The Red Line

XVI

The den was less of a hideout and more of a residence. There were things everywhere. Indicating that blonde boy probably spent more time here than anywhere else.

It was a second floor studio with a step down and a duvet between the kitchen, dining slash bedroom. The walls were a washed orange; covered in categorized sticky notes and poster boards. A dipped bed was pressed against the west wall, next to a small table and a balcony slider, overlooking the street below.

A stagnant male voice was dragging from a radio system, somewhere, announcing runoff's and kick plays.

At this, I turned my attention toward blonde boy; who was rummaging through the kitchen cupboards– mumbling under his breath. "You a s-sport fan?"

"Huh?" His confusion was short lived when he noticed the radio on. "Mmh."

"What's t-the gain of a g-game?"

His hands froze mid task. "Victory."

"Victory f-for what?"

"Winning something your passionate about." He continued working– speaking along the way, "It's not pointless, if that's what your getting at. It makes people happy."

I wasn't familiar with the term 'passionate'. It was a foriegn expression, like the 'bitch' word Oley and Fog had taught me. "I don't u-understand."

He grunted. "You must be inept or something."

"I'm accurate."

"Maybe in bar fights, the social part," he shook his head, and tsked, "Not so much."

"I don't n-need to be c-competent with socialism."

"Obviously not." He jutted his chin towards the table in the living slash bedroom. "Now sit."

"Why?"

He grunted. "So you don't fall over, your swaying."

Heeding his advice, I took the step down and crossed the carpeted floor, taking a seat on the bed; with my knees propped against the table.

"I dont have a washer down here so don't get blood on my blankets." Blonde boy warned. "I'm not hauling that shit up to the barracks right now."

I set my bad arm on the table, raising my brows in a 'there you go' gesture.

His forehead creased, mouth turning down. "That bandage is really soaked, maybe take it off."

"There's g-going to be alot m-more blood if I remove the p-pressure."

"Here." He tossed a towel. I caught it overhead. "Use that. I'm almost done."

"With w-what?"

As I awaited his response I carefully unwound the makeshift bandage, quickly applying the new clothe over the open wound. A line of red bled through the material, spreading like a wildfire; turning the peach towel crimson.

"Alright. I got everything." Blonde boy spoke up. He came round the kitchen duvet and sat opposite of me. "Stitching bandage, and healing bandage. They're outdated, but I'm sure they'll work."

I tore the first packet and skimmed over the label inside. "T-this is two years o-outdated."

His jaw clenched. "It's all I got."

"And w-welding glue?"

Running a hand through his fringe, blonde boy heaved a sigh. "Why do you need glue?"

"To seal my n-nerve."

His nose twitched. "To seal your nerve? In your arm?"

"Yes."