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You don't want the mask to come off. You can't. You don't have the words to explain (you never have), but you know that it shouldn't, that it's not supposed to, that you don't want it to.
(It's like this: the world is full of sharp edges that have never done anything but hurt and cut and tear, and you have only your fragile body to protect you, and it is never enough. The world is full of sharp edges that the flat press of plastic against your skin can dull, the warm wet of your breath pushed back at you, the corners of a mask set so low to keep the sharp pain and bright filtered from your sight, but the cool air against your cheeks and the raw too-much data against your eyes is like knives under your flesh - and you would know.)
Your brother does not relent, gloved fingers seeking the corners of your skin to pry it off of you, and you snarl. He has words you do not, but you do not want to hear them, pressing your palm against your face and ignoring the sharp burst of pain in the wounds beneath your plastic skin, you do not want him to take it.
"You have to let me take it off," he says to you, and you make a noise that could be laughter - you do not have to do anything, and both of you are aware that he is not strong enough to make you. He doesn't back down (he also doesn't try to Force, the way everyone else always has and always will). "Look, what if I-," he says, guessing, and removes his own cloth skin. Mask pulled up away from his eyes (too much for you to look at, his are not open and shaking like all the others are, but eyes speak too much for your vision to take and you flinch and hide from them on instinct because you are aware of their hurt). You shift your gaze to the scattered dust of gloves hitting the dirty and abandoned floor.
His hands - bare - reach for you again, both of them this time, and you growl, warning. (Your back is not against a wall, his is, but you do not flee into open space left just for you or crush his torso back against cement, yet.) "Close your eyes," he instructs, palm out flat towards you, hovering near your face. The other strays too close to the edge of your mask, where the elastic pulls tight against your ear.
You force your eyes to his - your view not quite obstructed by his hand - and you look and try to see and understand his face the way he reads the others. You don't know how to do it, but his eyes meet yours and do not cave or waver, do not roam your face and look for openings or opportunity, they are fixed, unwavering, still just for you to be able to see. You cannot read like he can, but you know that watching your eyes means that he is not watching your hands, and you know that his seeking eyes are still and quiet for you.
"I'll cover you some, okay?" he says, eyes unwavering. The hand in front of your gaze gestures. "Just long enough to clean under it - that dirty mask is gonna get this shit infected."
You look through your safe eyes at him, and his hands do not move. Waiting. Still for you to choose, not reaching to choose for you.
He has not lied to you yet.
You close your eyes.
His hand pulls up the corner of your mask almost immediately, and you bare your teeth in quiet terror in anticipation of the sharp edges primed to cut, but there is solid warmth that swiftly takes its place, smoothing over the contours of your (fragile) face, dry and dark and warm. The plastic of your face is pressed into one of your hands and you grab it careful but firm (you are not safe without it, but it is lost so easily, cracking against concrete when you are pushed or dragged and thrown away by the other with easy care that you cannot have - you have to protect it as much as it protects you).
Your brother's hand does not move from where it shields you, even as you hear the rustle in the sharp chemical smells (just like That place - ties and grabbing hands and trapped and cold and weak, but not anymore. Your brother's hand is still on your face, warm. Careful). The hand not holding your mask reaches up, instinctive, to push away the sharp smell and touch and sting against the tears in your flesh, but you stop yourself before it gets too close. Your brother continues, uninterrupted, dry skin against the dirty sweat of your own. You do not bare your teeth in warning.
Your flesh stings and prickles as he cleans, the hand protecting you shifts to make way, exposing new places to be seen and cleansed, but he covers up just as much, constant and solid. You stay still, and breathe shallow around the smell.
Sharp wet paper stained bloody is finally pulled out of reach, tossed useless into the corner. His hand on your eyes does not move, and the other taps against your wrist that holds the mask - sometimes not either of you are animals used to speaking.
You hesitate only a moment, and hold its inside up towards him, exposing sweat and dirt and blood that hides under its skin. If he is surprised, he gives no indication. His hands don't tremble against your skins as he protects your fragile eyes and cleans your plastic armor for you. Your hands don't shake as you offer both to him, bare, canine teeth and iron claws sheathed.
He nudges your mask up towards you when he decides it clean enough, and holds his hand in place until you place the comforting pressure back around your skull. Quiet drag of skin against yours as he slides his hand free without displacing anything. You hold your eyes shut, palms open. He adjust your face until it fits how it should (he knows it just as well as you).
His gaze meets yours when you allow yours to reopen, the world's sharp edges culled by the blinders that surround the delicate skin of your eyes. Back the way it should be. You breathe out smooth, the hollow echo of trapped air almost loud in the quiet space between you.
He nods. You return it.
As he pulls his cloth skin back on, you glance at the thin pale wrists, and feel safe like you have never before been allowed.