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The clawing sensations of a nightmare still clung to Kenshi, even after he bolted awake. He reeked of fear, just as he reeked of the blood that coated his body. No, not blood, just sweat. He was unharmed.
“Kenshi?”
A figure shifted to Kenshi’s left, accompanied by the shushing shift of bed covers. Right… he was in bed. In Johnny’s bed to be exact. He was safe. Kenshi wiped away the sweat from his face, careful to avoid the area around his eyes. They were far too tender for the moment.
“I’m ok, it was just a dream.” Even as he spoke, however, Kenshi could feel more than hear the uneasiness in his voice, and it seemed like, even in his groggy state, Johnny had caught onto it, too.
“You sure?” The actor sat up as well. “You don’t sound too good.”
The swordsman opened his mouth to respond, or rather, to lie that everything was alright, and that Johnny should go back to sleep. But how could he? Here was a man who had given him everything, including unmasked vulnerability. To lie would be like spilling poison in a flourishing garden. Pushing through the lingering fear and uncertainty, Kenshi took a deep breath to speak.
“It was another dream about what happened at Shang Tsung’s lab. I pulled Mileena back, and she stabbed my eyes, but I could still see.” One of his trembling, tattooed hands reached up to tenderly touch the corner of his eye. “There was so much pain. So much that I couldn’t stop what happened next.”
Johnny, full of all the care and gentility in the world, shifted closer to wrap an arm around his beloved. He placed a kiss on Kenshi's shoulder, noting how warm the skin was. His voice was impossibly soft, something no one would expect from someone so loud and outspoken, but with Kenshi, all of that melted away.
“It’s alright, you can tell me.”
Another deep breath. “I could see her walking towards you next. You couldn’t fight her off, and she stabbed your eyes, too. But she didn’t stop there. She got your throat, your chest, she didn’t stop. Not until I couldn’t recognise your body anymore.” That trembling had lowered itself to rest on Johnny’s. He needed something more real to hold onto. “And all that time, all I could do was watch. I felt so useless, and you were gone, and I couldn’t overcome the pain so that you wouldn’t…”
Kenshi’s breath hitched, and if the attack had spared his tear ducts, there would have been drops falling from his scarred sockets. Unable to bear seeing him in pain, Johnny pulled Kenshi against him, until his body curled around Kenshi’s. The actor let out some gentle shushes, in order to soothe the trembling man in his arms. He placed more kisses on Kenshi’s body, focusing on the head, the hairline, his temples, and his cheeks.
“It was just a dream. I’m right here, Kenshi. You’re not useless, not in a million years. And, hell, you did save my life. For that, I can never repay you enough, not even with Sento.”
“But what if I didn’t?”
“I guess we’ll never know.” Another kiss, this time on Kenshi’s nose. “The important thing is, you’re here, and I’m here, and we’re both alive. I’m just sorry it took your eyes for us to happen.”
At first, there was no response, only a turn of the head so that Kenshi’s lips pressed against the base of Johnny’s throat. His exhale beat against Johnny’s pulse, breath and blood. Life.
“If losing my eyes was the only way to gain you, then it was a fair exchange. I would do it over and over again if it means you’ll live.”
Johnny’s throat tightened with emotion. Deep down, he would always curse himself for that day, thinking that maybe if he wasn’t so cocky, his beloved wouldn’t be in so much pain. And these nightmares… maybe they wouldn’t haunt the both of them so much. But that’s what they were both destined to be, right? Haunted. Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make the thoughts disappear.
“Kiss me,” he whispered.
Kenshi was more than happy to oblige, eager to get rid of some ghosts of his own. He pressed kisses up Johnny’s neck, along his strong jaw, across his cheek, until the swordsman reached those familiar lips.
The kiss was slow, and as soft as they both needed it to be. Arms and hands held each other close, as both men reassured themselves that the other was safe and sound. Occasionally, fingers would press into skin, asking the same question: “Are you real? Is this real?” Always, a pressed reply would come:
“I’m real. This is real. And I’m not going anywhere.”