#arberlane

Lane’s face is pulled into a frown, his movements slightly jerky as he pulls disinfectant, gauze and bandages out of the hidden cupboard behind his bathroom mirror. He doesn’t look at the man sitting on the edge of the tub, head bowed and shoulders slumped, flexing and unflexing his fists, the broken skin over his knuckles pulling tight and then releasing again.

“Laney,” Arber tries again, his voice soft as if talking to a small animal, but it only makes Lane flinch.

“Don’t.” Lane’s voice is icy, no hint of his usual affection seeping through.

He carefully closes the mirror door even when he wants nothing more than to slam it shut, watch the mirror crack and shatter, the broken pieces a reflection of his own internal turmoil. Deep down, he knows that he’s not being fair, knows that icing Arber out like this isn’t the solution and, in fact, is only going to hurt them both, but right now, he can’t find it in him to care. 

Dropping down onto his knees in front of Arber normally would elicit a different reaction from both of them, heat, affection, arousal, not the look of regret on Arber’s face, nor the look of clinical disinterest on Lane’s.

“Left hand,” Lane says, holding out his own hand in silent demand.

Arber only hesitates for a split second before gently dropping his hand into Lane’s, his eyes flicking to Lane’s face before dropping back to the floor. Lane grinds his teeth; forcing himself to be mad at the man in front of him is harder than he expected, his disappointment a facade to hide the worry, but he’s not quite done making Arber feel like this. 

“It was a dirty fucking hit, Lane. We both know that,” Arber tries again, his hand twitching in Lane’s. “If I hadn’t–”

Lane grabs the disinfectant with more force than necessary, the liquid violently sloshing around in the bottle.

“If you hadn’t fought him, somebody else would have,” Lane bites back.

He carefully stretches Arber’s fingers, watching the bloody scrapes pull this way and that, and then drops Arber’s hand. 

“And if nobody else did, that would have been fine, too,” he continues. “It was a dirty hit, yeah. But I’m fine. Nothing happened. There was no need to–”

Forcing his mouth closed, Lane picks up the gauze, opens the disinfectant and gets some of the sterile-smelling liquid onto the cotton. His nose wrinkles at the smell, so he quickly closes the bottle again before grabbing Arber’s hand again. 

“You’re no use to anyone if you get yourself injured getting into stupid fights.”

He’s careful as he dabs the wet gauze against Arber’s bloody knuckles, biting his lip when Arber winces at the sting, his hand pulling away from Lane reflexively. Lane’s hold on Arber’s hand gets a little tighter.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of the antiseptic. “It’ll only hurt more the longer I have to do this.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Arber clench his teeth and move his hand closer to Lane, letting him clean up the bloody scabs as best as possible. The medical staff did a good job doing a first clean, so it doesn’t take long for Lane to lower Arber’s left hand and wordlessly hold out his hand for the right one. He works in silence, swallowing the apologies on the tip of his tongue every time Arber winces or twitches from the sting. 

When he’s done, Lane sighs, dropping the gauze but keeping Arber’s hand in his. He squeezes it once, then lets his thumb brush over the untouched skin of the back of it. 

“I worry,” he admits. “Seeing you put your body on the line like that, it’s– I don’t like it. And I wish you wouldn’t– you don’t have to protect me. I’m not big and beefy like you, but I can take care of myself, you know? Especially on the ice.”

He looks up, then, wordlessly pleading with Arber to understand him, to agree, to stop making Lane feel like he’s going to throw up every time he sees Arber provoke someone, or engage in verbal back-and-forths that then turn into physical fights. 

Arber squeezes his hand back, his free hand reaching out to cup Lane’s face.

“I know you can take care of yourself. But I just– seeing you get hit, watching you struggle to get back up, that fucking sucks. And there’s not much I can do to protect you except fight people when they hurt you,” Arber says, his voice soft. “I’m not sorry for that. But I am sorry for making you feel bad about it.”

He brushes his thumb over the soft skin beneath Lane’s eye, squeezing Lane’s hand again. 

“I guess we’ll just have to learn to deal with this,” Lane sighs. “Just– Promise me you won’t fight everyone for me all the time. And I’ll try not to– I’ll promise to be there, every time, to take care of you after.”

“I promise.” 

When Arber gently pulls at him, Lane goes easily, closing his eyes and letting Arber press a soft kiss to his lips.