Work Text:
David presses his body against the door as he closes it with his weight, the noise alerting the only other present in the ridiculously small apartment. He turns the lock with his left hand without thinking about it before sliding down to the dusty floor and letting out a fatigued sigh.
“Do I need to ask?” the familiar voice calls out, calmly as ever, as the soft tapping of his fingertips on the keyboard resumes.
“... No,” he gasps out. He swallows, grimacing at how thick and bloody his saliva was, before continuing. “Work done.”
“Good.”
He listens to his own breathing and repeated click, click, click, click of the laptop keys being pressed.
It's almost soothing.
He doesn't know how much time passes as he sits there on the floor with his head hanging, not even able to hold the weight of it. He stares at his hands, his knuckles completely black with dirt sticking to the tiny cuts littering them. He needs to wash them. And his face too. Actually, maybe take a shower. Mhm, that'd be nice. He'll take a shower.
After he gathers enough strength to get back up.
After his head stops spinning.
After he doesn't feel like throwing up anymore.
He thinks he blacks out a couple times. But maybe he was just blinking. Without moving his eyelids. Maybe the lights got turned off. Without anyone reaching for the switch. Maybe…
When his vision comes back for the 8th time, the still image in front of him changes a bit.
Blurry, in front of him he can see a pair of socked feet.
He tries to look up, but his head is still a bit too heavy, so he just hums weakly to let the other know he's there.
After a moment, the feet are gone and are instead replaced by a kneeling pair of legs covered by the familiar black sweatpants. Ah, he's there. He's there… He's there…!
“Did ya get in a fight?” Miguel asks him and his voice is like a balm for his soul. He almost forgets about his raging headache and whatever the fuck is going on with his right shoulder.
“... Ngh…” He tries to shake his head but it's too much effort. “No…”
There's silence on the other end. He wonders if Miguel left. But then he feels him pinching his chin to raise his face for him.
He can finally see Miguel… How nice…
“What happened?”
He tries to open his mouth but he can't. He also feels that if he does, he'll throw up. So he instead keeps watching the blurry image of Miguel's face shift and flow in front of him, like a drop of black ink in water. He kind of misses his red hair. He wonders if he'll start dyeing it again at some point. They're already pretty much off the radar but Miguel wants to stay careful. David doesn't mind. He's happy just staying by his side.
He wonders what face Miguel is making at the lack of an answer. It's too blurry for him to decipher.
Is he upset? Disappointed? Annoyed?
Don't be angry… Don't hate me… Don't throw me away…
“... M…” He forces his vocal cords to tremble, a sloppy, barely audible sound escaping his throat. Slowly, slowly… “Mi… guel…”
“Yeah,” Miguel says.
“... Work…” he slurs out, his lips barely parting. “... Done…”
Once more, he's met with silence.
Don't be mad… Don't… Don't hate-
“Mhm,” Miguel finally says. His other hand ends up on David's head while the other still helps him keep it up. He strokes his hair gently. “Good boy.”
David's vision blurs even more, the pressure behind his eyes growing significantly as something wet and hot trickles down his cheeks.
And then, everything goes black again.
“Ngh…” he groans as he begins to come to.
He doesn't dare to open his eyes yet, knowing fully well the sudden onslaught of light is sure to give him another killer headache. He remains down with his eyes closed for a minute or two more. Only when his body wakes up some more and he attempts to shift does he remember the piercing pain in his shoulder.
He hisses and finally opens his eyes.
“You're up.”
He looks up at the voice. It sounds much closer now than it did earlier.
As he looks around, he realizes he's lying on the couch. Why was he sleeping…? Confusion starts settling in when he confirms it's still dark out. Wasn't he at work…?
All he remembers is… Going upstairs, almost tripping on the last step, his hand slipping off the doorknob 3 times before managing to twist it, coming home, coming home to Miguel, coming home, home, home, home…
That's where it ends. He must have passed out at the entrance. But he's on the couch… Did Miguel carry him here…?
It makes him a little happy.
He attempts to sit up, but as soon as he does, his head starts spinning again. Not as badly as before but still.
Miguel glances at him from across the coffee table, sitting in the armchair with his laptop, before resuming his work.
“... How long…?” he mumbles.
“About 3 hours,” Miguel answers without looking up from the screen.
He sighs, finally gathering enough strength to sit up. He puts his left hand on his forehead to try and ground himself as the whole world seemingly shifts.
“Go clean up. You're gettin’ blood on the cushions.”
“... Yeah, sorry,” he says, already trying to get to his feet and struggling not to eat shit right there.
He makes his way to the bathroom on wobbly feet.
When there, he leans against the sink using only his left hand and without even as much as thinking about it, his body forces him to gag and heave.
Nothing comes out of his stomach, but he coughs out a significant amount of blood and spit.
His throat burns like a bitch from the stomach acid now coating it completely. His ribs feel sore every time he coughs as if there are dark bruises all over his torso. There probably are. And his fucking shoulder, fuck, he's no longer sure it's even still attached to him because all he can feel is piercing pain radiating into almost electric shock over his entire right half of the body.
He continues to dry heave into the sink for what feels like hours before his body decides it's enough.
As he struggles to catch his breath, he looks up at himself in the mirror.
It certainly doesn't look as bad as it feels. He's got a cut on his temple so bright in color he doesn't even need to touch it to know it's still wet. At least it's not leaking - there's enough dried blood all over the right side of his face already. The wound reaches his forehead too but hopefully, the scar left after that will be fully covered by his bangs. And his chin is littered with bloody scratches as well - it's already beginning to bruise around them, his skin turning dirty hues of blue and purple.
Man, those weren't beautiful at all. He'd make those so much prettier if it were him.
He reaches for the cabinet above and takes the first aid kit out, letting it fall into the sink as it turns out a bit heavier than he remembers. Almost there. Just…
He struggles with the kit for a minute.
Then three.
Then five more.
But he can't open it with one hand. He can't pull the lid open without holding the kit with his other hand.
But his right arm is…
“You're hopeless.”
He jumps at the sudden voice, turning around to see Miguel leaning on the doorframe.
“... Since when-”
“Since you tried to puke your guts out,” he interrupts before approaching David. “ Siéntate .” He points to the bathtub and grabs the kit, opening it effortlessly.
David doesn't even hesitate as he sits on the edge of the bathtub and waits patiently.
Miguel gets closer to him (so close, so close, so close…!) and pours alcohol onto the cotton pad.
He presses it against the cut on his temple and David's nails make a loud scratching noise as he claws at the bathtub. His vision turns white momentarily. But for only a second.
He can see Miguel again after a moment so he's okay.
It hurts so good when it's Miguel.
“Turn your head.”
He does as told, giving Miguel better access to the cut. He's a little sad he can't see Miguel's face clearly anymore.
“What happened?” Miguel asks, diligently cleaning the wound.
“... There were cops,” he seethes through his teeth, attempting (and failing) to keep his voice stable despite the scorching pain.
“Cops?” Miguel pulls the cotton pad away in confusion. He throws it to the side. It's completely red. “They said they'd take care of them.”
“Someone snitched,” David says, bracing for the fresh pad to touch his cut. “There were 5.”
“They saw you?”
“Not my face,” he says. “Had my hood up.”
“And what's all this?” Miguel gestures to David's roughed-up body. “You fought them? Killed them?”
“No…!” he raises his voice and groans as Miguel's movements become rougher. He wordlessly apologizes and brings his voice down. “No, I… I don't cause trouble…”
“Good.”
“I got the money and ran. They were nothing. Not even close to catchin’ up with me.”
Miguel throws away another bloody cotton pad before reaching for the suture needle and thread.
“But…” he murmurs. “My pants caught on the fence. Fell 15 feet.”
“Hit your head?”
“Mhm. And dislocated my shoulder.” He bites his lip as the needle repeatedly pierces his skin, but it's nothing unbearable. He's pretty used to it already. And Miguel's stitches somehow hurt a bit less than his own. It must be because he's Miguel.
“Concussion?” Miguel asks, his tone as calm as if he's just asking for a normal-ass job report. Well, he is.
“Maybe.”
“Need to see the doctor?”
He winces at the idea. “ No .”
There are many unimaginable things he'd rather do than see the doctor. Or rather, that weird stoner dude from down the street with a forged medical license. The last time he did his stitches David had to remove them and put them on again himself with how shitty they were.
“I'll be fine.”
With the stitches intact, Miguel turns around for a moment to grab a clean washing cloth and put it under the faucet. David watches patiently as he does so.
Miguel then presses the wet cloth to David's temple. It stings as he runs over the stitched wound. But it feels nice when he washes off the dry blood on the side of his face. And then stings again when he rubs the fabric over his chin.
Not like he cares about any of that though. All he can focus on is Miguel.
His face so close to his own that he can feel his breath. He can still smell it. Black coffee he had earlier. He wants to taste it so bad he's beginning to salivate.
His icy eyes staring intently at the scratches the cloth goes over. The circles under his eyes seem darker than usual. David will need to work harder so Miguel can sleep better. He wants to put his lips to his eyelids as he falls asleep in his arms.
His hands cupping his face only through the thin fabric of the washing cloth. Even like that, he can feel how warm they are. They're always warm. Even when Miguel gets out of his ice-cold shower. He wants to raise his own hand and hold it.
His lips covered in small cuts caused by the dry air. He wants to… Fuck, he wants to sink his teeth in him so bad…! He wants to feel his warmth, bite his lips, taste his blood…! He wants all of… No, he needs him… He needs all of him, all of Miguel, all of…!
“Stop starin’,” Miguel says, successfully pulling David out of his train of thought.
“Sorry,” he says half-heartedly as he looks away like he was told to.
At that moment, Miguel pulls away and throws the bloody cloth into the sink.
David looks up at him expectedly.
“Lie down on the bed,” Miguel orders as he washes the residue of alcohol and David's blood off his hands. “I'll pop your shoulder.”
David almost responds that he can do it himself. Almost. But he stops himself.
Because he'd never forgive himself if he refused this rare favor from Miguel.
Just a few minutes more of his attention. His touch. His affecti
No, he can't think that. Miguel would be angry if he knew.
So he obediently gets to his feet and trails to Miguel's room, impatiently awaiting the sound of running water to cease.