rhydian black was absolutely, categorically, undeniably off his head.

the anesthesia had transformed him into a boneless heap of limbs sprawled upon the hospital bed, his sable curls a dishevelled spillage against the whiteness of the pillow. his stern mouth, commonly piquant and contemptuous, had become a gateway to pure, unfiltered nonsense.

black’s curl-crowned head lolled to the side, and when he caught sight of you, his eyes flew wide.

“oh. my. merlin,” he slurred histrionically. “no one told me . . . no one warned me you were going to be here! i would’ve—” he ceased his rambling and attempted to smooth his hair with the back of his hand, missed entirely, and smacked himself in the forehead. “—i would’ve made myself look . . . dashing. hey, do people still use pick-up lines?” oh no. “because . . . i mean. are you a dementor? because you took my breath away—“

his pupils somehow expanded further when he registered the winking wedding ring on his finger. he squinted at it, perplexed.

“hold on a moment,” he mumbled, managing to raise his hand and scrutinise the band. his expression shifted into abject anarchy. “who does this ring belong to? is it mine— snakes, am i married?” his head snapped towards you once more, moderately impressed. “did you marry me while i was unconscious?” his jaw was slack. “you’re crafty. i like that in a person.”

he attempted to straighten his posture, failed instantaneously, and dallied back down.

“merlin’s bloody balls, your eyes,” rhydian then recommenced, baritone voice thick with enthralment. “they’re so— . . . so . . . ! eye-ish! perfectly eye-shaped!”

his brows furrowed in assiduity, as though he had not yet ran out of foolish statements to make—but then, he was peering at his attire.

“wait, are these my clothes? who put me in these clothes? did you dress me? oh! did you see my socks?” he wagged one foot flimsily beneath the blanket, boastful. “dragon socks. i’m a fashion icon.”