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Caring remains unfamiliar, to Medkit. There is always a flicker of hesitation before he bends down to tend; always resisting an indescribable force to pull away. All sharp and rough on the edges, all taut and tense in his ministrations. Self-care is no exception.
And yet,
Medkit’s here, browsing through the aisles, pushing a shopping cart under the occasionally flickering lights of a grocery store—situated in an inconspicuous corner of Crossroads—accompanied by the least normal individual he had the misfortune to meet. Subspace watches him with a slight upward tilt of his head, maintaining that infuriating persona of superiority. He opens his mouth, clearly prepared to say something—mockery, insult, sarcasm. Yet he ultimately decides against it, Medkit assumes, judging by the immediate turning away of his head, lips curling downward, eye zeroing in on a tomato for much longer than natural.
It’s always been like this, when there’s only the two of them. A heavy silence hangs in the air, the distance between them both more pronounced, momentarily filled by the upbeat pop song that is coming from the speaker above them. It grates on Medkit's nerves, poking at him; its presence impossible to ignore. He attempts to call out to Subspace: back still facing him, opening his mouth and shutting it in hesitation before, eventually, something gets out of his throat. “Should I get onions?”
A beat passes by. “Why not,” Subspace replies, finally turning away from whatever he was staring at to examine their cart, which is currently empty, save for the single onion—that Medkit has just dropped in—that rests innocently within it. They’ve been here for half an hour. His eye narrow. “Do you even have a plan for tonight?”
Medkit hums, dropping another onion into the basket. “Apparently not.” He then moves on to the next aisle, stopping by to look at some broccoli, pointedly ignoring the eye roll Subspace gives him.
“Seriously,” Subspace huffs, “What’s the point of me being here? It’s such a waste of time.”
Medkit places a bundle of green onions into the basket. There is, indeed, no reason for Subspace to be here. Within the interim of Subspace freeloading on him, Medkit is made aware of his reliance on IV bags. And despite himself, he has taken it upon himself to adjust to Subspace’s needs. Medkit would rather not go as far as to say it was care, and especially anything that concerned him personally. It is just a rational decision, because despite it all, he does not want Subspace to die.
Of course, he does not mention how Subspace had stared at his back, all silent, as Medkit reached the door, ready to leave. Dragging the incarnation of chaos itself alongside him was no good idea, but he gave in, regardless.
“Can you please remain quiet, for even a second?” Medkit gives him a tired look.
The sudden eye contact seems to disarm Subspace. He clicks his tongue, a small frown making its way to his face. But he doesn’t retort back. Light steps click against the floor as he moves closer, enough for Medkit to recognize that faint, clean scent of his own detergent. Medkit instinctively leans away, and he swears he heard a small hitch of breath from the living being adjacent to him.
Medkit tries to return his focus to the potatoes in front of him. He makes a mental note to get some carrots later, too. And maybe some noodles—or not. He isn’t sure where to go with this; his own preference in food was never his priority, or rather, he had never taken it into account. The last memory he had about a dish he genuinely enjoyed appears distant to him, blurry. It has long disappeared into the back of his mind.
His cart rattles with added weight. Within the small space now lies a cookie kit, and beside him, Subspace is glaring intently at the flooring like it had personally offended him. At least he’s trying. Medkit holds back a sigh.
“You’re pretty bad at this, you know,” Subspace murmurs. The irony is not lost on Medkit.
“I can say the same to you.”
———
They end up making soup.
It is, in every aspect, a reasonable choice—at least to Medkit. The dish is simple enough to make, and doesn’t take much time—something he had learned to value further throughout the years. It most certainly has nothing to do with the inphernal currently hovering around the kitchen—his kitchen—aimlessly, much less about the way said individual can’t handle most types of food. Medkit tries not to think about the specifics.
The restless energy emanating from Subspace, however, is bothering him more than what he’s willing to admit.
“If you can’t stay still,” He says, nodding towards the carrots waiting to be cut, “Then at least you can help me with something.”
Subspace clicks his tongue. He makes no move to assist Medkit—that much is expected. Yet the faint footsteps die out, stopping mere centimeters away from him.
It usually goes like this: Medkit cooking; Subspace walking, loitering, yet never straying too far away, never disappearing out of Medkit’s peripheral vision. And he would eventually stop, near Medkit—yet not too close—a final attempt at self-control before he gives in, as always. Walking briskly towards this worn-out figure, one he had declared to be below him. Often Medkit would feel a warm weight settling on his shoulders. Then a comment—mostly about his cooking—would ring out, decibels lower than what is typically anticipated of Subspace. The weight against Medkit never, ever fully rests on him, however; never relaxed enough. He hates how he noticed it. Perhaps he was just hallucinating.
A small sigh escapes Subspace’s lips as he—like always—burrows his cheek against Medkit’s neck, warm breaths tickling the expanse of skin there. Something lurches in Medkit’s stomach.
Arms come up to wrap around one of Medkit’s own, the hold loose, easy to break out—whether out of consideration or fear, Medkit doesn't know. The sounds of the knife hitting the chopping board echoes within the walls of his kitchen. The space becomes smaller as the clock ticks by, the longer they're here, Subspace's grasp dwindling Medkit's walls one by one, brick by brick.
But the touch gets scalding, all too intimate in its casualness, burning through the tissue. It tingles where Subspace's fingertips press at his arm, akin to a bug crawling on one’s skin; and for a split second, his muscles tense up, his mind blaring alarms: he needs to escape.
And he can't. Not when Subspace is here, voluntarily touching him in an awkward attempt of connection; and Medkit wonders, and wishes, that it were truly an act of deception—the way it should've been.
Despite himself, he relaxes.
Subspace pulls away. Immediately flinching away like a child caught doing something bad, eyes glaring daggers, lips pressing thin, telltale signs of mortification. Back to his prideful self, yes, I am great, I am untouched, you're all below me. It’s almost comical. Medkit never calls him out.
He turns back to his handiwork—cutting vegetables, sauteing, simmering, waiting. Subspace has returned to his usual spot on the couch, a book in his lap, yet his eye is glazed over, mind elsewhere.
It always ends like this. Perhaps it's for the best.
———
Dinner is quiet. Cutlery clinks in the tense air, both pointedly focused on their meals and not on each other, thank you very much. Neither dares to utter a word, afraid of breaking the silence, this rare moment of peace that seems to elude the both of them.
It’s quiet in their shared space. Part of Medkit had braced, even feared, for much more trouble at the beginning of this entire ordeal, ever since Subspace stepped foot into his abode—screaming, arguing, fighting—yet Subspace was, and still is, pliant. Far more subdued than he had ever known him. All lost and aimless behind that cracked mask of vanity.
And when Medkit first realized that, he was happy.
Subspace is volatile, sensitive, his instincts on high alert at almost any given moment. It’s one thing to be touched, it's different when you're the one initiating. Fascinated he is, experiencing the way Subspace’s pulse beats against his fingers; eye darting anywhere but Medkit. Easily humiliated Subspace has always been, just from a small peck; or even simply from Medkit's hand finding his, intertwining in a pretense of intimacy. There's always this sensation of satisfaction that tends to predominate his senses through the way Subspace jolts if he was too close, in how he had once eyed the food Medkit presented to him with great suspicion. Now you understand, he thought.
It was supposed to be like that. To be controlled, or to be the one controlling. He doesn't know where it all went wrong.
He would rather ignore the way Subspace seemingly seeks him out subconsciously, ignore how Subspace always has that conflicting look on his face that insinuates something much, much more troublesome that Medkit would rather not deal with.
Ignore it, ignore it all.
Dinner ends, and Medkit moves, about to collect the bowl and utensils, yet he is halted by a sudden, almost painful grip on his right wrist. He looks to his right. Subspace’s gaze is directed elsewhere again, not on him. His lips are pressed into a thin line.
“Subspace—”
“Shut up.” Subspace grits. He faces Medkit, face contorted, betraying the inner debate that's currently held within the confines of his psyche. His hold loosens, fingers trailing from Medkit's wrist to his palm, hesitating before resting on it. He takes in a deep breath.
“You're so—” He pauses, bringing Medkit's hand closer to him, idly playing with his fingers, “—so, so frustrating. Has anyone ever told you that?”
A pause elapsed between them. Seeing how Medkit doesn't speak, however, he continues.
“You think you’re better than anyone. You probably even think you're better than me.” Subspace smirks, a smile that doesn't quite reach his eye. It’s strained at the corners, pitifully performative. “You think—you think you have the upper hand, don't you?”
The arc of his lips soon drops, trembling.
“You're…” Subspace trails off, head hanging low, voice quieting down to a murmur. Their fingers intertwine, his grasp painfully taut, “You're so weird.”
Medkit remains fixed to his spot, weakly reciprocating the gesture, letting their hands link tighter, if only for a little bit. He doesn't quite get it, he never does. He knows he's being weird. Why is he doing this?
It never felt quite right to be soft with Subspace. Even until now, the hand that holds Subspace's cannot be relaxed entirely—and Medkit finds himself reluctant to do so, as well. With the history between them, the animosity and all. The pain, the wound and the cause. It is even more jarring, more pronounced in the way they navigate the predicament they find themselves in. Never natural enough. Never trustful enough. How can one heal another, if said party refuses to let their guard slip? No, is there any possible way at all to undo everything? It's just wishful thinking, isn't it?
But,
But.
If he could just ignore, again, one more time—
Medkit sighs quietly. He lets his free hand rest on Subspace's head, fingers gently scratching the expanse of skin there. Subspace's breath hitch, and a second pass by before he hesitantly leans in, head lowered slightly more, hair further obscuring his visage—akin to a curtain. Medkit doesn't make an attempt to bring his chin up. He’ll freeze, tongue-tied, hand coming to a halt immediately, if what faces him is not the loathing, dim eye of a person too far gone, consumed by ego and hatred. If Subspace looks at him with that wide eye, not loving, but certainly not malicious. And if the hot pink tint of his eye glitters, sparkling under the light of the kitchen, then…
Maybe it's for the best, for them to be like this, for now.
They stay there for a few minutes or so. But the weight that lies on Subspace’s head feels too heavy, too awkward as time goes on, and Medkit hesitates—should he stop? Yet, before he could act in the thought, Subspace gently removes his hand from Medkit's grasp, the action waking Medkit up from his momentary state of unfocus. He stands up.
“I’ll wash the dishes.”
He collects the dishes and makes his way to the kitchen sink. Medkit lets him.