He loves things that break easy.
The proof's in the tears of condensation dripping down the mirror in spite of the open bathroom window. In the steam creating a light shroud around them.
The tile floor is the gross kind of damp that Totsuka doesn't like, so he sits on the edge of the tub, lifts his bare feet up together. They tremble, just a little. Weak.
The water's not heating up fast enough. So Mikoto reaches in, stirs around – impatient circles, bubbles boiling up – until it's the way it ought to be: borderline scalding.
An impatient whimper can almost be heard over the rush of the faucet.
"Don't be angry, King. Please?"
Without breaking a scowl Mikoto shoves a washcloth into waiting bath water. He holds his vassal's jawline steady, lays the dripping cloth over one bruised eye. Over the swollen, torn part of his lip. Totsuka's other eye blinks up at him – naive and tender and infuriating.
A waste of energy.
Someone has to do this every time he fucks up and gets hurt. No one used to, back when he was alone. But now that someone is always the Red King himself, locking the door, drawing the bath, shutting everyone else out. Look after this idiot that keeps him alive.
It never matters how inadequate he feels he is at caring for anything. Hell, he can't even take care of himself but
no one else is allowed to touch Totsuka's wounds.
Totsuka fidgets on the tub's edge, skinny khaki pants pooled on the tile below. The linen shirt covering him only to mid-thigh bears red traces of violence where droplets have fallen and bled through. There are traces underneath too – dark ones he does not want King to see.
Mikoto lets him hold the cloth up to his own face. Red brows wrinkle down at a box of mineral bath salts Izumo had given him. He can't remember the instructions that went along with them, so he scans the side.
Too complicated. Mikoto dumps half the box into still running water.
Once the cloth loses all its warmth Totsuka sets it aside to clutch his own sleeves, swollen eye wincing at the absence of warmth, pressure. Every inch of him feels either battered or torn into; pain that radiates. Time to make excuses.
"I don't even need to soak, really."
Mikoto's glare sinks down to his bones.
"It's just a few scrapes. I can take it like everyone else. See it's fine~"
Totsuka reaches up to pat both sides of King's face. Gentle pats between his palms. With Mikoto's hardened expression squished in his hands, anxiety breathes at the back of his neck.
But the evidence can't be found in his half-assed, beaten up smile.
"You're killin' me with this," Mikoto murmurs. He rubs blood speckled fabric, the corner of Totsuka's shirt collar, between two fingers.
Totsuka keeps very still.
Maybe if he's still enough he won't notice...
But then there are hands arguing with the stubborn buttons of his shirt. They give in one by one – traitors - before he can lay his hands on the other's wrists, to beg him don't look.
White linen sloughs off Totsuka's shoulders – barely different from a little dove moulting off stained feathers, until the wounds he carries are laid bare underneath, tender body shy and trembling.
Totsuka holds his breath and feels King stop to examine the places where he'd been dragged against concrete, across the entire left half of him. The dark spot where he'd been nailed with a disabling kick in the ribs. What would've happened if...
Mikoto does not speak. He can't in the moment. Just like rough fingertips hover close to injured flesh without touching. He's afraid to touch him.
All the worse, his vassal keeps sliding his tongue deliberately over the broken skin of his upper lip, causing a strange concoction of sensations in the Red King's gut. He's got to shake that off quick.
Sometimes Mikoto is disgusted with the way violence makes him feel, the way it can shape-shift.
"I... just wanted to help", Totsuka's voice has the timbre of a child who's cut himself on glass he shattered himself.
The Red King deflates all at once in a heavy exhale and tilts his head to let the bridges of their noses touch. Just enough to offer comfort. Totsuka only wants to do the same for him and so...
"Would it help if I soak?" he teases softly after moments pass in shared quiet.
"Shutup and get your ass in the bath."
...
There's a kind of strange magic in the way Totsuka lowers himself into steamy, frothy water until it laps at the tips of blond hair – its surface calm enough to show the traces of red parting from gashes in his pale flesh. Deciding it feels nice, he sighs and rests his unswollen cheek on the edge.
Mikoto seals his eyes shut to watch him hit pavement again, dragged and battered.
And he slides down to sit with his back against the side of the tub – looping the sounds of pained whimpers (the way Totsuka sounds when he tries to hide them from everyone) over and over.
But the sounds in his head, the visions that stir up a concoction of rage and fear inside him…
they dissolve with Totsuka's gentle humming. Together with the faucet's drip drip refrain, and the lapping of the water he composes a lullaby fit for a King.
Makes it easy to lose track of time.
And he does.
Mikoto only wakes to a hand playing lightly with his hair. The room is clearer. The steam has died down.
"Y'washed all the cuts?" he growls, half awake.
"Yes, King." Totsuka dunks under the water one last time.
"Better have," Mikoto cocks a lazy grin up at him, "wouldn't wanna' have to amputate that arm off."
"Eww!"
He swats at King; laughs in that weak, precious way he has.
Mikoto at least feels confident enough in his ability to wrap the waiting big white towel around him once all the water's drained. Totsuka shows him where to dab the last remnants of blood away before letting King take over to dry him off completely. He loves the careless way he roughs up his hair, barely getting any of the dampness out.
Simple.
The real test of courage is the bandaging up after.
" 's too tight," Mikoto snarls with gauze between his teeth. It's the third try at wrapping Totsuka's upper arm.
"It's not tight enough," Totsuka blinks with one free eye after they'd managed to patch the other one up, "here let me..."
"Keep still, brat-"
After a few failed attempts, ever patient with King's grunting and fumbling and cursing, Totsuka ends up doing most of the wrappings himself.
Though his pride's a little damaged, Mikoto admits it's sort of nice to watch him neatly cut the strips and tie them around.
Then he seems so capable. Capable of healing himself, helping himself...
But he's different in bed. Once the lights are off Totsuka doesn't use real words to say what he wants – something Mikoto is routinely guilty of – only begging whimpers.
It's impossible to reason with him when he's willing to upset his wounds just to be held.
You're such a baby.
Mikoto is still so afraid of touching one of his tender spots carelessly. He has to create a barrier between them somehow, so he tries stretching out all four limbs like a big greedy cat to keep Totsuka on his own side.
" s'gonna hurt like shit if I roll over on you in my sleep."
Totsuka's persuasive rebuttal is just climbing up between his legs to lay chest to chest. Mikoto feels him press his face into the crook of his neck and by then its over and there's nothing he can do besides claim points for trying.
He tries not to hold him too tight in return but for Totsuka any embrace is no holds barred. And any kiss lasts little eternities if he's in charge of it. Even with a busted lip.
King makes sure to kiss just the bottom one, more careful with his gentle tonguing and sucking than usual.
It numbs his vassal all over. Until the pain's the last thing on his mind.
Mikoto is too tired, inside and out, to argue. You can't argue with an idiot anyway, he always wins. But Totsuka melts into him like always, like a nice smelling oil. Honey jasmine amber-colored something...
"Thank you," he noses King's cheek, "for taking care of me."
"Your loss y'don't have somebody better to do it."
"Ah but you won't let anyone else."
"Still your loss."
Foxi : bunches of thanks for reading and supporting this ship~ you guys are the best