Itoss and turn in bed, the sheets getting tangled in my legs. I can’t fucking sleep even though I am bone tired, but I’ve been restless since Bast left earlier. He ignored my calls and never called me back and now I’m an overthinking, anxious mess.
It’s almost three in the morning and the city beyond my windows is sleeping, much like I should be. But I just can’t.
A sigh huffs from my lips as I throw myself onto my back and stare at the shadows thrown across my ceiling because of the fairy lights.
Just close your eyes and go the fuck to sleep.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I lay in the center of my bed, fighting my own mind to just shut off until I hearthe ding of the elevator. In this silence it’s hard to miss it and my eyes spring back open, head turning to the bedroom door.
There’s only silence for a few seconds and then the sound of scuffing shoes travels through the apartment and my heart thumps inside my chest. I shoot up in bed, throwing my legs over the edge and wait for another sound, wondering if it’s just my head playing tricks since I’m so damn tired.
But no, I hear that same scuffing sound and then a voice, a pained, rough voice.
“Wills?”
I’m moving before I can even register what is happening, my door flying open at such a speed it slams against the back wall and rattles the art mounted there. My legs sprint down the hall before I come to an abrupt halt when I see Sebastian on his knees in the middle of the foyer, blood coating his face, his hands, his chest bare and bloody much like the rest of him.
Holy shit.
I don’t think, I just react, going straight to him where I land on my own knees with a crack, my hands going to his face. I scan him, looking for where the blood is coming from. There’s a deep cut in his brow and one in his cheek and another on his bottom lip. Dried blood streaks from his nose and there’s blood crusted in his beard and hair. Bruises mottle the space around his ribs and his knuckles are split wide open, fingersstreaked with more blood.
“What the fuck happened?” I cry, my voice cracking as I try to figure out where I start first, “We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No hospitals,” He says hoarsely.
“Bast,” I whisper.
“No. Hospitals.” He snaps each word.
“Okay,” I breathe, “Okay.” I slide my arms beneath his armpits and help him to stand before I guide us both toward the bathroom and switch the shower on. The bruising is more serious beneath the brighter lighting in the bathroom, and I see the dark shadows on his cheek and around his eye and I know tomorrow they’ll look ten times worse.
But right now, I need to get him clean so I can see the damage and figure out what I can do to help him. I guide us both beneath the spray when it’s warm and steam is filling the room, both of us still fully dressed.
The water beneath us both turns pink with the blood running off Sebastian’s skin and his eyes shutter closed, a contented sigh leaving his lips as the water soothes him. I hold him through it, letting him lean his head back on my shoulder where I sit behind him, his back to my chest. He tilts his face toward the spray, wincing once when the shower makes direct contact with the fresh wounds on his skin but then settles again.
I let him take the minute, his eyes closed, watercaught in his lashes and at the corners of his mouth.
“Bast,” I whisper, just loud enough to be heard over the running water.
He hums but doesn’t speak and gently, I run my fingers over his face, swiping away the blood not quite removed from his skin. His brow scrunches but he lets me wipe a lot of it away before I grab a fresh washcloth and get the rest, removing all traces of the blood off his face. I then move the cloth over his chest, washing away the dirt and caked on blood before my fingers go to the button on his pants.
“If you wanted me naked, Red,” He purrs but it’s missing its usual heat, “All you had to do was ask.”
“Shut up,” I grumble, “Help me take these off.”
He grunts with the move and while it’s a struggle, we get his pants off and then his boxers so he’s sitting on the floor of the shower completely naked. There’s something about seeing him so vulnerable that breaks me, rips me apart from the inside.
“I’m sorry, Red,” He whispers, “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Stop it,” I hiss, “Where else would you have gone?”
“Home?”
“So, you could lick your wounds in peace?” I scoff, adding some humor to the situation, “As if, you’ve always been a drama queen, Bast, you needed an audience for this.”
He chuckles but it’s strained and clearly painful if the way his face twists with the sound is anything to go by.
“I really think we should go to the hospital,” I wince, “I think you’ve got broken ribs.”
