But I'll ride home laughing [RL]

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[It's a Friday night. Closer to Saturday morning. Kirei tends to wake up early, when he sleeps at all. Fridays are no exception. He hopped out of the bar earlier. Gilgamesh, of course, still had work to do. Well. A certain definition of work. It tended to involve climbing rooftops with various bottles in hand.

But it's the type of late that's starting to seem early, so Kirei tries to catch some sleep by the tail. It's illusive today. Just when he thinks he's got his finger on it, it slips away. Uneasy. That's the word for the feeling. A roll in the gut that won't stop churning. He shuffles his blankets and pillows in the hopes of pinning sleep down. He avoids the still slightly pained shoulder. There are some problems advil can't solve.

This is one of many.]

Comments

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[It's the heaviness that clues him in. Gilgamesh tended to walk as though the seas should part for him. Nothing meaningful would stand in his way. Be swept aside. A fluidity to it. Like the wine he pours so frequently. Kirei's not known him to hit creaking floor boards, or step like a stone.

He clicks open his door and enters the main room. Flicks on the light. Watches the fluorescence fill. Gilgamesh is there. But a weight to him. Blood surrounds. Bruises, too. Puddles on the floor. A lean against the door shut fast. Kirei stops mid step. Takes in the sight. And the scent of wine, which clings to him, and the scent of blood, which blooms.

A beat. Not a pause. Not a gasp. Not a break in form. Just a blank space, between this and the next. Filling in gaps, with information he used to know by heart, by the click of monitors, by the shape of a bruise.]

I'll get the rubbing alcohol.

[And he does. With a few other items, beside. Bandages. Towels. Cotton swabs.]

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[He returns, all the same. Wets one of the towels with warm water from the sink. Raises an eyebrow. The fight line runs through Gilgamesh. A feeling of the pounce held back. Acid on the tongue.

And so Kirei takes stock. Gash on the side of his head. Bad cut on the arm. Wrist locked up. Scrapes everywhere. Clipped, but not broken. Not entirely. Not the way it seemed at first blush. The blood swiped away by finger tips.

He gets to work. Tries to. He knows Gilgamesh's habit for cloaking himself in pride as much as he cloaks himself in finery. The wrist seems the best place to start. Knows the way it can get hung up, like needles stuck into a pin cushion. The nearness of blood vessels, arteries, veins. So, wrist first. Then the head. Then the arm. A plan forming.

He kneels before him. Brings up the warm towel. Looks him dead in the eye.]

Don't you.

[He's going to get clawed for this. He knows. Gilgamesh favors claws, the sting of nails.

He's felt worse. He's done worse. So he starts trying to clear the blood from the arm away from the wrist, one bit of towel at a time, the flicker of pulse beneath his fingertips.]

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[There it is. The pierce he expected. The wordless howl. The boil of no. The roll of anger like a tide. He scoffs. A huff. And he continues on. Tilts the wrist if he must. Tries not to laugh of the irony of it all. He isn't entirely sure if he succeeds. He isn't entirely sure if he cares.

He knows the smell of disinfectant. Of hospital beds. The crinkle of heart monitors. The feeling of bruises as they heal. The cream white walls. The shifting of sheets. The pale white lines, which used to be vivid red. And he doesn't shut the door. He lets it roll through him, whatever it is. The normalcy of it all. The familiarity. Lets it guide, if its going to stick around at all.

In any case, he holds his tongue. But he keeps working, and soon enough the bulk of the blood is wiped away, clinging to the towel. He unrolls the bandages and starts upon wrapping the wrist. Somehow stable. The claw marks in his wrist and the back of his hand are immaterial. He disregards the snarls.]

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[He tucks the bandage into itself. Makes a knot. Not the best. But it would hold, so it would do. He glances up. Thinks of what he has to do next.

Right, the head. That gash isn't getting any better. Yet, if Gilgamesh has energy enough to glare redly at him, his head can't be the worst of it. Still, it must be done. The loose river of congealed blood stuck fast to his hair as it strings.

He reaches for the hairline. Ball of rolled cotton covered with alcohol in hand. Seeks to press fingers in, to see the worst of it. The dizziness seems to have faded. The rage remains. The tapestry of curses under his breath.

Well. Consider this a kind of blessing.]

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[His hand is like a vice. He can hear the crackle of bone beneath. The pulse and haze. He gazes lowly at him from beneath his bangs. The venom burns. Spat out. Ground out. A command. Must be obeyed. Must pull back, if the hand would let him.

Must he?

No one refuses him. No one he knows. Not phrased like that, barely a phrase at all. Barely words, beneath the sting and the cutting and the grip.

A red flash. A pounding in the skull. The hammer of pulse. His other hand reaches up. Not like a snakebite. Like a punch. Something solid about it. Planned. Careful, somehow. Presses the hand to Gilgamesh's throat. Feels the thrum of blood beneath his fingers, beneath the palm. The gulp of air that would escape if he squeezed. The line of artery and vein.]

Hush.

[He can command just as well as he can. And he ignores the way his pulse speeds, the way his vision blurs at the edges.]

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[The swallow of Adam's apple. The clawmarks in his wrist that spread down his side, catch in his scratchy pajamas. The life that runs through arteries. How easy it would be to squeeze. To clasp shut. The eyes burning through him, enraged beyond measure. And something else. Something lurking. That moves like interest. Like attention gained and received.

He exhales. Shifts his position. Doesn't relax. Between the march of blood and the pulse of head and the thrum of heart, relaxing is impossible. A smile blooms. Sharp, somehow. Like the edge of a knife. Twitches his fingers against his neck. Wonders if any of the blood from earlier is on them. If he will leave a mark.

He gets back to work. Cleaning the blood from Gilgamesh's head. Pressing in. But with precision. And the burn of alcohol. Like fine nettles. Feels the way his blood burns with life as it escapes and sticks to scalp and hair. Clears away what remains.

An almost whistle to it all. At ease. And sometime he might think better of it. Or worse of it. In the dark of the night, when sleep steals away from him. For now the lights are on, and he is home.]

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[He finishes cleaning the head wound. He can't find reason to move his hand from his throat just yet. Less of a violent impulse running down his spine and nerves. Still there, unmoving. Relaxing almost, as Gilgamesh slowly sinks back into his typical lazy air.

Two out of three. Not bad. He dare not look at the clock, or flick the lights off. Once started, there's no point in stopping. No point in averting his gaze. No use. A hopeless case. Terminal.

He knows the way an arm catches when it bleeds. A spout of blood, more of a mess than a danger. Still, he's come this far. He'll clean that, too. The towels have probably gone cold by now. It is hard to tell, from the warmth that swims in the atmosphere.

The smile stays in place through the dull burn of alcohol.]

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[Done.

All wounds taken care of. The ones that mattered, anyhow. Scrapes and cuts. Abrasions. Minor things. The rawness of knuckles and lip. Probably other bruises lurking out of sight.

But he's done. Efficiently as he could. A practiced ease. Routine. One thing then another. No rush trying to remember steps. Methodical.

He sits back a moment. Surveys his handiwork. The bandages. The sting of alcohol on a forgotten paper cut on his hand. The blood that sticks to his fingertips, and the blood welling on his wrist. The way his eyelids droop with expended effort.

He doesn't know what time it is. Too late. But he stands to his feet. Decides he'll clean up the spots left behind in the morning. Takes in the virtually undisturbed room around them. The silence of the night broken by students returning from the bar. Cars on the highway. Music down the hall.

None of it matters. He reaches out for him, and tries to set him back on his feet.]

Up with you. Won't be long now. You can sulk to your heart's content soon.

[He heads for Gilgamesh's room. His actual room. Not the portion of floor and bed he tends to claim out of Kirei's.]

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[The pull on his wrist. The dig in. Half moon shaped marks left behind along with the sting of it all. He scoffs. It seems like a laugh at the edges. He stoops a bit. He's taller than him, after all. It amuses him. Gilgamesh has to reach up to reach him. Or pounce, to knock him down. A body made of wires and springs and coils, well engineered.]

Assuming it was there to begin with.

[It takes some time. To walk half-hobbled to the room. To open the door. He imagined dust clouds behind it. An emptiness. He's half wrong. It's clean. Almost sparkling in the dimness. It doesn't seem lived in. No lumps on the bed. No possessions left out. Like he'd moved in just yesterday.

But he gets there. Walks him to the edge of the bed, and lets go.]

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[He steps away from the bed. At first. Assumes sleep will trail Gilgamesh shortly. Just a half step. Not much. The impression of distance, more than the actuality.

There's an opening. He's not blind. He can see it. How easy it would be, to climb upon the bed. Like breathing. Or riding a bicycle. And he nips that analogy before it gets any further. The curtain of hair and the look in his eyes does enough. Like he's entranced.

By him.

It jolts him. Breaks the spell hanging over him. His eyes go wide. He steps back. A hand almost outstretched. An almost bend in the spine. The air seems thin. Or that there's suddenly not enough of it. And whatever little can be found burns on the way down.

There is an opening. Kirei doesn't take it.]

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[He does. For a moment, he gets the impression that the laugh is more dangerous than the bed could ever have been. Fleeting. Gone, almost as quickly as it came.

He closes the door behind him. Carefully, so it doesn't echo. Shuts off the light in the main room. Stumbles in the dark for his room. Outside he can hear cars whir past. The shouting in the parking lot. The thrum of bass.

But it doesn't sound so clear, beneath the rushing in his ears.

Sleep doesn't come easily, when it comes at all.]

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[It is strange, to not have a rumble spring up as Kirei awakes in time for his classes. A complaint as he shifts. Gods don't get cricks in the neck. Apparently. And it is strange, to not have to dodge a pile of blankets as he walked. To be able to click the light on as soon as he woke up. The sheets kicked off in the night, which lacks a nearly disheveled pile on the floor of the bed to join them.

But awake he does. Firmly Saturday now. No homework to contend with. He could sleep in, if he wanted. Roll over. Go back to sleep. But he shuffles off the sleepy coil. Lets his feet find flat slippers. Wanders into the main room in search of tea and breakfast. Not paying attention to the time that blinked on digital clocks. Glances at the front door. The smudges in front of it.

Meh. Tea first. Cleaning second. The floors creak and shift beneath his feet.]

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[Kirei runs cold. Always has, always will. A chill in his veins. Especially his hands. And yet he kicks the blankets away at night. Still, the slippers come in handy. The heater's been on the fritz anyhow. It let cold seep into the floorboards or linger in the morning.

He glances up at the gleam of gold that heralds Gilgamesh's awakening. Faint surprise on his face, though he recovers well enough. Early for him. Very early. Usually it'd take a very sharp stick to get him up before noon, and Kirei lacked sticks he was willing to risk.]

I see you're up in time for breakfast. For once.

[He puts the kettle on. He glances back at the mess on the floor. The scuffs and the dull blood. He feels faintly ill. The stirrings of a sickness in the head. Still subtle. But clearly on the approach. He looks away, though he doubts it will banish the feeling.]

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[He sets to making eggs. Retrieves the pan. Sets it on the burner. Grabs the eggs from the carton. Taps twice on the flat of the counter. Separates the shells. The sharp crack of it. Splits them over the bowl. Whisks with a fork. Pours a bit of milk. Keeps whisking. A rhythm to it. Repeated often. Not even interrupted by the hop up the counter, the lean and the lear and the lure of it all.

Butters the bottom of the pan. Watches it go from pale yellow to brown. Pours the eggs. Watches the steam hiss up. No hum to his steps, no tune to his voice. Practiced to the point of it seeming careless. A step and then the next. One after the other. Glances at him. The hang of jewelry that never catches. The cross of legs. The sleep still clinging to his hair.

Considers it with a hum.

Retrieves the hot sauce from the cabinet.]

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There isn't much to explain.

[A glance away. To the left. And down. To the place where blood's congealed on the floor with the dirt. The smoke still builds from the eggs. The crinkle of the frying pan as it cooks. The addition of salt, and shreds of cheddar cheese. The distance larger than that. Imposing. Like of a great chasm which would swallow him whole if he let it.

So he won't.

Not today.

The way blood wells from cuts. The way skin heals from burns. The way candle wax drips and seals and oozes and freezes. The edges of cross. The clinging of rosary beads. The way a bed dips when it's sat in. The way the sheets get mussed. And hair. The way bandages are wrapped and unwrapped. The look in the eyes when light fades away.

He discards it. The eggs will be ready soon.]

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[The eggs finish. He tips them out of the pan and onto a plate. Pours hot sauce on it. A thinness to it. Orange-red. Not at all like blood. Or ketchup, for that matter. Hears the kettle whistle. Pours tea into a mug. Plain. Ordinary. The steam rising off. The bag pressed down with a spoon. Stirred. Squeezes lemon in the amber-red liquid that grows and spreads like ink inside the cup.

Returns his gaze to Gilgamesh. Like a magnet, inescapably pulled. The hand near bandages that have not bled through just yet. He knows they way they do at times. The way they stick to skin. He knows it all by heart, or what counts as one with him. Sometimes he isn't certain he has one. He remembers the way she faded away. The conviction in her eyes as they dulled, beneath the bandages.

The mess left behind.

He raises a fork in Gilgamesh's direction. He lacks knives within reachable distance. The point is clear, regardless. A rumble of voice. Not quite a scoff.]

Don't touch it.

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[He sets the spoon down. Takes a sip of tea.]

On purpose?

[He considers it. Almost waffles. Thinks as he spears some egg with the fork. Wonders if Gilgamesh will follow the movement.]

No. Not really.

[A bite of breakfast. The point hovers above his head like helicopter blades. He almost smiles, as he takes another sip of tea. Places the mug down on the countertop. Absently. An almost scoff to the tone.]

Most people have more sense than to toy with their injuries to make a point. If you'd like to keep your sprain longer and get bandaged again, though, be my guest.

[A look back up. A faint smile. Here for an instant, gone in a flash. Flat again as he spoons bits of egg onto the fork. He doesn't dare turn his back on Gilgamesh. The plate of eggs and mug of tea in the no man's land between them.]

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[Ice water flows in his veins instead of blood. The tea mingles with it and spreads warmth. An almost scald. An almost burn to the back of his throat. The citric of lemon. The bittersweetness. He holds the mug carefully aloft. Hand curled around it. The impression of a squeeze. He sets it down on the countertop now and then. Watches the curls of heat escape from it.

Gilgamesh scares him, sometimes. Obvious, he knows. He scares everyone. Ought to. But there is such a lure in his brilliance. A sort of shine. A pull, now and then. No one holds out long against it. It's like fighting against the tides. The curl of sea foam along the shore. Dragging his feet out from under him to shipwreck.

His smiles are like warning bells. The deadliest of chimes. So why does he stay here within range, as his hands going about the business of breakfast as always. His eyes may widen. The realization that, too late, he may have been swept out to sea. Gotten lost in the undertow.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the kettle. Warped and stretched. He doesn't find any answers in it.

He shifts his gaze back to Gilgamesh.]

It seems you like the souvenirs.

[And the bruises he left behind.]