The ceiling is white. Cyril thinks, with a dim sort of hatred, that they would happily kill to never see a white ceiling again.
“Hey.”
When they complete the monumental task of turning their head, Cyril finds both Esme and Armani in attendance, Esme in a chair right beside the bed, and Armani on the small couch - more of a bench, really - under the window. They’re both in the same clothes they were at dinner, scuffed and dirty finery now rumpled and wearing the look and smell of both the attack and too many hours without a shower or sleep since.
Their mouth opens and closes.
“Hospital,” Esme fills in. “You had surgery to repair the bullet hole in your leg and remove the one embedded in your arm.”
“Did they f-…” they glance at Armani. “Were you hurt?” they ask instead. “Either of you?”
“Bruises and scrapes, nothing more,” Esme says.
“You took the brunt of it,” Armani stands and comes over to the bed to take Cyril’s hand in his own. “We both owe you our lives, my b- ah, damn. What am I supposed to call you?”
“Just Cyril is fine.” Their tongue sticks a little to the roof of their mouth, gummy and too thick for the space it’s allowed. “Not boy, or man, or he.”
They can’t tell what he’s thinking. Armani considers them for a moment, and Cyril feels very small. Their fingers feel like ice next to the warmth of his grip on their hand.
“Just Cyril,” Armani concedes. “You saved Esme’s life, and mine. I won’t forget that.” He sets their hand down. “I have to go deal with the fallout of the attack, but I wanted to be here when you woke. Rest and heal. When you’re well, I have something I want to talk to you about.”
