Never Let It Go by Emily Moreton

Never Let It Go
    T HE PROBLEM with being invalided home from active duty was that, no matter how bad things got, it was impossible to forget that the people Will cared about most in the world were still out there. Still being shot at, still risking driving over an IED, still flying over areas known to house rebels with rocket launchers.
    And the worst part of it was that Will knew exactly how badly it could go.
    Will curled tighter in on himself, ignoring how the movement pulled at his still healing bruises and sprains, and pressed his cheek into the pillows. The cotton was too warm against his skin but still sort of comforting in the face of the pale dawn light and the lingering nightmares.
    God, he was so tired.
    The three of them—Will and Isaac and Ade—had chosen the twelfth floor apartment partly for how quiet it was, but right now, Will would have given anything to be on street level and have something more to listen to than the empty silence.
    He rolled over again, only remembering at the last moment not to put his weight on his broken arm. The covers twisted around his legs with the movement, and when he tried to kick free, his feet got tangled too. Will fought for another few seconds, then flopped over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, utterly defeated and blinking against the tears burning his eyes.
    “Get a grip,” he told himself, voice too loud. He wasn’t going to start crying over the bedsheets. Though, if he was being entirely honest, crying from frustration and pain probably wasn’t out of the question.
    Will took a deep breath, then another, until the tightness in his chest eased and he could struggle out of bed. The covers ended up on the floor around his feet, but at least they were easier to shake off now. Of course, bending down to pick them up was pretty much out of the question, which put paid to any vague idea he’d had of sleeping some more.
    Before, he’d have used the time to go for a run, enjoying having the world all to himself, but that wasn’t an option and wouldn’t be for a while. At least they’d finally put a walking cast on his leg, so he didn’t have to contend with a wheelchair to get around the apartment, even if he did still need to wear a sling for his left arm.
    The microwave clock read just after five, which meant Will had managed a grand total of three broken hours of sleep. No wonder his head felt ready to explode.
    Will topped up the coffeemaker and set it to run. He didn’t need anything like that much coffee, but the smell was familiar and oddly comforting.
    He reached over for one of the thick white mugs at the back of the counter, good hand curling round the smooth surface and…
    And he was burning, his hands were burning, searing pain like nothing he’d ever felt—
    Will gasped, coming back to himself in their kitchen. His hand was shaking so hard he struggled to let go of the mug, and even looking down to find clean, undamaged skin didn’t do anything to help. Even the air hurt, like he was breathing smoke instead of—
    “Stop it. This is your kitchen, in your apartment, and it’s just a coffee mug.” The coffeemaker burbled in agreement, making Will laugh, for all that it made his chest hurt worse. There was no one else around. He let himself wrap his arm around his chest and close his eyes, pretending. “You’re not going to freak out over a coffee mug.”
    His next breath was shaky, but the one after came more easily. He tipped his head to the side, pressing his cheek to his shoulder, and told himself that was Isaac’s shoulder under his skin, that the arm wrapped around him was Ade, and the voice in his head reminding him that he was safe, it was over, could have been either of them.
    Will didn’t know how long he stood there, lost in the fantasy, but when he finally let it fade away, the coffee was barely lukewarm.
     
     
    T HURSDAY MEANT the body doctors in the morning—arm still broken in three places, leg still broken in one, and