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“Yeah, that’s right, you bastards! You better run!”
For a moment, Paul could pretend he had just watched a real fight. The candy on the ground sparkled like broken glass, and the three retreating shadows could have been random muggers, instead of two boys who sat behind him in Algebra and one who never raised his hand in Social Studies.
Then, Patryk turned his head so the glow of the street light caught on the blood on his cheek, and Paul had to remind himself again that it had been real, and that Patryk really was screaming into the emptier neighborhood street.
“I never want to see any of you again! If you come back here I’ll—”
“Shut up!”
Patryk lost his footing as he spun around, one ankle locking behind the other so that his arms had to spin to keep him upright, and he stumbled as he regained his balance. His teeth were gritted, and the blood on his face was mixed with tears.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Paul,” he said. His hands were still curled into fists, like he had held them so tight they had gotten stuck that way, and his body was wrought with tremors. “I’ll say whatever I want, because they’re assholes and they deserve to hear it.” He raised his voice. “And I’m never going to stop reminding them what kinds of shit stains they really are, mother fucking sons of bitches, I’m gonna—”
“Actually shut up.” Paul stood up and looked around. Besides jack-o-lanterns, it seemed that no one had watched the fight. There were no curious faces peering out from behind curtains, or concerned neighbors walking out with a phone in hand to call their parents.
“We can’t have anyone making a big deal over this,” he said. “So, if you stop screaming, then maybe no one else will find out and we can say you fell and hurt yourself. Okay?”
Patryk’s shoulders tensed for a moment before they relaxed, his fingers drooping down by his sides. That was the only thing about his appearance that changed. The tears continued to flow down, and the shaking seemed to get worse as his body took on a stature more like that of a wet noodle. That was the point when Paul stepped forward and hugged him.
He whispered small assurances that continued as they walked down the empty roads, back to Paul’s house, where no one would be waiting for them. It took them twenty minutes to make a trip that any other night they would have managed in ten, because Patryk discovered he could put little weight on his left leg and needed Paul’s shoulder for support. Paul did his best to fill the extra time with every distraction he could think of, from movies they should go to see some time to the latest story of his annoying health teacher. He even pulled a couple chuckles out of Patryk, which sounded no less beautiful than usual, even coming from his battered body.
When they arrived at home, Paul took Patryk straight to the bathroom, where he started gathering first aid supplies while Patryk sat on the edge of the bathtub and tried not to look in the mirror. Paul had experience patching up Tord after fist fights, so he knew what he was doing as he pulled out the antiseptic and bandages. This time was different only in that he had to remind himself not to cry as he worked.
He started by pulling Patryk’s shirt up over his head to assess the damage. His elbows were badly scraped after he had fallen on them, and the knuckles of his right hand were bleeding, leaving thick smears whenever he brushed it against anything. He had a gash on his left cheek from the blow that had made Paul cry out when it hit, but it was shallow, and Paul suspected it would be small once he had wiped the blood away. That seemed to be the extent of his open wounds, the rest of it appearing as still-forming bruises that peppered his torso, as well as some swelling around his left eye.
Tord had suffered worse. Paul knew he could handle this.
He handed a towel to Patryk to press over his knuckles while he attended to the rest of it, washing out each cut before applying a topical antiseptic and then covering it with a bandage. On Patryk’s elbows, he put down a nonstick bandage and then wrapped it with gauze so that it squeezed the arm, and then taped it in place. His assumption about the cut on Patryk’s face proved correct, and once it was clean he was able to apply a regular self-adhesive bandaid, a clear one since none of his cute bandaids were quite big enough.
Patryk’s hand was the most time-consuming part of the process, not because the bleeding was bad but because Paul insisted on cleaning and bandaging every scrape, even after Patryk claimed it would be fine to leave them be. He soon gave up and let Paul have his way, decorating his fingers with cute animals and cartoon characters as he searched through his collection of bandaids to find the perfect ones. Patryk laughed as he watched Paul make his choices, and Paul knew he was doing his job right as the tension eased and Patryk started to smile again.
When he was finished, Patryk reached for his shirt, but Paul stopped his hand before he could reach it. The shirt, part of the pirate costume they had been planning since August, was dirty, bloody, and torn, several of the buttons having disappeared into the gutter and the left sleeve now holding on by a few threads.
“Can I throw it out?” Paul asked, but Patryk shook his head.
“No, let’s not. I’ve mended my clothes in the past, I might be able to save this.”
Paul knew that it was impossible, but he did not push the issue. Instead, he left the bathroom, and a few minutes later returned, changed into a t-shirt, with another of his shirts for Patryk to slip on. It was large on him and hung on his narrower frame, but Paul thought the soft gray material looked just perfect. Patryk said nothing beyond a small thank you, but he looked down at it and bit his lip as he smiled, and Paul knew that he agreed.
Paul offered his hand to help Patryk stand, then took the other when Patryk wobbled on his way up. He held him there until he was steady, then continued to hold him a moment longer, feeling with his fingers along the harsh ridges of the bandaids.
“So, you know, it’s not that late yet,” Paul said. “Do you want to watch a movie together?”
“Sure. Yeah.” Patryk squeezed his unbandaged hand. “Let’s do that.”
Paul, still holding one hand, led the way to the living room, where he helped him get settled and starting tossing blankets on him until Patryk laughed and kicked off all but one, a red knitted blanket that he had always thought smelled like Paul. He wrapped himself tight in it, only breaking out once to accept the Xbox controller as it was handed to him.
“You can go ahead and pick something from Netflix,” he said. “I’m fine with anything, so just feel free to choose whatever you want.”
He left as Patryk started his search and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a plastic bowl and a bag of popcorn. He put it in the microwave and, following the instructions on the bag, set it for two minutes, watching as the paper started to puff up and shake with the force of the exploding kernels. When it was done, he pulled it straight out, taking care to avoid the hot steam rising from one side, and emptied it into the bowl, helping himself to a couple pieces before he picked it up and started to carry it back to the couch. Before he got there, though, he made a detour, walking by the front door to pick up their bowl of trick-or-treater candy. His parents were not the type to hand out full-size anything, but the quantity and assortment still left over was enough to make up for everything that had been thrown onto the ground.
At last he returned to the living room, bowls in hand. The TV screen was black, but the bar at the bottom showed the name of the film Patryk had picked.
“Nightmare Before Christmas?” Paul said, glancing down to Patryk, still wrapped in his blanket. He pulled it off his shoulders and held it up, giving Paul a chance to climb in and cuddle next to him before he dropped it on their laps.
“Yeah, I’ve never seen it before, but everybody says it’s really good,” he said, hitting a button on the controller to make it start playing.
Paul handed him the candy bowl, holding onto the popcorn himself, and Patryk reached in and grabbed a chocolate bar, crinkling the wrapper as he pulled it open.
“It is, definitely,” Paul said, reaching over to grab some chocolate for himself. He might have said Patryk could pick anything, but in reality, he was grateful that he had not gone for a horror, knowing that he would have yelped several times throughout and probably buried his head under the blanket by the end of it.
The movie then started in earnest, and they both fell silent as they watched, save for the occasional quip on the music or storyline. Paul knew what to expect as the movie went along, but he still appreciated the animation a great deal, and a couple times even asking Patryk to rewind just to watch something again. As the film went on, though, their comments became less and less frequent, and it was not until he felt a heavy weight on his shoulder that he realized Patryk had fallen asleep.
He looked down. Patryk’s eye was swollen, the bandage was dotted red, and Paul suspected that his elbows would look similar when he checked them in the morning. There was no doubt he would be sore for a few days, at least. In this moment, though, he looked comfortable and relaxed, cheek pressed against Paul’s shoulder and mouth open, just a bit. When Paul looked down, he mumbled something in his sleep and wiggled closer, so that there was almost no empty spaces left between them. He sighed in contentment, and Paul thought his heart might melt in all of its affection.
He leaned down and gently kissed the top of Patryk’s head, letting himself sit there for a moment as he breathed in the scent of Patryk's hair. He smelled of something wonderful, of sweet autumn breezes and well-worn books, and Paul wished that he could wrap himself in it and sit in this happiness for the rest of his life. But, he could settle for this one moment, feeling the warmth of Patryk’s body sitting so close to his own and knowing that they would both be safe come morning.
“I love you,” he whispered, and as he turned back up to watch the movie, he missed the small smile that appeared on Patryk’s face before it drifted away, back into sleep.