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The pain of Findex’s broken leg stops him from getting much sleep. The ache is irritatingly persistent, like a drum beat, pulsing along with his heart. Just when it begins to wane, he’ll shift position and the pain flares up as if he’s added tinder to a fire. The cast itself makes him ungainly, even more awkward than before, and never has he wanted to get up and walk without crutches more than he does now. Oh, and it itches, too. Gods, does it itch. He finds it kind of funny that he was able to get a better night’s rest when he was hounded by death and danger in the Learning Chambers, and by funny, he means highly distressing.
The infirmary is dark and empty at night and there’s not much to do during the day. He’s constantly plagued by the fear that the guards are going to come and question him more aggressively, that somehow he’s going to be blamed for something going wrong. It’s easy for his mind to trick him into seeing things in the shadows- the horrible, horrible things he saw in the Learning Chambers. But more than that, he can’t bear the spectre of the Blood Sands looming large on his psyche- it makes him nauseous.
So maybe it isn’t just the pain keeping him awake at night. Findex lies awake and stares at the ceiling and wishes he wasn’t alone. Sometimes he wishes he hadn’t met them- Nerium, Nat, Taro. It would’ve been so much easier to live life without having to question his place in society; without having tasted friendship. He’d probably have died an early death at the hands of the rebels, yes, but at least there wouldn’t be anyone around to mourn him, and he wouldn’t have any regrets.
Maybe he’d idly fantasized about friendship before, sure, but now that he’d actually been part of a group, had had people care about his well being...well. He craved more of it. And he didn’t like to admit that to himself, because it made him feel terribly weak. Even as he lay in that bed, he felt pathetic. What were they doing out there? Making more messes? Having fun? He hoped it was the latter, but knew it was probably a mixture of both. Findex just really, really didn’t want them to get themselves hurt. That was the thought that troubled him most of all.
That and them forgetting him. Oh, that thought was just awful. He tries to shoo it out of his mind but it sticks around regardless. Findex found his eyes prickling with tears when he let himself dwell on it too long. He just liked all of them so much. They certainly weren’t perfect, not by a long shot, but they were his friends, and he wanted to be a part of their lives.
There are so many wonderful little details about them, scenes that Findex plays in his head over and over. It’s like light pouring into his mind through a window, making the darkness of the infirmary a little less oppressive.
Nerium fixing a tear in Nat’s dress, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, dark brows furrowed in concentration. The soothing lull of her voice, comforting and reassuring and quelling the fears that rear in Findex’s chest. The two golden loops of her earrings jangle and glint in the light when she laughs, freckles moving on her cheeks. She’s a little scary too, she can be, but usually only to people that are trying to hurt them, so it ends up making Findex feel pretty safe.
Nat and the ebb and flow of her magic, strong and smart and good at talking. Her leafing through a book cross-legged on the floor, oblivious to the world around her. An idle pat on Findex’s arm or back that grounds him, stops him from spiralling into a panic. The volume and thunder of her rage in battle, the swift arc of her blade, all enough to make Findex’s heart hammer in his chest just reminiscing.
And then there is, of course, Taro. He’s so hard to work out, but that is part of why Findex likes him so much. His jokes are weird but they’re funny and even if he shows it a little strangely, Findex thinks that he cares, maybe the most out of all of them. When he grins all his jagged teeth show and Findex feels a little less self-conscious about his own. He loves to watch him use magic, figuring it out as he goes, like Taro is making art out of nothing or...or something like that. It makes Findex hunger for that ability himself, makes him want power outside of violence and clenched fists.
His breath hitches and he presses his claws to his snout, mortified. He’s gone and made himself sad, is what he’s done. Findex breathes shallowly, trying to stopper the sob that threatens to spill out of his throat. But he doesn’t succeed. Nat and Nerium and Taro probably wouldn’t cry like this. They’d do something cool instead. Cool and stupid and very dangerous.