I'm doing it wrong.
Steve scrubs extra hard at his hair, trying to wash the thought out of his head. It proves fruitless, as always.
You don't earn the affections of someone by boxing them in the head or shoulder-checking them into lockers.
Yet he couldn't help himself. It was the only way to get those busy blue eyes to lock onto him, and the fact that they were always incredibly electrified with the energy of the emotions swirling behind them made them impossible to resist.
The boy's shower isn't the most hospitable environment, but Steve's preference for solo training meant that he arrived early to get his routine in, when it was technically day but still mostly dark. Save for some newcomers here and there, he was almost always alone. Consequentially, his showers had become a source of respite from the sweltering expectations of the world around him, a seldom moment for him to be quiet and alone.
This was usually when he was best able to work through his deepest troubles, the blue eyes haunting his dreams being no exception. He breathes the moist air deeply, feeling it clear his labored lungs with relish. Too bad it couldn't clear his head as well.
As he was wrapping a towel around his waist to travel to the mirror, the gym echoed with the boom of the heavy doors slamming open, startling him out of his skin.
Perhaps it was the fact that he was so shocked to be disturbed, or maybe it was the fact that he was completely naked, but he instinctively grabs his bag and jets into the furthest stall, whisking the curtain closed behind him. He listens to the approaching footsteps intently as he shuffles into his clothes, the friction between the material and his moist skin making the task difficult.
Is that…clanking?
As the noise grows closer, he has the sense to part the curtain a little, to allow him to peek out.
His heart feels hard and heavy as the noise approaches what he knows is the entrance to the shower room. He swallows hard and distantly hopes that the intruder doesn't notice his presence simply by the lingering steam from his shower.
He stares hard at the doorway as the shadowy form approaches, and out of nowhere, there's a huge flash of blue light. He winces, and when he looks again, his mouth parts in surprise.
He's not doing well. Anyone could tell that with just a glance. Probably without that even, because even from across the shower room he can hear the heavy pants and soft groans emitting from the slender form now supported by the wall. After a few moments, he moves, making his way further into the shower room.
Steve watches with bated breath as the form passes by, and he sees a familiar set of eyes flash up from beneath a navy hood, seeming to be seeking, yet un-seeing at the same time.
His mouth forms his name instinctively. Jim.
The slight boy moves towards the water closet, and as he goes to reach for the knob, he falls against the door.
Normally, even with his…affections…Steve would have openly laughed at such a folly. However, the bark of pain as the smaller boy's body makes contact had instantly makes his mouth go dry.
Jim groans as he pulls the door open, and with his head dipped in evident exhaustion, he grabs knowingly into the darkness of the closet. From within he pulls a large backpack, and with it, he begins to trudge in Steve's direction. For one terrifying moment, he thinks that he's headed for his hiding place. Instead, he heads for the stall across from his, which, he notices, for some reason, is the only stall with a window above it.
The bag hits the floor with an impossibly heavy thud, the boy dropping to his knees soon after. Watching from afar, Steve must guess from the fumbling and the swaying that the Lake's eyes aren't even open as he yanks out a compacted sleeping roll, followed shortly by a large jug of water and a box.
Steve shifts a bit for a better view, no longer bothering to worry about being overheard. The grunts and whimpers from the raven kneeling in the opposing shower were more than enough to cover his movements.
He watches as Jim falls against the shower wall and shifts into a sit, his brilliant blue eyes lidded and hazy.
Steve is frozen in place, riddled with conflicting emotions. As he watches, Jim uncaps the water and drinks from it. Heavily. So much that for a moment, his brains registers some kind of primitive concern. After another moment Jim drops it to the floor so hard that some of it splatters up through the mouth of the jug. It's then that his eyelids flutter and he shifts towards the box.
A strange energy crackles through Steve's muscles as the boy produces gauze and tapes, pills and creams. A particularly large groan of pain echoes throughout the shower room as Jim lifts himself back up into a standing position, and that's when he begins to undress.
If he hadn't been speechless before, he certainly would have been now.
The Lake's dark clothing gives way to skin nearly as dark. What should have been a soft cream canvas was now littered with a violent array of bruises and cuts, a spectrum of blues and purples, yellows, and reds that he had never known could occur together in nature. Yet there they were, adorning the skin of the young teenager crumbling before him.
His body jumps violently as the Lake shrieks during his attempt to remove his pants, the sound filling the room in a way the running water never could. No matter how hard he had punched, body slammed or thrown him down, Jim had only ever met him with loud defiance, never with the pitiful sounds he was making now. Lake falls against the wall of his stall, faltering so badly that for a moment, Steve starts planning what to do if he falls and cracks his head.
Yet the boy perseveres, shuffling his surprisingly toned legs out of his jeans. Steve can't help but shift his eyes away as the Lake bares himself to the cool air of the shower room, sensing that it was only right to provide the basic privacy the wounded boy was expecting.
Almost immediately, Jim grabs his backpack and, with what seems to be practiced ease, produces a trash bag, into which he blindly stuffs with his soiled clothing. With a unnerving familiarity, the young boy stuffs the bag of clothes deep into his backpack.
Then, after letting the backpack fall to the floor, Jim lets his forehead rest against the cool tile of the shower wall.
He breathes.
And breathes.
And breathes.
Then, after what seems to be forever, the Lake pushes himself off of the wall and starts the shower.
Steve wasn't sure how it felt to feel hundreds of tiny embers falling onto some of your most sensitive skin, but for some reason, that's how he imagines Jim feels below the soft shower above him. The whimpering and the curses leaking from his righteous lips sound tortured, as if he was enduring some of the most excruciating agony.
Steve has to blink several time because he can't quite comprehend the dark shadow cascading down the raven's body, but after a couple of tries he comes to the startling realization that the boy is rinsing himself of blood.
After the bare minimum, Jim turns off the water and turns back to his bag, collapsing to his knees. The bottle rattles as Jim opens it up, the pills he tips into his hand disappearing down his throat in a practiced motion.
He barely dries himself off before he begins his work with the bandages. Steve can't quite see what exactly the slightly boy is patching up, but guessing from the gasping and the unbridled swearing, it wasn't pretty.
He shuffles into his clothes. It's the only way to describe it. Steve feels a pang of pity as his squirming gets a good portion of the materials wet. After a few stomach-churning moments the raven collapses again, falling into a sit against the shower wall so heavily that Steve can see his head bounce off from the force of it. A muted groan is the only indication that the raven had even noticed.
There's a moment of stillness as Jim's pants echo in the cement room around them.
Steve knows what muscle soreness is. He hadn't gotten so big without some aching. Yet the way the boy in front of him falters with every movement tells him that he knows nothing of true pain. Saliva is dripping from the Lake's parted lips as he pushes himself away from the wall.
Jim collapses onto the sleeping bag, the only respite from the chilled moisture of the floor. He's on his back, and for a moment, Steve thinks it might be over. The boy's gasping is starting to slow, and he can see him practically melting into the floor with exhaustion.
Then the young lake starts convulsing. The sound of his retching rings through the shower room, the choked sobs that cut between making the air go dry. Steve can hear the impact of the vomit on the cement, and from the sound of it, the raven was doomed to empty his entire stomach contents.
"F-fuck…" It's barely audible, but the desperation behind it rings like a bell. More retching, more sobbing, and Steve can feel his muscles tensing in preparation to intervene. "W-why…" He sobs some more. "FUCK, why ME?!"
Steve is startled again, the fury and anguish behind the boy's voice seeming to shake the cement walls.
The anger is short lived, followed by more sobbing, more cursing. He eventually rolls away from his sick, gasping and moaning. His hands grasp at the sleeping bag to pull it closer, but falters when the feather-filled material proves too heavy. With a mournful groan, he simply goes limp, his pants still loud and heavy.
Steve finds it intriguing how he can hear Jim falling asleep, his breathing gradually mellowing out, interrupted only by the occasional twitch and pitiful whimper. After what seems like forever, he goes completely still, nothing but gentle breaths and soft drips breaking the silence.
Steve emerges from his hiding place, overly conscious of his footsteps as he approaches the young raven on the floor. Jim's condition gets worse the closer he gets. Even with his clothes and bandages, Steve can see countless bruises and scrapes, stark in comparison to the sickly pale flesh they decorate. There's a wheeze to the young Lake's breathing, and every few breaths his breathing falters, as if the air wasn't quite flowing correctly.
Steve kneels and sets a hand on the Lake's chest. The boy remains motionless, and even when Steve gives him a good shake, the only sign of life is a heartbreaking groan.
Steve had never considered himself a very intelligent person. But even he knew that the boy was in danger. He needed medical treatment, one of those IV things. Dry clothes.
"Lake." A couple more shakes. "Lake." No response.
Steve sighs through his nose. He grabs the sleeping bag and ungracefully stuffs it back into the backpack, followed haphazardly but the first aid supplies and water bottles.
Oddly prepared….
He slings the weightless bag over his shoulder and turns to the teenager on the linoleum. He slides his hands under the boy's limp body and lifts him.
The young Lake, while light and slim, is surprisingly hard-bodied. Steve easily recognizes lean, sculpted muscles lying beneath the fabric of his clothes, and the athlete in him can't help but be impressed. No wonder Lake is swift on his feet.
"What's goin' on with you, Lake?"
The boy, of course, says nothing, his lithe body swaying with the energy of Steve's movements. Upon reaching the doors he turns and puts his back to them, pushing backwards to avoid knocking Jim around.
Upon reaching the parking lot, Steve shuffles Jim's weight around to reach down to the fob hanging by his belt loop, giving the button a quick press.
The beep had never really seemed loud to Steve before, but the sound of the car unlocking seems to be enough to reach the young Lake draped across his arms.
Blue eyes fly open in what could only be described as panic, darting about unseeingly as the wiry body kicks into gear. Steve yelps as an elbow finds his gut, vicious and deliberate. The breath leaves his lungs as violently as the Lake leaves his arms, the younger boy thrashing so aggressively that Steve is forced to drop him.
On his knees and reclaiming his breath, Steve watches as the Lake catches himself on unsteady feet, stumbling a few steps away before collapsing, his hands just barely darting out to save his face from the pavement. Agonized gasps carry through the air around them, interrupted only by somber groans.
Finally, the Lake's eyes dart towards him, the blue orbs widening in horror when they meet the deep brown of Steve's gaze.
"Easy, Lake," Steve says breathily, clutching his stomach.
The raven looks like a cornered animal, eyes blown wide and his body shuddering with what had to be adrenaline.
"Do you know who I am? Where you are?"
Lake nods, but something about the way he's starting to look around gives Steve a strange, unsettling feeling. He can't help but glance into the distance himself, yet sees nothing besides the shadows beyond the streetlights.
He focuses on the highly-strung boy before him. His mind can't help but wander.
Drugs? "What happened to you?"
The Lake goes incredibly still, but he's not looking at Steve. He's staring off into the darkness, his eyes flitting between the shadows.
Fear. No… Terror.
A cold flame sets in Steve's stomach. Something he only felt when he experienced true anger. "Is someone after you?"
Jim's hand shoots up and he holds his palm towards Steve, silencing the blonde in an instant. His eyes are still scanning the distant darkness, and for a moment Steve thinks he might be suffering some sort of episode.
After another couple of moments, Jim drops his hand, his body going limp.
His voice is exhausted, hoarse. As if he had been yelling…no, screaming…. for the better part of the evening. "What are you doing?"
Steve blinks. "Me? What about you?"
Jim ignores his question. "How did I get outside?"
Steve can feel a tinge of anger flick at the edges of his temper, but it quickly quells when he remembers the boy's condition. "I was taking you to the hospital."
There's a flash of anxiety in Jim's eyes, but it quickly passes. "I don't need that. I was fine where I was."
Steve takes a step forward, posturing on the younger man like he always does. The cold blue gaze remains steady and unworried, as if Steve was barely a blip on his radar.
Typical.
He drops his shoulders and tries a softer approach. "Look, Lake, it might not be any of my business what's going on, but I'm not letting you just…die on the shower room floor."
"I'm not going to die." As if to prove his point, Jim pushes himself to his feet, but in the same, wobbly manner that a fresh fawn does. His lips are tight as he bites back the groans Steve knows are trapped in his throat.
Steve swallows hard and holds that blue gaze. "Look-"
"No, you look," snaps Jim, "it's none of your business, so just-" The boy's eyes suddenly go white as they roll back into his head.
Steve had been playing basketball since he was three years old. Football since five. Then just about everything else in between. While the time and energy he had to put in could be a drag, he had always appreciated the results. Now is no exception.
His hands dart out and catch Jim effortlessly, his strong back and thick arms more than enough to bring his collapse to a gentle halt. Slim fingers grab at Steve's arms and back as the Lake attempts to put himself back on his feet, but with every second Steve can feel the remaining energy bleeding out of the boy's body.
He honestly doesn't know what to say. "Let…let me help you."
He isn't restraining the boy, simply holding him up, yet the Lake seems to be trying to struggle out of his hold, his heavy pants burning through the fabric of Steve's shirt.
"You're barely conscious," Steve says softly. "You're hurt. Bad. You need a hospital."
Between the pants, Jim quietly mutters, "No…hospital…" He shudders against Steve as he fights to retain his fleeing consciousness. "Please…."
With a soft and weary sigh, the boy goes completely limp, collapsing against Steve's chest. The blonde hauls him up into the air and turns back to the car, taking the few steps back that Jim had managed to flee. He opens the back door and gently lays the boy inside, briefly wondering if he should put his seatbelt on somehow. The pathetic shuddering of his breath tells him not to jostle him further. He closes the door softly and slides into the front seat.
It's only when he goes to put the key into the ignition that he notices his hand shaking violently, a smear of blood running from his wrist all the way up his forearm. His own blood chills his veins, making him shiver.
Shock, is that what they call it?
He shakes his head. "This isn't about you, Steve," he mutters to himself.
He starts the car, and for once he's glad for the quiet purr of the engine. The sports cars he lusted after would surely have bothered his passenger. He pulls out of the parking lot gently, and he can't help but adjust his rearview mirror in order to keep an eye on his passenger, the limp form seemingly lifeless in his backseat.
The hospital isn't far away, but he feels an alien sense of urgency. The boy's life was in his hands at this very moment, and with each second that passes it becomes more likely that it will slip through his fingers. He presses on the gas a bit harder.
In a barely audible whisper, Jim's voice floats to the front seat.
"Bridge…"
Steve perks his ears. "What?"
"The…bridge…" A few heartbeats of silence. "Take me….to the bridge…"
Steve nearly pops a vein in his eyes glancing at the mirror so fast. His voice breaks with disbelief. "What? You want me to what? Why?"
The boy mumbles something in response, his tone affirmative. Then he falls silent again. Steve glances at the road, and then back to the mirror.
He's almost startled to find the Lake looking back at him, his eyes hooded but desperate. "The bridge….please…"
Those eyes, despite his struggle to keep them open, pierce into Steve's reflection, sending a wordless message that what he was asking was consequential.
He shakes his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
He makes a U-turn and heads for the bridge.
Fifteen minutes later, pulls down into the canal through one of the loading ramps and cruises through until they they're underneath the bridge. He parks the car and looks at Jim in the mirror.
For a moment, he thinks the boy has fallen asleep or worse, but with the loss of movement his blue eyes soon flutter open. With a hefty groan he sits up and collapses against the door.
"Leave…me…there." The boy's hand trembles as he lifts it to point at the large retaining wall under the bridge.
Steve twists in his seat so sharply to see the boy better that he pinches a nerve. Groaning and rubbing his neck, he grinds out, "Leave you? Are you insane? I'm not doing that. You'll die."
Jim's eyes meet his, and there's a heated resolve overriding the fog of agony. They spend a moment there, trying to stare each other down.
Eventually, Jim rolls his head towards the window, and without another word, opens the door and falls out.
Steve is speechless for a moment, but his senses finally kick in and he fumbles out of his seatbelt, failing twice before he manages to free himself. He opens the door in a panic, and when he steps around the car, he finds that Lake has already crawled several feet towards the wall, dragging his backpack behind him.
He hurries over to him and grabs him to pull him up.
To his shock, the boy twists like a snake and sinks his teeth into the offending hand. Steve releases him in shock, shaking his hand instinctively. A quick glance reveals nothing but a soft imprint, but Steve gets the message.
He looks down to see that Jim is waiting for his gaze. He glares, delivering one final warning before he turns back over and resumes crawling.
Steve is ripped between his emotions. His logic tells him to snatch the boy up and haul him back to the car-force him if he must-and take him to the hospital before his lung collapses or something. However, his instinct-something primal and indescribable-tells him to indulge the raven.
"Fine." The resignation is dripping from his voice.
The Lake comes to a stop, and Steve can feel the wave of relief flood over the battered soul before him.
"On one condition. Ten minutes. Max. After that, I will pick you up and take you to get some help. If somehow you miraculously heal yourself before then, I'll forget about his whole thing."
Lake doesn't even hesitate. "Deal."
With no further exchange of words, Steve approaches. Jim lifts himself to his knees readily, lifting his arms. Steve scoops him up and carries him the rest of the way to the wall.
Jim's body seems to be growing colder, and the breathing shallower, but he doesn't comment.
Five minutes, then. He won't notice.
He lays Lake down gently, scooting his backpack beneath his head before settling him completely. Jim has managed to hold onto his consciousness, but it's flickering, his eyelids rising slower with each blink.
"Go." His voice has a tinge of relief to it, as if he had been placed onto a fluffy bed rather than dirty cement.
Steve bites back the question of why. Something tells him that the Lake would refuse to answer.
He retreats slowly, watching Lake watch him go, something quiet blooming between their locked gazes.
Appreciation? Trust?
He hadn't planned to take his eyes off the Lake even for a second. He had meant to back up to the car. Then he would give it a few minutes. Surely Lake would fall asleep, and he could get him the help he needed without a fight.
He's still backing up, still locked onto the Lake like predator until a startling impact, like a giant weight landing against the cement canal, startles the life out of him. He spins in shock, his eyes darting around for the source of the sound, but he finds only darkness. He searches the shadows feverishly, desperate to find the source, and he suddenly remembers Lake doing the same only thirty minutes before. His throat closes.
This is over. We're going to get help.
When he turns around again, he can't help but cry out in shock. He runs forward, glancing around, spinning desperately, but there was no mistaking it. The Lake boy was gone.
Distantly, the sun begins to rise.