Mess You Made

41.

Malibu.

I stare at him from where I stand in the doorway of the adjoined bathroom, lean a hip against the door, "I left. For two minutes."

Miguel drags his sluggish gaze open to find my eyes from across the adjoined bathroom where he's sat on the floor, legs laid out in front of him. He's not meant to move. At all.

And he's sat on the floor of the bathroom when he isn't even supposed to move from his bed. Injuries that keep people bedbound for days, weeks and he's there— hair a bit messy, hazel eyes on me. Leave the boy alone for two minutes, and he's teleported to the bathroom floor?

He hasn't turned the light on. Just left the door open so the light from the room is enough but the dark casts shadows on his lean body and I do my best to fight another wince, because I've seen my brother after fights, I saw Rafe's injuries my whole life; his body's more brutalised than anything I've seen, and I don't want to think about how they did that to him.

"Comfy?" I ask him

He fights a bit of a smile, a bit of soft amusement in his eyes, adjusts his head against the wall tiredly— nods.

I sigh and hold the cold water-bottle in my hand, heading inside the bathroom. Look around in the dimness and shadows. As rich as you'd expect. And I look over to the boy and try not to look at all the places they hurt him. Stop in front of him, and pretend as if I can't see something's wrong with him. Not the bruises, the broken rib and the hand.

He's elsewhere. His mind's elsewhere, even if he keeps attempting for it not to be. It's been elsewhere ever since he woke up. Something's altered about him. Miguel drags his head back, eyes fluttering open and shut, and even without light, the the stitches on his brow-bone look harsh.

I hold the packet of morphine, popping one pill out because it's been four hours since his last— hold it out for him with the waterbottle.

His eyes fall away from me, down to the pill. He looks at it for a moment, drags his head back against the wall again without taking it. He was meant to take it half an hour ago and he hadn't.

"I don't need it." He says, like he said before but no matter how high of a pain tolerance he seems to have, it'll be painful nevertheless. Headaches, hellish ones as well as the pain from broken ribs.

I give him a bit of a look, "You're in pain. You want to let yourself be in pain rather than have some morphine?"

He nods.

I flick my eyes to his inner elbow, to the snake with the fangs aimed at his veins and nod my chin, "Because of that? Don't do drugs."

He looks down at his arm for a moment.

"It's just one morphine pill." I say,

His jaw ticks a bit, mind elsewhere and he doesn't respond.

I shake my head, "It's just once, Mig—"

He shakes his head.

"You'd rather pass out from pain—"

He nods, looks away, "Yes."

"Are you serious?"

His voice is a rough drawl, "I won't get addicted to morphine from just once. I know that. But I can't fucking touch those things. I can't go near them, I watched him abuse them until his heart stopped. I'm fine with a headache and a broken rib."

I swallow— a little bit stunned, and he opens his eyes and can see it because he looks a bit like he wants to apologise, even if there's nothing to apologise for. He is a map of the people he loves, remember when I said that? Made of them. This bit's carved there by Hudson Tempest. I've learnt that whilst learning him. His brother's imprint, along with all the other imprints they've left, and this one's not exactly a joyous one.