Chapter Text
Kayden wonders how he fits within the pockets of imperfection Kartein carved for himself. In shucked clothes crumpled on the floor; anatomy books opened on the nightstand, highlighted, scribbled ( what the hell? all red all caps); in tangled hair. Even the bedroom, which used to smell like an expensive almost-nothing—none of that motel mildew and dust—now, tinged with sweat and off-wine.
“...One week. I told her, bedrest for one week, and can you guess how long it took for her to end up in yet another fight? I swear to god, they’re all the same. Christ, I’m fucking drain—are you seriously training right now?”
“What? I’m listening. I can multitask.”
“I’d rather you do literally anything else. Please."
He stops his force control, feeling that static-warm surge of power rush back to his core. Even without blue wisps swirling around the room, he can make out the rigidity in Kartein’s shoulders, drawn up and forward. Should he leave? It's not exactly easy to read someone by staring at the back of their fucking head. But anything else sounds like an invitation, or at least, an opportunity.
Slowly, with the casualness he sharpens every time they meet, Kayden snakes an arm around Kartein's waist. Instead of pulling away, he presses his back against his chest, holding his breath, his abdomen pushing up into Kayden's hand for a couple seconds too long, sinking back down again as he exhales. Then Kartein relaxes his shoulders and the rhythm of his breathing smooths.
“Anyway, after I dealt with her, the hospital had the audacity to…” The rant continues without a mention of kicking him out; eases into mumbling; dissolves into gentle snoring.
After a while, prickles run down his arm to his fingers, so to soften the numbness, he slides one hand up Kartein’s chest. Shadows clean the marks he’d left there. Healing the bruises would be child's play, but maybe Kartein just finds it a waste of his power. Or maybe he quit healing himself in the way he’d quit folding his shucked clothes.
But Kartein allowing himself calculated imperfections is one thing. Overstepping boundaries; chipping away at their mutually established "I don't need you", is another.
He should leave.
Kayden withdraws his arm, planting a hand against silky sheets, and pushes up—
Sharp, familiar pain jolts his wrist. “Fuck,” he hisses, collapsing back on the bed. “Fucking hell."
He rolls up, gritting his teeth, but it's too late. Behind him, a switch flicks on, and light floods the room, spilling across waxy-leaved plants and plush white furniture, seeping into crevices between floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Just his luck that Kartein has to be a light sleeper.
Pale hair tangled and stiff with dried sweat, Kartein scans Kayden's face. His blue eyes feel warmer than usual, half closed from lingering sleep.
Once his gaze flicks to Kayden's wrist, his eyes fully open, now ice-cold-alert. “You’re injured.”
Fuck. “Sure. I’m bleeding out, doctor,” he deadpans.
Kartein grabs his wrist. While the grip is light, the gesture holds more than enough weight as a warning.
"Shit, okay, fine. I might've fractured something in my fight this morning. I thought I healed it, but—"
"Might have?" His grip tightens.
"I fucked up. You happy?"
Kartein huffs, then lets go. "Do you remember who I am, or did you hit your head today?"
They’re all the same. The boredom and frustration and patients blurring into what knowledge they have to offer; he’s heard enough of the rants to understand. All he can offer are bruises Kartein chooses not to heal. And if Kartein accepts that payment… The thrill that shudders through him at the thought, at watching Kartein carve deeper, hurt when he hurts, press squeeze burst break—sick. Fucking disgusting.
“Whatever you want from me, it’s not gonna be worth it for some fracture.” Before he can see Kartein’s reaction, he moves off the bed to fetch his clothes.