Silvertip Mountain you only hear the music when your heart begins to break

forward-dated a week

For many days, he drifted in and out of consciousness; sometimes he was awake enough to eat, to whine at @Phocion because he couldn't talk, but mostly he slept. It was a deep, healing sleep— the Mayfair was still young, and though recovery was slow, it was possible. He didn't know that, though.
As far as Cortland was concerned, this was the rest of his life. He felt broken, weak. Speech had not returned to him— in its absence, he found many fears. Would Phocion think him damaged irreparably— stupid? Some days he felt hazy, but Cortland was certain he wasn't. But then— perhaps he wasn't certain; would he know if he was stupid, now? He hoped so. This was at the front of his thoughts during his brief waking moments, and often it drove him to frustrated tears.
Today, when he woke, something felt different. Not just the fact that Phocion was pressed against him, but— oh, Phocion was pressed against him. Whatever small difference he had noticed was forgotten, and he nuzzled into his friend affectionately. Phocion's touch was the only thing he had been able to find comfort in, since the fall (which he still didn't actually remember); even eating was still unpleasant, given his healing tongue. So he had been bolder about it than usual, even— maybe a little uncharacteristically demanding, sometimes. Just a little.