What Remains

Chapter 20

Learning To Warm Cold Hands
This is the taste of love,
And I will choke on it

"I was thinking.. we should try walking again today." Kenny's proposing his grand idea to me. Oh lord.
"I'll fall again." I remark, cringing a little as I imagine it playing out. Embarrassing.
Kenny stands, and it catches my attention so I look up at his eyes. "Then I will catch you... again." He reassures. I look at the rope, then back to him. He understands, and after a short struggle I'm free. I feel around my reddened wrist— it's been forever since I could. Kenny's hand catches my own, snapping me out of my trance. "Just a few." He says.
A few steps.
I've become fluent in his simple language over time.
I'm unsure, and I can tell he sees it in my eyes. He gives a gentle nod, then takes my other hand. I'm lifted up, and I wince as my cast leg stands upright.
After what happened yesterday, he proposed to make me a stronger makeshift cast. Being as drained as I was, I didn't have it in me to deny him. So here I am with my marshmallow-man leg trying to relearn how to walk, if it's even possible.
Kenny's hands fall to my sides to stabilize me. "You're doing good..." He pauses, furrows his brows for a second, "Lean back."
I nod, then lean back on the bed. I'm holding myself up with my hands, trying to balance out my weight properly.
Kenny takes a few steps back, then stops. He watches me take deep breaths. "Take as long as you need."
I release a breath, then one of my hands finds the bedside table as I try to straighten myself out to walk. I was right about my right leg— it's stiff, and kind of hurts to stand on. My eyes catch Kenny's, and I see him give me another more uncertain nod. Leaning on the table, I take a short step. Pain shoots up my leg, to which I grunt at.
Clearly, Kenny has a little light bulb idea, and he meets my side. One of his arms wraps around my shoulder, and the other is a little ahead. "Here. Take a step." He points frontward.
I take a step. It hurts, but less. Kenny's idea worked in the least— I guess he figured I need a kind of support to lean on.
We make it about halfway to the other side of the room before I stop. "Kenny..." I groan, and clench my eyes shut tight as pain bellows through me, "I— fuck, I need to stop." I manage to say. Kenny nods, then I'm lifted and placed back onto the bed. I sigh in relief, and let my head fall back onto my pillow. I hear Kenny sit down again.
I feel like a doll. I just... can't do anything. Like I said, this isn't fit for me. I need to be able to move around— even a couple steps. All I can use is my voice, and my hands.
I guess they'll have to do for now.
My lips press together in a thin line. "Kenny," I say, "Do you remember when the police were here?" I ask, opening my eyes to look at him. He nods. My jaw clenches, "I thought you said Charlie was dead."
Kenny readjusts his posture awkwardly. I'm ready for silence, so I turn away, leaving him to his mind.
Until he takes a low breath. "I know." He utters. I can hear something odd in his voice— something concerned.
"You wish he was." It's a question, but I don't phrase it like one. I say it matter-of-factly, mostly because I know the answer.
Kenny pauses, "I do." He responds. His eyes don't meet mine.
I sit further up, and that's when he looks at me. I point above my heart, and his head curiously tilts, silently asking me what I'm doing.
I lean forward a little, and very, very lightly press my finger above his heart, "I hurt you." I remark. Kenny doesn't move, and neither does my finger. "Can I see?" I ask.
Kenny, with small hesitation, pulls the collar of his dark grey t-shirt down to where I can see the white bandage. A decently sized dot of brown blood is visible on the surface.
I sigh, thinking back to my stomach wound. God, the initial strike was awful, but the sting of the hydrogen peroxide beat that by a horrifying amount. It is doing okay now, at least. But that definitely fucked it up a bit more. "You used hydrogen peroxide, didn't you?"
Kenny nods.
I give a small knowing smile. I point to the door, then look back at him, "I want to make sure it's not infected."

I'm sitting on the toilet lid until Kenny comes back with a stool. He places it down next to the counter so I can easily switch spots. After I switch, he sits in my prior place. I motion for him to pull the collar of his shirt down again so I can see the bandage. He does, and my fingers move in to take it off. But alas, the collar is too tight to pull down far enough for me to work nicely.
Well, before today, I was trying to keep our advancements subtle. Whatever made Kenny wear this specific too-tight-on-the-collar shirt today, curse you.
"You're gonna need to, um..." It's a little funny. I used to question why Kenny was so nervous asking me to lift my shirt, but now I understand. This is so embarrassing. I'm just lucky I know him better so it's less awkward. He'll know it comes from a place of... uh, care, right?
Surely. Surely.
"Can you please take your shirt off?" I whisper.
Kenny's eyebrow raises. He either didn't hear me, or he really wants to hear the embarrassment. I hate it either way.
Are you kidding me?
I take a deep breath, then shut my eyes as I ask again. "Can you please take your... shirt off?" I repeat.
There's a long, quiet moment, then I hear fabric shifting. I only open my eyes after it's done. Well, I don't know what I was expecting, but Kenny's shirtless in front of me and I'm still caught off-guard.
At this point, today is looking to be as bad as yesterday. Woohoo.
Something in my mind tells me to thank him, but I dismiss it immediately.
He's... hairy. Like, really fucking hairy. But those laceration scars of his block out some of the growth in random places. The most vivid one is on his chest. It leads up from his rib cage to the right side of his chest; by the looks of it, it had to have been utterly agonising.
I kind of expected him to have somewhat of a dad bod under the illusion of his clothes for some reason, but he doesn't. At all. He's a bit wide, maybe even chubby, but it seems to be more muscle than anything. His shoulders are really broad and defined, as well as his arms. His biceps are brawny, and surely thicker than my thighs. Alarming, but if I were to see them on a stranger in public it would be great gym motivation. He just gets it by swinging his axe around like a maniac— imagine how he could be if he had access to proper equipment—
Ew. Stop.
My eyes trail down to his stomach after latching on to a scar. I can see the outline of abs (That, his back, and his underarms are the only places that aren't damn near shrouded in black hair.).
...And then my eyes automatically look down.
Heat rises to my cheeks. His protruding hip bones trail down to where I can't see— stop— then there's that line of black hair that justoookay. Enough.
To shield the fact that I absolutely just checked him out (with shame, of course,) I quickly get to work with taking the bandage off his skin. Through the corner of my eye, I see veins become more tense and vivid on his forearm; His fist is clenching. I feel a little bad. Soon enough, I'm able to pry the terribly sticky patch off. The wound is bleeding already, so I catch the trail with a towel that Kenny grabbed— the one I was supposed to be using with water. I purse my lips, then scan the room. Next to the sink is a small dish towel, so I sigh in relief and take it. I flip the warm water on with a finger, then let the stream flow down onto the white fabric. I look back at Kenny, and I see his eyes clenched shut beneath the mask's eye sockets.
Imagine how I felt.
I switch out the towels, then place the bloodstained one in the white sink. Kenny's hand is clenched really hard now, and it's making me a little worried.
"Kenny." I catch his attention. His eyes shoot open, watching me almost anxiously. I guide my hand next to his and open it. He hesitantly opens his hand without taking my grasp, so I intertwine my fingers with his in a firm hold.
It's a few minutes until the bleeding stops. I place the towel in the sink with the other, and grab the polysporin. The stuff is probably expired, but I'm lucky to have found anything. I guess the wealth is good for something, which is having everything.
"This is gonna hurt." I mutter.
He nods, and I feel his grip on my hand tighten.
I place the bottle between my thighs and unscrew the lid, then dig two fingers into it. I start smearing the cream onto the wound, and only moments later my hand starts to hurt from the hold. I only spare it a small grimace as I keep going. His gash is smaller than mine, so it doesn't take half as much time. I screw the cap back on then replace the bottle with a bandage pack. I tear it open with my teeth, then take the bandage and smooth it over his skin.
I'm guilty. I know he knows it. I know how much those stupid things hurt better than most, and without proper medical attention.
My forehead falls to his opposite shoulder, and I release a drawn sigh. As his grip on my hand loosens, mine tightens.
"I'm sorry." I whisper as I shut my eyes.
There's a pause before Kenny speaks. "It's not your fault." He replies shortly.
I shake my head against his sleeve. "I lied," I say.
Kenny remains silent, waiting for me to continue.
I grimace in uncertainty and regret, "I don't hate you." I add. "I was scared. I thought that if.. if I didn't do something first, you would kill me." I take a breath, "And I don't hold that against you. Um.. I mean, you did warn me before you, y'know." I chuckle, but it comes out a little more pitiful than I expected. "I still went and fucked everything up." A pause, then I take a breath. "I'm sorry about that." A foul taste fills my mouth. Something tells me to stop talking. "And about yesterday, I was... pent up. Angry. But—" I lift my head; for my question, I want to gauge every little micro-expression in his eyes to get a truthful answer. "Did you mean it when you said you wish I couldn't feel?"
Kenny freezes as he watches me. Then, it seems defeat takes over his senses. "...No. I don't know why I said that." He pauses to think about his words. My head tilts to the side slightly. "You're special to me, Quinn. I don't want you to think the one person who's protecting you is weak." He sort of chuckles at his own words. "Though that may have backfired anyway." His gaze averts to the ground. "As for... Justin's situation, I wasn't mad at you." Kenny starts, "I wanted you to be safe. And you just.." He sighs, "I didn't want to have to hurt you." He shakes his head. His eyes wear this vivid sincerity that makes me hesitate before speaking.
"I know." I respond.
Not everything that happened with Justin was my fault. I know that. So why am I saying otherwise? I used to think Kenny was just telling me what I wanted to hear, but now I'm doing it to him. I'm telling him what he wants to hear.
I'm indulging him.
I'm enabling him, like I said I wouldn't do.
What is this feeling? Why do I care? I shouldn't care and I know I shouldn't but I still do. What's happening to me?
I don't want to think about it right now.
I don't really feel like talking anymore, so I stay silent. Maybe this time, he'll speak for me. Maybe we can just switch for once.
But alas, he doesn't.