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This was unfair. On so many levels. He was completely, permanently banned from fencing. His father wanted him to focus on the fact he'd inherit his entire business empire, his brother was worried for his health, and his aunt…
Well, Navani seemed like the only person to understand why he was upset. His brother is the only one with a valid concern, mostly because he's currently lying in a hospital with a torn ACL.
He tore his ACL. Not even while fencing, which was the most offensive part about it. It wasn't some noble sports injury where he goes out during a bout, gracefully retiring afterwards. No. Of course it wasn't!
He fell down the storming stairs. That was it. The maid had just mopped the hardwood, and he was on his phone, and he storming slipped and tore his ACL. Among… other injuries. It's why he hasn't gone home yet. Those stairs were both slippery, and long.
A compound fracture in his leg, minor internal bleeding, a torn ACL, yes, but perhaps more pressing: a mild spinal cord injury. It's why he's in the ICU, as opposed to any other wing. He can feel below his spine, can move it with relative ease, but it all aches, his muscles feeling sore as if he just got done with an exercise, and he's felt lightheaded since he woke up.
What's worse, he doesn't even get his own room. They were full up , apparently. How dangerous is this city that its ICU is full? He has to share his room with some other guy.
He's been staring at the ceiling since he woke up, thinking to himself in various bouts of anger, self-pity, and full-on despair. The off-white of the rooms unsettles him, and he can’t even manage to fall back asleep over the sound of the beeping of the moniters.
After almost an hour of this, he gets so anxious with the silence— that guy next to him hasn't spoken, or even really moved, and it was almost amusing to think of two people laying stock still on parallel beds, staring at the ceiling— and talks.
“My life is over.” He says without preamble, voice shaking a little at the sudden admission. He wouldn't be wrong. His only passion is ruined, and all he has left is helping run his dad's business. Though it sounds a bit spoiled in his head.
Instead of pointing that out, the other guy just shrugs. Adolin wouldn't have been mad if he did point out his petulance, though. The guy has watched his family in expensive suits and shoes and jewelry visit him, talk about the business and their trips like he wasn't there, watched Navani give him gifts almost every time she visits like it's her fault he fell down the stairs and is trying to say sorry.
But, he just shrugged. He knew, because he heard the rustle of fabric. So it was either a shrug or a slight shift of the body. Either way, he was listening.
“I-I mean, fencing was all I had, y'know? And now- I mean, you've seen them. They want me to take responsibility and help my father and put aside my silly hobby. It's not a hobby. It's all I've ever cared about.” Adolin continues, the words draining out of him, eyes filling up with tears. He doesn't expect this guy to care. He's been so extremely aloof that he thought the dude was in a coma when he first got wheeled in.
“And now… and now there's just this,” he says as he gestures to his legs, one propped up with a bulky brace wrapped around his entire leg, the other one a mess of metal disks that fixed his fracture. Both legs, injured beyond recognition. From some storming stairs.
“From some fucking stairs!” He echoed the thought out loud, crying in earnest now.
He heard a shift from the bed next to him and finally turned his head to look at him. And was met with a curtain. Right. They both had to be… bathed… and the curtain was the best way to ensure privacy while doing that. Luckily— because Adolin couldn’t move even if he wanted to— the man pushed the curtain aside.
Oh right. Again. For some reason, his roommate had a nurse always just sitting there . Adolin didn't know why, because he hadn't studied medical practices beyond stretches. The nurse this time— they came in shifts— was a man, wait no they were always men, with dark black hair and pale white skin. He looked… very indifferent to the exchange going on. Almost bored.
His roommate looked disheveled in his hospital gown and slightly damp hair. He has minimal straps and contraptions put into him, certainly less than Adolin, with just a single IV in, the tube going up into his pole with 3 bags on it, definitely more than just liquid IV.
“Tell me about it.” The guy says, and then nothing else. He flops back onto his bed— hey, how does he have more pillows and blankets than Adolin? He's only been here a day, and Adolin's been here for almost a week.
“Uhm…” Adolin muttered, unable to really build upon that. The nurse in the back tried not to crack a smile. “Whats your name, anyways?” He tried.
“Kaladin.” The man— the boy? How old was this guy? — responded. “I know yours.” That was fair. One family member or another was always in his room— the only reason there wasn't anyone right now was because it was seven in the storming morning.
“That’s… a nice name.” Adolin is usually better at this social stuff, he swears. But the aching pain in everything below his back— no, his back hurts too— is kind of stunting him. “I don't mean to pry, but, you can guess how I got in here, how'd you?” Adolin said, folding his hands over his stomach, head turned towards Kaladin.
“Uhm,” Kaladin said quietly, almost mirroring Adolin's earlier sound, face growing somber, then angry. “You did mean to pry, and- and I don't have to tell you.” That said, Adolin did know why Kaladin was here.
He was barely half-awake when Kaladin got rolled into the room in the middle of the night, the other man barely conscious in his own right. They probably assumed Adolin was asleep, because the nurse kept asking questions to Kaladin about why he did it , and what was wrong , and you could've died — which pissed Adolin off on behalf of Kaladin, so he couldn't even imagine how annoying that must've been for the actual guy.
In any case, he could make a very good educated guess on why Kaladin was in the ICU. But, he would pretend he didn't. So he just sighed apologetically.
“I'm sorry. It's really boring, just laying here. Can't even be on my phone, I storming managed to sprain both of my wrists? How did I even get that injured just falling down the stairs?” He said with a humorless chuckle, but Kaladin actually did give him a little amused exhale of air. Sweet.
“People actually die from falling down the stairs, you know? You're almost one of the lucky ones.” Kaladin replied, and when Adolin looked over, he had a faint smile on his lips.
“Well, yes, almost. ” Adolin responded, brows furrowing. “Though I know it's all relative, can I at least say I do have it pretty bad?” He said with a vague gesture to his whole body. Kaladin chuckled this time.
“Yeah…” he said, the humor leaving him as he spoke. “So… fencing? Were you any good?” Kaladin asked, and Adolin could hear in his voice the moment he realized that he was opening up to him too quickly, or whatever went through his head, because his tone switched from playful to carefully guarded in about half a word.
“The best .” Adolin replied with a smile, and Kaladin raised a skeptical eyebrow. “No, really.” Adolin laughed, momentarily forgetting that it didn't matter now, because he would never do it again.
“I started when I was sixteen — I mean competing internationally. Been competing since thirteen, learning since… I can't remember. Two time Olympic gold medalist, two time silver, and one bronze— the bronze was the year I turned sixteen, okay? And I've placed in the top five every year since I was sixteen in the international fencing championships, and won first place thrice. All sabre discipline.” And he was storming proud of it, dammit.
Kaladin was silent for a second, then frowned. “I'm sorry you can't do it anymore. You're exceptional.” Was that… what was that in his voice? Guilt? Shame? Adolin couldn’t make it out. “But, you still have your dad's business. I mean, you're going to inherit a whole empire.”
“Yeah, and you think I want that? No. I wanted to fence until I physically couldn't anymore— not like this— and then teach other people how to fence. Now I have to sit in business meetings for the rest of my storming life.” Adolin groaned, scrubbing his face with his hands.
“No you don't.” Kaladin said simply, looking… still closed off, he made sure of that once he realized he was slipping from whatever mask he thought he had, but sympathetic.
“Kind of do. I don't have anything else.” Adolin replied.
“Then make something else.” He shot back. Adolin blinked back at him, something dawning on him. Like a twilight before the dawn, he realized he really didn't have to. His father couldn't force him, he isn't the type to in the first place (anymore.)
But before Adolin could voice that, Kaladin sighed.
“I sound hypocritical. I mean, I don't…” he trailed off, realizing he was about to share something about himself. The hope that he would died, and Adolin found himself disappointed, watching Kaladin close his mouth.
“You're right.” He said, fidgeting with a loose thread on his cast. “You really are. And it's— it's not like my father would let me starve, he'd support me through whatever I wanted to do after this, no matter how begrudgingly. I just felt so pressured, even by Jasnah, who I didn't… I didn't expect pressure from.”
“It's hard,” Kaladin agrees, and Adolin recalibrates the emotion he read. It's not sympathetic, it's empathetic. He relates. “When your family wants you to do something so bad you almost feel like it's the only thing you can do.” He didn't add an anecdote or say anything more.
The conversation died down, Adolin mulling on his words, silently wishing he was given more pain meds, (until the nurse looked at him too hard and asked if he wanted some, to which he said yes.) and feeling sorry for himself. Eventually, his father came in, almost right on the minute of visiting hours beginning.
“I don't want your business.” Adolin blurted out before Dalinar could even put down his bag.
“Oh.” His father said, a bit taken aback by the abruptness. “I… why?” He eventually gets out.
“It's not my thing , you know this. Business management and stuff. It doesn't make me happy, I'm not good at it, and above all, I just… don't want to.” He sounded childish to his father's ears, he's sure. Dalinar is going to either laugh it off or get angry, and then that'll be that, and this was a stupid idea—
“Okay.” His father replies, voice unusually soft. When Adolin looks up at him, he finds Dalinar is staring at the metal structure enclosing his leg. Well. Pity points for the win, he guesses. “I don't want to be the man that forces his will onto his children. Whatever you want to do moving forward— as long as it isn't fencing— I will support you.”
Adolin smiles, genuinely smiles, mostly from relief, and laughs.
“Oh, storms, thank god. I'd thought you would disown me if I turned you down.” He blurted out, then almost immediately regretted it because his father took it seriously and had the saddest look on his face.
“I would never do that-” Dalinar begins, but Adolin cuts him off.
“Yes, yes, I know.” He says with a sigh. “Anyways,” he decides to shove that entire conversation under the rug, “have you met Kaladin?” He asks, even though he absolutely hasn't, head nodding towards Kaladin, laying on the bed, rubbing his eyes and looking over as he hears his name called.
“Huh?” Kaladin says, blinking, obviously just coming out of a nap. The IV tube has managed to wrap itself under and over the man, making him have to shuffle his entire body around to get it untangled.
“My dad,” He says, jerking his head the other way towards his father. Dalinar waves politely, Kaladin kind of just blinking back before raising his hand and waving once.
“Hi,” He yawns out, making Adolin suppress a yawn of his own.
They take turns kind of making small talk at each other, Adolin interjecting at appropriate points to keep the conversation rolling. Surprisingly, they get along well enough.
“What do you do for work?” Dalinar asks, and Kaladin’s entire face darkens.
“I'm… I'm working towards my M.D in med school.” Kaladin says, and Adolin is genuinely impressed, and also mildly confused why he seems so not happy about it.
Dalinar does not notice. “That’s impressive.” He says, reflecting Adolin's own thoughts. “How'd you end up in the hospital, ICU no less?” Ah, the million-dollar question. Kaladin looks immediately uncomfortable, and Adolin gets ready to interject before the nurse he keeps forgetting exists stands up.
“Mr. Kholin, while I appreciate your kindness with Kaladin, please understand that he does need rest and that overly sensitive questions affects that rest.” The nurse says, and Dalinar only seems to notice the nurse for the first time when he stands up, a bit surprised that there was a fourth person in the room.
And then, as he speaks, some sort of recognition dawns on him as he takes in the nurse's desk and the bags Kaladin's hooked into, coming to the same conclusion Adolin had in a slightly different way.
“Yes, of course,” His father says and clears his throat. The nurse sort of killed the conversation, and his father only took the time to pull out various foods and gifts he got for Adolin before walking off to work.
“Sorry,” Kaladin says after his father has left, and Adolin has to genuinely let his brain turn that around in his head for a few moments before he understands what Kaladin is sorry about.
“Theres— literally nothing to apologize about.”
“Still-”
“ Still , nothing.” Adolin replies, and digs out some chips and a caesar wrap from the bag— it's a bit comical how it looks like his father genuinely didn't know what he would like, so he got him everything. Also a little depressing, but it doesn't matter.
“Food?” Adolin offers, and the look that the other man gives him is equal parts ravenous and nauseous. He takes the food anyway, looking at the nurse briefly before opening it at the slight nod that's given.
Almost a minute after he takes his second bite, Adolin hears a lurching gag from him, and the nurse, almost completely unfazed (he was definitely expecting it, in hindsight,) grabs an emesis bag and lets Kaladin grab it with both shaky hands as he throws up into it.
“Shit! Are you alright?” Adolin asks, instinctively trying to sit up and failing. Kaladin doesn't respond for a few minutes, alternating between letting out little whimpers and groans of pain and dry heaving into the bag.
He regains his composure after a while, and the nurse hands him a wipe and takes away the bag, storming measuring how much he threw up through the lines on the bag — before replacing it with another one, this time set on the bed itself.
“‘M fine.” Kaladin says, knocking his head back against the wealth of pillows. He closes his eyes, breathing shaky breaths.
“It's the… the… my liver.” He says, not explaining further. He must've figured out Adolin knew he overdosed by now, because neither of them is stupid.
“No more wrap then?” Adolin asks, and the other man laughs, shaking his head.
“Yeah… yeah no.”
“I'll take you to this restaurant down the road when you get out, it has the best wraps. It'll make up for this, I swear it.” That coaxes a tired smile out of Kaladin, who has set to wiping his sweaty face down with a rag.
“Alright, sure.” He replies.