Don't Explain
by northern

It starts in the morning when he gets up early and goes to the bathroom.

Or, it must have started before that. Maybe the night before. It drips on his bedroom floor when he walks naked from the bed, and in the hallway, but he doesn't see the stains until he's on his way back to the bedroom again.

Maybe when he was asleep. That bothers him more than he wants it to.

When he looks down while taking his morning piss, he sees it. On the outside of his hip. Red. Wet. In a trail down his leg.

He twists to see better, smearing the red. It's slick, sticky. Won't come off easily, except where it does. He rubs his fingers together and brings his hand up slowly. It's probably what he thinks it is.

He smells and tastes it.

It is.

He looks down again.

The trail is more of a rusty colour further down, already flaking on the edges. All the way down to his ankle, where it ends, clotting in a darker spot.

He looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are dark and his face looks stiff. Pale. "Blood loss" goes through his mind, but he discards it as stupid. There's not that much on his leg. Yet. The wound is small, nothing much. A horizontal tear an inch or so. On his hip.

It doesn't hurt, really. It's just sore with a small sizzle of pain when he prods it. It looks as if it should stop bleeding any time now.

He wets some tissue paper and wipes it away. When he's done, fresh drops are already leaking from his hip. He wipes them away too and gets a band aid and puts it on.

On the way back he sees the stains on the floor, goes back and gets some tissue to wipe them up, too. Then he crawls back into bed. There's a spot on his sheet, but it's not that large, so he doesn't bother with changing it. He just needs some sleep.

When he wakes up again, he's forgotten all about it. In the shower he runs his fingers over his hip and remembers. The band aid falls off under the water, and when he dries himself, the towel ends up with red stains. He gets another band aid out of the wall cabinet.

He runs most mornings. He's learned to like it long ago. It's an easy way to keep his heartbeat at the rate he wants it to be. Most mornings he's got a song running on repeat in his head. It won't stop until he does. This morning, it's quiet. His head is empty. When he gets in, he looks in the mirror and is greeted by a stiff, empty face. He tries smiling and watches the corners of his mouth struggle upwards, reluctantly.

He takes another shower. He dries himself with the same towel. No sense to get two of them dirty. Puts on another band aid, since they're not really water resistant.

When he dresses, he takes care not to upset the band aid. The waist of his drawstring pants goes above it. He's supposed to go to Chris's today. He does, most days. He feels strangely reluctant to do so today. Picks up the phone, puts it down again. Picks it up and dials.

"My dirty dirty brotha'!"

"I'm staying home today. I think."

"Justin."

"..."

"What's going on?"

"What...?"

"I'm coming over."

"No..."

Click. Silence.

He doesn't really want to see Chris today. Not today. He feels very much like maybe sleeping some more.

He puts the phone down absently and takes off his clothes, slowly. Folds them and puts them on the chair. Goes back into the bedroom and puts his head on the pillow, closes his eyes.

He can hear the doorbell ringing twice. Then Chris gets impatient and opens the door. He keeps his eyes closed and doesn't answer as Chris shouts his name. Maybe he'll go away.

The shouting gets more frantic. Then closer. Then right in his ear.

Chris has him by the shoulders and is shaking him. He blinks a couple of times. Chris's face is alive. He makes a note of that, to read sometime when he wants to.

Chris is saying something. At least his lips are moving.

"... matter with you? Are you hurt?"

Chris starts patting his body all over, then pulls the sheet away.

He pulls it back, hard, and clutches it tightly. Chris shouldn't do that. There's nothing there he should see.

"Justin, come on."

He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs on to the sheet. Chris can't take it away.

"Justin!"

There is no way that Chris can have the sheet.

There is a short break when he can hear Chris panting. Or maybe that's him. It doesn't matter. A hand folds around his jaw and cheek. It's very warm.

"Okay, Justin. Calm down." Chris sounds upset, still.

The bed dips.

"Here, put your head in my lap."

His head is lifted and Chris scoots under him. Then his face is being petted and stroked by those warm hands. They're scorching. He can't understand how anyone can have such warm hands.

"It's going to be okay. I know." Chris's voice is close to breaking. He sounds so sad, so upset. "I know, Justin."

Suddenly, he's trembling.