"Maman. Mon ami est blessé!" Èlia shouted. He was holding Jericho's hand leading him upstairs through the back. It was then he remembered his mother had gone out. Jericho on the other hand was starting to worry if he should run from danger.
Jericho refused to see Èlia's hurt face once more so he, of course, said yes to holding his hand. What made Jericho even more pissed was the delicate way Èlia was holding it. It was firm but applied the least amount of pressure to not disarm the wounds. We just met. Stop being so kind.
"When my mom would get wounds like this, I would be the first to put some ointment and wrap her bandages." He smiled.
Èlia had directed Jericho to sit on a wooden stool so that he could be tall enough to tend his wounded face and hands. "Does her hands still get wounded?" Jericho wondered. He didn't know why his curiosity leaked out. There was a tug that made Jericho want to know more. He wanted to know Èlia.
Dry saliva was swallowed when Èlia tilted his head towards his own. "Hmm...only on some Sundays." He smiled. "Ma chérie." The bigger hand pinched Jericho's soft cheek. Then swiped his finger in some salve and rubbed the cut gently. He was using all his effort to not become pink.
"Mmm." Jericho hummed in a wince. "Èlia...gentle."
"Does that hurt? I'm sorry." Èlia was the type to not recognize his strength. When he was younger he used to be terrified of holding fresh flowers since he always used to break the stems in half. It would leave him sobbing for hours and force his cats to gather for a flower mourning.
"You're good."
"May I ask you a question?" Èlia had now started putting a salve on Jericho's left hand.
"No." Jericho looked to see Èlia's reaction. But to his dismay, he respected his answer and continued his tending. It made him ticked off for some reason. A part of Jericho wanted to make a mess out of Èlia. "Stop with the proper talk. It's weird." He added.
"It's weird?" Èlia had questioned softly, more concentrated on wrapping Jericho's hand with gauze.
"Yes."
"Hm..." He looks away from Jericho's hand and touches the under of his chin once more. "Hm." He smiled. Èlia pinched his cheek once more then dropped it.
Jericho sat there struck red.
"You got the job chérie, you should stop by tomorrow to start folding." Èlia grinned.
Jericho didn't bother to understand what he meant. He got up, grabbed his bag, and left. Only with one question in mind, Are french people really this touchy?
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i was a bit bored so i felt like doing a character aesthetic for this book. it's just how i kinda picture them haha
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Jericho 6 ft 1 (185 cm) he/him Jewish-Argentinian (art creds Ron Hicks, 1965 found on pin)
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Èlia 6 ft 3 (190.5 cm) he/him French-Haitian (art creds @/sesamefruit found on pin)
