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When Perry first noticed the bandages, he assumed Harry just had an accident.
He's clumsy sometimes, absent-minded. Perry's not surprised that's resulted in injuries from time to time.
Weeks go by. Some bandages disappear. New ones take their place.
Perry doesn’t say anything. Just files it away. Things have been stressful, Harry's been a little out of it. If it persists, he'll bring it up.
Then, one day, they're heading back from a job when Harry rolls down his window and lights a cigarette.
He's humming along to the music, watching the cars pass as he smokes. Occasionally pointing out bumper stickers or signs he sees.
"On your right," Harry says, "pink truck. Right next to us."
Perry glanced over just as Harry put out the cigarette.
Right on the back of his hand.
"I mean, who would willingly drive around in that? Looks like Barbie fucking puked all over—"
Perry swerved, pulling over and cutting Harry off. He flicked on his hazards and grabbed Harrys wrist. “Hey—” Harry starts, reflexive, confused. “What the hell—”
Perry turns Harry’s hand over.
There it is. Fresh. Already blooming red.
“You just put that out on yourself,” he says.
Harry follows his gaze, blinks. Actually blinks, like he’s seeing it for the first time. “…Did I?”
Perry’s jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Perry snaps—and then immediately reins it in, because Harry isn’t playing. That’s the problem. “You didn’t even notice.”
Harry's still staring at the forming blister. “Huh,” he murmurs. “Guess I didn’t.”
Perry lets go of his wrist, letting it fall onto the center console between them. “How long has this been happening?”
Harry shrugs. “…I dunno,” he mutters. “A while.”
“Jesus Christ."
Perry leans back in his seat and stares straight ahead at the road. He breathes in through his nose. Out through his mouth. Counts it. Keeps his hands on the wheel.
“You used yourself as an ashtray,” Perry cuts in. He turns his head now, looks at him properly. “You didn’t flinch. You didn’t swear. You didn’t even notice until I did.”
Harry’s mouth opens, closes. He looks down at his hand again, quieter now. “It doesn’t really… register sometimes.”
Perry exhales, slow, closing his eyes for a second before looking at Harry again. "Do you think that makes it any fucking better?"
"It's not like I'm trying to hurt myself," Harry shoots back. "I just—I get distracted. My brain goes somewhere else. And then, boom, burns."
"That doesn't fucking help your case," Perry mutters, rubbing his face. "You realize that, right?"
"I've had worse."
“I don’t care.” Perry’s voice hardens, just a notch. “This isn’t a—a goddamn contest, Harry! You're hurting yourself!”
"Yeah, I can see that." Harry sighed, slumping in his seat. "Relax. I'm fine."
Perry turns fully in his seat to face Harry properly. "Fine? Really? Well that's good. Your fucking hands are covered in burns, but at least you're fine."
"You're being a big dramatic—"
“You put a lit cigarette out on your hand,” Perry cuts in. "And you didn't even feel it. Just kept fucking talking like it was nothing."
"I didn't say it was nothing," Harry says. His voice lower now, careful. "I just said its not—" He falters, searching for the word. "It's not a thing."
Perry laughs once, sharp and humorless. "It is a thing, Harry, that's what I'm trying to fucking tell you."
Harry swallows, looking down at his hand. His thumb rubs the back of his burned hand, just under the new burn. "Can we just go home, Perry?"
Perry sighs and reaches for the glove compartment and pulls out a first-aid kit Harry didn’t even remember was there. “Give me your hand again first.”
Harry hesitates, them places his hand on the center console again. "Yeah, okay."