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Sandwich crusts rest on paper plates. The bed is covered in rolls of bandages, cotton balls, travel-size bottles of rubbing alcohol. The table is kicked. “Ow!!!”
“Sorry!” Eiji withdrawals his tweezers from one of the thousands of cuts. It seems… It seems that last night, Ash got into a fight again. It seems that it didn’t go well. When the pair went through this cleaning routine, it would usually only take a few minutes. It’s been an hour and they’re still on his right side.
Eiji sighs, ripping the packaging off a band-aid. Ash had a permanent wince plastered to his face. It seems he hated that this was a regular event too. The bandage covers a small cut, clinging to the skin around it. Eiji leans on his bare shoulder, “I’m sorry.”
He looks away, puffs out his cheeks. “It’s fine.” He pouts to cover his sensitivity.
Eiji takes his hand and lifts it to his face. That was probably the worst of it, bruises painting his knuckles, gashes it the meat of his palm. Someone brought a knife to a fist fight, Ash told him before. Thank goodness it wasn’t a gun, Eiji had responded. He pushes his lips against his shoulder. Thank goodness.
A bloody cotton ball is thrown across the room; it hits the wall and drops near the waste bin. “10-6, me,” the temporary winner proclaims. A new cotton ball is thrust into a wound. “Ouch!”
“Sorry.” Eiji dabs it along his knuckles as swiftly as possible. It gets sucked into one, though. Eiji pops it out, soaked in blood. A look of concern appears on his face. “Deep.”
“Yeah,” Ash avoids his gaze, “Some punk nearly jammed his blade through my hand.” There is contact, despite the turned head. Eiji's eyes are judgemental. Ash knows what he was going to say. So, there is no need for communication. Eiji keeps it to himself.
Ash curls his hand into a fist, there is a glimmer of white. And then, it disappears. Eiji sits up, fascinated. It was deep, alright, The bone was visible underneath all the red. It would need stitches. It should have stitches. Ash’s face was all over the news, all over the papers. There was no way they would get into a hospital.
Eiji takes his ring finger, bends it, lets it relax. His eyes are wide. “That’s cool,” he whispers. Gently, he dips his fingertip inside. He could feel the joints moving, the tenseness in Ash’s muscles.
There’s a swift intake of breath. “That’s enough already,” the subject complains, jerking his hand away. He plucks the cotton ball from the tweezers and chucks it across the room. A perfect throw. “11-6, me. Go to hell.”