you— if you don't like what you find out?" he mumbles, suddenly feeling faint, a cold shiver running down his spine. He has done so many horrible things he has never told any of his friends about - things he does not want to think and much less talk about. Yet, if this is more than friendship, he cannot not tell Coën, can he? And then he will lose it all. His new home, his friends, everything. The thought alone makes him sick to his stomach. He breaks into a cold sweat, his legs turning to jelly.
"Cahir, what's wrong? You aren't going to swoon, are you?" Coën tightens his grip on Cahir's waist to keep him from collapsing and puts his free hand on the young knight's clammy brow, his broad grin giving way to a worried frown. "Damn, I think you're feverish again. Now you let me take care of you, you hear me? And no but's. High time to get you between the blankets. And I'm sorry, but I'm going to carry you, want it or not. It's non-negotiable. Nobody'll see us anyway."
Cahir makes an unintelligible noise that could be both a yes and a no, but Coën does not care. It is not far to his room, just up another flight of winding stairs and then half-way down a corridor. Yet, he is not going to risk Cahir getting worse. His injuries were so grave, it was touch and go for more than a week despite the sorceresses' efforts, and then they put him in a healing sleep for another two weeks. He only woke up from it three days ago. Cahir is right, of course, they hardly know each other, and, had anybody told him a few weeks ago that he would fall head over heels in love with a southerner just from looking at the man - an unconscious southerner to boot with half his face covered in bandages -, he would have laughed his head off and advised them to find the next loony bin as they must obviously have escaped from one. However, as crazy as it sounds, it is exactly what happened. And, strangely enough, Cahir does seem to like him back. No, he is not going to let the stubborn idiot walk another single step, over his dead body.
He swoops the sick young man up into a bridal carry, exactly like Lambert did with Milva, and climbs the stairs with him cradled in his arms. As exhausted as he is, Cahir seems not to mind.
Who knows, perhaps he even likes it?
