"Next year."
It's said with a finality that's meant to be comforting, but Gunther finds his friend's only response is an unreadable glance. He guesses Kick is just busy tending to his wounds, but he could at least spare him a smile.
Or not. Gunther supposes he wouldn't be smiling either if he had practically skinned his entire back and tore the skin of both his elbows to the bone. And didn't even place in the competition for his troubles.
It takes a moment of watching Kick struggle with the bandage for Gunther to hop from his perch on the toilet tank to Kick's perch on the bathroom sink and start helping him. It feels so strange to be doing this here, in a hotel bathroom. If he were in Kick's room, they'd be sitting on a bed (or, if it was bloody, they'd move their festivities to the floor; as far as Gunther can remember, it'd only been bad enough to need the Buttowski bathroom once). Kick would probably be talking, and Gunther wouldn't be treated to a complete view of his injuries via the mirror, instead getting the gore in small, manageable doses.
After taking care of both of his elbows and turning him around to contemplate what to do with his back, Kick speaks. "Just antiseptic."
"What if it sticks to your clothes? I mean-"
He shrugs. It hurts to watch him do it. "It'll heal eventually."
Gunther is glad Kick has warmed up to occasionally wearing other clothes than his jumpsuit. He's actually wearing pants at the moment, and he'll probably throw on a loose shirt later. Hopefully.
"I don't know if there's going to be a next year. It depends on whether Brianna has one of her-" he doesn't move at all, but there's a flinch in his speech- "pageants." It was just pure chance that Kick's competition and Brianna's pageant were on the same weekend in the same place. Kick's parents wouldn't have taken him anywhere just to do stunts. Brianna's a different story.
Gunther knows it's nothing short of a miracle that Kick's parents even paid for an extra hotel room. Sure, since both the rooms had only two double beds and Mrs. Buttowski had insisted that she and her husband would most definitely not fit in one together, Kick and Gunther are sharing a bed, but he knows from experience that Kick is probably one of the easiest people in the world to sleep next to. Well, he purrs, but that's more relaxing than annoying. And when he can't sleep he tends to lie perfectly still anyway (Gunther has learned this after many nights of thinking he was asleep all along and being told by Kick himself the next day that he hadn't been able to sleep at all).
A low rumble sounds, and Kick's entire body jerks up. The sudden movement almost earns him a some new scratch marks across his back, but Gunther manages to remove his hands just as quickly.
"Was that thunder?"
Kick sounds absolutely thrilled.
Gunther remembers that they're in a hotel overlooking the beach, and wonders if he should smack Kick to snap him out of whatever weird mental state he must be in. He doesn't get much time to think on it, though- Kick has jumped off the counter and scrambled out of the bathroom to the window in no time.
"Yes! I think it's gonna rain, Gunther."
And, indeed, the clouds are an unmistakable gray. The last stragglers down on the beach are starting to pick their things up.
"Um, Kick? Are you feeling okay?"
"I've never felt better! Can you imagine the surf during a storm?"
Oh, Gunther can imagine it. He can also imagine Kick's body thrown around by it.
"Hey, don't you think the salt water might sting?" It sounds so stupid after he says it. Kick's response unintentionally adds insult to injury.
"Yeah, probably!" His voice retains its excitement. It's kind of scary. But nothing really new.
Kick stares out at the sky. His eyes are narrowed just slightly and his mouth forms a thin curve, like he's daring the clouds. He's already going over the details of what he'll do in his head - Gunther can see it. He doesn't like it. He rarely does. But this one's going to be harder to pretend to support than usual.
"Hey boys!"
Kick spins around so fast he smacks into Gunther. It takes Gunther a minute to realize he's trying to hide his back.
"Uh, hi, Dad! How'd Bri's pageant go?"
Harold rubs his face with one hand and closes the door with his other. "Not so great. Brianna's pretty upset." And here Gunther had thought those girl's screams he had been attempting to ignore had sprung from this lips of a much younger little girl. "I think we're going to have to leave earlier than we planned - I'll have to talk to your mother, but it's probably going to be first thing tomorrow morning. Sorry if you kids had anything you wanted to-"
"Oh, that's fine." The weird thing about it is that Kick does sounds like he's completely fine with it. "It probably wouldn't be that great staying if Brianna's that unhappy." Kick has his arms folded behind his back, too, in some desperate attempt to hide even his elbows. Gunther has the urge to grab him by the shoulders, turn him around and ask his dad what he thinks they should do.
Harold nods absently, adding a detached, "Thanks for understanding, son," as he wanders toward the television and grabs the channel guide sitting on top of it.
Kick turns just slightly toward Gunther (still hiding his back) and begins pretending his dad isn't there. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
His eyes are so bright, alive. Gunther feels a headache forming. He hopes his serious expression is sincere enough. "I think so, Kick, but if they were called 'Sad Meals,' no one would-"
"Hey! Kick! Almost forgot - how was your beach-" Harold pauses, and his voice starts to fade, "board," Gunther suppresses a frown, "uh, thing?"
Kick shrugs. Gunther wishes he'd stop doing that. "Fine."
"Sorry I couldn't have been there, but you know how your mother-"
"It's fine."
Harold smiles, looking satisfied, and turns back to the television. Gunther guesses it's just the way he and his father usually end up having hours-long discussions (whether Gunther wants them or not) over the tiniest things that makes Kick and his parents' short, choppy pseudo-conversations appalling to him.
"Better not eat anything tonight," Kick says, and Gunther realizes he's back to staring out at the brewing storm. "Never know when it's going to get good."
Gunther sits, alternating his attention between whatever Kick's dad is watching, Kick's increasingly excited face, and the rain outside making its way from a light sprinkling from a complete downpour.
The moment lightning flashes across the sky, Kick's body jerks sideways. He grabs Gunther's hand and goes for the door, probably a bit slower than he'd like with Gunther weighing him down.
"'Kay Dad, going to the beach, be back soon, bye!"
"Just where do you think you're going?"
Kick freezes, Gunther bumping into him a bit. He uses Gunther's body as a strange sort of shield until he gets his front facing forward. In the light out in the room, his back looks even worse.
"The beach."
Harold looks outside, then back at Kick, brow raised. "I don't think that's such a hot idea, son."
"We'll be back before you know it."
"I think you should stay put tonight, especially if we're leaving tomorrow. You know, don't want to hurt yourself and be uncomfortable during the car ride back."
"Was that a suggestion or a command?"
Harold doesn't answer. Instead, he glances at the window again. "Maybe it'll clear up before nighttime. I don't mind you having fun, son, but I do mind you getting electrocuted."
Kick sighs. It seems for a moment he might just leave anyway. But eventually, he grabs Gunther - his wrist this time - and walks to their bed.
The remainder of the day is thoroughly uneventful. The only channels available seem to show primarily news and cartoons - both of which alternate between boring and annoying, as usual. At dinner, Kick regains some semblance of energy, but doesn't eat, claiming he isn't hungry. Gunther pokes his stomach and warns him that if he keeps it up, he'll lose his built-in crash pad. Kick, thankfully, laughs at this.
Kick's "crash pad" has been rapidly disappearing. It's a combination of a quickening metabolism and forgetting to eat, Gunther guesses, that's causing the thinning. Kick seems to acknowledge that, while he might look better and stunts might be easier without the pudginess, his bones and internal organs will not thank him.
Still, probably without thinking about it, Kick steals an at least sufficient amount from Gunther's plate throughout the meal.
It's still storming when they get back to the hotel. All during their trudge up the stairs (because some unnamed person in the Buttowski family is apparently deathly afraid of elevators), everyone is treated to Brianna's unending whining about her hair and clothes being ruined by the rain.
Kick seems to have completely forgotten about his planned stunt. He makes no mention of it when they get back into their room. But Gunther still feels uneasy. Gunther had seen it- Kick had been hard-set on doing whatever he was planning. He knows Kick. He wouldn't just give up that easily.
So Gunther isn't surprised when, the moment his father begins to snore that night, Kick sits straight up, looking out the window. They both wait, watching together, until lightning flashes across the darkness. Kick looks at Gunther, smiling and sliding out of bed, obviously expecting Gunther to do the same.
Gunther sits up, but afterwards stays still. He shakes his head, mouthing, "Wait," and nodding toward Harold. He mouths, "Five minutes," and makes such a time approximate by waving his hand back and forth a little. Kick sits still, assessing such a suggestion, and finally agrees with a short nod and a glance at the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand between the two beds.
They both slide back into laying positions, Gunther on his back and Kick on his side, facing the window. In three of the five minutes, Gunther decides something very new and very possibly dangerous for his and Kick's friendship.
He's not going to let Kick do the stunt.
He does not want Kick out in the water during that storm. He does not want him to get drowned or hypothermia or electrocuted. Above all, he does not want Kick to know he doesn't want him to do it.
And, so, a very elaborate plan forms in his mind.
Okay, well, it's not that elaborate.
With a yawn, Gunther rolls over and wraps an arm around Kick, doing his best to both keep him securely in place and not hurt his back. Kick makes a small, strange squeaking sound on contact. He squirms for a few moments, pauses, and then hisses Gunthers name. Gunther gives no reply.
He does it again. Still nothing. "Gunther, wake up!" Gunther sort of answers that one. He holds Kick a little tighter and makes sleepy sounds. "Gunther, the stunt!" Though not as much as he once was, Kick is still sort of squishy. Like a teddy bear. An almost-scrawny, warm, going-to-be-incredibly-angry-in-the-morning teddy bear.
This is Gunther's last thought before he falls asleep.