It was a torrent of trauma.
He wasn’t even done yet. He had another surgery scheduled for mid-August, a scar revision. Because the trauma was so bad, they already knew he would need it.
The more he looked, the worse it got. That side of his face was lopsided and sagging, mangled and—
Andugly.
Hewas ugly.
No, it was more than that.
MONSTER.
He was a monster. His outside matched the inside now. He was horrible and misshapen, his soul shredded and dissonant, and his body the same: broken and half dead and wholly deserving of it.
That’s the face of a man who killed his father.
He loved you.
And you killed him.
Theo’s stomach revolted. He heaved.
He launched himself at his toilet.
Several stitches popped and tore straight through his flesh while he vomited so violently, nothing was left inside him but despair.
“JesusfuckingChrist,Theo!” Diego roared when he shoved himself through the door later that night. “What the hell did you do to your face?!”
“I looked at it,” he mumbled. “And then I threw up.”
Diego grabbed his head with both hands and turned it side to side, holding Theo in the light so he could better see. “You popped your goddamn stitches. You’re bleeding—it’s oozing. This could get infected. We should probably take you to the ER. This is serious.”
“No. I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
“What? But—” He quieted at Theo’s expression. “Then you need to go in tomorrow and get them to fix it ASAP. Didn’t that hurt?”
It did. It was agonizing, a thousand times worse than throwing up in the past had ever been before.
Deserved it.
“It was an accident. It’s not like I meant to do it.”
Diego pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, screwing his eyes shut and shaking his head. “Madre de Díos,” he muttered to himself. But after he drew in a deep, steadying breath, he looked at Theo once more and patted his shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get you patched up.”
While Theo showered, Diego shoved their dinner in the oven to keep it warm and then went upstairs armed with fresh gauze and antiseptic and butterfly bandages. Theo sat on his shower chair in the bathroom in silence, wrapped in a towel, his hair dripping water down his shoulders while his best friend helped him carefully shave and then clean his reopened wound with antiseptic.
It was a long time before Diego spoke. He was unusually quiet. Normally, he chattered like a magpie about his day while they performed this new ritual.
“You know something?” he finally said while using clean cotton to dab at Theo’s face.
“What?”
“I can’t do this forever,” Diego muttered, setting the cotton aside and grabbing the butterfly bandages. He opened the packet and placed one carefully over some of the popped stitches.
“I know. This isn’t fair to you, but I’m really grateful you’ve been here for me. Thank you.” Theo’s voice shook. “But if you don’t want to help me with this anymore, I can always hire someone to—”
“I’m not talking about that.” Diego placed another across the wound, his eyes firmly locked on Theo’s cheek. “Unfortunately, you’re like my brother. With four sisters, I always wanted one of those. And because of that sad truth, I’m going to keep coming here every single fucking evening, even to the detriment of my sex life. Which is horribly barren right now, I hope you know.” His dark eyes darted over to meet Theo’s for a split second before turning back to the task at hand. “Talk about a dry spell.”
