#fussing

Darlin smiled, thinking they’d woken him up from a nap. They were suddenly very happy they’d gotten home early, slinking down the hallway to his door.

“Is it eight already?” Huxley asked just as they pushed the door into a full swing. His room was unlit like the rest of the house but the afternoon light from the window should have told him it wasn’t evening yet.

“No. I’m—” Darlin started to explain, knee on the mattress when he turned his face toward them, blinking blearily up. He reached for them, his big hand finding their hip and palming it, fingers sneaking under their shirt to find skin. “What the fuck happened?” Darlin straddled his hips, hands hovering near his face. His right eye, temple, and cheekbone were dark red with clouds of purple.

Huxley sighed, one hand still on their hip but the other touching their wrist. “It’s okay.”

“If it’s okay then why are you laid up?”

“I’m not. I’m just taking a nap, tough stuff.”

“Can I touch?” Darlin asked.

Huxley hummed, smiling a little.

They framed his face, touching everything that wasn’t bruised or welted. “Did you get hit with something?”

“Hockey stick.”

“Who hit you?” Darlin demanded.

Huxley smiled, squeezing their hip gently. “Not like that. It was an accident. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” they argued, casting their glance over his neck and arms in a fast search for any other marks. Huxley always had a few scratches and bruises, but there was nothing else out of the ordinary.

“It was an accident,” he repeated.

Darlin sat back and lifted his shirt up his chest.

-

Huxley pried his eyes open and almost laughed, letting them search all they wanted. They touched his ribs carefully, frowning seriously. His heart swelled. “I’m okay,” he promised. It really had been an accident. He got hurt sometimes. It wasn’t a big deal.

Darlin huffed and returned their attention to his face. They worried their lower lip thoughtfully, a scar there paler than the rest of their mouth. Darlin got banged up even worse than he did sometimes and definitely had more scars. Worse scars. They shouldn’t even bat an eye at his bruise.

“Do you have a headache?” Darlin asked.

Huxley did. He almost lied but that didn’t feel right. “Yeah.”

“Did you take anything for it?”

“No. I figured I’d just sleep it off…”

Darlin held a hand up in front of their face. “How many fingers?”

Huxley laughed, suddenly not caring about his headache or the physical throb in his face when he did. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious! Shut up and answer the question.”

He tried to temper his amusement, both hands settled on Darlin’s thighs now. They were still sitting on his hips. “Two.” They changed their fingers. “Four.” Darlin dropped their hand. “Okay. I’m going to get you some water and then I’m calling a healer.”

He held tight to their thighs when they tried to get up off him. “No. No healer. I promise if it’s still bad tomorrow I’ll go into the clinic on campus and let the students have at it.”

Darlin’s eyes widened. “Students? No! They’ll scramble your brain or something.”

He realized they were whisper yelling and smiled. He loved them. They hadn’t said that stuff, but he knew it. “I don’t think they can scramble my brain. It’ll be okay.” He rolled them, tangling their legs together and settling them on their sides facing each other. “You don’t have to fuss over me. I’ve seen you try to put band-aids on worse.”

“That’s different,” Darlin countered, reaching up to gently trace fingers against the side of his face, along the perimeter of the bruise.

“How? Because your tough?” he smirked.

“No. Because you deserve better,” they countered.

Huxley stared at them. They looked so serious—still so focused on the bruise.

“You’re sure it was an accident?”

He stroked their side. “Yes. I promise.”

They relaxed a fraction. “Okay. I’ll give Marie a call—”

“You wouldn’t even call Marie that time your hand was broken,” he pointed out. “This is just a bruise.”

“It could be a concussion.”

“It’s not.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve had a concussion before.”

Their eyes grew huge and he knew that was not the right thing to say. “What. The. Fuck.”

“So have you…” Huxley reminded, trying not to laugh.

“If you’ve had one before you might be more likely to get one now. It could be brain damage.”

He wasn’t sure anything they were saying was true. But it sounded like it could be… But Darlin had a habit of spitting up things that sounded true in an argument. There was no reason they would know, since they seemed even worse about getting help for this sort of thing than he was. He combed their wild hair back from their face with his fingers, leaving his hand in their hair, against the back of their head. “Stop spinning out, tough stuff.”

Darlin looked very close to sulking.

Huxley kissed them. “You’re already making me feel better.”

Darlin sighed, kissing him back, their arm snaking around his side to hug him tighter. He closed his eyes, still smiling softly. After a few minutes, when he was close to sleep, Darlin asked again, very softly, “Who swung the hockey stick?”

His smile grew but his eyes stayed shut. He squeezed them tighter in his hug. “Nope. Accident.”

Darlin frowned even though he couldn’t see it, but resigned themself to snuggles. After he napped some more, they’d make sure he got a big glass of water in. They’d heat up some leftovers and if he still had a headache they’d text Milo about getting either Marie or the stealth to stop by.