"This is going to sting," I warn. I uncap the antiseptic. The chemical smell fills the space between us.
I take his right hand first. He lets me. Doesn't pull away. Just watches with those dark, empty eyes. Turn it palm-down. The damage is worse up close. So much worse. I can see tendons. I can see bone. I can see where the skin has been scraped away in layers, revealing the architecture underneath. Deep cuts across the knuckles. Skin peeled back. Like he was trying to disappear one piece at a time.
I pour antiseptic over the wounds. The liquid is cold. Clear. It runs into the cuts, over them, carrying away some of the blood, making everything worse before it gets better.
He hisses through his teeth —a sharp intake of breath, his body going rigid— but doesn't pull away. Doesn't move. Just sits there and takes it. Like he thinks he deserves this. Like pain is normal. Like this is what he expects.
"Why were you punching a brick wall?" I ask, keeping my voice even. Conversational. Calm. Like we're discussing the weather instead of whatever breakdown he just had outside.
"Bad day." Two words. Flat. Meaningless. Deflection.
"That's an understatement." I dab at the blood with gauze. The white turns red immediately. I use another piece. And another.
I dab at the blood with gauze. Carefully. Gentle as I can be with wounds this severe. Pressing just enough to clean, not enough to hurt more than necessary. His skin is soft. Softer than I expected. Softer than mine. The undamaged parts are smooth, unblemished. Young. Pale. Almost translucent. I can see blue veins beneath the surface. Can see his pulse jumping. The bones of his hand feel delicate under my fingers. Fragile. Like bird bones. Like something that could snap with too much pressure.
"I'm sorry," I say after a moment. The words come out quieter than I intended. More honest than I wanted.
He looks up. Finally. Those dark eyes lock on mine. Wide. Surprised. Searching. Those dark eyes lock on mine. "For what?"
"Earlier. What I said. 'Neither did we.'" I focus on wrapping his hand. Wind the gauze around. Once. Twice. Three times. Making sure I cover everything. Making sure no wounds are exposed. "That came out wrong. I didn't mean—you're not a burden, Max. You're just... new. And change is hard for everyone." I tape the gauze down. Check that it's secure. It'llneed to be changed tomorrow. Maybe tonight if the bleeding doesn't stop.
"I don't want to be here." The words are so quiet I almost don't hear them. Raw. Honest. Painful.
They hit me harder than they should. Harder than I'm prepared for.
"I know." What else can I say? I do know. It's obvious. He wears it like a second skin.
"Your brother made that clear at dinner. Bane doesn't want me here. Zero doesn't want me here. You don't—" His voice is gaining momentum. Getting louder. More agitated. His breathing is speeding up again.
"I didn't say that." I cut him off. Firm. Clear. Meeting his eyes so he knows I mean it.
"You didn't have to." He looks away. Back at his hands. At the gauze wrapped around his right hand that's already spotted with blood seeping through.
I finish wrapping his right hand —tie it off, tape it down, make sure it's secure— and reach for his left. This one's worse. Significantly worse. I can see bone clearly on two knuckles. The third is split so deep I'm worried about nerve damage.
He needs stitches. Probably needs surgery. Definitely needs more than I can give him here.
But something tells me he won't go to a hospital. Won't let me call an ambulance. Won't explain this to doctors. Won't fill out paperwork. Won't answer questions. Won't let anyone else see him like this.
"I don't hate you," I say quietly. I start cleaning the left hand. More antiseptic. More gauze. More blood. "I don't know you well enough to hate you."
"That's comforting." Sarcasm. Defense mechanism. Armor.
"It's honest." I look up at him. Hold his gaze. Let him see I'm not lying.
He doesn't respond. Just watches me work. Watches me clean his wounds. Watches me take care of him even though we both know I have no obligation to. No reason to. No relationship that requires this level of care.
I clean the left hand. Carefully. Gently. This one bleeds more. The wounds are deeper. I use more gauze. More antiseptic. My hands are covered in his blood now. Sticky. Drying. I don't care. Wrap it. Tape it. The whole time, I'm acutely aware of how close we are. Inches. That's all. I'm standing between his knees. I can feel his breath on my face. I can feel the heat coming off him. How his knee is inches from my hip.
His pupils are blown. Huge. Black pools with just a thin ring of dark iris around them. Not right. Not normal. Wider than they should be. His breathing is too fast. Shallow. Rapid. He's hyperventilating. Has been this whole time.
How did I not notice that?
And he's shaking. Fine tremors running through his whole body. I can feel them where my hands touch his. I can see them in his shoulders. In his jaw.
Not from cold. Not from pain. This is something else. Something primal. Something that sets off alarm bells in the back of my mind.
From panic. Pure. Unfiltered. Overwhelming.
