CHAPTER 28: IDIOT

"You’re still conscious, right?" The car sped down the road, the driver’s face set in seriousness, hands steady on the wheel.

Luther held Joshua tightly, asking with a grave tone.

Joshua rested his head against Luther’s chest, his whole body limp and feverish. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, his mind already growing hazy. He whispered faintly:

"I’m... not sure."

Luther sneered:

"What’s there to be unsure about? If you dare make a fuss later, I’ll yank your pants down and let everyone admire your great black dragon."

Joshua, tormented by the pain in his leg, his body feverish and dizzy, nausea rising but unable to vomit, still couldn’t help but laugh weakly at Luther’s words. He gave a feeble warning:

"If you dare do that, I’ll kill you..."

"Haha, with what? With your great black dragon? Well then, I suppose I should be a little scared." Luther smirked.

This time, Joshua honestly couldn’t resist lifting his head to look at Luther—only to find that Luther was also looking down at him. Just that there were two of him, double the annoyance!

Joshua squinted, unable to focus his gaze, and asked seriously:

"You... what do I have to do for you to let that matter go? You’re too much, I already apologized..."

Perhaps it was because patients don’t reason correctly—whatever the case, Joshua suddenly burst into tears.

Nine: [...] Perhaps Luther is the only person who can hold Joshua without me having to worry about any "feelings" developing.

Luther scratched his head, as though he couldn’t understand why Joshua was suddenly crying. He wrapped his arms around Joshua and lightly patted his back. It seemed to be the only way he knew how to comfort someone, but clearly it worked on Joshua.

"Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again," Luther said gently.

By this time, they had already arrived at the hospital. Annoying as Luther was, talking to him had helped Joshua regain some composure.

Even so, when Luther carried him inside, Joshua’s body stiffened in an instant, burying his head deeper into Luther’s chest.

Leonard, who had just caught up, froze at the sight and blurted out in panic:

"Joshua’s passed out already?!"

Luther shook his head, speaking seriously:

"Keep quiet later."

Leonard frowned. Who did Luther think he was, daring to order him around?! But given the situation, he held his tongue for now.

Joshua knew—he had to live. Treatment was unavoidable. Yes, he was afraid, but he wanted to live more.

Joshua thought he had steeled his resolve, yet when Luther laid him down on the hospital bed, he still trembled uncontrollably, his hands clinging tightly to Luther, clutching so hard that the front of Luther’s shirt was left wrinkled from his grip.

Luther felt his waist damp with tears, hot from Joshua’s every ragged breath.

The doctor nearby frowned, his gaze questioning. Luther quickly explained:

"He has a trauma reaction when hospitals are mentioned... he’s still got a bit of rationality left right now."

In other words, whatever needs to be done, do it quickly.

The doctor nodded in understanding and reminded, "Hold him tight."

Those words only made Joshua tremble more. Luther lowered his eyes, and in them, for once, flickered a rare trace of pity.

He wrapped his arms around Joshua, speaking softly:

"Just hold on to me. As long as I’m here, no one will hurt you."

As he spoke, he shot a look at Leonard.

Leonard’s gaze fell on Joshua’s hands, gripping Luther’s shirt with white-knuckled desperation. Understanding, he stepped forward—just as Joshua’s faint muttering reached their ears.

"Princess... princess... princess..."

Luther’s face twisted with exasperation:

"How many times have I told you, I’m a prince!"

"Princess..."

The doctor’s voice cut in, stern and clipped:

"Why come to the hospital only now? The infection in his leg is severe. Any later and it might’ve required amputation."

Leonard froze in shock at the words. At the same time, the doctor quietly instructed the nurse beside him:

"Give him a dose of fever reducer first..."

But Joshua, half-delirious, caught that. His strained rationality snapped like a taut string breaking. He immediately struggled, but Luther’s arms held him fast, and Leonard moved in, pinning both of his arms down firmly—like a prison of stone.

That suffocating sense of confinement dragged Joshua back into the nightmare of the laboratory.

No—they were treating him. They only wanted to help.

No—he couldn’t breathe.

Joshua, Joshua, breathe. Don’t bite your tongue.

Joshua couldn’t tell if someone was speaking but opened his mouth anyway, sinking his teeth into the only thing within reach. There was a pained groan. His eyes flew open, yet he saw nothing—only the taste of blood flooding his mouth, only the unshakable agony and fear blazing clear in his mind.

Leonard stared in horror as Joshua bit into the back of Luther’s neck, eyes wide, brows furrowed, tears brimming until they overflowed silently down his face.

Leonard’s throat went tight. He wanted to lift a hand to wipe away those tears, but both hands were locked around Joshua’s wrists. Every joint in Joshua’s fingers had turned bone white, as if—even if his arms snapped—he still wanted to break free from Leonard’s grip.

It clearly wasn’t so, yet Leonard felt he truly was a villain at that moment—a villain.

Joshua, what is it that terrifies you this much...

Joshua... don’t be afraid... don’t be scared...

Joshua!

A resounding voice rang out, carrying with it a gentle smile.

Wake up already, I’ve been waiting for you!

By instinct, Joshua grasped the hands reaching him, the dazzling light radiating from that figure entirely enveloping him.

Joshua blinked, lips trembling to form words...

"Don’t cry." A clear voice sounded right beside his ear. Joshua opened his eyes in a daze. It was Luther’s handsome face, long hair cascading down, and a strand brushing against Joshua’s cheek, tickling slightly.

"Why are you acting so dumb? Don’t tell me the fever fried your brain?" Luther mocked lightly, then held up his hand with two fingers extended. "Tell me, how many fingers is this? Guess wrong and I’ll take care of you for life."

"Two fingers." Joshua croaked, voice hoarse and dry.

Luther laughed: "Hahaha, Joshua, you idiot—it’s three fingers! What now? Call me big bro and I’ll take responsibility for you!"

He laughed with zero restraint, grinning like a fool.

Joshua turned his head away, saying nothing.

Nine snorted coldly: [Ignore him. How do you feel?]

"I’m fine," Joshua answered softly, keeping it short.

By then, Luther had already propped him up and brought a cup of warm water to his lips. "Here you go, Your Majesty."

Joshua took the straw in his mouth and sipped. Only after a few gulps did his throat ease.

His gaze fell on the side of Luther’s neck—where bandages had been wrapped. Memories flickered back into his mind. He gently lifted a hand, brushing the gauze, and whispered: "Sorry..."

His cheek was suddenly pinched. Luther’s voice followed right after: "You’ve gotten thinner. No flesh left. But it’s fine—still soft."

Joshua looked at him in puzzlement, only to see Luther smiling as he added softly: "An apology should come with sincerity, right?" Then he pinched Joshua’s cheek again. "I forgive you."

Joshua stared at Luther for a long while—so long that even Luther began to feel uneasy—until suddenly Joshua said with perfect seriousness: "Mother."

Luther: "..."

Without the slightest hesitation, Luther flicked him sharply on the forehead. "Be grateful you’re sick right now, or else your head would’ve been smashed to bits."

Joshua grinned, eyes crinkling, tears of pain welling up, yet his smile was bright and foolish.

Luther couldn’t help but push his head down and rubbed it roughly for good measure, mussing up Joshua’s hair completely. He chuckled and scolded: "Idiot."