Chapter Text
Marc hauls Jake up the last step, ignoring the flash of pain in his foot. Blood drips down between the holes of the metal fire escape. Jake holds a dish rag to his bleeding temple.
Mamá’s bottle hit him dead-on.
“Stay awake,” Marc hisses, shaking Jake. His brother's bleary eyes flutter open again. The flat cap he insisted on bringing is flecked with blood and slipping to the side.
Marc wraps his arm around Jake's shoulder and knocks on the window.
There’s no response. The thick, navy blue curtains don’t move.
A minute passes.
He knocks again, biting back tears from the increasing pain in his supporting foot. The glass digs deeper.
Jake groans. “¿Volvió a dormir?”
“No,” Marc says, not fully believing it himself as he knocks a third time.
The curtains are pulled aside.
Marc’s heart catches at the sight of Steven, rumpled and sleepy eyed. He’s wearing his cobalt blue Cubs t-shirt, the one that swallows his lanky form, with loose shorts and fuzzy socks.
Steven’s clumsy fingers undo the latch, then slide open the window as high as it'll go. “Sorry.” He reaches for Jake, fatigue giving way to clarity. “I restocked the kit.”
Jake lets go of Marc and flops onto Steven through the window. “Yer a sight for sore eyes.”
Steven smiles as he pats Jake’s back, neck craned and chin on Jake’s shoulder. “Hi, Jake.”
“M’so dizzy and weak.”
Steven cooes, “Poor thing.”
Marc rolls his eyes and shoves Jake the rest of the way in. Jake curses as he and Steven go down, and twists to take the brunt of the fall.
Marc climbs in with practiced ease and shuts the window behind him.
Steven’s bedroom is spotless as usual, with rugs and plants and three bookshelves stocked full. One shelf is dedicated to nursing. Since they were young, Steven wanted to be a nurse just like his mother.
And now that him and Jake’s lives have gone to hell, Steven gets plenty of experience.
Steven rolls off Jake— ignoring his complaint— and kneels. He carefully looks under the dish cloth and grimaces at the open wound. “Any other injuries besides the one on your head?”
Jake smiles, albeit wobbly. Limp on the carpet, fingers loose on the dishrag. The fall seems to have taken a lot out of him. Oops. “You wanna... find out?”
Steven frowns and smoothly rises to his feet. “Don’t move.” He strides to his desk and opens up the first aid kit, digging through. “Marc? Any injuries?”
“No.”
Jake scoffs. “Glass in his foot.”
“It’s fine.”
Steven’s voice is sharp. “Sit down, Marc.”
He sits, and bites back a sigh from the relieved pressure on his foot. Jake sits up with gritted teeth to rest against his side, and he quickly takes up the task of holding the rag to Jake’s temple.