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Dewey was less than thrilled when he was woke up by shaking. Groaning sleepily, he blinked his eyes open, a yawn in the back of his throat. Huey had woke him up.
“Was’ you ‘ant, Hugh?” he yawned, tempted to just close his eyes again.
He didn’t catch the way Huey was trembling in his tired haze.
“I... I didn’t mean to...”
Dewey frowned a little, but he was still barely awake. “Was’ you mean?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
Huey’s voice shook. “I mean, I—well—I did mean to, I wanted to, but-but I meant to stop,” he was stammering in between sharp intakes of breath.
Dewey’s frown deepened. “What are you—“ His blood froze when he finally realized what Huey was saying. He sat up immediately, and clutched Huey’s tense shoulders. “Are you bleeding?”
Huey breathed shakily, quivering under Dewey’s touch. “A little...” he replied.
Dewey got out of bed. “Come on,” he said quietly, reaching for Huey’s hand. He stopped himself. “Which hand?” he asked.
Huey gave him his good hand, then they quietly snuck out of their room, careful not to wake Louie.
They went to the bathroom and Dewey turned on the light, then had Huey sit on the edge of the bathtub. He rolled up his sleeve and took a look.
Scratches. Vicious scratches. Huey had clawed his forearm with something sharp, but dull enough as to not pierce skin. The lines were dark red and went in no specific direction; rather they were cluttered everywhere, like a ball of scribbles. Flakes of peeled skin covered his arm, and there were dots of blood where Huey had pressed harder.
Dewey sighed quietly.
“Sorry,” whispered Huey, his head hung guiltily.
“It’s...” Dewey hesitated. It wasn’t alright. Huey was hurt. He had hurt himself. “It is what it is,” he said instead.
He opened up the bathroom cabinet, and brought out a facecloth, the tensor bandage box, ointment, and the pins.
He ran the facecloth under warm water, then knelt down in front of Huey and took his arm. He dabbed the wet cloth over the scratches, and the mess of flaked skin disappeared. Then he grabbed a dry facecloth and gently dabbed at Huey’s arm again to get the bleeding to stop.
Dewey looked up at Huey. There was a dark look in his eyes.
“Why did you do this?” Dewey asked.
“I wanted to hurt,” Huey replied.
Dewey frowned sadly. “But why?” he asked again.
Huey looked him straight in the eye. “Because I’m addicted to it,” he said.
Dewey didn’t know how to respond to that.
When the bleeding finally stopped, Dewey applied the medicated ointment to Huey’s arm. It was bright red and felt like a furnace. Dewey made a note to himself to make sure Huey wouldn’t stretch or itch his arm, while the scratches healed. Then he wrapped Huey’s arm from his elbow to his wrist and used a pin to close the bandage, so it hugged his forearm snuggly.
Dewey was still for a moment. Huey watched him.
He sighed and sat on the floor, backing up against the tub. He rested his head against Huey’s leg.
“Promise me you won’t do this again?”
Huey wrapped his other hand around his bandaged arm and stared at it.
“I’d like to.”
Dewey wished he could just take away... whatever was going on in Huey’s mind.
Then Huey put a hand on Dewey’s shoulder.
“I promise to try.”
Slowly, Dewey nodded. That was the best Huey could offer.