@excommune, cont.
his ribs ache on every inhale, exhale, asking for trouble with every word. if he were talking to himself he’d say don’t talk, but marcus is nothing if not a burning hypocrite at every given opportunity. there’s a wound on his cheekbone made by a hand wearing a ring. blood tastes rotten in his mouth. it’s not the first time marcus has lost a fight, but it’s one of the few times anyone’s offered to clean him up afterwards.
‘ — should’ve known i was gonna get the shit kicked out of me. i’d have brought my bag. s’like a gp’s in there. ’
chris is within earshot from the moment he leaves to the one he returns, therefore knows not to hype up his own kit against the other’s. there are a few bandages, cotton swabs, a quarter bottle of rubbing alcohol --- marcus isn’t in for world-class medical care, to be sure. he crouches in front of him, sizes him up.
‘ fuck’d you do, anyway? ’ he tilts the bottle of alcohol, dips a swab in what little liquid remains, and presses it to marcus’ cheek without warning. ‘ you look shite. ’
