WHO: The Brookstanton boys WHAT: Some rushed feels before Ron enters the deadzone! WHERE: Philippe and Jack's place WHEN: A few days ago!
It had been two days since they had gathered over his brother's bloody and broken body on the table.
Guy had been given a drop from the Draught of Living Death, but Philippe had advised that anymore would be unwise. Despite the incredible pain he must be suffering, it would take stronger magic to safely keep him asleep. With all he had already endured… it simply was not wise. And yet, no one mentioned the lingering question of if he would ever fully wake at all.
But eventually it seemed hopeful, as his sleep turned fitful, occasionally writhing in his deadened state but never waking. Axe, on the other hand, had not slept in more than a day, keeping a wary vigil by his bedside, furiously shaking off Philippe and occasionally Jack when they tried to persuade him to rest or eat, all other aspects of his life neglected. He seemed to recall Philippe writing to Rose, but he truthfully couldn't recall—he knew she would understand.
The room, grâce à Dieu, faced the sun in the afternoon, the curtains pulled back from the bay window. He would have hated for his brother to wake up alone in the dark.
But the draught was wearing off slowly, and although his greatest wish was that Guy would wake, he also dreaded it. How to explain? How to watch his brother, the one person in the world that had always, always cared for him, suffer such abject pain?
Axe had lost track of the time in his own hellish reverie, only knowing it was day because of the glare of the sun, but when Guy began to mumble through his slight tosses and turns, he sat up, alert. Philippe had said this might happen, it might mean he would be waking soon. He rose, preparing to fetch his friend, but something, he was not quite sure what, stopped him.
At that moment, Guy gave a strangled yell, flailing under the covers as his eyes fluttered open, wide and afraid, and roving the room.
"Guy—GUY!" Axe muttered fervent blessings in French as he rushed back to the chair by his brother's side. He started to reach for Guy, but stopped inches away as he remembered the state of his body.
Other than the heavy breathing, Guillaume was looking about the room with a slowly growing expression of confusion, seemingly dazed to be where he was, his brother in the room.
"Philippe," Axe hurriedly began to explain. "When I found you, he and his friend, a Mediwizard, they took you home, they—they helped you, they saved your life."
He could not be sure Guy understood him because his face gave no indication of comprehension. Panic began to seize him, especially when Guy looked down at his shoulder, white bandages peeking out from where the covers had slipped off him. Though Axe braced himself, the look Guy had was not one of surprise or horror as he expected, but resignation.
"The arm, it did not—" Axe broke off, looking away. It was too difficult even now for him to come to terms with the idea that he allowed this to be done to his brother. "Philippe will tell you. It—and you, they could not both be saved. We all—" Swallowing thickly, Axe hung his head. "We all agreed… you must be saved, even if it meant…"
His elbows were braced on his knees, his forehead resting on his laced hands in a near-supplicant gesture. "Even if it meant you could not Heal again."
Guy was quiet, gazing out the window where thick curtains had been parted so the sunlight dappled the bed. Could he hear him? Did he understand what Axe was saying? Nauseated, he began to grip his hands in his hair.
"I am sorry," he said, stricken. "I am sorry I let them do this to you, I did not—" He broke off in amazement when Guy struggled to place his hand on Axe's knee.
"My brother," he murmured, voice so hoarse as to hardly be understood. "You did what had to be done."
The relief of hearing Guillaume speak, of seeing him move, brought the prickling of tears to Axe's eyes. Had his first words really been ones of absolution? Even though there had been no other options, even though he had not been the one to do it himself, the one to raise his wand against his brother, Axe was still unable to meet his gaze.
"If I could save you," the words were softly and slowly said, each breath a chore to complete, "even if you could not do the thing you loved best." He smiled, but it seemed watery, and like it cost too much effort to be worth it, "or letting you die… I would sentence you to a long life of misery every time." Axe knew he tried to squeeze his hand from the way it spasmed, but the pressure was so limp as to not be felt.
Overwhelmed, unsure if he had finally succumbed to sleep and conjured this dream of Guillaume to assuage his gilt, he hung his head.
There was so much to be said—what had happened to Guy? How had he come to be in Axe's flat? Was he safe? He did not even know where to begin, what to ask, but before he could open his mouth, Guy sighed hugely, wincing even from the effort of doing that.
"I think I will sleep," he said quietly.
Nodding mutely, Axe stood, feeling that he had just been dismissed. When he reached over to draw the curtains, Guy shook his head minutely. "Leave them," he said. He glanced towards the window through half-closing eyes, the corners of his mouth lifted up. "I like to feel the sun again."
Of course, he could not begrudge him that. Philippe might order him to rest undisturbed, but Axe would give him a few moments' peace before informing the Healer who saved Guy's life that his charge was awake and, by all accounts, sane.
When Axe crept from the room, his brother was sleeping soundly, his face bright in the light of the afternoon sun.
When the door closed behind his brother, Guy's eyes fluttered open, and he stared unseeingly out the window.