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THERE IS A WORM ON SUMIRE'S FLOOR. Or, more accurately, there is a curse that looks like a worm on her floor. She'd only learned it was Fushiguro's familiar after she tried to exorcise it— apparently it stored weapons inside of its body, and Fushiguro stored it in his stomach. Gross.
And now, it was laying on top of her suture kit. She prods it with her finger, trying to get it to roll off of her kit before this man bled to death.
Sumire knows that most curses don't have the capacity to form full thoughts, but she swears it takes a moment to study her. "Guh," It gurgles in response and flops over to wriggle onto Fushiguro's leg. It's a bit cute in a disgusting kind of way.
He picks up the curse and waits for it to shrink down into a small ball, then— to Sumire's absolute horror— swallows it without a sliver of hesitation. Fushiguro has the audacity to snort in amusement at Sumire's clear grimace.
"It's efficient," Fushiguro says, shrugging. He winced at the strain, and Sumire watches as a patch of blood blooms across his shirt. Serves him right. "Would you hurry the hell up? I thought you said you were gonna help."
Sumire motions tiredly for him to take his shirt off for better access to the wounds. Being a sorcerer, despite being mostly unaffiliated with any family or organization, she'd done her fair share of sutures. This was her first time though, seeing someone so jacked. God, his tits were probably bigger than her own.
Fushiguro grins, smile all teeth, a knowing glint in his jade eyes. It's achingly attractive and Sumi flips him off for it.
For that one, she takes her time disinfecting the gashes. Sumi wasn't afraid to admit it: she was petty.
It's a slow and painstaking process, but Sumi closes his wounds as best she can. With each closed gash, one-by-one she adds more scars to the already crisscrossing array on his torso. Obviously it's nothing unusual for sorcerers to have an ever-growing collection of scars, but his just seemed excessive. It didn't seem as though any of them were treated with much care either— each jagged scar a testament to sloppily thrown sutures.
Whatever. It wasn't her business.
Hours tick by as Sumire works on the various wounds scattered across him— a few on his leg, a sprained ankle that she hadn't noticed before, a nasty gash on his scalp. As she's finishing up a particularly deep cut running straight across his back, Fushiguro asks offhandedly, "How fuckin' long is this gonna take... you can't just use that kid with the reversed technique again?"
He must mean Haku... Sumire contemplates how to communicate. Fushiguro didn't understand JSL, and she couldn't exactly take her hands off of him to type out a response.
"Jiji, come." Sumire calls. Having one of her spirits respond in her stead was probably easiest.
A small black cat materializes from her shadow, yawing widely. "What's up Sumi?" Jiji rubs at his eyes, then studies the scene in front of him with a mischievous little 'fu fu fu', "Damn, when'd you get yourself a man?"
Fushiguro barks out a laugh, then winces as Sumire prods at one of his wounds to shut him up. She addresses Jiji, "Answer his question please. My hands are full."
Fushiguro looks at Jiji a bit skeptically. "I thought she had a curse familiar with a reversed technique."
"First of all ya bastard, we ain't curses." Jiji bristles, scrunching his nose like the thought itself disgusts him. Sumire can't help but laugh at the indignant look on Fushiguro's face. "Secondly, Haku can only use that once a week. Somethin' about taking too much energy."
"Not curses? Both of you had cursed energy."
"That's Sumi's. We're minor gods— we don't have any cursed energy to begin with." Jiji tilts his head like it's obvious. She'd have to remind him one day that it really, really wasn't. "We contract with her and share her cursed energy."
Fushiguro hums contemplatively, studying Jiji for a moment then looking back at Sumire. Again, there's that look of barely-concealed sadness. Like he's comparing her to something, or someone, from a long forgotten past. It was distracting, and the weight of his stare honestly made her a bit self-conscious.
"What?" Sumi mouths angrily, her hands stilling. She was almost done with the last of his wounds, and was already irritated beyond belief— she really wasn't in the mood for some guy (that she'd honestly otherwise find attractive) to be closely examining her face. Especially after a long day at work.
It's like Fushiguro snaps out of a trance. Seamlessly, his expressions melts right back into the cocky, arrogant facade from earlier. It's a bit disconcerting, but Sumi doesn't actually have a chance to dwell on it because he chuckles.
"Nothin'. Just thinkin' about how you're not my type of woman." As he says it, his eyes distinctly flick down to Sumire's chest.
To say that she popped a vein would be an understatement. A cold smile settles on her face, and she uncaps the bottle of hydrogen peroxide like she's unsheathing a sword.
A little extra disinfecting never hurt anyone, right?
NOTE! toji's a bastard :)) leave a like + comment if you liked it! the serotonin keeps me going.
