"I know, I'm sorry." Clinton sighs as he attempts to fix my injuries as much as possible. I'm holding his shoulder tightly, wincing as his fingers touch my chest wall as gently as possible. The bruise overtakes the entire right side of my ribcage, spots of blood bubbling to the surface. "God, you don't deserve this." He breathes heavily, running a warm washcloth over the damaged part of my chest.
"I put myself in this situation." The statement isn't incorrect. I went to Mitchel, and I stayed with him despite everything. I went back, repeatedly, and I was dumb for doing so.
"Don't blame yourself here." He runs a dry rag over the wound.
"It is my fault, though." Clinton huffs at my words.
"It doesn't even really matter anymore." I nod; he's right. I'm just being irrational, as always.
He pulls the hem of my shirt out from where it was tucked underneath my bra, letting the fabric drop back down toward my hips. Soft fingers delicately touch the bridge of my nose, applying antiseptic to the wound, still healing from the initial incident. I reach my hand up, grabbing onto the edge of his neck and just watching different emotions take over his face as he fidgets around the sink I'm currently perched on top of. His hair, multiple shades of brown and blonde, is down today, laying in ripples until his mid-back. I rub my thumb along the skin just underneath his ear, allowing a smile to take over my face.
"You're silly," Clinton looks up at me, speaking with a laugh. "There's nothing wrong with that, though; it's cute." I can feel my cheeks heat up, and I'm sure they look a lovely shade of deep pink. My hold on Clinton's neck tightens as I shake my head.
"I haven't showered in days, I'm covered in my own blood and bruises, and you think I'm cute." My voice is dripping with sarcasm as my head continues shaking back and forth.
"Anyone who thinks you don't look cute, even like this, is insane. Tongue out," I do as he says, swallowing the vitamin he places there with a grimace. "You really don't give yourself enough credit. I don't think you realize anything close to your worth."
"Hey, neither do you." I pout, wrapping both of my arms around his neck.
"That's true; that's true." Clinton's hands land on the sink, one beside each of my hips. "But hey, just 'cause I hate myself doesn't mean you can."
"I won't love myself until you love yourself and that's final." I try to pull a frown over my features, but can't help but let a grin crack through.
"Hey!" Clinton giggles, making my own nose scrunch up as I mirror the action. "That's unfair."
"Very fair, actually."
"This is blackmail." Clinton grabs just above my hips, unable to put pressure on the actual bone due to my bruising, and lifts me off the counter onto the floor.
"You deserve it." I say with a smirk, walking both of us out of the bathroom.
"I do not!" Clinton yells in mock hurt, followed up by an over-exaggerated gasp. "That is so rude. I cannot believe you jut said that to me. Wow. How dare you?" His voice is dripping with sarcastic tones. Normally, these words would feel like blows to my chest, but the fact that he is joking is so obvious it doesn't phase me.
We walk downstairs, continuing our playful banter, and genuine laughter bubbles out of my mouth. It's a weird feeling, the vibrations inside my mouth feel foreign and even make me hesitate for a moment. I'm still relearning my emotions, how they should feel, how I shouldn't feel ever again. It'll be a long journey to get where I want to be, I know that, but I'm on the right path. It may not be as soon as I'd like, but I'll be where I need to be eventually, with time and support.
"You feeling okay?" Clinton asks when we reach the bottom of the staircase.
"Yeah!" I manage to let out as I try to catch my breath. "I'm really...really good."
Clinton smiles and wraps me up in his arms. "I'm glad you're 'really....really good." He even pauses just where I did, for added emphasis that he is, in fact, copying me.
"Thanks, dofus." I smile, burying my head into his chest.
"You're a dork," He laughs.
"Yeah," I giggle right back. "But hey. Nothing wrong with being a dork. Stop being dorkphobic."
"No," Clinton rests his chin on top of my head. "There's nothing wrong with being a dork at all."
I smile, and nuzzle further into his chest as his arms pull me closer to him.
