Scene At Dawn
And before he can stop it, his right hand reaches out to brush the dark hair off the younger man's forehead. Despite being slightly damp from the sheen of sweat on his brow—it couldn't still be blood from the accident, could it? Oh, God, he's not still bleeding, please; but then his own fingers, paused mid-motion, would be red and sticky, and they're not—despite the sweat-damp, the other man's hair is very soft; surprisingly so. Or it would have been surprising if he'd ever consciously thought about it before now, which he hadn't. Oh, no, not him; he wasn't going there, absolutely not— So he stood there with his hand halfway through the gesture; realising this, he finished running his hand but not his thoughts. When had he let this man get close to him, become important to him? This thought had been worrying him for the past six hours like a horse looking for sugar lumps; and he still has no answer for it. Just, here, at dawn, the scene plays itself out to its silent not-end as the sun finds him caring, again.