@onthisbluemoon:
Clumsy wasnât exactly the right word. Purposefully not careful was a better definition for the way he tended to live his life. If he got hurt along the way it just served to remind him that he was still human, still a prisoner trapped in a pain fueled prison. It was no shock at all when he cut himself rather badly on the gate outside his apartment. As they were leaving he, always the last one out, closed the metal gate behind them with a loud clang. Maybe he was too forceful⊠or maybe he was dying for something to make him feel again, but before he knew it he could hear the sound of tiny droplets of blood hitting the cold cement beneath them. With a sigh he peered down at his hand to see a sizable gash running the length of his hand. âWell thatâs excitingâŠâ His tone was rather calm despite his already obvious amount of blood loss and⊠wait, he was beginning to fade. His face began to pale and it was as if he could feel his heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to run a marathon to keep himself alive⊠what was this? Another glance down and heâs standing beside a puddle of blood. âFuck, mustâve hit somethingâ, he thought, but heâs already slumped against said gate as his eyes try to close, lulling him into to the promise of a safe, dark embrace. He doesnât even have time to say more when suddenly youâre wrapping his hand in a makeshift cloth, ripped from the bottom of your shirt which helps to stave off some of the blood, and youâre reassuring him that everything will be fine. He holds his hand up, fingers outstretched as they reach for you and he blinks weakly, trying to ask for help but his pride⊠oh his pride will get him in the end.Â
half a lifetime ago, snow had settled along the windowsill, creeping up the glass in a filigree of time past, and the interiour of the flat had been an uncanny reflection of that. strewn about like sea glass on a shore, shards of glass had decorated the floor in an opalescent mosaic, made all the more radiant when set against a canvas of slowly crawling crimson. that same shade of red had made it to his hands, smeared over fingertips and pooling in the lines of his palms. heâd forgotten how to breathe, how to feel the pulse of life that had been taken from another now swimming in his own veins. and when the time for decisions had arrived, kyungsoo ran.Â
half a lifetime later, his body chooses to move again--this time into the red. hands moving faster than his mind, he winds the makeshift bandage around the strangerâs palm and swallows down the nausea that scratches at the back of his throat as blood soaks right through the fabric. hang on, he thinks he says, his own voice a hundred miles away and his thoughts closer only by an inch. perhaps he repeats those words again, or maybe itâs only an echo in his head, but he keeps pressure on the wound and panics.Â
the first place that comes to mind is a rooftop halfway across the district, edged with pockets of snow and cigarette butts. the nausea returns twice as strong, but he forces it back down with a slow, deliberate exhale. alone up here, he manoeuvres the stranger to rest their head on his backpack and grips their palm between both of his own, eyes shut tight in concentration. within the minute, their palms sport twin slashes, both still bleeding but nowhere near the hemorrhaging from before, and itâs only when the blood loss slows does he begin to breathe easily. with his uninjured hand, kyungsoo keeps the strangerâs elevated, carefully retrieves a travel first aid kit from his bag, and removes the soaked fabric from his shirt to replace it with neat layers of gauze wound âround the other manâs hand. this should be fine. they should be fine.
