( it's such a strange, unusual feeling--it's not the first time that someone has fisted up the front of his hoodie, but usually that's in their dying moments, begging him, cursing him, trying to reach for him through the fire. the way that esikko touches him is more pleading, like a child begging to stay up another few hours, or for another few bites of a good snack. with a slow breath, he straightens out his shoulders; careful, he keeps his hand pinched at esikko's nose, not letting the movement disrupt him from his task.

it's only when that head lifts that he lifts his own brows in expectation--and his face doesn't change, even as esikko smears a streak of blood across his cheek.

his eyes lid, like he's going to get angry; carefully, his hand lowers from esikko's nose, blood pooled into the palm, dripping down his fingers. )

Maybe you shouldn't invite yourself over. ( mildly, as he lifts his bloody hand to push it back through esikko's pretty hair, mottling it up, strands stuck together as he brushes out the strands; when he's done, he paps esikko's cheek with his palm in playful punishment. )

But if you ask me nicely, I guess I'll let you use the shower. You look like a fucking mess.

( he does not, at least, agree to clean up with him together just yet--that'll be the next hurdle esikko has to jump, made apparent by the slow curve of his smile. )

Can you stand?