This quiet perfection was interrupted by sharp pains in his wounded limb that shot up his body without warning, making Jack clutch at the sheets in agonised surprise. He cursed softly, the words whistling out through his clenched teeth. It was all it took for Hoshe’a’s brow to crease in concern, reaching out for the sheet covering Jack’s leg and pulling it back. The medic sheepishly stared at the excess of blood - and Jack guessed he had been supposed to monitor the flow before he fell asleep - and plucked the bandages from the little tray holding the various utensils.

“Hang on, I’ll change these for you,” he announced. Jack nodded, biting down on his lip at the sting of Hoshe’a’s gentle hands maneuvering around his searing flesh. It was then that he finally got a look at the damage and found himself grimacing, for his leg had been all but hacked open by the girl he had fought, and the camp physicians had done their best to sew it together tightly. The gruesome sight, however, was mostly obscured by the blood pooling from the gaping gash; blood which Hoshe’a cleaned away softly, patting the area down with a cloth that was quickly becoming saturated. As he cleaned, Jack did his best to not make a sound, though several hisses escaped him nonetheless. It was as if every single nerve ending had been set alight in the worst of ways possible, so that wherever Hoshe’a’s cloth grazed the skin flared, crawling unpleasantly.

“Here, Jack. Drink up and stop pulling that face,” came Hoshe’a’s voice rather abruptly. The redhead looked up only to realise that the medic was holding one of the flasks out for him to take, where a whitish, oily-substance resided. It was the same sleeping draught as had been used on him earlier so, without hesitation, Jack took the concoction in his hand and carefully - pausedly - downed the contents.

“I don’t get how you could let yourself get hurt like this,” Hoshe’a muttered, nearly so quietly that he might have been talking to himself, if not for how his dark eyes darted up for a fraction of a second. Meanwhile, his hands worked the bandages around Jack’s leg carefully but expertly, tight enough to slow the bleeding but not so much so that his leg cramped on top of the injury’s pain.

Jack shrugged his answer, putting the flask back on the bed for Hoshe’a to take away from him. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“Intention or not,” Hoshe’a continued, tying the loose ends so that the bandages would not unravel, "you worried me half to death.”

It was spoken in a light tone, to mask an uncomfortable reality that came to each at their own time and that they all could not help but fear. It made Jack painfully aware of how two-sided that one track truly was: how Hoshe’a’s fear, his worry, could be perfectly echoed in his own heart, with crippling force.

“I saw you there, in the battle,” Jack commented. He could feel the poppy-milk starting to work its magic on him: it numbed the pain and instilled within him a sleepiness that was not easy to fight. He did so regardless. They weren’t done talking. “You...hell, Hoshe’a, you’re not a fighter. I thought the Sarmatian girl would kill you.”

Silence. Hoshe’a busied himself folding the discarded, bloody bandages, his hands sticky and filthy. Jack sighed; his smile fell away, an unpleasant feeling taking root in the pit of his stomach. The scene played out in his mind again: Hoshe’a standing on unsteady legs, holding his gladius ahead of him like an ultimatum or a promise - whichever bore the most weight - over his felled body. Now, with his head clear from the agony of the moment, he knew that the last  thing he wanted was a repeat of the situation. He never wanted to put Hoshe’a in a spot where he might get hurt for his sake.

“I don’t mean it as an insult,” he added quietly, after the pause that stretched on long enough to clearly give voice to Hoshe’a’s guardedness. “I just...you don’t deserve to get hurt here. You...”

He wasn’t facing Jack, setting everything down on the tray in its proper place. “And...well, fuck, some things are worth fighting for. I wasn’t going to let her kill you, Jack. If that’s what you--”

“It’s not,” Jack assured him, chest tightening. “I don’t mean that - I couldn’t care less if I died--”

“Well I fucking care, all right?” Hoshe’a’s voice was firm, unambiguous. It left Jack stunned for several seconds, to the point that he felt the sleeping draught taking a stronger hold on him and he had to pointedly blink and stare ahead, scraping for a couple more seconds because he couldn’t stand the thought of waking up to Hoshe’a refusing to look at him.

“I’m...I’m glad you do. But your life is so much more important.” It was the truth and he meant it with every fiber of his being. His own life was worth nothing at all in comparison to Hoshe’a’s beautiful heart. Wars - conflict - violence: they tore at young souls and spat them out distorted and ruined, broken. He didn’t want that to happen to him. Not to Hoshe’a. “Why did you join the legion?”

This wave of silence was heavier, thicker, darker than all its predecessors. Then, firmly putting the last knife back in its place, Hoshe’a responded, “Does that matter?”

“No,” Jack decided after a beat. He decided that it didn’t matter - Hoshe’a had never given many details about his motives. Just that the opportunity presented itself and he and Sylvius signed up together. “But maybe...shit, maybe you should pull out. You can’t possibly want to die out here.”

“Look, I know you’re trying to save me--”

“Yes,” breathed Jack, relieved that Hoshe’a understood what he really  meant; just how important the man was to him; how it would tear him apart to hear of any horror befalling him as usually occurred to those out on the frontlines--

"--but if you save me, who’s going to save you, huh?”

This time, when he spoke, their eyes locked. There was an intensity to his gaze that held no precedent. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, perhaps it was the night, perhaps it was the bloodstains on his face - or perhaps it was something else entirely, but Hoshe’a didn’t avert his eyes, showing a confidence and determination that were so much more than skin deep. It was so difficult to keep himself from pulling the boy in the rest of the distance to crash their lips together.

Unbidden, Sylvius’ face came to mind. How Jack wouldn’t be in this predicament had he not stepped in to take the fall for that worthless man that Hoshe’a treasured so much; how he had saved the Roman solely for Hoshe’a’s sake, to contradict his more selfish instincts. And he burned to mention it, too, wondering what Hoshe’a might do if he knew what lengths Jack was willing to go for him - if he knew that Jack was willing to die if it ensured his happiness.

The prospect was tantalising for an instant, then Jack sighed, smiling in turn as he shook his head. It would be better if Hoshe’a didn’t know. He would be consoled knowing Hoshe’a had spent his night at the foot of Jack’s supposed deathbed rather than with him. “I don’t need to be saved,” he said instead. In response, Hoshe’a lifted both eyebrows questioningly, then pointedly glanced down at Jack’s leg.

“Yeah, I don’t think so, my handsome and brave sir. You were, like, on the brink of death, and so not in the good sense.”

Jack rolled his eyes, scoffing teasingly; too tired to really keep up an argument when Hoshe’a’s response enchanted him so. “There’s a good sense to that?”

His temperature rose slightly, then, as Hoshe’a winked at him coyly, smiling in satisfaction. “If you know how to look.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yes,” said Hoshe’a. His smile stretched broader, the soft indents of dimples appearing on his cheeks as he gazed at Jack with what he was certain was nothing other than heart-stopping fondness. “And fortunately for you, you’re stuck with me forever.”

Jack, as he settled sleepily back against the thin pillow and Hoshe’a returned to his place on the stool, thought that, really, he could definitely live with that.