Dawn through the Blinds

Candice's P.O.V.

The very first time that Mantovani opened his eyes after the third crash I believed I was dreaming.

The room we were in was dark--blinds half-open to the mid-morning sun, machinery clammering its constant, mechanical lullaby--and I had been staring at his face so long that I had begun to see at the edges. His skin was too pale over the white sheets, the coarse stubble on his jaw coming out in sharp relief, the new scar on his temple still angry and red. I knew every word of him that had been stuttered in the operation since surgery: the tiny freckle in the left eye, the tiny crescent scar on his chin of some previous fight which I knew him when he was still young, how his lashes brushed against his cheeks when he slumbered.

I hadn't slept.

Not really.

Each time my eyes drifted shut I saw the color red dot on my chest once more, saw him leap, saw him hit back at me and spurred my blood through both our shirts and I screamed his name into the dark. So I stayed awake. Watched the monitors. Counted his breaths. His grip on his hand would drop him away and he would never see it again.

Then his hands jerked in my hands.

Just once. Barely noticeable.

But it was enough.

The beat of my heart slashed me against my ribs. I leaned forward, chair scratching the linoleum, hand that was free floating above his face in fear of disturbing the spell.

"Mantovani...?"

His lashes fluttered.

Slow.

Once. Twice.

Then those green eyes, dark and painful, yet frank.

One, long, shattering moment was still without motion on our part.

then he grated, with split and scarcely there voice:

"Piccola..."

The sight of hearing his name in my mouth defeated me.

A sob tore out before I could repress it--ugly, raw, relieved, and I sprang forward, making my forehead touch his, taking care not to disturb the oxygen cannula taped under his nose, taking care not to disturb the bandages, taking care not to disturb anything, but of the fact that I needed to touch him breathing.

"You're awake," I choked out. "You're really awake."

His lips turned--only a slight contraction, more grime than lilt, but his.

"Told you..." Every word I said wrote him dear, he moaned. "I'd always... come back."

My laughter was tearing and wet. "You almost didn't. You gave me a fright, that I could not remember how to breathe.

His head shook and his hand, which was feeble, raised itself and touched my cheek, thumb seizing a tear.

"Sorry..." he murmured. "Didn't mean... to leave you."

"Don't apologize." I pressed my face in his palm, and kissed the middle of it. "Just don't do it again. Ever."

A sigh, a tremulous, agonized sigh, which might have been a laugh had he the strength.

No vows... on the death bit, he grated. But I will struggle... like hell... to remain.

I kissed his knuckles, one at a time, one having a taste of salt and hospital.

"That's enough," I whispered. "That's all I need."

Silence fell round us--warm, soft, living.

I learned his face, learning to fit the trifling modifications: the new cavities under the cheekbones through the loss of blood, the bruise under the jaw just a yellowish bruise through the crash, how his eyes nonetheless followed me like I was the only object in the room that was worth looking at.

You are still beautiful, I said to myself.

He huffed--weak, pained. "Liar."

"Not lying." I got close, rubbing my lips against his forehead. You are prettiest thing I ever saw. Alive. Breathing. Here."

His eyes shut, to a second--long enough, I felt, to bring panic--then were open again, softer.

"Love you..." he breathed. "More than... anything."

It was the words that were as sunshine after years of night.

Then I kissed him--slow and careful and tender--in it all the unspoken promises that I could put in it: I am here. I'm staying. We survived. We'll keep surviving.

By the time I withdrew, the tears were streaming back.

"I love you too," I told him. "More than safety. More than normal. More than anything."

He placed my hand in his--weak and yet insistent.

"Then stay," he whispered. "Stay... forever."

I shook my head, which was too narrow to talk.

I heard voices outside the door, the low rumble of Sanna, the rough laugh of Conti, the low response of Mom, the monotonous murmur of Dad. Family. Waiting. Watching. Watching the same as I had.

I leaned over Mantovani and took a rest against his shoulder--mindful of the bandages--and heard his heart beat against the monitor: good now. Stubborn. Alive.

And I was able, and to my knowledge, for the first time in years, to believe that tomorrow could come.

That we might actually get it.

That may not necessarily be a vow that we would have to break.

I closed my eyes.

Listened to him breathe.

And--this once--but once--have still the world.