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Light glows steady over Aphelios's head, casting gentle shadows down his reflection, nothing more than whimsical spells twirling in on themselves. He turns the faucet taps, water rushing to pool in the sink he's leaning over, wets the rag in his hands before wringing it out.
He starts at his temple, bruised indigo, drawing cautious circles and washing away the blood dried there. The Piltovian enforcer had belatedly and, if he's honest, halfheartedly tossed him an apology for the lasting wound--only after her partner had ordered it, of course.
"My bad," she'd said, casually rolling out the knots in her shoulders. At her officer's light but swift smack to her gut, "Damn, Cait! I told him I was sorry, fuck."
Aphelios didn't mind. Really, he hadn't understood what she'd meant until he caught a glimpse of his gruesome visage in the river's wavering surface. Just over his shoulder, Alune had come to focus, her concerned eyes taking in his injuries. He'd firmly shaken her careful, ghastly hands away, citing his numbness to quell her distress.
Now, he brings the rag down his broken nose, warm water loosening the scabs and coagulated blood caked there. He scrubs somewhat carelessly, more interested in a clean face than wasting time being cautious with what he can't feel regardless.
Dipping the cloth back under the faucet, he rinses it mostly clear. Red rivulets drip down his lips. Alune's silhouette hugs his shoulders, her pale chin tucked into his collar as she watches his movements.
"You should be resting," he says. His voice actually scrapes out of his throat, another testament to his point.
A scoff, just to his right and full of amusement. "Preaching to me?"
Sett's heavy, confident steps sound muted against the water splashing into the sink, usual stride slowed to an off-rhythm stagger as he tries to hide his limp. His imposing figure cuts a shadow where Alune once was, her freezing hands having retreated when exhaustion inevitably overwhelmed her.
Scar-laden palms envelop the sharp curve of his shoulders, growing tentative upon seeing the guilt drawing Aphelios's face down.
"She gone?" he asks, voice sobered to something softer.
Aphelios nods, staring down at red swirling to the drain as he squeezes out the rag in his hands. Closing the tap and beginning again, moving to wash clean his swollen cheek this time, he doesn't flinch at the pain beginning to mount there. Each threadbare corner scratching away scabs and streaks of dry blood brings him a little more aching in her absence.
The grip on his shoulders goes firm and Aphelios is turned around. His sluggish mind belatedly follows, hardly remembering to keep his hold on the washcloth as Sett bends to put both hands on his waist.
By the time the room stops spinning and he's sure he won't be sick, Aphelios finds himself seated on the countertop and he can feel the cool edge on the backs of his knees. Water hisses through the pipes in the wall behind him and the tap squeaks again as it closes.
Sett brushes his hair back a little too carefully, picking strands out of his wounds with a delicacy unfitting. He straightens his spine, steadying his hand against Aphelios's cheek, and begins cleaning away the last of the blood.
He's so afraid to move, he hardly breathes for fear of losing the warmth spreading where Sett's hand rests. It's unlike anything he's felt since he'd touched the petals of noctum, a rare sort of tenderness from one who had all but banished it. It makes his chest feel full, lessening the ache there.
With a light splash, Sett tosses the rag back into the sink and levels him with a hard stare. There's something just behind it, unfurling and threatening to bloom.
"That ain't healing straight," he points out.
Aphelios nods. He lifts his hand to grasp the bridge of his nose, earning a startled noise and Sett's hands knocking his away. He huffs, shaking his head in disbelief, bringing his hand back down to his lap and patting Aphelios on the wrist.
"You've lost your mind." It's almost fond. He pinches the crooked bridge between his thumb and knuckle, then says, "Eyes on me."
Tears well up on his lashes, spilling over faster than Aphelios can blink them away. Blood leaks from his nostrils and rolls down his lips, sticking to Sett's wrist as he holds the cartilage and bone as best as he can. He leans back a bit, adjusting his fingers minutely as he studies Aphelios's face.
The pain bursting behind his eyes isn't enough to distract him from the finger tracing the shape of his lower lip.
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When Sett steps back, the bones in his nose are already beginning to heal again, holding the straightened angle he'd encouraged.
He rinses the rag clean again, easing up the water to something a little warmer, then wipes away the remnants of his makeshift realignment. The blood on his lips has grown tacky, taking a firm hand to scrub away completely. Aphelios watches Sett's eyes, taking in the barely-there lift of his brow.
"What," he prompts, but lacks the lilt of inquisition.
Sett's gaze breaks sharp, looking up as though Aphelios had scolded him. He takes the rag away from his bloodstained lips and dips it beneath the faucet, distracted.
"Thought that was paint," he admits, squeezing the water out with a little more force than strictly necessary. "On your chin and eye."
Aphelios blinks slowly.
"Paint."
A jerky nod. "Paint. Like makeup. Or dye." Sett refuses to meet his stare.
Silence settles between them, disrupted only by the idle sounds of Sett clearing the mess from the washroom. He lets out a long sigh, stretching out the stiffness in his back, and lobs the dirty washcloth into what must be a hamper. Turns off the water after splashing the blood away from the sink's edges, releases the drain and returns the ointments to their proper cabinet.
Aphelios can see his limp worsening, his knee is swollen to the point of straining against the pressed fabric of his pale pants. He moves regardless, wiping Aphelios's blood from the countertop before anyone might question it.
Severum is nearly transparent, its shape weak without Alune's full presence to guide it, but its image glows in his palm for a moment. For the first time, he can feel the soul of it waking in his skin, filling those curling marks with silver so radiant, the lights overhead go dark.
Sett stares, face overfilled with awe all too genuine.
"They are moonsilver. Tattoos," Aphelios tells him.
He nods, hands finding Aphelios's knees blindly as he steps back to him. "Right," he says, and he sounds lost as he's ever been. "Tattoos."