Chapter Text
It all happens faster than his thoughts can move.
One second he’s alone in the kitchen, his hand stinging from holding the knife the wrong way and his eyes smarting with tears, and the next, Jonathan is there, bundling him into the bathroom.
Running water. Clear and cool and an antidote to everything, but especially to this. Jonathan’s hand around his wrist. Firm but not rough, and in Will’s life, also an antidote to most anything.
He’s pushed down onto the toilet seat after ten minutes, four fingertips pressed on each shoulder. Jonathan ruffles through the medicine cabinet, silent, and Will tries to ignore the pain, subdued but still blooming in patterns across his palm.
Jonathan is quick, because he’s too used to this. Not knife nicks in particular, but this this this. Finding solutions to Will’s problems. He doesn’t complain, he’s not the type, but right here, right now, Will can practically feel the air concentrate with his own embarrassment.
It’s oppressive. It’s knowing the other shoe will never drop, but still spending an eternity waiting for it anyway. It might be Will’s least favourite feeling in the world.
He doesn’t want to say it out loud. That could make it real.
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
Of course he’s not.
He comes over with cotton and ointment and a bandage.
“Hurts?”
“Yeah,” he says, honest if a little petulant. He’s never been able to help that around Jonathan anyway. I’m old enough, I’m big enough, I’m almost a teenager, but when push comes to shove…
“You’re gonna be okay,” – and there it is – “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Jonathan dab-dab-dabs with his ointment-soaked wad of cotton, and it stings all over again, but he’s so careful with it, Will forgets to notice.
At some point, it begins. The shoe doesn’t drop, but it teeters.
“You can’t mess around in the kitchen if your mind’s not all there,” he says, soft, too soft. “You get that, right?”
Will nods, gaze fixed resolutely on the bathroom tiles.
“You know you have to be careful with the curved one.”
He swallows and nods again. Telltale tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
“If you’re doing something else, or not feeling up to it, or whatever it is, just come get me. Alright?”
Just come get me. It’s not fair how commonplace that’s become.
“Sorry,” he chokes out through the thickness clogging up his voice.
“Hey,” Jonathan says, momentarily pausing, instantly concerned. “I’m not saying any of this to make you feel bad.”
Will can only nod once again.
“Are you gonna look at me?”
This time, he shakes his head no. The dam will burst if he does that.
“Okay,” he relents. “That’s fine.”
He puts on the bandage, smoothing it down with his thumbs, and throws away the empty packet.
His hand comes to rest on top of Will’s head.
“Let’s go get ice cream, come on.”