[ he takes delta's hand in his own, gently cradling it and immediately noticing how large it is compared to his own smaller hand — and softer, too, whereas his own fingers are calloused from plucking strings. the gash looks horrible, worse than he imagined, but redoing his stitches would probably make it feel even worse than that. his eyes travel down his wrist to the wispy path of scars decorating his arm. ashe can tell it's decidedly not a tattoo, and a shiver creeps down his spine when he thinks about how all of that might've gotten there. ]

Did you do that to yourself? [ the question comes after a brief pause of wondering if it's appropriate to ask such a thing. it's not, but he does anyway, awkwardly reaching for the bottle and unscrewing the dropper. when? the scars look old. did he have them when they used to pass each other in the hallway? when he sat beside him in chemistry? how did he hide something like this?

carefully, he squeezes several drops of the sweet-smelling oil onto delta's palm, keeping his eyes fixed on the jagged cut even as the apology hangs between them. ]

I know. Just — stop, okay? I get why you said those things. You were trying to protect me. [ in the dumbest possible way, but delta is one of the dumbest people he knows. he keeps that to himself. ] Just forget about it.

[ because the more he thinks about it the worse he feels. he'd ideally like to never think about it again. clearing his throat, he slides off the stool, keeping delta's wounded hand carefully in his own for a moment longer before realizing what he's doing and snatching his hand away to jam it into his pocket instead. ]

Can we go upstairs? I'll bandage you up again and then I want to take a nap.