Chapter 98: White-Haired Soldier
Micah stirred, blinking up at the ceiling where a soft glow of light illuminated the semi-dark room. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. The dull ache in his stomach and the back of his throat reminded him. The street food. The excruciating pain, and the disorientation.
He sat slowly, groaning. His IV tugged at his right hand. He glanced to his left and saw the newly wrapped gauze. Yeah. The one Darcy wrapped was stained with blood from vomiting. On the sofa beside the bed, Emile was curled up in a ball, his cheek squished against a folded coat. His chest rose and fell slowly, lips parted in sleep.
Micah rubbed his eyes, unsure how to feel. He and Emile had fought only hours before. Yet here he was, staying by his side. That, well, never had happened before.
He shifted, feeling the pressure from his full bladder. He swung one leg groggily, and the bed suddenly made noises.
Emile stirred with a sharp inhale, blinking awake. He sat up with a jolt, his gaze immediately finding Micah.
"Are you okay?!" Emile blurted out, his voice filled with sleep.
Micah looked blankly for a second, then cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just...need the toilet."
Without hesitation, Emile stood up. "I’ll help you, your IV is still going," he said, already reaching for the metal stand. He took it in one hand and gently grasped Micah’s arm with the other, guiding him upright with surprising steadiness.
Micah didn’t protest. His mind and body still felt disconnected, dulled by medication. He had already embarrassed himself before by throwing up blood in front of people. What did it matter now if he leaned on someone to walk?
"Why are you so good at this?" Micah blurted out.
Emile smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I used to stay with my Mum a lot in the hospital. Practice makes perfect."