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Summary
The unspoken truth that he’s too weak to bathe himself properly stands in the room between them like a third silent body. Tangerine almost wishes his vocal cords were truly thrashed and ruined so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge it aloud, wouldn’t have to admit defeat before the battle ever began.
He’s sitting beside the tub, awkwardly wedged between the toilet and the wall, head lolled off to rest on a towel folded under his cheek there on the edge of the bath. Breaths come shallowly, almost in haggard pants from the mix of nausea and exhaustion. Everything still smells like hospital antiseptic, blood, and electrical fire. It’s been three days since the train went off-rail—at least according to Lemon’s dodgy appraisal of time—and Tangerine still can’t burn the scent of near-death out of his nose.