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Jonah’s gasp of pain is slight, barely audible—although of course Jonathan hears it. He says nothing.
The light in his study is dim, the curtains drawn to keep a barrier between the pair of them and the darkness outside. Candlelight casts a warm glow across Jonah’s skin, returning some of the lost colour. Thankfully the extent of the wounds are not nearly as terrible as Jonathan initially feared when Jonah called upon him, his face pale and his hand bleeding quite badly, smearing on his clothing and on his face, staining him darkly. Jonah had taken measures to stop the bleeding, but was limited in what he could do until each and every shard of glass was removed from beneath his skin.
It was his dominant hand that was hurt, anyway. His left hand wasn’t powerless, but a web of lacerations as extensive as these would be tricky to treat with one hand.
“Not much longer, Jonah,” Jonathan said. “Just hold tight. I’ll be through with you in a moment.”
Jonah made a sound, something between a sigh and laughter. “You’re very good to me.”
“I am only doing what you’ve asked of me.”
Stitches cover the back of Jonah’s hand and fingers, tracing the edge of his hand and wrapping around his palm. This would not be the first time that Jonathan has dealt with such an injury, although to see something like this on Jonah is… strange.
Jonathan turns Jonah’s hand. By now the blood flow has become sluggish, thankfully. Dabbing at the skin to clean it actually does some good, and he can see the glint of glass winking up at him, taunting him. Each is evidence of an aspect of Jonah that Jonathan has had the privilege of never seeing, and loathe though he would be to be forced to confront that version of the man, he nonetheless wants to know.
“You can ask.”
He is reluctant to look away from his task, afraid again that he will lose the tiny shard again. It took such a dreadfully long time to find these final slivers, and he doesn’t want to take any longer than necessary, for Jonah’s comfort. Not that Jonah ever seems to mind a little bit of discomfort, some pain.
Like everything, it seems to fascinate him.
It’s rare that Jonah might offer Jonathan the opportunity to have a real answer. Rarer, even, than the moments of wonder that Jonathan offers to Jonah, his curiosity momentarily getting the better of him.
There is no conflict of interest in wanting to know how Jonah has come by these wounds this time—no conflict of interest in looking up into his friend’s face, searching his eyes for an answer that will not come unless he words the question.
He has never seen Jonah truly lose himself in anger, although he knows that Jonah has a temper. Often Jonathan has found himself wondering what would happen if Jonah gave in to it, certain that he would not want to be on the receiving side of that hot glare.
“These shards,” Jonathan says, instead. “If I didn’t know any better, then I would swear that they are evading me deliberately.”
There is no surprise on Jonah’s face, only a soft smile. He glances down at his hand. “I worried that it was something like that. That is why I thought that I had better come to see you now, rather than wait until a more sociable hour.”
Somehow Jonathan is able to hold his tongue, to stop himself from spitting out what he really wants to know—what did Jonah do to himself, this time? Where is there now a broken window or a broken vase, where previously there was something beautiful? It’s hard to imagine.
As deep as each laceration goes, there’s a certain beauty to the blooded glass that he’s withdrawn from Jonah. Each line of stitched skin only draws attention to the contour of Jonah’s hands.
He studies Jonah’s hand in the light, turning it gently. There is a twitch in Jonah’s fingers, his slender hands brushing against Jonathan’s palm. The gesture is only delicate. Jonathan ignores it, along with the brief flash of warmth that passes through him, between them.
He has served Jonah faithfully for years, and knows that Jonah appreciates it; Jonah has never been shy about expressing this sentiment, although he has never thanked Jonathan for not prying, nor has he thanked him for his discretion; he has never even asked. It is simply not in Jonathan’s nature to be more forthcoming than necessary, and the idea of betraying the confidence of those who come to him in need of his services is appalling. Jonah knows this. There’s a privilege in intimacy like that, where such a thing doesn’t even need to be discussed.
It is likely nothing, but still. With his thumb Jonathan traces the edge of one of the stitched together lacerations that travels the length of Jonah’s thumb, before holding it against his palm, purely in the interest of keeping his hand still, to prevent the glass from burying itself further inside of Jonah.
“You are very lucky,” he says, “that this has not ruined you. The wounds run incredibly deep.”
“Yes,” Jonah agrees. “Incredibly lucky.”