PW, "The Slow Ascent after the Sharpest Drop: V," Apollo/Klavier, PG
*dances* A little bit of professional stress and some mock-annoyed feedback go a long way to getting new sections of this story written, did you know? I am such a whore for comments ... ;_;
This section's longer than the last by a few hundred words, and-gasp!-it actually explains some things. Not everything, but still! More than the others! *evil*
Enjoy! ♥
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve
Part Thirteen
Part Fourteen
Part Fifteen
The Slow Ascent after the Sharpest Drop
Part V
by mistr3ss Quickly
Time doesn't exist, for Apollo, afterwards.
Not like it used to, back in the busy days, before. Then, time was always too short, adrenaline pushing Apollo hard enough for him to be where he needed to be, just in the nick of time. Time was measured with the long black needle-hands of the clocks hanging in every hallway of the courthouse, measured between the fancy brass hands of the clock in the courtroom. Time was precious, something Apollo fought against and saved up like money, spent on his little sister and his mentor and his lover whenever he had the chance.
Time is different, now. Carries with it a different meaning than it used to.
~*~*~*~
In the hospital, time was first measured in years, do you know what year it is? What today is? asked of him after he'd told them his name, his birthdate. Then, it was measured in days, when we're going to give you something, it might make you a little groggy meant waking hours later to a nurse cheerfully calling him "sleepy-head," then giving him another dose of whatever it was he'd had the last time he'd been awake.
Then, it was measured in hours. Four hours between doses of medication. Three between nurses applying salve to his first- and second-degree burns. Two between nurses checking the dressing on the more serious burns. One between beeps from one of the machines in the room, which Apollo was pretty sure did something other than measure the time, but never remembered to ask about whenever the nurses came in to see him.
Time meant boredom, in the hospital. Loneliness.
Time meant thinking, giving Apollo the only images he had, anymore.
In the hospital, Apollo was always more than happy for a distraction. For Klavier, kissing him and murmuring to him and telling him how much he loved him, how sorry he was to see him in pain. For Trucy and Mr. Wright to come and visit him, Trucy full of energy and stories and hugs, Mr. Wright quiet and intelligent and interesting to talk to. For nurses to come in and tell him his body was healing slowly, but well, some of the friendlier ones telling him about the day's weather (usually hot) or what the forecast was saying about the coming days (usually hotter). Even for the painkillers, which numbed him, made him slow, made him stupid, but also made him sleep.
In the hospital, Apollo didn't dream. Or, if he did, he had no memory of it, upon waking.
~*~*~*~
Apollo wakes in Klavier's bed, his body jolting suddenly enough that it aches where it's injured, stings where he's strained his burns. It's either very late at night or very early in the morning, he guesses, from the quiet where there's usually the hum of traffic, from the feel Klavier beside him, still asleep, the mattress dipping down under the older man's weight.
His heart's pounding, hard enough that it hurts to swallow. He's sweating.
The nightmare is vague, at best. Heat and pressure, adrenaline. Then falling, which is when he wakes. Pain, too, but it's hard to tell if the pain is a product of his imagination, or just a side-effect of dreaming.
Doesn't matter, he decides, reaching up to carefully run his fingers through his hair. It hurts, more than he expected. Makes him hiss and pull his hand away, reaching up to touch, gingerly. To feel where his bandages have slipped, sometime since he fell asleep.
He hesitates, fingers close enough that he can feel the heat of his injuries, radiating up. His throat's dry; he swallows.
No one has let him touch his wounds, since he got them. Told him it was dangerous, that he could get an infection if he touched without washing his hands. His bracelet thrummed lightly every time he was given that excuse, but he'd never argued. After all, his mentor had told him, it is better to be obedient. Better to obey until you really need to do otherwise, to go against the rules.
Easier to earn forgiveness, that way. To be granted leniency, a blind eye turned towards the mis-deed.
If they find out, Apollo thinks, reaching up again, touching his fingertips lightly to the roughness where his skin has been burned. He knows from his first touch that it's skin, even though it's rougher than it used to be, an odd mix of sharp sensation and numbness. That doesn't surprise him.
But his stomach drops as he keeps touching, keeps feeling. Bile rises in his throat as he realizes just how far back he has to go before he feels hair.
It hurts, more than just where he's touching.
By the time Klavier wakes, Apollo has stopped investigating his injuries. Stopped touching. Stopped breathing. He's shaking, clutching his broken arm to his chest. Scrubbing his bracelet against the fiberglass, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet of the bedroom.
He tries to respond when Klavier says something in German, his voice groggy with sleep. Tries again when Klavier sits up and touches him, clumsy like he can't see what he's doing, and says baby? Are you okay? as he pulls Apollo close, obviously aware that Apollo is not okay.
Apollo puts his left arm around Klavier and clings to him. Finds his voice, finally, although it cracks when he says I'm fine, which doesn't really matter because it isn't true and he's sure Klavier knows it. And it doesn't make him feel any better to say it, either, so he buries his face in the crook of the singer's neck. Notices, for the first time, that Klavier's hair feels different where it touches his burns than it is, pressed against the uninjured parts of his face.
(A swath of skin under his cheekbone, wrapping down his jaw, up under his ear. Most of the skin under his lower lip, down most of his chin, some of his neck. Some of the skin above his eyes, his eyelids. Probably some of his forehead, although it's hard to tell with the bandages covering what he now knows is there, what he now knows isn't there.)
"Oh, baby. Oh Apollo, baby ... shh, baby, shh ..."
Klavier's hands and mouth and voice and body and strength and warmth. Klavier's closeness and concern and trembling fingers rubbing at the back of his neck, up into his hair, soothing him.
"S-sorry," Apollo manages, after what feels like forever. "I d-didn't ... I'm s-sorry for waking you."
Klavier's laughter: real, relieved. The click of the lamp by the bed-shaped like a guitar, a gift Trucy picked out for Apollo to give the older man as a birthday present-and the sound of a tissue being pulled out of its box. The touch of Klavier's hand, gently dabbing away the tears starting to itch where they're drying.
"Bad dream?" he says, once Apollo's recovered well enough to ask for a fresh tissue and blow his nose, only wincing a little at the burns he'd forgotten about, stretching over the bridge of his nose.
"Y-yeah," Apollo says. "What time is it?"
The bed squeaks when Klavier turns to check the clock. Squeaks again when he turns back.
"Three-seventeen A.M.," he says. Yawns. "I think I have not seen this time since college, ha-ha."
Apollo nods and reaches for his lover, touches Klavier's belly with the palm of his good hand, the other resting heavy beside him, motionless. "Me neither," he says, lying down, his hand slipping down towards Klavier's side, where the older man is ticklish. Takes his hand away to cover his mouth as he yawns. "Want to go back to sleep?"
He can hear Klavier's breathing coming closer, knows the kiss is coming before it's pressed against his lips. Knows, even before the older man speaks, that kisses mean Klavier isn't going to do what Apollo wants him to do. Not immediately, if at all.
"Let me put a little more medicine on you, baby," Klavier says. "There are some places which have gone a little pink. I would hate for them to be painful in the morning, ja?"
"M'kay," Apollo says, retracting his hand as his lover leaves the bed. He's careful not to move while Klavier puts salve on his forehead. Careful not to wince when it hurts. Doesn't move when Klavier leaves the bed again, going into the bathroom to wash his hands. Doesn't resist when the older man comes back to bed and tucks him in.
But it's not until Klavier turns off the bedside lamp, returning the bedroom to what Apollo assumes is almost total darkness, that Apollo relaxes, troubled as he falls asleep by what his lover might have seen, before the lights were out.
~*~*~*~
It's early when Apollo wakes, the following morning. He can hear the rush-hour traffic outside the bedroom window, which is open probably an inch or two, letting in the morning air, still cool. Klavier is gone, however; Apollo doesn't need to reach out and feel the empty sheets, cool and tangled beside him, to know that. He's spent only a few nights in the singer's flat, sharing the older man's bed instead of sleeping alone in a hospital bed, but it's taken only that for him to grow familiar, once again, with the sound of Klavier's breathing, close by. To miss it when it isn't there.
It's probably not as early as I thought, then, Apollo tells himself, sliding out of bed and stretching. He probably just got up at the usual time and didn't wake me 'cause of last night. That's all.
He crosses the room and opens the closet, locates one of his shirts and a pair of his trousers and pulls them from their hangers, deciding after a moment's deliberation to forego the vest and tie. No need for them, if he'll be spending the day at home, resting and working on learning to read, he decides. Not bad idea to wear his usual button-down shirt and trousers, though. He's not an invalid anymore, after all. Better to wear them, to look and feel like he's getting back on his feet. Less like he's a little kid, staying home from school, sick in bed, somehow. More normal. How things used to be.
Which reminds him, as he pulls up his trousers, tucking in his shirt. About the night before.
"Mr. Wright?" he calls, feeling his way down the hall, towards the sitting room. "Are you here?"
"I am," comes the familiar voice, rough like Mr. Wright had been napping on the sofa, perhaps. "Morning, Apollo."
The sofa squeaks, just as Apollo reaches the doorway. He hears footsteps, feels Mr. Wright's hand on his own, guiding him over to sit down.
"How are you feeling? Klavier said you had some trouble sleeping, last night."
"I'm fine," Apollo says. "Getting a little restless, but other than that, I'm fine."
Mr. Wright chuckles and pats him on the shoulder, gently enough that it doesn't hurt at all. "I can well imagine." The hand on his shoulder disappears, Mr. Wright's pants scrubbing against the upholstery as he shifts, his voice facing Apollo more directly when he says: "You get used to it. Find other things to entertain your mind."
"I don't think I'd be very good at playing cards," Apollo says, around the lump the rises in his throat at his mentor's words. "Not like this, anyway."
Mr. Wright taps the bracelet around his wrist. "No worse than you were, before."
Apollo tries to laugh. Gets a sound closer to a cough instead and clears his throat. "I guess. Still, I'm, uh ... not really ready to give up my practice, yet. I mean, I know I'll have to, for awhile, but-"
"No one expects that you'll stop practicing law, Apollo," Mr. Wright interrupts, gently. "Call the office sometime. Trucy re-recorded the message so that your name comes first, now. We were getting calls about whether you'd be coming back or not, and she got sick of it." He pats Apollo on the knee, a fatherly sort of gesture that used to drive the younger man up the wall. "Now. You hungry?"
He stands before Apollo can answer, makes a noise like he's stretching. Apollo stands, as well, fingers of his left hand fanned out in front of him as he makes his way towards the kitchen. Four-to-five steps from the sofa to the doorway. One step into the hall, turn, two-to-three steps to the kitchen door. Two-to-three steps to the kitchen table, four-to-five to the refrigerator. Three or so to the stove, but Apollo hasn't tried cooking anything himself, yet.
Hasn't wanted to, really. Wasn't very good at it, even before.
So he sits down and waits while Mr. Wright moves around, rummaging through the pans kept under the right-hand counter. Probably making an omelet, Apollo decides, when the noises stop, replaced by the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, the click of eggs knocking against the counter-top and each other. His stomach gurgles approvingly.
"Klavier said your injuries were giving you trouble, last night," Mr. Wright says, cracking eggs on the side of something glass-the big measuring cup, maybe, Apollo thinks. The reverberations sound like they're made by thick glass, anyway. Thicker than Klavier's cereal bowls, not as thick as the big mixing bowl Klavier uses to serve salad.
Apollo shrugs. "They're okay today."
He reaches up to touch where Klavier put medicine in the middle of the night. Feels the rough skin, sticky still with the remnants of salve.
"The doctors said you probably shouldn't do that," Mr. Wright says, mildly.
"My hands are clean," Apollo says, even as he obediently lowers his hand. "Besides, I'm curious about it." He cocks his head. "What does it look like?"
The sound of the fork Mr. Wright was using to whip the eggs stops. Apollo waits, facing the shift of Mr. Wright's clothing, the soft shuffle of Mr. Wright's feet against the floorboards. The table shakes, rattling a little under his cast, when Mr. Wright pulls out a chair opposite his own and sits down.
"It's better than it was, when it first happened," he says, slowly. "You were bandaged, then, so we couldn't see how extensive the damage was. They were dark brown, when they unbandaged you. A little red, in places."
He taps his fingers against the table while he talks. Nervous. Uncomfortable. But telling the truth, at least. Apollo's bracelet is motionless, cool against his wrist.
"They're lighter, now," Mr. Wright continues. "Light brown in places, pink in others." He touches Apollo's right hand, patting the fiberglass cast. "You're healing well, Apollo. Give it time."
Apollo lifts his left hand. Touches gently where his skin is rough and sensitive, stretching back past where his hair used to be.
"Mr. Wright?" he says, his voice a whisper, refusing to cooperate. "What do I look like?"
He hears Mr. Wright's clothing move, feels motion near his face and Mr. Wright's hand on his wrist. Lets Mr. Wright pull him away from the burns on his face, their hands loosely joined when Mr. Wright brings them to rest on the cool tabletop.
"Trucy said you looked like a miracle, the first day you could hear us talking to you," Mr. Wright says, softly. "She said it to you, actually, but you were pretty heavily sedated, at the time. Wouldn't surprise me if you don't remember."
Apollo shakes his head. "No," he says. "I don't remember that."
Mr. Wright releases his hand. "Well," he says, "she wasn't far off with that description. You look like a man got hit by a hell of a blast and is damned lucky to have lived to ask about it, afterwards." He pats the back of Apollo's hand, then stands, shuffling back to whip the eggs in the measuring cup some more. "I'd say anything beyond that is inconsequential. Wouldn't you?"
He says it with his back facing the table, Apollo can tell from the sound of his voice. Says it like he doesn't really mean it, or doesn't really believe it, enough that Apollo's bracelet tingles, warm around his wrist.
"Yeah," Apollo says, anyway. "I guess so."
~*~Now with art~*~
<< Previous
Next >>
This section's longer than the last by a few hundred words, and-gasp!-it actually explains some things. Not everything, but still! More than the others! *evil*
Enjoy! ♥
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve
Part Thirteen
Part Fourteen
Part Fifteen
The Slow Ascent after the Sharpest Drop
Part V
by mistr3ss Quickly
Time doesn't exist, for Apollo, afterwards.
Not like it used to, back in the busy days, before. Then, time was always too short, adrenaline pushing Apollo hard enough for him to be where he needed to be, just in the nick of time. Time was measured with the long black needle-hands of the clocks hanging in every hallway of the courthouse, measured between the fancy brass hands of the clock in the courtroom. Time was precious, something Apollo fought against and saved up like money, spent on his little sister and his mentor and his lover whenever he had the chance.
Time is different, now. Carries with it a different meaning than it used to.
~*~*~*~
In the hospital, time was first measured in years, do you know what year it is? What today is? asked of him after he'd told them his name, his birthdate. Then, it was measured in days, when we're going to give you something, it might make you a little groggy meant waking hours later to a nurse cheerfully calling him "sleepy-head," then giving him another dose of whatever it was he'd had the last time he'd been awake.
Then, it was measured in hours. Four hours between doses of medication. Three between nurses applying salve to his first- and second-degree burns. Two between nurses checking the dressing on the more serious burns. One between beeps from one of the machines in the room, which Apollo was pretty sure did something other than measure the time, but never remembered to ask about whenever the nurses came in to see him.
Time meant boredom, in the hospital. Loneliness.
Time meant thinking, giving Apollo the only images he had, anymore.
In the hospital, Apollo was always more than happy for a distraction. For Klavier, kissing him and murmuring to him and telling him how much he loved him, how sorry he was to see him in pain. For Trucy and Mr. Wright to come and visit him, Trucy full of energy and stories and hugs, Mr. Wright quiet and intelligent and interesting to talk to. For nurses to come in and tell him his body was healing slowly, but well, some of the friendlier ones telling him about the day's weather (usually hot) or what the forecast was saying about the coming days (usually hotter). Even for the painkillers, which numbed him, made him slow, made him stupid, but also made him sleep.
In the hospital, Apollo didn't dream. Or, if he did, he had no memory of it, upon waking.
~*~*~*~
Apollo wakes in Klavier's bed, his body jolting suddenly enough that it aches where it's injured, stings where he's strained his burns. It's either very late at night or very early in the morning, he guesses, from the quiet where there's usually the hum of traffic, from the feel Klavier beside him, still asleep, the mattress dipping down under the older man's weight.
His heart's pounding, hard enough that it hurts to swallow. He's sweating.
The nightmare is vague, at best. Heat and pressure, adrenaline. Then falling, which is when he wakes. Pain, too, but it's hard to tell if the pain is a product of his imagination, or just a side-effect of dreaming.
Doesn't matter, he decides, reaching up to carefully run his fingers through his hair. It hurts, more than he expected. Makes him hiss and pull his hand away, reaching up to touch, gingerly. To feel where his bandages have slipped, sometime since he fell asleep.
He hesitates, fingers close enough that he can feel the heat of his injuries, radiating up. His throat's dry; he swallows.
No one has let him touch his wounds, since he got them. Told him it was dangerous, that he could get an infection if he touched without washing his hands. His bracelet thrummed lightly every time he was given that excuse, but he'd never argued. After all, his mentor had told him, it is better to be obedient. Better to obey until you really need to do otherwise, to go against the rules.
Easier to earn forgiveness, that way. To be granted leniency, a blind eye turned towards the mis-deed.
If they find out, Apollo thinks, reaching up again, touching his fingertips lightly to the roughness where his skin has been burned. He knows from his first touch that it's skin, even though it's rougher than it used to be, an odd mix of sharp sensation and numbness. That doesn't surprise him.
But his stomach drops as he keeps touching, keeps feeling. Bile rises in his throat as he realizes just how far back he has to go before he feels hair.
It hurts, more than just where he's touching.
By the time Klavier wakes, Apollo has stopped investigating his injuries. Stopped touching. Stopped breathing. He's shaking, clutching his broken arm to his chest. Scrubbing his bracelet against the fiberglass, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet of the bedroom.
He tries to respond when Klavier says something in German, his voice groggy with sleep. Tries again when Klavier sits up and touches him, clumsy like he can't see what he's doing, and says baby? Are you okay? as he pulls Apollo close, obviously aware that Apollo is not okay.
Apollo puts his left arm around Klavier and clings to him. Finds his voice, finally, although it cracks when he says I'm fine, which doesn't really matter because it isn't true and he's sure Klavier knows it. And it doesn't make him feel any better to say it, either, so he buries his face in the crook of the singer's neck. Notices, for the first time, that Klavier's hair feels different where it touches his burns than it is, pressed against the uninjured parts of his face.
(A swath of skin under his cheekbone, wrapping down his jaw, up under his ear. Most of the skin under his lower lip, down most of his chin, some of his neck. Some of the skin above his eyes, his eyelids. Probably some of his forehead, although it's hard to tell with the bandages covering what he now knows is there, what he now knows isn't there.)
"Oh, baby. Oh Apollo, baby ... shh, baby, shh ..."
Klavier's hands and mouth and voice and body and strength and warmth. Klavier's closeness and concern and trembling fingers rubbing at the back of his neck, up into his hair, soothing him.
"S-sorry," Apollo manages, after what feels like forever. "I d-didn't ... I'm s-sorry for waking you."
Klavier's laughter: real, relieved. The click of the lamp by the bed-shaped like a guitar, a gift Trucy picked out for Apollo to give the older man as a birthday present-and the sound of a tissue being pulled out of its box. The touch of Klavier's hand, gently dabbing away the tears starting to itch where they're drying.
"Bad dream?" he says, once Apollo's recovered well enough to ask for a fresh tissue and blow his nose, only wincing a little at the burns he'd forgotten about, stretching over the bridge of his nose.
"Y-yeah," Apollo says. "What time is it?"
The bed squeaks when Klavier turns to check the clock. Squeaks again when he turns back.
"Three-seventeen A.M.," he says. Yawns. "I think I have not seen this time since college, ha-ha."
Apollo nods and reaches for his lover, touches Klavier's belly with the palm of his good hand, the other resting heavy beside him, motionless. "Me neither," he says, lying down, his hand slipping down towards Klavier's side, where the older man is ticklish. Takes his hand away to cover his mouth as he yawns. "Want to go back to sleep?"
He can hear Klavier's breathing coming closer, knows the kiss is coming before it's pressed against his lips. Knows, even before the older man speaks, that kisses mean Klavier isn't going to do what Apollo wants him to do. Not immediately, if at all.
"Let me put a little more medicine on you, baby," Klavier says. "There are some places which have gone a little pink. I would hate for them to be painful in the morning, ja?"
"M'kay," Apollo says, retracting his hand as his lover leaves the bed. He's careful not to move while Klavier puts salve on his forehead. Careful not to wince when it hurts. Doesn't move when Klavier leaves the bed again, going into the bathroom to wash his hands. Doesn't resist when the older man comes back to bed and tucks him in.
But it's not until Klavier turns off the bedside lamp, returning the bedroom to what Apollo assumes is almost total darkness, that Apollo relaxes, troubled as he falls asleep by what his lover might have seen, before the lights were out.
~*~*~*~
It's early when Apollo wakes, the following morning. He can hear the rush-hour traffic outside the bedroom window, which is open probably an inch or two, letting in the morning air, still cool. Klavier is gone, however; Apollo doesn't need to reach out and feel the empty sheets, cool and tangled beside him, to know that. He's spent only a few nights in the singer's flat, sharing the older man's bed instead of sleeping alone in a hospital bed, but it's taken only that for him to grow familiar, once again, with the sound of Klavier's breathing, close by. To miss it when it isn't there.
It's probably not as early as I thought, then, Apollo tells himself, sliding out of bed and stretching. He probably just got up at the usual time and didn't wake me 'cause of last night. That's all.
He crosses the room and opens the closet, locates one of his shirts and a pair of his trousers and pulls them from their hangers, deciding after a moment's deliberation to forego the vest and tie. No need for them, if he'll be spending the day at home, resting and working on learning to read, he decides. Not bad idea to wear his usual button-down shirt and trousers, though. He's not an invalid anymore, after all. Better to wear them, to look and feel like he's getting back on his feet. Less like he's a little kid, staying home from school, sick in bed, somehow. More normal. How things used to be.
Which reminds him, as he pulls up his trousers, tucking in his shirt. About the night before.
"Mr. Wright?" he calls, feeling his way down the hall, towards the sitting room. "Are you here?"
"I am," comes the familiar voice, rough like Mr. Wright had been napping on the sofa, perhaps. "Morning, Apollo."
The sofa squeaks, just as Apollo reaches the doorway. He hears footsteps, feels Mr. Wright's hand on his own, guiding him over to sit down.
"How are you feeling? Klavier said you had some trouble sleeping, last night."
"I'm fine," Apollo says. "Getting a little restless, but other than that, I'm fine."
Mr. Wright chuckles and pats him on the shoulder, gently enough that it doesn't hurt at all. "I can well imagine." The hand on his shoulder disappears, Mr. Wright's pants scrubbing against the upholstery as he shifts, his voice facing Apollo more directly when he says: "You get used to it. Find other things to entertain your mind."
"I don't think I'd be very good at playing cards," Apollo says, around the lump the rises in his throat at his mentor's words. "Not like this, anyway."
Mr. Wright taps the bracelet around his wrist. "No worse than you were, before."
Apollo tries to laugh. Gets a sound closer to a cough instead and clears his throat. "I guess. Still, I'm, uh ... not really ready to give up my practice, yet. I mean, I know I'll have to, for awhile, but-"
"No one expects that you'll stop practicing law, Apollo," Mr. Wright interrupts, gently. "Call the office sometime. Trucy re-recorded the message so that your name comes first, now. We were getting calls about whether you'd be coming back or not, and she got sick of it." He pats Apollo on the knee, a fatherly sort of gesture that used to drive the younger man up the wall. "Now. You hungry?"
He stands before Apollo can answer, makes a noise like he's stretching. Apollo stands, as well, fingers of his left hand fanned out in front of him as he makes his way towards the kitchen. Four-to-five steps from the sofa to the doorway. One step into the hall, turn, two-to-three steps to the kitchen door. Two-to-three steps to the kitchen table, four-to-five to the refrigerator. Three or so to the stove, but Apollo hasn't tried cooking anything himself, yet.
Hasn't wanted to, really. Wasn't very good at it, even before.
So he sits down and waits while Mr. Wright moves around, rummaging through the pans kept under the right-hand counter. Probably making an omelet, Apollo decides, when the noises stop, replaced by the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, the click of eggs knocking against the counter-top and each other. His stomach gurgles approvingly.
"Klavier said your injuries were giving you trouble, last night," Mr. Wright says, cracking eggs on the side of something glass-the big measuring cup, maybe, Apollo thinks. The reverberations sound like they're made by thick glass, anyway. Thicker than Klavier's cereal bowls, not as thick as the big mixing bowl Klavier uses to serve salad.
Apollo shrugs. "They're okay today."
He reaches up to touch where Klavier put medicine in the middle of the night. Feels the rough skin, sticky still with the remnants of salve.
"The doctors said you probably shouldn't do that," Mr. Wright says, mildly.
"My hands are clean," Apollo says, even as he obediently lowers his hand. "Besides, I'm curious about it." He cocks his head. "What does it look like?"
The sound of the fork Mr. Wright was using to whip the eggs stops. Apollo waits, facing the shift of Mr. Wright's clothing, the soft shuffle of Mr. Wright's feet against the floorboards. The table shakes, rattling a little under his cast, when Mr. Wright pulls out a chair opposite his own and sits down.
"It's better than it was, when it first happened," he says, slowly. "You were bandaged, then, so we couldn't see how extensive the damage was. They were dark brown, when they unbandaged you. A little red, in places."
He taps his fingers against the table while he talks. Nervous. Uncomfortable. But telling the truth, at least. Apollo's bracelet is motionless, cool against his wrist.
"They're lighter, now," Mr. Wright continues. "Light brown in places, pink in others." He touches Apollo's right hand, patting the fiberglass cast. "You're healing well, Apollo. Give it time."
Apollo lifts his left hand. Touches gently where his skin is rough and sensitive, stretching back past where his hair used to be.
"Mr. Wright?" he says, his voice a whisper, refusing to cooperate. "What do I look like?"
He hears Mr. Wright's clothing move, feels motion near his face and Mr. Wright's hand on his wrist. Lets Mr. Wright pull him away from the burns on his face, their hands loosely joined when Mr. Wright brings them to rest on the cool tabletop.
"Trucy said you looked like a miracle, the first day you could hear us talking to you," Mr. Wright says, softly. "She said it to you, actually, but you were pretty heavily sedated, at the time. Wouldn't surprise me if you don't remember."
Apollo shakes his head. "No," he says. "I don't remember that."
Mr. Wright releases his hand. "Well," he says, "she wasn't far off with that description. You look like a man got hit by a hell of a blast and is damned lucky to have lived to ask about it, afterwards." He pats the back of Apollo's hand, then stands, shuffling back to whip the eggs in the measuring cup some more. "I'd say anything beyond that is inconsequential. Wouldn't you?"
He says it with his back facing the table, Apollo can tell from the sound of his voice. Says it like he doesn't really mean it, or doesn't really believe it, enough that Apollo's bracelet tingles, warm around his wrist.
"Yeah," Apollo says, anyway. "I guess so."
~*~Now with art~*~
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