2
Sinclair
Weston reaches for Saint’s face and grips his nose, "Ready?"
Saint nods.
"It’s going to hurt like a bitch."
Saint says something that emerges garbled. Still holding Saint’s nose, Weston glances around at us, then jerks his chin. Baron and I head for them; we each grab one of Saint’s shoulders.
"Here goes," Weston focusses on Saint’s face, "3... 2... 1... "
I grasp his unhurt shoulder as Baron grips the bicep of his other arm. Weston flicks his wrist. Saint yells; his body jerks. Weston steps back and Saint straightens, his chest rising up and down rapidly. "Fuck, me," he growls, then twists his torso out of our grasp. He turns to stare at himself in the mirror.
"Fuck me," he repeats, but now his tone holds a hint of wonderment.
I peer at his reflection to find his nose is no longer crooked—whoa! Also, the bleed has slowed to a trickle from one nostril.
Weston grabs a few paper towels from the sink. He hands them over to Saint, "May as well wad them and stuff them up your nostrils."
"I don’t think so," Saint mutters.
Weston holds up his hands, "Have it your way, douchebag. You should probably go to the hospital and get that looked at."
"Fuck that," he growls, then wads up a paper towel and stuffs it up his nostrils anyway. "You really going to med school then?"
Weston shuffles his feet, glances between the rest of us, then back at Saint. "We-l-l." He rubs the back of his neck. "It’s something I’d been planning on telling you guys for a while now…but," he raises his shoulders, "it never seemed to be the right time?—"
"What’s it not the right time for?" Damian strolls in, his guitar slung over his back. He glances around, takes in our faces. "Why do you all look like someone just got kidnapped?"
Weston grimaces, "Seriously, you’re gonna use that on us?"
Damian blows out a breath, "You’re right, that was a bad joke. Just trying to make light of the matter at hand… Which seems rather serious, but you still haven’t told me about, by the way."
He takes in our faces, the way we have our gazes directed at Weston.
"What did you do now?" he asks.
"Me?" Weston rolls his shoulders. "Who said I did anything?"
"He’s off to med school," Baron drawls, as Arpad walks in.
"Who’s off to med school?" he asks.
I jerk my chin in Weston’s direction, "He is."
Arpad blinks, then bursts out laughing. "Mr. Scion-to-an-industrialist, being groomed to take over from his father, deciding to become a doctor?" He snorts, "Now I’ve heard everything."
"Shut up, you shitstain," Weston snaps. "You think I can’t go to med school? And that’s my brother you’re describing, you asshole. He’s the one taking over the family business. Not me."
Arpad smirks, "Oh, I think you can attend med school, all right. Completing the courses and becoming a doctor, though?" He shakes his head, "We’ll see how that works out."
"Not all of us want to take off on our yachts and chase storms," Weston grumbles. "Some of us feel a little more responsibility toward our families."
"Yeah, right, mama’s boy. Don’t go crying back home when the studies get too much for you."
"Don’t talk about my mother, you wanker." Weston holds up his fists and walks forward.
