Living with Hope ✓ [ boyxboy ] [ Completed ]

16

Ivan Petrov

When I wake up, it's all white. The lights are white, the walls are white. The curtains, tables, beds, clothes, everything. So white, I'm blinded.

Can't hospitals be rainbow-themed or something?

My right hand is wrapped with a fiberglass cast. My forehead has some fresh bandages. There's a pack of ice beneath my knee and some more against my back.

I feel sleepy even though I've just woken up. Tired. And my wounds don't hurt as much as they did last time I was awake. I must be on painkillers.

I stare at myself. My shirt is replaced with some long white hospital gown. My boxers are the only other thing I'm wearing. Truly drag.

"Motherfucker," I murmur, running my left hand through my black hair - perhaps the only nonwhite thing in this room.

"Wise words," I hear someone behind me. I try to turn around and see who's speaking even though I can recognise the voice without another thought. But he straightens my neck. "Don't do that, gosh. The last thing you want right now is an injured neck."

I smile wryly, wincing slightly. He's right, I really shouldn't twist my neck when my ribs are cracked. I stare at Hope. He's wearing a black sweatshirt paired with ripped blue jeans. Not one bit of his outfit is white so he really stands out against everything else.

His hair is unruly and his eyes have bags beneath them, giving me the impression that he didn't sleep last night.

"Is everything alright?" I ask. I can't think of any reason why he'd be up all night.

"Me?" He's bewildered. He pushes the white chair towards my bed and sits on it. "I'm supposed to be asking that question, not you. You think I'm the most imperfect human being alive now that I've shown you my scars?"

I laugh, my chest hurts a bit, but not much. He laughs too, and man, is it a sight for sore eyes. His back is pressed to the chair, legs spread and his head is thrown backward, eyes looking at the (white) ceiling. His hair catches all the light the white walls are reflecting.

His scars are more visible in the light. And even then, I can't tell there's a flaw on his body. Maybe his scars only add to his beauty.

Alexander Hope. The boy who makes his scars look like beauty marks.

He stares into my eyes, mouth curving into a smile. "I can't believe I did that."

Did what? I want to ask but stay quiet.

He inches closer and extends his hand, brushing his thumb against my bandaged forehead. "How bad is it?"

I avert my eyes. "Honestly, it doesn't hurt very much. I know they've given me painkillers. I can feel it. I feel tired and drowsy but I don't want to sleep, y'know?"

He nods.

"I can't figure out if I like them or not," I say, still talking about the drugs. "They remind me of my team. I'm supposed to like their presence but I don't. "

He chuckles, his fingers stroking other parts of my forehead, parts that don't have any bandage on them. Bare skin. My blood is on fire. My forehead is burning because of his touch.

Do foreheads blush?

"I almost forgot, your doctor has to see you. I'll tell him, just a sec." Hope picks up his phone and sends someone - the doctor? - a text. When he turns his attention back to me, I'm staring at him like he just drank kerosene and gobbled a lit matchstick. And subsequently exploded.