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Today was a bad day. One of the worst days he's had in a really long while. It wasn't uncommon for Keats to feel miserable or experience an all too familiar gash of pain up his leg and into his spine whenever he exerted himself or even if he turned the wrong way, but then there were times where it just throbbed. Never ending tension in his muscles pushing against the bone in his lower calf all twisted and gnarled from its improper healing. He thought about getting it surgically fixed, but knew it would be a tough break. For one, he didn't have the funds. All of those he spent on keeping Herman alive -- the robot wasn't cheap after all. And two, Keats was a known fugitive in the database across most of the states. Once it was discovered he was actively going against his platoon, working with the robots and trying to defend them, it was all over. He was a man of treason. It's impossible enough to buy groceries let alone convince a hospital worker to mend his broken bones without finding out who he was.
He was responsible for his own life now. Illnesses, wounds, infections, all of it he had to either work out with over-the-counter drugs or find ways to sneak antibiotics into his possession. It was definitely a dangerous feat. He walked on a thin sheet of ice every time he popped a pill from a random stranger off the streets or lived through an almost 103 degree fever, unable to move, just because he didn't have any Tylenol on him at the time, and Herman obviously couldn't go get any. It was a struggle. But Keats survived. He always did. He was a man of his motto. Make money and keep running. It was his only way of survival.
It didn't mean there weren't moments where he ended up begging any God or angelic being out among the heavens to bless him a healthy dose of opioids during his downright disturbing episodes of earth shattering pain. That any thing up there would make it all go away. He wasn't a religious man. Never was, even if his family promoted crosses in his face like he was the devil itself. But he be damned if there weren't times he laid crawled up on the floor, bawling his eyes out as his guts tore to shreds from the inside, pleading for the universe to show mercy to his already battered frame. He wasn't alone though.
Herman acted as his angel in times of need.
He was a God in disguise. A beautiful robotic god that always, always, lay at his side.
Herman was always there if Keats got sick, holding his hair up and rubbing a warm hand across his back, reassurances mumbled just out of distance from the vomit spewing; he was always there when Keats got injured from a scav attack or his own stupidity, tending to bloodied scratches that ran deep into his fragile pale skin or ever so gently soothing over bruises with a cold, dare Keats say, loving touch; he was always there to bring a bedridden Keats food, medicine, water, more blankets (or even opting to turn on his heaters and snuggle up close to run those chills out of sight), wet icy rags for a feverish forehead, whatever it took. He was always there. No jokes, no comments, just keeping his human well and healthy.
And he was there when Keats was currently doubled over onto a desk, dog tags clinking against the wood, face wrinkled up in a show of raw emotion as beads of strained sweat slicked down his brow. He ground his teeth together and his hands held on for dear life in an attempt to stay off his red-hot calf that burned endlessly. Any small movement sent bolts of lightning striking into his whole nervous system. It was of no use. Rarely anything could calm the beast tearing its hellfire teeth into his flesh besides a strong, very strong, handful of pills and a very long rest.
Keats hissed, pressing his forehead into the desk now. Swears belted out of his chest every second it seemed. Then he felt cool steel brush against his jacket and heard his favorite voice lean down to say its sweet nothings into his ear. "Hey, you okay? Is your leg giving you troubles again?" They weren't really sweet nothings. Keats would take anything though.
He sniffled, wiping his wet face against his sleeve to glance up toward a pair of worried yellow lights flickering in the dim luminosity of their bunker. Keats tried to shrug it off no matter how hard he was visibly shaking and quite literally on the verge of tears if he wasn't already crying. "Ah, a-a little. Nothing I can't handle though, you know?"
Keats tried to adjust his position and ended up with daggers in his knee, his pelvis and everywhere else for good measure. He almost fell onto the ground in shock if it weren't for the desk keeping his balance steady. A sudden gasp was ripped out of his throat. A gasp so sharp it startled Herman's arms outward, entangling his metal fingers into Keats' shirt and jacket in the blink of an eye. His own optics shone more concern than before seeing Keats stagger, all tensed up and trembling like a tree clinging by the thread of its root in a hurricane. His jaw and bottom lip wobbled, fresh globs of hot tears taking their heed across his face.
"Keats.." Herman tried to pull Keats over into his arms so the man could get off his legs entirely. "Easy, easy. C'mere, let's get you to the bed," he muttered, tenderly working around. It only made his worries heighten when a whimper fell free followed by another pained inhale. "Oh, Keats..."
Keats sobbed. He could hold himself together relatively well in most situations that required an emotional response, but this kind of torment made every last bit of strength he had dissipate. "Fuck, Herm, this is one of the worst-" he choked out, voice shattering around the edges.
"I know. I know.. I've got you, okay? I'm here." Herman's voice was soft as a feather, brushing honeyed words of encouragement across Keats' weak points. At this stage, Herman decided to quit beating around the bush and hoist Keats into his arms bridal style, cautious of the bad leg dangling in his grasp. "I've got you." The sudden pull off the floor was relieving but also painful. It had Keats groaning through gritted teeth again, doing his hardest to keep locked around Herman.
Herman brought his partner over to a nearby bed that made up the overall living space of the two's underground hideaway. It was a sorry excuse for a bed thanks to it not even housing a mattress and instead simply a supportive frame, one pillow and an old quilt. Herman swore at Keats to get a proper one to stop his complaints over his bad back, but he had his secret hopes for wanting one also to theoretically help out Keats' leg or even something big enough where Herman could encircle and comfort Keats in the dead of night that didn't include standing over his weary body for hours on end. It was annoying to watch Keats whine and all he could offer was a measly shoulder rub.
Once Keats was situated onto the frame, Herman got to work. This wasn't the first time he's done this nor would it be the last. The only method they found that worked relatively well was feeding Keats a healthy helping of painkillers, icing the leg, and giving the area a gentle massage to loosen up any tight or sore muscles thanks to inflammation or other stress from the bone aggravating the surrounding tissue. He slipped off Keats' boots to provide a bit more comfort before heading over to their fridge, grabbing an ice pack, a water bottle, and a towel thrown nearby, and then to their self-proclaimed medicine cabinet (it was a tub that sat in the middle of the floor full of god knows what) for the unlabeled, but surely life saving pills, to reduce Keats' agony.
As he went back to the man still mentally writhing because moving was a death sentence at the moment, a deep pixelated frown filled up the black of Herman's face. Keats laid there, sucking in tight shuddering breaths, eyes screwed shut, every part of his figure rigid like he was a corpse in its later stages of decomposition. The glitter on his face only made Herman's metaphorical heart hurt more. With a swift hand, he wrapped the ice pack in a towel and rested it on the slight jut of Keat's leg where the misalignment bore through. Then, while stroking a careful thumb into Keats' collarbone, trying to gain his attention, he unscrewed the pill bottle and shook out a couple of small white capsules. "I'm going to give you some painkillers now, okay? Don't move, let me handle things."
That being said, Herman supported Keat's head enough so he wouldn't choke, and let the tip of the water bottle Herman grabbed press into his drying, cracked lips before pouring about a small mouthful of the liquid in. "Hold that," he instructed, now taking the pills between his fingers. It was a slight struggle with how massive his hands were compared to the rest of his model, but he was able to slip each tablet between Keat's lips. "Okay, you can swallow now.." Keats obeyed. Herman laid his head back down.
Something twisted in Herman's wires the more he kept his eyes on Keats. Something real nasty. It snapped the cords keeping his electricity running and scrambled up his coding into pure nonsense. His coding kind of already was skewed thanks to the glaring fact it had gone against not only his objective as a regular run-of-the-mill construction bot in order to fight in the war, but also going against everything he was taught in said war so as to care for this unruly human always ending up in more trouble than he was worth.
The war.
Herman's lights flicked over to Keats' busted leg. That had happened because of the war. A bot, at least told by Keats, had broke it clean in half and left him for dead, sprawled across the dusty desert ground, bleeding and howling for help. Thank god it was Herman who heard or else he knew that damn human would've been dust -- crushed beneath the metal soles of another, less merciful bot. It was damning enough he became a traitor toward his own kind to save such a pitiful creature curled up and bawling their eyes out, crying out for a soul to take him away from the horrors of the battlefield. After learning enough about humans, he assumed Keats was crying out for a so-called spirit or God to do the job, not a 20-foot murder machine's hands to cradle him between joints and steel. But it was downright disgraceful that he decided to stay with Keats even after fixing his leg to the best of Herman's ability.
Herman couldn't properly handle a broken bone. He was a construction bot with huge dinky hands only meant to carry heavy materials, not work with the fragility of a human body. However, he had his strengths. One of those strengths being that he could build the equipment able to support Keats' leg until other soldiers found him. After scavenging around for a poor excuse of some bandages and supplies to build a splint to keep the leg stable, Herman waited for quite a while before the mysterious human he just happened to stumble upon and have the heart to save revitalize. Either that or until he was bombarded by other humans.
The former unfortunately came first. Because once Herman got a good look at Keats, it was all over -- his adorable scruffy patch of facial hair that needed a trim, dirt-soaked hair turning his blond locs into a near muddy brown, all those scrapes and splotches of dried blood littering the mess of his face (even at such a time, it brought an ache to Herman's nonexistent gut because a guy like him didn't have the right to live in a disgusting world roughing up his pretty face), his eyes filled with every ounce of fear his body held for a mere four foot bot standing near the rickety mattress he had been placed on. Oh, those eyes could make Herman's circuits overheat on the spot. They were big and blue and held a power to them Herman learned over the years were the gateway to this man's every emotion. Every lie. He assumed, now, the saying about eyes holding an individual's soul rang true.
Herman still wished, how he wished, he was ambushed by soldiers instead of getting to properly know and connect with Keats. There was no hope, there was no going back. Such dishevelment triggered a feeling deep in Herman's power core. A need. A need to fix and rebuild the broken man he discovered on a whim. Without it, he wouldn't be complete. It hurt seeing him so badly damaged. It wasn't right.
What possible explanation could he muster to give up such an interesting specimen otherwise? A man who betrayed all the tall tales recited about humans, every notion depicting them all as lazy, selfish beasts. It was spoon fed to his hard drive the day he was created. More so shoveled because he didn't have a choice but to believe all those dreaded characteristics of the enemies he was about to face. Yet here was Keats.
Sure, Keats fit some of those descriptors. He was gross and messy and had his stubborn tendencies, but the moment Herman found him, he was no more than a terrified man. A man Herman grew to learn had the kindest hands of any human he'd ever encountered. Intelligent, resourceful, resilient, gentle, the complete opposite of those stories told. No matter how much his code screamed at him to leave Keats stranded out on the battlefield once he was patched up, after Herman's metaphorical job was complete, another piece fought desperately back to keep Keats within his grasp. He always found an excuse that Keats wasn't fully healed yet, that it was too dangerous and all his hard work would amount to nothing, that above everything else, there was truly a different feeling to this particular human because, by god, he had given Herman a name.
Herman originally had no more than a line of numbers to call his own like the rest of his kin due to the supposed trouble of naming each and every HRM model. In reality, they were simply shells to go inside of other shells at will. Therefore, what point stood to give them separate names. Separate identities. They were the pure epitome of lifeless metal beings designed for one purpose and one purpose only. Maybe it became another reason Herman gravitated so hard towards Keats because he was one of the first individuals to treat Herman as one of their own, to automatically make him more than what he was built to do.
It was funny, really. Keats came up with the name by mistaking the abbreviation of "HRM" on the back of Herman's head as "Herm", leading to the name's instant attachment to the bot's person. Stranger yet, Keats really seemed to have this craving to give Herman an actual name because when he had nothing to offer when asked, Keats' whole face creased into an almost worried look. Or was it anger? Dissatisfaction, perhaps. Whatever the case, it caused a skip to Herman's source. No robot had ever acted even close to the way Keats' did when he spouted off a bundle of numbers and letters to refer to him by. They probably could care else, were happy even that Herman hadn't gained a so-called human touch. The farther away they strayed, the better.
While Herman understood the connotations behind their grievances, he never could get his mind to conform to those same thoughts. The idea of another being, no matter what species, caring enough about this, frankly, enemy of theirs was incomprehensible to Herman. But delightful.
Thus, his selfishness grew. He became more human than bot. He kept Keats to himself and they've been on the run ever since.
Herman returned to the present. He recorded mentally the medicine seemed to be taking effect as Keats had settled down a little, as well as the ice pack relieving any lingering discomfort. Of course though, his face was still wrapped in a pitying set of pain. Herman tried to snap himself out of this strange mindset he was suddenly finding himself in by being transported between now, then, and the start of that stupid broken leg. His hand fell down to Keats' cheek and began to effortlessly, with barely enough energy akin to a feather, stroke the area. Near instantaneously, Keats visibly relaxed, a sigh drawing across his lips. His poor cheeks still had a dried up film of tears on them, barely glistening in the light. Herman despised it when Keats cried. It made every bolt in his body tighten on instinct.
Furthering the gentle nature, he combed fingers through the roughed up facial hair of the man. Light and a little dirty, but gorgeous. Two digits felt around the rougher stubble of his beard and then back up to his softer mustache, taking it in between metal and rubbing it to get a good feel of the hair. Herman didn't register touch in the same way humans did, he imagined. Things didn't feel soft, but he understood what it felt like in comparison to another item. As such, he knew with undeniable certainty, Keats' mustache was soft. Fluffy. A feeling Herman loved to chase as often as he could. It was definitely growing a bit awkward by how long he was toying with it though because soon enough, Herman noticed eyes on his personal. If it were possible, he might grow inclined to blush.
But he couldn't stop himself. Not yet. Instead, his hand trailed up to those sparkling blue eyes, albeit their glow at the moment appeared dimmer than usual. The pad of his thumb rested against a pair of indented crows feet. The smallest of wrinkles made Herman swoon. No matter what situation they were in, he learned whenever Keats was actually angry because the crease of this man's warmest show of his age could tell completely opposite stories in regard of his emotions. Faint affection radiated off a single glance no matter how otherwise twisted his expression became (it always seemed he shared this sentiment for Herman and Herman alone) while aggression easily seeped back into them during moments of actual spite. Scavs, a shitty buyer, they all gained the right to his true frustration and not any of his delicate beauty that lay underneath for certain moments. For certain people. Here, they were strained from his soreness, but still refused to hold back their loving spark for the bot at their side.
Despite this fact, Herman couldn't resist frowning after witnessing another least favorite part of his. Huge bags under his eyes from the day's prior work pressed imprints into Keats' already exhausted exterior. Honestly, there was not a single flaw on Keats Herman could actually dislike. Even the bags gave his face character. A sense of humanity. However, he knew their implications. Not to mention, they were bolder today.
Like clockwork, Herman ended up being pulled back to the past because those same damn eyes looked all too familiar to the eyes Keats held as a staff sergeant. The sorriest he's ever witnessed on a human. It was like he barely blinked let alone caught a wink of sleep.
So shaken. So much trauma locked behind a pair of retinas. It wasn't even the most dreadful part. What really shook Herman, and still brings a bit of twisting in his wires to this day to remember, is how skinny Keats used to be back in the war. Herman had only ever seen it once but once was more than plenty. While helping Keats out of his clothes to change into something less covered in remnants of grime and gore, it was hard not only to witness a number of terrible slashes embedded deep into his whole torso, now scars with an excessive amount of tissue, but the glaring sight of his ribs pushing uncomfortably through skin. Herman could see all the divots and sunken flesh, the man's vertebrae ever so slightly casting shadows on his back when he bent over, cheekbones clear as day the closer Herman observed. At the time, he wasn't too keen on human anatomy, but he knew deep down, it was wrong. Plain wrong for a person to look like Keats did.
His change in body type happened to be one of those traits in life visibly showing Keats' growth away from the war, his ability to move on and become something more. Over the years, he's beautifully filled out (perhaps in a manner that wasn't exactly the proper way of going about it due to his incessant junk food consumption, although Herman could care less), every bit of bone covered with extra layers of fat and muscle until you had to really dig in deep to make out their definition. It became Herman's everlasting joy to snag his arms around Keats from behind and feel it for himself on occasion. From the man's point of view, it was another mischievous act, and to an extent that much was true, but the other half of Herman, delighted, took his chance to rest his hands on Keats' plush stomach and give it the smallest of squeezes in hopes it would be mistaken for an accident or simply negligible. It was enough for Herman though. It was enough to ground him, to acknowledge Keats was safe. That he was healthy. He wasn't surviving on scraps any longer but instead got a good meal every night, keeping him well-fed and soft for years to come.
Another favorite characteristic of Herman's had to be Keats' long fluffy blond hair that reached down to his shoulders. Obviously this would never be allowed once being drafted as a member of the military. As required, it would be shaven and cut till its beauty was nothing more but bits of dirty yellow strewn across a floor. Short hair was never a good look for Keats. It was clear how unhappy the idea made him even if his hair wasn't as long as it is now before he joined. He'd cut it sometimes if it grew the tiniest bit too lengthy, but other than that, it stayed wonderfully curved around his face, shrouding his features in an even more handsome light if it were possible.
These two features separated present-day Keats from his past version. Either version Herman loved, but he much preferred one that didn't resemble a husk of a man withering away into nothingness.
Herman carded his fingers through Keats' hair now, savoring it. Keats responded by leaning into the touch, a silent plead for more. For Herman to never, ever quit.
He never would, but he probably should stop and move down to Keats' leg to massage out any affected muscles from today's flare up. Unfortunately, the moment he thought about that damned injury again, a deep frightful regret buried itself into his circuity. If he had a stomach, it would be swarming with gnawing butterflies. It was sickening. Maddening. Guilt feverishly tangling up every bit of his person into one big ball of cords and wires that would take years to delve through and solve. A fire hazard of way too many power sources all plugged into a variety of extension cords. It choked Herman. His gentle strokes halted, alerting Keats to glance upward at the uncomfortable mix of pixelated expressions flashing across Herman's screen.
Did he really make the right choice all those years back?
Keats' leg could've been properly cared for if Herman hadn't let his selfish desires overtake him; if he had just left Keats with other humans to figure out the problem. He understood now that surgery was the best option for broken adult bones in order to keep it stable while it heals. A splint would help, but it proved doubtful to hold anything in place. That truth became a tidal wave in both of their faces after discovering the misaligned healing in a few months time.
If Herman had given up Keats, his chronic pain would be nonexistent. He would never even have to think about it let alone face it head on for about three years straight.
If Herman just did what was right...
"Hey," a voice spoke, hoarse and quiet. Herman blinked and turned to face a very concerned Keats. "What's with that look?"
"What?" Herman hadn't realized it, but his entire set of facial features were glitching up and going in and out of focus, yellow pixels splotched across areas they shouldn't be. Keats learned, one way or another, this was a manner of how robots were able to cry, as close to crying as someone in Herman's build could muster anyway.
"You're upset about something." Keats' eyebrows creased. He touched a few fingertips to where Herman's cheek would lie.
"Oh, it's really nothing, Keats." Herman was now aware of the subtle morphing of his expression and opted to physically force it back to a neutral tone. "I'm just thinking."
"About what? Your screen only goes haywire when it's something a bit more serious.. Ah, shit, is my leg making you upset man? It's nothing to worry about, I already feel better. Sorta.. but hey, you know I'll be fine! I'll be just peachy tomorrow! Ready to go out into the EX and strangle a bunch of scavs and everything!"
Herman's line of pixels turned downward. The leg was the problem, but definitely not aligning with Keats' idea. "No, it's not that. I mean, yeah, I.. I hate this, but it's.. it's more.." There was no resisting the tender rub against his screen. It was so tingly and comforting, how could he not speak up. "What if we made the wrong choice?"
"The wrong choice? What do you mean?"
"Back then. When we first met. I can't help but think about it every time your leg gives you troubles. I think, maybe, things would've been better if I had given you back to your platoon or at least other humans. That way, your leg could've received actual treatment and healed." Herman's head bowed, a rare case of shame flickering across his optics. "It was selfish of me to-to.. keep you."
Keats grinned, disbelief melding into his smile. "Selfish?!" He snorted. A hand ran down his face. "What the actual hell are you going on about? You seriously regret us ever meeting or something?" Despite the smile, a bit of hurt wavered. That hurt felt sour in Herman's stomach.
"Wh- No! That's not what I was saying. God, no. I never could regret us meeting. Without me, your sorry ass would be dead."
"Damn right.." Keats muttered. "Then what is this?"
"It's what I just said idiot. I regret us running away together. If you had gone back with your own kind, your leg wouldn't be like this. You wouldn't be suffering daily. This-" Herman felt his display glitch again. "This almost feels like my fault..?" he said it in a questioning tone, not fully sure about his own admission. That line however had Keats' hand slip from Herman's face and his grin die out.
"Herm.. For fuck's sake, this is not your fault. How could you even possibly think that?"
"Because I was selfish. I don't care that you're laughing at it, I was, Keats! I-I knew I couldn't help you with your wounds, I didn't know shit about humans at the time. I should've let a medic take you, not whisked you away. If I had just-"
Herman startled as a warm firm grip grasped his servo. It squeezed. Tightly. Tight enough that it would most likely hurt Keats more than hurt Herman above all else. "Stop it. Don't you dare say that. You hear me, Herm?" He craned his neck to get a better view of the bot in front of him while not twisting his body around. "You're the least selfish bot I know that has ever roamed this godforsaken Earth. By far less selfish than half of my 'own kind'. Are you even-" Keats sucked in a breath through his nose.
"Herm, bud," the small chuckle in his throat refused to stay put as he started speaking again. He really shouldn't have let it loose, Herman was obviously going through something, but at the same time, from Keats' perspective, it was so utterly ridiculous. "What-.. What selfish person would take an enemy in because they were on the verge of death, clean and-and fix their wounds, feed them for god's sake, keep them away from danger the whole time they were resuscitating -- what selfish person does that Herm. Tell me."
Herman stuttered. "Well- It's different than that, I still made a wrong choice out of a right! I knew I wasn't equipped to help you and yet-"
"Yet you did it anyway. You did a pretty damn good job too. That builder's knowledge really came in handy surprisingly enough." He flashed a quick smirk.
Herman tried once more to make up excuses or reasons to justify his beliefs, but he came up short. Seeing him sputter, almost embarrassingly, was quite a good look in Keats' opinion. God, was it cute. And amusing.
"I don't regret a single thing about us meeting or us running away together, and you shouldn't either Herm." Keats brought Herman's hand up to his mouth to quiet the robot down for a moment, warm lips brushing just the tiniest bit against cold digits. If he had lungs, Herman's breath would've hitched.
There was a small pause in between. As Keats started up, his voice was hushed. "I gotta be honest, I don't think I'd be here today if it weren't for you. You're one of the best things to ever happen in my life. You know most of my background Herm, bunch of shitty people with a shit family that always let me down in the end. I fought in that damn war because it gave me a purpose in life, a reason that hopefully, maybe, if I put my own life on the line and worked myself down to the bone, I'd get a second chance with my family. But.." He scoffed, turning his head away. "I know I was just trying to find an excuse to get myself killed deep down. Nothing would change anyone's mind after all."
Herman's grip tightened all the same. The mere mention of Keats' thought process about going to fight tooth and nail for his country shook the robot to his very core.
"Think the drugs are making me sound super lovey dovey, tell me if I'm speaking literal gibberish, but you really changed my outlook Herm. On everything. Sure, my purpose in life is even more disappointing than it was beforehand, but who the fuck cares anymore? The thing that matters most is that you gave me a new reason to live, Herm. And to keep fucking living. My leg sucks, it really does, but there isn't anyone in this universe I'd want to stay with through all of the pain or trust to take care of it more than you. So shut the hell up with that nonsense."
Herman stayed quiet, shock riddling every single dot on his display. Keats wouldn't have..?
"Besides, if you had given me up, as you put it, I would've been a pile of dead meat. My leg would definitely be worse off." Keats patted Herman's arm.
"I never knew I meant so much to you," Herman ignored that last comment, his own voice box entirely too soft for comfort. The two were practically speaking in mumbled responses at this point, whispers mingling in the air.
"Of course you do, Herm. You make me smile, even if you play those stupid bass every time we get back home. I may yell at you sometimes, but.. you mean the world to me. Always have. Sorry I'm not good enough with this crap that you never realized." Herman shook his head.
"I just.. I just wish I could make this all go away. It pains me at a fundamental level to not have the ability to fix you."
"I'll be fine. I've survived through so much worse without you by my side. Things are easier now knowing you're around and I'll keep repeating myself until it gets through that thick glass skull of yours." Herman chuckled, a bittersweet product, earning Keats' to grin and laugh alongside him. It wasn't that funny, but they mutually were searching for some way to lighten the mood. Keats was simply glad to hear the delighted sound from his partner after such depressive talk.
"I'm really all you need? That's all it takes?"
"Who carries my ass around when I'm sore or just plain lazy? Who does all of.. this, no questions asked?" Keats gestured to the scene in front of them. "Although I have to admit, you're doing a bit of a pisspoor job right now buddy. I'm practically dying without your sweet sweet massage. But of course someone had to get distracted and rather twirl my amazing 'stache around their finger instead."
Herman felt his body heat up, but thankfully it wasn't enough to warrant his fans. God forbid Keats has another reason to tease the ever-loving shit out of him. "Psh, not with that attitude. If you treat me like this, I might just leave you to massage it on your own." Regardless of what he said, he was already walking over to the end of the bed, the usual mirth tugging at his lips.
Keats merely gasped, hand at his chest. "How dare you? For someone so strong and handsome, how could you let a weak pathetic human like myself work out all the kinks in my shitty leg?"
"Oh, so now you're the weak, pathetic one, hm?" Keats pouted, bottom lip jutting out with a pair of tooth-rotting puppy dog eyes. How was he so good at those..?
Herman merely rolled his eyes before removing the wrapped up ice pack from Keats' calf. His servos should be enough to cool down any excess swelling. After, his thumbs proceeded down the extent of tight muscle. Only a small uncomfortable grunt sounded, so he continued on, circles kneading into the strained ligaments and tendons abused by the twisted bone. Herman's learned every nook and cranny that Keats responded to best and would help sooth out any dreaded knots. As he went to his usual place to massage at though, the man jerked back, hissing.
"Ah! Not there not there!" he yelped.
Herman's hands shot away as if they had touched a hot stove instead. "Not a good spot for today?" Tiny pinpricks of tears were observed forming near the corners of Keats' eyes. Herman cursed himself internally for not being more careful. "I'm sorry." He maneuvered his fingers in a different area.
"Nah, man, don't worry about it. It happens." Keats sniffled, dragging the heel of his palm against one of his eyes.
"Well, I am sorry for bringing that bullshit up earlier then. You were right. It was stupid." Herman now worked on a spot that seemed to finally release the built up tension deep inside.
"Ah, I shouldn't have dogged on you so hard in the first place. I get where you're coming from, and I'd rather tell you straight up than have you set and boil yourself in those stupid thoughts. You know I meant everything I said, right?" A small smile, just a slight one, slipped past Herman's guard.
"I know. You mean the world to me, too. I told you, I don't regret saving you one bit. Never.." He could see virtually every inch of Keats melt into the bed.
"And hey, if this world ever goes back to normal, who knows.. I could finally get this fucker fixed."
"In the meantime, I'll be here. I always will, Keats."