Being Human || Lashton AU - boyxboy

chapter six.

a.i.

His cuts are worse than I thought. They're not as bad as they could be, but he tried to catch himself after the initial fall with his elbows, so they're completely lacerated. There are three cuts that I think might actually be a problem, and I wonder how he stayed so quiet about them. They're on his shoulder blades--one on the left, two on the right, and I keep finding bits of glass still broken off in cuts or stuck in the fabric of his hoodie. He doesn't seem to even hardly notice. It blows my mind.

The three bad ones strike me as something that may become an issue because they're going to get worse when they scab over, mostly pain-wise. The rawness now seems bad enough, but it'll be harder to move his arms without risk of tearing them open later. Even then, until they do scab over, they'll be prone to dirt and bacteria and infection, so he's going to be of little use to me as far as rotters go because I can't risk him getting turned. I think maybe I should stitch them, but it might make it harder for him to practice or do any real fighting.

His shirts are laying across the center console (plural, as in his hoodie, dress shirt, and the fucking undershirt that he insisted was absolutely necessary when wearing a dress shirt) and he is arched over, leaning towards the window with his bare back facing me. His skin is pale, a milky white color like that of a sculpture, and it's beautiful in a way I don't quite understand. Cuts and all, with blood drips staining his back, his shoulder blades protrude from the angle at which he leans, and still he feels soft beneath my fingertips. Soft in a way that doesn't make sense when his soul is all razor blades and sharp edges.

That's just how some people are, though. Soft on the outside, sharp on the inside--a facade used to lure you in until you're entrapped and can't retract without tearing pieces of yourself off. Kind of like being stuck in rose bush.

I remove a large roll of bandages from the crappy first aid kit from my trunk, like the bandages wrapped around his hands from earlier. My fingertips cling to his sides, and I can feel the way his ribcage expands when he breathes in, the way it meets together again as he exhales. His breaths are deep and full, even as I run my thumbs across some of the cuts, like he can't feel anything at all. I want to test my boundaries, to see how much he can take, at least until his breathing becomes shallow or he releases a soft "ouch", but I don't. I leave him be instead, because sometimes people just have these weird idiosyncrasies, these ways of living and behaving and being, and you don't get to know who or what made them like that. That is just who they are.

"These are bad." I say, running my hands further up his sides, under his arms, brushing along the cuts on his shoulder blades gently. He hums in response, but his breathing is still even, and he seems too distant for the current situation. I'm trying to deal with these bad cuts decorating his back and he seems like he's in a whole other world. It doesn't make sense. "There are three really bad ones. One is worse than the others." I say, running my index finger down it so he knows which one I'm talking about. "I think I want to stitch it, is that okay?"

He doesn't seem keen on talking, still, but he nods like he couldn't care less. I move to gather the needle and thread from the first aid kit, and he doesn't move.

I battle with the needle and thread for a moment, unable to get the thread through the eye. What a terrible fucking design. Who the hell has fingers nimble enough to do this? What about the people who do this every fucking day? Not to mention not having my glasses makes the task twice as hard.

He turns his head over his shoulder to glance at me. He rolls his eyes, saying, "Give me that."

I hand it over angrily.

He takes a quick look at the eye and slides the thread through without even barely looking. He turns to hand it back to me, and I look at him with slightly wide eyes before taking it. He turns back away from me, and I wonder why he keeps doing that--why he won't look me in the face.