feyland:Montsous Week - Day 6 - Stitches(tw for wounds, blood, and surgical stitches)The kitchen tab

feyland:Montsous Week - Day 6 - Stitches(tw for wounds, blood, and surgical stitches)The kitchen table had seen a lot. It had scars of its own by now, rings of stains interrupted here and there with chips and dents. The dark wood has soaked in more than Montparnasse liked to think about, and so he rarely ate at it, leaving the surface instead to bottles or cards or bodies. He winced. Claquesous had a steady hand, far too practiced. The flinch made no difference to him, and he kept his hand on Montparnasse’s torso, holding the skin together as he pulled the thread though again. Montparnasse closed his eyes, and tried to think about other, better times he had lain on that table, under Claquesous’s capable hands. But the angle was wrong, one hip pressing into the hard wood, his right arm thrown over his head to move it out of the way of the wound.Montparnasse wondered if he would one day die on that table. “Done,” Claquesous said. His voice sounded strange, and his eyes looked too big on his naked face. He had stripped off his mask the second they had come in, letting it fall into the trail of blood that went from the front door to the kitchen. The same blood coated his latex gloves, and he peeled them off quickly, disposing of them along with Montparnasse’s ruined shirt, and a towel soaked in crimson. As though though Montparnasse wasn’t familiar with his own blood. Montparnasse cautiously lay back, letting out an shuddering breath as his body settled. Claquesous was moving around the kitchen, but Montparnasse’s eyes felt too heavy to follow him. He let them fall closed. The throbbing in his side made him grit his teeth, and he tried to take shallow breaths. Each rise of his chest stretched at the wound, threatening to rip it open again. “Here.”Montparnasse blinked up at Claquesous, who had pulled a chair up next to Montparnasse’s head. He held a mug with a straw in it, guiding it towards Montparnasse’s lips. It was orange juice. He had been expecting water. “What the fuck?” he rasped. He didn’t know what he was opposing, but the complaint felt right on his tongue even if it burned below his ribs.“Drink it.”Montparnasse rolled his eyes, but drank. The ceiling light over the table was too bright.“Don’t move. I’m going to make up the bed.” Montparnasse wanted to retort, but the words couldn’t find their way out of his mouth. He swallowed them with the rest of his juice. He had just shut his eyes again which Claquesous returned, pulling Montparnasse off of the table into his arms. The movement pulled at the stitches and Montparnasse whined, tired of holding back. Tired of everything. “I can walk,” he mumbled as Claquesous carried him towards the bedroom. Claquesous didn’t bother with a reply. He had put fresh sheets on the bed and turned down the duvet. He set Montparnasse gently down, and helped him out of his trousers and shoes with clinical formality. When Montparnasse was settled, he pulled up the armchair from the corner, tossing the small mountain of Montparnasse’s clothes onto the floor. “You can sleep in the bed,” Montparnasse said, annoyed.“Not tonight.” Claquesous leaned over and shut off the lamp. He wouldn’t sleep that night, Montparnasse knew. It was the last thing he though before he gave into sleep. -- source link
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