sender stitches up receiver's wound (with magic)
the apartment was dimly lit, curtains drawn, the air heavy with the faint scent of iron that refused to leave him no matter how much he scrubbed the floor. he sat forward on the edge of his bed, the open air grazing at the torn flesh that cut jagged across his back. each movement threatened to pull the wound wider, but he held himself steady, spine rigid, as if sheer will could stick him faster than hands or magic ever could.
he felt the shift of weight before he saw it, the quiet drag of a chair across the floor, the low hum of a breath that wasn’t his. chanyeol’s presence was unwelcome but unshakable, his shadow stretching across the room until it settled at his back. then came the warmth: the whisper of magic threading into him, searing heat knitting through torn muscle, carrying both relief and resentment in equal measure.
his fingers curled into the sheets. he hated it, hated the way his body leaned into the pull of healing against its will, the way each pulse of light reminded him how close he had come to being broken for good. the instinct to sneer rose sharp in his throat, barbed words pressing against his tongue. but when the final burn dulled and the wound gave away to a sealed line of flesh, silence pressed heavier than disdain.
zero lowered his head and for a moment he simply breathed. his hand lifted as though to touch the wound, then fell back to his lap. the words he wanted to bite, to push away, collapsed inward, leaving him with something he almost didn’t recognize in himself.
“thanks.”
it left low, just barely lost in the quiet of the room. he didn’t look back when he said it, didn’t trust his expression to hold steady, but the taut line of his shoulders eased, the hard set of his body loosening fraction by fraction. for once, the air between them wasn’t sharpened with hostility, it was heavy with something rarer, softer even. something that was as fragile as glass.
