I do not cry.
I rinse his side, the scrape near his hip, the back of his arm where there’s another smear of blood I didn’t notice until the water made it shine.
I tip his chin up with two fingers and rinse along his neck, careful around the cut on his cheek. His throat works when he swallows, and it looks like it hurts.
I angle the spray away from his face and carefully wet his hair. Warm water runs through his hair and darkens it, flattening the mess into something that looks more like him again.
He closes his eyes for a second, jaw tight, like the sensation is too much and not enough at the same time.
I pump shampoo into my palm and rub my hands together, then work it into his scalp with slow, careful fingers.
He exhales, and his body relaxes a bit.
“Okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
His one good eye opens and meets mine.
He gives me the smallest nod.
I rinse the suds out, watching them slide down his forehead and temples, careful not to send water into his eyes or cheek.
I repeat the process two more times, until I’m absolutely sure I got all of it. I’m not sure if Nico uses conditioner, but his hair is long enough and soft enough that I suspect he does, so I do that as well.
I reach for the soap on the shelf and lather it between my hands, not daring to use the loofah hanging on the hook.
Then I wash him in sections, like I’m trying not to touch too much skin at once because it might make a difference somehow.
His left shoulder. His right shoulder.
His chest.
The line of his stomach.
He flinches once when my hand passes over a tender spot, and I stop immediately.
“Here?” I ask.
He nods once.
I switch to the lightest touch I can manage, rinsing instead of scrubbing, letting the water do most of the work.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. Just breathe.”
He huffs, short.
“Don’t get short with me,” I say. “You are in a lot of trouble.”
But my hands stay gentle as I finish up the process, then rinse all the soap off him.
Before I can reach for the handle to turn the water off, I feel his hand on mine.
His eyes look down at my body.
Me now.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll take care of you, and then wash up. I’m not as bad as you were.”
But he just shakes his head and does the same motion with his eyes.
