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He wakes up. Creegan's there, hand on Mark's hand, curious. Mark tells him to leave. I don't get sick, Creegan says, so shut up. He gives him a cup of ice water with a straw, like he's some sort of child. Drink.

Mark's too tired to be mad at him. He drinks. It's the best thing he's ever tasted.

He wakes up. Creegan's there. Reading a book, staring at the ceiling, playing gin with himself, something. Sometimes he just lies on his back with his eyes closed. Mark's not sure how he knows that Creegan's awake, those times. Subliminal knowledge, right down to the way he breathes. The unconscious movement of his eyes.

He wakes up. Creegan's there. Staring at him, with a furrow between his eyes like he's thinking something unspeakably deep and complex. Maybe he is. It turns his scar white, when he wrinkles up his forehead like that, and Mark's always tempted to touch it, quickly, once, but he never does.

He wakes up. Creegan's there, lying on his back with his eyes open. Damp from the moss and the rocks are soaking his clothes; cuts all over from broken glass. His hair is cropped short and there's a bullet hole in his forehead, powder-burn-black around the edges. They can't breathe. Splinters of glass glint in his cheek.

He wakes up. Creegan's there. Staring at him, thoughtful, his fingers creeping around Mark's wrists like tangling vines. Dizzy as Creegan snakes his hands up Mark's arms, to his throat, feeling the pulse there. Creegan's head is tilted to the side and he's not quite looking at Mark, and Mark feels as though he might still be sleeping.

He wakes up. Creegan's there, rootless, tangling heavy. Mark's drowning in newborn leaves and Creegan digs a hole deep in the earth for him, and looks down at him from that great height as if he only wanted to see what would happen.

He wakes up. Creegan's wrapped around him, eyes open, staring. He shoves Creegan away and goes to the bathroom; Creegan follows him into the shower. It feels still hazy like dreaming, slow. He can't tell if he's awake or asleep.

For you, it's probably because of the steam in here, Creegan tells him, waving his hand back and forth, forming fluffy cumulus clouds. I can't usually tell the difference anymore, myself. He catches Mark's wrist, presses his wet mouth to Mark's shoulder. The clouds he's made are gone.

David, he calls, maybe. David. He can't even tell if he's spoken; it's obscured somehow, like steam on glass. Glass glinting in his cheek. Wet mouth on his now, wet hand on the slick curve of his waist, and it's so hot in here, he'd be sweating if the water ever stopped, and Mark slides a hand over skin, down, down, (hard) and Creegan shudders deep against him. Mark is dizzy like falling, head heavy and light as air everywhere else, and Creegan is clutching at him like a jumper clinging to a building, the last real thing before dying. Creegan's teeth sink into his shoulder as he shakes and shakes, shaking Mark awake with sweet-sharp pain until he cries out grateful, as Creegan's hand slips between his legs.

He wakes up. Slowly opens his eyes to weak light that makes his head pound. His throat is dry as dust; he gulps stale water from the cup beside his bed. The quiet is as dense as fog except for his own small sounds, eerie. He feels, vaguely, that there should be someone else with him. Joints crack as he rolls his neck. It aches profoundly; he must have slept on it wrong.

He's sure he remembers someone else. He's not sure who.