Awaken

Micah floated in nothingness. 

A vast, endless darkness surrounded him, but it wasn't terrifying. It was soft, like being rocked on the gentle waves of an ocean. He didn't feel pain. He didn't feel fear. Just peace. A quiet lull that seemed to stretch on forever. 

He didn't want to leave this place. 

But then came the voices. 

Two men, yelling at each other, their words muffled and distant at first, like they were speaking through water. The serenity of the nothingness fell away and Micah mourned its loss as he was forced to listen.

"You can't have him transferred to another hospital!" one voice snapped, low and menacing. 

Another voice fired back. "That's exactly why I need to get him out of here! Away from you!" 

Micah's brow furrowed as the voices became clearer. The first voice was Callum. He could pick out his smooth, velvety alto in a crowd. And the other… Edric? No, that couldn't be right.

His chest tightened, confusion replacing the peace. Callum, Edric—Damian. The names blurred together, tugging at memories he couldn't quite grasp. He listened harder, his mind straining against the pull of the void as he felt himself being reeled back into consciousness. 

"Micah's condition just got stable," Callum growled, his tone ice-cold. "I'm not letting you risk his life just because you don't like me." 

"That's rich, coming from the guy who dragged him into this mess in the first place," Damian shot back. "He'd be safer anywhere but here—with anyone but you!" 

Micah wanted to speak, to shout, stop fighting, but his voice was buried beneath the weightlessness that had rocked him. He struggled, the darkness around him beginning to fray as light pushed its way through. 

With a dry, hoarse throat, he managed to croak, "Please… stop fighting." 

The room fell silent. 

Micah forced his eyes open, the world blurring into focus. The light was blinding at first, the sterile whites and greys of the hospital room sharp against the soft darkness he had just left behind. 

Two figures stood at the foot of his bed. Both were staring at him, wide-eyed and motionless. Callum was the first to speak, his voice breaking on a single word: "Micah…" 

He stepped closer, his usually composed expression cracking as his dark eyes gleamed with tears. 

"Micah, love. You're… you're alive," Damian said, his voice trembling. His blue eyes were red-rimmed, his face pinched with equal parts disbelief and relief. 

Micah tried to sit up, but his body wouldn't cooperate. His head swam, the edges of his vision darkening as the two men came into sharper focus. Damian rushed to his side, smoothing his hair down with trembling fingers. 

"How are you feeling? Should I get a doctor?" Damian asked, his words tumbling out too quickly. 

Micah blinked slowly, his gaze shifting between the two men. Callum's familiar dark eyes, the way his shoulders sagged with relief. Damian's blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Now that he thought about it, the resemblance between Callum and Caelan and Damian was too uncanny to ignore. And, although confusion pulled at his thoughts, making it hard to separate dream from reality, Micah couldn't shake off the fact that his dreams were more than that. It had all felt to… real.

"You…" His voice was barely above a whisper, rough and cracked. "You were mean hot." His gaze slid to Callum, who was kneeling at his other side, his face a storm of emotion. "And you… looked better in armor." 

Before either man could respond, the exhaustion pulled him under again, and Micah slipped back into unconsciousness. 

---

The second time Micah woke up, the void was gone. 

He opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the curtains. He was off the respirator, and the tight pull of the oxygen mask around his face had been replaced by the gentle ache of sore muscles. 

Beside his bed, on a small table, sat a bottle of water with a note taped to it: Take small sips followed by a smiley face. 

Micah smiled faintly, grabbing the bottle and twisting the cap off. He followed the instructions, drinking slowly even though his throat begged for more. 

His limbs felt heavy and unfamiliar as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hit the cold floor, and he wobbled, steadying himself against the bed frame. Everything hurt—not a sharp, shooting pain, but the dull, aching soreness of a body that had forgotten how to move. 

Micah shuffled toward the mirror on the wall. The person staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. 

Burn scars covered the left side of his face and arm, the skin pink and shiny in the fluorescent light. He'd lost weight, his already slim frame looking frail, almost skeletal. His hair was disheveled, his eyes sunken. And running along the side of his head was a thin line of stitches. 

Micah raised a trembling hand, tracing the stitch with his fingers and a sickening thought crept into his mind, chilling him to the bone. 

I could've died.

A soft knock on the door startled him, and he looked through the mirror to see Callum leaning against the doorway. His suit jacket was off, his tie loosened, and the exhaustion in his face mirrored the way Micah felt. 

"How're you feeling?" Callum asked, his voice careful. 

Micah's throat tightened, tears welling in his eyes. He'd been so close to biting it; so close to being wiped away from this earth. If he were still the broken kid in his parents house, that fact would've made him ecstatic. If he were still the depressed teenager living under the abusive hand of his father, he would've been rejoicing. Back then, he used to pray for death, used to fantasise about it because he was too afraid to take his own life.

Now that he actually loved his life and loved the people in it, he couldn't imagine what they would go through if he hadn't woken up. He managed to whisper, "Grateful." He pulled his hand away from the scar and turned around. "Where's Damian?"

Callum stepped into the room, his gaze flickering over Micah as though taking inventory of every scar, every bandage. "He went to get you something to eat," he said quietly. 

Micah nodded, his fingers tightening around the flimsy hospital gown he was wearing. He'd spent god knows how long completely unconscious and, now that he was face to face with his boss… his friend, he was suddenly shy.

Callum looked equally shy and unsure of himself. Something that wasn't common for the CEO. He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. "Micah I— the things you asked me about… what you wanted to know…I—"

Micah decided to save him the stress. "I know," He swallowed hard, the memories pressing at the edges of his mind. "I remember you." 

Callum's eyes widened slightly, as though he wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly. "You do?" 

Micah nodded slowly, his voice soft. "A bit. I remember… I used to be someone else." 

He hesitated, searching Callum's face, his heart pounding. "I used to take care of Kinnarions. I used to… draw you, by the brook. I… I used to be in love with you. And I… died." 

Callum's jaw tightened, his voice barely above a whisper. "You did." 

Micah shivered, the memories and emotions overwhelming. So that fire wasn't just a dream triggered by the explosion. "Ashur and Caelan," he murmured. "They aren't just my OCs, are they?" 

Callum's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "They're not." 

Micah exhaled shakily, his mind racing as he pieced together fragments of memories and the absurdity of the truth. Then he said the only thing he could think to say in the face of his world imploding;

"Well… shit."