𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓼- 𝓜𝓲𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓵 𝓞'𝓗𝓪𝓻𝓪

Stitches

Author's note:

Thank you to @Over-dosis and @ProfessorEriK for helping me come up with spanish phrases! You two are literally the best and such lifesavers. 

BACK TO THE STORY

When Miguel tumbled through the portal, he was barely conscious as he collapsed onto his hands and knees. Sweat gleamed off his bare shoulders, embedded with painful, sharp glass. An ominous note, written in black-inked cursive, was plastered against his chest like a warning.

Not sick. 

Miguel panted with labored breaths that heaved his entire chest. He dizzily stared at the glass-littered ground beneath his hands, as if trying to adjust to gravity. Beads of sweat slicked down his forehead and dripped down his harsh nose, dripping into the puddles of his own blood. 

"Woah," you stammered, snapping out of your own petrified shock and scampering over to Miguel's hunched form. Panic pounced over your heart when you saw the deep cut into his side, pumping out blood like a sink faucet. "Miguel, you're bleeding. We need to get help." Your hands, blue and gold with your suit colors, pressed his skin together to slow the scarily-fast pumping. At your touch, Miguel hissed through his teeth in pain. He involuntarily flinched back, and collapsed onto his back in the glass, cursing in spanish. 

"It's not that bad," Miguel gritted out, his hair splayed around him and glistening with glass. He dragged a shaking hand over his face, smearing it red. "I just need a second."

"You're bleeding out." Talons of horror seized your chest. "Get up. We need to get you help." Miguel muttered something under his breath, his eyes darkening. You leaned closer. "What?" 

"I can't get up," Miguel muttered again, reluctantly, as if admitting his weakness cut deeper than the glass digging into his skin. At his words, uneasiness rolled through you in a wave. 

"O-okay, that's fine," you said, the hands of your suit now dyed bright red with Miguel's blood. You knew you needed to get him out of the blood and glass. "I'm gonna help you. We're getting up on the count of three." Miguel steeled himself and nodded. You pushed yourself underneath Miguel and struggled to lift him up, like a beam supporting a barn. Miguel's weight crushed your shoulders, even though you could tell he did his best to be gentle. 

"Walk," you ordered Miguel, and he stumbled forward in hulking, slow steps. His every movement charred him with pain, and even though he tried to repress it, he released tiny whimpers and grunts. 

Thankfully, his room was just around the corner of the atrium, and you lowered him into the bathtub. You found an enormous first-aid kit hanging up in his bathroom and slammed it open on the floor. 

"Tell me what to do," you demanded, anxiety swelling inside of you at the enormity of the task. Bandaids, gauze, needles... you didn't know how to save someone's life. 

"Don't stress. You don't need to do anything. I always stitch myself up." Miguel weakly gripped the needle, driving it toward his skin. It glanced off when he couldn't apply enough force. He hadn't even remembered to thread it. 

"Miguel." 

"You're gonna have to do it," Miguel finally said, looking away. "Mierda."

"I don't know what to do. What if I kill you." 

"Un burro sabe más que ti," Miguel muttered in spanish under his breath. He sucked in a pained breath through his teeth. "I'll walk you through it. Just... thread the needle." 

You jabbed the thread through the eye, pulling the string tight. Your hands hovered over Miguel's throbbing wound. The skin had torn like paper. You swallowed hard. You could pretend it was paper.

"Just get it over with, (y/n)," Miguel said, resting his head back in the bathtub with his eyes clenched tightly shut. The blood in his hair smeared the white porcelain with a flowery pattern. 

"Okay, okay," you steeled yourself, balancing the needle on the edge of his skin. "Five, four, three..."

"God, no. Don't count." 

"Fine." You stabbed the needle through. Miguel sharply gasped out and burrowed his hand into his hair, but he held himself as still as a statue. You tugged at the skin and stabbed again. You knew how to sew, so you stitched through the gash with quick, efficient lashes. 

Underneath your hands, Miguel's ribs shuddered. He gripped his hair so tightly it looked as if he'd rip it out. His face screwed up in pain, and you could tell he fought hard to stay silent. "You're terrible at this," he choked out, glaring at you with pain-glazed eyes. You sliced into his skin with the downstroke of the needle, and Miguel whimpered. 

You genuinely felt bad. You'd never seen Miguel like this, completely undone. 

"Don't be such a baby," you said to Miguel, trying to distract him by annoying him. It worked. 

"Says the girl who's afraid of the dark," Miguel snapped between labored breaths. His narrowed red eyes clung to you, but you could tell he felt relieved to reclaim his dignity through the banter. 

"At least I'm not afraid of you." 

"Really." Miguel gave you a sly look. "I felt your pulse, you know."

"What?" You huffed, pretending to focus on the spidery-black stitches. You tied the knot, but still kept your eyes down. 

"In the training room, when it was just us. When my hand was on your neck," Miguel studied your downcast eyes with a keen, intelligent gaze. "It was fluttery, like a hummingbird. So tell me. Why was your heart going so fast?"