Sutures and the Fading Memory of a Past High
" S- HotGuy?! Are you alright?" CuteGuy calls out, tucking the handgun into a holster on his hip. HotGuy can only be glad that he didn’t leak his name. One slip and he’d 100% suffer a fate worse than death.
"As alright as a man with a stab wound to the shoulder could be. Nice shot by the way." He replies, wincing at the throbbing pain in his shoulder. Dang, that one was gonna leave a nasty mark.
CuteGuy says a quick ‘thanks’ before turning around and locking eyes with the Reduviidae. He hummed softly, presumably in thought before crouching beside HotGuy and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Turn around for me real quick, 'kay?"
He obliges. Not like HotGuy could do much of anything else right now other than sit here, fly away without CuteGuy (which he wouldn't ever do), or die. Whilst staring at the concrete and drawing shapes on the ground with his blood, he hears a few words whispered and a sharp jab. One could only imagine what went down approximately 5 meters away from himself.
After a hot minute, CuteGuy taps him on the shoulder. "Alright, you can get up now."
HotGuy stands up and stretches before remembering he currently has a gash in his shoulder and stops mid-stretch. CuteGuy examines the wound, a concerned expression on his face.
"Should we go to the hospital? Can you make it back?"
His eyes widen before shaking his head rapidly, the motion casting an overly nauseating dizzy spell over him. "Oh, no! Don't take me to the hospital, whatever you do, don't. That's a one-way ticket to jail."
"Sorry." CuteGuy mumbles. He opens his mouth to say something but shuts it quickly, making a face and backing away. “...Does this happen to daily? Should I be concerned?”
“ Yeeaah. They don’t normally get me as badly as this .” HotGuy waves to the bleeding slit in his left shoulder. “I guess I was just worried about you. Got a bit distracted.”
“Oh.”
Once again, the two are sunk into serene silence, all injuries forgotten. CuteGuy crouches in front of him, barely 7 inches away from his own face. From the corner of his eye, he sees the shorter’s hand inching closer to his own before jerking back and curling into a fist.
“Er, don’t worry too much in the future, I’ll be fine.” He says, standing up and spreading his paper-thin wings, the light shining through them and casting a soft shadow onto the ground. “Let’s go. I don’t want you to bleed out on the ground.”
“Yep. Let’s get out of here.” HotGuy agrees, inky wings flinging themselves open as he fumbled himself into the air. He almost feels a pang of jealousy when CuteGuy easily follows in pursuit. He had wings that didn’t weigh him down, had powers that actually helped people, and was more useful today than HotGuy would probably ever be in his lifetime. He’d probably be able to shake off a wound better than himself as well.
Being a raven Reborn wasn’t exactly the best thing in the world. While most Reborns got something special, like abilities or limbs and bits that were flashy and impressive, HotGuy stood with nothing but a pair of wings, close to nothing compared to his friends and peers. He wasn’t anything but a bird, prey, someone to kill. Even the wolves he’s met through the LIFE games had something special. Sharpened vision, enhanced fighting skills, swifter and nimbler. Instead, the Watchers just gave him the leftovers at the bottom of the barrel. Maybe that’s what encouraged him to spend every scrap of free time training himself to fight, to be more competent, to be more than the loser who can’t stop getting injured. Maybe he should have given in to the voices, maybe he should have let that zombie kill him that day, maybe if he’d just let them take him away and twist his limbs into something more powerful, people would-
HotGuy- no, Scar barely stops himself from ramming into a glass skyscraper. Grian catches his hand and tugs him backwards as Scar half-fumbles and half-glides to a stop. “Are you alright? You’re spacing out... And you’re going the wrong way.”
“Yep! Sorry, just got a bit distracted. Bloodloss, am I right?” He deflects, waving his hand nonchalantly.
“Whatever you say..?” Grian murmurs, squinting at him like his face gave it all away. However, Grian doesn’t comment on it and angles Scar towards the complex, the faint hum of his insect wings fluttering in the afternoon sky.
When the two eventually get back to the apartment, Scar had to physically, mentally, and spiritually resist the urge to flop onto the couch and pass out -- Even though it was barely half-past 5:00 PM. Instead, Grian insisted that Scar’s wound needed medical attention. Which, he was probably right; It was starting to hurt like crazy.
So, here he was, shirtless while Grian carefully cleaned the stab wound with a medkit he found in Scar’s room, barely a breath away from bare skin. This was probably the most awkward-flustered he’s felt in his entire life and all Scar could do was sit perfectly still and stare violently at the window to prevent himself from flushing at the other’s delicate touch. Every few minutes his eyes would flick over to Grian, who was very visibly forcing his eyes to focus on the drying blood collecting on a piece of soft cloth in his hand, trying to not look back.
Right now, the stinging of cold water being pressed into his wound barely meant anything to Scar. All he could think about was the weird fluttering feeling in his stomach- one he hasn’t felt since he was a teen. His thoughts ran in a tight ring of: He’s just a friend, he’s just a friend. Don’t ruin it all like you always do, goddammit. Scar’s jaw tightened, almost flying through the ceiling when he felt a needle pierce his skin.
“ Ffffff- Holy! You did not warn me you were doing stitches too!” He yelped, barely keeping himself steady on the cushions.
Grian giggles softly which almost makes the whole ‘Hey Scar! Just gonna stab you with this needle real quick!’ thing acceptable. “Sorry, Scar! Just wanted to make sure it didn’t leave a massive... Scar.”
He briefly sees Grian’s eyes flicker down to his abs which were littered with past ventures and fights, almost as if Grian was using the map drawn across his body with blades and arrows as a prime example. The action was so quick that it leaves Scar wondering if it’d even happened at all.
“Erm- You also lack a numbing agent so it wouldn’t hurt any less if I told you in the first place.” He continues, clearing his throat and carefully tying a knot at the end of the suture.
“Why not just bandage it up and call it a day?”
“I dunno, I guess it’s just something I don’t do often. Don’t want to live with a massive gash on me forever.”
“Wait-” Scar double-takes, eyes widening slightly. “You do this to yourself?!”
He pauses, looking away and pressing his lips together into a thin line. Annnnd.. The awkward silence was back. Dang it.
“No, I… It’s complicated.” Grian says, at last, taking one last look at the perfectly done suture before leaning back and stretching. “Welp, I’m done and exhausted as hell. Please get up so I can take a nap.”
“Alright. Sorry for asking, if it means anything personal to ya.” Scar responds; almost apprehensively as he stands up and rolls his shoulders a few times over.
“It’s whatever. And don’t do that, you’ll make the stitches come loose and I’ll have to suture you back up.”
He gasps dramatically and walks over to his room, reaching for the doorknob. “I’ll probably go to sleep too. If you’re hungry, don’t be afraid to barge in with that gun you stole in hand.”
Grian nods, a sleepy yawn being cut off by his snicker before waving Scar off into his room.
˚⊹ ‧✩⋆⁺₊𓆩✦𓆪⋆⁺₊✩‧ ⊹˚
“Good—--, it’s —- to get up, —- on.”
“--! I -on’t let you turn me —- a —----!”
He’s back in the fields, yellow flowers surrounding him in a mockingly cheerful manner as Scar desperately runs through the crops, stumbling and tripping over stray rocks and sticks. They’re right behind him, hot on his heels. His brain is screaming at him to stop running, to let the fuzzy ichor of corruption drown him. His heart, however, urges him to keep running and hiding and running. For justice, for his roommate, for any future winners.
“We are— going to do anything, Goodt—-. You’ve been here for 2 —---. It’s time for you to go -ome.”
What were they saying? Scar could hardly hear a word. A soft curse slips out of his lips as his wings snag on a sunflower. He barely hesitates before ripping the head of the flower clean-off and ducking into Trader Scar’s.
“Mr. -oodt—-. If y– don’t come — now, we will shoot.”
He doesn’t dare budge and stays crouched to the bloodstained floors of his base. On one hand, being shot would mean he’d be painfully revived and corrupted. On the other hand, he’d spend ages cleaning this whole place up. If these people just left him alone then he could stay forever to wander the paths of his fallen friends and tend to his sunflowers till the sun explodes.
The sound of a gun reloading shoots through the air. When he turns around, a masked figure stares back, the printed-on smile distorting into a melting grin.
“Found you.”
Scar wakes up just as the ring of a bullet whistles through his now-fading surroundings, hands still shaking in a cold sweat. Ah, another nightmare. It’s never actually caught him before, though. Scar’s quite tired of that memory by now, any mention of it only brings back the memory of a Red Life high and bloodied swords. Maybe they did put something in that syringe.
He shakes his head, trying to will the dream out of his thoughts. Scar wasn’t one of them, never could be one of them. It’s all totally fine.
He checks the time. 1:00 AM.
Dang it! This is what he gets for sleeping a few hours too early. The government always had a dumb system to keep citizens in line, maybe one of them was cursing out people who dared to sleep before the sunset. Scar mentally sighs before chucking his phone back onto the nightstand and forcing himself to go back into a light sleep.