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Wong hated the feeling of being without his magic. It was a core part of him, something that made him who he was. Being cut off from magic was like being held underwater, trapped without air, his senses muffled and dull and screaming that everything was wrong. It was unsettling; to say the very least, a sensation that made him want to tear his own skin off just to feel the warmth of his magic again.
He would gladly exchange every ounce of magic he had in his body for just one more chance to be with his best friend. For the chance to bargain with time, to portal to the Awiuj Dimension just a single hour earlier. For the chance to bring his closest friend home alive from what was supposed to be a simple, easy expedition.
Every dimensional trip came with risks, and Stephen knew those risks. He had set up failsafes for himself, for Wong. Wong had trusted him, had believed that it would all be fine. It was only 6 Earth hours that Stephen would be gone. Six hours. Barely the length of America’s school day.
Stephen had reassured Wong before he left that he’d be back in time for America to return to the Sanctum with her new friend for a sleepover. Even with their failsafe, with Wong as the backup plan, Stephen would still be back in time.
But now, Wong was staring down at his friend's pale face. His body was cold, his hands limp in his lap. His foot half wrapped in crude bandages ripped from his robes and dark with blood. The other half of his foot was exposed to the air, pieces of flesh carved from the bone, swollen and pink and filled with puss.
Infection.
Stephen’s frozen hands gripped strips of fabric. He had tried to fix himself, tried to fight the infection on his own, on a strange, hostile planet, with nothing but his wits and a doctorate.
Wong sank to his knees next to his friend. To think that Wong had once kissed those lips, felt the heat of Stephen’s passion a lifetime ago. To think that Wong had made reservations at a fancy restaurant for them to talk about what that made them, that while America and her friend played, Wong would confess his feelings for Stephen, from those late nights spent thinking of a future where forever was meaningless when they had each other to mornings where Stephen made tea with messy hair and blurry eyes and Wong cooked breakfast. Fantasies where Wong was always the one to go first because he was selfish and the thought of leaving Stephen alone hurt less than living a single day without the man he loved.
To think that America was walking home from her school, laughing and joking and bragging about her dads – because America saw them as family and called them her fathers – only for Wong to have to tell her. That he’d have to drop her friend off at her house and pull America into a hug and pray to the Vishanti that he could find the strength to tell her that her father was gone without cracking to show just how much he was hurting.
Because Stephen wasn’t supposed to die first. He wasn’t supposed to die in the first place, let alone leave Wong to silently grieve by himself, his best friend, his rock, laid to rest in the one place that Wong couldn’t follow.