lacerations/knife wounds
Lyle perches awkwardly on the toilet lid, scowling at the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Neil ignoring him, absorbed as he is in pouring rubbing alcohol onto a cotton wool pad. The tiled floor must be fairly uncomfortable to kneel on, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"Arm," says Neil, tersely. When Lyle doesn't do anything, he huffs and grabs his left arm. The minute the disinfectant-soaked pad touches his forearm, he jerks it away.
"Don't be such a baby," snaps Neil, catching his wrist and pulling it back towards him. "D'you want to get septicaemia?" Lyle makes his best mulish expression, but lets him clean the wound anyway. It doesn't actually hurt that much - he just wants Neil to stop touching him and go away. It's not his business.
It's summer in Ireland, and for once it's actually hot. Where they are, close to the sea, it's uncomfortably humid; the twins wear baggy t-shirts and roll up the legs of their jeans. The bathroom is stifling.
"Are you going to tell me how you got this?" demands Neil, looking up abruptly.
Neil's eyes are the exact same shade as the ceiling. Funny, that - it must mean that his are too.
Lyle doesn't answer, so Neil goes on:
"It's too clean to be an accident." Lyle still keeps his mouth firmly shut. Neil's stopped cleaning the wound; a long, thin gash stretching from his left elbow to his wrist. Finally, Neil says:
"Who?"
Lyle tilts his head up again, and stares into the blue until his eyes hurt and his mouth is dry. If Neil keeps talking, he'll have to hit him. Why can't he just leave him alone?
Luckily, Neil just huffs and finishes the job. He doesn't suggest stitches or even a plaster, because they both know that Lyle will refuse point blank.
He doesn't bother waiting for thanks before he stomps off. Good - Lyle wasn't intending to give him any.
Two days later, Neil catches his leg on a fence post, and this time it's Lyle dragging him into the bathroom and getting out the first aid kid. It's not that serious - bleeding, but shallow - and he wouldn't bother, but it's obvious that Neil can't take care of himself.
He's just taking the alcohol bottle out when he really looks at the wound for the first time; a red line on Neil's right shin, starting at the ankle and running up nearly to his knee. It's dripping, he realises. Not too badly - not like Lyle's was - but blood runs in thin rivulets to pool in the hollows where ankle becomes foot. The soft light through the window catches the fine, light hairs on one side of his leg, gilding them. Lyle knows that if he touches them, they will be down-soft. But it's still the wound that catches his attention.
He puts down the bottle, leans forward and - very gently - licks at the blood where it dribbles lazily down his brother's leg, like wine from a narrow red mouth. It tastes sour-sweet, like metal and salt and home.
Neil doesn't make a sound, but all the hairs on his legs stand up - like needles, except they don't hurt.
Lyle cleans the wound quickly and efficiently with his tongue; quick strokes with the broad flat of it, then the tip. He smears saliva all over Neil's skin, but for once he can't take pleasure in making him dirty.
When he's done, he rests his head against his brother's knee; he doesn't want to see his eyes. Behind his closed eyelids, all he can see is blue.
A weight on his head - Neil's hand, he realises. Not trying to push him down or pull him up; just holding him there, close to him. Just for this moment, they can exist within eachother's space.
(Then that September comes the bomb, and the rest is rust and stardust).