#pelle

You'd barely made it two steps into Pelle's room before the smell of copper hit you.

He was on his hands and knees, hunched over the ratty carpet with a coarse haired brush in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. He froze when he heard the sharp intake of breath fall from your lips.

"Hjärtat" He breathed, wide eyes full of guilt "You weren't supposed to see."

"If I don't see, it hasn't happened?" You frowned and swallowed hard. "Is that what you think?"

"I didn't want to worry you." Pelle muttered softly "It's just a little bit. I'm cleaning it."

"I'm always worried." Your smile was pained. Wobbly. "what happened, my love?"

He shrugged, eyes darting down to the bloodstained carpet as his brows pulled together slightly. As if he really didn't know what had happened.

It wasn't outside the relm of possibility.

Sometimes, you found Pelle with fresh wounds and a vacant look on his face. It was easier to get him cleaned up when he got like that. Your tears could run freely without worrying about making him feel bad. That was never the point. You just wished he didn't feel the need to drag a blade over his skin.

It was an old song and dance between the two of you. You'd find him bloodied and clean him up. He'd let you. Weave his bony figers between yours when you were finished and brush his thumb over your knuckles as some kind of apology.

He'd told you once that there were shadows in his blood. That they'd sing to him if he set them free and spill secrets just for him. It was hard to be angry after that.

There was no part of Pelle that would ever want you to be afraid. He didn't mean to terrify you on stage with broken glass cradled in his hands. Didn't mean to make you cry when he went a little too deep and then refused to go to the hospital after.

He'd bleed for anything if it held him the right way.

You couldn't blame him for that. Not really. You'd known what you'd signed up for when you started hanging around him. Knew what hid beneath his sleeves long before you coaxed them up his arms and helped him shrug off his shirt before bed.

Pelle was quietly ill and in no way ready to adress it.

So, all you could do once you'd' gotten over the intial shock was roll up your own sleeves and settle next to him on the stained carpet. Help, and be glad that he was letting you. Bear the weight of his body leaning into yours. A quiet reassurance that he was there.

Warm and alive.

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