Work Text:
‘Fuck’
Sleepless dreams filled his drying, open eyes. Thoughts swarmed his head. Thoughts of her.
He turned up his music to mask the thoughts as he settled for a tight fetal position, clutching to his knees as an alternative to ripping his white, fluffy hair from its scalp. Sleep at this point in life had become a rare occasion and nights of tossing and turning were a common occurrence. He found himself dumb for getting his hopes up to believe this night could break the pattern. Out of boredom and nothing better to do, he had gone to bed at ten. It was now one thirty.
He sat up to read the red digits on his alarm clock. After a few minutes of mindless staring, he flopped onto his back. Folding his arms under his head for support, he returned to the practice of observing his ceiling.
The very engaging activity was interrupted by a particular noise. Believing the sound to simply be from his headphones, he squeezed his eyes shut.
There it was again.
‘Fuck’
He rose, pulling out an earbud to search for the source of the sound. His vision, long adjusted to the darkness of the night, made out a shadowed figure in the frame of his window.
“Fuck!” This time, making his curse audible. He nearly fell off the bed in terror.
The next sound he heard was that of laughter. A girl’s laugh, that is. Of course he knew whom it belonged to, he heard that laugh every night in his dreams.
In haste, he grabbed the first shirt he could find within his reach and walked to the window to unlatch the lock. The shadow was unblurred by the absence of glass as he lifted the pane and a smiling face speckled with blood was revealed.
“Fuck, are you okay?”
He reached out to help her in, but she replied with a light shove, enough to get him out of the way. She climbed in swiftly, experienced as she was. Her entrance was greeted with the illumination of the boy’s table lamp. His red eyes were squinted as he turned back to face her.
Her smile faded. “Sorry,” she choked, looking down at her hands to fold them in one another.
He remained silent, anticipating more than one measly word. “It’s fine,” he replied eventually. “I wasn’t even asleep.” Her head remained bowed, so he continued. “Is everything alright?”
No response.
“What happened?”
No response.
“Did he hurt you again?”
No response.
The boy reached out unsteadily, expecting to be rejected with a slap to his outstretched hand. But to his surprise, his touch was accepted. He brushed her coarse hair to reveal the source of the blood that decorated her dirt covered face. She flinched slightly as he removed the strands that were plastered to her forehead. A deep gash had been hidden just beneath the hairline. The red substance produced by the wound glistened in the faint light as it continued trickling down its crimson streams.
His eyes traced the wound, following the blood that trailed down to accumulate in her brow. His hand gently caressed her cheek as he wiped it, preventing the substance from dripping any further. His gaze, fixed intently on the concerning injury, was met with her apologetic eyes that were filled with nothing but remorse.
He blinked away her pitiful expression. The boy grabbed an old shirt of his and held it to the wound. “Here, keep the pressure on it.”
He started for the bedroom door only to be stopped by a resistance tugging against his own sleeve. A calloused hand grasped the fabric. Her lips parted as if to say unprepared words. Before even a sound could escape, she was taken aback by the feeling of the soft touch of his warm hand slipping into the palm of her own.
She kept her eyes fixed on the hand’s little embrace as the boy led her down the hallway and into the bathroom. He released their hold to search through the cabinets. Finally, he pulled out a white box and set it on the counter. Once unclasped and opened, the boy examined the mess of items the container held.
He rummaged through its contents before suggesting, “Um, can you sit up here.” He patted the counter space next to him. She boosted herself up and got situated while the boy pulled out various objects.
He pondered for a moment as he inspected the small kit. “Do you think it needs stitches?” he asked, concluding that she probably had more experience in this domain than he did.
After carefully examining it in the mirror, she nodded reluctantly. She could easily determine what measures had to be taken depending on the wound’s state after all her years of repeating the same, dreadful routine. “I can do it myself though.”
He opened the little kit. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’ve done it plenty of times,” she dismissed. The boy’s heart sunk at this statement.
He set the small kit aside and retrieved a bottle. “Um, do you just pour this or do you use a rag to--”
“I got it.” She reached to take the alcohol from him, but he pulled away. “Soul, I know how to deal with this.”
“I know.” Holding on to the bottle, he explained, “I just-- don’t want you to do this on your own.”
“I’ve done it before, like, a lot.”
“But, you-- you don’t have to be alone this time.” He looked down, fiddling with the cap. “I can help. I want to help you.”
Her emerald eyes reflected appreciation until she shook her head, “No, this is my problem. I shouldn’t have brought you into this.”
“Then why did you come here?”
“I-- I don’t know,” she sighed. “I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know why I came.”
Before she could say any more, Soul insisted, “Well, you’re here now. Let me help you.”