IndigoSparrow

You lean forward to tell him that’s gross, your mother always taught you not to put fingers in your mouth. But you can’t. Because blood wells to the surface of his remaining skin, and he watches it like he’s confused he can bleed at all.

You push up off the bed and pad over to him, taking his injured hand in your own. His eyes don’t move.

His hands are hardly bigger than yours. They’re shaking so much. He’s… eight years older than you. You remember how he counted the age gap on his fingers, mumbled something about not knowing the date, and switched seven to eight. It makes him an adult either way.

But it still feels like you’re holding your own hand, if you’d been a boy, standing here like this.

“Let’s go to the restroom,” you decide out loud. He finally looks at you. “We… can’t have you getting an infection…” your voice dies as soon as the confidence starts.

Because there are… two ways Sou might reply when it’s just the two of you. There’s the mean one, who usually talks to the others. He grumbles and makes excuses and makes you feel like the worthless child you are.

“… Okay.” Or there’s… the scared one.

He’s the scared one right now.

You feel like the two of you could be classmates when he’s like this, with how small his voice is. He doesn’t fight you, just lets you lead. It’s like he’s blind.

The mean one makes your head hurt. The scared one makes your heart hurt.

Most of the time, you don’t really want to be talking to either.

You’d rather be with Sara and the others. You know that. He knows that. They were kind and protected you and let you cry.

But you need to protect them, too. Which means rubbing circles in Sou’s hand while you guide him to the restroom. It means locking the door and pressing your body against it while he runs water over the wound.

It’s not that you don’t care about him.

You’re pretty sure you don’t even dislike him.

It's hard to dislike someone who you spend so much time around. Who you watch spending hours of his time trying to be useful to people he hates. Someone who works hard at easing your fears, trying to relate to you in any way he can. But he’s scared, and you’re scared, and you’re pretty sure he needs more than you to fix that. Because this wasn’t… normal scared, was it?

Steam rises from the sink. He’s still scrubbing. This is why he has hangnails. Your heart hurts.

He likes to tell himself he’s just using you. That he’s manipulating you and you know it. You let him say that. You’re pretty sure what he’s doing isn’t manipulation, though.

You know he doesn’t know everything like he says he does. You’re not a stupid girl, but he’s smart. Way smarter than you. You also know that most of the time he just says stuff that doesn't matter enough to think about, and if you ever don’t want to think about it, you can just pretend he’s talking in German or something. It usually just means that he’s scared, anyway.

It’s humid from the hot water. You’re getting worried. You step away from the door. He doesn’t notice you. Not even when you show up beside him in the mirror, reach over, and turn the sink off.

He mumbles.

You wish Sara were here. She’d know what to do right now.

“They still—still feel dirty…” he mumbles again. He reaches for the sink with a hand that’s burning an angry red. His hand pauses on its own. “…like there’s- there’s graphite. On them. If I touch anything, it’s… going to smear everywhere.”

You do what feels right. You press your thumb to his fingertip, then show it to him. No smudges. “They’re clean. It’s—it’s okay. You don’t need to wash them anymore.”

His face contorts into something angrier before his hands yank at his hair. “I-I know that! You don’t need to tell me what’s obvious. Have you never heard of a metaphor, Kanna?”

Sometimes, mean Sou and scared Sou are the same person. He’s harder to deal with when they are. You shrink. “I—”

He softens, then stiffens. You hear his breath catching in his throat. “No, it’s—it’s not your fault.” His head is in his hands now. You barely catch a glimpse of his shining eyes. When he swipes across his face, though, they’re gone. “I shouldn’t be snapping at you, I know you’re trying, and—” you can’t catch him before he starts pacing again.

“—you’re just a kid, you should be… I don’t know, out with friends not… not here! Not in some death game having to pacify some grown adult who can’t keep himself together, especially because… do you know how big three percent is, Kanna? One in thirty-three. In thirty-two out of thirty-three lifetimes…”

Sou talking in math was easier to ignore. You don’t know why he brought up percentages so often, but they seemed to scare mean-scared Sou. So you pretend to listen.

Your hand curls around his wrist, gently pulling him from the restroom. He’ll be calmer once he gets back to work, and then you can—

You don’t know.

There’s a heaviness washing over you right now that you know better than to think too hard about. It guides the two of you safely back to the bedroom without being spotted. You sit on the bed. Sou locks the door. He has to lock it because the one time you locked it he got so fidgety he almost tore his skin out.

The floormasters could get in anyway. But it’s not them he’s worried about. You don’t get it. You bundle up the blankets and hug them close to your chest. He joins you a few moments later, picking up the laptop again. He seems calmer, at least… or maybe just tired.

“…Sorry about that.” He apologizes like he’s sorry for dead batteries. You don’t look at him. Your eyes trace the keyboard that his fingers tap on without typing anything. They blur like they’re—

Shivering. It’s not cold. It’s not cold but you feel cold and hurt and overwhelmed and you’re rubbing your eyes before Sou sees, not because you don’t trust him, but he’s already so—

“Whoa, hey…” An arm curls around you in some kind of awkward half-hug, like he’s scared of pulling you close (maybe he is?). You press into him anyway, hands curling into the thick material of his jacket.

Such a useless child… can’t even go a day without crying…

“It’s hard, huh?” he asks. “A shame I’m not… good at this stuff. But it’s okay! It’s okay…”

You want to talk. Your throat feels full of water. You gasp instead, puffing out air into his shoulder in frustration.

“Kanna—” you hate that you always use your own name when you’re upset, but it tumbles out before you can stop it. “—wants to be… some-somewhere else, I think…”

That’s the best you can do.

“…”

“I know.”