The warm cloth and the steady, downward strokes over Nosty's chest aren't achieving the desired effect.
Belle wants this gentle, cleansing massage to soothe and relax him. She wants to blot out the memory of the nurse's indifferent, rough handling and to eventually ease him toward sleep.
A good night's sleep can be powerful medicine.
Instead, Nosty's eyes are wide and unblinking, fixed on the hospital telly, and his slim, wiry frame fairly radiates tension. He looks as though he'd like nothing so much as to crawl out of his own pale, goose-pimpled skin.
During her first visit, Belle came to understand that he hates to be touched unexpectedly. Sudden movements and unanticipated contact leave him quivering, fierce, and watchful, ready for fight or flight. Pity the nurse who wakes him from a sound sleep by checking an IV port or brushing against his bed.
On the other hand, she believes Nosty has come to enjoy the soft, predictable press of her hand against his arm or his forehead. He no longer jerks beneath her fingers like a startled colt when she checks him for fever. Instead, his honey-brown eyes momentarily flicker shut, and he holds very, very still.
Surely the hands of a considerate friend are preferable to those of a callous, impatient, insulting nurse? Belle still smarts on Nosty's behalf at the insinuation that he stinks. He just smells of sweat, is all. Anyone would smell the same after being clammy with fever for days on end.
Perhaps it's the violent movie that's upsetting him. On the grainy telly, dying soldiers moan for their mothers and sergeants make heroic, doomed attempts to drag their wounded back to safety. It's a grisly, bloody, noisy battle, but onscreen brutality never bothered him before. He's likely seen far worse in his own life.
"I can turn it off, if you'd rather," Belle offers, leaning close so that he'll be able to hear her over the film's gunfire and frantic, shouted dialogue. Her hair brushes over his bare shoulder, and Nosty sucks in his breath. She can feel the tremor run through him beneath the washcloth she has pressed to his ribcage.
"It's fine," he replies in a hoarse, clipped voice, "Leave it."
His bony knees are drawn up high, and his legs fall apart just a little as Belle makes slow, sweeping circles over his sunken stomach. She makes a mental note to bring snacks with her tomorrow morning. There must be something that might tempt him to eat between meals. Nosty's much, much too lean. How on earth does a man so skinny manage to sleep out of doors in the wintertime? He must have something more than just his leather jacket?
Belle is careful to preserve what she can of his modesty, exposing only one side of his narrow chest at a time. With his worn, blue hospital gown tugged low, she can easily trace each of his prominent ribs with the warm cloth. Nosty fidgets restlessly on the bed, his eyes still firmly fixed on the movie.
The hospital staff evidently decided to remove the dirtied bandages from his chest while she was away teaching classes this afternoon. Above his pink, pebbled nipple, Belle counts at least six overlapping, circular scars.
Carefully slipping the washcloth in between his arm and his body, she tries to imagine what it must be like to impale your own chest with the jagged edge of a broken bottle.
Truly, it defies comprehension.
Leaving the cloth to soak in the sudsy basin of water, Belle traces around the edge of the faintest scar with a hesitant fingertip, openly staring.
"Poor Nosty," she whispers, fighting an impulse to touch her lips to the scabs covering the most recent angry, red circle, "Poor Nosty." His averted eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slowly, hands twisting nervously in the bedclothes. Another small tremor runs through him.
Tenderly, Belle covers his defaced chest with the hospital gown so that he won't catch a chill. She draws the blanket up also, tucking it snug around his narrow torso.
Next, she turns her attention to his wiry arms, wringing out the cloth and stroking from the top of Nosty's shoulder, all the way down to his bandaged wrist.
The blue light from the telly illuminates a constellation of smaller, round scars on his pale inner arm. Old cigarette burns, likely. Could he possibly be grinding out cigarettes on his own flesh? Or is this someone else's sadistic handiwork? A hard knot forms in her throat.
Unable and unwilling to control the impulse any longer, she ducks her head and brushes one, two, three light kisses along his pitiable forearm.
Cheeks flushed, Belle doesn't dare look to see how he takes this little demonstration. Instead, she infuses her touch with as much tenderness as she is able, gently straightening one of his drawn up legs and lifting the thin blanket to mid-thigh. She swallows hard when she sees more scars here as well. A series of thin, white lines run parallel to Nosty's kneecap. They have a sickening, surgical precision, and she wonders what sort of blade he uses, her stomach turning over and over.
Giving up on the pretense of a bath, Belle drapes the warm cloth over his shin and gently kneads the sole of his foot. Nosty groans softly, his wary eyes finally skittering over to watch her as the film credits roll.
"Is this alright?" she murmurs, and he nods, working his lower lip over with his teeth.
Tension is still rolling off him in waves, so, a short while later, Belle reluctantly abandons Nosty's feet and retrieves the cloth. It's probably best that she finish quickly so he can rest.
With slow, steady swipes, she works her way up each leg, bearing his slight weight to lift and clean behind each calf. Nosty shifts beneath the blanket, breathing through his open mouth. Belle is amused to discover the backs of his knees are quite ticklish.
Hmm. The water in the basin had gone a bit gray.
Finished with his front, Belle rearranges the blanket and watches as he once more draws up both knees.
"Shall I stop there so you can get some rest?" she offers quietly.
"Isn't much left of me to wash, now is there?" he replies with a breathy little laugh. It's a weak attempt at humor, and his teeth are very nearly chattering. Poor Nosty.
"Only your back," Belle agrees, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Closing his eyes, Nosty begins to roll onto his stomach.
"Wait a moment." Belle retrieves a flat hospital pillow from a nearby chair, using it to prop and cushion Nosty's chest so that he isn't lying directly on his lacerations.
From a brass hook on the back of the door, she fetches her cashmere scarf and rolls it into a little bundle for him to rest his sunken cheek upon. Tomorrow, she must remember to ask one of the nurses for a razor and shaving soap. His whiskers are quite overgrown.
"It's alright to fall asleep, sweetheart," she says, the endearment slipping from her tongue before Belle can think better of it. He didn't at all like hearing it the first time. Quite nearly bit her head off.
"I'm just going to ask for a fresh basin of water from the nurses' station. I'll be back in a few minutes." Leaving the door slightly ajar, Belle wanders into the hallway, carefully balancing the water. She can see from this distance that no one is at the little desk where nurses congregate during their shifts. Perhaps they wear pagers?
Best to just go back and push the little button on Nosty's bed.
Slipping silently back into the dark room, Belle halts and her lips form a startled little "oh!"
Nosty's angular face is half-buried in her scarf. He is taking deep, hurried breaths: in through his nose, out through his open mouth, as if he wants to consume it.
He rocks and struggles against the hospital bed, his uninjured hand tucked beneath the blanket. Thrusting urgently into his palm, his brow is deeply furrowed, his nostrils are flared, and the jerky movements of his hips are increasingly frantic.
Belle's scarf muffles most of the soft, breathless, straining noises that escape his open mouth, but, in a matter of seconds, his movements become more convulsive, and she hears him groan, "Fuck! Ah! Oh—fuck!"
The sight of his bucking hips and the perfect curve of his small, shaking arse beneath the thin hospital blanket is far and away the most erotic thing Belle has ever seen.
With a muffled gasp and a final "Ah—fuck!" she sees his face contort beautifully and his body spasm. Gradually, the shaking subsides, and Nosty's breathing slows. Belle watches the tension seep from his back and shoulders. His cheeks are nicely flushed, and his eyes are closed. At last, he looks at though he really could fall asleep.
Oh, it's little wonder Nosty needs this. A man in his twenties? There's probably precious little privacy while sleeping on the streets of London. Perhaps he wishes she'd leave a bit sooner in the evenings so he can steal a little time for this.
Belle leaves and waits a full five minutes before re-entering the room.
Nosty's eyes are still closed, and he looks as though he's utterly at peace, his face buried in her soft scarf.
Sitting gingerly beside him on the bed, Belle strokes the back of his hair, and Nosty grumbles happily. She sweeps his locks up and away from his neck, then over the side of his shoulder again and again, letting them fall, and he sighs, contented.
Tenderly, Belle folds the blanket down to expose his sinewy back, and she sucks in her breath, seeing yet more scars. These are larger, longer, scattered across his skin like strokes from a thick switch or leather belt. These she is certain he didn't inflict upon himself.
Not bothering with the lukewarm cloth, she simply traces her fingertips up and down Nosty's spine and watches the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
Her Shakespeare students are currently dissecting Othello, and a line from the tragedy has just now taken up residence in her brain: "She loved me for the dangers I had passed, and I loved her that she did pity them." She lets it run in a loop, finding meaning where previously the sentiment fell flat.
Belle hears herself asking quietly: "I overheard a nurse say you don't medicate. Why?" It's wrong of her to ask it when Nosty is in this hazy state between sleep and waking, but Belle cannot bring herself to retract the question. She wants to know him better.
"Lithium…clouds my mind. It isn't safe…out there, you need to be sharp." He answers readily enough, burrowing deeper against her scarf.
Suddenly tired herself, Belle brushes a kiss over his still-flushed cheek and whispers, "Goodnight, Nosty."