..oOOo..


9:07 am Saturday

Byers pushed the door open quietly, a small smile curving his
lips as he took in the sight of his lover curled up on his side,
his back to the door.  

As he walked around to the other side of the bed, his smile
faded, replaced by a concerned frown.  It stung to see
how pale Langly’s face was against the white linen, the younger
man’s expression tight with pain even in sleep.  

Setting the cups of tea he’d brought onto the tray hooked off
to the side of the bed, he pulled the chair up close and settled
in to watch his lover sleep.  He studied the younger man, the
familiar thin frame folded carefully, the long legs pulled up and
tucked neatly next to his body.  Laying on his right side, his
left hand clutched his blanket close under his chin while his 
right arm lay limp on the bed next to him.

After a while Langly shifted, frowning slightly and mumbling
under his breath.  Instinctively, Byers reached up to calm 
him, smoothing back the errant strands of hair and settling him.
"Shh..." he whispered softly, his fingers lingering at the soft skin
of Langly’s temple, reluctant to break contact.

Langly leaned into the touch slightly.  He sighed softly, blinking 
as he slowly woke and realized he was not alone.  Squinting to
focus better, he finally gave a little smile.  "John," he sighed.

"Who else would it be?"  Byers replied, amused.

The younger man chuckled, barely making a sound.  "A few of 
the nurses think I’m cute..." he answered with a tiny shrug.

"Which ones?  I’ll see about that..."  Byers growled with mock
jealousy.  Leaning closer, he gently ran his fingers across Langly’s
forehead.  "You feel warm..."

Langly nodded.  "Fever;  nothing serious.  Nurse said it’s normal
after surgery."

"Yeah,"  the older man sighed.  "Doesn’t mean I have to like it."
He sat silently for a few minutes, enjoying the simple closeness
of his lover without the frustrated tension between them like
before.

"So...what’s the word on how much longer they’re keeping you
here?" Byers finally asked, breaking the silence.  He knew he
was reducing them to small talk, but refused to push his lover
into talking before either of them were ready.

The younger man sniffed quietly and looked up at him.  "Um, the
last nurse I talked to said I should be well enough to move back
to a private room sometime tonight."  He shifted uncomfortably.
"All these tubes stuck in me are driving me crazy..."  He didn’t 
have to tell the other man which tube he was referring to specifically.

Byers leaned forward again, leaning on an arm resting on the edge 
of the bed, his other hand moving up to absently stroke Langly’s
hair.  "I know, hon.  Didn’t Kerry say they’d take out the catheter
later today?  As long as everything’s okay?"

"Yeah, but it’s still damn...uncomfortable,"  he replied, grimacing.

Dr. Larson chose that moment to enter the room, saving them from
the burden of being unable to talk to each other.  She was followed
by a young nurse carrying a tray of painful-looking instruments.  

Langly cringed when he saw the near-frightened look on Byers’
face.  "Hey, Doctor.  I’m guessing I’m not going to enjoy this 
check-up, am I?"

She gave the older man a reassuring smile as she moved to stand
next to the bed behind Langly.  "I hope I can make this as pleasant
as possible.  I need to check the surgical site, just like last night.  I’m
hoping the swelling has gone down.  Are you still experiencing
numbness in your legs?"  she asked as she leaned down, pushing 
the gown aside to start working.

"No, it’s better than it was last night," her patient replied.

Byers shot her a questioning frown, then looked back down at
Langly.  "What’s wrong with his legs?" he demanded,
not able to keep the concerned tremble out of his voice.

"Nothing serious,"  the doctor assured him.  "There is some swelling
of the muscles in his lower back;  this is to be expected after this
kind of surgery.  This is putting a bit of pressure on his spinal cord,
which is leading to numbness in his lower extremities," she stated
matter-of-factly.  Seeing Byers go several shades whiter at her 
words, she faltered.  "Would you like to step outside while I do
this?" she asked gently.

Unable to find words, Byers found he didn’t need to.  He felt the
sudden grip around his hand, and glanced down to see Langly’s
pleading look.  "No..." the younger man whispered, his need for
support overwhelming.

Byers shook his head slightly.  "Um, no, I’d rather stay here," 
he managed.  Concentrating on comforting his lover gave him
focus, something he knew how to do and could do very well.
Tightening his own grip on the other man’s hand, he gave Langly
a small smile.  

"All right,"  Larson nodded.  As she poked and prodded at her
handiwork, Byers focused on distracting Langly despite the 
sharp, pained hisses and uncomfortable winces.  A few minutes
passed before the doctor spoke again.  "It looks like the swelling
has gone down but I’ll still need to give you a shot to help.  You
ready?"  she asked, taking a prepared syringe from the tray and
uncapping it, her hands moving to Langly’s back again.

"Yeah, go ahead,"  the young man nodded.

He gave a sharp gasp and his grip tightened on Byers’ hand, telling
Byers the exact moment the needle struck home.  The older man 
waited until the doctor was finished before bringing his hand 
up to rub Langly’s arm.  He leaned in closer to whisper to him
soothingly as the younger man waited for the pain to fade.

"Ringo, are you all right?"  Larson asked softly, concerned.

Langly didn’t answer, but gave a tiny nod that only Byers could
see.  The older man looked up at the doctor and nodded, answering
for him.  "He’s okay.  Just needs a few minutes."

She nodded, replacing Langly’s blanket to where it had been and
preparing to leave.  "I’ll come back to check on you in a few hours,
Ringo," she said, talking to the younger man but looking at Byers.
"You’re recovering well, and we should be able to move you to
a private room by this afternoon."  She paused, making her way
out after the nurse.  "I’ll be around, so if you have any questions,
or problems, let me know."

After the door closed, Langly gave a shaky sigh.  "God, I hate
this..." he mumbled.  "Hate being poked and tested constantly...
hate being sick."

"I know, hon,"  Byers replied softly, his hand still gently stroking
Langly’s arm, shoulder, upper back.  "I hate seeing you like this.  
Hate that I did this to you," he said before he realized the words
had come out.  

Langly looked up at him, his eyes widening with surprise, and a
fair amount of guilt.  "John!  You didn’t...God, how can you even
think that?" he snapped without a hint of anger.  "You didn’t do
anything to me.  It just...happened, nothing that either of us can
do to change that."  Even as he spoke the words, he discovered 
the truth in them that he hadn’t yet accepted himself.  That none of
it was ever his fault.

Byers looked back in stunned silence, seeing the rush of emotions
crossing Langly’s face;  surprise, pain, and finally, most disturbing,
the look of horror as the younger man closed his eyes and looked
away.  With a wince, he rolled onto his back, facing away silently.
In that final look of near-disgust, Byers could almost hear the words;  
knew then that Langly still resented him, still blamed him for this.

Too confused and hurt to respond, Byers stood and moved to the 
door without a word.

Out of the corner of his eye, Langly watched as he lover 
left.  He couldn’t speak, his mind clouded in a rush of
sudden realization and too many conflicting emotions.  He
didn’t trust himself to say anything, simply watched as Byers
left without even looking back.

Langly drew a sharp breath, letting it out slowly as he tried
to think this through.

He knew that he had never blamed Byers, not ever.  Hadn’t
even crossed his mind.  But the others; the doctors who didn’t
know what to do with him until it was too late.  Who wouldn’t
listen to him as he tried to explain the significance of the religious--

He nearly bolted upright, it hit him so suddenly, but the sharp 
protest from his abdomen preventing it.  "Fuck..." he whispered
to himself as he remembered what had started this all.  

The blessing.  The prayer that had given him the gift of life, only
to take it away so cruelly, so painfully.  It had been the Shiva,
the god of fertility.  

At least, in one part of the Hindu religions.  One convenient
translation that he had grabbed onto because it gave him the 
answer he wanted to hear so badly.

But he also knew that translating from Hindu into English was
nearly impossible, and often common terms could be easily
mistaken.  He knew that Shiva was an important god, showing
up in many forms, taking on many rolls.  The most common 
of which was "The Destroyer."

He felt sick at the realization, the cruel nature of this when he
knew how close to home it hit.  

There *was* no one to blame for this;  at least, not anyone
involved, not any man.  Instead, however absurd the notion,
he found himself turning his anger on Shiva himself, on the 
god who had chosen him to have something wonderful only
to destroy it so quickly.  

The more he thought about it, the clearer it became.  He turned
into himself, the agony of loss feeding into his hatred, his white
hot anger toward the malevolent being who threatened to destroy
his life, his love; everything that he had gained being taken
from him in one shocking blow.

It was more than he could take.  Too much anger for him
to bottle up.  

It was only a matter of time before he would lose what 
little control he had left.


..oOOo..