Work Text:
The peeling linoleum of Peach Creek Clinic smells like antiseptic and bubblegum-flavored mouthwash. Kevin's palms leave damp prints on the vinyl chair arms, his usual swagger replaced by rigid shoulders. Across from him, Edd adjusts his glasses—one lens is smudged from when Kevin grabbed his wrist in the parking lot.
"You're exhibiting textbook trypanophobia," Edd murmurs. His backpack spills gauze packets and a stress ball shaped like a mitochondrion. "Statistically, the—"
"Shut up, Double Dork." Kevin's sneakers scuff the floor.
His gaze locks onto the nurse's station where a syringe winks under fluorescent lights. Edd unzips a side pocket.
"I anticipated cortisol spikes." He produces a Walkman, the cassette inside labeled *Kevin's Shit* in Rolf's messy handwriting. Static hisses as the opening chords of "Kickstart My Heart" blare through foam headphones.
Kevin's knuckles whiten. "I ain't—"
The needle flashes. Edd's thumb finds the space between Kevin's trapezius muscles, pressing firm circles like he'd studied in his mother's physiotherapy manuals.
Kevin's breath hitches—not from the pinch of inoculation, but from Edd's lips brushing his ear as he whispers, "Bravery manifests in stillness."
Later, Kevin will blame the adrenaline for how his fingers linger when Edd hands back his leather jacket. For now, he just counts Edd's freckles instead of ceiling tiles.