The Devil on Kazoo

17: Syl's Burn

Syl rolled up her sleeves. "Got it."

"But be careful," Bash said quickly, his tone clipped. "Those pipes are hot." He looked down at his hand. "Obviously."

Syl snickered and reached through the pipes easily. "Which one?"

Bash described the red switch and Syl flipped it.

It was going perfectly fine until Syl was pulling her arm back out. She was steering clear of the pipe closest to her, that she didn't see the one behind it.

She bumped against the hot metal and scalding pain shot through her upper arm.

"Sukin syn!" she spat, yanking her arm out.

Bash swore under his breath and stepped closer to examine the wound.

Syl was almost too afraid to look. "How bad is it?"

Bash shook his head. "It's not terrible, but it's not pretty. Let's go put some ointment on it to stop the burning."

Bash put his hand on the small of Syl's back and led her up the stairs as if she were his patient.

Syl almost remarked to him that she knew where the bathroom was located, but refrained. It was against her nature to be taken care of, but for some reason, it was different with Bash.

They went up to the bathroom in the wheelhouse, where Bash began rummaging through the medicine cabinet.

"Half of this is expired," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"I can do it," Syl offered. "All I need is a bandage."

Bash gave her an almost annoyed look. "Those pipes are bloody disgusting, Sylvette. If we don't sanitize the burn, then you could lose your whole arm."

"That sounds a little dramaticheskiy."

"Yes, losing an arm would be dramatic. Now have a seat."

Syl reluctantly hopped onto the countertop as Bash gathered his supplies. She remembered him doing the same thing for Smiley and Kathy whenever they'd get hurt.

It made her wonder, "What did you want to be when you grew up, Sebastian?"

Bash glanced at her and grinned, his cheeks turning a slight shade of pink. "Besides being a rockstar?"

"Besides that."

"I wanted to be a doctor. Or a veterinarian."

"Why?"

Bash unfurled a roll of gauze and shook his head. "It's stupid."

Syl nudged him with her foot. "Tell me."

"Because I like helping people," he admitted.

"Why is that stupid?"

"Because that's what everyone's supposed to say, but I mean it. I like being part of something greater than myself. Music's the same thing. All I do is press down on a few frets and pick a few strings–it's the music itself that moves people. Changes them."

Syl smiled to herself and watched as Bash poured some brown liquid onto a cotton pad.

"This might sting," he warned.

He scrubbed the pad across Syl's burn and she hissed with pain.

"Sorry, sorry." Bash blew on the wound to calm the stinging. "There we are."

The expression on his face, Syl realized, was the same one he wore when he played. A soft smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his motions fluid and quick as if his limbs were meant to do exactly this.