Chapter 36
Tristen
I thought I was ready for what quip was about to come out of his mouth at my snarky comment. I am anything but prepared when it turns out to be vomit. The projectile kind that makes it five feet before splattering all over the smooth concrete floor.
I jump back just in time to miss most of it.
But when he cries and hunches over, going through the motions all over again, I rush forward.
“Aw fuck, bubbles.”
I try my best to smooth his hair back from his face, but my hands are caked with dried blood and dirt, catching the strands.
He heaves again.
“Why didn’t you tell me you felt sick?”
There’s a garbled noise that gets cut off by a retch so deep, he falls to his knees.
Stupidly, I follow him down and land right in a warmth I don’t wanna think about.
It feels too familiar, and my chest gives a mighty thump, reminding me of my own injuries with its pain-filled pulse.
“The blood.”
My veins go cold, and I snap my sight to the purge on the ground, confused when I don’t see any.
“Where?”
“Tristen,” he gasps out through another wave that doesn’t produce much more but sounds horrendous, and I rub his back. “You. You’re covered in blood.”
When his shoulders shake and he jerks away from me, I finally look down.
Fuck, I forgot.
I whip the material over my head and scrub at my face. It burns like a mother fucker, but that means nothing to me when Em heaves again, his sob breaking through the haze of pain.
“Why did you make me eat,” he cries, and I curse low.
“It’s okay,” I say as I rush to the sink and wet some paper towels to wipe at my face. “Just get it up.”
I’m already running back to where he’s on his hands and knees when the paper towel swipes come back less red, the spot on my cheek persistently leaking now that I’ve broken the scab open.
“I’m sorry,” he cries.
The acrid scent of his stomach acid burns my nose, and my ribs are screaming in pain, but I plant a hand on his shoulder anyway.
He cries harder.
“It’s okay—”
“I’m s-s-sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
“Emmett,” I whisper through the heart-shaped lump in my throat and drape my arm across his shoulders. “It’s okay. We’ll do it together.”
He’s trembling when he looks at me through his hair, his sweet eyes so damn wide and tear-filled that my chest aches way deep down in the parts of me that I don’t like to think about often. A piece of me that was buried beneath the trauma and the life of an addict.
A boy long ago forgotten.
A sun-framed face with eyes so light they seemed unreal that hovered over me as I lay in the mulch of the playground with a broken arm.
“You’re not mad?”
My breath hitches and I shake my head.
“No, bubs, of course not.” I brush back some of his hair from his face, tucking what will reach behind his ear. “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make me mad.”
“Not even if I called you an asshole?”
I snort and shake my head. “Not even then. C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Okay, asshole.”
The laugh that bursts out of me as I push to my feet immediately cuts off when it hurts too damn bad.
“Why am I an asshole?” I ask through a hiss and hold out a hand to help him off the floor. He takes it with one hand, his other snaking across his stomach like maybe it still hurts.
Then he points at my face, the cuts there, and shakes his head.
“Blood.”
Snickering, I lead him to the lockers and pop mine open.
“I guess I’ll accept that. But only because you’re the first person I’ve ever met that throws up because of it.”
He’s frowning when I glance his way, hovering awkwardly beside me with his fists twisted in the sleeves of his hoodie.
When he finally glances up and catches the tip of my lips, his twitch. He stops fidgeting.
“Does that make me weird?”
I snort, I can’t help it. “We’re all a lil weird, bubs.” Sifting through the clothes I have left in my locker, I pull out something to wear under my uniform and turn to Emmett. “I have a few things in here if you want to change?”
He takes a moment to assess his state, then shakes his head. “I don’t know how I didn’t get any on me.”
Chuckling, I toe off my boots and grab my shower caddie. “I think I caught it all for you.”
The slump of his shoulders makes my stomach turn.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers to my feet.
“It’s not the first time I caught puke,” I say with a tilt to my lips and a knot in my stomach. Does he not know I’ve already dealt with his? “Now why don’t you go grab the mop bucket from the hall closet? There’s a big sink in there to fill it with.”
His nod is somber, but he slumps away to go find it while I shower.
I’m in and out in two minutes, the freezing cold scrub down like a jolt to my system that has me feeling wired when I snag the bottle of mouthwash and find Em again.
He looks as lost as ever.
Even with a mop in his hands and a bucket next to him.
“It’s okay, bubbles,” I say quietly, though he still jumps, and offer him the bottle. “Trade?”
There’s the faintest nod as he accepts it and takes off back toward the bathroom while I finish mopping up the mess.
Most of it was already gone, so it only takes a minute to hide the evidence and put the bucket away.
Em’s still not out when I start collecting the rubbing alcohol pads, Band-aids, and butterflies from the supply closet and that energy I was feeling zips away fast.
I still haven’t told him.
Running the hem of my shirt under my nails with my free hand, I find him in the bathroom by the lockers, the bottle still in his hand.
“Em?”
There’s a jolt to his shoulders and he spins too fast.
“Y-yeah?”
I lift a brow and subtly glance down to the sink. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yep. Mhmm. Was I taking too long?” He thrusts out the bottle and looks down. “I’m sorry.”
Shaking my head, I gesture to my locker. “You can put it up.”
He moves around me like I have the plague and my brows furrow deeper.
What the fuck was he doing?
Stepping up to the oddly clean sink, I check my reflection in the mirror for the first time since yesterday morning and it steals my breath.
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter with a twist to my stomach.
The man staring back at me is … fuck.
My eyes are black and bloodshot. My sides are already fucking purple and coloring down to the waistband of my briefs. My brows are both busted and scarred. There’s stubble I normally keep shaved down darkening my chin and surrounding swollen lips.
The cut on my cheek is wide open and throbbing.
That should really be stitched.
Sucking in a shaking breath, I flex my hands closed. Then open. Then closed.
It makes the numbness I was feeling tingle up to my elbows.
Quiet.
I blow out.
“I-I think I can help.”
The sound of Emmett’s soft tone has my heart jumping into my throat.
“It’s okay,” I say, and it cracks.
My fingers tremble around the small package that I’m not sure is what I need, and the rip it makes has my pulse skyrocketing.
It’s like breaking open a brand-new syringe.
I swallow hard and set the butterfly strip aside.
“Tristen.”
It sounds like he’s far away, but when I glance to my side, Emmett’s right there. His honey irises watching me intently, his dark brows drawn down tight.
He doesn’t break eye contact as he swipes the next thing from my hand, his fingers brushing over mine so lightly that I shiver. Did I imagine it?
All I can do is force air into my lungs when he raises the alcohol pad to my brow and touches it to the broken skin. It burns, yet I can’t do anything but get lost in those sweet eyes watching me, even as he moves to another part of my face.
He’s not staring into my soul anymore but watching his actions as he touches the cleaner to my cuts.
When he gets to the one on my cheek, I see him swallow hard. It’s not actively bleeding anymore, but it could break open, and it’s big. His touch goes shaky.
“Emmett,” I whisper, terrified to break this haze we’ve fallen into with anything louder than that. “You don’t have to.”
Glaze flicking to mine, he lifts his chin.
“Tell me what to do.”
The organ in my chest thumps.
I wish I was as brave as him.
“Just, um, clean it like the others and then use the strips to pull it back together.”
“What if it scars?” It’s going to. No doubt.
“It won’t.”
The lie seems to ease him just enough that his shoulders lift.
He’s careful as he cleans it and I do my best not to react to the sting, even when he presses a little harder this time.
When he leans back to grab the strips, I work my jaw and drag in a shaky breath.
God, my face is throbbing.
Aching.
Pulsing.
“Can you … maybe sit?”
Blinking through the fog, I nod and drop to the bench set between the lockers next to us. He doesn’t hesitate to walk right between my knees. Leans in close as if my state of undress does nothing to faze him.
So close that I could count the flecks of yellow in his eyes. Smell the mint on his breath. Trace each freckle across his nose with my own.
I hold my breath.
“Okay. Do I just …” He pinches my cheekbone and my eye twitches. “And then do this.” He presses on one side and my jaw grits. God, that hurts so bad. “Then …” There’s pressure at the bottom of the cut, a tug of skin as he pulls and secures the second half of the strip to my face. “These are small.”
Grunting when he rips open a second pack, I don’t even bother stopping my reach. It’s too natural to ignore the urge to place my hands on his hips. Curl my fingers into the fabric just enough that he knows I’m there.
He doesn’t even flinch.
There’s a slight pause, but then he’s pinching my cheek again and taping me back together.
I never would have thought I’d need him to after the state we met in. I’m supposed to be the one helping him, not the other way around, but I have to admit …
I like that he is.
Am I …?
“Will this one fall off like the other one?”
“Eventually,” I rasp and tilt my chin up to look at him fully.
His sight flicks to mine. “I did good.”
My heart thumps so hard in my chest, I’d swear he heard it when the corner of his lips tip up the tiniest bit and fuck, I want to kiss him.
I want his lips on mine. His ass in my lap. His arms around my shoulders.
Our cocks rubbing together.
“Yeah,” I croak out, my fingers wandering just beneath the hem of his hoodie. When I touch smooth peach fuzz on his lower back, I groan. Attempt to cover it with a clearing of my throat. “You did good, bub.”
His finger smooths over the strip so gently, so tenderly, that my stomach flips and my cock jumps at the same time.
But when his hands settle on my shoulders? His fingers curling into the muscle?
“Em,” I breathe out with my stomach in my throat and my cock stiffening against my thigh. “Please kiss me.”
That tilt in his lips digs just a little bit deeper and I stop breathing as he leans down, his mouth ghosting over mine.
My entire body breaks out in a chill that raises my skin when his lips press to mine and I grab him, pulling his chest flush to mine. His gasp is all mint and opportunity that opens him up just enough for me to swipe my tongue along his. It’s silky smooth and I immediately want more.
So much more.
I shove my hands up under the fabric of his—my—hoodie and flatten them over his back that’s …
Raised?
“No!” he yells on a jerk and jams his hands into my shoulders. His small body is so light that he lifts himself up, digging my hands into his back and there’s no mistaking that there’s something there. Something that feels like mountains beneath my fingertips.
My stomach drops faster than my hands do.
“I’m sorry, bubbles. I’m sorry. I—”
The screeching sound of the bay door opening pierces through the room and he stumbles back from me with tears in his eyes.
“Fuck.”