Marseille
Cartilage
Nacer's hands are maladroit and dirty as he tilts Antoine's face back to get a better look at the shattered cartilage of his nose and the wound by his hairline that's oozing like an oily waterfall. His breath is warm against Antoine's bearded cheeks, and the glint from the fluorescent bathroom light above them in his eyes offers a source of clarity that Antoine has been searching for since staggering to his feet half an hour before. He is unapologetic in his heavy-handedness, and as thorough as a mother when inspecting the damage caused by prejudiced fists.
It is quiet but for the rushing and creaking of water pipes in the walls and slosh of hot water in the sink as Nacer dampens a cloth to clean up Antoine's face. He does so with a degree more delicacy than before, moving slowly across the purpling skin, working in little circles and strokes. Antoine flinches and reaches out instinctively to grab the soft cotton of Nacer's sweatshirt, unintentionally pinching his skin through the material. If it hurts, Nacer doesn't let it show.
Later Nacer sits trying to scrape the dry blood from the cuff of his sleeve, but it's hopeless because his fingernails are too short, bitten right down from nerves and boredom. He finds a momentary distraction in the form of a riot playing out on the television, the volume turned down low so as to not disturb Antoine in the next room, but it's over in seconds, no longer really news around here.
When he wakes up with a start, lying on the couch, he's sweating and swearing in fear that he may be late. He stumbles blindly to the kitchen to find Antoine, sitting at the tiny kitchen table with a glass of water and an open packet of painkillers. He really shouldn't be up and out of bed, but Nacer is not his mother, so he says nothing and grabs his phone to check the time. He's not late. In fact, he hasn't been asleep all that long. Relieved, he sinks into the seat beside Antoine, and slumps over until his head meets the solid surface of the table with a dull thump.
The hand that comes down onto the exposed skin of his neck is gentle and warm, pressing down onto the tight muscles there, but Nacer shudders and jerks away. "Don't start that shit," he warns Antoine before reaching around to palm his own neck. Antoine cowers like a scolded child. "I bet it's what got your face in that state," he adds, looking down at the red and white chequered oilcloth stretched over the table. His gaze stays low even when Antoine struggles to his feet, unable to stomach his presence, never mind the sight of him.
When he does look up the kitchen is being washed in the light of a new morning, and it blinds him for a moment. He blinks as he lifts himself from his seat and takes the few short steps to the window; below the soft hum and whoosh of a speeding car is followed by the wail of a police siren, shattering the lull in the madness. Nacer watches them race off, quietly rooting for the former.
He leaves shortly after, pausing briefly by Antoine's door, intending to say sorry but never doing so out of stubbornness, a small voice in his head telling him he's right. When he looks back up over his shoulder, he thinks he can see Antoine in the kitchen through the glare of the sun on the window, but he can't be sure and does not stay to find out.
It is quiet but for the rushing and creaking of water pipes in the walls and slosh of hot water in the sink as Nacer dampens a cloth to clean up Antoine's face. He does so with a degree more delicacy than before, moving slowly across the purpling skin, working in little circles and strokes. Antoine flinches and reaches out instinctively to grab the soft cotton of Nacer's sweatshirt, unintentionally pinching his skin through the material. If it hurts, Nacer doesn't let it show.
Later Nacer sits trying to scrape the dry blood from the cuff of his sleeve, but it's hopeless because his fingernails are too short, bitten right down from nerves and boredom. He finds a momentary distraction in the form of a riot playing out on the television, the volume turned down low so as to not disturb Antoine in the next room, but it's over in seconds, no longer really news around here.
When he wakes up with a start, lying on the couch, he's sweating and swearing in fear that he may be late. He stumbles blindly to the kitchen to find Antoine, sitting at the tiny kitchen table with a glass of water and an open packet of painkillers. He really shouldn't be up and out of bed, but Nacer is not his mother, so he says nothing and grabs his phone to check the time. He's not late. In fact, he hasn't been asleep all that long. Relieved, he sinks into the seat beside Antoine, and slumps over until his head meets the solid surface of the table with a dull thump.
The hand that comes down onto the exposed skin of his neck is gentle and warm, pressing down onto the tight muscles there, but Nacer shudders and jerks away. "Don't start that shit," he warns Antoine before reaching around to palm his own neck. Antoine cowers like a scolded child. "I bet it's what got your face in that state," he adds, looking down at the red and white chequered oilcloth stretched over the table. His gaze stays low even when Antoine struggles to his feet, unable to stomach his presence, never mind the sight of him.
When he does look up the kitchen is being washed in the light of a new morning, and it blinds him for a moment. He blinks as he lifts himself from his seat and takes the few short steps to the window; below the soft hum and whoosh of a speeding car is followed by the wail of a police siren, shattering the lull in the madness. Nacer watches them race off, quietly rooting for the former.
He leaves shortly after, pausing briefly by Antoine's door, intending to say sorry but never doing so out of stubbornness, a small voice in his head telling him he's right. When he looks back up over his shoulder, he thinks he can see Antoine in the kitchen through the glare of the sun on the window, but he can't be sure and does not stay to find out.
♠ ♠ ♠
Just trying something new.