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Nick loses all the air in his lungs as soon as he walks into the hospital room.
It’s cool and dark, cave-like save for the glowing monitors and hallway track lighting leaking in through the blinds. Both of Greg’s eyes are closed, one swollen nearly shut, but Nick’s known him a long time by now, long enough to tell from his breathing and the set of his shoulders that Greg’s still awake despite the no-doubt intense pain medication dripping through his IV.
He pauses in the doorway for a moment, just standing and staring at the carnage wrought by a bunch of fucking punk-ass hooligans.
I almost lost him, he thinks. I almost lost him; fuck, I’ve never come so close to losing him.
He was afraid – he was so afraid; he’s never been that afraid for another person in his whole entire life. Not even when the lab blew up and took Greg with it, because that was Before.
Capital-B Before, before there was NickandGreg, before the first time Greg came over for pizza and Shark Week, and then stayed for three days, before mid-week daytime dates and vacations to the coast and moving in together and the house warming-by-trashing party that followed. Before he knew about Greg’s penchant for horrifically-sweet dessert wine and his obsession with historical minutiae and his thing about glitter. Before he cared so much that his insides ache, like he can feel the phantom echoes of Greg’s injuries on his skin, and in his bones.
So for a minute, Nick doesn’t move. He just stares.
“I can feel you staring at me,” Greg mumbles. “What’s the matter? Never seen a man stoned on morphine before?”
You’re lucky they didn’t break your jaw, Nick doesn’t say.
“How are you?” he asks instead, aiming for casual and hitting concerned-parent squarely.
“Concussion. Couple bruised ribs. Some stitches in my scalp,” Greg lists off with forced nonchalance. “Sprained my wrist – the good one, too. Inconsiderate motherfuckers.”
Nick sits down hard in one of the god-awful ugly hospital chairs because his knees feel suspiciously watery and it’s generally a good idea to sit down before you fall down. His hands twitch against his thigh, itching to reach out and trace the sharp lines of Greg’s cheekbone and jaw with a careful fingertip, but he doesn’t dare. There’s barely an inch of skin that isn’t covered by steri-strips or lurid bruises, no place that looks safe to touch.
Nick’s stomach churns somewhere near his throat.
“You’re so stupid,” he whispers, his voice shaking over the words as he lets the horror of the past several hours wash over him – horror at what happened and perverse relief at what didn’t. “You should’ve waited for backup, you absolute idiot.”
“He was gonna die if I didn’t do something,” Greg protests weakly.
You almost died, Nick doesn’t say. You could’ve died; I could’ve lost you. Don’t you know how afraid I am of losing you? Losing this? Don’t you dare make me feel like that again, don’t you dare, G.
“I was scared for you,” he admits instead by way of explanation, breathing in the smells of industrial cleanser and hospital detergent. “Terrified, really. Everybody was.” He turns his palm over and grabs Greg’s hand, careful not to disturb the IV taped flat to the back. There’s blood crusted in dark little halfmoons under Greg’s nails, more of it staining the lines of his palm.
Greg turns his face away and coughs, a horrible rough noise that catches and pulls from somewhere deep in his chest. “Sorry,” he says softly once the coughing jag abates. “Ribs are still pretty sore.”
“Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it again.”
“Trust me,” and here Greg’s grin morphs into a grimace as he stabs the morphine plunger in a series of rapid clicks, despite knowing full well that hitting the button more than once won’t increase his dosage. “I don’t plan on cruisin’ for another ten-man beatdown anytime soon.”
“Better not,” Nick warns, his fingers tightening around Greg’s just for a moment.
“Promise,” Greg says in a creaky voice. “Pinky swear.” He offers up his finger and Nick obligingly hooks their hands together, biting the pad of his own thumb to seal the deal.
“I uh, I realized something, though.”
“Oh yeah?” Greg asks. “What’s that?”
“I don’t wanna sit in the third row at your funeral.”
I don’t wanna write your eulogy in my head. I don’t wanna imagine carrying your casket. I don’t ever wanna think about seeing your grave.
“Okay, well – first of all – that’s dark, baby,” Greg says, the edge of a disbelieving laugh creeping into his voice. “I don’t plan on dying ‘til I’m good and ready. And secondly, you shouldn’t be worrying about it anyways. My family would never make you do that. They’re not ashamed of me, or us.”
“Your family wouldn’t,” Nick agrees, not taking his eyes off the monitor tracking Greg’s vitals. “But my parents might. So,” he plows on, before he loses his nerve entirely, “I think maybe we should get married. ‘Cause I think it’d be pretty hard to ban a grieving spouse from the first pew.”
The space between them is suddenly silent, jarringly so.
“D’you think you would want that? Ever? To get married?” The pause seems endless before Nick adds, “To me?”
Greg’s lips curl into a smile, but the effect is sullied for Nick by the little wince that follows when the movement pulls at the split skin around Greg’s mouth. “Thought you’d never get around to asking. What took you so long?”
Nick shrugs, willing his voice to stay steady. “Not a whole lotta people out there lookin’ to sign on for goods as damaged as me, Greggo.”
“That’s stupid,” Greg blurts, clearly starting to haze out as the morphine kicks in. “No, really; that’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all day – and I’ve been watching back episodes of ten-year-old daytime soaps. You’re not. And I do. Okay?” He squeezes Nick’s hand so hard that his knuckles whiten for a moment. “So get that though your thick skull already, would ya?”
“Alright, alright,” Nick chuckles, raising his free hand in surrender. “So s’that a yes?”
“Yeah. No, obviously; of course it’s a yes. But only if you ask me again,” Greg manages to look stern even when his glare is restricted to one eye. “Properly this time, when I’m not under the influence of heavy narcotics.”
“I think I can swing that.”
“With a ring!” Greg insists. “That’s a pretty key element which we seem to be missing here.”
Nick doesn’t mention the ring that’s been sitting in a velvet box in the back of his nightstand for the better part of two years, just wordlessly pulls the thick silver band off his right hand instead. It’s still body-warm when he slides it onto Greg’s finger – a little too big, but workable for the moment.
The smile that appears on Greg’s battered face lights up the whole hospital room. “I love you, idiot.”
“Ditto, babe.”