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"Why do I even put up with you?"
It was a rhetorical question, K knew, but he answered just the same, with a smug, "'Cause you love me."
"'Course I do." In the harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom attached to K's bedroom, K looked exceptionally pale, the dark circles under his eyes ink-black, leaning back against the sink like it was the last thing in the world holding him up. He hadn't looked so bad in ages. Proko was quick to drop his gaze back to K's hands, winding a roll of gauze around bruised, bloodied knuckles.
"You're the only one who does, y'know."
In lieu of a proper answer, Proko lifted K's still untreated left hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to bloodied knuckles.
"Half the time," K was saying, tangling the bandaged fingers of his opposite hand into Proko's hair, "I don't think anyone else even likes me."
"Swan likes you."
"Swan likes everyone."
It was true, and Proko set to wetting a cotton ball with peroxide, saying, "Skov kinda--"
"Skov tolerates me." That, too, was entirely true. "He's only around 'cause he wants to be with Swan."
Proko didn't even attempt to mention Jiang; He was nothing less than repulsed by Kavinsky, and they all knew it. Jiang only ran with the pack to stay close to Proko.
"You're the only one." There was something like desperation in K's voice, and Proko steadfastly refused to look up, wiping dried blood away from the other boy's knuckles as gently as he could manage. "My dream boy."
"Y'know they're wrong about you, right?"
Titling his head, quizzical, K asked, "Are they?"
"You do matter."
"Nah. I--"
"You do." It was rare to hear Proko sounding so determined. "You matter, Joey." The name was forbidden, but he pressed on just the same. "I wouldn't be here without you."
A scoff, and K reached out to part the unbuttoned collar of Proko's school shirt, tracing his fingers over the deep puncture scar beneath the other boy's left collarbone. It shouldn't have been there, really: It hadn't gotten the chance to scar over. Proko had died mere minutes after it had happened. K had replicated the wound as a scar simply as a reminder of how badly he had fucked up that night.
The touch of calloused fingertips to scarred skin had Proko shivering, and he leaned in to hide his face against K's shoulder. Against his neck, he heard K's voice, soft and somber, "If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have died in the first place."