Big Book Of Parvill One Shots

Blood On The Bathroom Floor (S)

TW: Implied/Referenced Self Harm, Blood, Minor Injury, Domestic

Strife runs a finger across his jaw, lightly, gingerly, trying not to disturb the bruised flesh just starting to turn a pretty shade of purple. The way the discoloration spreads, purple with flecks of pink and red that almost make the bruise look like it should be rough or bumpy. He keeps touching it to make sure, leaning closer to the mirror as his fingers brush against the bruise, hesitant the first time and then more confident the second and third.

Of course, being intimate with the mirror over the sink while he touches his hand to his face means he's getting a good look at the split knuckles he has. It hurts like hell to bend his fingers – or even to straighten them – since it stretches and folds the skin in painful ways, but he can't stop feeling his face, looking for more invisible bruises or tiny cuts he can't see. And it's not helping the bleeding, his impatience and concern. His hands have been slowly bleeding into the bathroom sink going on twenty minutes now, but his roommate had come home in the middle of this.

And he'd left the bandages under his bed.

Strife sighs, and sits himself down on the toilet, careful not to drip blood on the seat cover. With his makeup, bandages, and most importantly the Neosporin in a neat bag shoved under his bed, there's not much he can do without risking revealing his face to his roommate. He dabs idly at the seeping blood with a balled up bit of toilet paper, trying to remember if Parv has band practice today or if it's on Thursdays. Maybe, just maybe, he'll catch a break for once and Parv will leave, or he'll fuck off to his room and shut the door – but he never does. He sits on the couch and plays guitar and watches TV.

How long has he been in here? Twenty-five minutes now? The muffled sounds of Parvis walking can be heard, interspersed with the sound of the fridge door opening, the sound of him falling gracelessly onto the couch like he usually does, and then getting back up. It was strange, how quiet it seemed. The bathroom was almost silent in comparison to Parvis, but it felt loud, filled to the brim with the tension in Strife's arms and chest as he fretted over how to get his hand to clot or how to not look like a fucking idiot in front of Parv – like he would if Parv finally noticed he'd been sitting in the bathroom for ages.

Did Parvis even know he was home? Had he noticed the shut bathroom door? More importantly, had he noticed the backpack and the laptop next to the coffee table?

The anxiety is punctuated by silence from the rest of the house. Wait, where was Parv? Had he gone into his room? If he'd shut the door it might be safe to sneak off to his own room, but Will hadn't been paying attention as well as he should have. Crap.

The door handle on the bathroom turns suddenly, stopped short by the lock, the loose and old parts jostling together in a startlingly loud sound. Strife jumps, and then freezes in fear. Fuck.

"Strife?" Parvis calls, his voice strangely soft. Was it concern? Or confusion? He can't tell.

"Uh?' Will says smartly, not sure how to reply as he tosses the bloody toilet paper clumsily into the trash. At least in the panic of hiding from his roommate he'd thought to lock the door.

"Open up." He sounds louder, much more confident, and there's a definite shade of annoyance in his voice.

He feels like a teenager, bashfully standing up and unlocking the door, but refusing to actually open it; while Parvis fills the role of angry parent, pushing the door open and looking Strife up and down critically. Not fair, Will thinks idly, he's supposed to be an adult now. But here he is, waiting for Parv to finish taking in the bruises and cuts, waiting for the inevitable reprimand.