There's Blood On The Train Tracks

✦ O2

— ✦ Warnings: Depictions of blood, wounds and scars. Mentions of bullying.

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"Can you take off the mask?" (Y/n) tilted his head to the side, wincing at the sight of the man's mask. It was once white, but now it was caked in deep red blood—presumably by a cut on the weird man's face—and dirt. He held a brownish-orange-coloured glass vial in his right hand; there was a white label on it, with the word "Betadine" written in bold black letters, and the chemical composition underneath it with a smaller font. He had left the cap at the nurse's table; part of the content had already been spread on a small cotton ball on his left hand.

The brown-haired man's mask lifted, in what one could assume resulted from him scrunching up his nose, and a sharp hiss left his mouth. "It stays on."

"What's your name?" The vial made a loud thud when it hit the table, and it almost seemed that it would break with the force it had been slammed with; the glass didn't crack.

The brunet winced, his brows furrowing and his head moving further away from the other man. He fumbled with his hands, which had already been cleaned and bandaged; the sand-coloured skin had multiple cuts and bruises, most likely from shielding his face during the attack. He looked up, confident purple eyes betraying his mannerisms as usual—(Y/n) was starting to get used to it.

"Erik." His voice came out more like a mumble than an actual answer.

"Take off the mask, Erik. Not only is your blood all over it, but it's also filled with dirt. The wound will get infected." He crossed his arms, trying to appear assertive as he stated the fact.

"I know that." Erik hung his head low, looking to the side in shame.

"Then act like it."

The infirmary was empty save for the two men, the beds vacant, and tidy, with no indication of any usage. The beige walls of the place were filled with wooden cabinets with glass doors that showed the medicine bottles contained inside them. They were alternated only by the occasional informative poster about the dangers of smoking or how to perform CPR. It was a pleasant atmosphere, with the multiple pots of plants bringing splashes of colour here and there.

The nurse was still talking to one of the faculty members, much to Erik’s dismay. He had strongly protested against telling anyone about what happened, despite how many times (Y/n) assured the other guys that he would make sure to get them punished by the director.

"Did you take it off?" He turned his attention to the brunet, arms crossed in front of his chest.

Erik furrowed his brows again and raised his hands to the strings behind his ears. He pulled them off slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. After completely taking them off his ears, he held the strings up, the mask still somewhat covering his face, although not pressing against it.

(Y/n) grabbed the mask with his free hand, feeling the warm blood wet his palm. He tugged it free from the brunet’s grasp and placed it on the table next to the antiseptic, making a mental note to clean it later.

The lower half of the brunet's face had blood smeared all over it. There wasn't much of it, but because of how Erik had recklessly pressed the mask against it, the liquid had spread everywhere and made it difficult to take a look at the injuries. It would have to be cleaned up before disinfected, which meant it would take a while longer before Erik could put on the mask—and he seemed desperate to cover his face as soon as (Y/n) no longer guarded the stained piece of fabric.

(Y/n) sighed, taking the mask in his hands and moving towards the nearby sink. He swiftly tossed it in the nearest trash, opening one of the cabinets to take a towel. He rested the hand that held the towel on the corner of the sink, placing his body weight on that same side as the other hand moved towards the faucet. A cold shiver spread through his back, his eyes and lips pressing shut at the sudden shift in temperature—the metal was unbearably cold to the touch, and his hands had been comfortably warm just seconds ago.

After the towel was wet, he closed the faucet and went to where he once was, a disgruntled huff leaving his lips when he looked at the brunet. Erik's hands covered his face, pale ears burning red with embarrassment as he felt eyes staring right at him. With his free hand, (Y/n) held the brunet's wrist and pried his hands off his face, holding them firmly to clean the blood without interference.

His lips pressed against each other, forming a thin line, as he raised the towel to Erik's face. The blood was already drying—no longer dripping down his face—and becoming darker than the previous vibrant crimson, bringing a sense of urgency to his actions. He still didn't know why he was here helping this random guy, but now it was too late to protest. When the cold, wet cloth touched his cheek, the other man flinched, trying—and failing—to release his hands from (Y/n)'s grip. There was an unspoken anger in both their eyes while the man kept cleaning the other's face.

Once his left cheek was completely clean, (Y/n)'s eyes narrowed as he stared at what Erik had been so adamant about hiding. Pinkish skin stretched along the corners of his mouth towards his cheekbone; strips of flesh ran over each other and formed a contracture scar, pulling the side of his lip upwards in a permanent grin. It wasn't disgusting, as those men had loudly taunted earlier, but having a facial scar and hearing those comments constantly must have taken a toll on his self-image.

The constant flurry of questions must not be pleasant either, but curiosity outweighs kindness.

"How did you get this scar?" (Y/n) wondered out loud as he finished cleaning the man's face.

"Car accident." The answer was short and dry—no need to muddy it with unnecessary details.

As much as (Y/n) craved more details, he decided against it, focussing back on his work rather than on needless prodding him for a detailed answer. The cotton ball was still wet with the antiseptic—much to his delight—and it wasn't long till the cuts on his face were thoroughly disinfected. There had been a constant stream of blood gushing down his nose from a deep gash on the nose bridge that was now clean and bandaged, but the bleeding hadn't stopped.

The (h/c)-haired man smiled, grabbing Erik's chin and moving his head to the left, then to the right. "My work here is done."

Erik finally looked up at (Y/n), white skin turning into a mellow shade of pink. He raises his left hand and meekly pulls the man's hands away from his face, purple eyes boring straight through (e/c) ones. There are words stuck in his throat, shoved far too deep ever to come out so effortlessly, and he feels his gullet tighten more and more as he looks at the person who helped him.

"Thank you." He says instead, pushing through the clutter, his voice no longer choked by embarrassment but filled with gratitude and a strange dolefulness.

When (Y/n) leaves, he doesn't bother looking back, but despite his urgency to get where he should be, his hands linger on the door handle for a moment longer while his lips curl up in amusement.