No matter how long I've lived in the slums and how much my stomach hurts when I haven't eaten in days, how sore my throat gets when there's little clean water to drink, how much my head pounds when the ringing in my ears becomes too much or how much that ringing itself hurts, I swear I've never been in this much agony before. My entire back feels as though it's been engulfed in flames, and it may as well have been for how much it hurts. I can hardly walk, but now that they've thrown me out on the street, muttering some warning about being killed if I ever show my face again, I have no choice.
I'm simultaneously hot and cold. Blood is still dripping down my back, soaking into my pants, circling into small puddles at my feet as I stagger upright. Even the tiniest of moves sends another wave of absolute torture through my body. Only one other injury from my past can rival this kind of pain.
I'm going to bleed to death, there's no doubt about it. Their whip was relentless, and even though the one dealing the damage had been ordered to stop after ten, he'd been having way too much fun with it, judging by his manic laughter. To top it all off, my wrists are welling blood, too, where the handcuffs had been digging into them as they whipped me.
Blearily I look around, trying to make sense of my surroundings. They'd loaded me into some vehicle, cuffed, gagged, and blindfolded and dropped me... right on the outside of town, not far from the palace itself. In fact if I turn and look hard enough, I can still catch a glimpse of the mansion.
Home. It's the only coherent thought, but it's enough to get me to put one foot in front of the other. If I'm lucky, I'll make it to the train station before nightfall and can find a place to stow away. Even if I don't make it all the way home, at least I'll be out of this damn cold when I die.
Quit being so fucking dramatic, I think bitterly to myself. The damn whip lashes aren't that bad; they're little more than flesh wounds, and most of them aren't even bleeding. Still, the slums are dirty. I don't have medical supplies. If I do make it back, the odds of developing an infection or blood poisoning is more than likely.
Strangely enough, as I'm working on finding a steady rhythm with my feet and using the nearby buildings on the quiet street around me for support, my thoughts stray behind me. To the prince. To Eijirou.
I want to be mad—I want to be fucking pissed that he didn't lie about the missing food, but I can't bring myself to. Whether it's because of the pain or the exhaustion, or the fact that his shitty parents already knew and were testing him, I can't decide.
Yeah, he told the truth. Ratted us out, not knowing they already knew it. But he still tried to help. Had the plan worked, I'd be hauling a huge sack of things to help my family and friends survive the winter on my back instead of the sensation of a raging fucking fire. His help is more than I can say about any other assface in that place.
Doesn't matter, though. I'll never see him again. For some reason, that thought makes my stomach twist. Why should I want to see his stupid, pretty face again? Because we actually are soulmates?
"Ha, yeah right," I mutter to myself aloud.
I push those thoughts aside and keep going. I can't afford to be wasting energy on some bullshit.
I make it several blocks before I find any kind of human activity, and then I begin slowly weaving in and out of alleyways, staying out of the eyes of others as much as I can. No one will help me, not unless I have money. That's something I seemed to have been born with the knowledge of, like how to breathe. It's woven into my DNA. Asking for help will only get me laughed or yelled at.
There comes a point not to far off from where those fuckers dropped me off in the dirt where I can't take it anymore. My legs give out, forcing me to sit in a pathetic heap in a narrow alleyway filled with trash. For this being the capital city and so close to the damn royal palace, it's surprisingly grimy.
I sit with my eyes closed, panting, my shoulder leaned up against the wall. I'm... not going to make it. The train station is still miles away. It's already late afternoon. The more I move, the more I bleed and I can feel a certain kind of weakness settling in from the loss of blood. Must be more than I thought. Besides, the pain is too much to bear.
Figures, that a homeless fuck like me would bleed to death in a back alley full of trash all because of one stupid ass decision he made. Seems fitting, I guess. At least my mom will have one less mouth to feed...
The sound of shuffling catches my attention, and it's odd enough for me to crack my eyes open. Off to the left, towards the mouth of the alley, there's a figure—a human figure. I open my eyes more.
"You come to mug me?" I call. "Too bad I don't have jack shit."
They stride forward, and a familiar laugh meets my ears. "Good thing I do, then," says the prince.
I sit up, not bothering to hide my surprise as he comes into view. In his fist is a sack—a pillowcase filled with shit, to be precise.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I ask, sounding grossly hopeful.
He kneels down in front of me. "I snuck out and came to find you," he says, but he's frowning, looking me over. "Dude... they really tore you up," he murmurs.
As he's looking me over, the weirdest sense of relief has overshadowed even the pain. Seeing him feels like a fucking miracle, and I hate that. But even I'm looking him over, drinking in his presence before I really even know what I'm doing.
His hair is down, cascading around his face in a few wispy layers. His eyes are bright, wide. He wears the most common clothes I've ever seen him in—jeans and a hoodie, his feet tucked into simple black tennis shoes. He still wears his earrings and a necklace chain, and despite his commoner's clothes he's still way too pretty to be out wandering the streets.
And shit, I must really be out of sorts if this is what I'm thinking.
"No shit?" I sputter in reply, averting my eyes and feeling stiff under his red gaze. "You know better than anyone how they feel about me. Why wouldn't they try to make hamburger meat out of me? How'd you find me, anyway?"
Pain flashes across his face but is quickly replaced by a slight simper. "I overheard where they said they were taking you and then followed the trail of blood." He nods toward the blood pooling on the ground behind me. "Mind if I have a look? I brought some stuff to clean you up and stop the bleeding."
I eye the sack still in his hand. "...whatever," I mutter, relaxing against the rough bricks again. He maneuvers around me, and despite my shitty hearing loss I don't miss the light gasp that draws in through his lips the second he lays eyes on my torn up back. "Pretty, ain't it?" I mutter.
He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he says, "I think it's probably best you took off your shirt. It's all torn up and soaked in blood."
"'S all I got to wear, dumbass," I say.
"Aw c'mon, you think I came to your rescue and didn't bring a change of clothes?" he asks almost teasingly, though there's an edge to his voice that's unlike him. Guess the guy who has to wear a disguise every time he leaves his damn house probably hasn't seen much blood before...
"Don't say shit like I'm some fucking damsel in distress," I quip.
"Are you gonna take off your shirt or not?"
"Fuck off," I hiss. I sit up anyway; it's fucking agonizing, trying to take the damned thing off. Every little movement of my arms sends a wave of pain shooting through the skin of my back. I must me making more noise through my gritted teeth than I thought, though, because he stops me, his warm fingers placed on my arm.
"Okay, okay, that's not gonna work," he says almost soothingly. "I'll just have to tear it off."
I'm panting again when my arms fall back into my lap like deadweight. It doesn't take much for him to rip the shirt from my body. I pull it off from the front and I'm not surprised to find the back of it where it's torn to be soaked in blood.
"Holy crap," he mumbles. "How many times did they whip you?"
"...dunno. Lost count after like twelve. Maybe twenty or so."
A breath blows through his lips again. "'Kay well I gotta clean you up, but I'll try to be gentle as possible, alright?"
"Whatever," I mutter again, but it's through my teeth. Now that the shirt's gone, the cold is really starting to bite at my exposed skin save for the inferno of my back. He's shuffling through his sack, so I ask the first question that bubbles up, hoping talking will be a decent enough distraction from the pain. "So the fuck happened after your shitty guards dragged me away to be whipped?"
"My parents decided my punishment," he said quietly.
"Which was?"
"...absolutely nothing in comparison to this. I'm gonna touch you now okay? 'S peroxide, so hopefully it won't sting too much."
I brace myself, but nothing but relief comes when he touches something cool to my right shoulder blade. That relief only lasts a second, though, because then the stinging does set in and I can't help the groan that escapes my throat when the pressure on top of the stinging is the worst pain since the damn whipping itself.
"Sorry!" he hisses. "I'm trying to be gentle."
"Just—keep talking," I grit out.
"Oh, um... yeah. The punishment. They basically just banished me to my room for a few weeks. Loss of privileges. All that kinda stuff."
Despite the pain, I bark a laugh, strained as it is. "They fucking grounded you?"
"I guess so," he said with a bubble of his own humor. "I sorta... tried to tell then I think you're my soulmate, but they didn't believe me. Said there's no way my soulmate can be someone of such, er... how did they put it? Low status? I think that's what ultimately made them decide to ground me, which like I said... is literally nothing compared to this."
"Hmph. Good thing they didn't believe you," I mutter. "'Cause I'm not your fuckin' soulmate."
When Eijirou says nothing to that, I want to be suspicious but am given no opportunity to be. Towards the middle of my back is where it hurts the most, and I'm involuntarily curling my fists around the bloody shirt in my hands, trying but failing not to make a sound. He hisses an apology every time I flinch without meaning to.
The next few minutes as he continues to clean me up are some of the longest of my life. A few times I feel like I'm gonna pass the fuck out, and while that shit would be one giant inconvenience for both of us, at least I wouldn't have to deal with the pain anymore—at least for a while. Unfortunately, that never happens and then he's pulling out a rather large roll of bandaging.
"I think the best way to do this is to wrap it around you," he says thoughtfully, having moved back into my line of sight. He's scratching his chin, unsure.
"Whatever," I mumble, too exhausted to care much anymore.
"Mm... think you can stand and put your hands up on the wall?"
Fuck no, I want to say, but I don't. Gritting my teeth I let him help me to my feet. There's more hissing and groaning on my part as I lift my hands, pressing them to the wall, almost like I'm about to be searched, but the prince makes quick work of the bandaging, rolling it around and around my entire torso. He weaves it up around my shoulders a few times, in the end using more than half of the roll before ripping and taping it off under my right arm. The second he says I can put my arms down, I almost collapse. Fortunately, he's there to ease me back to the ground so I don't completely fall onto my ass.
"Whoa, looks like your wrists are bleeding, too," he says.
"Handcuffs," I huff out.
He nods in understanding, moving back for the bandages but not letting go of my hand as he does so. And shit, I must be getting delirious as fuck because I can't help but notice how damn soft his hands are, how gentle he is as the roll of gauze goes around and around my wrists. He's fucking warm, too, and I can feel my heart stutter like a goddamn jackhammer inside my ribs; it jumps every time his skin brushes mine. It's like... electric, almost. I think. I feel myself wanting to move closer. How much fucking blood did I lose?!
And then it's like he can read my damn mind because he says, "You've really been through it, huh?" His voice is soft... soft in a way that it... feels like it touches me. "Your hands are super rough. Lots of calluses and hardened skin."
I force back a swallow, unable to make sense of the thickness in my throat that has nothing to do with dehydration; it's too different. "Well, 's not like I have the luxury of putting lotion on every damn day."
A light chuckle sounds from his throat, and again all I want to do is move closer to him, to hear it again. God, this is fucked up.
"There," he says once the bandages are taped off much like the ones encasing my torso. "Should be good as new in no time."
Quietly, he shuffles back through the pillowcase and tugs out a sweatshirt that, once he's placed it in hands, I realize is fucking fleece. Only once in my life have I ever had something made of fleece, and it was my saving grace for three straight winters before it ended up being the compress for a wound and soaked in blood. With no way to wash it, it was rendered stiff and no longer usable.
"Fuck," I breathe out. Somehow the texture has given me the will and just enough energy to stuff my arms into it and pull it over my head. "Thanks," I mumble, bunching the sleeves up in my hands.
"'Course," he says with a smile that's light as a breath. "Brought some water and something for you to eat, too. You lost a lotta blood so you'll need it." He continues to shuffle through the things he brought as he speaks and I swear I almost groan in delight when he pulls out a water bottle alongside a sleeve of fucking cookies. It takes every last ounce of my self-control not to shovel them all right in the second they're placed in my hand, opened.
"Feel better?" he asks once I've devoured half of it.
"Yeah," I mumble around a bite. "A little."
"Wish I'd thought to bring pain meds," he sighs.
"...like you haven't done enough," I mutter, twisting the end of the sleeve and folding it over, because fuck me if I don't savor these. At this point, they and the sweater are the last glimmers of happiness I have left (except for, well, the shitty prince himself—not that I'm even going to admit that to myself), and even though Eijirou has prolonged my life a little, I can't expect it to last. Not with these wounds and the filth down in The Outskirts.
"What do you mean?" he questions as I'm opening the water bottle and taking a swig.
"At this point I'm so fucking indebted to you, you'll have to kill me yourself."
Surprisingly, he laughs at that. "Nah, you don't owe me anything, Katsuki. If anything, I owe you everything because my family has abandoned you and the people like you for so long even though there's no good reason for it."
"Tell that to your shitty parents," I mutter.
At that, his shoulders drop just a fraction. "Wish I could. They'd listen, but they wouldn't be... super open to the idea of helping you," he says. "They were raised to think the way they do."
"And you weren't?"
"I was," he says with a mild shrug.
"Then why the fuck are you different, huh?"
"I told you, man. I question things a lot. I keep an open mind. Stuff like money and power tends to go to the heads of those at the head of the family. And if you hadn't noticed, we're kind of cooped up in the palace most of the time 'cause of rules having to do with past incidents."
Despite the fact that I'm dying to know what these past incidents might be, I keep my mouth shut about it. "So then what're you doing now, huh? You snuck out, so aren't they gonna basically lock you up when they find you?"
"Probably," he murmurs. "But I couldn't sit around knowing what they were doing to you. It was a risk, but one I was willing to take."
"Why? What's in it for you?"
Something inside of me weakens in the next moment—the one where he trains those big, shiny red eyes right on mine with so much innocence and compassion that it causes my breath to catch in my throat.
"Simple," he says with the smallest of grins. "I want you to take me to your city. I wanna go to The Outskirts."
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