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One minute, they’re both silent in the dim little hospital room – Sean lying unconscious in the bed and Nat sitting hunched in a plastic chair across the room, watching him. Nat’s heart is in his throat and his eyes are wet. Sean’s been out for the better part of 2 hours when the doc had said he’d be up and about in less than 20 minutes, and it’s been hell for Nat, having to watch and wait and hope and pray that Sean will come back –And then the next minute, Sean’s eyes are fluttering open and he’s groaning and stretching and Nat is across the room in seconds to cradle Sean’s face in his hands and press a dozen kisses to his forehead and hair line. Sean hums appreciatively and places his hands over Nat’s, and while Nat can feel the vibration of Sean’s voice and feel his skin beneath his lips and against his hands (his skin that is still a bit too cold, too clammy for comfort), although he saw Sean’s eyes open and currently feels his breath and heartbeat, it just isn’t enough.Nat needs more.He hopes Sean will understand.As he trails kisses down the side of Sean’s face, he shifts his hands so that they’re gripping Sean’s wrists, and he finds himself scratching lightly at the pulse points with his thumbnails. Even without checking properly, the whole two-fingers bit, Nat can feel the pulse, right there, just under the surface, but – he scratches a little more insistently, digging his nails in – he still needs to – to –“Hey,” Sean rasps, and Nat pulls back a little so he can look Sean in the face.Sean’s baby blues are half-lidded, but no less piercing. They see right into Nat’s core, and of course that means that Sean knows exactly how Nat is feeling right now; he understands what he needs.He gives Nat the ok by murmuring, “Use the knife.”No hesitation and no trepidation from Nat. Nat’s pocketknife, with a handle as blue as Sean’s eyes, is pulled out immediately. Sean receives a chaste kiss on the lips, then a longer, lingering, almost reverent kiss to the inside of his left wrist before the blade is quickly slicing down Sean’s forearm.Nat isn’t stupid, he cuts shallow, and he cuts multiple times. He holds his breath and bites his bottom lip as he carves into Sean’s skin. The lines are curvy and thin and they sting and burn Sean white-hot, but they bleed so perfectly, such wonderfully warm, thick red dripping and sliding down Sean’s too too cold, clammy, pale skin, so Sean grits his teeth and bears it. He lets Nat work at his left arm, then his right; he allows Nat to explore his neck and then peel back the bed sheets and pull up his hospital gown to cut patterns into his chest and stomach. Sean throws his head back, arches his body. Every muscle is tense and taut. He trembles and sweats and gasps and groans and he bleeds all over everything, the sheets, the gown, the pillow, the knife, Nat’s hands. Sean bleeds and bleeds and bleeds while Nat lets out satisfied sighs, dark eyes taking it all in hungrily, rapturously, because this is what they’re about. They are two halves of a whole, and Sean’s ‘slumber’ had Nat so frightened he’d lost a part of himself. It is only natural that Nat has this opportunity to assure himself that his other half isn’t a ghost or shade or figment of his imagination, he is really and truly there and alive.This is Sean’s sweat and tears, and it is also his blood. His vital fluid. His life.“Bleed for me, baby,” Nat breathes. “Bleed for me.”