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So deep, that it didn’t even bleed and catch me/Off guard, red handed, now I’m far from lonely/Asleep, I still see you lying next to me/So deep that it didn’t even bleed and catch me…
It was an accident, of course; Alvin might have his fair share of issues, he’ll admit as much, but he’s certainly no cutter. He’d been polishing his sword, too anxious to sleep, too tired to do much else, and dammit, he should have known better than to let his mind wander. He’s still not sure exactly how it happened, just that it did, and he’s in pain. He eyes the cut with a weary detachment, like it’s someone else’s arm, someone else’s pale, newly-formed skin slowly turning crimson at the corners. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t exactly done everything in his power not to get cut, but he hadn’t done it intentionally. He’d slipped, is all.
He glances over his shoulder, paranoid for a moment that his companions heard his sharp hiss of pain. Jude and Milla are sound asleep, Milla in the opposite bed, Jude on the floor by the window. Alvin allows himself a relieved sigh and sets his sword down on the bed next to him.
The mercenary touches the wound gingerly, with a nervousness uncharacteristic of him. It’s wider than it is deep, but by now, it’s bleeding more than Alvin’s comfortable with, and it stings horribly. For a moment, in his beer- and exhaustion-fueled haze, he considers waking Jude over it. The medical student has his back to Alvin, curled up in a ball with his jacket draped across his body like a blanket. He’s shivering like a wet dog. Alvin scoffs and shakes his head. He won’t entertain that thought.
Anyway, Jude’s the last person he needs to talk to right now. Alvin’s barely known him a few days, but he can picture the boy now, his eyes wide and empathetic, his voice hushed, like he’s talking to a hurt dog. Alvin grits his teeth. He doesn’t need Jude’s pity.
The only pity he wants is Presa’s.
I need something else would someone please just give me/Hit me, knock me out and let me go back to sleep…
It’s too late at night to be moping, Alvin knows, especially when the whole ordeal was his own fault to begin with. It hadn’t actually occurred to him that he missed her until now. He’s got Jude and Milla both wrapped around his finger — and the former can deny it all he wants, Alvin knows he’s just a little bit gay — but it’s more than that that has him awake. It’s not the sex, it’s not the cuddling, it’s not the feel of another body pressed against his beneath the cheap inn blanket. Not that he doesn’t miss all of those, but if he was that desperate for a quick roll around the sheets, he’d have no trouble finding it, the charmer that he is. It’s Presa he misses — Presa’s eyes, Presa’s voice, Presa’s soft, kitten-like snores. Just Presa. That’s not a void he wants Milla filling, never mind Jude.
He’s snapped out of his musings by the cold lick of blood running down his arm. He swipes it away instinctively, grimacing at the scarlet smudge it leaves on the side of his glove. It’s not the first such stain, and he knows it won’t be visible when it dries, dark red against the black fabric, but it bothers him nonetheless.
Jude rolls over on the floor, and Alvin freezes.
“...Alvin?” the boy asks, sitting up. His voice quavers, hesitant, scared, like he’s still shaking off the remains of a nightmare. Alvin curses his luck and tries to no avail to appear asleep, leaning back on the headboard and shutting his eyes. It might have been halfway convincing, but his sword is still laid across his lap, his gun in a similar position at his feet.
“It’s late,” Jude says matter-of-factly. “What are you doing up?”
“I’m not tired,” Alvin offers lamely. Jude’s clearly not buying it. Poor kid was probably prepared for a lighthearted, sarcastic quip in response, and now Alvin’s gone and crushed his expectations by keeping a straight face.
Jude stands up, letting his jacket fall to the floor. He’s small and pale in the dark room, so that Alvin can’t tell where his skin ends and his sleeves begin.
“Alvin? Oh — you’re hurt!”
I can laugh all I want/Inside I still am empty/So deep, that it didn’t even bleed and catch me…
“Just a scratch,” Alvin says, grinning. It’s forced, but it must look convincing, because Jude sighs and shakes his head.
“I’m serious,” he says, grabbing Alvin’s wrist before the brunette can protest. The palm of his hand glows cyan, and Alvin winces. “What did you do to yourself?”
Instantly, Alvin feels the cut begin to close under Jude’s hand. He jerks his arm away, but the damage is already (un)done; the wound is all but gone, leaving only a thin line of red and a fresh scab in its place. He tenses, his fingers twitching anxiously. Every muscle in his body screams at him to shove Jude away and reach for his sword, to clean its already pristine surface until he slips again and his arm bleeds anew. He doesn’t. He chuckles instead.
“Like new,” he remarks, ignoring Jude’s bemused frown. “Thanks, kid.”
I’ll be just fine/Pretending I’m not/I’m far from lonely/And it’s all that I’ve got…
“Alvin,” Jude murmurs. That’s all he says for a while. Then: “What happened?”
“I slipped,” Alvin says, like it’s obvious. “Even I mess up, sometimes. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He throws his arm over Jude’s shoulder for good measure and tousles the noirette’s hair.
“Alvin, seriously.” Jude squirms out of Alvin’s grasp and glances at his arm. His eyes are sad and full of pity, just like Alvin knew they would be, and it makes his blood boil. Jude reaches for the cuff of his sleeve — slowly, like Alvin’s a hurt dog and he isn’t sure if he’s going to bite — and rolls it up to the elbow. Alvin isn’t sure exactly what the boy expected. He’s a mercenary, after all, and he’s had his fair share of sword fights and near-death experiences. Still, Jude eyes the scars with that same vicarious grief, and Alvin knows he knows that not all of them are from combat.
“Alvin?”
“I’m fine, kid,” Alvin breathes. “Thanks. Go back to bed.”
I guess I remember every glance you shot me/Unharmed, I’m losing weight and some body heat...
He waits until Jude falls back to sleep to leave. It’s cold outside, for the time of year, and he pulls his coat closer as he steps out of the inn. It’s baggier on him than he remembered it, and again, he’s reminded of Presa. If he strains his mind hard enough, he can see her there on the hill by his side, smiling up at him, wrapped in his too-long jacket.
“This is why you don’t shit where you eat,” he mumbles to himself. He’s half expecting Presa to say something back, to grab him by the scarf and pull him in for a kiss. The wind picks up, then, and a stray cat, startled by one thing or another, darts past him, reminding him that no, Presa isn’t really there, he’s alone.
Completely and helplessly alone.
I squoze so hard I stopped your heart from beating/So deep that I didn’t even scream ‘fuck me’...
The cat pauses in Alvin’s peripherals, then sits down and runs a paw over its whiskers. It’s a small thing, jet black with a pale dash on its chest, and it watches Alvin through narrow amber eyes as he takes a step closer. Before he can tell himself it’s a bad idea, that he’s too drunk and too tired to be bothered, he’s lifting the cat from the ground, sitting down, and setting it, hissing and mewling and squirming, on his lap.
“Calm down, Jude,” he says, then laughs. It’s just his luck, leaving the inn to get away from Jude and his pity only to run into this stupid black cat, writhing anxiously in his grasp and just staring, the way Jude did, with the same sad, knowing eyes. He almost would have preferred a Presa cat, lithe and cream with a violent gaze, to this.
At least the cat doesn’t try to make him talk.
So deep, that it didn’t even bleed and catch me/So deep, that I didn’t even scream, ‘fuck!’
After a while, the cat settles down, resting its head begrudgingly on Alvin’s chest. Alvin sighs, placing his gloves on the ground by his knee and running his fingers gently through the cat’s fur, eliciting a half-hearted purr.
“See? You don’t really hate me, do you?” he cooes. Then he pokes the cat’s nose, and it snaps.
It was an accident, of course. It wasn’t as though he knew the cat would react the way it did, lashing its tail and clawing at his wrist before dashing away into the night. He’d meant it playfully, the whole poking the cat thing. Anyway, he thinks, eyeing the three parallel cuts on his arm disinterestedly, it’s just a scratch. Scratches. He’s alright.
He’s fine.