“No stitches.”
Wick, hair wild and limbs drunkenly splayed every which way, begins to cry. He hooks a hand around Joaquin’s neck and sobs into his chest. Joaquin’s stoic expression cracks, and he looks at me with eyes so full of pain it rips the air from my lungs.
We’ve been having fun, poking at Wick’s jealousy, but the reality is weareheartbroken. And seeing him in this state, the way he sways toward and away from us, knowing that we can help him heal whatever is causing him this pain, but not being able to do anything about it?
It’s brutal, and it’s like we’re at the edge of a cliff with outstretched fingers, brushing his fingertips as he falls into the void. So close, and yet, in a completely different universe.
Joaquin fixes his face and quietly rocks Wick, checking his wound. It’s a pretty decent split, right at the tip of his chin, but now that it’s not gushing blood, it’s really not that bad.
I lean over, kissing his temple, and he looks up at me with gimlet eyes. I nearly sob from the pain in them. I swallow and try to follow Joaquin’s lead. “Wick, buddy. You probably don’t need stitches. A couple of Steri-strips oughta do it, and we can have Doc look at it on Monday to make sure we didn’t mess up your pretty face.”
Wick blinks, seeming to realize he’s being cradled in Joaquin’s arms. He sits up, scrambling away from him. Hurt lances across Joaquin’s face, but he holds his tongue.
“We’ve got that superglue for animal cuts down in the tack room. I’m not shavin’ my beard.”
Joaquin and I look at each other, bewildered.
“My love, what does it matter if we shave your beard? It’s not very long—you’ll grow it back within days. Perhaps you’re self-conscious about the scars, but I assure you, nothing could detract from your beauty.”
“Scars?” I ask as Wick brings both hands, covered in drying blood, to his face.
“Sparrow, that fuckin’ snitch,” Wick mutters to himself.
I shoot a look at Joaquin, who holds up his hand.Later, he mouths.
Quickly—too quickly—Wick grabs the counter's edge and drags himself up. He rocks forward but maintains a trembling sort of balance. “I don’t want anyone asking about them. Just get me the fucking superglue.”
Joaquin’s chin trembles, and I hop up, feeling like I’ve been left out of something important. “On it. Be back in two minutes.”
I grab my sweats from the floor in Joaquin’s room and head out into the night, bare-chested and wearing his worn sandals. The walk to the stallion barn seems to take forever. The blue shadows of the night hold a sense of sadness in them, and I somehow feel less lonely.
The horses stir as I open the barn door and make my way to the tack room. The small bottle of surgical glue is in the same drawer as the lube and condoms, and something about that makes me want to either laugh hysterically or scream. Instead, I shove the bottle into my pocket and head out.
Sisko sticks his head out from his stall and lets out a low nicker. I stop, not wanting him to wake up the other horses. Acknowledging him, I run my hand up and down his long nose. He nudges me, so I step in closer, and he rests his chin on my shoulder, his version of a hug.
Not gonna lie, I might sob into his neck for a minute or two. Why would Wick care about some stupid scars? And why didn’t Joaquin tell me if he already knew?It’s gotta be something bad if Wick’s been hiding it all this time.
I don’t want to make Wick wait, so I suck up all my insecurities and jog back to the bunkhouse.
When I get back to the bathroom, Wick and Joaquin are whispering to each other. I pause at the door, not sure if I’m interrupting.
Joaquin sees me and immediately reaches out for me, tucking Wick into his side as I hand over the glue.
They’ve cleaned up all the blood, and the split on his chin has stopped bleeding. Joaquin, with care and precision, lays a line of the glue along the seam of the cut before pinching the two sides together until it holds.
“All better,” Joaquin says, kissing his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Wick says quietly, turning toward the door.
“You spoke the other day about Renée,” Joaquin says, halting Wick’s progression with the weight of his words. “Think about what advice she would give you.”
“Well, if she were talking to me anymore, I would,” he says, brushing past me to walk out of the bathroom. Seconds later, his door closes heavily, silence ringing throughout the space.
Joaquin puts his arms around me and places his forehead on my shoulder, right where Sisko just had his chin. “The scars he’s hiding are from his father.”
I pull back, peering into my lover’s eyes, finding grief. “What?” I ask dumbly.
“He doesn’t want to shave his beard because he doesn’t want to answer questions about the scars.”
