they’ve both had their share of scrapes, scares, hospital visits in the past six months — and before that, too, in chicago. it’s not new. when they stop in motels the bathrooms always end up bloodied. marcus’ head is full of pictures, pictures of them bathed in fluorescent light, swapping cotton pads and iodine, putting butterfly stitches over the wounds the other can’t reach.Â
        this isn’t different, not really.        it’s just deeper. tomas is sat on the edge of the bath with his shirt off, his feet bare against the bottom of the tub. there’s a long, gaping, diagonal slash from the crux of tomas’ left shoulder to the top of his right hip, and whilst it’s not especially deep, it bled. a lot. every move tomas made, made it bleed. it’s still bleeding, trickling red between the water and wash marcus has already been using to clean it.
        it was an unexpected injury. it was neither of their faults. it’s not fatal, but it hurts, it will hurt, it could scar. marcus, a litany of scars himself, worries that it will, not that it could. he presses too hard with the cloth and tomas flinches. marcus hesitates before he presses his other hand to the smooth, bare flat of tomas’ uninjured shoulder. steady now.
        ‘ sorry, ’ he says. he washes and wipes until the blood is all on him, his shirt, his hands, and tomas is clean, clean again, and marcus’ breath rattles uncomfortably in his mouth on the inhale. ‘ this one’ll hurt, ’ he says, a forewarning and an apology in one, and pinches the edges of the wound. they come together easily but don’t hold well by themselves, and marcus bites his thumb. the other hand is still on tomas’ shoulder, ‘ you need stitches. ’
        by the time the work is done — arduous work only made easier by their shared doctor’s bag, half there for them and half for the people they try to save — tomas is pale and marcus’ hands are sore, but the wound is closed. marcus is struck by how closely he now knows the muscles and curves, the broad span of tomas’ back. he stands up and kicks aside the bedside table he’s been perched on this entire time and squeezes the curve where tomas’ neck meets his shoulder. (the uninjured side, always.)
              ‘ — i’d take a shot of vodka and go to bed. that’s what i’m planning to do. ’
        marcus squeezes his eyes against the yellow bathroom light. his hands wash off red in the sink, but he’s too exhausted to scrape tomas’ blood from under his nails. a migraine is creeping in. he watches tomas leave the room in the mirror.
