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[PROTAG] sat quietly, his bitten nails digging into his suit pants. He was tired and upset, the resentment in his heart large and burning. He resented every action he ever did, and he resented the way his colleague seemed to care. He really didn't expect him to care. He didn't expect anyone to care. Truly, he should've been comfortable with the fact his expectations were never met, and yet he was still continually surprised with what happened.
Sitting like this was highly bothersome, and the sting between his legs where they rubbed was painful. He hadn't meant to confess all that he'd done to himself last night. The anxiety had gotten to him, and he'd made a distasteful joke about the pain that quickly turned into a short and grim confession about his self-inflicted harm. He didn't know why he said that. In the back of his mind, a part of him wanted care, despite knowing his co-worker likely thought men who cried or showed too much emotion were “weak” and “too womenly.”
And, yes, the guy still did make a comment about how [PROTAG] should be more of a man. The comment made him angry, but what was he to say about it? Maybe the blonde was right. He wasn't enough of a man. That still didn't change the fact that the taller of the two pulled him into a secluded break room and locked the door behind him. All of a sudden, [COWORKER] was talking about a medkit and how things like that could be cleaned, and the amount of panic that shot through the new-hire was unmatched. His mind screamed to run… but he was already here, wasn't he? He'd hit rock bottom. He'd confessed his sins. Why not let the Lord judge him accordingly?
That was how they made it here: [COWORKER] squatting on the floor in front of him (not sitting because allegedly it was “too nasty”) and cleaning up his wounds with alcohol and bandages and ointment. [PROTAG] could easily tell that the other didn't know what the fuck he was doing, but he didn't have the willpower to try and be the ideas man and to give him advice on something else he could do. He felt embarrassed, humiliated, ashamed, anxious, close to tears… so he sat there in silence and let it all cook under the surface.
“... Why couldn't I do it myself?” the freckle-faced man whispered. His arms were crossed over his chest, his pants down to his ankles. He would've felt more flustered about being in just his boxers if his boxers were shorter, or if he was with a woman. Right now he didn't care much about if this could be considered appropriate or not. He never wore shorts, so the cuts he inflicted trailed from his inner thighs down to just above his knees.
The blonde tensed for a moment, glancing between the other's thighs and his face awkwardly. He cleared his throat. “Because…” he murmured while rubbing a clear and burning substance onto his left inner leg, “You've done enough. Just… let me help you, newbie. It's not that hard. Really!”
The truth wasn't that. Really, the truth was that he felt this insatiable and uncontrollable urge to care for someone else. The truth was that the intern sitting right in front of him was the perfect person to use to satisfy this urge. The truth was that the man was sad and lonely, and [COWORKER] wanted to do anything in his power to make it better. But he wasn't gonna say that. He couldn't say that. It wouldn't be accepted. He was supposed to be a strong masculine male figure, not some doting wife.
“... mm,” is all [PROTAG] said.
He stared down at the other. The pain burned, and it reminded him of all his awful decisions. Scratches that had cut too deep, and cuts that shouldn't have happened. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. There was something seriously wrong with him. And he'd like to think that no one cared—as he thought that every other time—but he was proven wrong in the most straightforward way the universe could offer. His mind liked to overthink every good thing until it could attach stress to the idea. That way, he could not get hurt. But how could he twist someone getting between his legs not for anything dirty but to help heal self-inflicted wounds? He racked his brain and came up with nothing.
The healing stung. It really did. All these things being put on him were awful and inconvenient; It sucked. But tears threatened to spill over the longer he felt the burn of care seep into his legs.
“... Why'd you do it?” the man beneath him finally asked. He glanced up only to immediately look down again in the most timid manner a cocky tall man like him could muster. “The uh… y'know… I mean you have nice skin. Uhm… doesn't it– doesn't it hurt?”
[PROTAG] bit his bottom lip so hard that it began to bleed. [COWORKER] didn't understand. It should have pained him, but he found that it shockingly didn't. No one had ever understood. Why would someone begin now? And even without understanding, the guy worked towards peace anyway. Why? Why would someone do that? When his parents found out, they cried and sent him up to his room. They starved him for four days, only coming up to make sure he read his Bible or to beat him on his back. If he was lucky, they'd stop the punishment before he couldn't move.
He always told himself it was just because they didn't understand. That if they understood, they'd been nice about it. The man kneeling under him was living proof that that was just a dumb fantasy.
“I…” he started to say something. He really wanted to say something. It would be something smart and explanatory. Instead, tears slipped out of his eyes and trailed down his cheeks, and the most he could do was stay quiet so as not to begin wailing.
[COWORKER'S] eyes widened. He seemed so… shocked. It was like he'd never seen a person cry before. He looked around, reaching over by the medkit and grabbing some napkins he'd taken from the counter. He all but shoved them at the newbie. “Here. Wipe your, uh, lip? It's bleeding… don't, like, start crying… please? It's really not a good look for you.”
That didn't get him a very amused or happy response, so he sheepily began again.
“I-I just mean– y'know… some people look weird when they cry. Not that you look weird! Just some people… somewhere. Uhm… have you tried deep breaths? I heard that helps. I think.”
The sentences were so nonsensical and useless that [PROTAG] couldn't tell if he wanted to laugh or cry more. He took one of the napkins and placed it between his lips, letting it soak up blood and some spit where it met his tongue. He wiped his eyes and tried his best not to feel inadequate. His colleague nodded and muttered random platitudes of encouragement while he went back to cleaning him up.
The intern didn't want to be one to judge, but he was. He judged this man the second they met. He was cocky, too tall, too egotistical, too materialistic… but when it mattered, he sucked up all personal grimace at the sight of too-deep scratches and cleaned them. Even if the man he was cleaning was his inferior. Even if the man he was cleaning didn't always reciprocate conversation. Even if the man he was cleaning had given his own body these own scratches.
[PROTAG] pulled the napkin out of his mouth. He licked his dry lips and sniffled, the sound practically reverberating in the empty room. “... Thank you,” he whispered. He meant it with all his heart.
[COWORKER] looked up, and he nodded. He tried to smile, though it came off as a bit unsure in these circumstances. “You're welcome. No need to thank me.”
They sat in silence for the rest of the time. The only sounds were the AC, his associate working to clean, and quiet sniffles. Tears never stopped coming once they started, and this was no exception. His thighs burned in pain, but the pain began to lessen. Especially in tiny moments, such as when the blonde accidentally rested his palm on the top of his knee. He'd always heard touch could lessen pain. He thought it was bullshit all his life. When he was young, he assumed touch was supposed to be painful. All this time later, he was learning for a fact that it was not supposed to be anything like that; it was supposed to be as good and caring as it felt now.
The guy ended up confused with how to bandage up legs. Half of his handiwork consisted of too-loose wrappings which may fall off, and the other half consisted of bandaids plastered all over. One of them was a kids’ bandaid because he ran out of the regular ones. Apparently this medkit had some of those. It was a blue one with a rainbow across, and was slightly smaller than the others.
Finally, [PROTAG] pulled his pants up slowly and stood up. It felt uncomfortable to walk around like this. He probably shouldn't have bandaged every single mark, the newbie thought, but he was sort of glad he did. In his mind, it showed that someone took the extra time on him to make him feel okay, even if the attempt was only partially successful.
“Uhm…” [PROTAG] started again, wiping away the last of his tears and adjusting his glasses. He couldn't meet the other’s gaze. He focused on his own fidgeting dry hands. “Can you… c-can we keep this between us…?” he whispered. The task felt too large. It was too big of an ask.
“Oh. Yeah… ‘course. I was gonna do that anyway,” [COWORKER] replied. His voice was low as if he'd attract others if he spoke too loud. Maybe, just maybe, there was a hint of kindness in his tone if you listened for it.
The most the intern could do for that response was a shaky nod. He wasn't gonna tell anyone. [PROTAG] couldn't trust that. People didn't keep promises anyway. But his mind was so tired and his body was so drained, and he didn't have the heart to beat himself down once more. So for just a fleeting moment he took a risk and actually believed the words. After that fleeting moment, it took solid effort to keep believing, so he quickly pushed it out of his mind so he wouldn't waste the rest of his mental energy so quickly.
“... Here. Can I…?”
[COWORKER] stepped closer, his voice unsure. He never finished his question before he wrapped toned arms around the shorter man’s neck to pull him into a loose hug. It was meant to be short and quick, but he was shocked to feel just how fast the newbie returned his advances. And with much more vigor, too. He could tell the guy didn't want to let go… and he didn't make him. Caring for someone like this felt right. Not just morally, but deep inside his soul it felt like something he should do.
When the two departed, [PROTAG] was tearing up again. He quickly wiped his eyes. No one out there could see him so beaten down. Their designated break time was surely surpassed by now, and he didn't want to see what kind of punishment could await if he pushed too far. “C- c’mon,” he whispered, “Let’s go back out…”
“Oh, yeah. Probably should do that…”
The blonde hesitated for only a moment before reaching out, putting a hand gently on the man's shoulder before he could turn.
“Hey,” he muttered. He pressed his lips into a line before speaking. “If you… ever need someone to talk to… I'm here,” he assured.
It wasn't an impulsive thing. He'd been thinking about it the entire time. If [PROTAG] was anyone else, he'd tell them to suck it up and bury any feelings of care that may ever invade his thoughts. Not in a rude way, but in a way that was just personal enough to be felt but not personal enough to be real. But obviously, that sort of advice didn't work on the other. Not when it led to such extreme answers such as violence, especially on his own body.
[PROTAG'S] eyes widened a little, and his heart skipped a beat. Talk? Would he ever take him up on that offer? The idea of talking about his feelings scared him to his core. That would mean spilling all his hurt and pain and things he'd kept to himself since he was a child. Yet maybe, just maybe he hoped for saving. He hoped for comfort and things he'd always been too anxious to hope for. If his colleague had already seen the scars on his thighs, then would it horrify him to see the scars on his heart?
He swallowed tentatively, a small puff of air escaping his lips. “Right,” he agreed. He could be lying, but not even he knew the truth.
They met each other's gaze for a moment. [PROTAG] didn't want to look away first. He couldn't. He wanted to stare for forever so that he might even get a fraction of understanding as to why the blonde helped bandage him up.
Maybe if they talked he'd come to learn.
With a heavy weight in his stomach, he carried himself out of the break room. The bandages rubbed against one another through the fabric of his cheap work pants. It was a constant reminder of the kindness he'd just endured… so suddenly, he didn't ever want the bandages to come off. They were too warm and safe and familiar now. Even though they clung to his skin too tight or too loose, they were still there. They were almost more memorable than the harm he'd caused himself. Almost.
And even if he woke up tomorrow in huge regret and did it all over again, at least he had the memory of generosity to forever cling to.