Work Text:
Tick, tock. Tick, tock...
The monotonous sound of the clock on the wall filled the silence with a rhythm that felt almost mocking. Each second fell like a drop in a still lake, breaking the stillness with cruel precision. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. As if time itself was determined to remind Pau, over and over again, that Lamine still hadn’t arrived.
He’d been sitting on the couch for just over ten minutes… but to him, they felt like eternities. The weight of uncertainty was slow, relentless. It pressed against his chest with invisible, icy fingers.
Lamine should’ve been there by now. Twenty minutes, tops. But the door remained shut. Still. Silent.
His right leg bounced anxiously, causing the table in front of him to tremble ever so slightly. His eyes kept darting between the clock and the door, as if staring at it hard enough might force it open. As if impatience alone could summon him. But nothing happened.
11:15.
The minute hand stabbed into his mind like a needle. His stomach churned.
He sighed for what felt like the hundredth time—one of those sighs that doesn’t seek comfort, just a momentary surrender. Slowly, he got up from the couch, brushing off his pants as though time itself had clung to them. Everything in him screamed wait, but his heart couldn’t take another second.
He made his way to the kitchen. The floor creaked beneath his steps. He picked up the thermos from the counter and filled it with water. The sharp click of the switch whispered of routine. He leaned against the wall, watching the steam rise—soft and warm, in brutal contrast to the cold that had settled inside him.
But just as he reached for the tea tin in the cupboard, something stopped him.
A soft tap against his back. A familiar touch. A warm, firm chest pressing against him, and a hand—large, rough, familiar—reaching out before his, moving with slow reverence.
Pau’s heart stopped for a moment.
He turned abruptly. He already knew who it was. He’d known the moment he felt that warmth. But seeing him—that was something else entirely. It was like coming up for air after being underwater.
Lamine stood there. Right in front of him. His face bruised, lip split, a healing scratch crossing his cheek like a barely closed wound. And still, he was smiling. Or trying to. A tired, painful smile full of tenderness.
“Cucu… I’m okay,” he murmured, voice rough and quiet, like he was afraid even speaking might break something.
Pau didn’t reply. He cupped Lamine’s face in both hands, frantic and silent, turning it gently side to side, inspecting every bruise, every shadow of pain. His fingers trembled. His eyes glistened—not just with anger, but with fear, helplessness.
Without a word, he set the tea aside and grabbed Lamine’s wrist firmly. The younger boy didn’t resist. He knew Pau didn’t want explanations just yet. That in that moment, no words would reach past the screaming silence in his heart.
He led him through the living room, their footsteps echoing in the dense air. Pau stopped at a cabinet, opened it, and took out the first-aid kit like he’d done it a thousand times, like the sequence of care was etched into muscle memory.
Lamine watched in silence, throat tight. Pau moved with precision, almost mechanically. But his eyes… his eyes were shattered. Those green-blue eyes, always so full of light, were dim now. On the verge of breaking. And it was all because of him.
The younger clenched his jaw. Seeing Pau in pain tore at him. No excuse could make it right. Not when the face he loved most looked at him with fear and sorrow.
Then, suddenly, Lamine wrapped his arms around Pau’s waist and gently pulled him down to sit in his lap. Pau barely reacted. His movements were soft, but steady. He opened the kit, soaked a cotton pad in saline, and began to clean the wounds with careful, reverent touches.
Lamine stayed quiet. Just watched him. Watched the way Pau’s brows furrowed, the way he pressed his lips together every time he dabbed a wound. He looked at him and thought Pau had the light of the sky in his eyes and the fragility of a star in his hands. He was beautiful. And strong. Stronger than Lamine felt. Stronger than he deserved.
The sting of the saline made Lamine flinch slightly. He didn’t complain. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to hurt him more than he already had.
The silence was heavy, but not empty. It was full of their ragged breaths, the quiet drag of gauze over skin, the tremble in Pau’s hands.
When the last wound was cleaned, Pau started putting everything away slowly, his fingers moving carefully, like closing the kit might somehow also close the pain. But his eyes were still trembling.
“Cucu…” Lamine whispered, and that single word broke him.
Pau looked up, vulnerable and raw.
“Don’t think it’s your fault… I’m doing this because I want to.”
That was it.
Pau broke.
The tears came without warning, all at once, crashing through him. From the moment he imagined Lamine—bloodied, hurt, alone—because of him. From the fear that had wrapped itself around his throat like a noose.
Lamine sat up straight, instantly. He pulled him into a tight embrace, arms wrapped around him as if he could hold him together. He ran a hand over Pau’s back, whispering soft, useless, necessary things.
“Shhh… it’s okay, Cucu… I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Pau let himself be held. He buried his face in Lamine’s chest, soaking his shirt with silent, salty tears. His fingers clutched his back like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
When the crying finally faded, when only the shivers of leftover sobs remained, Pau pulled back just a little. He lifted his hands slowly and signed with trembling fingers:
“Lamine… don’t do it. I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”
Lamine shook his head. No hesitation. Then replied with his own hands, every movement full of promise:
“I’ll keep doing it. I promised you, Pau. I promised to protect you… and I won’t let you down. I won’t let anyone mock you again.”
Pau looked at him. His lips trembled. His eyes still glistened, glowing with a love too big for words. He wanted to tell him he loved him. That he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. That he needed him more than air. But no words came.
So he closed his eyes.
And pressed his forehead against Lamine’s.
They stayed like that, breathing the same air, sharing the same silence, with wounds still open between them. But they were together.
And, for a moment, that was enough.