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Pavitr is trying not to fall asleep at his desk when he hears his window break. He feels his body go cold, freezing the movement of his pencil. He tries to remain calm, gripping at the pencil in his hands and moving to stand.
His chair creaks slightly when he stands. The shuffling outside of the room stops, Pavitr curses softly under his breath. He grips his pencil tightly, quietly padding across the room.
The door creaks open and he lunges for the person, knocking them down to the floor. The person winces, one hand coming to their side.
"Who are you?" Pavitr asks -more like demands- as he towers over the person. He reaches for the lightswitch, switching it on.
The person quickly shuffles away from Pavitr, taking the small distraction as a chance to stand. He winces again when the quick movement pulls at his side.
Pavitr blinks, watching the masked man uselessly shuffle around his living room floor. He blinks again watching as blood drips from the person's fingers down to his-.
"My floors!" Pavitr exclaims, groaning.
"Dude," the person -man- says, his back coming to rest against the side of Pavitrs couch. He coughs into the side of his hand, suddenly light headed.
"I'm bleeding out and you're worried about your floor?"
Pavitr clicks his tongue, ignoring what the man just said to move into his bathroom, opening the small cabinet above his sink to take out a first aid kit. He opens it, checking the contents of the kit. He hums, satisfied to see it mostly full.
He pads back into his living room, crouching next to the man. There's a mask on his face, one of those that painters use so they don't breath in dangerous fumes. Though it's kind of holographic, slight indent in the middle of the mask. The "eyes" of the mask stare back at him.
Pavitr clears his throat, placing the kit near his own thigh as he removes the man's hand from his wound. He hisses in sympathy as he looks at the wound, there's some glass stuck in it, which reminds him-.
"I hope you know you're gonna pay for my window," Pavitr mutters, ripping a packet of a small antibacterial wipe to rub against the man's wound.
The man hisses, knocking Pavitrs hands away. "You're supposed to remove the glass first," he says, and Pavitr has the feeling that he's being glared at through the mask.
Pavitr simply hums, grabbing at the tweezers from the kit. "I know," is what he says. Dipping the tweezers down to remove the glass. The glass catches on skin as Pavitr tries to remove it. The man squirms, his fists opening and closing in pain. Serves him right.
He sighs when he finishes removing all the glass, the tightness in his stomach easing as he wipes the wound again, softly this time, before putting on a bandage. He eases into the floor, dragging his feet close to him as he watches the man inspect the bandaged wound.
"It didn't need stitches," Pavitr murmurs, closing the kit.
The man -really more like the mask- stares at him, his head tilted to the side like a confused puppy.
Pavitr smiles awkwardly, patting the floor next to him before standing up. The kits' contents clang against each other.
He looks down at the man again, watching him look back for a moment. "Stay here," he demands, "at least 'till the morning, I need to check the bandages to see if you get an infection."
Pavitr turns back before he gets any type of response, shutting the bathroom door close as he enters.
He puts the kit down on the sink, his hands trembling slightly as he turns the water on to wash his hands. The water is cold, dripping down his hands as he dries them.
He grips the edges of the sink for a moment, sucking in a breath.
The bathroom door creaks as it opens. Pavitr peeks at the living room from the bathroom, searching for the man. He frowns when he sees no one.
There's a small note on his dining table, with a small 'thank you' scribbled on it. A few bills under it. Pavitr chuckles, leaving the money on his table as he pockets the note.
-
His window has been fixed for about a month now.
A month, and yet he couldn't stop thinking about the masked man. Not for any good reason of course, someone who breaks in and leaves small pools of blood in apartment floors shouldn't be remembered for good reasons.
If he leaves the window slightly opened at night?Well, no one has to know.
-
It's around the 2 month mark when he hears his window open.
He's sitting on his couch, papers and textbooks scattered around him. Pavitr looks up quickly, only slightly startled to see the masked man hobbling in, hand on a wound on his thigh.
They look at each other for a beat, neither saying anything.
Pavitr stands quickly, catching the man before he hits the ground. He winces when the side of the man's mask collides with his shoulder. Pavitr deposits the man on his couch, grabbing at the first aid kit he's kept near the couch.
"Sorry," the man says, his voice is low and scratchy. Pained.
Pavitr winces, brows pinching. "Sorry about this," he says, ripping the man's pants further to get a better look at the wound.
The man shudders, hands coming to grip tightly around Pavitrs wrist.
Pavitr swallows, soothing his hand over the other man's hands, rubbing at his knuckles. "Sorry," he whispers, swallowing again. "I need to look."
The man nods, loosening his grip enough so Pavitr is able to move.
Pavitr gets to work, moving the ripped part of the pants to get a better look at the wound. He groans as he sees a bullet stuck inside the wound.
"You really need to start going to a doctor for this," he tells the man, grabbing at his tweezers.
The man groans as the tweezers start trying to dislodge the bullet. In between pained huffs he says, "I thought you were a doctor."
Pavitr freezes, blinking up at the man. His mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water. He huffs when he can't think of a response, face moving to focus on the wound again.
"We're gonna talk about this later."
The man only huffs, shaking his head as he lets out a quiet "No."
Pavitr scowls, finally getting rid of the bullet and dropping it down on a paper towel. He quickly grabs at the gauze and rips it apart, stuffing the bullet wound until he's satisfied. He then carefully wraps around the wound.
"I'm a medical student, not a doctor."
He says when the silence becomes too much to bear.
The man stares at him for a moment before bursting out laughing.
"That's what you're worried about?" The man asks between breaths.
"Hey!" Pavitr squawks, cheeks burning in embarrassment.
The man's laugh settle to quite huffs of breath after a beat. He tugs at Pavitrs wrist making him slip slightly. Their face to face -more like face to mask- Pavitrs breath ghosting over the man's mask.
The man's swallow is audible to Pavitr, "Sorry," the man whispers, patting weakly at Pavits shoulder. "I just-" he shakes his head, "I just wanted to thank you."
Pavitr licks his lips, mouth dry as he puts a little space between them. "It's no problem," he says, moving away fully and letting the man's hand fall away from his shoulder.
He stands awkwardly, watching the man breath. Weaker than Pavitr would like.
(He pretends he doesn't miss the warmth of the man's hand, even if they were only on him for a second.)
"I'll get you some new pants," Pavitr murmurs, unsure if the man had even heard him.
He walks back to his room, opening his drawers in search of some pants the man could wear. He shuffles through a few before fishing out one of his older sweatpants. They fit a little short on him now but the masked man was a little shorter than him.
Satisfied, he makes his way back to his living room. The man seems to be a little more alert, his hands tangled in his lap. His head snaps to stare at Pavitr as he walks in.
"Sorry, just coming back to give you these." He says, putting the sweatpants down onto the living room table and pushing it towards the man.
Pavitr clears his throat, watching as -and Pav can only assume- the vigilante inspects the pants given to him.
"So, are you gonna tell me your name or am I just supposed to call you "the man" in my head.
The man huffs, clearly amused. "Call me the Prowler," he says, "or just prowler is fine."
Pavitr rolls his eyes, coming closer to the Prowler to collect the contents of the first aid kit that are sprawled on the couch.
He picks up the last bit of gauze and turns to look at the prowler, Pavitrs sweatpants still in his hands.
"Bathrooms that way," he points towards the general direction of the bathroom, handing the first aid kit to the masked man. "Just put it in the cabinet."
The prowler nods, wincing when he stands. He hobbles for a moment, patting Pavitr on the back as he walks by and muttering a quiet thank you.
Pavitrs stands there for a moment, listening to the Prowler as he walks into the bathroom before the door shuts.
He pads back to his room, collapsing I'm his bed and curling into himself. He groans into his hands, his muscles melting into the bed now that the adrenaline has run its course. His fingers tremble as he tugs at the tufts of his hair.
He falls asleep, dreaming of gloved hands passing through his hair.
-
There's a note on his night stand, see you next time, written neatly on it.
He pretends he doesn't notice the small heart at the corner of the paper.
He'll throw it away later, he tells himself.
(He never does.)
-
It's been around a year since the prowler had first broken into his apartment.
There have been a few more visits. One memorable one being when he had come in with a cat who bit him and had refused to let him go.
Pavitr had laughed at him while he could only assume the prowler had scowled.
Now though, with a nearly passed out Prowler in his arms, nothing really seems funny anymore. There's blood pouring down his neck, Pavitrs bloody fingerprints on his mask.
Pavitr forces himself to breath, forces himself to calm down. Head wounds tend to bleed a lot he reasons.
But fuck, the mask is in the way and he cant see the wound itself. And yeah maybe he's freaking out a little because prowler won't respond to him.
He shakes him softly, unsure if there's anymore wounds that he can't.
"I have to take off your mask to see," He tells the man, hands trembling as he rubs his fingers against the mask.
Under him the prowler makes a noise, shaking his head. He's barely lucid if the way he tries to raise his hand says anything.
Pavitr swallows, resting his forehead against the mask, "I'm sorry," his voice shakes when he says it. He reaches towards the back of the mask, closing his eyes and feeling the mask dissipate under his fingers.
There's a tug at the hem of his shirt. He feels the man's mouth open, nothing but a pained moan breaking out.
"I'm sorry," Pavitr whispers again, opening his eyes to look at the man.He tries not to stare, knowing that he's already crossed over the line by removing the mask.
He turns the prowler head carefully, trying not to jostle the wound. He reaches over prowlers body, grabbing some alcohol to spray over the wound. Prowler whimpers, his eyes widening. "I'm sorry," he chants over and over again. Curling his fingers against one of the man's braids as he stitches the wound.
Prowler makes little sounds of pain as Pavitr stitches his skin. His eyes are still hazy, but God the silence is making Pavitrs skin crawl uncomfortably.
He cuts off the last stitch, hands hovering uncertainty over prowlers skin. He settles for dropping them against his own body, his hands curling together.
The man sits up from where he was on the floor, his body shaking with what Pavitr wants to assume is fatigue.
(It could be with anger, his mind supplies. He digs his fingers into his palm until he can feel them break skin.)
Prowler says nothing, eyes distance as they stare at one of Pavitrs walls. "I'm sorry," he says again, watching as Prowler turns to him. His eyes unwavering as he stands, shakily of course, he's still lost too much blood to be perfectly healthy.
Pavitrs mind blanks for a second, watching as the prowler turns his mask back on. Watching him stumble onto Pavitrs couch.
"I'll have to wake you up every hour," his voice feels unused, dry and uncomfortable. There's no answer from the other man, just pointed silence.
Pavitr sighs, standing on shaking legs as he trembles into the bathroom. Stripping off his bloodied clothes and turning on the shower.
-
Prowler is gone when it turns morning.
How?Pavitr is unsure, he'd woken up every hour to make sure the other was still alive.
He'd search his house for the usual note, passing the collection of notes that he'd put up on his fridge as he searched.
He finds nothing.
-
It's been 4 months since he'd last seen the prowler.
4 months since he'd seen the man's face. He of course tried not to scare, but sometimes, during nights where it was hard to live with just the memories of the man he let himself remember.
A permanent furrow to his brow, strong cheekbones, a hardened face.
(Soft lips.)
He tries to forget but it's hard to forget what you want.
-
Gwen had looked at him crazy when he told her the story.
Are you crazy, she had asked him, her expression a mixture of horror and confusion. He laughed at the expression on her face.
I'm not, he told her, curling his fingers against his mug.
She shook her head as well, wide eyed as she glanced down at her own mug.
Why are you telling me this now?, he swallowed at that, unsure as to why. He'd promised himself to keep this to himself the first time. But now…
He swallowed, pushing the mug towards the middle of the table uncomfortably. I miss him.
Gwen had laughed at that, downing the rest of her coffee as she told him that he was crazy.
He probably was.
That didn't stop Pavitr from missing him.
-
During nights he'd particularly missed the man, he'd let himself imagine how soft those lips would feel pressed against his.
-
There's a knock on his door early one morning.
Too early, pavitr thinks as he stares at his clock. 5:37 am, it reads.
He stumbles out of bed, grumbles as he trips over the textbooks scattered on his bedroom floor.
"Look Gwen I'm not going to get your cat out of-" he says as he opens the door. He freezes when he sees familiar brown eyes staring at him.
"Prowler?" He asks, astounded. And hell he'll admit it, a little shocked and so so relieved.
The prowler smiled at him boyishly, and oh so brightly.
"Call me Miles," he told Pavitr.
And we'll if Pavitr's response was muffled by lips on his.
That was no one's problem but Pavitrs.
-
The end.