Earth

Dearka didn't remember much of the fall through the earth's atmosphere. The little he retained was a nightmare of vibration and heat: the whole cockpit shook, while the controls were lit by an eerie orange glow from the Buster itself, superheated in the atmospheric friction. But all that was simply background to the sound of Yzak's voice. He couldn't recall the exact words, other than his own name, but he remembered the tone – Yzak was screaming, urging Dearka do to do something, ordering him, but Dearka couldn't make out what it was. He would later learn that Yzak tried to get him to manoeuvre closer to him, but he hadn't responded; he was too far gone by then. By dangerously overcharging his thrusters, Yzak finally made it over to Dearka's position. He desperately shielded and guided Buster through re-entry. Without his help, Dearka would never have made it; by the time they reached the ground, Dearka had blacked out.

His next memory was of lying on hot sandy soil outside the crashed Buster. The air was too warm. The back of his throat was so dry he gagged on every breath. His eyes were open but the world kept greying out around him. He felt his flight suit ripped open at the throat and water splashed into his face. A hand tilted his head back and water sloshed into his mouth. He choked, but a little filtered down his throat, easing the dryness.

"Dearka, drink this, damn you! You've got to swallow properly; we don't have the water to waste."

"Yzak?" he gritted out, "Wha- ? Where…?"

"Damned if I know precisely, but I've sent a signal; we're not that far off, so they're coming for us from Gibraltar. Now swallow this water or I'll pour it down your throat by force."

Belying the rough words, Dearka felt himself gently lifted with an arm around his back, and the mouth tube of the flask squirted more liquid between his dry lips. He swallowed and opened his mouth to speak.

"No, keep drinking. No talking. Just drink, you've got to get as much into you as possible. You're too hot."

Dearka remembered leaning against Yzak, though contact with his body was uncomfortable: it was another source of heat. A few swallows more, and Yzak relented a little.

"You…should…drink…too" Dearka managed to say.

"I've had some. I'm hot, but not as bad as you. Try and stay awake, will you. Now take some more."

But he couldn't drink anymore, as the greyness was swallowing him up, and the sound of Yzak's voice was the last thing Dearka knew before consciousness faded.

Gibraltar Base Hospital

For a long time Dearka inhabited a strange twilight world where he couldn't make out his surroundings, but vague half-heard voices indicated that people were somewhere in the vicinity, even if he couldn't see them. He knew he needed to find Yzak. Dearka called his name and tried to stumble towards the voice that responded to his call, but something was tying his legs down, hampering his steps. He remembered swearing, and calling out to Yzak for help. He felt Yzak grip his hand, and knew that it was going to be all right.

"Dearka, just relax. I'm right here. Calm down. You're safe."

Blackness came again.

He came to the surface of some deep black swamp, which still held his body in its sticky grip. Eyes blinked open and took in the impression of a white hygienic room, with muted lighting that suggested it was night. There was crisp bed linen, and a drip running into his left arm. So, an infirmary. Then he realised that the feeling of being trapped had a real source. His bare torso was free, but there were straps over the thin sheeting that covered him from the waist down. He was secured to the bed. Dearka had barely time to assimilate this when a voice said right next to his ear, "Well it's about time you woke up, arsehole."

His heavy head jerked to the right, though the effort to raise it from the pillow was beyond him at that moment. He found himself gazing directly into Yzak's face, inches from his own, and on the same level. After a confused moment, Dearka realised that two hospital beds and had been pushed together and Yzak was lying close beside him in the adjacent one, draped in a loose white patient top. Yzak pushed himself up in bed, staring down at him. "Are you making sense now, I wonder?"

Dearka tried a grin, though it came out a bit wobbly. "As much as I've ever done, Yzak. Mind telling me why I'm tied up in bed with you?"

Yzak glared. "It's all your fault. You've been out of your head with a temperature spike. You kept trying to get out of bed. They had to strap you down in the end. The only other thing that seemed to shut you up was me talking to you, so they shoved me in here with you."

Yzak placed the back of his hand on Dearka's forehead to check his temperature. The brush of his skin against Dearka's was strangely enjoyable, and Dearka had to repress a shiver of pleasure at the touch.

"Well, you don't feel that hot anymore. I guess you are back, in what passes for your right mind."

Yzak sighed grumpily. "I hope to hell that they let us out of this place soon, because I am damn sick of it."

Yzak's words attempted to disguise the relief that was flooding through him at the evident recovery of his friend. Relief further boosted with the desire to get away from the scene of his embarrassment over the last hours. He was trying not to think about the implications of Dearka's behaviour while delirious with the high-temperature fever.

Dearka had restlessly whimpered his name over and over. The only thing that seemed to reassure him for any length of time was to hold his hand and keep repeating the same simple message about being safe. Yzak, tied to the bed by his own drip at that stage, (he impatiently pulled it out a couple of hours later), had got the medical orderly to give him a small bowl of cold water and a cloth he could use to cool Dearka down.

He had felt like punching the man for his impertinence, when, after bringing the desired items, he lingered by the bed for a moment and asked curiously, "How long have you two been together, then?" Yzak didn't like his tone, or the implications of his question.

"I've known him since I was seven years old. And what the hell has that got to do with anything?"

The medical attendant's face had cleared, as if some suspicion had been wiped away. He quickly made an excuse to escape, and was not seen again by Yzak, which suited him just fine. Yzak lay on his side, keeping watch over Dearka's restlessness, holding his hand, and occasionally re-applying the cooling cloth. He had been almost glad to have the anger about the fool of a medical attendant as something to think about, other than his anxiety for Dearka. Nor had he been comfortable with asking himself why the revelation of Dearka's unsuspected vulnerability, had brought such an upsurge of protective emotion in himself.

Eventually he had become too weary to stay on the alert all the time. As Dearka became more peaceful, Yzak allowed his own tired overstressed body to relax onto the bed.

Sleep had gradually claimed them both. Yzak could still feel it tugging at him now.

"It's the middle of the night, Dearka. We should get some more sleep so we can get the hell out of here tomorrow."

Dearka nodded, his eyes seemed huge and dark in the subdued light. With effort he raised the hand without the drip to rub his eyes, like a tired child. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea. Uh, could you undo my legs? They feel kind of weird like this."

"All right," Yzak grumbled, "but if I hear one smartarse remark about how I look in this hospital gown, you can stay trussed up like a turkey, OK!"

With that he hauled himself wearily out of the bed and padded slowly round to the far side of Dearka's. He bent to fiddle with the straps underneath the bed; Dearka could hear him softly muttering profanity at one particularly stubborn clasp. Then the straps loosened, and Dearka exultantly stretched his freed limbs.

"Thanks, Yzak."

"Nyuh…" in a surly tone was all the response he got as Yzak wearily settled himself back in his own bed.

They lay there, simply looking at one another in exhausted silence.

"Uh, Yzak?"

"Yeah?"

"I seem to remember some very funny dreams. Scary… you know."

"Yeah, so?"

"Uh, would you…Can I just…uh"

"Just spit it out, Dearka. What the hell do you want me to do now?"

"Hang on to my hand while I fall asleep? I know it sounds crazy, but it seemed to help."

Yzak looked at him with a total lack of expression for a moment. Then he slid his hand across and took the other boy's in a firm clasp. "Just close your eyes and sleep. Tomorrow we are getting the fuck out of here."

With this benediction, both boys relaxed, and soon the only sound in the room was their easy breathing.

During the night the duty doctor came to check on them. The two boys lay side by side, holding hands. Faces relaxed in sleep, they looked young and untouched by life. Their striking looks lent charm to the picture they presented: a contrast of cream and honey-coloured skin; silver hair with gold. Even the bandage on the silver boy's face seemed to emphasise the delicacy of his features, rather than detract from them. The doctor was not a sentimental man, but he dealt with a constant stream of young people in their physical prime, whose bodies and minds were being wrecked by the war. The terrible fragility of such youth and beauty was a background daily tragedy in the hospital; he felt a stirring of pity for the two boys, and decided to leave his examination till the very end of his shift, to allow them a little more peaceful time together.