Yang is still trying even as he unfastens the latches on the first-aid kit.
"Please, Delico," he pleads, sorting through the too-often used disinfectant and bandages inside the box. "Dr. Theo would be able to patch you up a lot better than I'm going to do, you know. What if you end up with a scar again?"
"Then I end up with a scar," Delico says, the level tone of his voice indicating Yang is making absolutely no headway in his attempts at persuasion. There's a soft whisper of fabric sliding against itself, the weight of Delico's tie slipping loose of his shirt collar; it would be almost soothing, if it weren't for the way Yang can hear Delico's breathing hissing against the pain of motion. "It's not a big deal."
"You never think you getting hurt is a big deal," Yang grumbles without looking up. He's found the needle and thread he was looking for, pulls them out to add to the bandages and bottle of antiseptic he's already retrieved. When he glances back Delico is working on his buttons, his movements slow around his injured shoulder; it's the deliberate blankness of his expression that makes Yang flinch as much as the dark stain of blood against the other's grey shirt.
"Delico," he says, low and soft so Delico will look up from what he's doing, his eyes wide on the attention he always brings to Yang's speech. "Leave it, I'll take care of it."
It's capitulation, of course, an admission that he's not going to follow through on his orders to take Delico to Theo's clinic, but Yang's not sure that either of them ever believed that he would in the first place, so it's not like he's giving much up except the wasted breath of an argument already over. More importantly, it's enough for Delico to let his hold on his shirt go, to let his hands fall limp and patient at his lap, and that's far more of a comfort than Yang's token protest was.
Yang leaves Delico sitting on the bed, his tie and torn jacket draped over the back of a chair and his ruined shirt half-unbuttoned, while he goes around the corner to collect a towel and run the faucet for a moment to wet it before washing his hands as thoroughly as he can manage. When he comes back Delico is right where he left him, still half-dressed and with a slowly spreading stain at the shoulder of his shirt; he looks over as Yang comes back, shifts towards the end of the bed to make room for the other to sit beside him.
"You're not being very fair, you know," Yang complains, draping the towel over his knee so he can reach out and ease Delico's buttons free of the shirt. The fabric is soft, silky and expensive under his touch; even after years it's hard to get used to this, strange to realize that this shirt is going to be casually thrown out as not worth saving when it's so far beyond anything either of them ever had at the orphanage. Yang tugs at the bottom edge of the shirt, urges the fabric loose of Delico's slacks; once freed the front falls open, bares pale skin to the illumination of the lamp. "It's not like I like seeing you hurt." Delico ducks his head, curls his shoulders in so Yang can push his shirt off his arms; Yang can see the back of his neck, the way the straw-gold of his hair catches and curls at the skin. "Patching you up after is even worse."
"I know," Delico says, his head still tipped down so the words are aimed at Yang's knees. Yang slides his hands down Delico's arms, urging the shirt free and feeling out the tension of pain under Delico's skin at once; it's not as bad as he expected, not as bad as he feared. It's some minor reassurance. "I'm sorry, Yang."
Yang's smile is rueful, twists itself into an edge of self-deprecation as he looks at that line of yellow hair. "Hey," he says, letting the shirt drop to the floor and reaching to fit his fingers against the back of Delico's neck. That earns him some tension, a long silent shiver of reaction, and Yang tips his head in close, presses his forehead against the top of Delico's bowed head. Delic's skin is hot under his fingers. "It's alright." He tightens his hold, shifting from tentative into bracing, lingers for the span of a deep breath; Delico's exhale shivers against the front of his shirt. Then Yang lets his hold go, tips back to retrieve the towel, and after a moment Delico straightens too, tips his shoulders back and turns to give Yang the best access to the cut over his shoulder.
The blood's not that bad, all in all. Yang has seen worse, on himself and on Delico too; the shirt caught the worst of the liquid, left just a smear of drying red across Delico's skin and the trickle that's kept bleeding since Yang stripped the other's shirt off. He presses the towel to the wound, wipes against the injury as gently as he can; Delico only barely flinches, instinctive reaction to a pain even Yang can't avoid entirely.
"Sorry," he says needlessly, lifting the towel free to consider the injury. It's really not as bad as it looked originally; the cut is clean, if deeper than Yang would like, the razor-sharp edge of attacker's knife leaving a neat line that can be easily stitched closed with even Yang's limited experience.
"It's a straight cut," he says, more for the comfort of his own voice than because Delico needs to be told. Yang suspects Delico was considering the injury while they were still on the street, had decided it didn't require more professional attention before they even heading back to base. "I'm just going to disinfect it and stitch it shut before the bandages, okay?"
"Okay," Delico agrees, so easily it sounds almost like he's laughing. When Yang looks up Delico's watching his face, his gaze level but the very corner of his mouth quirking on emotion.
"Don't laugh at me," Yang insists, pressing the bloodstained towel back against the cut while he reaches for the antiseptic. "I'm doing this as a favor to you, I'll have you know."
"I know," Delico says, tilts himself back farther by an inch as Yang opens the bottle and lifts the towel. The liquid spills over the injury, collecting against the line of the wound before catching at the towel Yang has braced below. Delico lets out a breath, the exhale hard around the effort it takes to not whimper at the sting of the liquid, and then speaks again, fast enough that Yang is still flinching in futile sympathy. "Thank you."
"It's okay," Yang says, even though it's not, really, even though his chest is tight on the necessary pain he's inflicting on Delico. He attempts a smile, forces a laugh as he presses the antiseptic against the wound, draws the towel away to lay back over his knee. "If you're not going to accept professional help, I'd rather it was me touching you than some stranger." That gets him a flash of a smile, the huffed outline of a laugh; it's the distraction he was looking for, enough time to let him feed the thread through the needle and reach out to brace as gently as he can against Delico's shoulder. Yang pauses to swallow back the knot in his throat as he considers the pale of Delico's skin, braces his hold on the needle in his fingers; then he moves, fast, presses the sharp point in against the edge of the wound as painless-quick as he knows how.
To his credit, Delico doesn't jerk at the hurt. He does exhale hard, the heat of his breathing ruffling against Yang's short-cropped hair, but he doesn't move; he might as well be a doll, for how still he is under Yang's touch. That helps, as does the experience with this Yang didn't want but still has, his knowledge that it's better to do this fast and cleanly than to hesitate or try to offer a distraction. It's a quick enough process, even if Yang's stomach feels like it's in freefall with every press of the needle, and if his heart is unsteady at least his hands are calm, moving as if of their own accord to set the stitches along the length of the wound.
Yang's not completely sure he breathes through the process. Delico is - he can feel the deliberately slow pace of the other's inhales as he continues - but by the time he's slid the last stitch into place his heart is pounding protest against his ribcage, his body feels so light he's not sure he won't just float away if he forgets to hold to gravity.
"There," he says, cutting the last of the thread free and setting the needle aside. There's a little blood still against Delico's chest, the trickle that persisted while Yang was sewing the wound shut; it gives him something to do with his hands while he breathes, wiping away the color as he takes long, deep inhales and waits for the delayed-reaction tremor in his hands to fade. "That's the hard part over."
"I can take care of the bandages myself," Delico offers as Yang draws the towel away, considers the relatively neat line of stitches he set.
Yang shakes his head without looking at Delico's face. His heart rate is slowing from its frantic pace, easing into something that feels less like panic and more like pride in a difficult task finished.
"No," he says, sets the towel aside completely so he can reach for the bandages and the medical tape. "I'll take care of you."
"Okay," Delico says, soft and submissive, and falls silent again while Yang fits the white of the bandage over the dark pattern of the stitches, breathes out a sigh of relief before he starts taping down the edges. Delico's skin looks darker in comparison to the sterile white of the bandage, adopting the appearance of a far healthier color than he usually demonstrates; it makes Yang smile as he sticks down the last of the adhesive, finally lets his touch fall from Delico's skin so he can consider his handiwork.
"All done," he sighs, looks up at Delico's face. Delico is looking at his shoulder, watching the shift of the bandage as he flexes his shoulder; his hair is falling in his face, blocking Yang's view of his eyes. His mouth is soft, the tension of pain fading even as Yang watches, but he asks anyway. "How much does it hurt?"
Delico turns his head up. His gaze is clear, his eyes skimming over Yang's face with all the casual appreciation of years of familiarity; his lips are still relaxed, dropping into an unconscious curve to draw Yang's attention.
"Not much," Delico says, looks up to meet Yang's gaze. The very corners of his eyes go soft, like they're melting underneath some unseen source of heat. "Thank you, Yang."
Yang doesn't answer aloud. No problem would be a lie, you're welcome too formal for the easy space between them, the lifetime of history that makes thanks unnecessary even if Delico is always careful to offer it. Besides, Yang has never been good with words, struggles to put coherency to anything but the most comfortable of banter or the lightest of teasing. Instead he reaches out again, fits the lingering tremor of his fingers against the back of Delico's neck, and when he leans in Delico doesn't duck out of the oncoming contact. Yang keeps his eyes open until he can see Delico's eyelashes fluttering shut in anticipation; then he lets his vision go, shuts his eyes to the focus darkness brings, and lets all his attention shape itself around the soft of Delico's lips, the give of his not-smile to the careful friction of Yang's mouth on his. Because this is routine too, as much part of their history as Yang's unprofessional stitches that invariably leave pearly white traces of old injuries across Delico's fragile skin, this moment of heat and friction and closeness to remind them both that they are alive, that they are okay, that they are together. Even when they break apart, it's only to press their foreheads together, to linger close enough to breathe the same air, and when Delico's fingers come up to settle gentle against the back of Yang's head Yang smiles and lets the friction urge him back in for another moment of reassurance.