riptides ➳ larry

ii : health

"It's terrifying, how fragile we are."

Chapter ii: health

He looks ridiculous.

The wall-length mirror in the locker room does little to disguise how downtrodden he looks in these day old scrubs. His hair is rumpled - due to way too many nurses sliding their hands through his hair, asking if he's okay - and his left cheekbone has a nasty blue-black bruise contrasting starkly from his tan skin -although Greg left some makeup on the bathroom counter for him to use. His fingers flex where they hang beside his legs.

Louis yawns loudly, rubbing his eyes, and fuck he needs a good kip and a strong cuppa. He barely got any sleep last night, Greg came in late last night, drunk with prying hands and unwarranted lips. He fiddles with his laminated name tag that hangs from his chest pocket - TOMLINSON, LOUIS W - with a picture of him smiling cheerily, one of his thumbs up.

Everything's very small, bright, and sterile. The overly clean smell reminds him of home, of his mum when she came in from pulling late shifts.

"Morning." Mary says when he walks out, he turns to her, smiles. "Holy - Louis what's that on your face?"

He fakes a laugh and reaches up to his cheek. "Skateboards can be quite unforgiving, yeah?" he jokes.

Mary clucks at him, but she still wears that smile. A sweet, whimsical, and inviting smile. He can't help but to return something real back to her.

"You should know better, Lou. Haven't any of these kids taught you anything? Skateboarding's a broken bone waiting to happen."

"Well I always got you to stitch me up, don't I?"

Mary shakes her head, pinches his cheek. "Sodding charmer, you are."

"Language, Mary." He winks teasingly at her.

She scoffs out her honey warm laugh. "Go do your rounds, Lou." She says, handing him his massive clipboard with Power Ranger stickers all over the back.

He's always been a tad shit at taking vitals. His mind is too spacey to stay focused when taking blood pressure, making him always have to redo it a few times. He sometimes is too busy making conversation when trying to count respirations, and finding a kid's pulse point isn't always the easiest when they're insistent on wriggling around.

Maggie, a girl who broke her arm biking in the rain, is giggling at his tattoos.

"I like the stick man," she tells him. "And the cuppa. Mummy doesn't let me drink tea just yet, but Baba has let me sneak a few sips here and there."

He smiles at her, looking at her dark eyes. She reminds him of his best mate, Zayn, who calls his own father Baba. Urdu, he thinks is the language they use. He knows a few phrases, but his pronunciation is something that makes Zayn cringe endlessly.

"Your Baba sounds cool, your Mum, too."

"Oh, they are. My parents never yell at me for leaving my toys out like how my friends parents' do."

"Sounds like you've hit the jackpot, then."

She nods, excitably. She reaches a tiny finger out to slide her finger over his rope tattoo.

"They seem half-finished," she says.

"Hmm?" he asks, pressing his stethoscope to her chest.

"Some of your tattoos," she explains. "They look like they're looking for their match." She slides her hand over his rope, his compass, his arrow.

He doesn't know why he wanted them inked, he just had a gut feeling that he needed them one day. He likes them; feels like maybe one day their stories will explain themselves.