felled by you, held by you — r&v / d4, day 5

The water alone is enough to make him wary. Roe had stood begrudgingly, up to his hips, before Vin had nudged him in further. The tape. It can't come off dry.

Vin is gentle as they peel it back, they really are, especially under the circumstances, but it still really fucking hurts.

He'd been stupid to put it on. He knows that. But he was panicking and the gashes were bleeding, dripping onto the tile, and Vin was floors and floors away.

The water laps up against Roe's arms. The salt of it stings, but that has to be a good thing. That has to be something cleansing, like antiseptic. Like pouring alcohol on it. People do that, right? The pain means it's working. Gradually, the tape lifts bit by bit and Roe grits his teeth to stay in place, tries not to make any noise.

Vin's hands shift. The water sloshes against the push of Roe's spine. He gingerly flexes his back and feels the movement shake something loose.

The pain is still there.

How many times has he snapped at Vin? And now, still, gentle. Roe sways backwards. Stop biting the hand; but he won't. A knife does nothing but cut. A dog does nothing but grind his teeth and dream of bone shards.

The tape floats limp in the water, upturned in strips of silver bellies. Flayed.

They turn into the water as Roe stands, sucked under. He tries to move without really moving, pushing his legs through the water and wincing. He turns when no sound follows behind.

“Vin?”

And then a second later, a little more alarmed, reaching out to steady them along the middle, ”Vin.”

Vin flinches and Roe snaps his hands back so quickly that he nearly slaps himself.

Wide-eyed, the water shifts.

Roe's fingers, hovering above the foam, are smeared red. He stares down at where they brush the top of the white. Where the colour transfers and gets swept away.

That ”no” parroted back, it echos.

The new panic makes the sound flit, it jumps from throat to throat like something small and limber.

Roe feels it crawl. He feels himself. The same movement, over and over again, scores grooves into his spine. His teeth work against the hand. Acutely, something shifts. Something drops.

But Roe is bigger, and so he gets to the wound. He holds it. He sees the glint of intrusion, nestled between two ribs. A knife maybe. The sun's gone down, the waves are loud, it's too hard to tell.

”When-” He demands, then reroutes - ”What is this from.”